It should have been renown enough for one man to have performed what
Nelson was pleased to call “the most daring act of any age.” But the
capture of the “Philadelphia” only whetted Decatur’s appetite for further
encounters. He was impetuous, bold even to rashness, and so dashing that
to his men he was irresistible. But behind it all--a thing rare in a man
of his peculiar calibre--there was the ability to consider judiciously
and to plan carefully as well as daringly to execute. His fierce temper
led him into many difficulties, but there was no cruelty behind it; and
the men who served with him, while they feared him, would have followed
him into the jaws of death, for they loved him as they loved no other
officer in the American service. Once while the frigate “Essex,” Captain
Bainbridge, lay in the harbor at Barcelona, the officers of the American
vessel suffered many petty indignities at the instance of the officers
of the Spanish guardship. Having himself been subjected to a slight from
the Spanish commander, Lieutenant Decatur took the bull by the horns. He
bade his coxswain pull to the gangway of the Spaniard, and he went boldly
aboard. His lips were set, for he had resolved upon his own responsibility
to make an immediate precedent which would serve for all time. The Spanish
commander, most fortunately, was absent. But Decatur none the less strode
aft past the sentry to the gangway and, lifting his great voice so that
it resounded from truck to keelson, he shouted,--
“Tell your comandante that Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, of the ‘Essex,’
declares him to be a scoundrelly coward, and if Lieutenant Decatur meets
him ashore he will cut his ears off.”
So among the men of the squadron Decatur came to be known as a man who
brooked nothing and dared everything.
But when the crusty Preble took command in the Mediterranean he was not
over-impressed with the under-officers of his command. Not one of the
lieutenants was over twenty-four and none of those higher in authority had
turned thirty. Decatur and Somers were twenty-five; Charles Stewart was
only twenty-six, and Bainbridge the younger; Morris and Macdonough were
barely out of their teens.
It was not the custom of the commander-in-chief to mince his words.
So sparing himself the delicacy of secluding himself behind the saving
bulkheads of the after-cabin he swore right roundly at his home government
for sending him what he was pleased to call “a parcel of d-- school-boys.”
He was a martinet of the old style, and believed in the school of the
fo’c’s’le, and not in young gentlemen whose friends at home sent them in
by the ports of the after-cabin. He held the youngsters aloof, and not
until he had tried them in every conceivable fashion would he consider
them in his councils. A year had passed, and Decatur, Morris, Bainbridge,
Macdonough, and Somers had helped to add glorious pages to naval history,
before the old man, with a smile to Colonel Lear, the consul, consented
to say,--
“Well, after all, colonel, they are very good school-boys!”
Although Decatur’s success in the destruction of the “Philadelphia” had
removed a dangerous auxiliary battery from the harbor of Tripoli, the
bashaw was far from overawed, and, with the officers and crew of the
“Philadelphia” as hostages, declined to consider any terms offered by
the Americans; and so it was resolved by Commodore Preble to make an
attempt upon the Tripolitan batteries and fleet. The Americans had the
“Constitution,”--“Old Ironsides,”--Commodore Preble, and six brigs and
schooners mounting twelve and sixteen guns each. Preble had also succeeded
in borrowing from “the most gracious king of the Sicilies,” who was then
at war with the bashaw, two bomb-vessels and six single gunboats,--quite
a formidable little force of a hundred and thirty-four guns and about a
thousand men.
It was not until the morning of the 3d of August, 1804, that the
weather, which had been very stormy, moderated sufficiently to allow
the squadron to approach the African coast. The gunboats were unwieldy
craft, flat-bottomed, and, as the sea made clean breeches over them,
they were a dozen times in danger of sinking. But by ten o’clock the sky
to the southward had lightened, and the heavy storm-clouds were blowing
away overhead to the westward. “Old Ironsides” shook the reefs out of
her topsails and, spreading her top-gallant-sails, she beat up for the
entrance of the harbor of Tripoli with two of the gunboats in tow. Her
tall spars, seeming almost to pierce the low-rolling clouds, towered far
above the little sticks of the “Siren” and “Nautilus,” which bore down
directly in her wake. The sea had lashed out its fury, and, before the
little fleet had reached the reef, the gray had turned to green, and
here and there a line of amber showed where the mid-day sun was stealing
through.
