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[Illustration: The meeting of the two young captains.]


DECATUR AND SOMERS

by

M. ELLIOT SEAWELL

Author of Paul Jones, Little Jarvis, Midshipman Paulding, Children of
Destiny, Maid Marian, Throckmorton, etc.

Illustrated


[Illustration: D.A.&C.]


Third Edition






New York
D. Appleton and Company
1896

Copyright, 1894,
By D. Appleton and Company.

Electrotyped and Printed
at the Appleton Press, U. S. A.




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                             FACING PAGE
  The meeting of the two young captains.                  _Frontispiece_
                           W. Granville Smith
  The new master’s mate.                                              12
                           W. Granville Smith
  The sinking of the French privateer.                                23
                             J. O. Davidson
  The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate.                     51
                             J. O. Davidson
  The expedition to destroy the Philadelphia.                        108
                              George Gibbs
  Exploding the “infernal” at Tripoli.                               165
                           F. Cresson Schell




                          DECATUR AND SOMERS.




                               CHAPTER I.


The blue and beautiful Delaware Bay, bathed in a faint haze, looked its
loveliest, one evening about sunset, in June, 1798. The sky above was
clear, and, although there was no moon, the stars were coming out
brilliantly in the sky, that was of a darker blue than the water. The
sun had gone down, but the west was rosy yet. The green, low-lying
country around looked ineffably peaceful, and the only sound that broke
the charmed silence was the rattling of the capstan as a noble frigate,
lying in the stream, hove up her anchor.

Although the brief, enchanted twilight was over all the earth and sea,
the graceful outlines of this lovely frigate were clearly defined
against the opaline sky. She was stoutly sparred, but in such exquisite
proportions that from her rail up she had the delicate beauty of a
yacht. But one look at her lofty hull, and the menacing armament she
carried showed that she could take care of herself in a fight, as well
as run away when she had enough of it. Every rope and every spar was
“ship-shape and Bristol fashion.” Her bright work shone like gold, and
the rows of glistening hammocks in the nettings were as white as snow.
Everything about her was painted an immaculate white, except the hull,
which was a polished black. A gorgeous figure-head ornamented her keen
bows, and across her stern, in great gold letters, was her name—United
States. Such, indeed, was her official name, but from the day she had
first kissed the water she had been nicknamed “Old Wagoner,” because of
the steadiness with which she traveled. Other vessels might be delayed
by vexing calms, but “Old Wagoner” was pretty sure to strike a favoring
breeze that seemed specially reserved for her. And when old Boreas was
in a rage, it was in vain that he poured out all the fury of his
tempests upon her. She could go through a roaring gale like a stormy
petrel, and come out of it without losing a sail or a spar.

A little way off from “Old Wagoner” lay a trim and handsome little
sloop-of-war carrying twenty guns—the Delaware—a fit companion for the
great frigate. On both ships were indications of speedy departure, and
all the orderly bustle that accompanies making sail on a ship of war.
The boats were all hoisted in except the first cutter, and that was
being pulled rapidly through the fast-darkening water. In it was a very
young lieutenant, who was afterward to distinguish himself as Commodore
Stewart, and two young midshipmen, just joined, and each of the three
was destined to add something to the reputation that “Old Wagoner”
gained in after-years, of having been a nursery of naval heroes.

Both of these young midshipmen were about eighteen. One of
them—Decatur—looked older, from his height and strength, as well as from
his easy and confident address. The other one—Somers—seemed younger,
because of a singularly quiet and diffident manner. The lieutenant, in
the stern-sheets, engaged in steering the cutter through the mist upon
the water without colliding with any of the fishing smacks with which
the bay was dotted, yet found time to ask some questions of the young
midshipmen, with whom he had long been well acquainted.

“I think you two have always been together, have you not?” he asked,
keeping meanwhile a bright lookout.

“Yes,” answered Decatur, showing his white teeth in a smile. “We have
been together ever since we were born, it seems to me. We both remember
you when we were at school in Philadelphia, although you were so much
older than we.”

“I recollect you both perfectly,” answered Stewart, “although you were
such little fellows. Somers was the quietest fellow in the school, and
you, Decatur, were the noisiest.”

“I believe you,” said Decatur, laughing. “I could have gone with my
father on the Delaware,” pointing to the smart little sloop-of-war, “but
I could not think of leaving Somers alone to fight it out in the
steerage of the United States all by himself.”

At this Somers turned his eyes on Stewart, with a laugh in them. They
were very black and soft, and full of humor, although Somers neither
laughed nor talked much.

“Don’t mind Decatur, Mr. Stewart,” he said. “Captain Decatur didn’t want
him on the Delaware.”

“I should think not,” replied Stewart. “I can’t imagine anything more
uncomfortable than for a captain to have his own son among the junior
officers. Captains, you know, have to understand what to see and what
not to see. But a captain with his own son in the steerage would have to
see everything.”

“Just what my father said,” added Decatur; “and, besides, he really did
tell me he would like to keep Somers and me together for our first
cruise, because Somers is such a steady old coach that he is fit to be
the guardian of every midshipman in the navy.”

“I wish there were more like him, then,” said Stewart, with rather a
grim smile, remembering what a larky set of youngsters the steerage of
“Old Wagoner” harbored. “Let me give you each one piece of advice,” he
added, as they drew close to the frigate’s great black hull, that loomed
up darkly in the uncertain haze. “Decatur, do you be careful what you
say to your messmates—Somers, do you be careful what you allow your
messmates to say to you. Decatur will be too quick to take the other
midshipmen up, and you, Somers, will be too slow.”

“Thank you, sir,” said both Somers and Decatur together, who appreciated
Stewart’s few words of caution.

Just then the band on the poop of “Old Wagoner” burst into “The Girl I
Left Behind Me.” The music rang over the darkening water with a charming
sound, and the capstan rattled around at the liveliest possible rate,
while the men worked, inspired by the melody. The boat was quickly
brought alongside, and, just as Stewart and the two young midshipmen
stepped on board, the officer of the deck called out the quick order:
“Strike the bell eight! Call the watch!”

The boatswain, with his mates, had been standing ready, and as soon as
eight bells struck he piped up “Attention!” and was answered by all his
mates in quick succession. Then he blew a musical winding call, ending
suddenly by singing out, in a rich bass, “All the watch!” This, too, was
answered, every voice deeper than the other, and then the watch came
tumbling up the hatchways. The wheel and chain were relieved, the
officer of the deck perceived his own relief coming, and put on a
cheerful smile. While all the busy commotion of relieving the watch was
going on, Decatur and Somers were paying their respects to Commodore
Barry, who commanded the ship—an old Revolutionary officer, handsome and
seamanlike, who gloried in his beautiful ship, and was every inch a
sailor.

The wind had been stealing up for some little time, and as soon as the
anchor was lifted, “Old Wagoner” shook out all her plain sails and
shaped her course for the open sea.

Decatur and Somers, on going below, were introduced to their messmates,
Bainbridge, Spence, and others, and were shown where to sling their
hammocks. Decatur directed everything in their joint arrangements,
Somers quietly acquiescing—so much so that he overheard one of the
midshipmen say knowingly to the others, “I think our new messmate is the
sort of fellow who likes to be under the lee of the mizzenmast better
than any other place on deck.” Somers did not quite take in that he was
referred to, and went on very calmly stowing his traps away. Decatur did
not hear the remark.

Dinner was served promptly in the steerage, and by that time “Old
Wagoner” was dashing along in great style, with every sail drawing like
a windlass.

