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PIRATE PRINCES AND YANKEE JACKS
* * * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
JUNGLE ROADS
And Other Trails of Roosevelt
BOONE OF THE WILDERNESS
A Tale of Pioneer Adventure and Achievement in the "Dark and
Bloody Ground"
LIFE'S MINSTREL
A Book of Verse
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
* * * * * *
[Illustration: STEPHEN DECATUR.
_From a painting by Rembrandt Peale._]
PIRATE PRINCES AND YANKEE JACKS
Setting forth David Forsyth's Adventures in America's Battles on Sea
and Desert with the Buccaneer Princes of Barbary, with an Account of
a Search under the Sands of the Sahara Desert for the Treasure-filled
Tomb of Ancient Kings
by
DANIEL HENDERSON
Author of "Boone of the Wilderness," "Jungle Roads
and Other Trails of Roosevelt"
[Illustration: Logo]
New York
E. P. Dutton & Company
681 Fifth Avenue
Copyright, 1923, By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
THIS BOOK IS A TRIBUTE TO THE MEN AND BOYS WHO CREATED AND SERVED IN
AMERICA'S FIRST NAVY
"_The ship of war, with its acres of canvas, white in the morning
sun, has sunk forever below the horizon.... No longer is the
hoarse voice of the captain heard shouting to the tops or to the
gun-deck in stentorian tones.... All have gone from the deck of
the galley, the frigate, the line-of-battle ship, from the decks
where, in the teeth of gales, they clawed off lee shores, when
the mouths of their guns drank in the seas, or fought the fogs or
Arctic cold; from the decks where they led the changing fortunes
of the fight in the din of desperate battle; where men take life
at the uttermost hazard and clasp hands with fate._"
--EDWARD KIRK RAWSON.
FOREWORD
The road cleft by early American ships into the Mediterranean Sea has
become a well-traveled one. On errands of commerce, punishment or
relief, our skippers have laid an ever-broadening way into the Orient.
Yet who, in the bustle of the present, recalls the pioneer American
captains and sailors who once suffered slavery and torture to make
the Mediterranean a safe sea for Yankee vessels? Who remembers the
Americans who lay for nine years in Turkish prisons? Who recalls
General William Eaton, who led a little band of Americans and Greeks
on a desperate venture across the North African desert to release the
imprisoned crew of the _Philadelphia_ from Turkish bondage, and who,
for the first time, raised the United States flag over a fort of the
old world?
It is to make this period and its heroic characters live again in the
mind of America that this volume has been written. To link the several
campaigns against the Turks of Barbary, extending over a period of
fifteen years, the author has adopted the method he followed in his
book "Boone of the Wilderness," and introduced characters and episodes
of fiction. The material is largely derived from original sources.
Permit us, then, without further ado, to present and commend to your
interest the young sailor David Forsyth, who is at times the hero of
the yarn, but quite as often a spectator and historian of the deeds of
the brave men under whom he was privileged to serve. Do not hold his
youth against him. Nelson went to sea at twelve; Drake was scarcely
more than a boy when he fought on the Spanish Main; and Decatur and
many other gallant American officers under whom David served were mere
striplings. Youth was foremost on the sea in those days, and it is
hoped that its ardent spirit flames in this volume, though a century's
dust covers our heroes.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MAN FROM THE EAST 1
II. CAPTURED BY CORSAIRS 16
III. BARBARY AND THE BUCCANEERS 25
IV. _The Rose of Egypt_ 40
