The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  He wondered how many men in this squadron, separated for so long from their homes and loved ones, felt exactly like that.

  ‘Sail ho,’ came the cry, and immediately the ship sprang to attention. Tripolitanian corsairs had been scarce so far this summer; Decatur’s raid had accomplished that much, at least, in that the Moors had at last conceived a healthy respect for the Americans. In any event, Toby saw at first glance through his telescope, this was no corsair, but a stout little brig, dancing over the waves as it approached, and flying the British flag.

  ‘You’d best call the commodore,’ he told the duty midshipman, and himself went to the gangway, as the brig hove to and put down a boat. But the boat, remarkably, flew the Stars and Stripes, if only in miniature.

  ‘Ahoy, the Essex,’ cried the man seated in the stem, dressed as a civilian, but very well dressed in the latest fashion, and with a bicome hat, which he was now raising. ‘William Eaton, United States Consul, requesting permission to come aboard.’

  ‘Permission granted, Mr Eaton.’ Toby waited at the gangway for the big, blond man to appear. ‘Consul, you say, sir?’ For all his broadcloth, the man had a most military bearing, and was, he reckoned, about forty years of age.

  ‘I am United States’ Representative in Tunis,’ Eaton explained. ‘You’ll be Lieutenant McGann.’

  Toby frowned. ‘Have we met, sir?’

  ‘No. But it is my business to keep informed.’

  ‘In Tunis? One of the Barbary states?’

  ‘Why not? Tunis is neutral in our quarrel, and she has never taken an American ship. ‘Tis a useful place to be, Mr McGann, astride the North African world, one might say. Captain Preble.’ He saluted, and then shook hands as the commodore came on deck. ‘William Eaton.’

  ‘United States’ Consul in Tunis, sir,’ Toby said, still mystified and a little suspicious.

  Preble nodded. He seemed to know of the man, at any rate. ‘You’ve information on the condition of Captain Bainbridge, Mr Eaton?’

  ‘I know he is alive, sir. And his men. Little more than that. Can we talk?’

  Preble led him below, summoning Toby and Decatur to accompany them.

  ‘Have you received a reply from Congress to the ransom demand as yet?’ Eaton asked, seating himself at the wardroom table.

  Preble shook his head. ‘It is still being debated, while Bainbridge and his people languish. As indeed do we. The defences of the port are so strong we are able to undertake very little.’

  Eaton nodded. ‘Ships alone will never reduce Tripoli.’

  ‘Do you not suppose I have asked Congress for an armed force?’ Preble demanded. ‘No doubt that also is still being debated.’

  ‘While, as you say, our people languish, and undoubtedly dwindle,’ Eaton said, gazing at him.

  Toby’s heart began to thump: this man had an idea.

  As Preble and Decatur both also recognised. ‘Have you an army, sir?’ Stephen enquired.

  ‘I believe I can raise one.’

  ‘You’d best explain yourself,’ Preble told him.

  ‘Well, sir, my business in Tunis is mainly concerned with gathering information. To do this I have spread my net as wide as possible. And but six weeks ago I found the man I was looking for: Hemet Karamanli. Miserably surviving in Cairo as Mehemet Ali’s pensioner, dreaming of his past glories.’

  ‘Karamanli?’ Preble enquired. ‘Was he not once Dey of Tripoli?’

  ‘Indeed. The Karamanli family have been Deys of Tunis for the past century. In fact, a Karamanli is still Dey of Tripoli, Hemet’s cousin, established as ruler following the coup of Mohammed ben Idris. But he is only a puppet of this Idris.’

  ‘Mohammed ben Idris,’ Toby said. ‘We have met him, sir.’

  ‘I remember,’ Preble said grimly.

  ‘An utter scoundrel, believe me,’ Eaton declared.

  ‘As hated as he is feared throughout the Muslim world.’

  ‘But still de facto ruler of Tripoli,’ Decatur observed.

