Never had the blue Mediterranean and the quaint old town of Syracuse and
its fair harbor looked more beautiful than on a certain sunny September
afternoon in 1803. The green shores of Sicily stretched as far as the
eye could reach; the white-walled town, with its picturesque and
half-ruined castle, lay in the foreground; while looming up on the
farthest horizon was the shadowy cone of Etna with its crown of fire and
smoke. The harbor contained a few fishing vessels, most of them with
their white lateen sails furled, and motionless upon the water. A large
pleasure boat, with a gay red awning, moved lazily across the “lesser
harbor,” while two or three fruit-laden vessels were beating in or out
of the offing under a “soldier’s wind”—that is, a wind which enables a
ship to go in any direction she wishes.
But in the midst of all this placid beauty lay a war ship—the majestic
Constitution—the darling frigate of her country, looking as if she
commanded everything in sight. Never was there a more warlike-looking
ship than Old Ironsides. Her towering hull, which was higher than the
masts of most of the vessels in the sunlit harbor, was, like all
American ships, painted black. In contrast to this were her polished
decks, her shining masts and spars, and her snowy canvas, whose
whiteness was visible although tightly clewed up. Her ports were open to
admit the air, and through them could be seen a double row of
wicked-looking muzzles, like the grin of a mastiff. The other vessels
rocked with the tide and wind, but the great frigate seemed to lie
perfectly still, as if defying both wind and tide. Her colors, too,
caught some wandering puff of air, and “Old Glory” fluttered out
proudly, while the other flags in sight drooped languidly. At anchor
near her were two small but beautiful schooner-rigged vessels, which
also flew American colors. They were precisely alike in their lines,
their rig, and the small but serviceable batteries they carried. On the
stern of one was gilded “Nautilus,” while on the other was “Siren.”
These were indeed the gallant little vessels that Somers had written to
Decatur about, and his dream was realized. He commanded the Nautilus,
while Decatur commanded the Argus, a sister vessel, which was hourly
expected.
The perfect quiet of the golden afternoon was broken when around the
headland came sailing another small but beautiful cruiser,
schooner-rigged, and wearing American colors. As soon as she had
weathered the point of land, and had got fully abreast of the
Constitution, her guns barked out a salute to the commodore’s pennant
flying on the Constitution, which the frigate acknowledged. The schooner
had a handsome figurehead, and on her stern was painted, in gold
letters, “Argus.” She came to anchor in first-class man-of-war style,
close under the Constitution’s quarter, and in a wonderfully short time
her sails were furled, and her anchor had kissed the ground, the cable
emitting sparks of fire as it rushed out of the hawse-hole. In a quarter
of an hour her gig was lowered, and her young commander, Stephen
Decatur, stepped into the boat and was pulled toward the Constitution.
At that time neither he nor Somers was turned of twenty-four, although
both were commanding officers.
As the boat shot past the Nautilus, Decatur stood up and waved his cap
at the officers, but he observed that Somers was not among them. A
captain’s gig, though, looking like a mere speck under the great quarter
of the Constitution, made Decatur surmise that Somers was at that moment
on board the flagship. The two had parted only six weeks before, when,
Somers’s vessel being ready in advance of Decatur’s, he had sailed to
join Commodore Preble’s squadron in the Mediterranean. The prospect of
seeing Somers again raised Decatur’s naturally gay and jovial spirits to
the highest pitch, and he tried to distinguish among the officers
scattered about the Constitution’s decks the handsome, lithe figure of
his friend. While watching the frigate as he advanced toward it, he saw
another boat come alongside; an officer stepped out and ran lightly up
the ladder, while the boat pulled back to the shore. Decatur was struck
by the fact that this officer, who was obviously a young man, wore two
epaulets. In those days only flag officers were allowed to wear two—all
others wearing but one. Commodore Preble was, in fact, the only man in
the whole American fleet then in European waters who was entitled to
wear two epaulets. Decatur was much puzzled by the officer’s uniform,
and the only explanation that occurred to him was that the gallant
Preble had been superseded—an event which would have filled him with
regret. Although the commodore was a stranger to him, Decatur had
conceived the highest respect for his abilities, and had heard much of
his vigor and enterprise, to say nothing of his untamable temper, which
at first the officers chafed under, but had soon come to regard as “Old
Pepper’s way,” for so the midshipmen had dubbed Commodore Preble.