V. MY FIRST VOYAGE 46
VI. MUTINY 56
VII. BETRAYED 64
VIII. AN AMERICAN FRIGATE BECOMES A CORSAIR'S CATTLESHIP 74
IX. LIFE ABOARD _Old Ironsides_ 82
X. A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN THE COURT OF TUNIS 95
XI. THE LOSS OF _The Philadelphia_ 109
XII. WE BLOW UP _The Philadelphia_ 116
XIII. THE AMERICAN EAGLE ENTERS THE AFRICAN DESERT 126
XIV. THE DESERT GIRL 140
XV. REUBEN JAMES SAVES DECATUR'S LIFE 154
XVI. WE CAPTURE THE DESERT CITY OF DERNE 162
XVII. THE TREASURE TOMB 177
XVIII. SOLD INTO SLAVERY 187
XIX. THE ESCAPE 198
XX. HOME SURPRISES 220
POSTSCRIPT. THE END OF THE PIRATES 228
BIBLIOGRAPHY 234
ILLUSTRATIONS
STEPHEN DECATUR, _from a painting by Rembrandt
Peale_ _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"I'D BLOW EVERY ONE OF THOSE PIRATE NESTS OUT OF
THE WATER BEFORE I'D PAY ONE OF THOSE BLOODY
BASHAWS A SIXPENCE!" SAID THE COMMODORE 13
WRECKING AND PIRACY HAD BEEN FOLLOWED BY THE
COMMUNITIES BORDERING ON THE MEDITERRANEAN
SINCE THE EARLIEST DAYS 35
IN LOOK AND IN DEED, WILLIAM EATON WAS A FIGHTER 94
"HOW DARE YOU LIFT YOUR HAND AGAINST A SUBJECT
OF MINE," THE BEY OF TUNIS DEMANDED OF EATON 101
I HOPED THAT I MIGHT JOIN A CARAVAN THAT WOULD
PASS BY TOKRA--THE TREASURE CITY OF MY DREAMS 105
"WE ARE BOUND ACROSS THIS GLOOMY DESERT TO
LIBERATE THREE HUNDRED AMERICANS FROM THE
CHAINS OF BARBARISM."--General Eaton 135
THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME AN AMERICAN FLAG HAD
BEEN RAISED ON A FORT OF THE OLD WORLD 165
PIRATE PRINCES AND YANKEE JACKS
CHARACTERS OF THE STORY
DAVID FORSYTH, an orphan.
ALEXANDER, his brother.
REV. EZEKIEL ECCLESTON, D.D., Rector of Marley Chapel,
Baltimore--David's guardian.
COMMODORE JOSHUA BARNEY, of the United States Navy.
GENERAL WILLIAM EATON, in command of the American expedition by land
against Tripoli.
MURAD, an Egyptian.
BLUDSOE, mate of _The Rose of Egypt_.
ANNE, "The Desert Girl."
MUSTAPHA, An Arab boy.
STEPHEN DECATUR, WILLIAM BAINBRIDGE, EDWARD PREBLE, RICHARD SOMERS,
REUBEN JAMES, SAMUEL CHILDS, and other officers and men of the United
States Navy.
PIRATE PRINCES AND YANKEE JACKS
CHAPTER I
THE MAN FROM THE EAST
"But, my dear Doctor," said the swarthy Egyptian, bowing with upturned
palms, "you surely do not mean to keep the location of this treasure
tomb hidden forever from science. I know that a man of your nature
would not care for the money the jewels and trinkets would bring if
sold, but I can not see how you can refuse to let scholars view these
rare specimens of ancient art. Will you not----"
"I beg you," said the rector in distressed tones, "to speak no more
about it. The subject awakens unpleasant memories. I have never before
mentioned having seen this treasure tomb. So far as I am concerned the
desert sands shall not be moved from over its door. Please, my good
friend, do not refer to it again!"
"But," began the Egyptian.
Commodore Barney jerked him to one side. "Look here, Mr. Murad," he
said in gruff tones, "Dr. Eccleston lost a wife and child in that
exploration. He came to this country to forget his loss. Keep off the
subject of those antiques--the chances are that they're not worth the
trouble it would take to dig them up!"
"He has a secret that he owes to science," said the Oriental
stubbornly. He was a proud, determined man. The black moustache that
flowed across his tawny face and the black hair that showed in strings
beneath his fez gave an added fierceness to his look. His brilliantly
embroidered cloak made him still more commanding in appearance.
Commodore Barney, with his stout body and sea legs, cut a poor figure
beside him.
"Harken, my friend," the commodore said sharply, "I mean what I say.
