“Girl,” said the Berber, then repeated it, louder. “Girl!”
She turned partly around and saw his cotton-bloused figure over her shoulder as he lowered his sword. “The old man speaks truly. Do as you are bidden, no harm will come to you.” She understood from Shakespeare that Moors were supposed to be dark, but she had not thought how dark until he took another step toward her and reached out, taking hold—he was surprisingly gentle—of the gold locket with her mother’s hair between his thumb and forefinger. With a quick jerk he broke the chain and slipped it into a pocket. “Thank you,” he said and nodded.
In a moment Hawley, with the guard assigned to him, was in the cabin with them. “The ship has been taken as a prize,” he said. “I will be going as a hostage on their vessel, my crew has been confined, and their men will sail this ship and follow us to Algiers. There is no need for you to remove from your cabins until you are taken ashore. We will get there in about two days.”
• • •
THEY RAISED THE AFRICAN COAST on the morning of the second day, and by noon the captives in the Mary Lovejoy were brought on deck and saw they were passing a masonry mole several hundred yards long, slipping into a capacious harbor. The city was on the harbor’s western shore, facing east across the bay. Algiers was stunningly white, as virtually all its buildings were whitewashed, rising rank on rank, street on street, some four hundred feet in elevation up to the casbah. Alger la blanche, the romances called it, Algiers the white. What a perfect target for bombardment, Barnes thought when he saw it. There could be no hiding anywhere; every house, every shop, rose behind the one before it, every one exposed to the bay. He wished he could be there to witness the vengeance that the United States would wreak for his seizure.
As they landed, janissaries shouldering impossibly decorated muskets, inlaid with marquetry of ivory and jasper, led Rebecca away into the warren of whitewashed confusion that led up to the casbah. She called out once, “Papa!” as they pulled her away, and he called out once, “Don’t resist! I will find you!” as he was led into the bagnio on the mole.
A guard opened Barnes’s trunk, and on finding it packed tight with clothing uttered one guttural but very satisfied syllable as he motioned for the guards to take him within, and Barnes realized he would enter captivity with only the clothing he wore. In the large, echoing cells of the bagnio he counted more than a hundred other Americans, mostly common sailors and some commercial passengers; the one he found who had been longest in confinement had suffered there just under three years.
• • •
THE JOSEPH BARNES WHO EMERGED four days later was a grotesque of the one who went in. It was the same face, but unwashed, unshaven, caked with the salt of four days’ sweat. His clothes were of the same elegant cut, but soiled and sweated through, shiny in places where he had wiped his hands after eating rice and greasy strips of mutton for four days. He could have been ill at the pasty density of his own smell. His hands were tied before him with a leather thong, and between two fantastically pantalooned janissaries he was led into the whitewashed maze.
The streets were only about ten feet wide, often made narrower by wares set out for sale, the sunlight partly blocked by overhanging upper stories, and passing every several houses they would turn and ascend more steps. After twenty minutes he began to catch glimpses of the fortress that overlooked the city, the casbah, and the jumble of connected houses around it. As they passed through the wall, he thought for purposes of imparting future intelligence he would count the cannons along its crenellations, but he could not in the few seconds he could see them. At least fifty enormous guns commanded the bay, and Barnes realized how idle was his earlier ambition to see the city reduced by bombardment. Algiers was beyond gun range from the open sea, and American ships in the bay would be blown out of the water before they could fire a second salvo.
As they crossed an ancient and irregular courtyard Barnes looked up at the dey’s palace, integral to the fortress, rising three stories above a whitewashed stone ground floor, but there was no symmetrical façade. Very apparently it had been expanded incrementally over centuries, the stone varied in color as to when and where it was quarried. The temperature dropped several degrees as they entered a stone portal, which proved to be a chicane entrance, a baffle that protected the privacy of the palace interior.
The splatter of a fountain grew louder as they approached its far end, made a turn, and found themselves in a stair hall. Opposite them stood a medium-sized African wearing billowing red trousers and a loose white silk blouse, both secured by a black sash. “Mr. Barnes,” he said.