At dinner the prospects of their cruise were freely discussed. The
United States Government having on hand the _quasi_ war with France, the
frigate and the sloop of war were under orders to sail to the West
Indies, and to clear out the great number of fleet French privateers
that were playing havoc with American commerce. Each midshipman
expressed the conviction that “we’ll meet some of those rattling good
French frigates; and when ‘Old Wagoner’ barks up, they’ll either have to
leg it faster than she can, or they’ll be chewed up—that’s certain.”
Likewise all of them fully believed that they would return from the
cruise covered with glory, and with a hundred thousand dollars each in
prize money. The views of the older officers up in the wardroom were
more conservative; but with a lot of merry, reckless young midshipmen
the roseate hue always prevails.

Decatur, with his dashing manner, his fine figure, and his ready laugh,
became instantly popular. Somers’s quietness was not very well
understood, and before the day was out, Decatur was asked with the
frankness of the steerage, if “Somers wasn’t a little—er—rather a
milksop?”

“You think so?” answered Decatur, with a grin. “Very well. I’ve known
Somers ever since I was born. We went to our first school together—and
our last—and I tell you, for your own good, that you had better mind
your p’s and q’s with that sort of a milksop.”

Everything progressed very pleasantly for the first day or two, but it
was impossible that two new arrivals in the steerage could escape the
“running” which, according to the code prevailing then, makes a man of a
midshipman. Decatur achieved an instant popularity, so that the pranks
played on him were comparatively mild, and were taken with laughing good
nature. Somers was also amiable enough in regard to his “running.” In
fact he was too amiable, for his messmates rather resented his want of
spirit, as they mistakenly supposed. Therefore it was that, three times
in one day, Somers was told that he was “too fond of the lee of the
mizzenmast.”

“That means,” said Somers quietly, and looking the youngster in the face
who last made the remark, “that you think I haven’t much spunk? Very
well. We shall both be off duty until to-night. Couldn’t we go to some
quiet place in the hold where we could have it out?”

“Fighting is strictly prohibited on board ship,” sung out Bainbridge,
one of the older midshipmen, in a sarcastic voice.

“Squabbling, you mean,” chimed in another one. “That, I grant you, is
unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; but when two fellows have a
falling out in the steerage, why, the regulation squints exactly the
other way; it means that the two fellows _must_ have it out, like
gentlemen, and no bad blood afterward.”

“Just what I think,” said Somers; “and as I hate fighting, I want to get
through with all I shall have to do in that way in as short a time as
possible; so I will settle with two other young gentlemen to-day against
whom I have an account. Then, if I get my eye blacked, I will only have
one hauling over the coals for three scrimmages.”

“You don’t mean to fight three fellows in one day?” asked Bainbridge in
surprise.

“Yes,” answered Somers nonchalantly.—“Decatur, you settle the
particulars,” and he walked off, as composed as ever.

“I told you fellows what a Trojan Somers was when he was started,”
remarked Decatur, “and now you’ll see for yourselves. He is wiry and as
strong as a buffalo, and he is first-class with his fists, and—— Well,
you’ll see!”

As these little affairs were conducted strictly according to the code,
they were arranged in a very business like manner. Fair play was the
watchword, and all the midshipmen who were off duty assembled to see the
fun. When Somers had knocked the wind out of his first adversary and
brought him to apologize, it was proposed that the other affairs should
be postponed; but Somers, being in for it, and the exercise rather
warming his blood, invited his persecutor Number Two to “come on.” He
came on, with disastrous results in the way of a good, wholesome
pounding and a swelled nose. The third encounter following, Decatur
begged Somers to be allowed to take his place.

“Why, I’m like Paul Jones!” cried Somers, laughing, as he sponged off
his neck and head. “I haven’t begun to fight yet.”

True it was that Somers was then perfectly able to do up Number Three in
fine style. As he stood astride over his opponent, who frankly
acknowledged himself whipped, a mighty cheer went up from the
surrounding audience of midshipmen, and every one of them, including his
late opponents, came forward to shake Somers’s hand. The noise of the
cheer penetrated from the hold up to the wardroom, where some of the
lieutenants were sitting around. Stewart smiled significantly.

“I think I know what that means,” he said. “The fellows have been
running a rig on Somers, and I predict he has come out ahead. That
fellow has an indomitable spirit under that quiet outside.”

Some hours afterward, when Somers had to report on deck, he bore
unmistakable marks of his encounters. His nose was considerably larger
than usual, one eye had a black patch over it, and there was a bit of
skin missing from his chin.

Stewart, looking at him attentively, could scarcely keep his face
straight as he remarked:

“Falling down the ladder, I presume, Mr. Somers, from your appearance.
You should be careful, though, not to fall down too often.”

“Yes, sir, I did fall down,” answered Somers, very diplomatically,
without mentioning that, when he fell, a messmate was on top of him.

That day’s work established Somers’s popularity in the steerage, and the
three midshipmen whom he had pommeled became his staunch friends. “And
I’ll tell you what,” he announced, “this is the last fighting I’ll do
while I am in this mess. You fellows may walk over me if you like,
before I will take the trouble to lick any more of you.”

But nobody walked over him after that.

Decatur gave immediate promise of brilliancy as a seaman; but Somers was
not far behind, and his uncommon steadiness recommended him highly to
the lieutenants. Stewart, dining one night in the cabin with the
commodore, was giving his impressions of the junior officers to the
commander, who wished to appoint a master’s mate of the hold—a place
always given to the most reliable and best informed of the midshipmen.

“They are all as fine a lot of youngsters, sir, as I ever saw. That
young Decatur is a remarkable fellow. He finds out more than any of the
rest, because he never has to ask the same thing twice. Before he had
been on board a week he knew every rope and where each is belayed; and
the clever youngster writes with a pencil, behind the rail, everything
he is told. There’s a very good manual of seamanship written under the
starboard rail, and Decatur and Somers may be seen every day, when they
are not on duty, putting their heads together and studying it out.”

“And how about young Somers?” asked the commodore.

“Somers is the only one who rivals Decatur, and I must say I consider
him the best-balanced young fellow of his age I ever knew. His messmates
have nicknamed him ‘Old Reliable.’ He is not so brilliant a boy as
Decatur, but he is steady to the utmost degree. Nothing flusters him. He
is never too early, and never too late; he goes on his way quietly, and
I do not think he has had a reproof since he has been on board. And he
evidently studied seamanship thoroughly before he was commissioned—just
what I should expect of such a long-headed fellow.”

“Then Somers shall be master’s mate of the hold,” said the commodore,
decisively.

Next day Somers was sent for to the cabin and informed of the
commodore’s choice. He merely said: “Thank you, sir; I shall do my
best.” But Commodore Barry felt well assured that Somers’s “best” was a
good “best.”

Somers went down to the midshipmen’s dinner that day, and said nothing
of his appointment. Each of the reefers was eager to get the place of
trust, and they began talking of it. Somers wished to tell them of his
good fortune, but a kind of bashfulness restrained him. He turned red,
though, and became more silent than usual. Decatur, who sat next him,
looked keenly at him.

“Somers, something is up, I see; and I believe—I believe you are going
to be master’s mate,” he said.

Somers blushed more than ever as he answered: “I _am_ master’s mate. I
was appointed to-day.”

Decatur, with one stretch of his powerful arm, raised his chum up
standing.

“You good-for-nothing lubber, _you_ are made master’s mate, while
Bainbridge and Spence, and all the rest of us that are worth ten of you,
are passed over! I’m going to prefer charges against the commodore for
gross favoritism in giving you the appointment.”

Somers always submitted to this sort of horse-play from Decatur without
the slightest resistance, and the effect was very comical. Decatur,
after shaking him vigorously, plumped him back in his chair, when Somers
calmly resumed his dinner as if nothing had occurred.