We're not going to have the rector bothered. We don't know your
business in America, and we're not inquiring into it. In return, we ask
you to let us mind our own affairs. If you know what's good for you,
you'll stop hounding the minister for his secret. Science be blowed!
Art be hanged!"
Alexander and I, David Forsyth, listened with eyes popping. Orphans
we were, adopted by Dr. Eccleston, our mother's rector. My father--as
brave a sailor as ever drew breath, Commodore Barney often assured
us--had been killed on board the commodore's schooner _Hyder Ally_,
while protecting the shipping in the Delaware River from British
frigates during the Revolutionary War. My mother, while father was at
sea, had helped to nurse the sick people of Baltimore, and had herself
died of the pestilence. Dr. Eccleston, a widower, assumed the care of
Alexander and myself.
Alexander, springing up like Jack's bean-vine, yet growing in brawn
and manliness as his height increased, was my elder by a number of
years. He was much taller than I, yet I was growing too and had hopes
of reaching, by the time I was sixteen, the chalk mark on our wall that
showed Alexander to be five feet, ten inches high.
It was on a dock in Baltimore that this talk took place. The Egyptian
Murad had come to our city from Washington. What his business was
no one could tell. Some said that he was a Turkish diplomat. Others
said that he was a spy for the Barbary rulers. He attended services
at the rector's church, and had told someone that he was a native of
Alexandria, Egypt. He had embraced the Christian religion, he said, and
had been so persecuted by the indignant Moslems that he had left Egypt
for America. He appeared to have plenty of means, and, because there
was such an air of romance about him, the people of Baltimore accepted
him without much questioning, and were, indeed, rather proud that they
had a man of mystery among them.
Our presence on the pier was due to the arrival of Alexander's ship,
_The Three Friends_, from England. Alexander, after begging Dr.
Eccleston in vain to permit him to make a sea voyage, had taken French
leave. When news reached our house that _The Three Friends_ had come
into port, and that Alexander was one of the crew, we hurried down
to greet him. The rector was angry and affectionate. The commodore
was proud of the boy. As for me, I regarded Alexander as Ulysses was
doubtless regarded by the boys of his home town when he returned from
his wanderings.
It was the cargo of _The Three Friends_ that caused the discussion,
and that led the rector to open a closed chapter in his life. The ship
had brought flower-patterned silken gowns, crimson taffetas, pearl
necklaces, and other exquisite articles esteemed by women; and silk
stockings, brilliant scarfs, beaver hats and scarlet cloaks for the
men. The people welcomed these articles. The men had raised tobacco,
caught fish, and gathered furs that they might buy for their families
these rare luxuries from Europe. There were also, in the cargo, chairs
of Russian leather, damask napkins, superb clocks, silver candlesticks
and tankards, and a wealth of treasure of this nature.
Alexander's special gift for the commodore was a pipe. To the rector he
gave a curious-shaped little bottle.
"I found it in a curio shop in London," he said. "The proprietor told
me that it had been found in an Egyptian tomb."
Dr. Eccleston turned pale. Then, recovering himself, he took
the present and held it towards us with what seemed to be real
appreciation. I learned later that his pallor was due to the memories
the queer little bottle awakened.
"Bless me!" he said, "it's a lacrimatory--a tear-bottle! I found many
a one while I was excavating in Egypt. Some say that they are made to
hold the tears of mourners, but scholars will tell you that they are
after all but receptacles for perfume and ointments."
Murad had approached. The sight of the curious bottle, which did not
seem to me to be worth a minute's talk, led him into a discussion of
antiquities he had found in Egypt. The rector's eyes kindled. Here
was a subject that had once been his chief interest. Suddenly he
launched forth into a description of a treasure tomb he had literally
stumbled upon in the desert--a tomb upon which a later tomb had been
built, so that, while the later tomb had been plundered by Arabs, the
earlier tomb had remained a secret until he pried up a stone in the
wall and discovered it. The rector who had attended Oxford, and had
gone forth from college to explore the ruins of countries along the
historic Mediterranean coasts, had made a rough map of the location of
this tomb. He now began to tell of the treasures he had found in the
chamber: heavy gold masks, and breast-plates that, while barbarous in
appearance, yet showed beauty of craftsmanship; bulls' heads wrought in
silver with horns of gold; beautiful jugs and cups, wrought in ivory,
alabaster and amber; mummies whose brows and wrists were encircled with
gems--a hoard of riches priceless both to the scholar and the fortune
hunter.
