Without further discussion, we were dismissed from the Cabin. Judd spoke when Lieutenant Lawrence had gone his own way, taking hold of my arm as he did so.
“Oliver! What about that! That ketch was there when they took your brother’s ship. I’d warrant that puts a new light on this whole situation for you, eh? Reckon you can’t wait to get in there and hit those piratical scoundrels.” His fire stirred my own briefly, and I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. He went off to see to his own affairs, while I stood where I was, thinking of what lay ahead.
Remembering the fear I felt when, after the fire on the prize ketch, we spied a ship closing on us. Knowing that with our scant armament, we would be unable to defend ourselves, I began to imagine our forthcoming commission. Sailing into a well-armed harbor and attempting to take a well-armed, well-manned ship of thirty-six guns seemed folly and a certain end to my naval career. And I had volunteered to the captain not once, but twice! Folly, sheer folly!
Happily, the tasks of overseeing the work we had to accomplish, our Studies, and sleep made the time pass quickly. I had little opportunity to dwell on he precarious fix I had gotten myself into. Then, one evening, Decatur had all hands mustered on deck, and I knew our time was nigh. Even in the light of he late afternoon sun I could see the gleam, the fire that lit his eyes. He paced up and down the quarterdeck, smacking a fist into his open hand as he waited to hear Lawrence say, “All hands present and correct, sir.”
“Men, Commodore Preble has given me—and you—an opportunity to secure honor and glory for ourselves and our country. I am taking the captured Tripolitan ketch, now called Intrepid and a unit of the United States Navy, which Mister Devon and Mister Baldwin brought in, to Tripoli to destroy the Philadelphia frigate, the selfsame vessel captured in a most piratical way by the corsairs of Tripoli this October past. We will not be cutting her out and returning the ship to our fleet; it would be nigh onto impossible and entirely too dangerous to make good our escape with the ship, even were we to succeed in taking possession. Instead, we will board her, kill whatever crew mans her, and put her to the torch. Who among you will volunteer to join in this most ambitious adventure?” Decatur’s eyes seemed to glow even brighter than before and, as he studied each of his men, his fire instilled in each a sense of invincibility. To a man, every jack on the schooner’s deck stood a bit taller, then stepped forward, indicating his willingness, his desire, to accompany his captain on this perilous undertaking. Even I was moved to volunteer yet again!
One, from a middle rank, called out, “Three cheers for Cap’n Decatur!” and was joined in lusty huzzahs that drew the attention of every craft in the harbor. From his face, the captain’s pride in his crew was evident to us all.
Since there was a limited amount of space on the ketch, I puzzled over how we would ever put men enough aboard to accomplish our lofty commission when even the prize crew was crowded. I had thought a vessel of significant proportion, say, USS Constitution or the like, would be necessary to transport the large numbers required; certainly not a vessel smaller even than our own Enterprise!
Decatur stepped toward the eager sailors and, raising his hand for silence, spoke again. “You are to be congratulated for your zeal; I will be taking only sixty of you in view of the size of our ship. And six of my officers and midshipmen. We will be augmented by members of the Syren’s crew who will join us by boat just before we attack. Syren will lay offshore of the harbor to assist us should we encounter difficulty beyond our capacity.”
There was a sudden shoving and pushing among the men as those in the rear struggled to find room in the front ranks, thus ensuring their inclusion in the select sixty.
“Selection of the crew will be up to Mister Lawrence and his officers. You may rest assured he will choose those most qualified for this difficult undertaking.” Decatur, his eyes still aglow and his jaw muscles tensing to a rhythm known only to him, watched the faces before him for several moments, then turned on his heel and stepped to the hatch leading to his Cabin. As he left, he ordered, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “Mister Lawrence, you may dismiss our brave men.”
How will only sixty men accomplish such a lofty ambition? That is a fully armea thirty-six-gun frigate, and anchored under the guns of a fortress! And how will we put even sixty men and six officers and mids aboard that tiny ketch? Where will they all sleep? Why, there was room for only Judd or me to sleep when we brought her in Surely he does not expect to sail that vessel jammed to her gun’ls with so many! And what about provisions for them? I stood on the quarterdeck, exactly where I had been, and looked forward on Enterprise, seeing the men and thought they looked crowded on this ship. I could not imagine even half that number or Mastico . . . Intrepid.