“Mr. Somers,” said Bainbridge politely—who was the oldest midshipman on
board, and, as caterer of the mess, sat at the head of the table—“the
officers of this mess have very grave doubts of your fitness for the
place to which the unwarranted partiality of the commodore has elevated
you; and we desire to form some idea of how extensive are your
disqualifications. Suppose, sir, this ship were proceeding with a fair
wind, under all sail except one topmast studding sail, and you were
officer of the deck. Suppose again, sir, that the alarm were given, ‘Man
overboard!’ and you should perceive that _my_ dignified corporosity was
the man overboard. Now, please state to me, Mr. Somers, categorically,
what would be the first thing you would do in such an emergency?”

                [Illustration: _The new master’s mate._]

Somers laid down his knife and fork, folded his arms and reflected for a
few moments, and finally answered:

“This is what I should do, Mr. Bainbridge: I should immediately order
the other topmast studding sail to be set, if she’d draw, with a view to
increase the speed of the ship.”

A roar of laughter succeeded this, which was repressed by Bainbridge
sternly rapping for order.

“Gentlemen, this is not the undignified cabin or the disorderly
wardroom. This—please remember—is the model mess of the ship, the
steerage mess, and order must be preserved, if I have to lick every one
of you to get it.”

“Spence,” said Decatur, holding out his plate and trembling violently,
“G-give me some of that salt horse. It may be the l-l-last time, dear
Spence, that we shall ever eat salt horse together. When the discipline
of this ship is so relaxed that Somers, who doesn’t know a marlin-spike
from the mainmast, is promoted, it’s time we were all making our wills.
Our time is short, Spence; so give me a good helping, old man.”

“I know more seamanship than all of you lubbers put together,” quietly
remarked Somers, going on with his dinner.

“Hear! hear!” cried Bainbridge. “Mr. Somers, you are facetious to-day.”

Decatur, at this, got up and went to the nook that he and Somers
occupied together. He came back with a black bottle labeled “Cherry
bounce.”

“Gentlemen,” said he, “Mr. Somers feels so acutely your kind expressions
of confidence in him, that he begs you will drink his health in this
bottle of cherry bounce which he has been saving up for this auspicious
occasion.”

Somers said nothing as his cherry bounce was liberally distributed,
leaving only a very small glass of the dregs and heel-taps for himself;
and his good nature under so much chaff made the reefers more jolly than
ever. His health, with many pious wishes that he might learn to know a
handy-billy when he saw it, was drunk with all honors; and as a great
favor he was permitted to drink his one small glass in peace. In the
midst of the jollity a commotion was heard overhead, and the cry of
“Sail, ho!” In another moment every midshipman made a dash for the
gangway and ran on deck.

Nearly every officer of the frigate was there too. Commodore Barry glass
in hand, watched from the flying bridge, a sail off the starboard
quarter. By the squareness of her yards and the symmetry of her sails
she was evidently a ship of war, and was coming down fast. The Delaware,
which sailed equally as well as “Old Wagoner,” was close by to
starboard. On sighting the strange and menacing ship, the Delaware was
seen to bear up and draw nearer her consort—for it was well known that a
contest with a French ship would by no means be declined by any American
ship. Commodore Barry, who was a veteran of the glorious days of Paul
Jones and the gallant though infant navy of the Revolution, was more
than willing to engage. Every moment showed more and more clearly the
character and force of the stranger. The day was bright and cloudless,
and, as they were in the sunny atmosphere of West India waters, objects
could be seen at a great distance. The frigate was remarkably handsome
and sailed well. The Americans counted more than twenty portholes, and
very accurately guessed her to be one of the great fifty-gun frigates of
which both the French and the English had many at that day. If she were
French, it meant a fight; and so nearly matched were the two frigates
that it would be the squarest sort of a fight.

The excitement on the ships was intense. Several of the more active
officers clambered up the shrouds, while the rigging was full of men
eager to make out the advancing ship, which was coming along at a good
gait; and all were eager to know what colors the commodore would show.

“Mr. Ross,” said Commodore Barry, turning to his first lieutenant, “we
will show French colors; if he is a ‘Mounseer,’ it will encourage him to
make our acquaintance.”

The quartermaster, Danny Dixon, a handsome, fresh-faced sailor of middle
age, who had served under the immortal Paul Jones, quickly produced
French colors, and amid breathless silence he ran them up.

The stranger was now not more than a mile distant. She had worn no
colors, but on seeing French colors run up at the American frigate’s
peak, in another moment she too displayed the tricolored flag of France.

At that an involuntary cheer broke from the gallant fellows on “Old
Wagoner.” Decatur, behind the commodore’s back, deliberately turned a
double handspring, while even the dignified Somers executed a slight
pirouette.

As for the men, they dropped down upon the deck like magic, and every
man ran to his station. Commodore Barry straightened himself up, and the
old fire of battle, that had slumbered since the glorious days of the
Revolution, shone in his eyes under his shaggy brows.

“Mr. Ross,” said he, turning to his first lieutenant, “we are in good
luck—in excellent good luck, sir. Signal to the Delaware to keep off. I
think the officers and men of this ship would feel hurt if we should mar
the beauty of the game we are about to play by having odds in our favor;
and call the men to quarters without the tap of the drum. The first man
who cheers until we have hailed will be sent below, to remain until
after the engagement. I desire to come to close quarters, without
telling any more about ourselves than our friend the enemy can find
out.”

In the midst of a dead silence the signal was made to the Delaware. Only
Decatur whispered to Somers, whose station was next his:

“Poor old dad! He’d give all his old boots if he could have a share in
the scrimmage.”

The Delaware then hauled off, making a short tack, and going no farther
away than she could help. The strange frigate, whose trim and ship-shape
appearance grew plainer at every moment, was now nearly within hail. The
American, preparing to bear up and run off as a preliminary to the
action, the first lieutenant, under the commander’s eye, stood near the
wheel, while Danny Dixon took the spokes.

In the midst of the breathless silence, while the strange frigate
continued to advance, shortening sail meanwhile, and with her men at
quarters and her batteries lighted up, Mr. Ross, watching the trim of
“Old Wagoner’s” sails, sung out:

“Give her a good full, quartermaster!”

“A good full, sir,” answered old Danny steadily, and expecting the next
order to be “Hard aport!”

But at that moment Commander Barry dashed his glass down with an
impatient exclamation. “We are truly unfortunate, gentlemen. She is
English. Look at her marines!”

At the same instant the stranger, discovering the American’s character,
quickly hauled down her French colors and showed the union jack. A loud
groan burst from the American sailors, who saw all their hopes of glory
and prize money vanish; and it was answered by a corresponding groan
from the British tars, who felt a similar disappointment, having taken
the American to be a Frenchman.

Commodore Barry then ordered her to be hailed, and the first lieutenant
called through the trumpet: “This is the American frigate United States,
forty guns, Commodore Barry. Who are you?”

“This is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Thetis, fifty guns, Captain
Langley.”

Both ships were on the same tack and going at about the same
speed, about half a mile apart. Commodore Barry then hailed again,
asking if the English captain had any news of two crack French
frigates—L’Insurgente and La Vengeance—that were supposed to be cruising
in that station. No answer was returned to this, although it was called
out twice. This vexed Commodore Barry, as it did every officer and man
aboard.

“Wot a pity,” growled Danny Dixon, the quartermaster, to his mates,
“that somebody hadn’t ’a’ axerdentally—jist axerdentally, you
know—pulled a lockstring and fired one o’ them starboard guns! The
Britishers ain’t the sort to refuse a fight; they would ’a’ fired back
cocksure, and we could ’a’ had a friendly tussle and found out which
were the best ship, and then it could ’a’ been fixed up
arterwards—’cause ’twould ’a’ been all a axerdent, you know.”

