The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  But then had come that dreadful day last November when the Philadelphia had run aground, and Tripoli had celebrated all night long. Mohammed ben Idris had snapped his fingers, as he always did when things were going well and had said, ‘We must have her here, in this harbour. An American frigate … oh, the world will see that to be a great victory.’ And he had given the necessary orders. Because there could be no doubt that Mohammed ben Idris was the real ruler of Tripoli. He boasted that he was the man, then merely captain of the guard, who had engineered the coup to overthrow the rightful Dey, and had then erected the present puppet in his place. He counted his only failure the fact that Karamanli had managed to escape with his head. Now he was content to rule from immediately behind the throne. He wanted the power, not the title.

  And rule he did. If she had no contact with his decrees and judgments, she knew of them from his boasting when she was summoned to his couch. She doubted so bloodthirsty a monster had ever lived; his ‘justice’ was concerned solely with beheadings and impalements, strangulation and drownings, his mercy only with the bastinado and slow torture. ‘That is the way to rule,’ he said proudly. ‘Once people are afraid of you, then all the world is yours. The secret is to keep them fearing you, then a man might rule forever.’

  Until smashed by the Americans. Because surely they would seek to avenge the loss of their ship … But now they were sailing away, having lifted the blockade of the port they had maintained for more than two months.

  So, she would survive, at least for a while longer. Because of course she had had every intention of dying in the rubble as the American cannon brought this fortress tumbling down; her only ambition was to remain alive long enough to be sure the fortress was tumbling down, and that Mohammed ben Idris would be buried beneath the rubble beside her. She had never truly considered rescue. That would be too terrible to contemplate. To stand before an American officer, who might even be Toby McGann, and have him look at her, look through the sheer silk of her pantaloons, and realise what was done to her once every week. He would also know what was done to her most days, or nights, as well. Or would he? Could any Christian gentleman understand anything of the lusts of a Moor? Yet he would know that she was as contaminated as a leper.

  Because that was the truth. As she was flesh and blood, and as she had elected to live for as long as possible — even now she had not lost that determination, save that ‘as long as possible’ had come to mean until the moment of Mohammed ben Idris’s death — she had to have become contaminated. Besides, she recognised it. As a man, perhaps, fearing both the taste and the effects of too much wine, is abstemious until it is forced upon him, and then gradually discovers that he likes the taste, and more, that he cannot exist without the effects, so had she come to anticipate the touch of this man’s hand, and even more, the quest of his lust into whatever unholy paths he guided her.

  Easy to tell herself, now, that she had surrendered to him because of sheer boredom. He was, in fact, the only spark of interest in her existence. There was absolutely nothing to do in the harem save preen oneself, play at stupid games, or form close attachments to one or more of the inmates, and if she had necessarily learned to speak and understand Arabic she could yet discover nothing in common with the other girls who shared her life. This was partly because she did not wish to, but was also partly because they were jealous of her, and sought to vent their spite in every way short of actually harming her: that could have been fatal for them, as she remained their master’s favourite.

  Something to be proud of? Indeed, it had not been entirely inadvertent. For all her terror, all her apprehensions of utter mistreatment, all her initial disgust when he had first made her kneel before him, she had quickly recognised that utter surrender would very soon reduce her to the level of a thing — and that she was determined not to allow. Even if she also recognised that resistance would necessarily be painful, on that first occasion, she had squirmed less with the pain of the penetration, the horror of losing her virginity to such a man in such a manner, than with the lingering agony of the fifty stripes on her buttocks, which he had himself administered with a thin bamboo cane while she had been held on the floor by Abd er Rahman’s eunuchs. The bastinado! She had screamed and attempted to writhe, and she had cursed as well as she knew how, and eventually she had wept. And she had been straightaway taken to his couch, as apparently the beating of her had powerfully aroused him.

