The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  Preble turned over in his mind the possibility that an American citizen had been forcibly impressed into the British Navy and hanged when he tried to escape. It made him sorry they were at peace. “Our previous acquaintance was not social, as at this moment,” said Preble. “May one inquire into the nature of your title, sir?”

  Kington’s clear blue eyes looked down an aquiline nose as his wide, narrow mouth moved. “My father is the marquess of Wexford.”

  “Ah,” said Preble. “One of the new Irish peerages, is it not?”

  Kington’s gaze became if anything even colder. “It is. It was formed of estates confiscated from traitorous rebels.”

  Bliven calculated quickly. “Lord Kington, do I recall reading somewhere that you have an elder brother?”

  “Who are you?” he asked highly.

  Bliven saluted lazily. “Lieutenant Putnam, sir.”

  “My aide,” said Preble.

  “M-hm. I do have an elder brother, Michael, the earl of Rosslare. In what connection could you have read of him?”

  Bliven’s face became blank. “In all honesty, Captain, I do not recall, but I am sure that your family name seems familiar in some way. It is probably of little consequence.”

  Kington’s face seemed to turn to marble. “Your memory or my family?”

  “Oh! My memory, of course, I beg your pardon.”

  Susan Barton joined them, rustling in a gown of brilliant pink silk, curtsying to the rank of bows. “Mrs. Barton,” said Preble, “I shall be most heartily sorry to leave you.”

  “We have enjoyed your acquaintance so very much, and we are delighted at the success of your mission.” If she knew that Barron was replacing him, she did not betray it.

  “Before I take my leave, I would enjoy one more turn in your garden, in case I do not make it by this way again.”

  “By all means,” said Susan, “gratify yourself. The flowers are at the height of their season. There are some torches along the paths; you should see them well enough.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He bowed himself away. “Mr. Putnam? If you please.” Bliven replenished his punch on the way out.

  The back wall of the garden was lined with those peculiar tall Roman cedars. Preble held his peace until they were out of earshot of the house. “Putnam, as God is my witness, that man took our sailors and hanged one of them, and I can’t prove it.”

  “Does he not personify every trait about the British that you detest?”

  “He does.” They took in the perfumed air of the Neapolitan garden for a moment.

  “And is it not just like them,” said Bliven, “to set up peerages in the countries they conquer? Marquess of Wexford, my left foot. You do know, if we had lost the Revolution, the man might be the marquess of New Jersey, and his elder son the earl of Newark.”

  “True. But that is bothering me, Putnam. How the devil did you know he had an elder brother?”

  “Well, he introduced his father as a marquess, and that estate must include lesser titles, such as an earl, that would be borne by an older son. This peacock was introduced only as Lord Kington, so there had to be a missing link in the chain.”

  “Well, by God.”

  “So you see, for all his airs and snobbery, he is a second son, or even further down the line for all we know. He is most likely in the navy to make a way for himself, because he doesn’t have an acre of land to call his own. It is the hypocrisy of it, you see! The façade! ‘My father the marquess, my brother the earl’—pooh! Of course he means to act as superior as he can because he’s got nothing!”

  Preble nodded. “I do believe you have the man’s measure. I will likely not be around when the time comes you have to fight them, him and his kind. That will be a hard job. Their navy makes twenty of ours. Look you, his ship has seventy-four guns and is only a third-rate.”

  Bliven shook his head. “As I think of it, perhaps I should go back down to the quay and keep an eye on our men. If this lizard poached our sailors in Gibraltar, there is nothing to stop him doing it here.”

  “Good thinking, by God, go to it.”

  “Oh, and also, Mr. Bandy seems quite smitten by Miss Barnes, so it may slip his mind to mention it. She is going back to the States to recover from all this. She is from Virginia and he and the Wasp are bound for Hampton Roads. She asked passage, will that be all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure we can count on his gentlemanly conduct.”

  “Good, good.” Bliven made his way back into the house and sought out Susan to extend his thanks and farewell.