  ‘By force, because he holds the Dey in his power,’ Eaton said. ‘My information, reliably gained from spies I employ who take part in trading caravans to and from the city, is that the Tripolitanians bear him little love. They think back to the days of Hemet Karamanli with regret. In addition, my spies tell me that Idris is no longer the man he once was, and nowadays prefers to spend more time in his harem than at the council table.’ He shrugged. ‘It is a pattern one sees repeated, time and again, amongst those who seek to rule in Africa. It is even a pattern which is repeated amongst the sultans in Constantinople.’

  ‘I begin to get your drift,’ Preble said. ‘But did not this Hemet Karamanli also once prey upon American shipping?’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ Eaton agreed. ‘But you may be sure that he would no longer do so, if it was an American force restored him to his throne. From that moment forth he would be the most loyal of allies, and we would have gained a signal victory. More, an important foot-hold upon the African continent.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Preble agreed. ‘But where am I to find this American force to restore him to his throne?’

  ‘I would suggest you leave that to me, Captain Preble.’

  ‘To you?’ Decatur frowned.

  Eaton raised his head. ‘Sir, I had the honour of holding a commission in the United States Army, down to ten years ago, I am not bereft of military experience.’

  ‘And there are others like you in Tunis? Or in the desert?’

  Eaton smiled, rather than take offence. ‘Not enough of them, certainly. But I will raise an army amongst exiled Tripolitanians, Moorish adventurers, Egyptian soldiers of fortune … Cairo is filled with men who love a fight. And also with men who hate Mohammed ben Idris. I will raise an army.’

  ‘I am sure you will, Mr Eaton,’ Preble conceded. ‘But it will hardly be an American army.’

  ‘It will be recruited, and march, in the name of Hemet Karamanli, and its purpose will be the restoration of the legitimate Dey of Tripoli to his throne,’ Eaton agreed. ‘But I will command it, and I promise you that we shall carry the Stars and Stripes into battle along with the green flag of Islam. But more than that, sir. I do not believe it is any more possible for me to reduce Tripoli without support from the sea than it is for you to do so without support from the land. Thus it will be necessary to coordinate our plans. When I assault Tripoli from the land, at the same moment your squadron must assault it from the sea. There can be no question which flag you will be flying. And I will make Hemet Karamanli very aware that without your ships, our plan will come to nothing.’

  Preble stroked his chin.

  ‘May I say, sir,’ Decatur put in, ‘that as I remember the map, it is approximately one thousand three hundred miles from Cairo to Tripoli.’

  Eaton nodded. ‘As the crow flies, Mr Decatur. The distance is somewhat longer the way we will have to go.’

  ‘May we enquire how you intend to go? How you mean to transport your army?’

  ‘I intend to march my army, sir.’

  ‘Across the desert? Because that is what it is: desert.’

  ‘We will cross it, Mr Decatur.’

  ‘A ragtag assembly of Arab cut-throats,’ Decatur said contemptuously. As bold as a lion when it came to his own adventures, or the sea, he found it difficult to appreciate a similar amount of daring in others, or a similar determination, and especially to understand a foreign element, such as waterless sand.

  But then, Toby thought, neither did he, even if he was consumed with excitement, and could see his way clear ahead.

  Eaton continued to smile. ‘It will take time, both to organise my force and to reach our destination. But it will be done.’

  ‘How much time are we talking about?’ Preble snapped.

  ‘Ah … several months, I would estimate. It might take less were I able to recruit volunteers from amongst your people.’

  ‘Aha,’ Decatur commented.

  Preble continued to stroke his chin, while Toby could scarce c
ontain his excitement as he realised that the commodore was going for the concept. So where were all his reservations regarding Felicity Crown, his desire only to get home and forget about her, now?

  ‘I could allow you no more than half a dozen,’ Preble said.

  ‘One would be a great advantage,’ Eaton remarked.

  ‘Me,’ Toby said.

  Their heads turned to look at him.

  ‘I do not think I can spare you,’ Preble said.

