A Call to Arms (14 page)

“Aye, aye, sir.” Lewis strode forward to the great rectangular hatchway amidships and shouted down the captain's order.

Preble was considering further evolutions to avoid collision when he realized that such maneuvers had become unnecessary. The captain of the mystery ship, whoever he was, had ordered his vessel to heave to. She rose like a great black mass on the inky sea against a slightly lighter backdrop of darkened sky. Only her canvas sails stood out in contrast, and even those appeared a somber dark gray. Here and there tiny balls of light flickered from a lantern up on deck or through open gun ports below. Her captain, too, had ordered his guns run out.

An eerie silence ensued, as though the two ships, drifting perhaps thirty feet apart, had paused like two dogs cautiously sniffing each other before rearing up and having at it. All eyes on the quarterdeck of the American frigate watched as Preble picked up a speaking trumpet and walked to the mizzen's starboard shrouds.

“What ship is that?” he shouted out.

“What ship is that?” the stranger shouted back.

“This is the United States ship of war
Constitution.
What ship is that?”

“What ship is that?” the same voice inquired anew.

“I have just told you!” Preble snapped. “This is the United States ship of war
Constitution.
Now tell me, sir, for the last time: what ship is
that
?”

Again, from the mystery ship: “What ship is that?”

“Damn you, sir!” Preble yelled through the trumpet. “I am finished playing games! Answer me properly or I shall fire a shot into you.”

“Fire a shot into me,” the stranger shouted back, “and I shall fire a broadside into you.”

“
What ship is that
?” Preble thundered into the night.

Finally, a different voice, one that carried the crisp patrician accent of English nobility, answered: “This is His Britannic Majesty's Ship
Donegal,
eighty-four guns. I am Commodore Sir Richard Strachan. I shall require you to send over your boat.”

“Uppity bastard!” Preble growled. His dander up, he scrambled atop the starboard railing. Holding a shroud for support, he shouted through the trumpet in a voice of high dudgeon: “This is the United States ship
Constitution,
forty-four guns. I am Commodore Edward Preble, and I will be damned to hell before I send a boat over to you or to
any
vessel!” To his gun crews he shouted, in a voice for the Atlantic to hear, “Stand by your lanyards, boys, and prepare to fire!”

Another round of eerie silence was broken by the splash of oars, the thud of a ship's boat bumping against the larboard side, and the hail of a man about to climb the thirteen steps built into
Constitution's
hull. The amber light of lanterns at the entry port revealed a superbly uniformed British sea officer, who, after saluting the quarterdeck, introduced himself to 1st Lt. Charles Gordon as Gorley Putt, first lieutenant of His Majesty's frigate
Maidstone,
36 guns, under the command of Capt. Stephen Elliot.

“I am the officer with whom you first spoke,” Putt explained after saluting Captain Preble, who had approached the entry port. “We sighted your ship an hour or so ago, but we did not realize how close we were to you. Captain Elliot, unconvinced of either your nationality or your size, stalled for time to scare you off, or at least to give you pause whilst we put our gun deck in proper array. He
still
is not entirely convinced of your nationality, although I will put that to rights as soon as I return to my ship. I am certain that he would wish to extend to you every respect and his apology for any misunderstanding.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Preble said, adding with relish, “Please inform your captain that I accept his apology. I am compelled, however, to warn him, and you, that in the future what you describe as a misunderstanding with an American frigate might find you and your ship
blown clean out of the water. A very good night to you, sir.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Below, on the gun deck, Jamie Cutler glanced about at the other gun captains and their gun crews, who had overheard the entire exchange between the two naval commanders. To a man, they were wide-eyed and rendered speechless by their first inkling of the true nature of their captain.