The deck was full of officers, standing about enjoying the lovely
afternoon, and they all watched with interest the Argus’s boat, knowing
it contained Decatur. While it was still a hundred yards off Decatur
recognized the figure of Somers running down the ladder, and in a few
minutes Decatur literally jumped into Somers’s arms. Their affectionate
way of meeting amused their shipmates very much, and even Danny Dixon,
who was Decatur’s coxswain, grinned slyly at the men in the boat, and
whispered, as the two young captains went up the ladder together, their
arms entwined like schoolboys:
“They’re lovyers, them two be. They keeps locks o’ each other’s hair,
and picters in their bosoms!”
The officers greeted Decatur warmly, among them Macdonough, now a tall
young fellow of eighteen; but Decatur noticed that all of them seemed
convulsed with laughter. Lieutenant Trippe, who was officer of the deck,
laughed to himself as he walked up and down. A little way off,
Moriarity, who was quartermaster, was standing just as near the dividing
line between the quarter-deck and the forecastle as the regulations
allowed, his mouth stretched from ear to ear, and even the stolid marine
who stood guard at the hatchway wore a broad smile. Two or three
midshipmen loitering about grinned appreciatively at each other.
“Why, what’s the meaning of this hilarity, Somers?” cried Decatur,
observing a smile even on his friend’s usually grave countenance.
“Matter enough,” responded Somers, bursting out into a shout of
laughter. “The commodore needed a surgeon’s mate for this ship, so he
succeeded in getting a little Sicilian doctor for the place. He was
entered on the ship’s books regularly under an acting appointment and
ordered to prepare his uniforms and outfit and report on board this
afternoon. Well, just now he came aboard, in full regalia, with cocked
hat and side arms, but instead of having one epaulet, he has two; and
the commodore isn’t the man to permit any equality between himself and a
surgeon’s mate. The little fellow has gone below, and—ha! ha!—we are
waiting for the explosion.”
There was one of the midshipmen, though, the youngest and smallest of
them all, a bright-faced lad of fourteen, who laughed as much as the
rest, but who looked undoubtedly a little frightened.
“Mr. Israel, there,” continued Somers, still laughing, “was the officer
to whom the doctor applied for instructions about his uniforms, and we
are apprehensive that the commodore may call upon Mr. Israel for an
explanation.”
“I—I don’t know what I shall do,” faltered the little midshipman, “if
old Pep—I mean the commodore—should ask me. I’m sure I’d never have the
nerve to own up, and I certainly can’t deny that I _did_ tell the doctor
he’d look well in a cocked hat and two epaulets.”
“Never mind, Pickle,” said Macdonough, clapping the boy on the shoulder,
“you’re always in mischief anyhow, so a little more or less makes no
difference.—Captain Decatur, we in the steerage do our best to reform
Mr. Israel, but he has a positive genius for getting into scrapes.”
“Queer thing, that, for a midshipman,” answered Decatur, with a wink.
“That was the way with Captain Somers when we were midshipmen together
on ‘Old Wagoner.’ If it had not been for my watchful eye and discreet
judgment, he would have been in trouble all the time.”
This was so conspicuously to the contrary of the truth, that Somers did
not condescend to deny it, merely remarking:
“A likely yarn, that.”
Scarcely were the words out of Somers’s mouth before a wild yell was
heard from below. The next moment the unlucky Sicilian dashed out of the
cabin, hotly pursued by Commodore Preble himself. The commodore was six
feet high, and usually of a grave and saturnine countenance. But there
was nothing grave or saturnine about him then. He had been in the act of
shaving when the surgeon’s mate with the two epaulets appeared, and he
had not taken time to wipe the lather off his face or to take off his
dressing-gown, nor was he conscious that he was flourishing a razor in
his hand. The Sicilian, seeing the razor, and appalled by the reception
he had met with, had taken to his heels; and the commodore, determined
to have an explanation, had followed him, bawling:
“What the devil do you mean, you lubberly apothecary, by appearing
before me in that rig? Two epaulets and a cocked hat for a surgeon’s
mate! I got you, sir, to pound drugs in a mortar—not to insult your
superiors by getting yourself up like a commodore. I’ll have you
court-martialed, sir!—no, sir; I’ll withdraw your appointment, and take
the responsibility of giving you the cat for your insolence!”
