A Call to Arms (16 page)

Agreen stepped close. “Our bow-chaser can deliver a warning shot from here, Captain. Shall I send word to Lieutenant Lee?”

“No,” Richard said with iron resolve. “The time for warning shots has passed.”

A pause. Then: “If we're going to fire on her, I suggest we haul up the courses.”

“No,” Richard grated. “We shall douse no sail.”

Agreen drew a deep breath. He understood as well as anyone the danger of a stray ash wafting up from the gun deck or weather deck and setting fire to a lower sail. Or the damage an enemy shot could inflict on such a sail. But he said nothing. The look on his captain's face did not invite suggestions or recommendations.

Those in the corsair must have sensed the hopelessness of their plight as the distance between the two warships narrowed. The blue-hued coastline of Tunis lay enticingly ahead on the southern horizon, but the distance was too great for the corsair to reach it before being overtaken. Her officers could do the math as accurately as the Americans, and the answer they derived could offer little hope of survival in battle. The corsair had already shown her cards, and the realization that she had overplayed her hand had no doubt already dawned on them.

“She's lowering her ensign,” Agreen observed. “She's surrendering . . . again.”

“Mr. Roberts,” Richard snapped. The midshipman on duty stepped forward and saluted. “Advise Mr. Lee to stand by the larboard battery. Then report back here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Corbett,” Richard said, “are your guns loaded with grape? And you have deployed your Marines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Stand by and await my order. Mr. Smythe,” he snapped, “bring her to within fifty yards.”

The tables had turned. It was now
Portsmouth
pulling even with the corsair's stern, then with her midships. Those aboard the corsair waved their arms back and forth in the air as they had before, but this time with a great deal more urgency. Two of her crew in the stern unhooked the red, green, and white ensign from its halyard and held it up for those on the frigate to see, as if to convince the Americans that this time they were serious about surrendering.

“Mr. Roberts,” Richard said, “you may advise Mr. Lee to commence firing.”

Agreen stood stone-faced.

The midshipman saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.” He strode briskly forward to the large open rectangular hatchway amidships. “Mr. Lee,” he shouted down through cupped hands. “The captain sends his compliments and you may commence firing.”

Almost instantly
Portsmouth's
larboard side erupted in yellow flashes, orange tongues, and a spew of white ashes in a vicious blast that shook the very fabric of the frigate. Above, on the weather deck, smaller guns exploded canisters of grape across the deck of the corsair as swivel guns barked and muskets snapped.
Portsmouth
was sailing fast with all plain sails set to royals, and she swept past the corsair in what seemed an instant, without a single enemy gun fired in reply.

At the taffrail, Richard raised a spyglass to inspect the damage. He could not see much. Thick smoke enveloped the corsair in a grayish shroud. Across the span of turquoise sea they could hear the pitiful moans and screams of men wounded or dying, and Richard watched with satisfaction as her foremast teetered back and forth, back and forth, before toppling over toward her bow. The mast disappeared into the murky smoke, taking with it into the gloom a good slug of the standing rigging. He nodded at Agreen.

“Ready about!” Agreen shouted. “Headsail sheets! Mr. Roberts, you may advise Lieutenant Lee to make ready the starboard battery! Helm a-lee!”

As
Portsmouth
began the evolutions of turning her bow away from the wind and wearing the frigate around on an opposite tack, Agreen stepped close to his captain.

“Sweet Jesus, Richard, are you goin' t' fire another broadside into her?”

Richard did not reply.

“For what purpose?” Agreen pressed. “T' sink her? She's already done for.”

Richard looked at him. “No, Agee, not to sink her. To send a message to these bastards they will never forget.”