  She took his hand warmly. “Mr. Putnam, we have so enjoyed having you here. I hope you will remember your time in Naples fondly.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I certainly shall, and for more reasons, perhaps, than you can guess.”

  She burst out in a high laugh, and much to his surprise poked him in the ribs. “Oh, I do think I can guess.” She winked.

  He smiled bashfully and bowed himself away. So, she was behind it all. Well done. “Lieutenant Putnam,” Kington’s cold voice erupted behind him, “I do not believe I am mistaken in having felt your disdain this evening, though God alone knows what superior ground you think you stand on. If I have done something to offend you, say so plainly or be gone and the devil take you.”

  Bliven could feel the fine spiked punch swirling in his head. He saluted smartly, but with a faint smile. “Sir, you need not have not done, you merely are.”

  “Why, you!”

  “I am on my way down to the quay, to make sure that no more of our sailors . . . desert, as it were.” Abruptly his voice dropped and his words came rapidly. “Take heed, sir, we will not let such a ‘desertion’ pass a second time. If you have arranged for a press gang to circulate among the taverns this night, you had best find a way to call them back.”

  “Why, you stiff-necked little colonial brat. You people think your backwoods crudity somehow makes you superior creatures. Well, sir, daily I thank my God that you will never be our equal in culture and civilization.”

  “That is true, Captain,” said Bliven as he began to bow himself away. “We are not like you, for which we thank our God, every Sunday in church. Good night to you.”

  Kington had just grasped the hilt of his sword when he felt a soft hand on his. He looked aside and saw Susan Barton threading a stout but still elegant arm through his. “Do not deny it, Captain Lord Kington, for you are restraining yourself so violently you must injure yourself in the effort. What on earth are you thinking?”

  Kington glared over his shoulder at Bliven’s receding figure. “That one day I am going to have to fight that boy.”

  • • •

  THE NIGHT AIR, scented and balmy, cleared Bliven’s head by the time he regained the waterfront. Ahead of him down the curve of the quay he made out the Pizzofalcone that jutted out into the bay, and up on its heights he could descry torchères on the terraces of the Palazzo Sessa. Without forgetting his errand to see to the safety of the Constitution’s boatmen he allowed himself a smile, and a few moments of a more deliberate walk with his hands clasped behind him. Up there, Susan had told him, above the heat of the streets in that sixteenth-century mansion with its palm-punctuated gardens, was where Lord Nelson and Emma, Lady Hamilton, had so shamelessly cuckolded her aging and no longer virile art collector of a husband. He recalled almost with a start that Susan had imparted this to him in the theater as they waited for the opera to commence, and he realized now her meaning—that romantic assignations need not always be seen as censurable; they can be therapeutic, can even save a lonely person from despair. Bliven as he walked allowed himself a wave of appreciation for her.

  And he allowed himself a second smile at what else Susan told him—and it was not commonly known, that Sir William Hamilton did not actually own the Palazzo Sessa, he merely rented rooms there from the Marquis di Sessa, albeit he rented
the best rooms that fronted on the terrace, where he and his art became the envy of the diplomatic corps. Such grand pretenders the English are. And Lady Hamilton, despite her beginnings dancing naked on tables for gatherings of gentlemen, she had parlayed her marriage into becoming the confidante of Queen Maria Carolina, procuring vital help for the British fleet, and in return, Nelson’s protection of the Sicilian throne.

  That was only a very few years ago—but a lifetime as the dice roll in European politics. Sir William Hamilton was recalled, and Nelson bought a large country house that had seen better days for the three of them to live in together—excluding Lady Nelson—raising such a scandal that he was sent to sea again, but not before Emma bore him a daughter. Hamilton had died two years before, in 1803, a broken man after a ship carrying his Greek vases came to grief on rocks off the Scilly Isles. Lady Hamilton was now regarded as a scarlet woman; she was tolerated because of Nelson’s protection but not received in society, certainly not so long as Lady Nelson was so expertly promoting her martyrdom. For Lady Hamilton, if anything happened to Nelson, debtor’s prison was only a matter of time, for her husband had left her almost nothing. How quickly fortunes change, Susan had pressed upon him; one must seize opportunities and enjoy life as it comes. Nelson had been in Sicily as recently as four months ago, when he received intelligence that the French and Spanish fleets were combining near Spain, and he sortied west to bring them to a decisive action.

