The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  At the drumbeat Bliven and Sam Bandy were studying in the wardroom. Even as they leapt to their feet, they could see forward beyond the galley the surgeon’s mate laying a plank on a line of sea chests and spreading a cloth over it. On it he opened his valise of instruments—probes and tourniquets, and the dreaded saw. Pelham the chaplain was out of his berth, already in his vestments, ready to hold down the wounded as they were treated, to comfort them as they died. Sam and Bliven were on the deck within seconds, armed. On large vessels midshipmen might be afforded some measure of protection, but today if there was a fight it promised to be even and every hand would be needed.

  They watched the polacca gain on them, coming slowly up their port quarter. Sterett put the speaking trumpet to his lips. “Ho, the ship! Ahoy! What ship is that?” he said, affecting his best imitation of an effete, upper-class British accent.

  “His Highness the bashaw’s warship Tripoli,” the voice floated back with an Arab accent. “What ship is that?”

  “His Majesty’s warship Enterprise,” Sterett called back. “What is your mission?”

  After several seconds the reply came back loud and jovial. “We are hunting Americans. Have you seen any?” The laughing of the Berber crew was audible.

  Sterett looked down the deck and saw his marines lying flat, each with musket and pistol in hand. “Yes!” His eye caught the bosun’s mate, the Stars and Stripes fastened on and ready to haul aloft at the order.

  “Excellent!” cried back the Berber. “Most excellent! Are they close by?”

  Sterett paused, gathering his fury. It was nine o’clock on a clear morning, the cliffs of Malta just visible some miles to the east. “Yes!”

  “Where shall we find them?”

  “Colors!” Sterett bellowed. The British naval ensign fainted down the line as the American flag raced up just as fast. “Right here, you thieving bastards! Marines!” The company leapt to their feet and aimed. “Fire!”

  The rattle of musketry took the Berber ship completely by surprise. There were cries from the wounded, and there came the cacophony of what Sterett took to be a mixture of orders, curses, and exhortations. Her gunports opened, but only three guns fired; in their haste to respond the Moors fired at the extremity of their uproll, and even at this short distance their shot flew through the Enterprise’s rigging.

  And now she must reload. “Mr. Porter!”

  “Sir!”

  “Open fire on her gun deck.”

  The ships were so close abeam that after the musket volley the marines discharged pistols at the Tripolitan gun crews. Enterprise’s ports snapped open and the six-pounders rolled out. Porter sighted each one on an opposite gunport before firing, the concussive boom followed a split second later by the sickening crunch of hull and railing that they knew must be showering lethal splinters among her gun crews. And then there were screams. Porter fired each six-pounder and moved on, leaving Bliven in charge of the crew reloading each.

  Broadside to broadside, the Enterprise was outgunned seven to six, but the initial pandemonium on the corsair that Sterett had caused with his surprise negated any advantage.

  “Sir!” called Porter. “Look!”

  The corsair had suddenly luffed her sails, causing Enterprise to leap ahead, and then set the sails again, stealing the wind from her and bringing the pirates rapidly upon their port quarter. Brigands, dark-skinned and exotically attired, inched out onto the lateen yard, ready to leap aboard as soon as Enterprise was overtaken.

  Sterett begrudged his admiration at this bit of seamanship; clearly this was a captain who had taken vessels before. But neither did Sterett think himself incapable. “Mr. Porter!”

  “Sir!”

  “Your aft starboard gun has no target; set it aft as a stern chaser, right now! From where they are now, our mains’l will cover you from sight. Load with grape. We’ll rake those bastards from the yard when I turn. Tell me when you’re ready; you will have leave to fire when you come to bear. Mr. Bandy! When I order the starboard turn, lean on the wheel and be distracted by nothing! All depends on shearing clean away!”

  “Aye, sir!” Sam Bandy set his eye and his jaw. If the pirates managed to drop boarders, he must be one of the first targets. He glanced down at the decorative hilt of his saber. In its scabbard it would be useless, but instinctively he knew not to withdraw it now. Sterett had commanded all his attention to the wheel; that could mean only that he was meant to die at the wheel if needs be, and it would convey weakness if the lieutenant saw him prepare to defend his life before they were upon him. Mentally he calculated the posture he would need, to hold the wheel over with his left hand, while using his sword with the right.