This was agreed with by all of Danny’s messmates, as they left their
stations and gathered forward. The two ships were now abreast of each
other, and the distance between them was being quickly decreased by
Commodore Barry’s orders, who himself took the deck. They were not more
than two cables’ lengths apart. The English frigate, which had taken in
considerable of her canvas, now took in her royals. The American ship
followed suit, so that in a little while both ships had come down to a
five-knot gait, although there was a good breeze blowing. They were near
enough to hear conversation and laughter on the English ship, and the
men gathered on the fok’sl of the Thetis called out loudly to each
other, as if to emphasize the rudeness of not returning the hails of the
American ship. In the midst of a perfect silence on the United States,
which was soon followed on the Thetis, Danny Dixon, who had a stentorian
voice, swung himself in the forechains and began to sing as loud as he
could bawl:

  “Boney is a great man,
    A soldier brave and true,
  But the British they can lick him,
    On land and water, too!”

This produced a roaring cheer from the British. The Americans, who knew
what was coming next, waited, grinning broadly until the laugh should be
on their side. The men gathered on the Thetis’s port side, and the
officers hung over the rail to catch the next verse. As soon as the
cheering was over, Danny fairly shouted, in a voice that could be heard
a mile:

  “But greater still, and braver far,
    And tougher than shoe leather,
  Was Washington, the man wot could
    Have licked ’em both together!”

At this “Old Wagoner’s” deck fairly shook with the thunders of cheers
from the Americans, the midshipmen joining in with leather lungs, the
grave Somers yelling like a wild Indian, while Decatur executed a
war-dance of triumph.

The Thetis, as if disgusted with the turn of affairs, set her royals and
all her studding sails, and began to leg it at a lively pace. “Old
Wagoner” followed her example, and the men sprang into the rigging and
set exactly the same sails. But they found within five minutes that the
American could sail better, both on and off the wind, as she followed
the Thetis in her tacks. The Thetis then, keeping her luff, furled sail
on the mizzen and took in royals and studding sails. The American did
precisely the same thing, and, as she still sailed faster, an old sail
containing kentledge was ostentatiously hung astern and acted as a drag,
keeping the two ships together.

This evidently infuriated the British, but they had found out that the
American could walk around the Thetis like a cooper around a cask. They
did not care to test it further, and the Thetis therefore sailed
sullenly along for half an hour more. The Americans were delighted,
especially Commodore Barry, who handled his trumpet as gayly as if he
were a midshipman on his first tour of duty as deck officer. He next
ordered the topsails lowered. This brought the American down very slow
indeed, and she rapidly fell astern of the Thetis. The English thought
that their tormentors were now gone. The Americans, suspecting some
_ruse_ of the commodore’s, were all on the alert. Presently the
commodore cried out jovially:

“Now’s the time for carrying all hard sail!” and in five minutes “Old
Wagoner” seemed literally to burst into one great white cloud of canvas
from truck to rail. Everything that would draw was set; and the breeze,
which was every moment growing stronger, carried her along at a
perfectly terrific pace. She shot past the Thetis, her gigantic spread
of canvas eating the wind out of the Englishman’s sails and throwing
them aback, and as she flew by another roaring cheer went up from the
Americans.

The fun, however, was not over yet. Having got well in advance of the
Thetis, “Old Wagoner” bore up, and, hauling her wind, dashed directly
across the forefoot of the English ship as the Englishman came slowly
on.

All the cheering that had preceded was as nothing when this neat
manœuvre was accomplished. The old Commodore, giving the trumpet back to
the officer of the deck, was greeted with three cheers and a tiger, and
every officer and man on board gloried in the splendid qualities of the
ship and her gallant old commander.

The brilliant visions of the midshipmen of yardarm-and-yardarm fights
with French frigates, with promotion, and prize money galore, failed to
materialize, although they had several sharp encounters with fleet
French privateers that infested the waters of the French West Indies.
With them it was a trial of seamanship, because, if ever a privateer got
under the guns of “Old Wagoner,” small was her chance of escape. But the
American proved to be a first-class sailer, and nothing that she chased
got away from her. Several privateers were captured, but the midshipmen
groaned in spirit over the absence of anything like a stand-up fight.

It did not seem likely that they would make a port for some time to
come. Early in February, cruising to windward of Martinique, they ran
across the French privateer Tartuffe—and Tartuffe she proved. She was a
beautiful little brigantine, with six shining brass guns, and her
captain evidently thought she could take care of herself; for when the
United States gave chase and fired a gun from her bow-chasers, the saucy
little privateer fired a gun back and took to her heels.

         [Illustration: _The sinking of the French privateer._]

It was on a bright February afternoon that the chase began. The
midshipmen, elated by their triumph in sailing with the great English
frigate, thought it would be but child’s play to overhaul the Frenchman.
But they had counted without their host, and they had no fool to play
with. In vain did “Old Wagoner” crowd on sail; the Tartuffe managed to
keep just out of gunshot. All the afternoon the exciting chase
continued, and when night fell a splendid moon rose which made the sea
almost as light as day. Both ships set every stitch of canvas that would
draw, and at daybreak it was found that the frigate had in all those
hours gained only a mile or two on the brigantine. However, that was
enough to bring her within range of “Old Wagoner’s” batteries. The
American then fired another gun as a signal for the Frenchman to haul
down his colors. But, to their surprise, the Tartuffe went directly
about, her yards flying round like a windmill, and her captain
endeavored to run directly under the broadside of the United States
before the heavier frigate could come about. One well-directed shot
between wind and water stopped the Frenchman’s bold manœuvre. She began
at once to fill and settle, and her ensign was hauled down.

Commodore Barry, on seeing this, cried out:

“Lower away the first cutter!” and Decatur, being the officer in charge
of that boat, dropped into her stern sheets and pulled for the
Frenchman. Commodore Barry, leaning over the side, called out, laughing,
to Decatur:

“I wish you to treat the Frenchman as if he were the captain of a
forty-four-gun frigate coming aboard to surrender her. He has made a
gallant run.”

Decatur, bearing this in mind, put off for the brigantine. The sun was
just rising in glory, and as he saw, in the clearness of the day, the
plight of the pretty brigantine, he felt an acute pity. Her company of
sixty men crowded to the rail, while her captain stood on the bridge,
giving his orders as coolly as if his ship were coming to anchor in a
friendly port. Decatur, seeing that his boat would be swamped if he came
near enough for the men to jump in, called out to the captain, saluting
him meanwhile, and asking if he would come off in one of the
brigantine’s boats, while the Tartuffe’s helm could be put up, as she
was still able to get alongside the United States, and her people could
be transferred.

“Sairtainly, sir—sairtainly,” answered the French captain, politely, in
his queer English.

In a few moments the boat containing the captain came alongside the
cutter, and the Frenchman stepped aboard. He took his seat very coolly
by Decatur in the stern-sheets, and then, putting a single eyeglass in
his eye, he cried out, with a well-affected start of surprise: “Is zat
ze American flag I see flying? And am I captured by ze Americans?”

“Yes,” answered Decatur, trying not to smile.

“But I did not know zat ze United States was at war wiz France.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Decatur. “But you found out, probably, from the
American merchant vessels you captured, that France was at war with the
United States.”

At that the Frenchman laughed in spite of his defeat.

“I can stand a leetle thing like this,” he said. “I have had much good
luck, and when I tell my countrymen it took your cracque frigate
fourteen hours to catch me—parbleu, zey will not think I have done ill.”