T
HIRD
L
T
. E
RIC
M
EYERS
scampered up the starboard ratlines of the foremast shrouds like a topman, using the frigate's larboard heel to facilitate his ascent. Avoiding the lubber's hole cut through the base of the foretop, he crawled like a spider out onto the thick rope mesh leading from the catharpings up and around the sturdy oaken platform. From the futtock shrouds at the deadeyes of the top, the young officer from the Virginia Capes grabbed hold of the narrower topmast shrouds and climbed up to the horizontal timbers that spread the topgallant shrouds at the crosstrees.
Portsmouth
was lying close to the wind, her square sails braced tight in what felt like a considerably stiffer breeze at a height of eighty feet than it had down on deck. Meyers felt as though he had climbed into a hot, windy tunnel. Strands of his tawny hair whipped free from their queue, and his loose-fitting shirt ruffled and snapped. Above him, the foremast topgallant lay furled to its yard. Below him, the leeches of the jib and flying jib shivered and thrummed.

At the crosstrees Meyers joined Able Seaman Harvey Cole, who was facing into the stiff easterly wind with one arm wrapped around the thin topgallant mast. He offered Meyers a hand up and then, after the lieutenant had secured himself, a spyglass.

Meyers first scanned the rolling seas to starboard with a naked eye. “Point her out to me, Cole,” he yelled above the wind. “I don't see her.”

Meyers brought the small spyglass up to one eye and followed Cole's pointing finger. “Ah, yes, there she is.” He adjusted the focus. “Clear as
day, almost. I agree, from the look of her, she's a corsair.” His voice was high with nervous anticipation. “You're sure she's Tripolitan?”

“I had a good look at her ensign, sir. She's Tripolitan. I'd stake my life on it.”

“No need for that, Cole,” Meyers commented wryly as he studied the profile of the Arab warship shaping an opposite course to
Portsmouth's,
perhaps twelve miles upwind and closing fast. “You've already done that once here in Barbary, and once is enough.” Knowing Cole's history, he meant exactly what he said. In 1786, at the age of sixteen the youngest hand aboard the Cutler & Sons merchant brig
Eagle,
Harvey Cole had been taken prisoner by pirate corsairs and had languished in an Algerian prison for ten years. During the entirety of that confinement he had stood as a rock of defiance. He even learned enough of the local language to defy his captors in Arabic. Despite a brush with hell every day, Cole had remained steadfastly loyal to his employer's family, especially to Caleb Cutler, who shared his prison cell. When last year Caleb had asked for volunteers among the Cutler & Sons crew roster to serve in USS
Portsmouth
in the Mediterranean, Cole had stepped forward along with so many others that Caleb had the sailors draw lots to determine the lucky twenty-five.

Meyers handed the glass back to Cole. “Odd, isn't it,” he mused, his back to the wind. “We're clearly the more powerful vessel, and surely she has spotted us by now. Yet she's not showing us her heels.”

“It is odd, sir,” Cole agreed.

“Well, keep an eye on her, Cole,” Meyers said as he prepared to descend to the deck, “and report any deviation in her course.”

Meyers wrapped his legs around a taut hempen backstay attached to the upper masthead and descended hand under hand to the larboard chain-wale, and from there to the deck. He lost no time making his way along the waist and up the three steps to the raised quarterdeck. At the helm he saluted the captain and first lieutenant, who had gathered there with the ship's master, the captain of Marines, a quartermaster's mate at the wheel, and two midshipmen.

Richard Cutler answered the salute. “What company do we keep, Mr. Meyers?”

“A Tripolitan corsair, Captain. She's lateen-rigged on her main and mizzen, a square sail on her foremast.”

Richard made a quick calculation. A corsair with that rig was of reasonable size and tonnage, and likely carried fourteen or sixteen 12-pounder guns.”

“You're certain she's Tripolitan?”

“Cole is, sir.”

“That's good enough for me. Her course?”

Meyers gave him a meaningful look. “On a reciprocal to ours, sir.”

“A course of convergence, then.”

“It would seem so, sir.”

Richard nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Meyers,” he said. “Please go below and take position at the guns with Mr. Lee. And pass word for Mr. Weeks.”

As he waited for the boatswain, Richard scanned the waters around him. Ahead to the north, many sea miles beyond their current position, lay the rugged southern coast of Sicily. To the south, near the thumb-shaped Tunisian peninsula of Cape Bon, lay the ruins of ancient Carthage. Closer ahead lay Malta, their destination, an easy day's sail in these stiff, hot, levanter winds.