The poor Sicilian darted across the deck, and, still finding the enraged
commodore at his heels, suddenly sprang over the rail and struck out,
swimming for the shore.
Commodore Preble walked back to where the officers stood, who had
watched the scene ready to die with laughter, and shouted:
“Mr. Israel, I believe you were the midshipman, sir, that I directed
that miserable little pill-maker to go to for information respecting his
uniforms?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Pickle in a weak voice, the smile leaving his
countenance. The others had assumed as serious an expression as they
were able, but kept it with difficulty. Not so poor Pickle, who knew
what it was to fall into the commodore’s hands for punishment.
“And did you, sir, have the amazing effrontery, the brazen assurance, to
recommend that little popinjay to have two epaulets and a cocked hat?”
roared the commodore.
“I—I didn’t recommend him, sir,” replied Pickle, looking around
despairingly, and seeing Decatur, Somers, Macdonough, and all the others
with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, “but he asked me if I thought
two epaulets would look well on him, and I said ‘Y-yes’—and—”
“Go on, sir!” thundered the commodore.
“And then I—I told him if he had two epaulets he ought to have a cocked
hat.”
“Mr. Israel,” said the commodore in a deep voice, after an awful pause,
“you will go below, and remain there until I send for you!”
Poor Pickle, with a rueful countenance, turned and went below, while
Decatur, advancing with Somers, managed to recover his composure enough
to say:
“Commodore Preble, I have the honor of presenting myself before you; and
yonder is my ship, the Argus.”
It was now the commodore’s turn to be confused. With his strict notions
of naval etiquette, the idea that he should appear on the quarter-deck
half shaved and in his dressing-gown was thoroughly upsetting. He
mumbled some apology for his appearance, in which “that rascally
apothecary” and “that little pickle of a midshipman” figured, and,
asking Captain Decatur’s presence in the cabin in a few moments,
disappeared. As soon as the commodore was out of hearing the officers
roared with merriment.
“That’s the same old Preble,” said Decatur, laughing, “that I have heard
of ever since I entered the navy.”
“Yes,” answered Somers. “At first we hated him. Now, there is not an
officer in the squadron who does not like and respect him. He is a stern
disciplinarian, and he has a temper like fire and tow. But he is every
inch a sailor and a gentleman, and all of us will one day be proud to
say, ‘I served under Preble at Tripoli!’”
“Yes,” broke in Trippe. “On the outward voyage, one very dark night, we
found ourselves suddenly about half a cable’s length off from a large
ship of war. We hailed her, but got no answer. After a very little of
this, the commodore sent the men to quarters, had the guns run out, and
took the trumpet himself. Then he shouted:
“‘This is the United States frigate Constitution, forty-four guns. This
is the last time I shall hail, and if you do not answer I will give you
a shot. What ship is that?—Blow your matches, boys!’
“This brought an answer, you may be sure, and a voice out of the
darkness replied:
“‘If you give us a shot, we will give you a broadside! But since you are
so anxious to know, this is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal, razee,
eighty guns!’
“‘I don’t believe you!’ bawled back old Preble; ‘and I shall stick by
you until daylight to find out what you are!’
“The men gave a great cheer then, and the officers joined in—for we
couldn’t help cheering a man who with a forty-four gives the lie to
another man with an eighty-gun ship. In a little while, though, a boat
came alongside with a very polite explanation. The ship really was the
Maidstone frigate, thirty-eight guns, and the delay in answering our
hails came from suspecting that we might be French, and therefore they
wanted to get their people at quarters. After that we all felt
differently toward ‘Old Pepper,’ as the steerage fellows call him, and
we know his heart is all right if his temper is all wrong.”