“You are quite right, sir,” answered Decatur. “You gave us more trouble
to overhaul than a ‘cracque’ English frigate.”

The commodore and his officers all treated the brave French captain as
if he had been captain of a man-of-war; and as he proved to be a
pleasant, entertaining fellow, he enlivened the ship very much.

But Commodore Barry was anxious to get rid of so many prisoners, which
encumbered the ship, and he determined to stand for Guadeloupe, in the
hope of effecting an exchange of prisoners. He therefore entered
Basseterre Roads, on a lovely morning a few days after capturing and
sinking the Tartuffe. A white flag flying at the gaff showed that he was
bent on a peaceful errand. Everything, however, was in readiness in case
the men should have to go to quarters. Although the ports were open the
guns were not run out, nor were their tompions withdrawn. The French
captain, standing on the quarter-deck in his uniform, was easily
recognizable.

The beautiful harbor of Guadeloupe, with its circlet of warlike forts,
looked peculiarly attractive to the eyes of seamen who had been cruising
for many long months. “Old Wagoner” had been newly painted, and as she
stood in the Roads, under all her square canvas, she was a perfect
picture of a ship. Just as they came abreast of the first fort, however,
the land battery let fly, and a shower of cannon balls plowed up the
water about two hundred yards from the advancing ship.

“Haul down that white flag!” thundered Commodore Barry, and Danny Dixon
rushed to the halyards and dragged it down in a jiffy, and in another
minute the roll of the drums, as the drummer boys marched up and down
beating “quarters,” resounded through the ship. The French captain,
mortified at the treacherous action of the forts, quickly drew his cap
over his eyes and went below.

The United States then, with every gun manned and shotted, sailed within
gunshot of the first fort that had offered the insult, and, backing her
topsails, gave a broadside that sent the masonry tumbling about the ears
of the garrison and dismounting several guns. This was followed up by
another and another broadside, all accurately aimed, and knocking the
fort considerably to pieces. Then, still under short canvas, she slowly
sailed around the whole harbor, paying her compliments to every fort
within gunshot, but without firing a gun into the helpless town. And
when “Old Wagoner” drew off and made her way back to the open ocean, it
was conceded that she had served the Frenchmen right for their
unchivalrous proceeding.

The whole spring was spent in cruising, and it was the first of June
when, on a Sunday morning, the ship being anchored, the boatswain and
his eight mates, standing in line on the port gangway, piped up that
sound so dear to every sailor’s heart, “All hands up anchor for home!”
At the same moment the long red pennant, that signifies the ship is
homeward bound, was joyfully hoisted at the main, and “Old Wagoner”
turned her nose toward home. Just one year from the time they had left
the Delaware, Decatur and Somers set foot again upon the green shore of
the beautiful bay—happier, wiser, and better fellows for their year in
the steerage of the fine old frigate.




                              CHAPTER II.


The leave enjoyed by Decatur and Somers was brief, and before the summer
of 1801 was out they were forced to part. For the first time in their
young lives their paths were to diverge for a short while, and to be
reunited in the end. But their separation was for a reason honorable to
both. Decatur was appointed first lieutenant in the frigate Essex—like
most of those early ships of the American navy, destined to a splendid
career. She was commanded by Captain Bainbridge, whose fate was
afterward strangely linked with that of his young first lieutenant. The
Essex was one of a squadron of three noble frigates ordered to the
Mediterranean, under the command of Commodore Richard Dale; and this
Richard Dale had been the first lieutenant of Paul Jones, the glory of
the American navy, in the immortal fight between the Bon Homme Richard
and the Serapis. The association with such a man as Commodore Dale was
an inspiration to an enthusiast like Decatur; and as he found that Danny
Dixon was one of the quartermasters on the Essex, it was not likely that
there would be any lack of reminiscences of Paul Jones.

Somers’s appointment was to the Boston, a fine sloop-of-war carrying
twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain McNeill. He was destined to many
adventures before again meeting Decatur, for Captain McNeill was one of
the oddities of the American navy, who, although an able seaman and a
good commander, preferred to conduct his cruise according to his own
ideas and in defiance of instructions from home. This Somers found out
the instant he stepped upon the Boston’s deck at New York. The Essex was
at New York also, and the two friends had traveled from Philadelphia
together. Out in the stream lay the President, flying a commodore’s
broad pennant.

“And although, ‘being grand first luffs,’ we can’t be shipmates, yet
we’ll both be in the same squadron, Dick!” cried Decatur.

“True,” answered Somers, “and a Mediterranean cruise! Think of the
oldsters that would like to go to Europe, instead of us youngsters!”

So their anticipations were cheerful enough, each thinking their
separation but temporary, and that for three years certainly they would
serve in the same squadron.

The two friends reached New York late at night, and early next morning
each reported on board his ship. The Essex was a small but handsome
frigate, mounting thirty-two guns, and was lying close by the Boston at
the dock. As the two young lieutenants, neither of whom was more than
twenty-one, came in sight of their ships, each hugged himself at the
contemplation of his luck in getting so good a one. Decatur’s interview
with Captain Bainbridge was pleasant, although formal. Captain
Bainbridge knew Captain Decatur well, and made civil inquiries about
Decatur’s family and congratulations upon James Decatur—Stephen’s
younger brother—having lately received a midshipman’s appointment.
Captain Bainbridge introduced him to the wardroom, and Decatur realized
that at one bound he had cleared the gulf between the first place in the
steerage and the ranking officer in the wardroom.

All this took but an hour or two of time, and presently Decatur found
himself standing on the dock and waiting for Somers, who had left the
Boston about the same time. As Somers approached, his usual somber face
was smiling. Something ludicrous had evidently occurred.

“What is it?” hallooed Decatur.

Somers took Decatur’s arm before answering, and as they strolled along
the busy streets near the harbor he told his story amid bursts of
laughter:

“Well, I went on board, and was introduced into the captain’s cabin.
There sat Captain McNeill, a red-headed old fellow, with a squint; but
you can’t help knowing that he is a man of force. He talks through his
nose, and what he says is like himself—very peculiar.

“‘Now, Mr. Somers,’ said he, drawling, ‘I daresay you look forward to a
devil of a gay time at the Mediterranean ports, with all that squadron
that Dale has got to show off with.’ I was a good deal taken aback, but
I said Yes, I did. ‘Very well, sir, make up your mind that you won’t
have a devil of a gay time with that squadron.’ I was still more taken
aback, and, being anxious to agree with the captain, I said it didn’t
make any difference; I looked for more work than play on a cruise. This
didn’t seem to please the captain either, so he banged his fist down on
the table, and roared: ‘No, you don’t, sir—no, you don’t! You are no
doubt longing this minute to be on that ship’—pointing out of the stern
port at the President—‘and to have that broad pennant waving over you.
But take a good look at it, Mr. Somers—take a good long look at it, Mr.
Somers, for you may not see it again!’

“You may fancy how astonished I was; but when I went down into the
wardroom and talked with the officers I began to understand the old
fellow. It seems he hates to be under orders. He has always managed to
have an independent command, but this time the navy officials were too
smart for him, and he was ordered to join Commodore Dale’s squadron. But
he managed to get orders so that he could join the squadron in the
Mediterranean, instead of at Hampton Roads, where the other ships are to
rendezvous; and the fellows in the wardroom say they wouldn’t be
surprised if they never saw the flagship from the time they leave home
until they get back.”

“That will be bad for you and me, Dick,” said Decatur simply.

“Very bad,” answered Somers. Their deep affection was sparingly soluble
in language, but those few words meant much.

