A Call to Arms

by William C. Hammond

  “Great God in heaven,” Peck breathed in awe. “There must be three or four thousand people down there.”

  “At least,” Jamie said, as enthralled as his shipmate.

  “Who are they?” Peck asked.

  “They are the Eu ed Alli,” Mahomet told them and the other Christian officers after the two midshipmen had climbed down and delivered their astonishing report. “This is their land. At least they claim it to be.”

  “The ‘you et alley’?” O’Bannon inquired, struggling with pronunciation. “Is that good or bad?” His questions brought rare smiles to both Eaton and Mahomet.

  “It is good, my friend,” the sheik replied. “It is very, very good. This is the Bedouin tribe the scout spoke of two days past. It is the most powerful tribe in all of Cyrenaica. They are great warriors, and they hate Yusuf Karamanli and his tax collectors. Come, you will see. They will welcome you with open arms and open hearts.”

  Open their hearts they did. The starving, dirty, discouraged Christians felt as though they had been transported from fiery hell to the lush Garden of Eden. Here there was food and water a-plenty—due, apparently, to the blessing of an underground river—and the Bedouins were pleased to share their bounty with Hamet Karamanli and his Western allies. How to fairly compensate the Bedouins for their generosity became an issue. The only cash in the caravan was in the pockets of the camel drivers, and they were not about to give it up. The matter was settled when the women of the tribe took a fancy to the brass buttons on the officers’ uniforms, and tribal elders agreed that these buttons represented fair compensation for goods received. As a black-haired beauty, her face unveiled, carefully cut away the buttons on Jamie Cutler’s coat, the coy looks and brief smiles she gave him whenever their eyes met conveyed a sense of frustration that Islamic law prevented her from offering him something a bit more personal for his buttons.

  Although they all hated to leave Eden, General Eaton insisted they press on, his ranks now augmented by 150 mounted Bedouins, each brandishing a musket. These new recruits, Eaton did not fail to remind the Arab officers, had signed on as volunteers. They would be paid nothing, unlike any of the others who marched on this expedition. Except for the five Marine privates who continued to receive their monthly wage of six dollars, a laughable amount, Eaton emphasized, compared with what the lowliest camel driver was now being paid. And unlike the Arabs, Eaton did not fail to add, these Marines had no personal stake in the future of Tripoli. They were doing their duty because their country and their commanding officers expected it of them.

  Not long after departing paradise the caravan was once again trudging through hell’s fiery pits. Two days later, during the evening of March 26, another scout galloped in to report that an enemy force had been sighted only a day or two away from Derne and would arrive there before Eaton’s army. The scout pegged this enemy force at a thousand men.

  “God damn it!” Eaton cursed, unable to swallow such a bitter pill.

  Reaction to the report among the Arabs was as swift as it was adamant. Sheik el Tahib stormed in to where Eaton was conferring with his European officers and informed him in hard language that not only would his cavalry not proceed farther, they would be returning to Egypt. This time, he said, he meant it. This time there would be no Arab council; the matter was settled. And this time, he sniffed, Hamet Karamanli agreed with him.

  When he heard that, Eaton’s long-suppressed wrath exploded. “You are a liar and a cheat and a coward!” he shouted at el Tahib. “Go, then! Return to Egypt! And take your worthless cavalry with you! I am glad to be rid of you all! I will march on with my foot-soldiers and the Bedouins to Derne!”

  Sheik el Tahib, his blood up, ordered his Muslim soldiers to advance on the supply tent.

  “Beat to arms!” Eaton commanded the Marine drummer.

  At the first roll of the staccato tattoo, European soldiers seized their weapons, formed in ranks by companies, and stood at ramrod attention.

  “Officers, to me!” Eaton shouted. Lieutenant O’Bannon, the European officers, and the two midshipmen rushed to stand beside him. Directly behind them, Sergeant Campbell and his five Marine privates formed a second line before the entrance to the supply tent.

  “You may leave whenever you wish,” Eaton informed el Tahib. “But you shall take no provisions with you.”

