The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  “Yes, sir, I will.” At least, he thought, if pork was such an abomination, there was not much likelihood of their being tempted by it in this country.

  After dinner Eaton made a show of his relaxed leadership by taking Bliven, O’Bannon, his corporal, and three marines, joined by a few of the Maronites, to seek some refreshment in the city. In a culture with no alcohol, coffee and tea were the alternatives, and they settled on a shop a couple hundred yards down a well-traveled thoroughfare.

  If it had a name they could not discern it, but plainly it was a place of entertainment: it had an arcade open to the street; exotic music issued from it; crowds of local men drank tea and coffee, and smoked from water pipes an herb that Bliven learned was called hashish.

  The American marines felt much put upon that there was no alcohol to drink, there or in any other gathering place, but their disappointment was dispelled by the appearance of a succession of girls in the most gossamer garments they had ever seen, and they performed a shocking sort of dance, swaying their outlined hips, shimmying their naked bellies, all the while keeping time with tiny cymbals slipped onto their thumbs and fingers. Each wore a kind of black kohl about her eyes, accentuated out from the corners like ancient Egyptian drawings, and lipstick the shining reddish purple of dark cherries. Bliven was quick to notice that when, in dancing, one of the girls caught the eye of a man she began to play up to him, smiling at him, teasing him, dancing toward him in a way that could not be taken as other than seductive.

  Between the music and the crowd it was too noisy for whispering, but Eaton leaned over and said into Bliven’s ear, “Open a place like this in Boston, eh?”

  Bliven shook his head. “Look at them. They’re what? Ten years old? Eleven? I don’t know what to say!” He was not exaggerating, for although they wore shallowly conical felt brassieres, it was apparent that their breasts, had they come yet at all, still had much developing to do.

  “They’re expected to marry at twelve. Single and fourteen is considered a disgrace.”

  Together they watched a lithe young girl in a costume green as limes swirl and twirl and shake her way toward a middle-aged local man, better dressed than most, fully bearded, a profusion of gray hair issuing from his ears and nose. She turned at the last instant and backed toward him, like a ewe anxious to be bred. Suddenly the man rose, took her by the hand, and led her through a curtain of threaded beads into a back hall that they had not noticed before. “So that’s what is afoot,” said Bliven.

  “Not our place to judge,” said Eaton. “Not our country, Putnam, not our people, not our customs, nor laws, nor history. Don’t forget, we are the outsiders here. We’re the ones being judged.”

  They saw a second girl, in yellow, lead away one of their Levantine mercenaries.

  Seeing Eaton and Bliven in their uniforms, the apparent proprietor seated himself at their table. “Gentlemen,” he spoke in English. “You are the Americans? Welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am General William Eaton; this is my aide, Lieutenant Putnam.”

  “Welcome,” he repeated. “Do you enjoy yourselves?”

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” said Eaton.

  “Your girls are very pretty,” said Bliven. “And very young.”

  “Thank you, young effendi. You are the leaders, of your men?”

  “I am,” said Eaton.

  “Ah. Therefore, you will not . . . visit? . . . with the dancers?”

  “No, I thank you.”

  “Then may I ask, do you permit it, for your men?”

  Eaton shrugged. “If they wish it, I will not prevent them.”

  “Ah.” The man opened his hands in gratitude. “They will praise your goodness. Let me send you coffee, with my compliments.”

  Eaton nodded to him. “You are very kind, sir.”

  A carafe of coffee arrived, thick and dark, and stronger than any Bliven had ever tasted, even as they watched a girl in crimson make an approach to O’Bannon’s corporal. The local men had taken their exertions in stride, but by the time this thin girl got close enough to mesmerize the corporal with her eyes, like a leopard swaying before a peacock, he was beside himself. He got to his feet, and she took his hand and led him through the beaded curtains.

  Five minutes later a shout of apparent disgust issued from the rear and he returned, disheveled, and rejoined the marines with such a blasted look on his face that Eaton called him over. “Pugsley!”