  With wind stolen from the Enterprise’s sails the polacca was on them before Porter was ready. She sheared hard to port, swinging her lateen yard over the Enterprise just fore of the quarterdeck; only the polacca’s lack of bowsprit kept her from snagging in the spanker rigging. As she swung she dropped six pirates onto the deck. Others tried to swing over on ropes, but the polacca’s turn had been too severe, and they swung out over blue water in wasted motion before dropping back onto their own deck.

  “Repel boarders,” roared Sterett. “Hard astarboard!” Sam Bandy spun the wheel to the right and Enterprise answered with a sharp heel away from the polacca, clearing them of the overhanging yard. Once it came to bear, Porter fired his new chaser, raking the pirates’ deck with grape. But those six eager Moors had landed on their own deck, and the marines had discharged both muskets and pistols, and were engaged in reloading.

  One of the Berbers landed five feet from where Bliven Putnam was reloading one of the guns—a labor that was quickly forgotten because the closest marines were engaged with two other pirates. In a heartbeat Bliven had his saber out of its scabbard and was fending off the first of the Moor’s strikes. He was very dark, with yellow teeth showing against red gums; Bliven saw that he had a pistol wedged in his belt, but he did not draw it; therefore he must have already fired it.

  Bliven drove the Moor back with a couple offensive strikes of his own, then drew his own pistol. The Moor froze at the sight, suddenly overmatched. If both men hesitate in a fight it remains even, Curtis had drilled into him, but if only one hesitates, it must mean his death. The instant Bliven saw the dark, heavily browed eyes fix on the pistol in his left hand, he lunged forward with his right, his saber sticking him mid-chest below the rib cage, lower part of the heart, surely, to a depth of perhaps eight inches—as far as he could reach. The Moor grimaced and grunted; even a dying man can strike a final blow, and before he might raise his scimitar Bliven raised a foot and pushed him off the blade, spinning him down to the deck, where he curled into a ball, as though that might stanch the course of blood that followed the blade as it withdrew. At Bliven’s last sight of him he was breathing in short gasps, pinkish spittle edging out onto his cheek.

  The polacca checked her port turn to try and stay within boarding distance, but the schooner’s maneuverability was too great for her, and Sam’s hard starboard turn opened enough distance between them that the six who dropped off the yard were now stranded, and their fate sealed, but they could wreak much damage before being dispatched.

  Bliven saw one of his gunners, new to the navy, his eyes wide, fending off scimitar blows as each one came down on him, but unable to mount any offensive. At last when he was backed over the cascabel of his gun, Bliven thought it time to expend the one shot in his pistol. As the Moor raised his scimitar Bliven pointed the gun at his side, midway between waist and armpit; indeed, he had begun to pull the trigger, but the boom that he heard was not from his own gun but that of a marine who fired the instant he had reloaded. The ball struck the Moor square between the shoulder blades and exploded out of his chest, showering the astonished gunner with gore as the pirate’s arms flung out to the sides. He crumpled like a marionette and never moved, and the gunner stared at him as the fo
reign blood trickled down his face.

  “Shot your gun, man!” shouted Bliven. “Shot your gun!” The gunner regained himself, rolling and ramming a six-pound ball and wadding home down the barrel. The center of the action was in the waist of the ship; even Sterett had leapt down to be in the thick of it. Beyond the melee Bliven saw Sam leaning hard on the wheel with his left hand, his sword raised in his right hand as he stood off a furious assault from a loose-bloused pirate who was intent on taking the wheel and stemming their turn.