  The sheik hesitated at the prospect of desert travel without food or water, and without the possibility of pay for services rendered to date. He glanced at Sheik Mahomet standing on one side of him, and then at Hamet Karamanli on the other. Neither man returned his gaze. Seconds ticked by. Deep within a gap in time fraught with indecision, Eaton suddenly blurted out, “Lieutenant O’Bannon!”

  “Sir!” the Marine replied.

  “The manual exercise, if you please!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  O’Bannon about-faced. “Sergeant, you may drill the men in the manual of arms!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  To Jamie’s surprise, and to the consternation of the Arabs, Sergeant Campbell put his Marines and the European soldiers through the exercise of presenting and shouldering arms. When the soldiers began twirling their muskets, the Arabs ran for their horses, screaming to Allah that they had been betrayed and were about to be slaughtered. Two hundred Arab horsemen armed with scimitars and muskets advanced toward the Europeans standing at attention, muskets held firmly at their sides. The Bedouins looked on, bewildered by this turn of events.

  The vanguard of Muslim cavalry reined in close before the Christians’ formation and leveled their muskets at its officers.

  “I could shoot you down like a dog,” el Tahib sneered down at Eaton.

  Eaton kept his lips sealed and his eyes front and center.

  “Do you hear me, Eaton?” the sheik shrieked.

  It was then that Lt. Presley O’Bannon advanced two steps, wheeled smartly to his left, strode in precise parade-ground fashion another six steps, then wheeled to his right and stopped, his sword tip pointing at the ground. He had placed himself between William Eaton and Sheik el Tahib, a human shield before the American general.

  “Shoot me first,” he said.

  El Tahib’s jaw dropped. “You would sacrifice yourself for such a man,” he asked incredulously.

  O’Bannon stood his ground. “Shoot me first,” he repeated.

  Whether inspired by what they were witnessing or by their reluctance to see the popular Marine lieutenant harmed, one by one the Arabs lifted the barrels of their muskets until they pointed skyward. El Tahib reluctantly followed suit.

  “Allah be praised,” Sheik Mahomet proclaimed for all to hear. “These Christians are not our enemies. They are our friends. They fight with us. They risk their lives for us, and for what? What do we give them in return? Only complaints and trouble and further demands.”

  Hamet Karamanli dismounted, walked over to O’Bannon, and embraced him like a brother. “You are a very brave man, Lieutenant,” he told him. “And you have shamed us.” As if to underscore his words, he withdrew his Mameluke sword from its sheath, held it out horizontally in both hands, and offered it to O’Bannon. “Accept this sword,” he said, “from the hands of a grateful prince.” To Eaton: “I pledge to you, my general, that you shall have no more difficulties with us. We are your loyal soldiers.”

  Eaton bowed in response. During supper that evening he ordered Jamie Cutler to make all haste for the Bay of Bomba at the first blush of dawn the next morning.

  THE SUN WAS not yet up when Jamie rode west with William Whittier, a bull of a Marine from Kentucky and the most skilled horseman among the Americans. Jamie rode his own horse; Whittier rode Peck’s. They carried with them two days’ rations of food and what little water George Farquhar could spare.

  They estimated they had somewhere between 130 and 150 miles to cover. If they went all-out during the daylight hours, and Fortune smiled upon them, they could expect to reach their destination by late the next afternoon. They would have to stop to rest alo
ng the way and search for water among the outcroppings. But the need to push on was paramount. Already the expedition was two weeks behind schedule. Jamie’s mind buzzed with questions. How long would the Navy wait for them at the Bay of Bomba? If the ships had left, would that scuttle the expedition? How could Derne be assaulted without naval support? There was no backup plan. It was Eaton’s plan or nothing.

  “If I may speak freely, sir?”

  It was their first night out, and Jamie and Whittier had camped within the protection of a fortlike structure of great boulders that shielded them from the cool breeze wafting off the sea. The route they followed necessarily hugged the coastline, since that was their sole point of reference. The amber glow of a three-quarters moon sparkled off the waters of the Mediterranean, reflecting as glittering jewels far to the north, east, and west. It was a panorama of seaside majesty that the two Americans all but ignored. Too exhausted to gather fuel to light a fire, they were suffering through another meager meal of dry rice, a few beans, and a stale biscuit washed down with half a cup of water.