Richard walked to the waist railing of the quarterdeck and stared at the waters ahead. As he had anticipated, the corsair had come off the wind as best she could with her severely damaged rig.
Portsmouth
was sailing full and by, on an angle away from her enemy, unable to give effective chase and deliver another broadside without tacking over. The smoke had cleared away enough to reveal the extent of the corsair's damage. At least two guns had been upended; her rigging was in tatters; her fore-and-aft sails were either torn or holed; her foremast and mizzen topmast had gone by the boards; and staves along her hull had been smashed in and a futtock broken through. Agreen was right. She was done for, a floating wreck. She'd have all she could do just to remain afloat until she reached Tunis, let alone Tripoli. Amidships he saw something he had never thought to see: two sailors tossing their ship's ensign overboard into the sea. Aside from those two, he saw only three men moving about the deck. Others had no doubt taken refuge behind the vessel's wooden embrasures.

Agreen came up beside him. “Don't do it, Richard,” he quietly pleaded. “In God's holy name, don't do it. You've sent your message. Fire another broadside into that hulk and your message will never be delivered. And remember, we have shipmates in the water back there.”

Richard gripped the railing with both hands, aware of those on the quarterdeck, and those in the waist and in the tops, watching him intently, awaiting his orders. For several moments the only sounds to be heard were the gurgle of seawater sweeping along the frigate's hull and the pleasant hum of wind in the rigging. At length he shook his head, as if to cast out demons demanding unholy vengeance against a defeated, defenseless enemy. “Point taken, Agee,” he said softly. “Cease fire.”

“Cease fire!” Agreen cried out. His order was quickly relayed along the weather and gun decks.

Portsmouth
veered away on a more northerly course, her enemy now a lifeless corpse hobbling southward in the opposite direction under a jury rig of hastily fashioned canvas on her mainmast, the only mast still standing.

L
OCATED AT THE
geographical center of the Mediterranean Sea, the island of Malta had for centuries held a strategic importance far greater than its hundred-square-mile area might suggest. Catholic to its core—Saint Paul himself had preached the gospel on the archipelago after being shipwrecked there—Malta had teetered back and forth at the epicenter of the struggle between Europeans and Turks, Muslims and Christians, for control of the Mediterranean. Nor did the treaty between Spain and the Ottoman Empire in the late 1700s bring lasting peace or solace to the long-suffering Maltese people. In 1798, on his voyage to conquer Egypt, Napoléon Bonaparte seized Malta and left behind a sizable garrison under the command of General Vaubois. The general's mission, Bonaparte publicly declared, was to hold at all costs an island so vital to French interests and supply lines that he would rather keep it away from the British than any village in France.

Vaubois' tenure, however, proved brief. Reinforced with weapons and manpower furnished by the kingdom of Sicily, the citizens of Malta, outraged by the French Republic's hostility to Catholic doctrine, rose up in defiance. In support, the Royal Navy blockaded the islands and brought its unique blend of firepower to bear against the French. In 1800, to show their appreciation for Britain's assistance and to deter future invaders, the leaders of Malta formally petitioned the government of King George III to grant their island royal dominion status. Sir Alexander Ball, a former British naval officer much beloved by the Maltese, graciously accepted on
behalf of His Britannic Majesty. Soon thereafter, Horatio Lord Nelson, Vice Admiral of the Blue, Viscount Nelson of the Nile and Burnham Thorpe, First Duke of Bronté, Knight of the Bath, and commander-in-chief of British forces in the Mediterranean, declared Grand Harbor at Valletta—one of the finest deep-draft harbors in the world—the new headquarters for the Royal Navy's Mediterranean Fleet.

A
HOT
O
CTOBER SUN
cast a golden haze over land and sea as
Portsmouth
hauled her wind and rounded the eastern tip of Malta. Nothing suggested anything but tranquility on the island as the American frigate sailed northwestward on a calm turquoise sea under jibs, topsails, and driver. Buildings began to take distinct form within the ancient city perched high on a broad spit of land. Most were baroque in style, with elements here and there of Greek classicism. Valletta had been reconstructed centuries ago by the Knights of Saint John—later to be known as the Knights of Malta—a quasi-military religious order of chivalry that had taken refuge on Malta in the 1500s after the Muslim Turks had ousted them from the island of Rhodes. To Richard Cutler, it seemed impossible that the serene, sun-drenched island possessed a military pedigree as glaring as the sun reflecting off its white freestone dwellings.