  He took small steps to come over. “Sir?”

  “What happened, Pugsley? Was she not to your liking?”

  “Well, sir, she”—he wrung his hands—“she—”

  “Speak up, man, what is it?”

  “Sir, she isn’t a she, sir.”

  It took a few seconds for his meaning to become clear, at which Eaton threw his head back and roared in laughter. “Very well. Maybe you boys should pay your bill and return to the camp.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hesitated to leave. “General Eaton, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t—that is, I mean I would never—”

  “No, no, of course you wouldn’t. No one would think it.”

  “I mean, she, he, could have fooled anyone!”

  “Corporal, give it no more thought. Compose yourself, now, and get your men back to the camp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Eaton turned back to his table he found Bliven with a hand cupped over his open mouth. The general fished in his small leather purse and placed a silver and three copper coins on their table. “Come, Mr. Putnam, we should go with them. Safety in numbers, you know, our uniforms could make us targets, just the two of us.”

  They and the platoon drew stares as they made the short walk back to the waterfront, and they were alone as the paved quay gave way to the beach, and their camp in the dunes. Eaton plopped heavily on his stool before his tent. “What is it, Mr. Putnam? Something has been working into you like a wood borer. What is it?”

  Suddenly Bliven wished he had a cup of grog. ‘“Sir, here we are, in Alexandria.” He tried his hand at the native: “El Iskandaria! The lighthouse! The library! Cleopatra! Second city of the Roman Empire! So much history, so much to see and to learn!” He leaned forward almost in an accusatory way. “And what have we done? We visited a . . . a den, that specializes in the, well, procurement of little boys. Is that the best we could do?”

  Eaton managed to check another round of mirth. “Ah, poor Mr. Putnam. You seem to have made a mistake. You joined the . . . navy . . . when apparently you meant to join the Royal Geographical Society.”

  “Yes, sir.” He felt vaguely insulted but was compelled to admit the truth in it.

  “Now, look here. There are officers and gentlemen who can appreciate your bent for knowledge and learning. I am one of them. But look out there.” He pointed out to the marines gathered by their fire, and the camp of the mercenaries beyond. “They could not give a flying gull’s cry about Cleopatra, or the library, or your flaming lighthouse. If you can’t learn to come down to their level now and then, you’re going to have a very lonely life. To say nothing of very dismal commands.”

  Bliven considered it. “Yes, sir. Good night.”

  • • •

  DAWN CRASHED UPON HIM WITH GUNFIRE, a chorus of ululant whooping, more gunfire, and the thunder of a hundred horses racing up to the Maronite camp. Bliven was in his boots and outside his tent at the same instant that Eaton emerged from his. They barely had time to do up their waistcoats when six of the new arrivals cantered over, one a length ahead of the others, all horses and riders magnificently appointed. Bliven studied them intently, for Clarity would want him to record this minutely.

  Eaton held his arms wide in greeting. “Hamet Pasha, it has been too long.”

  They embraced quickly and tightly. “Are you well, Eaton Pasha?”

  “I am very w
ell, and very happy to see you. Will you stay and have some coffee?”

  “Ah, Eaton Pasha.” Hamet raised his hands and looked aside. “You are my friend, we have much to talk about, but I remember your coffee tasting like river water.”

  Eaton laughed heartily.

  “Let us arrange our camp, put up our tents, and rest, and we will speak of all things tonight. You come to us. Our tents are bigger, and we have real coffee.”

  “As you wish, my friend,” said Eaton.

  Eaton had intended to spend the day renewing contacts in the city, arranging to hire camels and drivers, but the arrival of Hamet Pasha accelerated that process as merchants arrived in a steady stream all day, calling on Hamet first, most retiring quietly, some few—enough—entering the American camp and offering their services. After witnessing Eaton engage in much haggling with them, Bliven came to understand that in this culture, such hectoring negotiation and renegotiation was expected, and to not engage in it was considered rude. They and Eaton eventually settled on a rate of eleven dollars per head of each animal for the duration of the expedition, payable in silver, a princely sum—breathtaking, even—but to hear the camel drivers describe it, a rate on which their children would starve.

