A Call to Arms (26 page)

“It is,
capitaine.
” Beaussier scraped back his chair and stood up, ending the meeting.

T
HE FIRST LANDFALL
Richard Cutler was able to make out as he looked shoreward from the weather side of
Portsmouth's
quarterdeck was not what he had daydreamed as a child of seeing: a limestone lighthouse towering 450 feet above the eastern point of the island of Pharos. It was no longer there, of course; a mammoth earthquake had destroyed it five hundred years ago. As a young boy growing up by the sea in Massachusetts, Richard had often imagined that lighthouse—built in the third century
BC
during the reigns of Ptolemy I and Ptolemy II—and he had half-expected to find it intact, the vast mirrors and fires at its apex visible to mariners thirty miles out at sea, a beacon to guide them in to safe harbor.

To the right of where the lighthouse once stood, however, other wonders of the ancient world still remained. Richard could see the eighty-foot-tall Roman triumphal column known as “Pompey's Pillar” located near the ancient acropolis and, nearby, two great obelisks of slightly lesser height known as “Cleopatra's Needles”—their name a misnomer, Richard's history lessons had taught him, because the imposing red granite structures had been standing a thousand years by the time the fabled queen ascended to the throne of Egypt. Mixed in with Egyptian artifacts were examples of classic Hellenic architecture, proof positive that this great metropolis founded by Alexander the Great in 331
BC
was
a historic link between the ancient Greek city-states and the fertile Nile Valley.

As Gordon Smythe brought
Portsmouth
in toward land under reduced sail, those on the quarterdeck noticed what a lookout had already spotted: a small boat approaching from the southeast, its single lateen sail drawn in tight on a close haul before the prevailing northerly breeze.

“There's likely a pilot aboard,” Smythe commented, the relief in his voice evident. As ship's master, he was responsible for the proper sailing and navigation of the ship. Charts of these waters warned of the tricky entrance to Grand Harbor caused by continuously shifting silt and ballast dumped overboard by centuries of lazy mariners. By now, the harbor entrance was all but choked off, and the skills of a local pilot were needed to direct a vessel along its one functional channel.

Smith's observation turned out to be correct. As
Portsmouth
followed the pilot boat into the harbor and rounded up to her anchorage close to three snub-bowed Turkish warships, her guns erupted in a seventeen-gun salute to the Turkish flag fluttering high above a harbor fortress. The Turkish garrison returned the salute, gun for gun.

An hour later, a small rowboat approached the American frigate, this one bearing a well-dressed, well-groomed man who introduced himself as Samuel Briggs, the British consul in Alexandria. Eric Meyers greeted him at the entry port and escorted him aft to the quarterdeck, where a circular table sat beneath a makeshift canvas awning fashioned by Sailmaker Larson and his mates. The shade it created was a welcome reprieve from a Mediterranean sun that heated land and sea with a blazing intensity.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Briggs,” Richard greeted him. “I have been expecting you.” He introduced the consul to his two other commissioned officers and to his captain of Marines.

Briggs bowed politely to each officer before focusing his full attention on Richard Cutler. In his hand Richard held two letters of introduction: one from Edward Preble, the other from Sir Alexander Ball, governor of Malta. These he handed to Briggs, who gave them a cursory glance before handing them back. “Thank you, Captain Cutler,” he said, “but these letters are hardly necessary. I have received correspondence of your pending arrival from Admiral Nelson and Captain Hardcastle. I believe you are acquainted with those two gentlemen?” He smiled.

Richard smiled back. “I am.”

“Since they see fit to recommend you, I see no need for further endorsement. I am at your service, Captain, if you will tell me how I may serve you.”

Richard had decided not to be coy when asked such a question. He had shared the purpose of his mission in a letter to his brother-in-law. As he expected, Jeremy had shared the details with Horatio Nelson. Since the Royal Navy knew of his mission, so must British intelligence, from the halls of Whitehall in England to the halls of British consular offices in Egypt.

“I am here to confer with Mr. Hamet Karamanli,” he replied.