Among the thick forest of masts within the two-mile stretch of Grand Harbor he spotted two British gunboats approaching from beneath the imposing façade of Fort Saint Elmo, a stone fortress located on the seaward shore of the Sciberras Peninsula. The Union Jack fluttered on a flagpole high atop the fort's eastern battlements.

“Now
that's
a sight,” Agreen Crabtree said with reverence. He was standing beside Richard on the windward side of the quarterdeck. Along with everyone else on deck and in the rigging, they had been absorbing, each in his own way, the silent approach of history.

Richard nodded his agreement. When he noticed the two gunboats in the distance, he had ordered canvas reduced to working jib, fore and main topsails, and single-reefed driver. In the light breeze
Portsmouth
was now making perhaps two or three knots.

Richard glanced aloft at a telltale quivering spasmodically on the ensign halyard and then turned his gaze dead ahead. “Agee,” he said quietly, “I want you to know how much I appreciate you saving me from myself yesterday.”

Agreen, too, was staring ahead. “Think nothin' of it, Richard,” he said blithely. “That's what you and I have been doin' for each other ever since that day Captain Jones signed us on in
Ranger.
It's your turn t' save me next.”

Richard's wry grin was the first indication of his former self that Agreen had seen since Richard had presided over the burial at sea of five shipmates the previous afternoon. “I have always admired your ability to transform tragedy into comedy with a flick of the tongue, Lieutenant.”

“That's part of my role as your first,” Agreen chuckled, adding, more solemnly, “and as your friend. Those five men meant just as much t' me as they did t' you.”

George Lee approached and touched his hat. “Gunboat's signaling, Captain,” he reported. “They desire us to heave to.”

“Then make it so, Lieutenant. But keep the hands at the braces. We won't be here long.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Lee whirled about. “Mr. Weeks!” he shouted. “Stations for heaving to!”
Portsmouth
came to the wind and slowed to a virtual standstill on the placid waters outside the harbor.

As the leading gunboat drew near, a British officer stood up amidships and cupped his hands at his mouth. “Identify your ship, please,” he requested crisply.

“USS
Portsmouth,
” Agreen hailed back from the quarterdeck. “Captain Richard Cutler. I am Lieutenant Crabtree, his first.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crabtree. May I welcome you and your captain to Valletta. I am Lieutenant James Bosworth. Might I ask if you put in to any port of call during your cruise here?

“No. We have come straight from Boston.”

“I am glad to hear it. Quarantine shall not be required. Might I inquire your business here?”

“Captain Cutler will explain his business to the governor. Dispatches were sent ahead of us.”

“Ah, yes. Indeed they were. And we are holding dispatches for you from your squadron commander. You may proceed and take anchorage off the fortress side of the jetty. You will find fifteen fathoms of water there and a sandy bottom. I shall have boats standing by to take you in tow should the wind die altogether. Do you require any other assistance at the moment?”

“We do, Lieutenant. We have wounded men aboard.”

“I am sorry to hear it. How many?”

“Six.”

“I see. Are they ambulatory?”

“Two are not.”

“In that case, if it is agreeable to your captain, I shall make
arrangements for them to be transferred to a naval hospital ashore. They will receive excellent care, I assure you. Is there any other service I might perform on your behalf?”

Agreen glanced at Richard, who said: “Provisions.”

“Just one,” Agreen shouted down. “We are low on provisions.”

“I had anticipated you would be. Once you are at anchor I shall have hoys sent out to you with fresh food and water. Now if there is nothing else, you may proceed. I daresay our sweeps will have us in port before your wind. As soon as I am able, I shall send word to Mr. Morath, the governor's representative in Valletta.”