“I am Joseph Barnes.”
“My name is Jonah, chamberlain to His Highness the dey, Mustapha VI bin Ibrahim. You are shortly to be granted an audience.”
Barnes was so shocked he thought he must only be imagining—the voice carried the soft drawl of his native Virginia. “Why, you’re an American!”
“No, I was an American,” Jonah said coldly.
“For what purpose is this audience?”
“You will be allowed to publicly claim your diplomatic status and plead for your release.”
“Where have you taken my daughter?”
“She is safe. It is time. You will address the dey as ‘Your Highness,’ and you will bow as you answer any questions he may have.”
Their footsteps echoed up the stone staircase and they passed into an inner court, surrounded by colonnades along all three floors, with latticed wooden balconies protruding from above the northeast corner. Opposite them rose a dais, richly carpeted, the style of chair that was mounted atop it he could not tell, for it was draped with bolts of the richest velvet, red, yellow, and green. On this chair sat an old man with a luxuriant white beard, his face as tan and weathered as Morocco leather, so swathed in white cotton that no part of him was distinct except his face and his hands, the right one dipping occasionally in a brass tray of figs. He was flanked on either side by a file of janissaries, each one with a scimitar through his sash, and each one holding a lavishly inlaid musket taller than himself.
As they approached the dey, Barnes took his cue from Jonah on when to stop and bow, and then Jonah mounted the first step of the dais and stood at the side of the dey, who leaned over to hear a soft aside from him.
The dey opened one hand in recognition. “Mr. Barnes.”
“Your Highness.” He bowed. “I am the accredited consul of the United States of America to His Majesty, the King of the Two Sicilies. My ship was seized at sea, and I and my daughter were brought here in arrest. Since the beginning of civilization, the law of nations has established that diplomats are exempt from such seizure. I am willing to recognize that this may have been done by mistake, but I respectfully ask our release, and passage to our original destination of Palermo.”
It took Jonah a moment to render this into Arabic and hear the dey’s response. “Regrettably, that is not possible at this time.”
“My country has done you no injury,” asserted Barnes. “By what right do you seize people of other nations on the open sea and hold them for ransom?”
Jonah had another inaudible exchange with the dey, who gave a longer response. “You are infidels, Mr. Barnes. Our Holy Koran places upon us, the faithful, the right and the duty to subdue and enslave unbelievers at our pleasure.”
“But what if all religions claimed this right? No one could travel anywhere!”
“Perhaps. But this is the will of Allah, peace be upon him.”
“Then may I know Your Highness’s intention toward myself and your other American prisoners?”
The richly pantalooned African produced and read from a sheet of paper, whose words Barnes recognized instantly.
My best friend Mr. Jefferson, three days before sailing from Portsmouth I learn’d from perusing the newspapers that your administration of the country is so warmly regarded in our former mother country, that I resolv’d at f
irst opportunity to apprise you of your deserved popularity. And of course, to thank you once more for the confidence you have reposed in me, as United States consul to the Kingdoms of Naples and Sicily. From Portsmouth we called at Gibraltar, from whence we sailed three days ago bound for Palermo, where you may rest assured, my every effort will be bent to cementing the continued friendship and alliance of His Majesty King Ferdinand in quelling the disruption of our trade by the Algerine pirates of the Barbary Coast.
The Dey of that state, and his brother brigands the bashaws of Tunis and Tripoli, at this moment hold a dangerous face—but the trade of the Mediteranien is of such Magnitude, that these Robbers should be satisfied—one Ship with a Valuable cargo, & the Liberty of our fellow citizens are of more importance than the money they demand. Two or three frigates, with an intelligent and well informed Agent, might settle immediately a lasting Peace—or at Least as Lasting a Peace as these Pirates make with any Power.
Jonah lowered the letter that he had been reading from. “Do you deny being the author of this letter?”