The conversation then turned upon the distressing news of the loss of
the frigate Philadelphia, the handsomest in the world, and the capture
of all her company by the Tripolitans. While commanded by Bainbridge,
Decatur’s old captain in the Essex, the Philadelphia had run upon a rock
at the entrance to the harbor of Tripoli, and, literally mobbed by a
Tripolitan flotilla, she was compelled to surrender. All her guns had
been thrown overboard, and every effort made to scuttle her, when the
Americans saw that capture was inevitable, but it was with grief and
shame that the officers of the Constitution told Decatur that the ship
had been raised, her guns fished up, her masts and spars refitted, and
she lay under the guns of the Bashaw’s castle in the harbor, flying the
piratical colors of Tripoli at her peak. If anything could add to the
misery of the four hundred officers and men belonging to her, it was the
sight of her, so degraded, which they could not but witness from the
windows of their dungeons in the Bashaw’s castle. Her recapture had been
eagerly talked over and thought over, ever since her loss; and it was a
necessary step in the conquest of the piratical power of the Barbary
States, for she would be a formidable enemy to any ship, even the mighty
Constitution herself.
When Decatur entered the cabin, nothing could have been a greater
contrast to the scene he had lately witnessed. Commodore Preble was
handsomely shaved and dressed, and was a model of dignity and courtesy.
He made no allusion to what had just happened, but at once began
questioning Decatur as to their present and future plans.
“_I_ have a plan, sir,” said Decatur, after a while, with a slight
smile—“just formed since I have been on this ship, but nevertheless
enough developed for me to ask your permission. It is, to cut out the
Philadelphia as she now lies in the harbor at Tripoli. I hear that when
Captain Bainbridge was compelled to haul down his flag he ordered the
ship scuttled. Instead of that, though, only a few holes were bored in
her bottom, and there was no difficulty in patching them and raising
her.”
As Decatur spoke, some inward voice seemed to cry out to him, “Hold on
to this plan, for that way lies immortality!” His dark eyes gleamed with
a strange light, and he seemed to hear such words as “Glory!
immortality!” thundering in his ears.
As soon as he spoke, Commodore Preble answered him quickly and firmly:
“Certainly, the ship must be destroyed, for the honor of the flag, and
it will also be a measure of prudence in the coming campaign against the
fleet and town of Tripoli. But as to cutting her out, _that_ is an
impossible thing.”
“I think not, sir,” answered Decatur, with equal firmness.
“You think not, Captain Decatur, because you are not yet twenty-five
years old. _I_ think to the contrary, because I am more than forty. The
flag will be vindicated if the Philadelphia is destroyed, and never
permitted to sail under Tripolitan colors. Anything else would be
quixotic to attempt.”
“At all events,” said Decatur, “I may ask the honor of being the one to
make the attempt. My father was the Philadelphia’s first commander, and
if I can rescue her it will be glory enough for a lifetime.”
“No doubt all my beardless captains will ask the same thing,” answered
the commodore with a grim smile; “but as you have spoken first, I shall
consider you have the first claim.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Decatur, rising. “Whenever you are ready to
discuss a plan I shall be gratified.” He then went on deck again.
As Decatur felt obliged to return to his ship, Somers went with him, and
saying good-by to the officers on the Constitution, with the hope that
the little midshipman would get off from the commodore’s wrath, the two
friends were soon pulling across the placid harbor. The last rays of the
sun were reflected on the water, turning it all red and gold, while in
the sky a pale opaline glow still lingered.
The two friends had only been separated a few weeks, but they had much
to talk about. At dinner, as they sat opposite each other in the cabin,
with a hanging lamp between, Decatur, who was overflowing with spirits,
noticed that Somers was more than usually grave.
“What ails you, man?” cried Decatur. “Those lantern jaws of yours have
not opened with a smile since we left the flagship. Are you disappointed
about anything?”
“Yes,” answered Somers, continuing his dinner with a very rueful
countenance. “_You_ will be the one to go upon the Philadelphia
expedition. The rest of us will have to hang on to our anchors, while
you are doing the thing we all want to do.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Decatur, with sparkling eyes and a
brilliant smile.