“Oliver! Come on, boy! The first lieutenant awaits us in the gunroom to help him select the crew. We surely don’t want to be left out!” Judd caugh hold of my arm and nearly dragged me forward toward the hatch as he spoke Again I considered the wisdom of volunteering for this, even as I stepped forward to do so.
By the time the ships’ bells across the harbor chimed their four double dings signaling eight o’clock and the start of the evening watch, we, or rather, Mister Lawrence and Mister Hobbs, had concluded the list of men who would make up Intrepid’s crew. And Judd, Thomas, and I were, of course, counted among its lucky members. Mister Lawrence determined that James was simply too young to risk on so dangerous a commission (I am only a few months older than he, am I not?), and besides, somebody had to stay on Enterprise and assist Mister Morris, who would be acting as captain during our absence. The surgeon would, of course, go, as would our sailing master, Seth Cartee and Gunner Tarbox, along with some sixty others carefully selected from the schooner’s crew.
“Thank you for your help, gentlemen. On the morrow, we will bring Mast . . . Intrepid alongside to load her out with provisions and munitions. We must be ready to sail on a moment’s notice.” First Lieutenant Lawrence dismissed us as he carefully folded the list and placed it in his pocket, no doubt to share with Captain Decatur that very night.
“Oliver, what say you to a bite and a glass ashore? I know of a fine establishment that serves a decent porto and not an unpalatable plate. Will you join me?” Judd spoke as we headed topside into the cool January night.
He was quite right; our supper was quite superb and, while I took it in some moderation, the porto, or port, as we call it, was sweet and dark with a fine rich aroma. It put me in mind of the finishing wine which I had found too sweet at the fancy dinner in Gibraltar. This time it seemed just right.
“What are you going to do about this . . . situation . . . with Thomas, Judd? You’re not really going to fight him, are you?” Perhaps a glass or two of port inspired me to the question, but, after all, Judd had asked me to second him.
“Absolutely. And I fully expect to kill him! I chose the distance I did, forty paces, on account of he likely could not hit anything from that range. But I can. The more normal distance, you should know, for a contest with pistols is ten, sometimes twenty, yards. Even Wheatley might enjoy a dollop of luck at that ange, but not at forty yards!” Judd’s sudden change from frivolous and laughing to deadly serious added further impact to his words, as though any were needed. “You saw him shoot a pistol on Argus during all that practice we had coming across the Atlantic. He will be lucky to even pull the trigger, let alone hit me, before I put a ball through his heart! And good riddance to him, I say!”
“Is there no way to stop this? It seems so . . . wasteful that one or another of you should be killed or cruel hurt over you calling him stupid. I would even wager he knows he is! And I don’t like Thomas any more than you or James does, but I don’t reckon I want to see him dead.” I took a forkful of something that had been quite delicious, but now seemed dull and tasteless, as I waited for Judd’s response.
“I have heard that, should a commanding officer discover the plan before is carried out and wishes to, he can order it stopped. But I suspect that Capt
ain Decatur would be unlikely to, given that he himself seconded Captain Bainbridge less than a year ago right here in the Mediterranean; on The Rock, it was. If I recollect the story right, Bainbridge killed some English dandy just before they sailed for home in the Chesapeake frigate.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully, then added, “April last year, it was. Or March. No, I’d say Decatur might indeed turn a blind eye to it.” Judd smiled at me. I thought it an evil sort of smile. He actually relishes the thought of facing Thomas Wheatley.
While we continued to talk amiably over the remainder of our meal and managed even to laugh once or twice, our conversation had a strained quality to it, likely more on my part than Judd’s; he was quite comfortable with the specter of facing Thomas Wheatley over loaded and cocked pistols. I wondered about that, too.
On the walk back, I asked him, “Judd, have you ever done this before?”
