A Call to Arms (29 page)

But as he reread the dispatch, his lips creased in a tight smile. He felt his mood brightening, the anger lifting. He was still commodore of this squadron, by God, and he would be for at least two more months—perhaps three, God willing. That was all the time he needed. His squadron was ready. He had even received, at long last, the six gunboats and two mortar boats promised by Sir John Acton, the prime minister of the kingdom of Sicily. Every ship in his squadron except
Portsmouth
was standing by. For a fleeting moment Preble thought to recall her from blockade duty in the Gulf of Sidra. He could surely use her guns in the assault. But he pushed away that notion. Her mission was critical, and besides, Preble could not wait for her to return. Circumstances had forced him to act, to move up his timetable. He had to strike, and he had to strike
now.

A
UGUST 3 DAWNED
bright and sunny. The calm seas with long, rolling swells were a welcome relief after the fierce northwesterly gales that had plagued the fifteen-ship American squadron for more than a week. Commo. Edward Preble strolled the windward side of his flush quarterdeck in the early afternoon in a casual fashion meant to inspire confidence in his officers and crew that he was at peace with himself and with his God, a naval commander of resolve with whom they could trust their lives without question or regret.
Constitution
stood two miles off the coast and was approaching Tripoli under reduced sail on a south-southwesterly course. A glance at the telltale high on a mizzen shroud confirmed that the northeasterly breeze was holding steady, perhaps even freshening a bit.
A good omen,
Preble told himself. A glance to larboard revealed six flat-bottomed, 60-foot, lateen-rigged gunboats, each towed by one of the squadron's two brigs and three schooners, with the brig of war
Argus
towing two. Directly aft he could see the two bomb ketches also on loan from the king of Sicily that his own flagship was towing. Following farther behind was the squadron's store-ship carrying extra ordnance and provisions.

It was what lay directly ahead, however, that demanded Preble's attention. Nineteen enemy gunboats had emerged through the Western Passage between Kaliuscia and Ra's az Zur reefs and had dropped anchor in a battle formation running east to west in a line between Molehead Battery, located at the head of the mole where the treacherous
outcroppings of the two reefs began, and French Fort to the southwest. These two batteries formed the western edge of the city's seaward defenses. Behind the reefs, near the base of the city walls, three small cruisers rode at anchor, each with a spring line made fast to her anchor cable to allow her guns to be maneuvered into position to cover the main passageways through the chain of rocks. A sweep of the spyglass farther to eastward revealed the bashaw's castle at the northeast corner of the city and, farther still, the English Fort. Within those batteries, Preble had been informed, were 115 cannon aimed out to sea—at his squadron. And unlike the American naval guns, these cannon were mounted on stable platforms and protected by stonework fortifications.

Preble smirked as he again raised the glass and peered at the city of Tripoli. The citizens who had taken to the rooftops and upper terraces clearly entertained no doubts about the outcome of the upcoming battle. They appeared in a festive mood. Some waved small Tripolitan flags while others pumped fists up and down in the air, all clearly anticipating the thrashing the upstart Americans were about to receive.

“Signal the squadron to come within hailing distance,” Preble said to his first lieutenant. “Then wear her around on a starboard tack and back the main tops'l. And Mr. Gordon, you may clear for action.”

Charles Gordon touched his hat. He repeated the first order to Joseph Nicholson, the signal midshipman standing by. The second order he repeated to Nate Haraden, the ship's master, who repeated it to Boatswain John Cannon and the two quartermasters at the helm. The third order was his to deliver.

“
Beat to quarters! Clear for action
!”

The commands ignited a flurry of staccato tattoos from Marine drummers that sent men scurrying to battle stations. On the weather and gun decks, sailors removed and stowed cabin partitions, chests, paintings, tables, everything and anything portable that might shatter and explode into shards of lethal spears if struck by enemy shot. Others distributed kegs of water throughout the ship to put out fires set off by hot shot launched from the enemy batteries ashore. Still others strewed wet sand about the gun deck to ensure better footing in the slurry of spilt blood.