  ‘Sir …’ Toby flushed, and glanced at Decatur. They had never discussed the incident on board the Philadelphia just before she blew up, nor had Decatur mentioned it in his official report on the operation, for which Toby had been truly thankful … but he knew his friend had not forgotten it, either. ‘There is a personal matter involved. I would be most grateful for permission to volunteer.’

  Preble had caught the glance, and now he, too, looked at Decatur. ‘Your opinion, Mr Decatur?’

  Decatur stared at Toby for several seconds, and then shrugged and grinned. ‘It would be a gallant way to commit suicide, Toby.’

  ‘I cannot spare you for that long, Mr Decatur,’ Preble snapped.

  ‘Nor do I wish to volunteer, sir. My forte is the sea, not the sand. But if we do not let Mr McGann go, I doubt his continued fitness for duty.’

  ‘Perhaps you will explain that riddle, Mr Decatur,’ Preble suggested drily.

  ‘Why, sir, I suggest we let Mr McGann do that, when he returns in triumph. If he returns in triumph.’

  Preble studied them both for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘You have permission to volunteer, Mr McGann. And to find another six volunteers from amongst the crews of the Essex and the President. Not a man more.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Toby cried.

  ‘I hope you continue to do so when you are dying of thirst in the Libyan desert. Mr Eaton, you spoke of time, and mutual arrangements. We must be exact.’

  Eaton nodded. ‘It is now July. It will take me some months to recruit my force, and to persuade Hemet Karamanli that we are his only hope. Then we must make our march. That were best left for the winter months. Shall we say … I shall knock on the gates of Tripoli, from the land, on the first day of April, 1805.’

  ‘All but nine months,’ Decatur muttered.

  ‘During much of which I shall be out of communication with you gentlemen, at least after I leave Cairo. I must have your assurance that you will be bombarding the city from the first day of April next.’

  Preble gazed at Decatur. ‘We shall be there, Mr Eaton,’ he promised. ‘I give you my word.’ Toby also gazed at Decatur. Hurrah, he thought, and read the same emotion in Decatur’s eyes. And again, hurrah. For Felicity Crown. Come what may.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Mediterranean — 1805

  ‘Tell me what you know of the Americans,’ Mohammed ben Idris invited, conveying a grape to his mouth and appearing to swallow it whole.

  Felicity raised her head in surprise. He had never asked her opinion on any matter before; the very word American had not been mentioned for several months. Not since immediately after that dreadful, tremendous day, when Toby McGann and his compatriots had sailed into the harbour to burn their own ship rather than surrender it to the Moors, and in the process left the entire Tripolitanian waterfront in flames.

  Toby had seen her, and that had been too much for her. She had wanted to throw herself from the battlements then, partly in a wild dream that he might catch her, partly to kill herself, because surely the revenge for which she had waited so long was at hand. But her mind had gone black and her legs had given way and she had fallen, after seeing him, and by the time she had recovered herself, his ship had disappeared from view in the smoke of the explosion which had destroyed the Philadelphia.

  But it had reappeared again outside the harbour. She had watched it sail away. She believed he had survived, and was still surviving. Only now he would know of her. She was so glad she had not thrown herself from the battlements. To live in the daily misery that was her life was almost acceptable, while Toby McGann knew of her. Even if she would never, dared never, think of facing him again.

  She was glad she had survived for other reasons. Mohammed ben Idris had been shaken by the American exploit, and that had been worth remaining alive just to see. He had pulled his beard and stared at the sea, and muttered, ‘Such men. Such men.’

  And when she had remarked, ‘One day they will destroy you,’ he had slapped her so hard her lip had burst and left her face swollen for days.

  Then he had been contrite, anxious for her to regain her beauty. And to her total surprise, almost affectionate. He had held her in his arms and stroked her hair, almost as she might have expected an English, or American, lover to do, and had whispered, ‘I would like to have a child by you, Felicity. He would be a man amongst men. Why do you not conceive?’

