A Call to Arms

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Carl Corbett, captain of Marines, strode across the quarterdeck from where he had been inspecting the three 6-pounder guns on the leeward side. “You sent for me, Captain?”

  “Yes, Mr. Corbett,” Richard said. “I need to ensure that my orders of yesterday are fully understood. I want half our contingent of Marines standing by. You may select those to go in on the first wave. I will send in a second wave when and if I deem it necessary.”

  Corbett saluted. “I have made my selections, Captain, and my men are ready. If I may say so, sir, we are all itching to get into the fight.”

  Richard answered the salute. “Very well. Please carry on.”

  “Richard,” Agreen cautioned sotto voce when the captain returned to the larboard railing, “I hope t’ God you know what you’re doin’. Commodore Barron made it crystal clear that no further ground forces are t’ be committed here. Eaton has t’ make do with what he has, and he knows it. If the battle goes foul for him, we’re authorized to get him and the Marines out. That’s it. No one else. All we can offer Eaton is naval support.”

  “That’s precisely what I intend to offer him, Agee,” Richard replied as Portsmouth swerved off the wind and picked up speed. “Naval support.”

  At 8:00, the start of the forenoon watch, the American squadron commenced fire on Derne. Portsmouth’s 12-pounder long guns erupted in a broadside, sending 144 pounds of hot metal screeching into the fort and palace. Hornet, with Nautilus close on her heels, tacked in closer to shore and concentrated her fire on the fort’s seaward battery. After they had delivered their initial payload and were wearing ship to deliver a second, Argus pounded the northern reaches of the town with her own version of hell.

  On the north-facing tier near the top of the governor’s palace, the ominous black maw of a massive cannon flashed orange. A 34-pound ball shrieked over Portsmouth’s mizzen and plunged into the sea beyond. Through a glass, Richard noted its gun crew adjusting the quoin to aim lower.

  “Mr. Osborne!”

  “Sir!”

  “Advise Mr. Meyers to take out that gun!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Moments later, Richard heard Meyers’s directives belowdecks: “Fire as your guns bear! Make sure of it, captains!”

  On a starboard tack, Portsmouth’s larboard battery opened fire on the palace. Gun after gun exploded, each gun captain patiently waiting until the top tier of the palace had been drawn into his sights. Every shot chomped a hungry bite. The third shot ripped through the round turret of a minaret, collapsing it like a child’s toy hit by a rock. The eighth shot struck home, hammering into the base of the 34-pounder with an almighty clang heard far out to sea.

  “Nice shot, Eric,” Richard said softly.

  Sailing on a close haul to southeastward, Captain Evans suddenly defied both the odds and his orders and slewed off the wind, sailing Hornet bow-on to within a hundred yards of the shore battery. To Richard, watching through a glass, it seemed a suicidal maneuver. Hornet was taking a horrific toll from enemy cannon and musket fire. Her forward sails were holed; lethal slivers of wood from her butchered railing and top-hamper flew up and out in all directions. One shot tore through her ensign halyard, severing it and sending the Stars and Stripes zigzagging down from on high. An officer Richard could not identify grabbed the bulky fifteen-foot-long flag before it hit the water and hauled it, foot by foot, up the mainmast ratlines as enemy musketry whipped and zinged around him. Seemingly oblivious to it all, he reached the masthead truck and, with a last mighty heave, tied the ensign securely to it. On his descent, a shot caught him in the thigh. Instinctively he reached out to the wound, a reflex that caused him to lose his grip on the shrouds and tumble headlong into the sea.

  As Hornet presented her starboard broadside of four brass 6-pounders, a sailor on the larboard side tied a rope around his waist, knotted the other end around the mizzenmast bitts, and dove into the water. Swimming furiously to where the stricken officer was feebly thrashing about, he reached the spot just as the officer disappeared beneath the waves. The sailor jackknifed his body and splashed downward with a violent kick. Moments later he reemerged above the surface, his right arm wrapped across the officer’s chest. The sailor managed to coax the officer onto his back just as eager hands aboard the sloop pulled hard in unison and hauled both men back aboard.