Stephen Decatur, on gunboat No. 4, had been given command of the left
division of three gunboats. Casting off the tow-lines from his larger
consorts, he got under weigh, and bore down for a rift between the reefs
at the eastern entrance to the harbor, where the Tripolitan fleet, cleared
for action, lay awaiting him. The wind was on his bow, and he was obliged
to hold a course close to the wind in order to weather the point.
The gunboat lumbered uncertainly in the cross-sea, for she had no longer
the steady drag of the “Constitution’s” hawser to steady her. The seas
came up under her flat bottom, and seemed to toss rather than swing
her into the hollows. She was at best an unsteady gun-platform, and
nice sail-trimming was an impossibility. But they got out their sweeps,
and that steadied her somewhat. Great volumes of spray flew over the
weather-bow as she soused her blunt nose into it, and the fair breeze sent
it shimmering down to leeward.
Decatur stood aft by the helmsman, watching the quivering leeches, and
keeping her well up into the wind. Beside him stood his midshipmen, Thomas
Macdonough--afterwards to win a great victory of his own--and Joseph
Thorn. Both of them had smelt powder before, and Macdonough had been one
of the first on the deck of the ill-fated “Philadelphia.” This was to be
a different sort of a fight from any they had seen. It was to be man to
man, where good play of cutlass and pike and youth and American grit might
mean victory. Defeat meant annihilation. But youth is good at a game of
life and death, and as they looked at Decatur there was never a moment’s
fear of the result. They leaned against the rail to leeward, looking past
the foam boiling on the point to the spars of the African gunboats, and
their eyes were alight with eagerness for battle.
The men were bending steadily to their sweeps. Most of them were stripped
to the waist, and Decatur looked along the line of sinewy arms and chests
with a glow of pride and confidence. There was no wavering anywhere in
the row of glistening faces. But they all knew the kind of pirates they
were going to meet,--reckless, treacherous devils, who loved blood as they
loved Allah,--the best hand-to-hand fighters in the Mediterranean.
The ring of the cutlasses, loose-settled in their hangers, against the
butts of the boarding-pistols was clear above the sound of the row-locks
and the rush of the waters, while forward the catch of a song went up,
and they bent to their work the more merrily.
As they came under the lee of the Tripolitan shore and the sea went down,
Decatur ordered the long iron six-pounder cast loose. They had provided
solid shot for long range at the batteries, and these were now brought up
and put conveniently on the fo’c’s’le. But for the attack upon the vessels
of the fleet they loaded first with a bag of a thousand musket-balls. At
point-blank range Decatur judged that this would do tremendous execution
among the close-ranked mass of Tripolitans on the foreign vessels. His
idea was not to respond to the fire of the enemy, which would soon begin,
until close aboard, and then to go over the rail before they could recover
from their confusion. He felt that if they did not make a wreck of him and
batter up his sweeps he could get alongside. And once alongside, he knew
that his men would give a good account of themselves.
But as they came up towards the point the wind shifted, and the head of
the gunboat payed off. Even with their work at the sweeps, he now knew
that it would be no easy matter for all the Americans to weather the
point, for two of them were well down to leeward. But his brother, James
Decatur, in gunboat No. 2, and Sailing-Master John Trippe, in gunboat No.
6, had kept well up to windward, and so he felt that he should be able to
count on at least these two. As they reached the line of breakers, one of
the gunboats to leeward, under Richard Somers, was obliged to go about,
and in a moment the two others followed. Then the young commanders of the
windward gunboats knew that if the attack was to be made they alone would
have the glory of the first onslaught.
What Decatur feared most was that Preble, on the “Constitution,” would
see how terribly they were overmatched and signal the recall. But as they
reached the point, Decatur resolutely turned his back to the flagship,
and, putting his helm up, set her nose boldly into the swash of the
entrance and headed for the gray line of vessels, three times his number,
which hauled up their anchors and came down, gallantly enough, to meet
him.
There was very little sound upon the gunboat now. The wind being
favorable, the Americans shipped their sweeps, and sat watching the
largest of the Tripolitan vessels, which was bearing down upon them
rapidly. They saw a puff of white smoke from her fo’c’s’le, and heard
the whistle of a shot, which, passing wide, ricochetted just abeam and
buried itself beyond. Thorn stood forward, waiting for the order to fire
his long gun. But Decatur gave no sign. He stood watching the lift of the
foresail, carefully noting the distance between the two vessels. Trippe
and James Decatur had each picked out an adversary, and were bearing down
as silently as he, in spite of the cannonade which now came from both the
vessels and batteries of the Turks. The shots were splashing all around
him, but nothing had been carried away, and the American jackies jeered
cheerfully at the wretched marksmanship. As the Tripolitans came nearer,
the Americans could see the black mass of men along the rails and catch
the glimmer of the yataghans. Then Decatur ordered his own men to seize
their pikes and draw their pistols and cutlasses.
