Home of the Brave

by D P Prouty

  Jim was surprised and said, “Why in God’s name would they name that new fort after a gentleman who just got fired from his job as secretary of war? Only in America can you get fired and be immortalized in stone walls.”

  Then Galen Walsh retorted, “Mind yourself, young lad, why, Mr. McHenry is a fine Irishman and he put his signature on the Constitution of this great nation. Besides, with all the world’s nations at war, what makes you think that anything would last forever?”

  Mr. Walsh was right, nothing lasts forever. Europe was in constant turmoil and we were again sailing to protect merchantman attempting to make a lucrative profit while our country remained neutral in European affairs. What was different this go round was that our foe was unlike anything we had yet faced. To be sure, pirates did prowl the seas attempting to gain wealth from unsuspecting travelers, but those pirates were regulated by a country and a king. These pirates were thieves extorting money by threatening merchant ships from countries that did not pay them an annual tribute. Captain Sterett, ever eager to rise to a contest told the men, “We will give these pirates a thieves tribute—one of iron in place of gold!”

  Before we departed Baltimore, I saw Captain Shaw ashore and I offered my congratulations on his appointment as captain of the George Washington. He thanked me and he told how he was fully healthy and up to the task. He asked, “I sure would like to have you aboard the George Washington, perhaps I can arrange a transfer if you wish.”

  I told him I was happy aboard the Enterprise but thanked him for his offer. He asked me how my studies were coming along. “The test for lieutenant can be very tasking if you’re not prepared.” I explained that I had been learning, but sometimes navigation is taxing. I told him how Captain Sterett delegated most of the training of midshipman to Lieutenants Somers and Thorn. He said, “A man that cannot think for himself is doomed to rely on the decisions of others.” I did increase my knowledge, I knew the ropes, sails, weapons, even how to identify ship types at a distance by the number of jigs at the front and the sail pattern, but I had so much yet to learn. Thinking back, Captain Shaw was measuring my attitude, not what I knew. I remember Captain Campbell telling me years before that a willing student can be molded by great men, but a stubborn man learns little and at great cost. I shook his hand as we departed back to our ships and wished him well. I was pleased he was healthy and thankful he would be sailing with us.

  Mr. Walsh, appeared on the deck with Robert and Michael and said, “Mr. Carter, keep these two powder monkeys off the rigging if you please, sir. We don’t want to have any falling onto the deck and making a mess before we draw anchor.”

  “Aye,” I said, and gave a stern look to the two who must have been doing some mischief to get the attention of Mr. Walsh. “Ensure the powder kegs are tied down, and report to me when that is completed,” I charged. Just then, a lift carrying a load of water barrels swung around and knocked a seaman into an open hatch. The boatswain, Mr. Richards, yelled over at the seaman working the boom, “Watch what you’re doing, mates! Check that man out.” The seaman was all right, just a little bruised, more his pride than anything I think. One of the sailors working the boom said, “Mr. Richards, if you please, we are ordered to get the load on board with best possible haste.” Mr. Richards said in his deep booming voice that seems to vibrate through the air, “Take time to do it right, or you will spend more time to correct the work and do it again.” No argument was given, the men knew better than to challenge him. As the boatswain, he ensured the ship was maintained and repaired if necessary. The ship was his child—and he ensured she was well looked after.

  A soft easterly wind blew over the Enterprise as if we beckoning us to join our comrades at sea. After all provisions were aboard and the crew accounted for, Captain Sterett came on deck and gave the command to weigh anchor and set sail. The George Washington had already joined the squadron in the harbor and awaited our arrival. High tide was at nine that morning and with a good wind, we did not need the assistance of rowboats to get us out of dock.

  We made way through the channel heading south past Fort McHenry, then south southeast to Kent Island and down the Chesapeake Bay to Norfolk. After a few days we rendezvoused with the Essex and President near Norfolk. Commodore Dale was aboard the President as flagship of the squadron. The largest of the frigates at fifty guns, many twenty-four-pounders, she looked intimidating. Soon after arriving, we set sail and began our journey eastward across the Atlantic.