This description fired my imagination. It also stirred Murad. I saw his
eyes glow and his fingers tremble. I wondered if his vehement demand
that the rector should reveal the location of this cave was created by
his interest in science or by pure lust for riches? As for myself, I
confess that I thought only of the money into which these buried jewels
and trinkets could be turned.
Later, the commodore told us why the rector had been so swift to end
his tale of the buried treasure. After he had discovered the tomb,
somewhere on the African shore of the Mediterranean, he had covered
it up and joined a caravan bound for Tripoli, meaning to organize a
special expedition for further searches. His caravan was attacked by a
tribe of bandits. A blow from a spear knocked him unconscious. When he
regained his senses, his wife and child were gone.
"They were taken as loot," said the commodore. "Women and children are
nothing more than baggage to those Arabs!"
The husband wandered for months through the desert searching for his
family. At last he was stricken with fever. Travelers found him and
placed him aboard a ship bound for England. There he had plunged into
religious work to keep from going mad. Blood-stained garments--proof
that his wife and daughter had been slain--were sent him by an Arabian
sheik. Later he had come to America as a missionary.
He was now rector of Marley Chapel. It is located about nine miles from
Baltimore, near the bridge at Marley Creek, which enters into Curtis
Creek, a tributary of the Patapsco River. This chapel had been built
long before the Revolution. The minister kept his residence within the
town limits of Baltimore because it extended his field of helpfulness.
The journey to the chapel was made on horseback, and whenever he went
to service Alexander and myself followed him on our ponies, through
sun, rain, sleet or snow.
On fair-weather days, the church-yard resembled a race-course. The
ladies, in gay clothes, had come in carriages. The men, mounted on
fine horses and sumptuously arrayed, rode beside them. The carriage
wheels rattled. The negro drivers cracked their whips and shouted. The
gentlemen loudly admonished the slaves. Over such a tumult the church
bell, which was suspended from a tree, rang out to warn the people that
the service was about to begin; then a hush fell over the countryside,
broken only by the stamping and snorting of the mettlesome horses in
the shed, or by the chuckles of the negro boys who tended them.
To bring our story back to the present hour: Alexander had wandered
off from our group with some of his shipmates. Suddenly there was an
uproar. There were surly fellows in the crew and quarrelsome men in the
crowd. Already Alexander had pointed out to me Black Peter, Muldoon,
Swansen, and other sailors whom he avowed were the toughest men he had
ever met.
These were now confronted by our town rowdies. We had a few men among
our citizenship of whom we were heartily ashamed--men who knew how to
fight in ways that surpassed for brutality those methods of warfare
learned on shipboard. Eye-gouging, for instance; getting a man down;
twisting a forefinger in the side-locks of his hair; thrusting, by
means of this hold, a thumb into the victim's eye, thereby threatening
to force the eyeball from the socket if the sufferer did not cry
"King's cruse!" which, I suppose you know, meant "enough!"
The seaman who had been challenged by Steve Dunn, the bully, was Ezra
Wilcox, Alexander's chum. He was a stranger in our town and Alexander
was eager that he should think favorably of the people of Baltimore,
who, everyone knows, are in the main, an open-hearted people. Angered
at having his desire thwarted by the rowdy, Alexander rushed between
Steve and Ezra, and himself took up Ezra's battle. He and the tough
locked arms in a punching and wrestling match, and were soon rolling
over each other on the wharf. Steve, finding that he was getting the
worst of the tussle, reached his hands towards Alexander's side-locks.
"Look out, Alexander," I cried, dancing over the pair in a frenzy,
"he's trying to gouge you, man!"
"Unfair! Unfair! No gouging!" the other sailors shouted, while the rest
of the onlookers stood by with their sense of justice absorbed by their
interest.