“Oh,” answered Somers, resignedly, pushing his plate away, “I had a
presentiment as soon as you went down in the commodore’s cabin. Here are
the rest of us, who have been wanting to speak of this thing for weeks,
and watching each other like hawks, but all afraid to beard the lion in
his den; when you, with your cool impudence, just arrived, never saw the
commodore in your life before, _you_ go and plump out what you want at
your first interview, and get it too. Oh, I guessed the whole business
as soon as I saw you come out of the cabin!”
“You are too prudent by half, Dick,” cried Decatur, laughing at Somers’s
long face. “Now, if I had taken your advice about prudence I never would
have got the better of you. The commodore, too, has enough and to spare
of prudence—that beggarly virtue. When I offered to go into the harbor
of Tripoli with the Argus and bring the Philadelphia out, he said No,
she must be destroyed, as it would be too risky to attempt to cut her
out. Think of the misery of old Bainbridge and his men when they look
out and see this beauty of a ship lying at the mole, with a gang of
Tripolitan pirates at work on her!”
“I’ll never say a word in favor of prudence again,” groaned Somers,
still thinking of his disappointment. Then began questions about their
shipmates. Decatur was lucky enough to have as his first lieutenant
James Lawrence, who was afterward to give the watchword to the American
navy, “Don’t give up the ship!” James Decatur was also in the squadron,
although not on the Argus; Decatur also had Danny Dixon as his first
quartermaster; while Somers had as his quartermaster, Moriarity, who
“never was in ould Ireland, God bless her!” The two young officers went
on deck, where they found Danny, whom Somers went forward to greet.
Danny was delighted to see him, and could not touch his cap often enough
to express his respect for Somers’s new rank.
“Lord, Cap’n Somers, when I remember you and Cap’n Decatur as reefers
aboard o’ ‘Old Wagoner,’ and now I sees you both commandin’ smart
vessels, like the Airgus and the Nartilus, I says to myself, I must be
a-gittin’ old. I ain’t very old, sir; you know I warn’t but a little
shaver when I was on the Bunnum Richard with Cap’n Paul Jones——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Somers hastily, remembering that once, started
on Cap’n Paul Jones and the Bunnum Richard, Danny was difficult to stop.
“We have a fine lot of young reefers here now.”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Macdonough, he’s a fine young gentleman, and there’s a
little ’un, they calls Mr. Pickle Israel, ’cause he’s allus in a scrape
o’ some sort. But he ain’t got no flunk at all in him, and the men says
as how, when it’s work or fightin’ to be done, that this little
midship-mite is right on top. ’Course, there ain’t no Paul Joneses among
’em, axin’ your pardon, sir—there never was but one Cap’n Paul Jones—but
we’ve got as fine a lot o’ young officers as ever I see, and no
ladybirds among ’em—all stormy petrels, sir.”
Somers presented Danny with a pound of tobacco, which was shown in the
fok’sl with great pride, accompanied with more reminiscences of “Cap’n
Paul Jones.” Some days passed in giving the men on the Argus liberty and
in making ready for a cruise to Tripoli, which was to precede the great
attack. The bomb-vessels, shells, and many of the preparations necessary
for the gigantic struggle with the pirates were not completed, and would
not be for some time; but Commodore Preble wisely concluded to give the
Tripolitans a sight of his force, and also to encourage Captain
Bainbridge and his companions in captivity by the knowledge that their
country had not forgotten them. The commodore had determined to wait for
the return of the Siren, under Lieutenant-Commandant Stewart, which had
been sent to Gibraltar for some stores and to have some slight repairs
made. The Siren, however, did not return as promptly as was expected,
which annoyed Commodore Preble excessively. The officers, all of whom
were Stewart’s friends, were fearful that it might hurt him very much in
the commodore’s opinion. His arrival, therefore, was looked for
anxiously, and every hour of the day the question was asked, “Has
anything been heard of Stewart?” and every day Commodore Preble’s
vexation became more evident. At last, one morning, seeing a very fine
merchant ship that was bound for Gibraltar making her way out of the
harbor, the commodore signaled to her and sent a boat with a letter to
Captain Stewart. The letter was written in the commodore’s most fiery
vein and with his curtest decision. It simply directed Stewart to sail
at once, without waiting for further repairs.