“Yes, quite,” Briggs said, as if that statement were a foregone conclusion. “Unfortunately, Mr. Karamanli is not in Alexandria.”

“No,” Richard agreed. “I understand he is in Cairo.”

“Some distance south of Cairo, I believe.” Briggs had done his homework. “He has joined up with the Mamelukes, who as you may know comprise a rather powerful fighting force in Egypt.” He was referring to a warrior class of former slaves, many of them of Greek and Slavic descent, whom the Turks had converted to Islam in the sixteenth century and trained as an elite fighting force. The Mamelukes eventually grew tired of playing a subservient role and decided to seize control of Egypt for themselves. Since then, they had been battling various factions, particularly the Ottoman Turks, for control of the province. “Our intelligence indicates that Karamanli has fled to Upper Egypt, where the Mamelukes have retired since their defeat by Napoléon.” Briggs continued, “Hamet has not fled from the Turks, you understand, but from his brother in Tripoli. There are rumors flying about that Yusuf has sent assassins after him. Mind you, these rumors have not been substantiated. But given the bashaw's reputation when it comes to family, they are probably true.”

“Can you contact Hamet?”

“Oh, yes. We can send couriers. But I most strongly advise you not to venture south of Cairo under any circumstances. It is no place for anyone of Western heritage. Egypt has its charm and its history, but it is among the most dangerous places in North Africa, especially the farther south one goes. In Cairo one can find a semblance of civilization, but south of there . . .”

Briggs' hand gesture indicated just how senseless and perilous such a venture would likely be. “South of there, the British government could do naught but pray for your safety. Not that we can do much better elsewhere in Egypt. We have not had a significant military presence here since the army pulled out in '03. Those of us stationed here rely on diplomatic immunity and on our popularity among the Egyptian people. And we follow rule number one: we maintain strict neutrality in Egyptian affairs,
whatever the provocation and regardless of who is involved. You would do well to do the same.”

Richard inclined his head. “I will, thank you. Would Hamet come to Cairo? And would he be safe if he were to do so?”

“I should think the answer to your first question depends on your reason for wanting him to come—the strength of your message, so to speak—which, as I understand that message, should have its appeal. The answer to your second question depends entirely on Muhammad Ali.”

“And he is . . .?”

“Muhammad Ali Pasha al-Mas'ud ibn Agha, the commander of Turkish troops in Egypt. But in reality he is much more than that.” To the attentive Americans, Briggs explained, “Muhammad Ali plays the game by his own rules and for his own purposes. After we defeated the French four years ago and they bid adieu to their brief rule in Egypt, Ali marched in under the banner of Selim III, Grand Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, to reclaim Egypt in his name. Ali is of Albanian descent and his soldiers are mostly Albanians. He consolidated his power by appealing to the Egyptian people. He promised them he would end the civil wars, return law and order to the countryside, and restore the glory of Egypt if they would support him and do his bidding. He proclaimed himself their champion, and his message resonated. Today, Ali is the most powerful and feared military commander in Egypt. He is the self-proclaimed khedive of the province, and he is more feared than the viceroy appointed by the grand sultan. More powerful, in Egypt, than Selim himself.”

Richard offered a small grunt of acknowledgment. “Can we convince Muhammad Ali not to oppose Hamet's visiting me in Cairo?”

“I believe we can. Major Edward Missett, our acting consul in Cairo, has already informed him of your intentions. By the bye, you will be meeting with Major Missett south of Rosetta. He will accompany you to Cairo. You will appreciate his company. Major Misset is an army officer of impeccable credentials and a jolly good fellow besides. As I told you, the Egyptian people respect our flag. Since they do, Ali does. And Ali very much appreciates England's withdrawal after defeating the French, allowing him to march in and take over. So he is inclined to cooperate with us when it serves his interests. Still, there are bandits and cutthroats everywhere you go in Egypt. So you must never let your guard down. How many men do you propose to take with you to Cairo?”

Richard indicated his first lieutenant and his captain of Marines. “We'll also have with us a midshipman and six Marines.”