At the word from Decatur, Thorn began training the fo’c’s’le gun, which
in the steadier sea would have a deadly effect. The distance was a matter
of yards now, and a shot came ploughing alongside that threw spray all
along the rail and nearly doused the match of the gunner of the fo’c’s’le.
But not until he could see the whites of the eyes of his adversaries did
Decatur give the order to fire. As the big gun was discharged point-blank
into the thick of the crowded figures, Decatur shifted his helm quickly
and lay aboard the Tripolitan. So tremendous had been the execution of the
musket-balls, and so quickly had the manœuvre been executed, that almost
before the Tripolitans were aware of it the Americans were upon them. The
few shots from the Turkish small arms had gone wild, but a fierce struggle
ensued before the Americans reached the deck. At last Decatur, followed
by Thorn, Macdonough, and twenty-two seamen, gained the fo’c’s’le in a
body, and the Tripolitans retreated aft.
The Tripolitan boat was divided amidships by an open hatchway, and for
a moment the opposing forces stopped to catch their breath, glaring at
one another across the opening. Decatur did not pause long. Giving them
a volley of pistol-bullets at close range, he dashed furiously down one
gangway, while Macdonough and Thorn went down the other, and, with a
cheer, cut down the remaining Turks or drove them overboard. A half-dozen
went down a forward hatch, and these were made prisoners.
It was a short fight, with an inconsiderable loss to Decatur, but the
Tripolitan dead were strewn all over the decks, and the Turkish captain
was pierced by fourteen bullets. The Tripolitan flag was hauled down, and,
taking his prize in tow, Decatur put his men at the sweeps again, to move
farther out of the reach of the batteries.
By this time James Decatur and John Trippe had got into the thick of it.
Following Stephen Decatur’s example, they dashed boldly at the larger
of the bashaw’s vessels, and, reserving their fire for close range, they
lay two of them aboard. John Trippe, Midshipman Henley, and nine seamen
had gained the deck of their adversary, when the vessels drifted apart,
and they were left alone on the deck of the enemy. But Trippe was the man
for the emergency. So rapidly did they charge the Turks that their very
audacity gave them the advantage, and Trippe finally succeeded in killing
the Tripolitan commander by running him through with a boarding-pike. They
fought with the energy of despair, and, although wounded and bleeding from
a dozen sabre-cuts, struggled on until their gunboat got alongside and
they were rescued by their comrades.
But the story of the treachery of the Turkish captain and Stephen
Decatur’s revenge for the death of his brother makes even the wonderful
defensive battle of Trippe seem small by comparison.
James Decatur, having got well up with one of the largest of the
Tripolitan vessels, delivered so quick and telling a fire with his long
gun and musketry that the enemy immediately struck his colors. He hauled
alongside and clambered up and over the side of the gunboat to take
possession of her personally. As his head came up above the rail his men
saw the Turkish commander rush forward and aim his boarding-pistol at the
defenceless American. The bullet struck him fairly in the forehead, and
Decatur, with barely a sound, sank back into his boat.
In their horror at the treachery of the Tripolitan, the Americans allowed
the boat to sheer off, and the Turk, getting out his sweeps, was soon
speeding away toward the protection of the batteries.
Stephen Decatur, towing his prize to safety, had noted the gallant attack,
and had seen the striking of the Turkish colors. But not until an American
boat darted alongside of him did he hear the news of the treacherous
manner of his brother’s death. The shock of the information for the moment
appalled him, but in the place of his grief there arose so fierce a rage
at the dastardly act that for a moment he was stricken dumb and senseless.