Within a week the Boston was to sail, and one night, about nine o’clock,
the wind and tide serving, she slipped down the harbor to the outer bay,
whence at daylight she was to set sail on her long cruise. Decatur bade
Somers good-by on the dock, just as the gang-plank was being drawn in.
They had but few parting words to say to each other; their lives had
been so intimate, they knew each other’s thoughts so completely, that at
the last there was nothing to tell. As they stood hand in hand in the
black shadow cast by the Boston’s dark hull, Decatur, whose feelings
were quick, felt the tears rising to his eyes; while Somers, the calm,
the self-contained, suddenly threw his arms about his friend and gave
Decatur a hug and a kiss, as if his whole heart were in it; then running
up the gang-plank, the next moment he was giving the orders of his
responsible position in a firm tone and with perfect alertness. Decatur
turned, and, going a little distance off, watched while the frigate
slowly swung round and headed for the open bay, stealing off like a
ghostly ship in the darkness. He felt the strongest and strangest sense
of loss he had ever known in his life. He had many friends. James, his
brother, who had entered the navy, was near his own age, but Somers was
his other self. Unlike as they were in temperament, no two souls ever
were more alike in the objects aimed at. Each had a passion for glory,
and each set before himself the hope of some great achievement, and
ordered his life accordingly.

This strange loneliness hung upon Decatur, and although his new duties
and his new friends were many, there were certain chambers of his heart
that remained closed to the whole world except Somers. He found on the
Essex a modest young midshipman, Thomas Macdonough, who reminded him so
much of Somers that Decatur became much attached to him. Macdonough,
like Somers and Decatur, lived to make glorious history for his country.

Within a few days the Essex sailed, in company with the President,
flagship, the Philadelphia, and the schooner Enterprise. This cruise was
the beginning of that warfare against the pirates of Tripoli that was to
win the commendation of the whole world. They made a quick passage, for
a squadron, to the Mediterranean, and on a lovely July night, with the
flagship leading, they passed Europa Point and stood toward the lionlike
form of the Rock of Gibraltar that rose in stupendous majesty before
them. A glorious moon bathed all the scene with light—the beautiful
harbor, with a great line-of-battle ship, the Thunderer, flying British
colors; while half a dozen fair frigates looked like sloops alongside of
this warlike monster, which carried a hundred and twenty guns and a crew
of nearly a thousand men.

At the extremity of the harbor lay a handsome frigate and a brig, both
flying the crescent of Tripoli. The large ship also flew the pennant of
an admiral. There being good anchorage between the Tripolitan and the
British line-of-battle ship, Commodore Dale stood in, and the American
squadron anchored between the two.

Early next morning Decatur went ashore in the first cutter, by Captain
Bainbridge’s orders, to find out the state of affairs with Tripoli. He
also hoped to hear something of Somers, who had sailed a week in
advance. He heard startling news enough about the Barbary pirates. The
flagstaff of the American legation at Tripoli had been cut down, and war
was practically declared. But as the information had not reached the
United States before the squadron left, the commodore was not justified
in beginning hostilities until he had received formal notice of the
declaration of war from the home Government. Nevertheless, the
Tripolitans and the Americans watched each other grimly in the harbor.
As for Somers, Decatur was bitterly disappointed not to see him. The
Boston had been quietly at anchor the day before, when a clipper ship
that outsailed the American squadron, which was in no particular hurry,
gave notice that the ships were coming. Instantly Captain McNeill gave
orders to get under way; officers were hurriedly sent ashore to collect
those of the ship’s company on leave or liberty, and before nightfall
the Boston was hull down going up the straits. When Decatur brought the
news on board, Captain Bainbridge frowned, and laughed too.

“The commodore will have harder work to catch the Boston than anything
else he is likely to give chase to,” he said.

Commodore Dale determined to await orders at Gibraltar before making a
regular attack on Tripoli, but he caused it to be boldly announced by
the American officers, meanwhile, that if the Tripolitans wanted to
fight, all they had to do was to lift their anchors, go outside and back
their topsails, and he would be ready for them.

The British naval officers, at that time, treated the American officers
with studied ill-will, for they had not yet learned to look with pride
upon the United States as a country made by themselves, and which Great
Britain found unconquerable because its people were of the same sturdy
stock as her own. The cooler heads and better hearts among the English
officers at Gibraltar counseled courtesy, but among the younger men it
was sometimes difficult to avoid clashes. Especially was this the case
as regards Commodore Dale’s squadron, for he was connected with an
episode hateful to the British, but glorious to both themselves and the
Americans—the capture of the Serapis by Paul Jones. The squadron was
kept in the highest state of drill and efficiency, not only as a matter
of necessary precaution, but as one of professional pride and duty; and
the trim American officers and the clean and orderly American seamen
made a brave showing alongside of those belonging to England, the
Mistress of the Seas.

One night, a week or two after their arrival, as Decatur was pacing the
deck of the Essex, he heard a splash at the bow, and going forward he
saw a man swimming rapidly away from the ship. Suspecting this to be a
deserter, he at once had a boat lowered; and as Macdonough, Decatur’s
favorite midshipman, was about swinging himself into it, Danny Dixon
came up.

“Mr. Decatur,” said he, touching his cap, “that ’ere man is a deserter,
sir, and he’ll be making for the Thunderer, sure. His name is John
Hally, and he come from New York State, and he’s been a scamp ever since
I knowed him—and that’s ten year ago. He’s a thief, and he’s stole a
mort o’ things; but he ain’t been caught yet. I told him this arternoon
I was agoin’ to report him for gittin’ into the men’s ditty-bags; and
you see, sir, he’s showin’ us his heels.”

“Jump in the boat, then,” said Decatur. “You may help to identify him.”

The Thunderer lay about four hundred yards away, and the deserter’s
course in the water was perfectly visible every foot of the distance. He
evidently saw the boat following, and dived once or twice to throw his
pursuers off the track. The noise made by the boat aroused the attention
of the people on the Thunderer. They came to the rail peering through
the darkness of the night, and presently a lantern was waved over the
side. Decatur, who watched it all with interest, was convinced that this
was done by order of an officer, and the object was to help the deserter
from the American frigate. Sure enough, as soon as the swimmer reached
the great line-of-battle ship a line was thrown him, and he was dragged
bodily through an open port on the berth deck. Almost at the same moment
the Essex’s boat came alongside, and young Macdonough ran up the gangway
and stepped on the quarter-deck.

Captain Lockyer, who commanded the Thunderer, happened to be on deck,
and to him Macdonough addressed himself. This young midshipman, like
most of the gallant band of officers in the infant navy, afterward
earned a name great in the history of his country. But he was always of
a peculiarly gentle and even diffident manner, and his mildness, like
that of Somers, was sometimes mistaken for want of spirit. It was in
this instance; for when he saluted Captain Lockyer, and modestly asked
that the deserter be delivered to him, he was only answered by a curt
order to have the man brought on deck, adding, “Your ships, sir, are
full of British subjects, and if this man is one I shall retain him.”

Macdonough flushed redly, but feeling it to be more dignified to say
nothing, he held his tongue. The captain took a turn up and down the
deck, without deigning any further notice of him. Macdonough, not
thinking the rudeness of the captain would extend to the officers,
turned to a young lieutenant, who happened to be Captain Lockyer’s son,
lounging on the rail, and said:

“I am very thirsty. Will you be good enough to order me a glass of
water?”

“Yonder is the scuttle-butt,” coolly responded the officer, pointing to
the water-butt with its tin dipper.