  There she had been turned inside out, too terrified on that occasion to do more than obey and accept. Her lord had been pleased. If her breasts were not as large as those of the ideal Arab woman, they were high and firm; if her belly was too flat, it was hard muscled; if her pubes were not as pronounced as a man might desire, it yet seemed to fascinate him — as he was fascinated by her tight white buttocks, and the length of her slender legs. The texture of her hair, too, delighted him, as did the cool of her eyes. He had said, when he had been at last sated, ‘I am pleased with you, Felicity Crown. Oh, indeed, you will make me very happy.’

  She had actually been hardly less sated, less with fulfilled desire than a mixture of exhaustion, shock, and a sudden awareness of desire, which she had never known before. Yet even then her brain had flickered into life. She had raised her head to look at him, and had asked, ‘And will you, Mohammed ben Idris, also make me pleased?’

  He had been angry. And yet, amazingly, delighted as well, and if he had immediately made her weep, using the flat of his hand, she yet felt she had gained a victory of sorts. Thus she made herself dare his wrath, time and again, and suffer his anger, time and again, always keeping her insolence well under control so that he could never really be angry with her; yet always reminding him that she remained a prisoner, never either a slave or a lover. In that direction he was easy enough to goad, but he was also intelligent enough to appreciate her motivation, and in the most remarkable fashion had come to value her the more highly for it. So the surrender, the contamination, had spread, and the physical pain he inflicted upon her, always followed by a spasm of the purest passion, had become merely an aspect of their foreplay.

  What he did not suspect, and could never know, was how much she now herself lusted for the touch of his fingers, the feel of him on her and in her. If her sole reason for living had to be the sexual act, then the sexual act had become all she craved. That made her angry with herself. She was angry now, for he had dragged her from his bed to bring her out on to the battlements and watch the flight of the American squadron. Thus her anger encompassed them as well, for sailing away and robbing her of her revenge. Her lip curled.

  ‘No doubt they have decided, great Idris, that there is, after all, nothing here worth challenging. Are there not hundreds of thousands of men in America? Of what value are a hundred sailors? And do they not have so many ships they can hardly count them? Should they be concerned over the loss of a single frigate? I doubt they rate your great victory as more than the sting of a mosquito bite.’

  His hand tightened into a fist, squeezing her flesh and bringing a gasp of pain from her lips. Then he almost threw her at the steps leading down from the battlements. She regained her balance, and walked before him. Another victory? Or a fresh eruption of her disease?

  *

  ‘She is definitely a Tripolitanian,’ Isaac Hull reported. Thick set and bluff featured, with hair already receding although he was still only thirty years of age, he stood at the taffrail of the USS Enterprise and studied the approaching vessel through his telescope, relaying his observations to Decatur and Toby, both waiting on the lower deck. Decatur would not jeopardise the success of his plan by allowing himself to appear on the quarterdeck, just in case someone on the approaching pirate had sufficiently sharp eyesight to discern there were two senior officers on board the schooner, and wonder why. He knew as well as anyone that while he could not in any way guarantee the success of this desperate venture, failure, should it overtake them, would be resounding and total.

  Yet Edward Preble had agreed to t
he plan, his only reservation being that success would still be a failure for the United States Navy. Even if it was a failure that had to be accomplished. Thus Decatur had been given everything he wanted, even in being allowed to take Toby along as his second in command, so depriving the Essex of her two senior lieutenants. But he had said, ‘If ever there is an occasion for McGann’s strength, it will be now.’

  McGann’s strength, Toby thought, his nerves tightening. That size and strength had never been truly tested, the way Father’s had from an early age. As Barron had perhaps truly said, deeds of derring-do belonged to history, and for all Toby’s nine years in the Navy, he had never boarded an enemy ship, sword in hand, to fight for its possession. He did not even know if he would be able to.

  But he was about to find out. Because this was an adventure of the purest derring-do, inspired by the courage and imagination of Stephen Decatur. And thus far the plan was working to perfection. The Enterprise had put to sea, and when south of Malta, had struck her topmasts, but left them hanging there, a cluster of apparently ruined rigging to the casual eye, so that it would appear she had been caught in a sudden squall and been virtually dismasted. Her mainsail had also been cut to ribbons, and left trailing from gaff and mast, while her boom banged idly to and fro, as if her crew too had been afflicted by illness or despair. Now she rolled in the Mediterranean swell, looking an utterly helpless victim of the savage sea.