Steve's finger was buried in Alexander's shock of hair, and his thumb
crept closer to my brother's eye. I was about to stoop in an attempt to
break the brutal grip when Alexander released his hair by a desperate
jerk that left a wisp between the ruffian's fingers, rolled Steve over,
held him face downward in a grip of iron, and rubbed his nose on the
planks of the dock until blood spurted from it. Then, lifting the
bully up at arm's length, Alexander cast him against the palings with a
force that stunned him. If someone had not grabbed Steve then, he would
have rolled over into the river and few would have mourned him if he
had sank and never bobbed up again.
Steve's friends advanced, pretending great indignation at Alexander's
roughness, but paused as Ezra Wilcox, Black Peter, Muldoon, and Swansen
came forward itching to take up the battle.
"Enough of this," cried the rector, roused from his brooding by the
tussle, "Steve's dug into my boy's eye and paid for it with his own
nose! We'll call the affair quits, and I'll ask you Baltimore folks to
show courtesy to the strangers within your gates."
That afternoon we attended a fair on the chapel grounds. I was eager to
show Alexander that I too had strength and skill, and at the fair, in a
small way, my chance came.
As we approached the grounds we saw that, among other sports, a
gilt-laced hat had been placed on a greased pole, to be won by the man
or boy who climbed the pole and slid down with the hat on his head.
Alexander challenged me to try.
Others had tried and had slid back defeated amidst much laughter. I
gave a running leap, however, and clutched the pole a man's height from
the ground. My fingers and feet managed to find cracks and crevices.
My knees stuck. It may have been that the dirt and sand in which I
had taken the precaution to roll before making the attempt enabled my
arms and legs to overcome the grease, or perhaps it was because those
who had tried first had worn most of it away. From whatever reason, I
continued to climb, rubbing the outer part of my sleeve over the pole
as I advanced, so that more of the grease was removed from my path.
At last, amidst cheers, I reached the peak of the pole, seized the
gilt-laced hat, donned it--although it fell down over my ears--and slid
to the ground in triumph.
SEA LONGINGS
"If you can climb masts as well as you can climb poles," said
Alexander, "there's no doubt that you'll be a fine sailorman!"
"He'll do no mast-climbing!" said Dr. Eccleston. "One sailor in the
family is enough. His climbing will be confined to the steps of a
pulpit. I am training him for the ministry!"
Alexander looked at me quizzically. I winked at him. He and I had
agreed from childhood that ours should be a seafaring life. My brother
had boldly carried out his intention to follow father's example, but
I, seeing that the rector had set his heart upon my adopting a shore
career, had postponed making my declaration. I was immensely fond of
the rector; I did not care to be the means of bringing further sadness
to him, so I bided my time.
Commodore Barney heard the rector rebuke Alexander and saw my wink.
Bless me, behind the minister's back, he winked too. He had told me
that, when the United States began to build her navy, he expected to
obtain a place for me on a frigate. "America's prosperity on the sea
is just beginning," he said. "Don't turn your back on your natural
calling. One voyage in a privateer in one of the wars that are on the
horizon will make your fortune. I'll take you to sea with me. Let the
dominie look elsewhere for his recruits!"
The rector and the commodore were great comrades, but on the subject of
a career for me they never agreed.
Commodore Barney had been a hero to Alexander and myself as far back
as we could remember. He was a part of our lives from the first--an
unofficial second guardian. I have heard him declare that he was on his
way to our house to adopt us when he met the rector coming out with
one of us clinging to each hand. Dr. Eccleston had told him then, the
commodore stated, that a seafaring man was no fit guardian for children.
The commodore was a burly, pink-cheeked, big-hearted man. What a
dandy he was! When on shore he wore a cocked hat, a coat with large
lace cuffs, and a cape cut low to show his neck-stock of fine linen
cambric. His breeches were closely fitted with large buckles. He wore
silk stockings and large buckled shoes. No one who saw him sauntering
along Market Street would take him to be a sailor, although his tongue
betrayed his calling. Nautical terms, strange oaths, shipping topics
were forever on his lips. His clothes spoke of the ballroom, but his
language had the tang of the ship's deck and the salt wind.