  Bliven gave a moment’s wonder whether the Constitution might reach Gibraltar with the British fleet still in port, and whether he might perchance meet the great Nelson and be dazzled by his diamond badges. The story was that he wore his decorations defiantly in battle, daring sharpshooters in the enemy’s fighting tops to find him.

  Sight at last of the Constitution’s cutter, tied up next to their jolly boat, brought him back to the present.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant.” The single sailor guarding them made his salute.

  “Good evening. How is the night passing for you?”

  “Quietly, sir, thank you.”

  “It does not distress you to be standing guard alone while the rest are making merry?”

  “Oh, no, sir, I just came on duty a few moments ago to relieve the last man. I have already made merry and he is having a drink.”

  “I see,” said Bliven. “And where are your mates?”

  The sailor indicated a well-lit and noisy tavern fifty yards down the quay.

  “Mm. Are they all in there?”

  “Well, mostly, sir.” The sailor gave an embarrassed laugh. “From time to time one of them will escort a lady around the corner to that street you see.”

  “Well, the captain is not far behind me, let us go round them up.”

  Bliven stood just inside the door, as close as he cared to experience a prime example of what all sailors knew as a dockside stew. For such it was, a brew of odors of sweaty men and spilled ale, of piss outside the door, of loose-bloused women displaying their wares by barely concealing them, of pipe smoke and hearth smoke and pungent food.

  There were no musicians here, so it was easy to gain their attention. “Gentlemen, all sailors of U.S.S. Constitution to report outside at once. The captain is returning shortly and we are going back to the ship. Check around among your mates, make certain no one is missing.”

  As they formed up before the tavern a commotion rose from the dark lane where the prostitutes had been taking the men to their house by turns. There was a clatter of hard-soled footsteps, curses and exhortations shouted in British accents. When they became visible there was one British lieutenant in full uniform, and six vaguely dressed ruffians who followed him. They were hustling along an unwilling man whose shirt had been pulled up over his head, his arms pinned inside.

  It was exactly as Bliven had feared. The Americans knew from his shouts and protests that it was one of their able seamen. “Look, boys, that is Shifflett. They are taking him off!”

  “Stop! You men, there!” bellowed Bliven. “Unhand that man! Release him, instantly!” With a metallic slink he withdrew his saber from its scabbard.

  Without command the British sailors formed a defensive line, screening their captive. Their lieutenant pulled out his sword and took position in the front, as the press gang produced a motley assemblage of dirks and small bludgeons. “His Majesty’s business,” called back the lieutenant highly. “You dare not interfere.”

  In a flash Bliven took their measure. They were one officer and six thugs who doubtless could acquit themselves in a fight. He had four rowers from the jolly boat, plus eight rowers from the cutter and the men they brought over for some liberty. Without taking time for arithmetic he figured he had about twenty. “I have no quarrel with you, sir, yet you have taken my man. I am willing to call it a mistake, but you will hand him over or we will take him.”

  “There is no mistake. We have captured a would-be British deserter and we shall take him on board our vessel.” The lieutenant looked back at his detail. “By the right, quick march, march!” They loped off in a body, at a trot, toward their boat.

  Bliven faced his sailors and raised his sword. “Constitution?”

  He was met by a throaty roar as the men withdrew dirks and truncheons and lead knuckles, all standbys that sailors secrete upon their persons when ashore for recreation.

