The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  He looked at her for a moment, thinking. “It is no accident that the house is empty, is it?” he asked softly.

  “I’m afraid you were ‘set up,’ as they say. You have been a perfect gentleman, you have incurred no obligation whatever. You have been very kind to a lonely girl. Whatever life I have in the future, I will never forget you.”

  “Nor I you.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “And now, you ought to wait downstairs. They will be coming back soon.” She smiled and pushed against him gently. “Wouldn’t do to have you found up here.”

  Rebecca watched him dress, thinking as he became more and more covered, that he was the most perfect young man, physically, she was likely ever to have—and she found herself oddly content with that, for if she once possessed such a man, she must be powerless to keep him. She would find someone closer to her station.

  Bliven’s shoes echoed down the marble steps to the first floor; such a large house, he thought, and so quiet. He took up the basket that had been prepared for Sam, and took a seat in the dim drawing room, trying to reflect not on what had just happened, but on what wonderful music he had heard. He had heard hymns in church, and fiddlers in taverns, and the gypsy music in Gibraltar that they called flamenco, but this Mozart—he realized that he lacked the vocabulary to even assess it, it was so new to him, except to think it was transporting and transformative. And now there would be weeks more at sea, returning home to a place where such music, and such cities and such food and such houses, were unknown. He fell asleep thinking how much growing America had yet to do.

  The clatter of the carriage, and footsteps in the hall, shook him awake. There was a flurry of leave-taking; the part that registered most clearly was Preble acknowledging that the Constitution would sail for home in three days’ time, and the Bartons pressing on them that they must attend a farewell party the following night. No wonder Morris made such a failure of his command, he thought groggily. If one had a bent for parties, one could find something going every night in port.

  Susan slipped a sealed envelope among the bread and fruit and preserved meats, and placed it over Bliven’s arm. “Please tell Mr. Bandy how sorry we are for his loss, and tell him we most earnestly hope he can come to our farewell tomorrow.”

  “He will be so grateful, thank you.”

  “How did you leave Rebecca?”

  At mention of his daughter’s name, Barnes leaned close to hear. “She retired. She was feeling rather better.”

  The night was balmy; the bay swells and dipping sweeps that carried them back to the frigate left Bliven with an almost content feeling, allaying for the moment the contest between home and the sea that this tour was intended to clarify. After trading good nights the commodore retired to his cabin, and noiselessly Bliven opened the door of Sam’s berth and left the basket on the table. He closed the door to his cabin slowly and backed against it. Well, he thought, perhaps it said something for his character that he did not feel good about what had happened. He did not feel like a conqueror. He did not feel love or loved; the worst part was that there was from Rebecca something pleading about it, something lonely that he could not fulfill.

  His own cabin seemed like a refuge from the whirlwind of the evening’s events. He undressed in the dim light of the battle lantern. He had been to the theater with royalty, he had heard music that he never imagined existed, he had possessed a woman for the first time. “Oh, God,” he whispered as he remembered that the Wasp would sail with them, and would carry letters home from the squadron. He could not be certain of having time the next day; he must write his parents tonight and let them know he was all right. If he didn’t they would read about Americans killed at Derna before his next chance to write, and they would not know if he was alive or dead.

  And he must answer Clarity, but he must give no sign how she had wounded him with her praise of that handsome, young, passionate, religious—horrid, ridiculous—Beecher. He must write pleasantly, and be reasonably informative, but presume nothing of her emotional favor.

  NAPLES, KINGDOM OF NAPLES

  AUGUST 10, 1805

  My Dear Clarity,

  I take advantage of the departure of the Wasp on the day after tomorrow to answer your kind favor of 8th May last.

  Bliven set the pen in its inkwell and leaned back. This was not right. He was becoming one of them, one of those serial deceivers, one of those detestable other lieutenants who had spent this very evening in the taverns and stews. Am I not, he thought, writing a letter to a young lady I care for tenderly, even while the sweat of mating with another dries on my body? He rose, emptied a porcelain pitcher that sat on his table into its basin, and washed as well as he could before resuming. If he did not feel more clean, at least he felt more awake.

  Dispatches of our latest engagements also go in the same vessel, so it is possible that you will read here, before it is published generally, that the war is over, and brought to a successful conclusion. Successful, at least, in terms of our government having imposed its terms on the pirate Bashaws of north Africa—terms which, at the last hour, were altered so as to be not too unpleasant to our enemies, and so to assure their agreement.

  General Eaton, whom I have come to respect so very highly, is nothing short of appalled by the terms—he who enlisted the help of the former and rightful Bashaw of Tripoli, to raise an army, on the pledge of the United States to restore him to his throne—and General Eaton who then had to tell this ally that the United States had concluded a peace behind his back with the usurper, and he should get on his camel and go back to Egypt, with his wives and his children still held captive by his fiend of a brother.

  Well, he thought, it wasn’t a camel, it was that fine black Arabian stallion, and Hamet Pasha still had his retainers to worship him, so he was not as bereft as though he had risked all for Eaton and lost. He still had his billet in the Mameluke army; he would be all right. But Eaton’s point still stood immovable, that the honor of the United States had been compromised beyond respecting. A camel, however—he elected not to change it, for a camel might better suit her novel.