Macdonough, without a word, folded his arms, and made no move toward the
water-butt. The other British officers, standing about, looked rather
uncomfortable at the discourtesy shown the young midshipman, but none of
them attempted to repair it or to teach manners to the captain’s son.
Macdonough, who not many years after captured seventeen British ensigns
in one day, stood, insulted and indignant, in silence, upon the deck of
the British ship.

In a few moments the deserter, who had been supplied with dry clothes,
appeared on deck. As he was an able-bodied fellow, he would be very
acceptable among the crew of the Thunderer, so the captain addressed him
in very mild terms:

“Well, my man, are you a British or an American citizen?”

“British, sir,” responded the deserter boldly.

“This man,” said Macdonough to Captain Lockyer, “is an American citizen
from the State of New York. He enlisted as an American citizen, and I
can prove it by one of our quartermasters in the boat.—Here, Dixon!”

Danny Dixon, hearing his name, now appeared over the side, touching his
cap politely.

“Do you not know this man, John Hally, to be an American citizen?” asked
Macdonough.

“Yes, sir,” replied the quartermaster. “I’ve knowed him for ten year,
and sailed two cruises with him. He’s got a family on Long Island. He
ain’t no more British nor I am.”

“Perhaps you are, then,” said Captain Lockyer. “Your crews are full of
British subjects.”

“No, sir,” answered Danny, very civilly. “I was born in Philadelphy, and
I’ve been in the ’Merican navy ever since I were eleven year old, when I
was a powder-monkey aboard o’ the Bunnum Richard, that ’ere old hulk
with forty-two guns, when she licked the bran-new S’rapis, fifty guns.
The Richard had Cap’n Paul Jones for a cap’n.”

Angry as Macdonough was, he could scarcely keep from laughing at Danny’s
sly dig. But Captain Lockyer was furious.

“Is this the state of discipline prevailing among your crew—allowing
them to harangue their superiors on the quarter-deck?” he asked
cuttingly, of Macdonough.

“Captain Bainbridge, sir, of the Essex, is fully capable of maintaining
discipline without any suggestion from the officers of the Thunderer,”
answered Macdonough firmly, “and the question to be decided is, whether
the word of the officers and men of the Essex is to be taken, or this
man’s, regarding his citizenship.”

“It is the practice in the British navy to take the word of the man
himself, as being most likely to know the facts in the case,” said
Captain Lockyer, “and I decline to give up this man.”

True it was that such was the practice in the British navy, because it
had the power to make good its high-handed measure.

“I do not feel myself qualified to deal with the question any further,
then,” said Macdonough, “and I shall return on board the Essex and
report to Captain Bainbridge,” and in another moment he had bowed
formally and entered his boat.

When he reached the Essex, Captain Bainbridge was not on board, having
gone ashore early in the evening, so Decatur was in command. Decatur’s
anger knew no bounds. He stormed up and down the deck, sent a messenger
off to the captain, and altogether was in just the sort of rage that an
impetuous young officer would be in under like circumstances. But
retaliation was nearer at hand than he imagined. While he and the other
officers were collected in groups on deck, discussing the exasperating
event, Danny Dixon, his face wreathed in smiles, approached.

“Mr. Decatur,” said he, unable to repress a grin of delight, “one o’ the
finest-lookin’ sailor men I ever see, hearin’ ’em say on the Thunderer
as how ’twas a rule to take a man’s word ’bout the country he belongs
to, jist sneaked into our boat, sir, and hid hisself under the gunwale;
and when we was h’istin’ the boat in, out he pops, sir, and swears he’s
a ’Merican that was pressed into the British sarvice.”

Now, a man might very well have concealed himself in the boat, by the
connivance of the men, without Macdonough’s seeing him, but how Danny
Dixon could have avoided knowing it was a miracle. Nevertheless, he
remarked solemnly:

“Didn’t a man in the boat see him, neither, sir—so they say; and, bein’
sailor men, ’tain’t likely they’d lie about it, sir.”

Decatur and Macdonough, charmed with this state of affairs, could hardly
refrain from winking at one another; but Decatur only said: “Very well,
Dixon; if he _says_ he’s an American, mind, we’ll keep him.”

“He’ll say so, sir,” answered Danny, making no effort at all to suppress
his enjoyment.

Good luck followed good luck. Within ten minutes the rattle of hoisting
out a boat from the Thunderer was heard, and in a little while it was
seen pulling across the dark water in which the stars were faintly
reflected. The man’s getting into the American boat had been suspected,
and his absence discovered. But no midshipman had been sent after him.
Lieutenant Lockyer, the officer who had been so rude to Macdonough, and
who, in spite of his bad manners, was a young officer of experience and
determination, was sent in the first cutter. As soon as he stepped on
deck Decatur greeted him politely, but all the other officers maintained
an unbroken silence. Lockyer began at once, in a dictatorial manner:

“One of our men, sir, Moriarity by name, slipped into your boat a bit
ago, and is probably on board now, and I have come to request, in
Captain Lockyer’s name, that this man be delivered to me.”

Lockyer’s “request” sounded very much like “demand.”

“Certainly,” replied Decatur, with much suavity. “If the man
acknowledges himself a British subject, he shall be delivered to you at
once, to be punished as a deserter. But it is the rule in the American
navy to take the word of the man in question respecting his citizenship,
upon which he is likely to be the person best informed.”

This rule was improvised for the occasion, but Decatur was not the man
to be taken at a disadvantage, and he quoted Captain Lockyer’s words to
Macdonough with a sarcastic emphasis that was infuriating to the young
lieutenant.

Decatur then turned to Danny Dixon and said, “Bring the man Moriarity on
deck, if he is on the ship.”

Danny touched his hat, and in a few moments appeared with a young
sailor, of splendid physique, but with a bright red head, and the first
word he uttered was in a brogue that could be cut with a knife.

“Are you a British or an American citizen?” asked Decatur.

“Amurican, sorr,” almost shouted Moriarity. “I and all me posterity was
born in Ameriky, begorra, and I niver was in ould Oireland, God bless
her!”

Decatur could scarcely keep his countenance, and the other officers were
all seized at the same time with coughing spells.

“Who said anything about Ireland?” asked Lieutenant Lockyer sharply.
“You are as Irish as potatoes, and you were never out of Ireland in your
life until you enlisted on the Thunderer.”

“Bedad, sorr, I’d be proud to be an Oirishman,” responded Moriarity with
a grin. “It’s not denyin’ of it I’d be, but me mother was of a noble
Italian family, in rejuced circumstances, be the name of Murphy, and me
father was a Spanish gintleman be the name of Moriarirty, and I was born
in Ameriky, sorr, and pressed into the Thunderer”; and, turning to
Decatur, he added, “And I claims the protection of the Amurican flag.”

Lockyer was silent with rage and chagrin, but Decatur spoke up with
undisturbed blandness:

“You see, sir, how this matter stands. I must take this man’s word, and
you are at liberty to keep the fellow that deserted from us. Your boat
waits, and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.”

Lockyer, thus practically ordered off the ship, bowed slightly and
walked rapidly down the ladder and got into his boat.

Scarcely had he pushed off when Captain Bainbridge’s boat appeared, and
in a few minutes he stepped on deck.

“Anything happened, Mr. Decatur?” he asked, as soon as he caught sight
of his young first lieutenant.

Decatur told him briefly what had occurred. When he finished, Captain
Bainbridge, who was a tall, powerful man, gave him a thwack upon the
shoulder that nearly knocked him down.

“Good for you!” he cried. “You boy officers have as much sense as we
oldsters. I would not take a year’s pay for what has happened this
night!”