“What do you make of it, Agee?” he asked his first lieutenant, who stood beside him at the waist railing of the quarterdeck peering through a glass. Any minute now, the enemy vessel would heave into view.

Agreen shook his head. “I can't tell for certain. That corsair may have the same weight of guns as we do, but we must have at least three times her weight of broadside. Yet she's comin' right at us; and what's more, she's not tryin' t' confuse us by flyin' some other country's flag.” He thought for a moment. “She knows we can't pursue her without tacking. And if we tack, she'll hold the weather gauge. We'd be on opposite tacks for so long we might never catch her. So maybe she figures t' shadow us, t' see where we're headed.”

“That's my thinking too, Lieutenant.” Richard brought a glass to his eye and peered through it. “There she lies. I can just barely make out her masts. She's still coming at us.”

“Damn it,” Agreen groused. “There's our enemy and we can take her. But we can't engage her unless she's a mind t' come in too close for her own damn good. And I doubt she'll do that.” He sighed in disgust. “It's like a cat playin' with a frickin' mouse.”

Richard suddenly recalled an occasion long ago during the war with England. The Continental sloop
Ranger
was being shadowed by a British warship, and her officers were discussing possible tactics in the captain's cabin. Someone had offered that same analogy in the same tone of voice. “Just remember who plays the role of the cat,” John Paul Jones had said at the time, “and who the role of the mouse.”

Richard turned to the sailing master standing a short distance away by the helm. As was true of everyone granted access to the quarterdeck,
Josiah Smythe understood that the captain and his first lieutenant often conferred in private on the weather side of the quarterdeck and took no offense; quite the opposite, in fact. Never during his forty years at sea had he witnessed such a close bond between a ship's two senior officers. Nor had he ever witnessed a crew more devoted to a ship's officer corps, or a ship's officer corps more devoted to its captain. Morale aboard
Portsmouth
was sky high, from the wardroom aft to the forecastle forward, and Josiah Smythe knew exactly where to place credit for that.

“Mr. Smythe,” Richard said to him, “you have the helm. You, Brown,” indicating the quartermaster's mate at the wheel, “are relieved.”

Peter Weeks approached the quarterdeck railing. Nothing but the silver boatswain's call looped around his neck with a leather lanyard indicated his rank or his history as a boatswain's mate in USS
President
during the war with France and, after that, as a mate in the Cutler & Sons merchant fleet, including service in
Falcon
during her cruise to the Dutch East Indies. When Weeks had stepped forward to volunteer in
Portsmouth,
Richard had excused him from drawing lots, unwilling to risk losing so valuable a warrant officer to a short straw.

Weeks looked up from the ship's waist and snapped a salute. “You sent for me, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Weeks. We have spotted an enemy cruiser to larboard and we shall clear for action. Have the men stand by the guns and courses and await further orders. We shall not lower away the boats just yet, but prepare the tackle to do that smartly.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Boatswain's pipes sent all hands aloft or alow to execute the evolutions for battle that the ship's officers had drilled into them since the day
Portsmouth
departed Boston. Fires were extinguished and cabin bulkheads dismantled, including those defining the captain's cabin beneath the quarterdeck. The gun deck was hosed down and sprinkled with sand for better footing should blood be spilled. Anything wooden and portable that could explode into lethal shards if struck by enemy shot was stowed in the lazaret or the hold under the orlop—or in the ship's boats to be towed astern. When all was ready, the gun deck resembled what it was built to be: a substantial floating battery devoid of everything and everyone not required to work the guns. Topside, sailors stood by to brail up the main and fore courses while Marine gun crews loaded the smaller 6-pounder guns with grape or round shot. Down on the orlop, the ship's surgeon worked side-by-side with his mates and the loblolly boy to push together the midshipmen's sea chests to fashion an operating table,
then laid out the flesh saws, bone saws, canvas tourniquets, forceps, and other instruments that to the ship's company represented surgical torture and mayhem.