  And Mr. Barnes, the new consul whom we have delivered safely to Naples, was scarcely less in umbrage that all he had suffered in the dungeons of Algiers would not be avenged. Arabs treat Christian—that is, infidel to them—prisoners with great brutality. He has not imparted any detail of what he has suffered, but I have no doubt that he has suffered such humiliation—

  He could not say “buggery,” although he learned from his time in the Libyan Desert that the Arabs felt no scruple against inflicting the practice on others, so long as they suffered it not themselves.

  such degradation as must stain his view of the world should he live to be a hundred. Thus, I gather that the thought of his eventual vindication and triumph over them was all that sustained him. I fear he must reconcile these matters, else live out his time a broken man.

  His daughter—

  Bliven laid the pen down and pondered what to say of her.

  seems to have come through the ordeal in better condition than her father, and she a captive for nine months in a harem! She, however, professes not to have been molested, the Arabs believing that it would diminish the sum of ransom to be paid for her.

  You will recall that I have at sundry times pled the case of the naval service’s lack of sufficient number of men to put such a force on the ocean as to command the respect of other nations. Having now been two long cruises at sea, I can say that I no longer wonder at this. Who would wish to serve in such a fleet? From the bottom up, all is confusion, self-interest, small-mindedness. Of the common seamen, most of them joined the Navy because it was an alternative to be preferred over the Debtor’s Prison. To say they are a coarse lot is the only defense I can find for the abhorrent food they must eat; most have probably never known a fine table, and had they done so they must mutiny.

  And above them
the midshipmen. What one of them would happily serve under the tyranny of lieutenants who are no better than brutes, who make it their study to find useless and demeaning tasks to assign them, then conspire among themselves to make certain that the tasks cannot be done and then punish them when they fail?

  Understand me rightly, this is how they treat the most junior officers. Can you even imagine how they treat the common sailors? I will tell you, they treat the seamen with a contempt that can only arise from a hatred not of the men but of themselves. I wonder that they are not murdered in their beds. In good faith, I hope I live long enough to forget some of the things I have seen. And above them the captains—some good, some bad, some mad.

  And at the top of the pile, the government, which acts in half-measures so that it may claim to be both at war and not at war, depending on the political need of the moment. For the many late missteps of this war, I do not know where, ultimately, the fault lies. Do we say that Mr. Jefferson sent us to sea with an impossible task, to rescue our ships and sailors, and punish pirates, but for too long gave us no clear mandate of war to do so? Or do we say that Mr. Jefferson was compelled to this course because his enemies in Congress, had he gone to them for a declaration of war, were so keen to make mischief for him that we would have been put even more in hazard than we were?

  Do we fault the commodores like Morris who, given those handicaps, were reluctant to prosecute a vigorous campaign, or blame the ones who do fight with alacrity? What reward for them? Commodore Preble, as we have only recently learned but you may know by the time you receive this, is being relieved of his command. He is blamed for the loss of the Philadelphia, which was not his fault, but someone must be blamed for it, and apparently a decision has been made—somewhere, by someone, or perhaps it is mere conformity to the popular will—that we need Mr. Bainbridge in the role of a hero, despite his rash actions that led to the loss of a brilliant ship and the suffering of three hundred of his crew for more than a year.

  Thus, for Commodore Preble and General Eaton, the two men who did most to force this war to a victorious conclusion, they are to be turn’d out, while the laurels will be placed on men like Mr. Lear, who crafted the questionable bargain, and Captain Bainbridge, because Americans prefer our heroes to be young and handsome, dashing and reckless. This is not the education that I expected to receive.

  You see how much confidence I place in your discretion, to keep this letter between ourselves, for if it were made public, I should likely have to fight duels with all concerned.

  However to all that, I have saved the good news for last, that the Constitution makes ready to sail in a few days, so I will see you in perhaps six or eight weeks. I am most keen to do so, and inquire into the status of the bargain we made when last we parted.

  And now I must haste to sleep or be worthless tomorrow.

  With affectionate wishes for yr health and happiness, I am yr

  Bliven Putnam, Lt., USN

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, work began in laying in stores for the month’s, or more, voyage home. Preble awoke to see out his great windows that a British three-decker had slipped in during the night. He felt his ire rise as a look through his glass confirmed that it was the Hector, which he had encountered in Gibraltar.

  There was no time to distress over it now, for there would be a full day of laying in stores, and then he must get himself to the consulate for their farewell. All their boats would be shuttling all day—the bosun’s lockers, the carpenter’s lockers, the bread lockers all had to be filled, tons of salt meats, Cutbush would need to replenish his pharmacy. The jolly boat only had he reserved for his own use, and sent his chef with silver to round up the last and freshest of victuals for the commodore’s stores; he would return by late afternoon. Come evening the men would have put in a hard day of toil, and he instructed the bosun to select those who had worked the best and send them ashore in the cutter for a night’s liberty. It would be their last chance to carouse, for Preble determined that they would put in only briefly at Gibraltar on their way home. In fact, if relations there had continued to deteriorate, he would not tarry at all. If there were not dispatches to send and receive, he would sail on by.