  The five warships in front of us cruised with great speed as we struggled to tack into the wind and lagged behind the others. Captain Sterett clenched his jaw and balled his fists in frustration. The George Washington shortened sail and came alongside informing Captain Sterett that Commodore Dale insisted he go at it alone as the squadron would continue at best speed and the Enterprise should rendezvous with the squadron off Tripoli upon arrival. This angered Captain Sterett even more. He studied the map on the table near the helm and steered slightly to port as we watched the squadron disappear over the horizon. He uttered to himself, “I’ll be damned if Dale gets to the Mediterranean before the Enterprise!”

  We had clear sailing with good wind as we made our way across the Atlantic. Mr. Duffy was cooking breakfast early one morning. Matthew Pierce was helping him with the pots on the fire and I asked about Mr. Edwards. He said, “He’s not well this morning, sir, Dr. Batterton told him to get some rest below.” I went below deck and found him sleeping in his hammock. I turned to leave, and he started twitching and moaning, grimacing in pain. I reached to his shoulder and as I touched him he awoke and grabbed my hand. I said, “You were having a nightmare, Mr. Edwards, are you all right?” He blinked his eyes as he awoke, let go of my hand, and rubbed his face. “You were having a bad dream,” I reiterated. He looked at me expressionless and said despondently, “I wish that they were dreams, lad, but I know them to be memories…memories I wish to forget.” He told me he wanted to get up so I helped him get to his feet and he made his way topside. We walked slowly toward Mr. Duffy who protested, “You’re supposed to be getting rest.” Mr. Edwards just continued as if he hadn’t heard him, eventually saying, “I’ll get the crew fed—we don’t need the crew to get poisoned.” He winked at Matthew as a slight smile appeared on his face. I looked over at Matthew as I began walking back toward amidships, such a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. I thought back to Charlie and Frank. We must have looked that fresh when we sailed out of Norfolk so long ago. I sat down next to the gunwale and pulled a letter from my pocket. It was a letter from Charlene that I had already read although I’d wanted to read it again. When I read them, I felt her talking to me. Lieutenant Baker and Lieutenant Somers walked by me. Lieutenant Baker said,

  “Is that from your lady friend, Clyde?”

  “Aye, sir,” I replied. I told him I just liked to revisit her letters.

  He uttered, “Did you shoot that young fellow who was competing for her affection?”

  I smiled and said, “No, sir.”

  He tightened his jaw and looked sternly in my face. Bat was right, he wasn’t joking when he told me to challenge George to a duel. He softened his face and gave a slight smile. “Well, all right, but that’s the best way to eliminate your foe. Why, Dick Somers here once challenged three men on one day!”

  Lieutenant Somers raised his eyebrows, took a breath, and exclaimed, “It wasn’t exactly like that, Tim.”

  How can someone have that many enemies, I thought! “Maybe over a couple of days,” I thought, but the words came out loud.

  “No, I actually did have three duels in one day,”

  he replied. “They challenged me though. Not the best way to spend an afternoon. I was wounded twice! My friend Stephan Decatur held me up for the last one. Luckily, the damn fool I was dueling missed us both when he fired.”

  I asked him why fight them? “Clearly you must have insulted them in some way.”

  “All three of them challenged me because I would not challenge Decatur,” he sa
id.

  I was confused and he went on to say, “You see, we were in a tavern and Stephan made a joke at my expense. I’ve known him for years, he’s one of my closest friends so I thought nothing of it. Three gentlemen sitting nearby overheard his joke and demanded I defend my honor. When I told them to mind their own business and shove off, they challenged me to a contest the following day. So I accepted and Stephan was my second.” He went on to say that they were fortunate to challenge him and not Decatur, since he was a better shot. He told how Lieutenant Decatur was the first lieutenant aboard the Essex with Captain Bainbridge.

  I asked, “So those men died because you didn’t want to fight Lieutenant Decatur?”