  Each was keen to demonstrate the superiority of his animals; Bliven had seen camels before, in every African port they had called in, but he had never mounted one until now, and it was unlike anything he had imagined—how an animal so graceful in movement could be so cruelly ungainly in lying down. The first time one lowered for him to dismount, he was so surprised by the forward lurch as it went to its knees that he was thrown completely off, somersaulting into the sand, to hysterical laughter from the drivers and even a disgusted bawl from the animal itself.

  In a flash he was on his feet with a broad smile, and held up a finger and said, “Again. Show me how.” This won him some respect, and they pantomimed how, when the camel plunged forward to its knees, he must compensate by leaning far back on his saddle, and then come forward as the animal settled down onto its haunches. The second time he did it perfectly, to a round of applause.

  In Alexandria word spread like the wind of what was afoot. Hamet Pasha’s men worked the Greek quarter of the city, and before breakfast was even over, Bliven was putting together a roster of mercenaries who sought them out with their offer to fight. He tried not to reflect that in America’s own revolution, Hessian mercenaries were universally reviled, and now Americans were resorting to the same tactic. He persuaded his conscience, however, that if the Ottoman government was deserving of any loyalty, volunteers would not be lining up.

  In the evening Eaton and Bliven washed and put on their best before entering Hamet Pasha’s camp, which was a thicket of tents in the midst of his followers’ camps, all seeming surprisingly organized and permanent for having been put up in less than a day.

  Hamet Pasha greeted them before his own tent, within scent but not sight of aromatic food cooking. He greeted Eaton again with a full embrace. “You honor me with your visit.”

  “Highness,” Eaton said, saluting before returning the embrace. May I present my aide, Lieutenant Putnam? He was commended for gallantry when the Enterprise captured the Tripoli.”

  “Ah.” Hamet Pasha nodded. “You are that young man.”

  “You have heard of the engagement?” asked Bliven.

  “Of course. And also”—Hamet Pasha laughed—“of the fate of my brother’s admiral. Come inside and be welcome.”

  Within the tent they arranged themselves around a great brass tray, which was presently laden with rice, lamb, onions, and flatbread. “You mean that renegade Scotsman?” Bliven continued.

  “Scotsman, yes, so he was.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Bliven. “I’ve never heard.”

  “Ah.” Hamet Pasha sighed. “After the fight, the ship—or, as much ship as was left after the fight—was able to reach Malta. It was better repaired, and returned to Tripoli. When my brother learned what had happened, Admiral Rous was arrested and bound. He was mounted backwards upon an ass, and to show what kind of bravery he had, he was hung all about with the entrails of a sheep.” There was a ripple of laughter in the pasha’s entourage. “From there, he was ridden on this ass to the square, where he was laid down and tied to a scaffold. His legs were lifted into the air, and he was whipped, five hundred lashes on the soles of his bare feet.”

  Bliven flinched. “That hardly seems just.”

  “He lost the battle,” said Hamet Pasha in a hard way.

  “He did not fight skillfully, but he fought hard, both honorably and—well—not so honorably.”

  Hamet’s eyes became as hard as glass. “The only dishonor in battle is to lose,” he said loudly, and Bliven knew this was for the benefit of his retinue. “If any man think otherwise, he may not fight for me.” There was a hauteur to him, an inbred sense of title, and Bliven thought, yes, he could see how simple tribesmen would follow him.

  “Yes, sir,” Bliven said. “I understand.”

  Hamet Pasha held up a hand. “Ah, but the five hundred bastinadoes that he suffered was not the joke. The joke was that my brother intended this punishment as an example, to inspire the sailors he had assembled in Tripoli to man his ships. But these men were not inspired to fight, they were inspired to steal away. The next morning their camp was empty. Now my foolish brother has ships, but no one to sail them. He is helpless before your navy.”