  Because I hate you too much, she had thought. In any event, she had not, nor would she ever, conceive for him. Or any man, now, she supposed. She did not know why. Mohammed had certainly fathered several children by his other concubines, but that had been when he was a younger man. Perhaps he and she did not achieve the success of mutual ecstasy, however she might have learned to achieve that ecstasy, either by herself, or by the stimulation of his fingers.

  His alarm at the American display of panache had not lasted, especially as the enemy fleet had taken up the onerous and largely pointless duties of the blockade once again. ‘They are fools,’ he had said, swaggering the battlements. ‘Oh, they are brave fools, perhaps. But fools, none the less. Do they suppose they can in some way starve Tripoli? Do they suppose we are frightened of them, out there? Do they think they can ever harm me? Me? I am Mohammed ben Idris. Many have tried to bring me down. None have succeeded.’

  Yet he had been frightened, and in the strangest way had come to value her more highly than before. She had expected a flogging, both for going out on to the roof and because of the American exploit; instead he had again chosen to believe that she had brought him good fortune. Clearly he had realised that had the Americans really wished, had they, just for instance, known where to find him, they might have assaulted the citadel itself, as they could so easily have done, and turned their defensive coup into a remarkable victory. He had escaped that fate, and he was grateful.

  Since then, several months ago, she had been required to sleep with him every night as well as attend him most days, to the obvious disgust and even anger of the other women. She had indeed insisted upon having her food tasted, for fear of being poisoned, and kept her favourite eunuch posted at the door of her chamber at all times.

  Her favourite eunuch! Three years ago the very thought of the half-men had made her feel vaguely sick. Now they were her only friends. But three years ago she had been a different person. Even physically, and quite apart from the loss of her virginity. The rich food and lack of exercise had caused her to put on weight. Her mirrors confirmed that this was no bad thing; the slenderness of her girlhood had become rounded into a fetching voluptuousness. In another few years she would become as fat as any senior Arab woman. But she was more than ever determined to wait it out, and see the end of Idris. And herself? She could not now make up her mind about that. Seeing Toby McGann had weakened her resolution.

  She only knew that Toby McGann had also seen her. And surely Toby McGann would move heaven and earth to rescue her.

  Even after several months she clung to that dream. To abandon it now would be to drive her mad. Even if she dared not contemplate what such a rescue might involve, what it could involve.

  While Mohammed ben Idris’s interest in her grew. Sometimes she thought it might even be developing into real affection — she could not suppose such a man could ever love. But nowadays he even, as on this occasion, chose to share his meals with her. Perhaps, she thought, having lost the Philadelphia, I remain his only symbol of success.

  But tonight he had been preoccupied, until the sudden question. ‘Why, great Idris,’ she said. ‘
I know very little of them. I have never been to America.’

  ‘But you are of the same race.’

  ‘They are different people from the English, now.’

  ‘I have read of this. How they rebelled and seized their independence, even from Great Britain. And does not Great Britain rule the seas? Or claim to do so? Yet the Americans defeated them.’

  ‘No country can rule the seas, great Idris.’

  ‘Ha, ha! Well spoken. But yet these Americans must have been great warriors to defeat the British.’

  ‘You have seen their abilities,’ Felicity pointed out.

  ‘And there is the riddle I wish to solve,’ he told her. ‘Because I do not understand them at all. They have spent years doing no more than blockade my city. That is fighting a war? And they go to war with such strange concepts. When the Philadelphia was surrounded and forced to surrender, it never seemed to cross the mind of this Captain Bainbridge, whom I hold in my dungeons, that I could, if I wished, have struck off his head. He merely presented his sword, and said, “The fortunes of war.” This is a fighting man? And yet, those men last year who came sailing in here and all but destroyed us … those were demons. From the same ships. I do not understand them at all.’

  Felicity bit into a pomegranate. This was the first she had heard, secluded as she was from all news of the outside world save for what Idris chose to tell her, that he still held Bainbridge and his men prisoners; she had supposed the crew of the Philadelphia would have been ransomed some time ago. Another reason for Toby McGann to return? Perhaps a more compelling one. But why hadn’t he come?