A day or two afterward, when the usual inquiries were made about
Stewart, Trippe answered dolefully:
“The commodore has just had a letter from him saying his mainmast is so
badly sprung that it is unserviceable, and he is having a new one made.
Was there ever anything so unlucky? Of course, he can’t get here for a
considerable time, and all that time ‘Old Pepper’ will be lashing
himself into a rage; and on top of this Stewart gets the commodore’s
orders to sail at once.”
Things seemed black enough for Stewart, and as they were all looking
forward to the chance of distinction in the approaching attack on
Tripoli, it seemed more unfortunate than ever. However, one morning,
only a day or two after this, a vessel which looked very like the Argus,
a sister ship to the Siren, was discerned, and a few minutes revealed
her to be the Siren. But she had no mainmast, and her appearance with
only one mast was grotesque in the extreme.
“What can it be that Captain Stewart is towing?” asked Pickle Israel of
Lieutenant Trippe, as the two watched the Siren’s approach from the deck
of the flagship.
Trippe examined it carefully, but before he could make out what the
object was, the commodore walked up, and, handing Trippe his glass,
asked him:
“Will you be kind enough, Mr. Trippe, to examine the Siren and see what
sort of a spar she is towing?”
Trippe took the glass, and, after a minute’s survey, he could not
refrain from smiling as he answered the commodore:
“It is undoubtedly the Siren’s mainmast, sir. As you see, she has only
her foremast standing, and the spar is much too big and too long for
anything but the mainmast.”
Commodore Preble’s mouth twitched; he had never seen a ship of war in
such a plight before. He remembered his peremptory orders to Stewart to
sail at once. Stewart had evidently taken him at his word, and had
sailed with one mast and was towing the other.
The good news that Old Pepper had smiled instead of scowling at
Stewart’s device quickly communicated itself to the officers and gave
them great satisfaction. The reception of the Siren’s captain, when he
came aboard the Constitution soon after, was comparatively mild, and his
explanation so satisfactory, that he was invited to prolong his visit
and have luncheon with the commodore.
Decatur and Somers, standing together on the deck of the Nautilus, and
seeing that Stewart did not return from the frigate, concluded that he
would either be sent home or given a chance for promotion; and much
relieved they were at the news brought them that “Old Pepper grinned
when Stewart told him about the mainmast, and said that was the way he
liked to have his orders obeyed.”
The fleet was now assembled for the first demonstration against Tripoli;
and not until Commodore Preble had himself seen the Philadelphia and her
position in the Tripolitan harbor would he finally fix upon any plan,
although Decatur had a promise that he should have the honor of
commanding the expedition.
One morning, in response to a signal from the Constitution, all the
captains—Decatur, Somers, Hull, and Stewart—assembled on the flagship to
hold their first council of war with the commodore. As the four young
captains met on the quarter-deck, the extreme youth of every one of them
seemed to strike them simultaneously. After a moment’s pause Somers
remarked:
“Decatur will be the only one of us with assurance enough to parley with
the commodore.”
“Somers,” said Decatur with unwonted gravity, “I do not feel as if I
could make a suggestion, or argue with Commodore Preble, if my life
depended upon it.”
“Heaven help the rest of us, then!” said Stewart dismally.
As the four young captains entered the cabin they passed a gentleman of
middle age, who was a guest of the commodore’s on board of the flagship.
Captain Hull saluted him as Colonel Lear, the American consul at
Tangiers, and with a bow to the assembled officers the consul retired.
After the usual formalities, which Old Pepper was careful to observe,
unless he happened to be in a choleric humor, the captains seated
themselves around the table, the commodore at the head. Commodore Preble
then opened his plan of campaign, which was listened to with the most
respectful attention. He next asked each of the youthful commanders for
an individual opinion. Each hastened to agree with that of the
commodore.
The commodore then asked if any one of them had a suggestion to offer.
Somers looked at Decatur, and Decatur looked gravely at Somers. Hull and
Stewart looked straight before them. After hemming a little, each one in
turn protested that he had no suggestion to make. “Old Pepper,” with a
glance around the table, rose suddenly.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “this council is over. I regret to say that I have
not had, in any way, the slightest assistance from you. Good-morning!”