  One shot—the thought raced through Bliven’s mind and terrified him—one shot and I must not miss. Each of his gun captains had cried ready and were awaiting the order to roll out guns, but Bliven realized that with the turn they bore on no target at this instant. “Down!” he screamed. The crews either fell flat or crouched low; Bliven was able to race four steps toward the quarterdeck. Both the wheel and the Moor were between him and Sam; the pirate was assaulting him with the wheel between them. Stupid man, thought Bliven. It’s harder to reach him that way; but he could not shoot him lest the ball pass through him and kill Sam as well. Bliven leapt to his left, almost tripping over the lanyard of the Number Four gun, but steadying himself over the breech of the gun he found an angle in which Sam was not in danger. Somewhere in the farthest reach of his mind he knew he was about to do something he had never done, pass through a portal from which there was no returning. He leveled his aim and fired.

  The ball caught the pirate high in the side, beneath the armpit. He staggered to the side as though hit by a heavy weight, and just in the instant that he stood bewildered Sam ran him through. As he fell backward he took Sam’s sword with him, and he could not retrieve it without releasing his grip on the wheel, which he dared not, so he let it go.

  Sam’s eyes met Bliven’s before the smoke had blown clear of his pistol, and each realized that Bliven had saved his life, a turning point of their friendship that must bear pondering over, but later, for the fight still ran hot.

  Discovering the ninety men of the Enterprise too well able to repel boarders, and the six who had jumped prematurely all sacrificed, the Tripoli stood off two ship lengths away, seeming content to settle the matter with the weight of their broadsides. Sterett regained the quarterdeck after making certain that his own ship was secure. “Twenty degrees back to port, Mr. Bandy. Bring our broadside to bear.”

  “Aye, sir!” hollered Bandy.

  Fighting with broadsides was not what Gavino said they would do. “Let her have it, boys!” roared Sterett. A full six-gun broadside seemed to crush the polacca, as railing and gear and chunks of cabin wheeled into the air, after which there was an eerie silence. For the first time they noticed the black holes in her thin hull—the inevitable consequence of using a light vessel as a warship.

  The red and yellow flag lowered, replaced with a white one. The tars manning the Enterprise’s guns may not have been from the upper classes, but they knew a victory when they had one, and they cheered lustily.

  “Let her come up alongside, Mr. Bandy.” The polacca approached within thirty yards, and Sterett put the trumpet to his lips. “Do you surrender, sir?”

  Porter pointed suddenly with his saber. “She is hoisting colors again!” The Tripolitan standard raced aloft once, as a line of pirates leapt to their feet and emptied their assemblage of muskets and blunderbusses toward the Enterprise.

  “What!” screamed Sterett. “Damn you! Damn you to hell!” He waved his saber over the gun deck. “Marines, fire! Fire at will! Back to your guns, boys! Hole her!”

  The Tripoli managed to answer with a desultory pepper of four-pounders, but seemed almost to shatter under the weight of two more broadsides that sent great chunks of hull and railing spinning through the air. She steered off a hundred yards and rocked quietly, and after a few moments raised the white flag again.

  “Not likely,” muttered Sterett.

  Five and then ten minutes passed, the polacca rolling in the swell, her white flag curling slowly in the breeze. Porter joined Sterett on the quarterdeck. “Sir, we must do something, we can’t just leave her there.”

  “I know, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Mr. Bandy, two points to port, come up slowly,” said Sterett quietly. “Mr. Porter, have your full broadside ready.”

  “Aye.” Porter hopped down to the gun deck. “Mr. Putnam, what is your status?”

  “Guns primed and ready, sir.” Porter saw the gunners blowing their matches.

  With Enterprise carrying more canvas, she inevitably passed by the polacca’s starboard side, and the instant she did so, the Berber hoisted all sails again and came for them, once again on their port quarter, intending to repeat their earlier maneuver, more pirates scooting out on the lateen yard to board.

  “I don’t believe it,” Sterett whispered. “Waterline, boys!” he roared. “Aim for the waterline! Sink the villain!” Porter left Bliven to keep up the fire from the six-pounders as rapidly as the crews could reload, and joined Sterett again by the wheel.