  “Only one of them died, the other two I wounded,” he said. “But to answer your question, it’s all about honor. If a man’s honor is in question, how can he stand upright before men?”

  I liked Lieutenant Somers. Much like Captain Campbell, he taught me lessons before I realized it. He went on to explain that to stand in front of a man with a pistol you need great faith. “Some men have great faith in God and anticipate His will be done. Others have great faith in their own abilities to fire quickly and accurately. Still some have both which lends to the most dangerous of opponents. But none have neither because a man that has no faith also has no honor,” he explained. I pledged to myself how I must spend more time in prayer as well as practice shooting when the opportunity arises since I could one day be challenged to a duel. Being afraid and cowering away from a challenge would stain any reputation of honor, I thought.

  The sky had a reddish hue as we approached the strait of Gibraltar on a late summer afternoon. The sun was behind us gleaming off the hills of the African continent. To the port we could see the hills rising on the Spanish peninsula. Captain Sterett had placed the crew at action stations. We flew our own colors since the British Empire and the French Consulate along with their allies were certain to be operating in this area and we did not want to get engaged by mistake. I stood amidships near the guns as we quietly sailed ever closer to the straights. “The Pillars of Hercules, gentlemen,” Captain Sterett announced.

  Mr. Walsh said, “Sir?”

  The captain reiterated, “The Pillars of Hercules, Mr. Walsh. You see, the Greeks believed that Hercules split a mountain forming the opening to the Atlantic and leaving two ‘pillars.’ The Spanish pillar is the rock of Gibraltar,” he said pointing to the northern mountain. “The other is Jebel Musa,” he said as he pointed to the African coast. It truly was a majestic scene, I had seen the South American continent before, but never two continents at once.

  A few hours later we were entering into the Mediterranean Sea when the lookout reported seeing an object afloat just ahead. It was too small to be a ship and had no sail. It was a small boat bobbing up and down like a bottle in the water. As we approached, I could see men aboard waving at us. We pulled up alongside and threw them a line. A man grabbed hold and tied it to their boat. Captain Sterett signaled to have them brought aboard. One man was pulled up and he approached the captain, bowing his head he said, “Eres Americano? Somos de la nave española de la línea Real de Carlos.” Clearly the man was Spanish and the captain asked if anyone spoke the language.

  Mr. Walsh said, “Sir, I don’t speak it but I once knew a Spanish lady and I know a few words.”

  Another sailor from the small boat said, “I speak poco Inglés. We are from ship Real Carlos. English kill our ship, uh…it…,” he paused, searching for the word and then uttered, “Explotar. Only us survive, no oficial.”

  The captain had a puzzled look about him. Mr. Walsh stated, “Sir, I think he means that no officers survived.”

  The Spaniard quickly interjected, “Si, señor!”

  After some time, the Spanish sailor was able to tell us the fate of his ship and crew. Mr. Edwards was summoned and to my surprise, communicated with the Spaniards quite effectively. He translated that the night before, a large naval engagement had taken place near Algeciras. The combined fleets of the French and Spanish were engaged by the British fleet on a moonless night. His ship, the Real Carlos, had caught fire and exploded. Fortunately, they had lowered their boat before the explosion, but as far as he knew, they were the only survivors. Five out of a ship of over three hundred aboard lived to tell the tale. Another vessel nearby also exploded and they did not see any signs of survivors. No ship picked them up and by morning the two fleets had vanished. They drifted on the current and had no sail to propel them toward Spain. The men were terrified of coming ashore in Africa and begged. “Please, señor, no take to Africa, no can be slave!” We had heard stories of merchantmen taken as slaves, it seems the North African slave trade was very much real.