The four young captains filed out in the same order in which they had
entered, but very much quicker, and looking like whipped schoolboys.
Some hours after, Colonel Lear, entering the cabin, found Commodore
Preble sitting at the table, leaning his head on his hands in an
attitude of the deepest dejection.
“Lear,” said he, raising himself up, “I have been indiscreet in
accepting the command of this squadron, with the duty of punishing
Tripoli. Had I known how I was to be supported, I certainly should have
declined it. The Government has sent me here a lot of schoolboys as
commanders of all my vessels, and not one of them but is afraid to open
his mouth before me!”
Nevertheless, the commodore went on with his preparations, and about the
middle of December he set sail.
The squadron kept fairly well together for some days. Then a heavy gale
arose, and for several days more they did not see each other. Toward
night, on the afternoon that the gale abated, Decatur, while off the
Tripolitan coast, caught sight of a low vessel with lateen sails and
flying Tripolitan colors. He at once gave orders for the pursuit; but
the ketch—for such it was—showed herself a fairly good sailer, and it
took several hours to overhaul her. She was skillfully navigated and ran
very close in shore, hoping to induce the Argus to follow her. But
Decatur was wary, and, keeping well off the shore, declined to trust his
ship upon the treacherous rocks and shoals toward which the Tripolitans
would have led him. At last, just as a faint moon rose in a murky sky,
the Argus got to windward of the ketch, and, bearing down on her, opened
fire with deadly precision. The Tripolitans at once hauled down their
colors; but Decatur, remembering their treachery as told him by Somers,
and knowing that the pirates preferred hand-to-hand fighting, did not
slacken his fire, but, standing on, ranged up alongside. The call for
boarders had been sounded, and, of the Argus’s small company of eighty
men, two thirds were ready to spring aboard the Tripolitan at the word.
In another minute the two vessels were broadside to broadside. Decatur
himself gave the order to board, and as the Americans sprang over the
side they were met by every available man in a crew as numerous as their
own, and armed with the terrible curved sword of the Barbary pirates.
The fight on the deck of the ketch was furious but short. The
Tripolitans fought desperately, but in disorder, and within fifteen
minutes they were beaten. Decatur, in examining his prize, found that
she had sustained but little injury; and bearing in mind, as he had done
ever since the first day he had heard of the Philadelphia’s loss, the
destruction of the frigate, he determined that the ketch would be of
great use on the expedition, and he would therefore take her back to the
rendezvous at Syracuse with him.
“She is of a build and rig common in the Mediterranean,” he said to his
first lieutenant, James Lawrence, who had lately joined, “and in
arranging a surprise it would be best to have a Mediterranean vessel,
which would not be readily suspected.”
Lawrence agreed with his young captain. Leaving the prisoners on board,
a midshipman was put in command of the ketch, with a prize crew, and
sent back to Syracuse. Decatur then joined the rest of the squadron, and
they proceeded to Tripoli, where, lying off the town, they gave it a
bombardment by way of a promise of what was to come. The lack of small
vessels to enter the tortuous and rocky harbor prevented much damage
being done; but the Bashaw saw the fine fleet the Americans could
muster, and it was conveyed to him that it would return in a few months
with guns, vessels, and bombards to sail in and attack the town in
earnest.
To Captain Bainbridge and the poor prisoners with him in the dungeons of
the castle the sight of “Old Glory” fluttering from the gallant little
fleet in the far distance was an assurance of hope, and the cannonade,
which was merely a defiance, was sweet music to the captives. The sight
of the great Philadelphia riding at anchor under the guns of the castle
and the fort, and degraded by wearing the Tripolitan colors, was a sore
one for the American officers and sailors. But Decatur, during all the
days of the cannonade, kept his eyes fixed on the frigate whenever he
could, studying her position, examining charts, and thinking out his
scheme for destroying the ship to save her honor. Every time he saw her
his heart beat with a strange premonition, and he felt with rapture the
presentiment that he was destined to glory in that undertaking.