  Richard let out a breath. “Sweet Jesus in heaven,” he said to Agreen. “Both those men deserve a medal for what they just did.” He swung his glass to shore, noting with satisfaction that one shot from Hornet’s broadside had upended a cannon. Nautilus, sailing fast to her aid, unleashed her guns into the confusion ashore and put another cannon out of action. Return fire from the shore battery became more sporadic as Nautilus covered Hornet, allowing the badly damaged sloop to come about and make good her escape.

  Hornet’s resolve, combined with the heroics of officer and sailor and the subsequent action by Lieutenant Dent, inspired the two larger naval vessels to their own heroic deed. Richard Cutler and Isaac Hull ignored their own orders and together sailed to within four cable lengths of the beach. First on one tack, then on the other, they brought their broadsides to bear on the fort and the palace behind it, pounding, pulverizing, pummeling the enemy until the enemy could take no more and fled.

  “THEY’RE ABANDONING the fort!” James Cutler exclaimed. Try as he may, he could not maintain an officer’s stiff upper lip. “And the palace, by God!”

  Eaton, O’Bannon, and Cutler were scrutinizing the town from a high ridge directly above the earthworks built up along the northeast sector. Behind the officers, Sergeant Campbell stood at ease with his six Marines. Further behind stood ninety European mercenaries also at their ease. Below, to the right, on a small promontory jutting out from the ridge, Greek cannoneers made ready the one 6-pounder they had managed to haul up the cliff. It lay flat on a carriage without wheels, its muzzle aimed downward at the earthworks.

  “So they have, Mr. Cutler,” Eaton agreed. “So they have. The Navy has done its job. Now it’s time to do ours.” He swung his gaze southward and his smug disposition disintegrated. “Damnation, Karamanli!” he cursed aloud. “Where are you? Bathing your sorry ass in an oasis?” He swung the glass back to the earthworks below them and did a mental count of the soldiers running from the fort and palace to the ravine. “There must be, what, fifty of them?” he asked O’Bannon, who had been doing the same sort of exercise.

  “Closer to seventy or eighty, I would say.”

  “So adding them to the mix, they have almost a thousand in arms down there?”

  O’Bannon nodded. “That would seem a fair estimate, General.”

  “A thousand of them to a hundred of us.” Eaton continued to study the defenses through a glass, as though searching for a chink in a suit of armor into which he might thrust a blade. “Ten-to-one odds.” He collapsed the spyglass. “I would say those odds were very much in our favor, were the enemy not so well entrenched. And had we allies we could depend on.” He consulted his waistcoat watch. “Mr. Cutler!”

  “Sir?”

  “Ride over to Hamet. Find out why he is sitting on his hindquarters. Tell him to attack. Order him to attack! And Mr. Cutler?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Forget all that nonsense you’ve learned about being an officer and a gentleman. Remember what I have told you time and time again, that the only way to get these goddamn Arabs to actually do anything is to shove the muzzle of a pistol against their forehead or a hot poker up their ass. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The mile and a half to where Hamet’s cavalry was supposed to be arrayed in battle formation behind the rolling hills fringing the southern horizon was tough going. Jamie’s horse slid through the loose stones and pebbles, pocked here and there with treacherous hollows. About halfway there Jamie paused for a sip of water. He splashed some onto a handkerchief and was wiping his face and neck when he heard a great shout and the drumming of dista
nt hooves. He turned toward the sound and watched in awe as streams of cavalry cascaded over the southern hills like Saladin’s Saracens, their scimitars, muskets, and great green-and-white banners raised high. As they thundered past, Jamie noted the unmistakable markings of Bedouin tribesmen galloping out ahead in a frenzied surge behind their leader, a figure mounted on a steed as cloud-white as his robes, his scimitar pointing skyward at first and then arcing slowly downward until it pointed ahead at those who had usurped his throne.

  Mesmerized by the sight of a full-fledged frontal assault of Arab against Arab, Jamie sat stock still in the saddle. Nothing he had witnessed on the march across Cyrenaica suggested that this well-coordinated charge was even remotely possible. Only when erratic gunfire broke out from behind the town’s defenses did he tear his eyes away and coax his horse around.

  He reached Eaton’s position on foot, leading his horse, a moment before the Greek cannoneers fired on the earthworks below. Out to sea, the guns of the naval squadron fell silent. The entire north wall of the palace, save for the low central portions shielded by the fort, was rubble.

  The 6-pounder shell struck the ground just in front of the earthworks, sending up a spray of sand and debris. A Greek gunner inserted the quoin one notch. The second shot hit the earthworks squarely, an iron fist pounding a pathway through.

