A Call to Arms (40 page)

Richard let out a breath. “Sweet Jesus in heaven,” he said to Agreen. “Both those men deserve a medal for what they just did.” He swung his glass to shore, noting with satisfaction that one shot from
Hornet's
broadside had upended a cannon.
Nautilus,
sailing fast to her aid, unleashed her guns into the confusion ashore and put another cannon out of action. Return fire from the shore battery became more sporadic as
Nautilus
covered
Hornet,
allowing the badly damaged sloop to come about and make good her escape.

Hornet's
resolve, combined with the heroics of officer and sailor and the subsequent action by Lieutenant Dent, inspired the two larger naval vessels to their own heroic deed. Richard Cutler and Isaac Hull ignored their own orders and together sailed to within four cable lengths of the beach. First on one tack, then on the other, they brought their broadsides
to bear on the fort and the palace behind it, pounding, pulverizing, pummeling the enemy until the enemy could take no more and fled.

“T
HEY
'
RE ABANDONING
the fort!” James Cutler exclaimed. Try as he may, he could not maintain an officer's stiff upper lip. “And the palace, by God!”

Eaton, O'Bannon, and Cutler were scrutinizing the town from a high ridge directly above the earthworks built up along the northeast sector. Behind the officers, Sergeant Campbell stood at ease with his six Marines. Further behind stood ninety European mercenaries also at their ease. Below, to the right, on a small promontory jutting out from the ridge, Greek cannoneers made ready the one 6-pounder they had managed to haul up the cliff. It lay flat on a carriage without wheels, its muzzle aimed downward at the earthworks.

“So they have, Mr. Cutler,” Eaton agreed. “So they have. The Navy has done its job. Now it's time to do ours.” He swung his gaze southward and his smug disposition disintegrated. “
Damnation,
Karamanli!” he cursed aloud. “Where
are
you? Bathing your sorry ass in an oasis?” He swung the glass back to the earthworks below them and did a mental count of the soldiers running from the fort and palace to the ravine. “There must be, what, fifty of them?” he asked O'Bannon, who had been doing the same sort of exercise.

“Closer to seventy or eighty, I would say.”

“So adding them to the mix, they have almost a thousand in arms down there?”

O'Bannon nodded. “That would seem a fair estimate, General.”

“A thousand of them to a hundred of us.” Eaton continued to study the defenses through a glass, as though searching for a chink in a suit of armor into which he might thrust a blade. “Ten-to-one odds.” He collapsed the spyglass. “I would say those odds were very much in our favor, were the enemy not so well entrenched. And had we allies we could depend on.” He consulted his waistcoat watch. “Mr. Cutler!”

“Sir?”

“Ride over to Hamet. Find out why he is sitting on his hindquarters. Tell him to attack.
Order
him to attack! And Mr. Cutler?”

“Yes sir?”

“Forget all that nonsense you've learned about being an officer and a gentleman. Remember what I have told you time and time again, that the only way to get these goddamn Arabs to actually
do
anything is to shove the muzzle of a pistol against their forehead or a hot poker up their ass. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

The mile and a half to where Hamet's cavalry was supposed to be arrayed in battle formation behind the rolling hills fringing the southern horizon was tough going. Jamie's horse slid through the loose stones and pebbles, pocked here and there with treacherous hollows. About halfway there Jamie paused for a sip of water. He splashed some onto a handkerchief and was wiping his face and neck when he heard a great shout and the drumming of distant hooves. He turned toward the sound and watched in awe as streams of cavalry cascaded over the southern hills like Saladin's Saracens, their scimitars, muskets, and great green-and-white banners raised high. As they thundered past, Jamie noted the unmistakable markings of Bedouin tribesmen galloping out ahead in a frenzied surge behind their leader, a figure mounted on a steed as cloud-white as his robes, his scimitar pointing skyward at first and then arcing slowly downward until it pointed ahead at those who had usurped his throne.