Barnes glanced around the sun-bleached limestone courtyard, at the file of janissaries with their pearl-inlaid muskets, and concluded that his best hope was to make a brave show of it. If his only remaining act was to die, word must not get back to Virginia that he died less than a gentleman. His country would avenge him. “Of course not,” he said. “Thank you for saving my papers for me.”
The dey’s dark eyes never left Barnes’s sweating figure as he fished in the brass bowl for another fig, selecting one by feel. He spoke a few words of Arabic to Jonah. “His Highness says your insults condemn you.”
The old dey shrugged slightly and spoke again at more length. “But the fact that you write so familiarly to the American president, and you appear to be his friend, commends you to our mercy. You may withdraw.”
As they reached the edge of the courtyard, the air was suddenly rent by a terrible animal roar that made the paving vibrate beneath their feet. Then they heard a second, and then a violent combat between unseen beasts. “What on earth?” Barnes gasped.
Jonah led him on into the stair hall. “Lions. His Highness has a menagerie beyond the south wall. At feeding time, the lions fight over their food. The strong ones will prevail; the weak ones”—he shrugged—“will become rugs. As in life, the weak are walked upon.”
Jonah accompanied Barnes and his guard back through the cool chicane to the street. “The dey has decided to let you live.”
“Only because I am worth more alive than dead, I’ll warrant.”
Jonah stopped and folded his arms. “It is widely known that Mr. Washington and Mr. Adams agreed to pay the tributes every year to our Tripolitan states. And everyone knows equally well that Mr. Jefferson opposed the practice, vociferously. In your letter, you urge him to a more moderate policy. It is your reasonable attitude that has saved your life.”
Barnes stared at him. It was astonishing to hear such speech from a black man.
“Now, if it was up to me,” continued Jonah, “I might have you executed for not being able to spell ‘Mediterranean.’ When you return to the bagnio, you will be given pen and paper. Write a letter to your superiors, let them know your location and your circumstances. We will see that it is safely delivered to your consulate in Palermo.”
They reached the entrance portal. “Please, where is my daughter?” asked Barnes.
Jonah pointed upward to the top floor of the palace. “She is in residence, in the dey’s harem. It is pleasant and has a roof garden.”
“The harem,” he repeated sickly.
“Don’t worry, the guards of the harem are all eunuchs.”
Barnes started to go, but turned back a final time. “Jonah, where did you get your education?”
Jonah stood unnervingly close and looked right into this eyes. “Mr. Barnes, black people in Africa have been reading and writing for centuries. Only in your Southern states are we condemned to plant rice and pick cotton. That is only your view of us.”
Barnes and his guards descended through the city to the waterfront, and walking along the mole he saw in the distance the building that he had come from. They stopped him a hundred yards short of there, showing him into a different cell before locking the door behind him. He found himself alone in a large stone chamber, at the opposite end of which he found an enormous stone basin, recessed into the floor and surely as old as the bagnio itself, two-thirds full of water, with soap and a towel and his trunk of clothes. He lifted the lid just long enough to see that they had been undisturbed. There was a table with paper, pen, inkwell, and a platter of food—rice, mutton, chickpeas, figs, grapes, and an orange. He removed a cloth from atop a chilled pitcher and found it full of goat’s milk, half of which he drank greedily before bathing, reaching out for food even as he washed himself. He found his shaving kit within his trunk.
At length he sat down to write, telling himself that if they thought he would be so awash in gratitude that he would soften his account of what conditions the other Americans were held in, they were grievously mistaken. But then he realized, of course, they would read everything before sending it on, if they did send it, and he must be measured, and moderate, to have a hope of bringing rescue.
6.
SWORD AND PLOW
March 1802
Three days after parting from Clarity Marsh, Bliven donned his freshly laundered uniform. His mother’s farewell at the door was affectionate but stoic; whatever volcano of fears and pain she suppressed, she knew the importance of making his going as genial, and seem as hearty and unconcerned, as his coming. She was well satisfied of his affections; making his heart heavier at parting would have evidenced the alleged weakness of her sex, and she was determined to prove worthy of better praise.