As the flagship prepared for battle, officers, sailors, and Marines on the smaller American brigs and schooners stepped aboard the gunboats to which they had been assigned, joining the Sicilian and Neapolitan crews charged with sailing each vessel. Lt. Richard Somers in gunboat 1 commanded the First Division, which also comprised gunboat 2, captained by Lt. James Decatur, and gunboat 3, captained by Lt. Joshua
Blake. Lt. Stephen Decatur in gunboat 4 commanded the Second Division, which also included gunboat 5, captained by Lt. Joseph Bainbridge, and gunboat 6, captained by Lt. John Trippe. A junior officer assumed first-officer rank aboard each vessel.

As the brigs and schooners with their charges in tow came to within hailing distance of the flagship, Commodore Preble repeated his orders to each captain in turn. His battle strategy was as simple in objective as it was flexible in implementation. American gunboats would stand in toward the reefs and attack the Tripolitan flotilla while the two bomb ketches lobbed mortar shells over the city walls.
Constitution
and the squadron would join the fray as conditions warranted.

At 2:00
Constitution
hoisted the signal for “Cast off all boats and follow my maneuvers.” Sailing under reduced canvas to allow the heavyset gunboats to proceed on ahead of the flagship, she shaped a southwesterly course for Tripoli.
Syren, Enterprise, Argus,
and
Vixen
cast loose their towing cables and fanned out to eastward of her. The two bomb ketches, cast loose from
Constitution,
followed a course parallel to the flagship's. For reasons unknown,
Nautilus
sailed out ahead alone, farther to westward, with gunboat 1 still in tow.

At 2:30 Preble ordered a blue flag hoisted up the signal halyard, followed by a yellow flag and another blue flag. It was signal 170: “Commence battle.”

Aboard gunboat 4, Midn. James Cutler pointed westward and said to his commanding officer, “Sir,
Nautilus
has fallen off to leeward. She's cast off her boat, but in these conditions Lieutenant Somers will be hard-pressed beating back to us.”

Stephen Decatur was already aware of what, in effect, had forced the commander of the First Division out of the battle plan. The gunboat's lateen rig was too slight, her construction too bulky and beamy, for her to tack or row upwind. She was built primarily for harbor defense, not as an attack vessel. “Unfortunately, Mr. Cutler,” he said stiffly, “there is not much we can do about that. I suggest we attend to our own business. Is the gun loaded with case shot?” He was referring to the 24-pounder gun mounted at the bow of the boat. The gun could pivot slightly to the right or left, but for all intents and purposes it shot in the direction the bow pointed.

The first chore Jamie had assigned himself on boarding the gunboat was to ensure that her lone gun was properly loaded with a canister of four hundred small iron balls crammed inside a cylindrical tin case, and
that additional case, grape, and round shot were secured aft of the gun in specially designed racks alongside neatly stacked piles of flannel powder bags. Each gunboat was, in effect, a floating bomb set to explode should its stack of munitions suffer a direct hit.

“Yes, sir. Loaded and primed.”

“Very well. Serve out a musket to every man and await my order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jamie Cutler followed his captain's glance to starboard. Gunboat 2 was making toward them, its captain, Decatur's brother James, apparently having drawn a similar conclusion about gunboat 1. Lieutenant Blake in gunboat 3 followed too far behind and to the east to join them. Stephen Decatur now found himself in command of a squadron of five—effectively, four—gunboats.

At 2:45 Lt. Thomas Robinson in bomb ketch 1 opened fire. Bomb ketch 2, Lt. John Dent in command, followed suit almost at once. Lobbed high into the air, the two 27-inch mortar shells seemed to hesitate at their apex before screeching down onto the enemy positions below. One shell exploded near the Molehead Battery. The other shrieked over the city wall.

Enemy cannon, silent up to now, opened fire with stentorian blasts that rippled harbor waters from English Fort to French Fort. They aimed not at the six American gunboats—Tripoli had nineteen gunboats prepared to deal with them—but at the American squadron a mile offshore.