Mesmerized by the sight of a full-fledged frontal assault of Arab against Arab, Jamie sat stock still in the saddle. Nothing he had witnessed on the march across Cyrenaica suggested that this well-coordinated charge was even remotely possible. Only when erratic gunfire broke out from behind the town's defenses did he tear his eyes away and coax his horse around.

He reached Eaton's position on foot, leading his horse, a moment before the Greek cannoneers fired on the earthworks below. Out to sea, the guns of the naval squadron fell silent. The entire north wall of the palace, save for the low central portions shielded by the fort, was rubble.

The 6-pounder shell struck the ground just in front of the earthworks, sending up a spray of sand and debris. A Greek gunner inserted the quoin one notch. The second shot hit the earthworks squarely, an iron fist pounding a pathway through.

“A few more shots like that and we can parade ourselves in,” Eaton said happily as he scrutinized the southern defenses. What he observed was most encouraging. Hamet's cavalry was leaping over those defenses, forcing the defenders into a haphazard retreat. “Welcome back, Mr. Cutler,” he said blithely to the midshipman beside him. “Now tell me, which was it?”

“Sir?” Jamie was bent forward, his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“Which was it? Cold steel or hot poker? Whichever it was, it was most persuasive.”

“Neither, sir,” Jamie said. “Mr. Karamanli launched his attack before I reached him.”

Eaton smirked but kept his eyes on the promontory below. “I am aware of that, Mr. Cutler. I was watching you. I was being flippant.” Then his face darkened. “
Shit
!”

“What is it, sir?” Jamie asked tentatively.

O'Bannon, standing next to Eaton, answered him. “It seems we've lost the use of our cannon, Mr. Cutler. Evidently one of the Greeks neglected to remove the rammer before firing. Wherever that rammer is now, it's of no use to us.”

R
ICHARD
C
UTLER
, half a mile out to sea, did not observe what happened to the rammer. Nor could he see from the quarterdeck what was happening in the town, although lookouts high up on the frigate's crosstrees reported that Hamet's Arabs had breached Derne's southern defenses and had taken the castle. They had not yet, however, advanced into the town. Enemy defenders had scattered and were either taking refuge in individual buildings or gathering at the south side of the governor's palace. The plan, Richard knew, was for Hamet and Eaton to join forces at that compound. But Hamet was apparently content to stay put and Eaton had not yet launched his attack.

“Why go t' what's left of the palace?” Agreen wondered aloud. He, Lee, and Meyers had joined their captain on the quarterdeck, and all four had their spyglasses trained on Derne. “T' protect the royal governor? It's no place for a last stand.”

“Possibly,” Richard mused, “assuming the royal governor is still in there. Which I doubt. And I doubt he's the one coordinating the town's defenses either. My money is on the commander of the reinforcements from Tripoli. He's obviously a man Yusuf trusts.”

“What of General Eaton, sir?” George Lee asked. “Why isn't he attacking?”

“I don't know, Mr. Lee. I wish I did. Mr. Corbett!”

“Right behind you, sir.”

Richard wheeled about. “Have Mr. Weeks call away the boats. Make ready the first wave of Marines.”

Corbett saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Meyers!”

“Sir!”

“Advise the lookouts to report any movement of any kind the moment it occurs.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

That last order was entirely unnecessary, and every officer aboard knew it. But every officer aboard
Portsmouth
and the other vessels in the squadron also knew that Richard Cutler was the only man among them who had a son ashore on the front line of battle.

“G
ENERAL
, it's past time,” O'Bannon cautioned. “We can't delay any longer. The enemy's number in the ravine is increasing by the minute. Ours is not. We either attack now or stand down.”