  The officers must have a frenetic day; Putnam only, in his office as aide, would he take with him to the consul’s party. It was nearly eight in the evening when the jolly boat landed them at the wharf. No carriage met them, but then he expected none, for this was likely to be a large affair and the carriage would be otherwise employed. It was a pleasant walk up to the consular district.

  Bliven was surprised to see Sam on the front porch as they arrived, and they shook hands briefly. “Sam, I missed you today. Where have you been?”

  “Transferring to the Wasp. We will sail ahead of you. The commodore called me in this morning. He was very kind, he knew this is my fastest route home. You are for Boston and we are for Virginia.”

  “Did you get your basket?”

  “Yes, I came up to thank Mrs. Barton before we sailed.”

  “How are you, Sam?”

  He lowered his head. “Sad, to be truthful. It is harder than I imagined it would be.”

  Bliven noted for the first time that Sam’s epaulette had changed from left shoulder to right, and pointed silently from one to the other and back again.

  Sam had to grin. “It is only in an acting capacity.”

  “Well, then, an acting portion of congratulations to you.”

  “And you also,” said Sam. “Look at you!”

  “Equally in an acting capacity, but it seems that we advance together.”

  “Good evening, Lieutenant Putnam.” Rebecca had come out on the porch. She was in a gown of russet-colored silk that suited her well and wore a pendant of topaz at her throat.

  “Miss Barnes, you are looking very well.” They exchanged bow for curtsy.

  “I rested exceptionally well last night. Will you introduce me to your companion?”

  “Oh, excuse me. Miss Rebecca Barnes, may I present Lieutenant Samuel Bandy of South Carolina?”

  “How do you do?” Sam bowed.

  “From South Carolina?” she said with enthusiasm as she curtsied. “I am from Virginia, so we must have many things to talk about.”

  “Most certainly. I wonder if you are aware, we nearly met some months ago, in Algiers, when we were first there to try to win your and your father’s release.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes. After your being so long sequestered, the commodore felt, in case of our success, that you would be comforted by hearing a voice that sounded, let us say, somewhat close to home. So I”—Sam paused, laid a hand on his chest and made a comical attempt at a court bow—“was brought up to the palace especially to escort you.”

  “Well, sir! I would have been honored—had I known of it. I was locked in my rooms, in the attic.”

  Playfully, he took her hand and kissed it. “Ah, you were so near, yet so far.”

  “Well, I declare! Come, sir, you must have a glass of punch, and pour me one as well.” They turned into the hall, and without further prompting Rebecca threaded her hand beneath Sam’s elbow and secured it on his arm.

  Bliven stared after them in astonishment. “Well!” He’d had no idea that Sam could handle his craft so ably, in the very instant of opportunity. He was so amused, it took a second for him to realize that Sam had also relieved him of any awkward moments alone with her.

  He followed, at a distance, to the mahogany sideboard in the dining room and poured himself a glass of punch. He was near enough to hear Sam say, “In the interim, I have been placed in command of the Wasp. We will be carrying numerous dispatches concerning the end of the war, so we will be bound for Hampton Roads, being so near the government.”

  “What extraordinary luck,” exclaimed Rebecca. “My father has agreed to let me go home to recover from the pa
st months’ imprisonment. If you are bound for Virginia I could come on your ship. If you have no objection?”

  “No,” Sam said, smiling broadly. “No, you will be most welcome indeed.”

  “And I will delight in having a Southern gentleman to talk to.”

  Bliven turned and wandered back into the drawing room. Good for Sam, he thought. This could turn out very well indeed. For only a second did the icy doubt sweep through him that she might impart to Sam what had passed between them, but he dismissed it quickly. A flirt or a tart might do so, but Rebecca had far too good management of herself to indulge in something so pointless. In fact he had all but satisfied himself that their encounter had weighed more heavily on him than on her.

  He made his way back to the drawing room, where Barton had introduced Preble to what it seemed must be the city’s entire diplomatic corps, and their ladies. As Bliven took his place at Preble’s side, Barton approached opposite them with an angular tall man in British uniform, topped with an old-fashioned powdered wig.

  “Gentlemen,” said Barton, “I would like you to meet Captain Lord Arthur Kington. He commands that handsome British third-rate you saw newly arrived in the bay.”

  “His Majesty’s Ship Hector,” added Kington, “seventy-four guns.”

  Preble found himself sucking at his lips, reckoning the needs both social and political to maintain civility. “Yes, sir, we met in Gibraltar, last year.”

  “Ah, yes,” Kington affected to remember slowly. “The American commodore had some sailors jump ship.” He smiled ever so faintly, as though he were enjoying the fading memory of a successful subterfuge, in that English way that Preble could not abide.

  “That question is still open to investigation, sir, but tell me, how have they made out as British sailors?”

  “Had to hang one of ’em,” Kington said lightly. “The blighter turned round and tried to desert again, cheeky bastard. Didn’t die well, either—kicked off his shoes when they ran him up the yardarm, almost like he shied them at me. Not much trouble with the others after that, though.”