  “A few more shots like that and we can parade ourselves in,” Eaton said happily as he scrutinized the southern defenses. What he observed was most encouraging. Hamet’s cavalry was leaping over those defenses, forcing the defenders into a haphazard retreat. “Welcome back, Mr. Cutler,” he said blithely to the midshipman beside him. “Now tell me, which was it?”

  “Sir?” Jamie was bent forward, his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

  “Which was it? Cold steel or hot poker? Whichever it was, it was most persuasive.”

  “Neither, sir,” Jamie said. “Mr. Karamanli launched his attack before I reached him.”

  Eaton smirked but kept his eyes on the promontory below. “I am aware of that, Mr. Cutler. I was watching you. I was being flippant.” Then his face darkened. “Shit!”

  “What is it, sir?” Jamie asked tentatively.

  O’Bannon, standing next to Eaton, answered him. “It seems we’ve lost the use of our cannon, Mr. Cutler. Evidently one of the Greeks neglected to remove the rammer before firing. Wherever that rammer is now, it’s of no use to us.”

  RICHARD CUTLER, half a mile out to sea, did not observe what happened to the rammer. Nor could he see from the quarterdeck what was happening in the town, although lookouts high up on the frigate’s crosstrees reported that Hamet’s Arabs had breached Derne’s southern defenses and had taken the castle. They had not yet, however, advanced into the town. Enemy defenders had scattered and were either taking refuge in individual buildings or gathering at the south side of the governor’s palace. The plan, Richard knew, was for Hamet and Eaton to join forces at that compound. But Hamet was apparently content to stay put and Eaton had not yet launched his attack.

  “Why go t’ what’s left of the palace?” Agreen wondered aloud. He, Lee, and Meyers had joined their captain on the quarterdeck, and all four had their spyglasses trained on Derne. “T’ protect the royal governor? It’s no place for a last stand.”

  “Possibly,” Richard mused, “assuming the royal governor is still in there. Which I doubt. And I doubt he’s the one coordinating the town’s defenses either. My money is on the commander of the reinforcements from Tripoli. He’s obviously a man Yusuf trusts.”

  “What of General Eaton, sir?” George Lee asked. “Why isn’t he attacking?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Lee. I wish I did. Mr. Corbett!”

  “Right behind you, sir.”

  Richard wheeled about. “Have Mr. Weeks call away the boats. Make ready the first wave of Marines.”

  Corbett saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Meyers!”

  “Sir!”

  “Advise the lookouts to report any movement of any kind the moment it occurs.

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  That last order was entirely unnecessary, and every officer aboard knew it. But every officer aboard Portsmouth and the other vessels in the squadron also knew that Richard Cutler was the only man among them who had a son ashore on the front line of battle.

  “GENERAL, it’s past time,” O’Bannon cautioned. “We can’t delay any longer. The enemy’s number in the ravine is increasing by the minute. Ours is not. We either attack now or stand down.”

  “I didn’t come all this distance to stand down,” Eaton replied testily. He trained his glass a final time on the old castle in the southwest sector of the town. Hamet was in there, no doubt. He could see his white-robed cavalrymen on the lower ramparts and outside the walls. But he noted with mounting disgust that the soldiers were in no apparent hurry to heed a further call to arms. For the life of him, Eaton could not understand why Hamet was taking his sweet time capitalizing on his advantage. He did, however, understand the probable consequences of his one hundred soldiers going it alone. Dark fury boiled within him anew. To Hamet Karamanli, Eaton and his Christian soldiers were nothing more than sacrificial lambs being led to an altar. “Advise the men to fix bayonets, Mr. O’Bannon.”

  O’Bannon turned about. “Sergeant Campbell!”

  “Sir!”

  “We shall fix bayonets!”

  “Sir!”

  Campbell issued the order, and soldiers inserted the end of their musket barrels into the attachment loop of their bayonets and turned the double-edged blades firmly to the right, fixing them in place.

  Eaton, wearing full undress uniform, mounted his horse. O’Bannon and Jamie mounted theirs. Eaton slid his saber from its sheath and wheeled his horse about to face his command. He raised his saber; “To honor and glory!” he shouted. “Follow me, my brave lads! Today, victory is ours!” He wheeled his horse back around and walked him to the crest of the ridge, then sliced down his saber.

