It was on the deck of the “Enterprise,” before Tripoli, in 1804. The crew
had been called aft, and Decatur, smiling, stood on his quarter-deck.
“My men,” said he, “the ‘Philadelphia’ is in the hands of the enemy. A
few days from now and we may see American guns turned against American
sailors. The commodore has given us permission to sail in and blow her
up. Will you go?”
Into the air flew a hundred caps, and three wild American cheers were the
answer.
“I can’t take you all,” he explained; “the expedition is a dangerous one.
We are going under the broadsides of the enemy, and I only want those of
you who are ready. Now, lads, any of you who are willing to go, take one
step aft.”
Without a second’s pause the crew of the “Enterprise,” to a man, stepped
out; then, fearful lest others should get in the front rank, came towards
the young commander in a body, elbowing and swearing at one another
lustily.
Decatur smiled. With such a spirit there was nothing he might not
accomplish. He picked out sixty-two of his youngest and steadiest men,
each of them touching his tarry cap with a grateful “Thank’ee, sir,” as
Decatur called his name.
That afternoon they tumbled joyfully down into a captured ketch,
which had been named the “Intrepid,” and, stores aboard, hoisted their
three-cornered sail for the harbor of Tripoli. As they hauled off, Decatur
went below to see that all his supplies and combustibles were stored,
when Midshipman Lawrence came towards him somewhere from the depths of
the fore-hold, pushing along by the scruff of the neck a youngster, who
was crying bitterly.
“I found this stowaway, sir,” said Lawrence, with a smile.
“Please, sir,” sobbed the boy, “don’t send me back. I want to see this
’ere fight, and I ain’t going to do no harm. Don’t send me back, sir.”
Decatur had looked up with a fierce frown, but the anxiety on the lad’s
face was pathetic, and he smiled in spite of himself.
“You can go,” he laughed, “but I’ll put you in the brig--when we get back.”
On that six days’ voyage to Tripoli the wind blew a hurricane, and the
masquerade of the American tars seemed likely to end in disaster, without
even a fight for their pains. But as they sighted the coast the sea
went down, and the arrangements were completed. The yellow sails of the
“Siren,” their consort, hove again into sight, and by the afternoon of
the 16th of February the two vessels were bearing down upon the dark line
that lay shimmering purple under the haze of the southern sky.
The sun dropped down, a ball of fire, into the western sea, and by eight
o’clock the towers of the bashaw’s castle loomed dark against the amber
of the moonlit sky. To the left the stately spars of the doomed frigate
towered above the rigging in the harbor, and floating at her truck was
the hated insignia of the enemy.
The piping northern breeze bellied the crazy sail of the ketch and sent
the green seas swashing under the high stern, speeding them good luck on
their hazardous venture. Catalano, the pilot, stood at the helm, swinging
the clumsy tiller to meet her as she swayed. By his side was a tall
figure, a white burnoose about his shoulders and a fez set jauntily on his
head--Decatur. Four others, in unspeakable Tripolitan costumes, lounged
about the deck or squatted cross-legged. But the delusion went no further.
For one of them, Reuben James, was puffing at a stubby black pipe, and
another spat vigorously to leeward. The others were below, lying along
the sides, sharpening their cutlasses.
On they sped, Catalano heading her straight for the frigate. As the
harbor narrowed and the black forts came nearer, they could see the dusky
outlines of the sentries and the black muzzles that frowned on them from
the battlements. Over towards the east faint glimmers showed where the
town was, but the wind had now fallen low, and the lapping of the water
along the sides alone awoke the silence. A single light shone from the
forecastle of the frigate, where the anchor watch kept its quiet vigil.
She swung at a long cable, a proud prisoner amid the score of watchful
sentinels that encircled her.
As placid as the scene about him, Decatur turned to the pilot and gave
a low order. The helm was shifted and the tiny vessel pointed for the
bowsprit of the “Philadelphia.” Nearer and nearer they came, until
scarcely a cable’s length separated them. They saw several turbaned heads,
and an officer leaned over the rail, puffing lazily at a cigarette. He
leisurely took the cigarette from his mouth, and his voice came across
the quiet water of the harbor,--
“Where do you come from?” he hailed.