“That should suffice. Just make certain you and your men are well
armed. I cannot stress that enough. However, I must again invoke rule number one. Be absolutely certain to inform your men that their weapons are to be used only in self-defense. I cannot stress
that
enough either.”

T
HE
M
ARINE CORPORAL
on duty outside the captain's cabin snapped a salute as Agreen Crabtree approached. Agreen returned the salute, knocked on the door, and stepped inside. When it came to the first lieutenant, naval regulations dictating that only the captain's steward had unrestricted access to the captain's cabin did not apply.

Agreen found Richard sitting at his writing desk, quill in hand. The larger table at the center of the midships cabin bore an assortment of pistols, ammunition boxes, and a gilt-hafted saber lying in its sheath. Like Agreen—like every officer and Marine assigned to the shore party—Richard was clad in full undress uniform. Whether drawing attention to themselves in such a manner would prove an advantage or a disadvantage remained to be seen. So he had ordered every man to carry with him a less formal ensemble more in keeping with local fashions.

“Mornin', Richard,” Agreen greeted him.

“Morning, Agee,” Richard said without looking up. “I'll be with you in a brace of shakes. I'm just putting the finishing touches on these orders for Lieutenant Lee.”

Agreen walked over to a starboard gun port and peered out at the odd-looking three-masted vessel that would convey them sixty-five miles eastward to the seaside port of Rosetta, a long-favored embarkation point for those traveling south into Egypt because it was located at the mouth of one of the Nile's two great distributaries.

“There,” Richard said with finality. “It's done.” He blew on the ink to dry it and then folded the document into a rectangle, sealing it where the four corners met before slipping it into a top drawer in the desk. “Let's hope that Mr. Lee does not find himself compelled to execute these orders,” he added lightly.

“Execute?” Agreen snorted as he walked toward the central table. “Jesus, Richard, you sure know how t' pick a word! And you sure know how t' motivate a fellow. If George has to
execute
his orders, then that means that you and I are stranded in some bone-dry desert hellhole with camels for company and a swarm of hairy Arabs tryin' t' do us in. I'm a sow in heat I'm so excited.”

Richard grinned. “Do you know why sows get so roused up when they're in heat?”

Agreen gave him a bewildered look. “I haven't given it much thought. Why?”

“They say it's because a boar has a corkscrew-shaped penis.”

Agreen roared with laughter. “Now
that's
funny.”

Richard clipped his sword onto his belt, then picked up a snub-barreled pistol, checked the frizzen for powder, and slid it into an inside pocket of his uniform coat. Longer-barreled pistols he stowed in a heavy canvas seabag along with a change of clothes and extra shot and powder. “Everyone's ready?” he asked, his smile fading.

“Ready as we'll ever be.”

“And the gear . . .?”

“. . . is stowed in the launch.”

“It's time, then.” As they made for the door, Richard said, his tone again lighthearted, “Haven't you always said you wanted to see the Nile, Agee?”

“Sure,” Agreen bantered back, “in picture-books.”

On the weather deck they found a side party dressed in spotless blue and white, the two other commissioned officers, the ship's master, and a clutch of midshipmen. Richard returned their salutes just as Boatswain Weeks signaled the side party to launch into its ceremonial cadence.

“The ship is yours, Mr. Lee,” Richard said to his second lieutenant, raising his voice to be heard over the chorus of drums and whistles. “Your orders are in the top drawer of my desk. Pray, carry them out to the letter.”

“You may rely on me, Captain.”

“I always have, Mr. Lee. Good luck to you. And to you, Mr. Meyers,” he said to his third lieutenant, now acting as first lieutenant. They exchanged final salutes before Richard and Agreen climbed down into the launch.

The six oarsmen shoved off from the frigate and the coxswain steered toward the vessel that would transport them to Rosetta. Richard sat in silence, nodding once to acknowledge Carl Corbett, captain of Marines, and once at Edward Osborn, senior midshipman, who sat side-by-side directly before him, facing aft. Behind them, also facing aft, sat three groups of two Marines: a sergeant, a corporal, and four privates, each man hand-picked by Captain Corbett in consultation with his sergeant, Robert Mills.