  “Of course, Whittier. What’s on your mind?”

  Whittier scratched the nape of his neck with an index finger. “Well, sir,” he said, “what I can’t figure is, why didn’t the Navy resupply us earlier? Along the coast somewhere, at some beach closer to Alexandria than Bomba? And why did Captain Eaton wait until now to send us to Bomba?”

  Jamie had asked himself that last question many times. The first two questions he had asked his father in Alexandria. The fact that Whittier raised them now did not surprise him. Throughout the expedition, but especially during the past twelve hours, he had come to admire the breadth and depth of the young man’s intellect, as well as his physical brawn. It was why, he suspected, Sergeant Campbell had recommended Whittier to accompany him on this ride.

  “I can answer your first questions better than the last. The fact is, no one, not even Hamet or the sheiks, knew exactly which route we would follow to the Bay of Bomba. The sheiks are from Egypt, remember, not Cyrenaica. Mahomet has been here before, but only a couple of times. And while Hamet may have been governor of Derne, by his own admission he rarely traveled east of there—in other words, on the land that we’ve been traveling since leaving Alexandria. So it was anyone’s guess how we would get to the Bay of Bomba. We just knew it was to Bomba that we had to get. It’s easily identifiable and, according to my father, has one of the few suitable beaches anywhere along the coast of Tripoli. He has been cruising up and down this coast for months and knows it well.

  “Our problem is not the rendezvous point. We’d have to march over this land to get to Derne no matter what. No, the problem is the lack of discipline among our Arab allies and the shortage of provisions. General Eaton was convinced the march would take no more than four weeks. So we brought a four-week supply of food that could have been stretched further had not those damn camp followers,” referring to the ragtag swarm of Arab freeloaders who had followed the caravan during the early days until the Marines finally drove them off, “pilfered so much of it. Does that answer your question?”

  “It does, sir. Thank you, sir. I wish someone could have explained all this to me and my mates. We’ve been in the dark, so to speak.”

  Jamie managed a laugh. “Welcome to the Navy, Whittier.”

  Whittier nodded. “Yes, sir. And as for my second question, sir? Why we weren’t ordered to Bomba earlier?”

  Jamie shrugged. “You’ll have to ask General Eaton that. Perhaps, until now, he assumed we were too far away to do much about it even if our ships were there. But I believe that someone should have been at Bomba at the appointed time, whatever it took. I felt it my duty as naval liaison to offer my opinion to General Eaton. And so I did. Not that it did much good.”

  “Thank you, sir. Again, I appreciate the explanation.”

  “Such as it is.” Jamie began stowing away the few items they had taken off the horses. “Now I have a question for you, Whittier.”

  “Ask away, sir.”

  Jamie looked at the young Marine private. “What in heaven’s name compelled an intelligent fellow like you from the land-locked state of Kentucky to enlist in the Marine Corps? What did you do? Dilly up some girl?”

  Whittier grinned. “Nothing like that, sir. I joined the Marines to see the world. To visit exotic places.”

  “Like this.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Exactly like this.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not in the least, sir. I’ve never been more serious.” He stretched out his arms to encompass his surroundings. “Just look around you, sir.”

  Jamie laughed out loud. “Jesus Christ Almighty, Whittier. Go to sleep, would you? We have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  As dawn streaked across the eastern sky they set off again, alternating between an easy canter and a hard lope to pace the horses. The farther west they rode, the firmer the ground became along an increasingly hilly and well-traveled pathway. Always on the alert for ambush, they kept their weapons within easy reach. But the few local citizens they encountered fled before the two Americans, an apparition of an apocalypse, perhaps, to Muslims who had never before laid eyes on a Christian.

  At noon they dismounted in a small valley supporting the barest of vegetation. Jamie and Whittier searched for water while the horses nibbled on what sustenance they could find. After half an hour they came upon a deep shaft cut into a pile of large boulders. Jamie dropped a stone down the shaft. After several moments he heard a dull, pleasing splash. “Lower away,” he said to Whittier.

