A Call to Arms (31 page)

Preble balled up the two halves of the letter, walked over to a basket, and dropped them in. Then he turned to face his officers, his face taut
with anger. “I have a different plan,” he announced. “Tripoli has seen a significant number of its gunboats destroyed or captured as a result of recent action. One of its cruisers is severely damaged. Parts of the city are still ablaze from our mortar fire, and we have inflicted considerable damage to the westward defenses. What's more, we have thirty of the enemy as prisoners—less the four we sent ashore this morning with the Frenchman—and we have sent dozens more to the grave. Gentlemen, if one strike from our squadron has induced Mr. Karamanli to so urgently seek peace with us, might not a second strike heat things up a bit more? And make our peace terms seem more reasonable to the bashaw?”

These were rhetorical questions. No one was expected to respond, and no one did.

C
APTAIN
P
REBLE WAS
tired, cranky, and worried. He couldn't remember his last decent night's sleep. The bravado and swagger he had exhibited after the first attack on Tripoli had largely gone by the boards. Subsequent forays had proven to be inconclusive, including the bold attack on August 7 led by Lt. Charles Stewart. During that assault, American bomb ketches and gunboats had crept into the bay on the westward side of the mole, the same spot where Lieutenant Somers had found himself during the battle on August 3. From there, Stewart and Somers had convinced their commanding officer, they could bombard the city almost at will because the cannon in Molehead Battery and French Fort were trained out to sea, not at the bay behind them. And if vessels of the Tripolitan Navy dared to sail out and challenge the Americans, the squadron's brigs and schooners could sweep in to engage them.

It seemed a perfect battle plan, except for two unanticipated factors. Beneath the placid surface waters of the inner bay ran strong westbound currents and undertows that made the clumsy Sicilian gunboats difficult to maneuver. In addition, as if reading the mind of the American commodore, Yusuf Karamanli had ordered two additional batteries erected on the mole to cover the bay: one of five cannon, the other—dubbed the Vixen Battery by the Americans—of eight cannon. Both positions had been blasted out of action on August 7, but the squadron had accomplished little else of note. Most mortar shells that fell into the
city, according to accounts delivered to
Constitution
from the French and Danish consuls, had fallen in the Jewish Quarter. The damage wrought might have some psychological value, but it had no significant military value. Worse, many of those mortar shells had failed to explode. The most probable reason for that, Preble mused, was because no American sea officer in his squadron had managed to master the requisite artillery skills. In Syracuse he had retained the services of renowned Neapolitan bombardier Don Antonio Massi to instruct his officers in the art of artillery and mortar fire. But Massi's instruction, as sound as it was in theory, was of a classroom variety lacking any sort of live combat experience. Worse still, those mortar shells that had exploded within the city and might have ignited a conflagration had fallen on buildings constructed of stone and dried mud.

But the most distressing news of all had arrived three weeks ago on an American naval vessel. Master Commandant Isaac Chauncey, captain of the frigate
John Adams,
had sailed to Tripoli carrying three dispatches for Commodore Preble from Navy Secretary Robert Smith and Secretary of State James Madison. The fourth squadron was under way, Smith reported, and should be in the Mediterranean by mid-September. Capt. Samuel Barron in USS
President
would assume command of the squadron immediately upon his arrival in Syracuse. Although Smith praised Preble's performance, the cold reality was that his command of the Mediterranean Squadron could now be measured in days—perhaps a week at best.

The sands in the hourglass were running out. If Preble were to contribute in a meaningful fashion to the outcome of this war—and be judged favorably by his superiors and by history—he had to act soon. After mulling over his options, Preble decided on a strategy that no one could have anticipated, not even his squadron commanders.

Peace negotiations with Karamanli and Foreign Secretary Dghies were dead. It galled Preble to admit that Beaussier was right, but just as the French consul had predicted, his failure to strike a crippling blow against Tripoli during the previous two months had raised both enemy morale and the price of peace. Under no conditions would Preble hazard his reputation by agreeing to pay an amount for ransom and tribute that ran contrary to both government policy and his own sense of ethics. To his mind, a military solution still provided the only viable gateway to peace with honor.

Preble had a plan. Some people, he readily acknowledged to himself, would consider it a plan born of desperation. But few, he was equally convinced, would deem it reckless. Indeed, he had been considering this
option for months. He had even written Secretary Smith about it back in March, and last week he had discussed it, in the strictest confidence, with his three commissioned officers. In his considered judgment—and in the judgment of his officers—it had a better than even chance of success. And success might end the war overnight, or at least open wide the door to negotiations for the new commodore. Either way, the credit would go to Preble and to the young men whom he had come to refer to affectionately in his log as “my boys.”

Tonight, in his after cabin, he faced his “boys”: the officers of his flagship and the commanding officers of the brigs and schooners in his squadron. Every officer in that cabin was considerably younger than he; many were young enough to be his sons. But as was his wont, it was he, Preble, who remained standing while his officers sat.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the men seated at the rectangular table and on chairs placed behind, “I bid you welcome. You are, of course, aware of current circumstances. For better or for worse, I am soon to be replaced”—he held up a hand to quell a rumbling of discontent—“and as this will be among our last evenings together as officers of the Mediterranean Squadron, I have instructed my steward to open my personal stores of spirits so that we may raise a glass to one final initiative I have in mind for our Arab friends in Tripoli.”

The words “final initiative” and the jovial resolve with which they were spoken seized everyone's attention. Some officers instinctively leaned forward, as though by drawing closer they would receive Preble's information more quickly. Jamie Cutler and Ralph Izard, seated behind them, locked eyes.