  “How about that, niggers making white men slaves!” one sailor said, visibly amused by the mention of the Spaniard and generating laughter by some of the crew nearby. The Spaniards did not understand this remark and scowled at them, probably thinking they somehow were ridiculing them. Lieutenant Somers responded, “Don’t think the situation humorous. The Turks are not of the Negro race, and they’ve been taking white slaves from Europe for hundreds of years. Besides, maybe if you fell into their hands you would have a better appreciation for the plight of the Negro race in our own country. These pirates have enslaved our American merchantmen, and that will not stand!” The deck was quiet, no one said a word. We knew all too well the abuses of men. Men are not equal, but at sea a man’s worth was based on his seamanship, not the color of his skin or his social status; on land was a different account. Then the captain said, “Gentlemen, if we are through with our lesson in legislative policy, we will drop off our guests near Malaga before turning back southeast.”

  The following morning off the coast of southern Spain we watched as our guests happily made their way ashore in their boat before we cruised toward Tripoli and a rendezvous with the squadron. On the western horizon, the lookouts reported several large warships. Captain Sterett did not order actions stations and they did not sail to intercept us. The captain looked through his glass and said, “British warships, probably the same ones who attacked the Spaniards.”

  26

  The Tripoli

  Jim and I reviewed the charts and plotted the course under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Somers as we made our way to the African coast. With Tripoli in sight, Captain Sterett asked me if my navigation was in error since no other vessels extended outside the port. I replied, “No, sir, we are off the coast of Tripoli, sir.” He looked at Lieutenant Somers who affirmably nodded. No sooner had I replied, than the lookouts reported several warships approaching from the west. Jim had the glass in his hand and the captain asked for it. He looked at the vessels in the distance and a big smile grew on his face. “It’s the squadron,” he cried. “We’ve beat them all.” He beamed with excitement as the President came alongside and Commodore Dale hailed,

  “Well done, Andrew!”

  Captain Sterett was called to an assembly of captains aboard the President. He returned several hours later and called for the officers. “Gentlemen, Commodore Dale was informed at Gibraltar that the Pasha of Tripoli has declared war upon the United States. Our orders are to safeguard American merchantmen, conduct a blockade and when called upon, hunt down Tripolitan corsairs. We are authorized to sink them, disable them, or otherwise make them unusable, but we cannot take them as a prize.”

  The excitement wore off as we began a stationary blockade of Tripoli. After spending a month conducting blockade duty of the Tripolitan port, we received orders to sail for Malta to retrieve a supply of fresh water for the squadron. It was a menial task, but the crew was in good spirits as we were finally breaking the boredom of blockade duty. As the junior midshipman, I had the third watch till early morning, so when we set sail for Malta, I was already exhausted. The summer morning was already heating up and I knew if I didn’t get a couple of hours sleep while it was still a little cool, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all since the heat and humidity would be almost unbear
able. Once relieved of my watch I looked for a cool place to get some rest below deck.

  A couple of hours later, I was awoken by Jim Lewis. He said, “Clyde, get up, we are approaching a ship. The captain has ordered the crew to action stations, but quietly, he doesn’t want to alarm the alien vessel if they turn out to be pirates.” Groggy, I thought Jim was pulling my leg. “This isn’t funny, I’m exhausted.” He assured me that he was serious. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I was very irritated at the situation, knowing that even if this was nothing, I would not be able to sleep now, I was already sweating below and on deck the sun would make it worse. Men below deck were shuffling about passing weapons up to the men in the hatchway. At that point I knew this was no drill.

  I came up and made my way to the quarterdeck where the captain was looking through his spyglass. I approached Jim Lewis who was standing next to Lieutenant Thorn, and whispered to him, “What’s going on?” He just pointed out at the ship in the distance.

  “Jonathan, what do you make of her?” the captain asked as he handed the glass to Lieutenant Thorn.

  Lieutenant Thorn studied the ship a bit then replied, “Sir, she’s a polacca, flying Tripolitan colors, looks like she has about twelve or fourteen cannons.”

  Captain Sterett got a slight smile on his face as he said, “Let’s introduce ourselves, shall we?” Then he turned and looked over his shoulder at Mr. Walsh. “Mr. Walsh, when I give the order, lower the British colors and hoist up our own.”