  Whittier lowered a goatskin bucket down the shaft. When he heard it plop into water, he let the bucket lie on its side long enough to allow it to fill and then carefully hauled it up. He set the bucket on a smooth sweep of rock and scooped his palm into the liquid. He brought it to his mouth and took a sip. Immediately he spat it out.

  “Rancid,” he exclaimed with disgust.

  So they rode on without water, their throats so parched they could not swallow a last ration of rice and biscuit.

  “Try not to think about it,” Jamie said as much to himself as to Whittier when they took ten minutes in midafternoon in what they hoped was their last rest break before arriving at the Bay of Bomba. “Easier said than done, sir,” Whittier replied. Just as he said that they both spotted a large, low-lying rock formation with a flat, indented top shaped like the crown of a volcano. The same notion flashed into both minds at once, and they scrambled to their feet and raced over. There was not much water, but to the two parched Americans it seemed a king’s ransom.

  Jamie dipped his hand into the warm liquid and savored the feel of it in his mouth before he swallowed. A smile creased his lips as he looked at Whittier, watching him anxiously. “Not bad,” he announced, and they eagerly scooped up handfuls. “Save some for the horses,” Jamie warned. “And some for us, later.”

  Revived in body and spirit, they rode on at a gallop. The sun was low on its downward arc when a protected body of water perhaps a mile wide loomed below them. The bay was surrounded by high bluffs on its east and south sides, more severe scarps to the west, and was almost perfectly U-shaped with a sandy beach at its base. The middle of the gulf was deep azure blue, the same color as the Mediterranean that fed it, suggesting that the water there was deep. It shelved rapidly closer to shore; great rollers broke fifty yards out and raced in creamy foam with ever-diminishing force until they purled gently onto the sand.

  “Now I understand why Father recommended this place,” Jamie said. “It’s perfect.” He withdrew a small spyglass and began searching, moving the glass from side to side.

  “See anything, sir?” Whittier inquired anxiously.

  Jamie swung the glass again. “Nothing,” he said, trying, without success, to keep disappointment from his voice. “Nothing, Whittier, I’m sorry to say.”

  “What do we do now, sir?”

  Jamie swung a leg over and dismounted. “We do what we said
we’d do. We wait.”

  “For how long, sir?”

  “For as long as it takes, Whittier. We can’t go back to the caravan empty-handed. At the very least it would mean the end of the expedition. Besides, we wouldn’t make it back without food or water.”

  “True, sir,” Whittier acknowledged.

  “First thing,” Jamie said, after tethering his horse and scanning the barren landscape, “is to find anything we might use to light a signal fire tonight.”

  There was nothing: no wood or grass or anything at all beyond rocks, sand, and a few sprigs of prickly desert plants that even the horses found unappetizing. That evening they consumed the last of their rations and most of their water.

  The next day was no better. The hot sun sucked away their energy, and there was no shade on the bluff to escape it. Whittier suggested climbing down to the beach where they could find shade and cool off in the sea, but Jamie rejected the notion. The urge to drink seawater might prove too tempting, he said; and if they did that, it would drive them mad before killing them. Besides, he reasoned, at sea level they would have nowhere near the range of vision they had on the bluff. Every half-hour Jamie brought out his glass and searched the blue expanse. And saw nothing, nothing at all, as morning inched into afternoon, afternoon into evening, and evening into ominous black night.

  Jamie was awake early the next morning, unable to sleep beyond a fitful hour or two. His stomach felt twisted in knots, so intense was his hunger, and it was painful to swallow, so fierce was his thirst. He glanced over at Whittier, lying dead asleep on his bedroll, and wondered if they could survive another day here. Perhaps, he thought, they should backtrack, find food and water, and then return to the bay. But there was no food or water in that direction, his brain reminded him. Going west toward Derne would be even more foolish. They would find food and water there, but they would also find enemy soldiers who would hardly be inclined to do anything for them beyond throwing them in prison—or worse. Going south into the desert seemed the worst choice of all. It would take them away from the coastline, and the odds of getting lost in the desert and eventually becoming scrap meat for vultures and other scavengers were depressingly high.