A Call to Arms (20 page)

N
OVEMBER
24 dawned clear, with a brisk northeasterly breeze that during the night had dissipated low-lying rainclouds and summoned warm, dry air to the central regions of the Mediterranean Sea. Stationed amidships in
Constitution,
Midn. James Cutler glanced aloft at the complex network of standing rigging profiled against the brightening sky and then walked aft toward a cluster of sailors who were on their knees scouring the weather deck with holystones. Two others stood by to man the pump and hose, ready to wash down each section of deck with seawater until it glistened. It was backbreaking work, but the end result was what the ship's senior officers—and their division commander—wanted to see: a smooth, blanched deck.

As Jamie approached, the sailor named Simpson whistled softly. His mates ceased work, arose, and stood at attention.

“As you were,” Jamie told them. He squatted down, ran his fingers lightly along and across the planks, and then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Well done, lads,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “Well done indeed. Your work reflects well on you and me and our entire division. For that I thank you.” He returned their salutes, then turned to go forward.

“Thank
you,
Mr. Cutler,” Alan Simpson shouted out.

“And joy o' the mornin' to ye,” another sailor cried.

Jamie gave them a brief wave before continuing on. At the mainmast chain-wale he jumped up on the bulwark, swung himself onto the thick hempen shrouds, and began climbing the ratlines. Halfway to the fighting top he paused to gaze eastward over the shimmering waters of the Ionian Sea, then southward into the vast reaches of the Mediterranean. Finding nothing of consequence in either direction, he started descending to the deck just as a quartermaster's mate struck the ship's bell in three segments of two strikes, followed by a single strike. Almost in perfect synchrony, seven bells chimed in the other vessels of the Mediterranean Squadron:
Argus
and
Syren,
sleek 16-gun brigs of war;
Vixen
and
Nautilus,
12-gun schooners; and the 12-gun schooner
Enterprise
lying at anchor close to her captured prize, the Tripolitan ketch
Matisco,
renamed
Intrepid.

Back on the deck, Jamie greeted Henry Wadsworth, a midshipman from Portland, Maine, transferred from the frigate
New York
in August after two of
Constitution's
midshipmen had fallen from grace, one as the result of a severe illness, the other after taking a foolish risk while skylarking in the rigging. That plunge from the fore course yard while trying to prove his mettle to his shipmates had broken Tom Baldwin's right leg and several of his ribs. He was fortunate to have escaped with his life.

“Any sign of
Portsmouth
?” Wadsworth asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” Jamie replied, adding, after a moment, “Why on deck so early, Henry? It's not your watch. Shouldn't you be below writing your latest opus?” Wadsworth's work on a book about his cruise aboard
Constitution
in the Mediterranean, its basis a series of letters he had written home to friends in America, had gained the enthusiastic support of his fellow midshipmen. He had written a similar narrative about his cruise aboard
Chesapeake
with Commodore Barron. Several prominent newspapers in the United States had featured certain of those letters, and Wadsworth was hoping that exposure might persuade a book publisher to have a look at the entire manuscript. Such writing, of course, was in addition to the daily diary every midshipman was required to maintain for the captain's review twice a week.

Wadsworth grinned. “This morning I am seeking inspiration rather than word count. At eight bells, Octopus, Ralph, and I are going ashore at Ortygia”—he indicated a small landmass off the eastern end of Syracuse separated from the mainland by a narrow inlet—“to visit the Fountain of Arethusa. They say that Pindar and Aeschylus often went there for inspiration. If that fountain could inspire a Greek poet and a Greek
dramatist to reach the very peak of literary achievement, I should think it could inspire an aspiring American author. Why not join us, Jamie? You're off duty in another twenty minutes. The ladies will be out at this hour,” he added temptingly, “giggling and waving handkerchiefs at us. Who knows what might happen?”