The American flotilla led by gunboat 4 bore down on the east wing of the enemy gunboats, the wind at its back. When gunboat 4 had closed unchallenged to within fifty yards, Decatur gave the command for its 24-pounder to open fire, the effect of a massive blunderbuss fired at nearly point-blank range. The three gunboats fanned out behind number 4 unleashed their own blasts of grape, case, or round shot. Crews quickly reloaded and fired a second round of hot iron before the enemy could respond.

One Tripolitan gunboat exploded. Others on the east wing suffered a withering broadside from the larboard batteries of
Constitution
and her consorts. In the time it took for the smoke to clear, enemy gunboats in the east and center of the defensive formation, stunned by tactics they had not anticipated, had severed their anchor cables and were retreating back into the harbor through the Western Passage.

The more substantial west wing of the enemy flotilla remained to be dealt with. From what Decatur could discern, the enemy gunboats in that
wing were not about to cut and run. He signaled his boats to sail directly at them. As the two opposing forces converged, the squadron's big guns fell silent.

The Tripolitans' west wing, eleven boats strong, opened fire too early, before the Americans were in “dead-on” range. The salvo chewed up railings and bulwarks and bits of masts on the American boats, but claimed neither loss of life nor serious damage except to gunboat 5, which saw the upper end of its lateen yard severed. Americans who had crouched low when the onslaught began sprang to their feet and fired a “boarding dose” of canister, grape, and heavy musketry that temporarily cleared enemy decks and allowed their boats to sail in and smack hard against the Tripolitan boats.

Stephen Decatur, his sword drawn, leapt aboard a Tripolitan gunboat. Jamie Cutler landed on deck behind him, a pistol in each hand and two others tied to a lanyard looped around his neck.

“
To me
!” Decatur cried out. Seventeen Americans brandishing boarding pikes, tomahawks, belaying pins, cutlasses, and pistols swarmed onto the enemy boat's deck. Opposing them were three dozen Tripolitans gathered in close array. A volley of pistol shot from the Americans quickly evened the odds.

Side-by-side, Decatur and Cutler fought off five Arabs lunging in at them. Steel clashed and clanged against steel. The enemy gunboat's commander, a massive hulk of a man with bare rippling biceps, apparently identified Decatur as the American commander and came at him with vengeance in his eyes. Decatur parried his first thrust, then his second, but on the third surge the Tripolitan caught Decatur off guard and slashed down hard with his scimitar, breaking the cutlass at the haft. Decatur tossed aside the useless weapon and charged the Arab, tackling him around the waist and throwing him backward onto the deck. He whacked the Arab's bearded face with one fist, then with the other. But the Arab, bigger and stronger, grabbed Decatur's wrist and slowly, gradually, by sheer strength of arm muscle, forced Decatur up and back, pinning him against the gunwale. His left forearm was clamped hard against Decatur's throat, blocking his windpipe; in his right hand he raised a single-edged, bayonet-style knife. Just as the man was about to slice down with the yataghan, Decatur found his pistol. Mustering his last ounce of strength, he thrust the short barrel against the Arab's ribs and squeezed the trigger. The ball searing through the Arab's kidneys was greeted on the other side by James Cutler's blade. A savage blow to the back of the head by a
Marine's tomahawk shattered his skull, and the Arab slumped over, dead, into the ever-expanding pools of blood overwashing the deck.

Jamie dropped to a knee beside his commander, who lay supine, gasping for air. He searched Decatur's body for wounds but found none, just heavy bruises on his neck and face, including an ugly black eye. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.

“I'll manage, thank you, Mr. Cutler,” Decatur wheezed, his lungs still wild for air. “Pray, give me a moment. And a hand, if you would.” He was trying to raise himself to a sitting position against the gunwale so that he could take stock of the battle while he caught his breath. Jamie helped him up. Decatur nodded his appreciation. “What's our situation?” he demanded.

“We've taken the boat, Captain.”

“I can see that. Casualties?”

“One dead. Three wounded.”

“Enemy casualties?”

“We have a handful of prisoners. The rest are either dead or wounded.”

“What of the other boats?”