  Bliven seized the long iron crow and levered the heavy breech up from where it rested on the carriage. “Hand spikes!” he shouted, and looking down guns Two through Four, he called again, “Hand spikes!” The swabber jammed a heavy wooden wedge between the barrel and the carriage, depressing the barrel six or eight degrees. It was a crude system of aiming, and the rest depended on Bliven’s judgment of the ships’ respective rolls, but it lowered the whole amplitude of possible strikes closer to the water, and the polacca sat lower than the schooner.

  “Roll out!” The gun’s crew, plus Bliven himself and a man from this gun’s starboard mate, heaved mightily on the lanyards, and aided by a port roll the fifteen-hundred-pound gun slid home against the blocks of the gunport. “Clear!” The crew scrambled to the gun’s sides, away from the coming six-foot recoil that would crush them like a hammer if they were struck.

  He estimated three seconds for the priming to reach the pierced cartridge; he waited until the Enterprise just started her downward roll, his aim halfway between the polacca’s railing and her waterline. “Fire!” he screamed.

  Together Sterett and Porter knew the polacca was taking a horrific splintering belowdecks from the four-gun salvo, for from without they clearly observed the holes in her hull, one of them two feet above the waterline. She must now take on water with every starboard roll. Port guns Five and Six under command of Lieutenant Curtis followed seconds later. Number Six gun hung fire just long enough to elicit a curse from Curtis, before flame and wadding exploded from its muzzle on the uproll. It was a lucky shot, though, for the corsair’s mizzenmast shivered and then slowly heeled over, draping its lateen yard and sail into the water. At length they saw a white flag hoisted a third time.

  Bliven saw it, too, and looked up to Sterett for an order. “Keep firing,” he roared. “Sink the son of a bitch!”

  “Sponge your guns!” screamed Bliven to his four crews. By the time swabbers stood at attention, signaling their completion, the powder monkey had emerged from below with three cartridges in the crook of each arm. “Load your cartridges!” It was done, and the powder rammed home followed by wadding, and the chief of each crew called that he felt the powder beneath his touchhole. “Shot your guns!” A six-pound iron ball was rammed down each barrel, followed by a second wadding to keep it in place.

  Another deafening full round sent the powder monkey scurrying below for new charges, as a man whom they took for the corsair’s captain appeared at the shattered rail in a bloody tunic. With his hands in the air he called out, “Cease your firing! For the love of God, stop!”

  Seconds ticked by in silence. The corsair had taken on a visible starboard list; one more broadside at her waterline and she must capsize. Sterett anticipated the wash of pleasure at seeing her sink, her crew floundering in the sea.

  “Mr. Putnam!”

  “Sir!”

>   “Cease your fire.” Rage must give place to reality, he thought. If he sank her, he would make himself responsible for her wounded, and prisoners. That he could not do on his overcrowded vessel.

  Sterett turned his fury on the corsair captain. “Well, sir! What trick have you this time? Why should I not send you down, damn you!”

  The captain extended his hands in the air. “My men are killed and wounded. We cannot steer. We surrender, for the love of God!”

  Sterett chewed on it for a few seconds. “Very well, send your boat over. We will take your surrender.”

  “We cannot! You have shot our boat to pieces. Send your boat over here!”

  “My God,” Sterett said to Porter, “does he really think we’re that stupid?”

  They saw the captain fall to his knees. “We surrender, in the name of God!”

  “Prove it to me!” bellowed Sterett.

  They saw the captain give an order, and a limping sailor brought him their ensign. “See! I cast our flag into the sea! We cannot raise it again! When was the last shot you heard from us? The battle is over! I swear before God you will not be harmed!”

  Porter said quietly aside, “Let me take the boat over with some marines. We’ll find out if they’re really finished.”

  Sterett nodded. “Mr. Merrick,” he called out.

  “Sir!”

  “Get your boat into the water.”

  Porter and half a dozen marines boarded the corsair and strode through the carnage of naval warfare, splinters from the wooden shower that killed and maimed. They took stock of the dead and wounded, rounded up the unhurt, and searched below to make certain there were no more tricks in store.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Sterett, you may come across.” He sent the cutter back for him.