“Nothing will happen,” Jamie said with conviction. “Every unmarried young woman in Syracuse has five older women and a priest keeping a close eye on her. While ten beggars keep a hopeful eye on us. But you're on,” he added, intrigued by the notion of visiting the oldest section of a metropolis once described by Cicero as the greatest city in Magna Grecia and the most beautiful of them all, including Athens. At last, he thought with bittersweet satisfaction, he could find a practical use for the Greek classics he had soldiered through in Mr. Getty's class at Governor Dummer Academy.

Just then, a cry came down from the single lookout perched high aloft on the mainmast crosstrees: “Deck, there!”

Jamie cupped his hands at his mouth. “Deck, aye!”

“Sail to the sou'east,” the lookout confirmed. “I can't make her out yet, but she's sailing straight for us with the whole nine yards.”

Jamie considered that. A ship-rigged vessel with all three yards on all three masts working was sailing at capacity, under a full press of sail. She was a man-of-war, and she was clearly in a hurry to get to Syracuse.

“Very well, Collins,” Jamie shouted up. “I'm standing by. Keep me informed.”

“Aye, sir,” the faraway voice confirmed.

“
Portsmouth,
you think?” Wadsworth prompted.

“Could be,” Jamie mused.

Another half-hour passed before the ship's registry could be determined.

“She's British,” Collins called down. “A British frigate. And she's flying signal flags.”

“Understood, Collins,” Jamie called up. To Midn. William Lewis, the junior officer of the deck, who had joined him at the mainmast: “William, go below and inform Nicholson that he is required on deck
immediately.
” Joseph Nicholson was the signal midshipman. Although all American sea officers were required to have a working knowledge of Royal Navy signal flags—the British and American navies shared a similar numeric code system first devised by Admiral Lord Howe of the Royal Navy and subsequently enhanced by Capt. Thomas Truxtun of the American Navy—it was the responsibility of the signal midshipman to be
thoroughly acquainted with both signal codes. “And inform Lieutenant Elbert. He has the deck in a few minutes.”

A disheveled Joseph Nicholson emerged on deck within two minutes, carrying the book of signal codes under his right arm. His auburn hair was unkempt, and the hem of his white cotton shirt stuck out from his partially buttoned fly, an indication that Nicholson had been forward on the “seat of ease” when he received the urgent summons.

Nicholson laid the signal book carefully on the deck and tucked in his shirt. “Well, Jamie?” he inquired softly. Sailors on the weather deck stopped what they were doing and stared amidships as the squadron sounded eight bells. From the aft companionway Samuel Elbert appeared on deck and strode forward.

“Good morning, Mr. Cutler,” he said. “What do we have?”

“Good morning, sir.” Jamie relayed what the lookout had seen.

“I see. Your glass, if I may? It's my watch at this point.”

Jamie handed his spyglass to the third lieutenant, who raised it to one eye and trained it on the fast-approaching British frigate, now only about four cable lengths away. High up on her leeward signal halyard, four pennants fluttered horizontally in the stiff breeze, the halyard itself forming an arc with the heel of the ship, from the afterdeck to the truck of the mizzen, allowing the flags to reach out beyond the billowing canvas.

Elbert adjusted the focus and saw, on each pennant, a configuration of blue, yellow, and red squares, diagonals, crosses and Xs, the combination of the flags representing a code that in turn represented numbers assigned a particular meaning in the codebook. Elbert called out the combinations as Nicholson, down on one knee and balancing the book on his thigh, flipped through the pages of a signal system containing more than three thousand predefined words and sentences.

“Carrying . . . important . . . dispatch,” Nicholson translated.

“You're quite certain of that, are you, Mr. Nicholson?” Elbert said sternly.

Not long ago Nicholson had mistakenly interpreted a signal from another naval vessel. It turned out to be a harmless error, but there was no room for error in signal interpretation, and that single mistake had nearly cost Nicholson the prestigious position of signal midshipman. Elbert himself had convinced an irate Captain Preble to give Nicholson a second chance, placing his own head on the block in doing so.