“Done what? Sailed an overcrowded boat into a hornet’s nest of a fortified harbor to put an American ship to the torch? No, Oliver, I haven’t.” He slackened his pace not a whit.
I had slowed, anticipating a conversation might ensue, and had to hurry to catch up to him. He was smiling in the dark, knowing full well what I had meant and pleased at his ability to parry the question.
“No, Judd. I’d warrant not many have done that. What I meant was, uh . . well, have you ever been in a duel?” This time he did stop and looked at me.
“Are you getting squeamish on me, Oliver?”
“No . . . well, I don’t . . . it’s just that . . . yes, I must be. I just think it’s wrong for you to fight Thomas. Fisticuffs would answer just as well, would they not? And then nobody would be killed, at least.”
Judd laughed. “If I thought he’d learn anything from fist fighting, I would not have called pistols at forty paces. No, Wheatley will only learn from being shot, and if he dies from it, then so be it; he will not have his newly acquired knowledge long. However, should I only wing him, think of the benefit to all who meet him in the future. Now, if you would rather not be my second, I shall find someone else who has the stomach for it, but we will fight a duel.”
“I will act as your second, Judd; I told you I would and I shan’t withdraw now. But I will continue to try to talk you out of it as long as I have breath.”
“Save your breath, Oliver. It won’t do any good. You know perfectly well I can not back out of this without apologizing, which I shan’t do, and I would doubt that Thomas, even if he is a coward, which I do not, for a moment doubt, would withdraw from his challenge. He is too pig-headed by half for that.” Judd began walking again, signaling the end of our conversation on this subject. “Now let us get back aboard and get a night’s sleep; it will likely be a busy day on the morrow.”
And he was quite right; the next day dawned with a flurry of activity, this arrival of both Commodore Preble and Captain Stewart’s Syren, and the securing of Intrepid alongside our schooner. Most of the provisions, powder and other combustibles, and boarding arms were transferred to the ketch which, I noticed, had been furnished with a new and noticeably larger deckhouse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fortunately, the weather remained docile as the heavily laden ketch, in company with the Syren, cleared Sicily and headed just west of south toward Tripoli. Intrepid sailed with the wind abeam and all sail to the main t’gallant set; Syren struggled to retard even her usual stately pace to hold station nearby under reefed tops’ls, a single jib, and the spanker.
“Another fine day of calms and easy breezes. I surely hope this holds for us; boat lumbers along like a cathedral with all this extra crew and provisions.” I stood by the weather mainstays as I watched the brig, a musket shot above us and obviously having difficulty going as slowly as needed, and hoped for the best.
“Would you rather we shipped fewer men to accomplish our task, Mister Baldwin?” Decatur stood behind me, for how long I knew not, but had quite apparently heard what I had just ‘thought.’ I had not realized I was actually speaking the words!
I turned, flushed at being caught in such unseemly words and saw him there, balancing easily to the gentle motion of the ketch, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, sir! No, sir! I meant nothing untoward, Captain. Just that . . .” I stammered and fell all over myself trying to make right the impression I had created.
“I fully understand, Oliver. And you are quite right; Intrepid sails poorly indeed. However, we need her to fool the pirates in Tripoli, and we need these men, and more, to carry out our commission. Our Sicilian pilot, Salvatore Catalano—have you met him yet?—made the exact same observation only yesterday. We shall all pray for continued fine weather.” Decatur grinned, shot a glance at Syren, and, stepping around several barrels and coils of slow match stowed on deck, made his way aft.
Chastened, but feeling less like a fool than I had initially, I remained at the weather mainstays and looked at the deck around me. All manner of casks, barrels, coils of rope and slow match, spare lumber, spars, sharp-edged boarding weapons, and men lay or stood on most every available spot. I knew that the hold, recently vacated by the human cargo the vessel had last carried, was jammed to the overhead with provisions. Already I had heard several of our marines complaining of the vermin that attacked them as they tried to sleep on top of the casks of provisions below; it was plain that whoever had cleaned the hold had made a poor job of it.