  She had drifted like this for three days, seeing nothing but the distant hills of Malta on the northern horizon. But at dawn this morning another ship had been sighted. And sure enough, the stranger was now approaching, too curious for its own good, perhaps unable to believe its fortune that fate would have sent another American ship, crippled, to be taken into Tripoli as a prize.

  ‘Fall to,’ Hull commanded, and his men began to work as the corsair came within range of the naked eye. Now they would appear to be frantically attempting to repair their stricken vessel, but yet unable to accomplish their tasks in time, while the Enterprise schooner, normally fast enough to outsail any lateen-rigged Tripolitanian, wallowed uselessly.

  ‘Prime your muskets and pistols, but hold fast until I give the word,’ Decatur commanded. He and Toby had joined the seventy men of their force in the hold, pressed shoulder to shoulder, armed to the teeth, and now feeling the adrenalin flow as the reason for their long vigil came to an end.

  ‘Not a sound, now, not a whisper,’ Decatur said, as their preparations were completed and they could hear the distant cries of ‘Ul-ul-ul-Akhbar!’ as the corsair prepared to board.

  The schooner’s guns opened fire. She had only small six-pounders in any event, and Hull, as excited as anyone at the daring of the coup they were attempting, had commanded them to be deliberately misaimed; the pirate had to be undamaged to fill Decatur’s requirements.

  ‘They will be alongside in five minutes,’ he said quietly from immediately above them.

  Decatur nodded, and Toby tightened his grasp on his already drawn sword. Now the noise was very loud, and the guns were barking again, almost desperately, while before he was quite ready he heard the crunch of the grappling irons, thrown from the corsair, biting into the wooden gunwales of the schooner to bring and hold the two ships together; the splintering thud of the two hulls meeting threw several men from their feet.

  With a scream of anticipated triumph the Tripolitanians poured over the side of the American ship.

  ‘Now,’ Decatur shouted. ‘Now. All together, boys.’

  The seventy men scrambled from the hold, and the pirates checked in dismay at finding the numbers of their opponents so unexpectedly tripled.

  ‘Present your pieces,’ Decatur bawled. ‘Fire.’

  He himself discharged his pistol, as did Toby, while the seamen levelled their muskets and delivered a volley. A good dozen of the pirates fell, and the rest gave a shriek of dismay and endeavoured to regain their own vessel.

  ‘Behind them,’ Decatur commanded, his voice hoarse. ‘Follow me.’

  He was first across the gunwale. Toby drew a long breath and leapt behind him, swinging his sword. The men at whom he charged gave yells of terror, having clearly never encountered anyone quite so formidable looking in their lives before. But he was already into their midst, all thoughts of fear or hesitation disappearing in the excitement of the moment, the determination to conquer or die. Yet he paused in horror as his swinging sword, travelling with all the strength he could command, sliced into flesh and bone to bring forth spurting blood and the nearest Moor collapsed to the deck. A pistol was discharged close by, and jerked Toby back into awareness of his situation. His sword came up as the pirate who had just fired at him now swung his scimitar; the two blades clashed and sparks flew, but as Toby’s sword never moved the scimitar was sent spinning from the man’s fingers. Immediately he dropped to his knees and cried for mercy, as Toby well understood — he and Decatur had taken the trouble to learn Arabic from a Maltese schoolmaster during their weary months in Syracuse.

  He looked left and right, but the battle was already over. The pirates had been totally surprised, and equally devastated by the ferocity of the assault they had received; a good thirty of them were dead and dying, and the remainder were anxious only to surrender. But now it was time for Toby to remember his instructions, as outlined by Decatur before the campaign.

  ‘Follow me,’ he snapped at the half dozen men nearest to him, and led them below to tear through the after-and then the fore-sections of the ship to rout out the several men hiding there. Fortunately not one of them had thought to carry a light to the powder magazine and destroy them all.

  He regained the deck, where Decatur was surveying his victory. ‘Assemble the dead,’ he was commanding. He had lost his hat, but was otherwise unhurt, although there were powder stains on his cheeks.