His men sprang quickly when at last he thundered out his orders. Deftly
casting off the tow-line of the prize, they hoisted all sail and jumped to
their sweeps as though their lives depended on it. Macdonough’s gun-crew
were loading with solid shot this time, and, as soon as they got the
range, a ball went screaming down towards the fleeing Tripolitan. The men
at the sweeps needed little encouragement. They had heard the news, and
they loved James Decatur as they worshipped his brother, who stood aft,
his lips compressed, anxiously watching the chase. The water boiled under
the oar-blades as the clumsy hulk seemed to spring from one wave-crest
to another. Again the long gun spoke, and the canister struck the water
all about the Turkish vessel. The Tripolitans seemed disorganized,
for their oars no longer moved together and the blades were splashing
wildly. Another solid shot went flying, and Decatur smiled as he saw the
spray fly up under the enemy’s counter. There would be no mercy for the
Tripolitans that day. Nearer and nearer they came, until the Turks, seeing
that further attempts at flight were useless, dropped their sweeps and
prepared to receive the Americans. They shifted their helm so that their
gun could bear, and the shot that followed tore a great rent in Decatur’s
foresail. But the Americans heeded it little more than if it had been a
puff of wind, and pausing only to deliver another deadly discharge of the
musket-balls at point-blank range, Decatur swung in alongside under cover
of the smoke.
As the vessels grated together, Decatur jumped for the Tripolitan rigging,
and, followed by his men, quickly gained the deck. Two Turks rushed at
Decatur, aiming vicious blows with their scimetars; but he parried them
skilfully with his pike, looking around him fiercely the while for the
captain. As he thought of his brother dying, or dead, he swore that no
American should engage the Turkish commander but himself. He had not long
to wait. They espied each other at about the same moment, and brushing
the intervening weapons aside, dashed upon each other furiously.
Decatur was tall, and as active as a cat. His muscles were like steel, and
his rage seemed to give him the strength of a dozen. But the Mussulman
was a giant, the biggest man in the Tripolitan fleet, and a very demon
in power and viciousness. So strong was he, that as Decatur lunged at him
with his boarding-pike he succeeded in wrenching it from the hand of the
American, and so wonderfully quick that Decatur had hardly time to raise
his cutlass to parry the return. He barely caught it; but in doing so his
weapon broke off short at the hilt. The next lunge he partially warded
by stepping to one side; but the pike of the Mussulman in passing cut an
ugly wound in his arm and chest. Entirely defenceless, he now knew that
his only chance was at close quarters, so he sprang in below the guard of
the Turk and seized him around the waist, hoping to trip and stun him. But
the Tripolitan tore the arms away as though he had been a stripling, and,
seizing him by the throat, bore him by sheer weight to the deck, trying
the while to draw a yataghan. The American crew, seeing things going badly
with their young captain, fought in furiously, and in a moment the mass
of Americans and Tripolitans were fighting in one desperate, struggling,
smothering heap, above the prostrate bodies of their captains, neither of
whom could succeed in drawing a weapon. The Turk was the first to get his
dagger loose, but the American’s death-like grasp held his wrist like a
vise, and kept him from striking the blow. Decatur saw another Turk just
beside him raise his yataghan high above his head, and he felt that he was
lost. But at this moment a sailor, named Reuben James, who loved Decatur
as though he were a brother, closed in quickly and caught on his own head
the blow intended for Decatur. Both his arms had been disabled, but he
asked nothing better than to lay down his life for his captain.
In the meanwhile, without relinquishing his grip upon the Turk, Decatur
succeeded in drawing a pistol from the breast of his shirt, and, pressing
the muzzle near the heart of the Tripolitan, fired. As the muscles of
his adversary relaxed, the American managed to get upon one knee, and so
to his feet, stunned and bleeding, but still unsubdued. The Tripolitans,
disheartened by the loss of their leader, broke ground before the force
of the next attack and fled overboard or were cut down where they stood.
The death of James Decatur was avenged.
The other Tripolitan gunboats had scurried back to safety, so Decatur,
with his two prizes, made his way out towards the flagship unmolested. His
victory had cost him dearly. There was not a man who had not two or three
wounds from the scimetars, and some of them had cuts all over the body.
The decks were like a slaughter-pen and the scuppers were running blood.
But the bodies of the Tripolitans were ruthlessly cast overboard to the
sharks; and by the time the Americans had reached the “Constitution” the
decks had been scrubbed down and the wounded bandaged and roughly cared
for by those of their comrades who had fared less badly.
Decatur, by virtue of his exploit in destroying the “Philadelphia,”
already a post-captain at the age of twenty-five, could expect no further
immediate honors at the hands of the government; but then, as ever
afterwards, he craved nothing but a stanch ship and a gallant crew. The
service he could do his country was its own reward.