“I didn't come all this distance to stand down,” Eaton replied testily. He trained his glass a final time on the old castle in the southwest sector of the town. Hamet was in there, no doubt. He could see his white-robed cavalrymen on the lower ramparts and outside the walls. But he noted with mounting disgust that the soldiers were in no apparent hurry to heed a further call to arms. For the life of him, Eaton could not understand why Hamet was taking his sweet time capitalizing on his advantage. He did, however, understand the probable consequences of his one hundred soldiers going it alone. Dark fury boiled within him anew. To Hamet Karamanli, Eaton and his Christian soldiers were nothing more than sacrificial lambs being led to an altar. “Advise the men to fix bayonets, Mr. O'Bannon.”

O'Bannon turned about. “Sergeant Campbell!”

“Sir!”

“We shall fix bayonets!”

“Sir!”

Campbell issued the order, and soldiers inserted the end of their musket barrels into the attachment loop of their bayonets and turned the double-edged blades firmly to the right, fixing them in place.

Eaton, wearing full undress uniform, mounted his horse. O'Bannon and Jamie mounted theirs. Eaton slid his saber from its sheath and wheeled his horse about to face his command. He raised his saber; “To honor and glory!” he shouted. “Follow me, my brave lads! Today, victory is ours!” He wheeled his horse back around and walked him to the crest of the ridge, then sliced down his saber.

“
Charge
!”

The Marine drummer pounded his drum, and Christian soldiers surged over the ridge. When the last of them had gone over, the young Marine tossed the drum aside, seized his musket, and ran after them.

Arabs in the ravine opened fire in a volley as random in aim as it was ineffectual. To Eaton's supreme satisfaction, as he lurched and
pitched down the sandy slope, there appeared to be no officer down there trained in the art of staged firing—first from one squad, then from another while the first squad reloaded—that could inflict sustained fire upon a charging enemy. Better still, their undisciplined pattern of musketry suggested an enemy unnerved by the blood-curdling screams in many languages and the advancing line of glistening bayonets. By the time the Arabs reloaded, the allied force was more than halfway down the hill and picking up speed on ground becoming firmer and more level with each step.

The second round of enemy fire was as undisciplined as the first. But since it was discharged at a much closer range, it took its toll. One Marine fell, then another. Behind them, a score of mercenaries collapsed onto their knees or staggered forward before falling facedown on the rocky ground. Suddenly, directly ahead of Jamie Cutler, General Eaton jerked on the reins of his horse and grabbed hold of his left wrist. The horse's front legs buckled, throwing Eaton off. Jamie reined in, dismounted, and ran to where Eaton was struggling to get up. Americans and Europeans streamed past him, hard behind Lieutenant O'Bannon, now leading the charge.

“General, you're hit, sir!” Jamie said when he reached the general's side. He helped Eaton to a sitting position as the battle raged just a few yards away. The Christian soldiers surged relentlessly forward, pushing back their adversaries.

Eaton grimaced with pain. “It's my wrist,” he said. Musket shot kicked up the ground around them, some shot ricocheting unpredictably. “But praise God I don't think it's serious.” He held up his wrist for closer inspection. Surprisingly, there was little blood. “Look at that. Bastard went clean through it. There's a hole on either side.”

“Here, sir, allow me.” Jamie shook off his uniform coat and withdrew a small dirk at his belt. Holding his shirt out from his stomach, he sliced downward from his chest, cutting off a sizable strip of cotton cloth, which he wrapped tightly around the wound and secured with two double knots fashioned from pieces torn at the cloth's ends. “That should hold it for now, sir.”

Eaton flexed his fingers and turned his wrist this way and that. “Excellent work, Mr. Cutler,” he said. A chance shot from an enemy musket dug in dangerously close. “Your ship's surgeon would be proud. I have one final favor to ask: the use of your horse. Mine had the good sense to run off.”

“She's yours, General.”

“Thank you.” Eaton found his hat, put a foot in a stirrup, and with effort swung himself aboard the roan. He looked down at Jamie and touched the front of his hat. “See you at the palace, Mr. Cutler.”

“
Argus
IS SIGNALING
, Captain.”

Richard Cutler was pacing back and forth on the weather side of the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Crabtree was keeping pace step for step.

Richard stopped short. “How does the message read, Agee?”