Nicholson didn't flinch. “Quite certain, sir.”

“Very well. I shall inform the captain. And we shall assemble a side party. Please make it so, Mr. Cannon,” he directed the boatswain.

Within the hour a Royal Navy officer was rowed over to
Constitution
from the British frigate. After the customary honors of whistles and salutes at the entry port, he introduced himself to Samuel Elbert as First Lieutenant Robert Bowers of His Majesty's Ship
Amazon.
Elbert lost no time ushering him belowdecks to the captain's cabin.

When Bowers departed
Constitution
a half-hour later, again with all honors, word spread through the squadron that Captain Preble required his commanders to assemble in his cabin at six bells, no exceptions.

“Of all the bloody luck,” Wadsworth groused to his friends minutes later on the orlop deck. “So much for finding inspiration ashore.” He and the other midshipmen were busy preparing themselves for the humbling experience of entering the captain's cabin during the day. Wadsworth had before likened it to a new boy in a boarding school being unexpectedly summoned to the headmaster's office.

“There'll be other occasions to see the fountain, Henry; perhaps even tomorrow,” Jamie consoled him as he wound a black cotton neckerchief around his neck and carefully tied the loose ends together at his Adam's apple. His own thoughts had nothing to do with the Fountain of Arethusa.
Amazon
had sailed to Syracuse from the direction of Malta. Could this dispatch have something to do with his father's ship?

Wadsworth was not easily mollified. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I have a strong hunch we're about to find out which.”

Six bells in the forenoon watch found
Constitution's
commissioned officers and midshipmen assembled in the copious confines of the after cabin along with the captains of the squadron's other naval vessels: Master Commandant Isaac Hull, captain of
Argus;
Lt. Charles Stewart,
Syren;
Lt. John Smith,
Vixen;
Lt. Richard Somers,
Nautilus;
and Lt. Stephen Decatur Jr.,
Enterprise.
As was the norm, the senior officers sat side-by-side along the inboard side of the long rectangular table—and for this meeting, because of the number present, also at the two ends.
Constitution's
eight midshipmen sat behind them on a row of Windsor chairs. Everyone present waited in suspenseful silence as Capt. Edward Preble, his back to them, stared out through the stern gallery windows, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. Jamie Cutler willed him to get on with it. As the seconds ticked by, he became convinced that the British dispatch contained a dire report that somehow involved his father. Why else would the commodore convene his officers and squadron commanders and keep them on edge this way?

Finally, Preble turned around. He walked slowly to the table, rested his hands on the back of his chair, and scanned the assembled host with grave, sorrowful eyes. When he spoke, his words came out as a gravelly voice of doom. “Gentlemen, we have lost
Philadelphia.
”

Stunned silence engulfed the cabin. The assembled officers kept their eyes squarely on Preble, as if willing him to deny what he had just said. Because what he had just said was entirely beyond belief.
Philadelphia,
a 36-gun superfrigate that had distinguished herself as the flagship of the Guadeloupe Station during the war with France after
Constellation
had been relieved, was invincible. She and
Constitution
embodied American power and glory in the Mediterranean. No Barbary state had anything to match her. No Barbary ruler would be fool enough to send any of his warships within range of her guns.
How could she be lost
?

When no immediate explanation was forthcoming, Charles Gordon said, because someone had to say something, “Lost, sir? In what way?”

His first officer's question jolted Preble from wherever it was that he had lost himself. “Lost to the enemy, Mr. Gordon,” he replied in a quiet but firm voice. “The dispatch I received contains few details. The information we have comes from the British consul in Tripoli, who forwarded it to
Amazon's
captain. It seems that Captain Bainbridge was chasing down an enemy corsair off the coast of Tripoli when
Philadelphia
struck a reef and her crew was unable to free her. Captain Bainbridge surrendered the ship when the Tripolitans surrounded her with a squadron of gunboats.”