“What's he talking about?” Izard whispered to Jamie. He, like the other officers, had assumed that the squadron would now return to Syracuse and mark time awaiting the new commodore. Preble had just implied something quite different. He had infused them with hope. Not an officer in that cabin had anything but the deepest affection and respect for Preble, despite his quirky ways.

“I haven't a clue,” Jamie whispered in reply.

Preble cleared his throat, and all eyes turned forward to him. “We are all aware of our situation,” he said. “We have discussed it during the course of many evenings. Nevertheless, let me say again—because it bears repeating—that our failure thus far to bring our enemy to his knees is not through any lack of valor or dereliction of duty on the part of anyone in this cabin. I in fact commend each and every one
of you for your actions this summer. My service as commodore of this squadron shall be the capstone of my life—my greatest honor as a man and my greatest privilege as a naval officer. Rest assured that whenever I write to the navy secretary or to the president, I shall sing your praises.”

He shook his head. “No, the reason we have not, as yet, achieved our primary objective is due, I am sorry to say, to our government's dilly-dallying. Many months ago I was promised, as reinforcements, four additional frigates and a number of gunboats. Thus far, only
John Adams
has materialized, and her I had to dispatch to Syracuse for repairs and outfitting. Had the guns of four frigates been added to our squadron, victory would have been ours by now and we would be home with our wives and sweethearts.

“As for the gunboats we have in our possession,” he continued, “we must return them to the king of Sicily, as we agreed to do. Excluding, of course, dear old number nine.”

The men all chuckled at that. Preble was referring to an incident three weeks ago in which a captured Tripolitan gunboat, converted to an American gunboat and dubbed gunboat 9, had suffered a direct hit during an assault. The boat had exploded, leaving only its forward half floating amid the flotsam of boat and body parts. As the bow of the gunboat settled slowly into the sea, three survivors managed to reload the gun in a valiant attempt to set off one final round against the enemy. Their attempt failed—the Mediterranean swirled in on them too quickly—but as the bow slipped beneath the waves, the three men held their fists in the air and shouted out three bold huzzahs in defiance. A jolly boat had rushed in to pick them up.

“What we know for certain,” Preble went on, “ is courtesy of recent night reconnaissance by Lieutenant Decatur and Lieutenant Chauncey. The Tripolitans moor their thirteen remaining gunboats tightly against each other near the city wall with their bows pointing east in a line abreast extending from the Molehead Battery to the bashaw's castle. The larger vessels are anchored in deeper water closer to the reefs.

“My aim,” he said after a pause for emphasis, “is to sail a vessel into the harbor between the gunboats and larger vessels, light a fuse, and destroy the Tripolitan Navy where it lies in one fell swoop. With good placement, good timing, and good luck, the explosion should cause severe damage not only to the enemy's ships, but also to Tripoli's shore batteries and to the castle.”

Preble stared at his silent officer corps until Stephen Decatur spoke up. “A fire-ship, sir?”

Preble smiled. “Technically, yes, Mr. Decatur. But I prefer to think of her as something rather more than a ketch set ablaze and rammed into enemy vessels. She will be carrying much of the ordnance that remains aboard this squadron.”

More silence followed until Master Commandant Isaac Hull of
Argus
asked, tentatively, “Which vessel, Captain? Which vessel will carry that ordnance?”

“
Intrepid,
” Preble answered him. “She has already proven her mettle in the attack on
Philadelphia,
and she has only recently rejoined our squadron. Her Mediterranean rig may yet again fool our enemy into believing she is one of theirs, if only for a few minutes. Those few minutes could determine success or failure.”

Lt. John Smith,
Vixen's
captain, asked, “Who will have the honor of commanding this expedition, sir?”

Preble nodded. He had anticipated that question. He knew that to these officers it was the most important question of all. And he knew, without question, that there was not a single man among them who would not beg for the honor.

“I have officers in mind,” he acknowledged, “but I would prefer to talk with each of them in private before I decide. This mission, however glorious it may appear, is fraught with risk and peril. It will therefore be strictly a volunteer mission. I will not think any less of a man who declines the opportunity . . . Other questions?” When no one spoke, Preble said, “Excellent. And as I see my steward making his way toward us, I suggest we adjourn our meeting. Drink heartily, my boys. You have earned the right.”

T
HE
M
ARINE PRIVATE
on duty outside the captain's day cabin stiffened to attention as Midn. James Cutler stepped down the companionway located amidships at the corner of the lattice-covered main hatch and strode down the gun deck toward him. At the cabin door, Jamie acknowledged the private's salute. “I am here at the commodore's request.”

“Aye, Mr. Cutler. He is expecting you, sir. If you will allow me . . .” The Marine pivoted smartly and rapped gently on the door.

“Yes?” a voice inquired from inside.

The Marine opened the door ajar. “Midshipman Cutler to see you, sir.”

“Then show the officer in, Private,” the gruff voice said.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Marine gave Jamie a quick grin before he opened the door wide and invited him inside.

Edward Preble welcomed Jamie Cutler into his day cabin and then led the way aft through a second door into his personal quarters, a snug space of comfortable chairs and a settee—good, solid American furniture, none of those spindly European pieces—along with a writing desk, several chests of drawers, and a stately mahogany sideboard. Oil paintings of ships and seascapes graced the bulkheads above shelves specially designed to hold in their leather-bound books. To starboard, the dining alcove; to larboard, the captain's sleeping cuddy.

Jamie had been in these personal chambers before, but on rare occasions and only in the company of more senior officers. To be invited here alone was a singular privilege for a midshipman.

“Please sit down, Mr. Cutler,” Preble said, adding, after a pause, “and please relax. You look like you are standing at attention even as you are sitting.” His smile was reassuring, in keeping with his voice. “I realize it is early afternoon, but may I offer you a spot of Madeira? I would enjoy sharing a glass with you.”