She reduced her storm of fears to one act, one remedy. “One thing only I will ask of you,” she told Bliven in parting.
“Yes?”
“That you will read in your Bible daily. Not great chunks of it, just something, each day. Will you promise me this?”
He embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Yes.”
His father rode with him to Captain Bull’s tavern, which served Mr. Strait as his depot. They spoke quietly of the spring planting, which they had begun but not completed. “I have heard it said,” Benjamin ventured, “that with Captain Bull no longer living, his family is thinking to close the tavern.”
Bliven considered it; the tavern had been a steady buyer of their cider. “Well, we should have no difficulty selling the cider elsewhere.”
“Yes, but perhaps we could take it upon ourselves to open a cider house, if that happens. The east road to Farmington and Hartford bears more traffic than where we live; it might prove profitable.”
“It might, it might.” They were interrupted by the clatter of the stage arriving southbound from Torrington. With naval enlistments still limited to one year, and with good luck, Bliven might be home in time to help with the pressing and fermenting. “Well, God willing, I shall be back in the fall, and we will take up the subject again.”
“Write to your mother, she worries about you.”
The three days and two nights of travel between Litchfield and Boston seemed interminable, but Bliven used the time to reconcile himself to again losing the comforts of home—no more his mother’s care and cooking; their sharp white Vermont cheddar must transform into blue-green mold on cheese brought up from the hold. Her rich, dark, fragrant bread must become the ship’s biscuits, those stone cobbles of flour and water paste twice baked, inedible except they be pounded to gravel and soaked in hot tea. In place of her savory apple pie he could only look forward on rare occasions to plum duff, a disgusting boiled pudding of flour, grease, and raisins. And after a few weeks any food on their plates might wriggle with worms. The foot warmer of coals in his bed must become a bucket of sand with a hot shot in it; the associations of his childhoo
d must evaporate once more into the violence and stench of ninety men in a seventy-foot schooner. He steeled himself to the coming hardships, stern in the conviction that if he wished to have the greater reputation and social presence of a naval officer, this was what must be done. At least, he consoled himself, he now bore an epaulette on his shoulder; the bored and malicious misfits who occasionally passed for other lieutenants must take greater care with him.
Bliven had acquired several more books during his winter at home, bought from the printer on Litchfield’s square who was attempting to inaugurate a subscription news sheet, but who supplemented his income by selling books acquired wherever he could do so cheaply. The new volumes weighed down his sea bag. It was round, of white sail canvas the breadth of a barrel but taller, with a drawstring pulling it closed at the top. The coach company required him to pay a stiff fine for its exceeding fourteen pounds, and then upon arriving he was compelled to rent a barrow from the stage company to trundle his sea bag to the navy yard, for now it was too heavy to shoulder for any great distance.
Bliven approached the gangplank of the receiving ship, sizing her up fore-and-aft, from the flagpole to the waterline. They must have their offices somewhere, he admitted, but what a tragedy for any ship to end this way: dismasted, with the stumps rising above the gabled roof of a barnlike building that belonged on land, the railing gone and windows cut into her hull, the bowsprit gone and only the curl of her prow to protest that she had seen graceful days, fighting days.
Leaving his barrow and sea bag at the foot of the gangplank, he found the receiving clerk, saluted, and handed the letter he had received across the desk. “Lieutenant Putnam, reporting as ordered.”
The receiving clerk was a pasty white blond little lieutenant, who could not have been much older than Bliven was at the time of the Tripoli action, except he looked as though he had never been out of doors. He seemed a spectral clerk in these derelict remains of a once-proud ship; perhaps this was the entrance to the sailors’ underworld. The clerk’s barely visible eyebrows knitted. “There must be some mistake,” he said, almost to himself.
The Shores of Tripoli Page 11