  “Charge!”

  The Marine drummer pounded his drum, and Christian soldiers surged over the ridge. When the last of them had gone over, the young Marine tossed the drum aside, seized his musket, and ran after them.

  Arabs in the ravine opened fire in a volley as random in aim as it was ineffectual. To Eaton’s supreme satisfaction, as he lurched and pitched down the sandy slope, there appeared to be no officer down there trained in the art of staged firing—first from one squad, then from another while the first squad reloaded—that could inflict sustained fire upon a charging enemy. Better still, their undisciplined pattern of musketry suggested an enemy unnerved by the blood-curdling screams in many languages and the advancing line of glistening bayonets. By the time the Arabs reloaded, the allied force was more than halfway down the hill and picking up speed on ground becoming firmer and more level with each step.

  The second round of enemy fire was as undisciplined as the first. But since it was discharged at a much closer range, it took its toll. One Marine fell, then another. Behind them, a score of mercenaries collapsed onto their knees or staggered forward before falling facedown on the rocky ground. Suddenly, directly ahead of Jamie Cutler, General Eaton jerked on the reins of his horse and grabbed hold of his left wrist. The horse’s front legs buckled, throwing Eaton off. Jamie reined in, dismounted, and ran to where Eaton was struggling to get up. Americans and Europeans streamed past him, hard behind Lieutenant O’Bannon, now leading the charge.

  “General, you’re hit, sir!” Jamie said when he reached the general’s side. He helped Eaton to a sitting position as the battle raged just a few yards away. The Christian soldiers surged relentlessly forward, pushing back their adversaries.

  Eaton grimaced with pain. “It’s my wrist,” he said. Musket shot kicked up the ground around them, some shot ricocheting unpredictably. “But praise God I don’t think it’s serious.” He held up his wrist for closer inspection. Surprisingly, there was little blood. “Look at that. Bastard went clean
through it. There’s a hole on either side.”

  “Here, sir, allow me.” Jamie shook off his uniform coat and withdrew a small dirk at his belt. Holding his shirt out from his stomach, he sliced downward from his chest, cutting off a sizable strip of cotton cloth, which he wrapped tightly around the wound and secured with two double knots fashioned from pieces torn at the cloth’s ends. “That should hold it for now, sir.”

  Eaton flexed his fingers and turned his wrist this way and that. “Excellent work, Mr. Cutler,” he said. A chance shot from an enemy musket dug in dangerously close. “Your ship’s surgeon would be proud. I have one final favor to ask: the use of your horse. Mine had the good sense to run off.”

  “She’s yours, General.”

  “Thank you.” Eaton found his hat, put a foot in a stirrup, and with effort swung himself aboard the roan. He looked down at Jamie and touched the front of his hat. “See you at the palace, Mr. Cutler.”

  “Argus IS SIGNALING, Captain.”

  Richard Cutler was pacing back and forth on the weather side of the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Crabtree was keeping pace step for step.

  Richard stopped short. “How does the message read, Agee?”

  “According t’ Mr. Boyle,” referring to the signal midshipman, “Captain Hull is inquirin’ about your intentions.”

  “My intentions? By that I assume he means whether I intend to invite him to supper this evening.”

  Agreen’s expression remained deadpan. “Could be. Or it could be he’s wonderin’ why the jolly boat and launch are swayed out, and why twenty Marines in full gear are standin’ by on the weather deck.”

  “Ah. Perhaps you’re right, Agee.” Richard pondered his reply. “You may advise Mr. Boyle to advise Captain Hull that I am preparing for all contingencies.”

  Agreen grinned. “An excellent response, if I may say so, Captain.”

  The reply was hoisted up the signal halyard as excited shouts from lookouts brought every spyglass to bear on shore. A cluster of uniformed soldiers was advancing into Derne from the earthworks. Those Arab defenders willing and able to put up a fight were backing away step by step, parrying bayonet thrusts as best they could with their short-snubbed scimitars, seemingly to no avail. Many were gored where they stood by the vicious thrust of a bayonet, doubling over before the bloody blade was withdrawn in search of another victim. Arabs still heavily outnumbered Christians, but neither side seemed overly impressed by that margin. Close-quarter combat was quickly turning into a one-sided slaughter.