  Toby put up his hand and was surprised to find that his hat was still in place — and then discovered there was blood soaking the jacket of his uniform, but it was clearly not his own.

  ‘And the living,’ Decatur ordered. ‘We want their clothing. Strip them to the buff and confine them in the hold of the Essex. Look lively, now. Toby, talk to this fellow.’

  Toby went aft, still carrying his drawn, bloodstained sword, to stand over the pirate captain, less than half his size, whose very beard was trembling with terror.

  ‘Now listen to me,’ Decatur said. ‘If you do not agree to do exactly as I wish, this man, my friend, is going to eat you alive. He is a giant, who lives only on human flesh, and he is very hungry.’

  The man goggled at Toby, who endeavoured to look suitably fierce. In fact, with his bloodstained visage and uniform, it wasn’t difficult. He only hoped the pirate could not see how close he was to vomiting; he had just knowingly killed his first man — blowing someone apart from a distance of half a mile with cannon shot was not quite the same thing. ‘Yes,’ the man said ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good,’ Decatur said. ‘Then let us make haste. Put a guard on this fellow for the moment, Toby. Remember, if he escapes us, even to die, our plan will come to nothing.’

  ‘We’d best tie him to the mast,’ Toby decided, and summoned two of the seamen to have this done. Then he pulled one of the rich Moorish robes over his uniform. Decatur was doing the same, as were all the seventy sailors who were going to man the captured vessel. But there was no question that they were Americans.

  ‘Toby,’ Decatur said, bursting into laughter. ‘We have forgotten the beards.’

  Toby slapped his chin in dismay. They had indeed forgotten that essential part of being a Muslim.

  ‘Well,’ Decatur said, ‘we will have to get close enough to accomplish our mission before they discern that. Keep the cowls of your haiks thrown across your faces as we enter the harbour. What is the name of this ship?’

  ‘Mastiko,’ Toby said. ‘Whatever that may mean.’

  ‘Well, I rename her Intrepid.’ The men gave a cheer, and he went to the rail. ‘Are you ready, Isaac?’ he shouted.


  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Hull requested.

  ‘Then cast us free, and we’ll be on our way.’

  The captured pirates who had survived the brief encounter had already been locked in the hold; now Hull’s crew was busy restoring their topmasts to a proper position. The grapples were cast off, Decatur’s men set the sails their recent adversaries had dropped on coming alongside, manhandling the huge, unfamiliar, cumbersome lateen main boom into position, while the pirate captain, tied to the mast, wailed his fate, calling on Allah to save him from the infidels.

  ‘Now listen very carefully, my friend,’ Decatur said, standing beside him, a cutlass in his hand. ‘You are going to con us into that harbour of yours. If you show the slightest hesitation, or the slightest desire to betray us, I am going to cut off your balls and feed them to my big friend here. He has balls for breakfast, every day, and alas, he has not yet breakfasted today. But if you do as I ask, I may persuade him to spare you. Understood?’ The man’s eyes rolled in terror.

  ‘So, set your course, Mr McGann.’

  ‘Due south for Tripoli, Mr Decatur. Hurrah!’

  ‘And again, hurrah,’ Decatur shouted. ‘For Tripoli!’

  The course was set, the sails filled, and the corsair hurried away to the south. Hull allowed them an hour, and then followed, the Enterprise now restored to her full sailing capacity. So far everything was working exactly as Decatur had said it would — but the true dangers still lay ahead, as every man of his company was aware. Just as they were aware of their likely fates were they to be captured. It might please the Moors to hold Bainbridge and his men as prisoners of war — they represented both prestige and the promise of profit; those attempting to invade Tripoli disguised as Arabs could expect no such mercy.

  Nor could any of them suppose that Mohammed ben Idris would allow them anything so straightforward as immediate execution; their fates would vary from castration to impalement. But Decatur had warned them of the risks they ran when they had volunteered, and so they crouched by the bulwarks, clutching their weapons and staring at the African coastline as it came above the horizon.