He was fond of the ladies. It often amused us to see him dancing
attendance on a maid who minced along in brocade or taffeta, with her
skirts ballooning from the hoops underneath, with bright-colored shoes
peeping out from beneath her skirts, and with an enormous plume in her
big bonnet that waved towards the commodore's cocked hat. The hooped
skirts seemed to be trying to keep her escort at a distance, while he
struggled manfully to pour his words into her ear.
Murad was still hovering around us. Evidently anxious to appease the
commodore, he had begun to talk to him on sea topics. The commodore,
in turn, started to draw out the Egyptian as to opportunities American
shippers might have to sell cargoes of American goods to Mediterranean
cities.
"In Barbary, Egypt and beyond," said Murad, "will lie your country's
chief market. The ports of the Mediterranean are eager for your
goods. Lads like these----" he fixed glowing eyes on Alexander and
myself--"will live to make their fortunes in the Mediterranean."
"I don't know but what you're right," said the commodore, "if someone
will kindly sweep those Barbary buccaneers out of the way. Looks as if
we'll have to build a squadron to do what the navies of Europe have
failed to do through all these centuries. Matters are coming to a head
between our country and the pirate nests of Barbary. I've heard reports
of American ships being captured by ships sent out by the ruler of
Algiers. It may take us a little time to wake up, but in the end we're
going to stop that!"
"That," said Murad suavely, "is nothing new. If you lived in the
Orient, my dear commodore, you would think little of it. It's merely
the way the rulers of the Barbary countries have of notifying your new
country that it's America's duty to pay them toll--ships and jewels
and gold. All of the nations of Europe pay them for protection, and of
course, in justice to themselves and those who pay them tribute, they
cannot exempt America. If I were your President, I would send liberal
presents every year to the princes of Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli and
Morocco. Then, sir, American ships and sailors would have nothing to
fear in the Mediterranean."
"Just so!" said the commodore. He cast a long look at the Egyptian,
glanced around at us to see how we took this proposition, and chewed
his tobacco with fierce energy. Then he exploded:
"I'd blow every one of those pirate nests out of the water before I'd
pay one of those bloody Bashaws a sixpence!"
[Illustration: "I'D BLOW EVERY ONE OF THOSE PIRATE NESTS OUT OF THE
WATER BEFORE I'D PAY ONE OF THOSE BLOODY BASHAWS A SIXPENCE!" SAID THE
COMMODORE.]
"Then!" said Murad, "I'm afraid American commerce will find itself
barred from the Mediterranean! I have no interest in the corsairs. I
was merely trying to point out a way by which your skippers could find
new markets over there without being attacked or imprisoned."
"Well, just belay that advice when you're talking to a man who has
fought for, and still will fight for the honor of his country!" growled
the commodore.
We followed the old sailor.
"That fellow's in this land for no good!" the commodore said to the
rector. "The last time I attended a session of Congress, I saw him
listening to the debates. I reckon he's keeping the rulers of Barbary
informed of what's going on over here. Those fellows want to know how
rich our country is, so that they can tax us all that our finances can
stand. I wouldn't be surprised, either, if Murad's not sending advices
of our sailings, so that those pirates can be on the watch for our
ships!
"Both England and France want to bar us from the trade of the Orient,
and their agents will convey to them there Bashaws any news this
sneaking Murad sends them. Christian convert--my aunt! Once a Moslem
always a Moslem! A trapper of Christians--that's what I think him!"
Murad went on his way and we went ours. I was to have plenty of
occasion to reflect on the commodore's opinion of the Oriental.
Alexander stayed with us for two months after his return from England.
Then he hurriedly shipped on a schooner bound for Boston. Its skipper,
when he returned to Baltimore, brought us a note from my brother. In it
he advised us that he had shipped on board the schooner _Marie_ sailing
from Boston for Cadiz. This was in April, 1784. Over a year passed
without bringing tidings of my brother. I had begun to fear that his
ship had gone down, although the good rector, to comfort me, grumbled
that there was a special Providence that took care of fools.