  “You three men”—he pointed to them with his saber—“cut straight through and get our man back. You others with me, all right, come on!” They surged forward as fast as they could run, and although they quickly overtook the press gang it was quickly apparent that the British toughs could each account for two of them. Bliven and the British lieutenant met each other blade to blade, and he realized in a heartbeat that his Baltimore saber was at least four inches shorter than the English one. His only help was to attack so furiously and continuously that the Brit must continually be on defense, and give him no opportunity to counter.

  At the edge of his vision he saw the three men he detailed seize the American prisoner. They pulled him out of harm’s way, finished pulling his shirt off over his head, and in a heartbeat had thrust a bludgeon in his hand and all four joined the fight, assaulting the English from behind their line.

  The two men fighting at Bliven’s immediate right engaged a massively thick brute of a man, thin hair, heavy brow ridge, bulbous nose, peglike teeth. Where others were hurling curses, he but grunted. Bliven had never imagined how one could grunt with a British accent, but somehow he did, when he walloped the man on Bliven’s right a terrific blow over his left eye.

  That one shrieked as though his head must fly off, and without meaning to Bliven turned to see if he was going down. The flashing instant that he turned his head, he felt a match-burning agony rip across his stomach from right to left, like a seam opening. At this the British officer stood back, haughty as anything, as though he were waiting for a fencing master to award him the point.

  Never regard a wound, Lieutenant Curtis had hammered into him and Sam. If it is a slight wound, it will be no hindrance. If it is a fatal wound, you will be dead soon enough. The only response to being struck was to attack with redoubled fury. Your enemy may be so surprised that he will flee, or make a mistake, but you must attack before a loss of blood saps your strength. Without so much as looking down, Bliven slashed his way forward, shouting at each stroke.

  Seeing his prey forfeited and his men suffering under an attrition of punishment, the lieutenant jumped back several steps. “Withdraw!” he cried. He pointed with his sword to their boat. “Withdraw.”

  “Hurrah the Constitution!” There was a roar of acclamation. “After them, boys!” the general cry went up. “Teach them a lesson!”

  “No!” Bliven stepped to their front. “Let them go, we have accomplished our task.” He felt the warm wetness oozing down from his lower belly.

  “Why, Mr. Putnam, you are hurt.”

  He felt
himself sink to his knees, and he knew that several hands took hold of him, strong but gentle, before he floated from consciousness.

  He opened his eyes, sitting in the cutter, supported on both sides. Bliven was conscious of the loop being passed beneath his armpits, but as the line curled through its tackle and he felt himself being lifted, he fainted.

  When he came to again he was lying on a table. “More light! More light, damn it!” It was Dr. Cutbush’s voice. “Oh, what have you done? What have you done?”

  Three more battle lanterns were hung about the table, and Bliven recognized the cockpit; at the edge of his vision he made out the rib-like scantling that imparted brute strength to their ship. He felt Cutbush scissoring away his shirt and the top front of his breeches. “My good clothes,” he whispered.

  “Not anymore.” Cutbush laid the bloodstained shreds aside.

  The added light and activity brought Bliven back to his senses, but his vision was straight up, not down at his belly. “Am I killed?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “If you find that I am killed, will you tell me plainly?”

  Cutbush ceased his ministrations for a second only, laying a bloody hand on Bliven’s chest as his face appeared in his view. “Yes. Lie still, now.”

  He could feel Cutbush probing the edge of the gash across his abdomen; he turned his head aside enough to see him take up forceps and knew he must be spreading the wound to see how deep it extended. Who would tell Clarity that he had survived battles with pirates only to be gutted by a supposed ally on an allied waterfront? Would that be the end of her novel, a cruel and violent irony?

  Suddenly a pain worse than the initial cut seared across his belly, and he felt something cold and wet dripping down his sides. He cried out before he could stop himself, and felt Cutbush’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad.”

  “That is not honey! You said the Romans used honey.”

  Cutbush smiled gently. “Alcohol, Mr. Putnam. Surer than honey.”

  “The captain!” The voice came from the after ladder. “Captain on deck!”