  General Eaton smiled in a cautionary way. “Not so helpless. His fortress still mounts one hundred fifteen heavy guns. No fleet could defeat that; the ships would be blown to splinters.”

  “That is true. But you have no need to engage his heavy guns. He now has no navy to challenge your blockade. No supplies can reach him by sea, and once we take Derna”—Hamet Pasha tapped his finger emphatically at the place on the map—“nothing can be sent him by land.”

  Bliven looked at the map and saw that Derna was hundreds of miles to the east of Tripoli, beyond the Gulf of Sidra. “Why Derna, particularly, when it is so far away?” asked Bliven.

  Hamet Pasha leaned forward, tracing his finger west from Alexandria. “Regard this. These places we shall pass—El Alamein, Sidi Barrani, Tobruk, Bomba—they are mud huts in the desert. But Derna”—he tapped his finger again—“Derna lies between the sea and a mountain. It is a paradise of fruit and sheep, and fields of grain. My brother sits in Tripoli, that is his capital. But Derna is his storehouse, his granary, his treasury. If he lose Derna, and your ships blockade him from the sea, Tripoli must fall in time, as the ripe date falls from the tree.”

  Eaton also tapped on the map. “But my friend, there is no need to fight a battle there. We can put you on our ship and transport you with ease; you can meet your army in Tripoli and only have to fight once.”

  Hamet Pasha shook his head. “No, no, this cannot be. No army would stay together for so long. An army follows its leader, and if the leader desert them, the army dries up, like a wadi in summer. I must ride with them to lead them, and you must ride with me. On this point there can be no dispute. It must be so.”

  After fierce but fruitless argument Eaton gave way, resigning Bliven and himself to weeks of uncertain saddle travel in the Libyan Desert, even as Preble had foretold. They rose to excuse themselves, but Hamet Pasha delayed them for a moment longer.

  “Lieutenant.” He pointed to the dagger in Bliven’s belt. “How do you come to have a jambia of the Wahidi? May I see it?”

  “Of course.” Bliven sucked in his stomach and withdrew the dagger from his belt.

  Hamet Pasha examined it closely. “I know this tribe. How do you come to have it?”

  “Highness, when I was a midshipman on the Enterprise, the man who wore it tried to kill my friend.”

  “He was on the ship you fought?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “And you killed him?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.” It was an embellishment, but harmless, he judged.

  “Very well, you came by it honorably.” He handed it back. “Let lions tremble at your approach.”

  As they walked back to their own camp, Bliven resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder.

  “General, do you really trust him?”

  Eaton shrugged. “I don’t need to trust him. I trust that he wants his throne back, and he trusts that I can give it to him. Now, granted, I would feel better if he were with us and we were all back on the Argus, making for Tripoli. But he has a point. He doesn’t trust his men to cross the desert without him, and they don’t trust him to be there if they got there.”

  “Then what holds it all together?”

  “In a word, Putnam? Greed. That chest of gold and silver that I have on the ship. That magical box holds the power to make all this happen.” Eaton laughed, with a cynical edge. “Trust him, you ask? I trust him to be an Arab. They are the most self-serving and duplicitous people on earth. Never believe you have made a friend of an Arab, Mr. Putnam. If you do, it will be your death.”

  Bliven found himself remembering that effusive exchange of faith and trust and affection when Eaton and Hamet Pasha had parted. “I am sorry to hear that. I believed differently from all that swearing and hugging.”

  “Do you know why he threw in with us?” Eaton stopped walking and looked down at him. “We have promised him the throne, and we have a squadron of warships off the coast and twenty thousand dollars in coin to raise an army, to make that happen. But I tell you, if his brother offered him thirty thousand to stay away, our throats would be cut tonight and our bodies never found.”

  Bliven looked on with wide eyes. “Why doesn’t he do it, then?”

  “Well, happily for us, Hamet knows his brother would promise him the money, and after the deed was done, his brother would say, ‘What money? We never spoke of money.’”