The four officers and three midshipmen aboard shared space in the Cabin, which had been designed for one or possibly two at most. Without question, the mids were left with barely enough room to stand when all were present, and we managed to find room to sleep by placing pallets on top of some casks and crates stowed in the passageway. The close quarters did little to improve relations between Judd and Thomas, but with Thomas being witness to Judd’s daily pistol practice, I suspect he had little interest in further antagonizing the senior midshipman.
Each day since the third of February, 1804, when we departed Sicily, Judd had appeared on deck with several pistols; he claimed they were his own (a fact which impressed me) and, rigging several lines from the main yard’s end, proceeded to shoot at suspended bits of wood and metal with remarkable accuracy. Each time he destroyed one, a seaman on the yard hauled up the line and replaced the target with another. His drill was methodical and lasted each morning for half an hour. On the first day of it, he, quite naturally, drew an audience, including Wheatley and me. With each splintered target, I watched Thomas become more agitated; finally he left, saying not a word to me or anyone else. On the two days since, I saw Thomas watching from afar, at least as ‘afar’ as was possible on a seventy-five foot vessel! Each time, his face seemed chalky, and I noticed beads of sweat on his brow. The rest of us, including Captain Decatur, found it an amusing diversion. I noticed a substantial amount of surreptitious wagering taking place among the crew and hoped that the captain continued to wink at the unlawful practice. I, for one, made plans to be near Judd when we boarded the frigate in Tripoli harbor!
Even at our slogging pace, we were off Tripoli on the seventh. Decatur had Intrepid drop an anchor after dark to the west of the harbor while Syren sailed off and on below the town’s horizon. Almost immediately we had set our hook, the wind piped up and some nasty weather set in. The little ketch bobbed and danced as the seas quickly built, causing the captain concern as to our ability to cross the bar and gain the harbor.
He ordered our boat launched and Mister Devon, with the pilot, Mister Catalano, to reconnoiter the entrance. As soon as they reappeared from the darkness to come alongside, I knew we would not be going in this night; one man had put up his oar and bailed with his hat, and still the water sloshed midway up to the seats, while Judd and the pilot were soaked through and through. I was right; they reported breaking seas across the western entrance and the seas too rough to even get near to the eastern one.
Decatur ordered sail made and the anchor won. We stood offshore and found that the safest way for us to manage the se
as and wind was to run off before it. We were too low in the water to risk even heaving to. After several days—they were days of absolute misery for all of us—we had been blown far to the east. And this was not even the mistral, the winter wind that blew from the north and made it so dangerous for vessels approaching the North African coast. Pumps were manned during every watch, and there seemed no dry area in the whole vessel. The Cabin leaked, making the officers quartered there testy and short; the hold leaked, as did the passageway we mids shared. By the time the weather eased and the wind veered, calming the seas, we were all a sorry lot, indeed. It took all of Decatur’s powers of persuasion and his own fire to maintain calm heads and a sense of mission.
But, by the mid-afternoon on the sixteenth, we were once again lying to some five leagues from the eastern entrance to Tripoli’s harbor. Syren was with us, disguised nicely as a ragged merchant vessel to allay the suspicions of any ashore who might spot her. The weather was fine and clear with an easy breeze, in marked contrast to our previous visit.
Decatur proclaimed his intention to “strike while we might and fulfill our commission.” We would head immediately to the harbor entrance while the breeze was favorable. Under full sail, we left our larger companion and made for the harbor at Tripoli. Before we had accomplished half the distance to the harbor, it was clear to all that we would be at our destination—and clearly visible—well before dark.
“Mister Lawrence, we’ll hand the t’gallants and take a reef in the main, if you please. Wouldn’t do at all to let the Bashaw’s lads catch a glimpse of us afore we were ready!” The captain’s confidence and joy inspired all who heard him to catch his own spirit, and excitement and an air of almost gaiety invested the vessel. The men turned to with a will to shorten us down; their chatter and laughter belied the seriousness of our commission. But even under shortened sail, Intrepid, as though eager to meet her own destiny, forged forward, moving well in the easy seas despite the load of men and stores she carried.
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