Captain Bainbridge, though, had reason to be still more proud of his boy
officers in what followed concerning Moriarity. The Thunderer’s people
were determined to get Moriarity back, and watched their chance for
days. They knew it was impossible to get him off the Essex, and their
opportunity was when the man went ashore on liberty. About two weeks
after this, one bright August day, Captain Bainbridge having gone ashore
on official business and Decatur being again in command, he noticed a
great commotion in a British boat that was pulling off toward the
Thunderer. A man was struggling in the bottom of the boat, and his loud
cries and fierce efforts to free himself and jump overboard were clearly
heard on the Essex. Decatur, whose eyesight was wonderfully keen, called
to Macdonough, who was near him:

“Is not that voice Moriarity’s?”

“Yes,” cried Macdonough, “and he was given liberty this morning, I
happen to know.”

It took Decatur but a moment to act. “Lower the second cutter!” he
cried—the fastest of all the boats; “and you, Macdonough, if
possible—_if possible_, do you hear?—reach that boat before it touches
the ship, and bring me that man!”

Scarcely were the words out of Decatur’s mouth before the boat began to
descend from the davits, and the boat’s crew, with Danny Dixon as
coxswain, dropped in her as she touched the water. Macdonough, his dark
eyes blazing, and almost wild with excitement under his calm exterior,
was the first man in the boat.

“Give way, men!” he said, in a voice of suppressed agitation. “We must
get that man, or never hold up our heads as long as we are at
Gibraltar.”

The men gave way with a will and a cheer, and Macdonough, in the stern
sheets, steered straight for the Thunderer’s boat. The British tars,
realizing what was up, bent to their oars and dashed the diamond spray
in showers around them. Both were about evenly matched, and the question
was whether the Americans could reach the British boat before she got
under the lee of the ship—and then, whether Moriarity could be
recaptured. The American sailors, their oars flashing with the
steadiness and precision of a machine, were gaining a little on the
British boat; but it was plain, if they could intercept it at all, it
would be directly under the quarter of the great line-of-battle ship.
Several officers were in the Thunderer’s boat, and Macdonough recognized
among them Lockyer, the insolent lieutenant. Moriarity, completely
overpowered, lay handcuffed in the bows of the boat.

Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, watched the two cutters speeding
across the dazzling blue of the harbor with an intensity as if his life
depended on it. He had instantly chosen Macdonough to represent the
Essex, and said to himself, involuntarily: “If any one can do it, it is
Macdonough. He is like Somers, quiet and determined. He _can’t_—he
_sha’n’t_ fail!”

His excitement was shared by every officer and man on the Essex, and
also on the Thunderer. Cries and cheers were heard from each ship. At
last, as the two boats neared each other, Macdonough, motioning to Danny
Dixon, gave him the tiller and took a place in the bow of the cutter. He
spoke a word to the men, and they, as if they had reserved the strength
in their brawny arms for a final effort, laid to their oars so that the
boat fairly flew across the water, and in two minutes she had closed up
on the bow of the British boat. As quick as a flash, Macdonough, who was
a tall fellow, leaned forward, and, catching Moriarity by the waistband
of his trousers, lifted him bodily into the American boat. In the
suddenness of the movement not one of the dozen oars raised to strike
Macdonough touched, and in another moment the Americans had sheered off,
and the men were cheering wildly, while they still worked their oars
sturdily. Lockyer, standing up in the British boat, shouted:

“The Thunderer will blow you out of the water for that!”

“No doubt she is fully able to do it,” cried Macdonough in reply; “but
we will never give up this man as long as our ship will float!”

Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, fairly jumped with delight.

“Somers—Somers,” he cried to himself, without knowing what he was
saying, “I knew that brave young Macdonough was like you!”

Cheers resounded. The American tars, gathered on the fok’sl, danced with
delight. The Thunderer’s boat had made some effort to follow the
American, but the latter had come about so quickly that she gained too
long a lead to be overtaken, and after a few minutes her adversary
sullenly put about and returned to the Thunderer. The Americans did not
relax their efforts, though, and in a little while were landed on the
Essex’s deck. Decatur embraced Macdonough and fairly kissed him, much to
Macdonough’s embarrassment.

“You remind me of the most gallant fellow that lives—Dick Somers!” cried
Decatur, “and that’s praise enough for any man. Send the armorer here to
take Moriarity’s handcuffs off.”

“Av ye plaze, sorr,” said Moriarity, “maybe it ’ud be safer to keep the
bracelets on, and to give me a pair o’ leg irons to decorate me legs
wid; for I shall be axin’ for liberty, sure, if I’m ’lowed around, and
then I’ll be captured by thim Johnny Bulls. So, av ye plaze, sorr, put
me in double irons while we’re in port, and that’s the only way to kape
me from gittin’ into a peck o’ trouble agin, sorr.”

“You’ll not be put in irons, but you’ll get no more liberty while you’re
at Gibraltar,” answered Decatur, laughing.

“Thanky, sorr,” responded Moriarity. “If ye’ll kape to that, maybe I can
do widout the double irons.”

When Captain Bainbridge came on board, Decatur eagerly told him of
Macdonough’s gallant exploit, and the captain’s delight was unbounded.

“By heavens!” he chuckled, “these boy officers of mine manage to do
something handsome every time I leave them to themselves. If I stayed on
shore altogether, I believe they’d lick everything in sight, in one way
or another!”

Several weeks had now passed, and, owing to the slowness of
communication from home, no official declaration of war had reached
them. The squadron cruised about the Mediterranean, giving convoy, and
ready to begin active hostilities as soon as called upon. The Tripolitan
pirates were still at work, whenever they dared, but the watchful energy
of the American squadron kept them from doing much harm. Meanwhile the
Boston was cruising over the same ground; but whenever the squadron put
into port, either the Boston had just left, or she arrived just as the
squadron disappeared. This was very exasperating to Commodore Dale; but
as Captain NcNeill was ostensibly in hot pursuit of the squadron, and
always had some plausible excuse for not falling in with it, the
commodore could do nothing but leave peremptory orders behind him and in
advance of him, which invariably reached Captain McNeill just a little
too late or too early.

It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had
expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they
had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina,
where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:

  “My dear Decatur: Here we are, going aloft, with a fair wind, while I
  am perfectly sure that the sail reported off the starboard quarter is
  one of the squadron—perhaps the Essex! As you know, Captain McNeill is
  apparently the most anxious man imaginable to report to his commanding
  officer; but if Commodore Dale wins in this chase, he will be a seaman
  equal to Paul Jones himself. For Captain McNeill is one of the very
  ablest seamen in the world, and, much as his eccentricities annoy us,
  his management of the ship is so superb that we can’t but admire the
  old fellow. But I tell you privately that he has no notion of taking
  orders from anybody, and the commodore will never lay eyes on him
  during the whole cruise. Nevertheless, he is doing good service,
  giving convoy, and patrolling the African coast so that the Barbary
  corsairs are beginning to be afraid to show their noses when the
  Boston is about.”

Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:

  “Just as I had written the last word, another sail was reported off
  the starboard quarter, and all of us are convinced that it is your
  squadron. I even think I recognize the rig of the Essex, among the
  four ships now visible. But old McNeill, sending his favorite
  lookout—an old sailor, Jack Bell, the captain of the maintop—aloft, we
  know very well that you will soon be hull down, and we ripping it as
  fast as we can leg it, on the opposite tack. Jack Bell, you must know,
  understands the captain’s peculiarity, and never sees anything the
  captain doesn’t wish to see. So he has just come down with the report
  that, of the four ships, not one is square enough in her rig to be a
  war ship, and that he thinks they are French transports! You can’t
  imagine with what a straight face he says this, and how infuriated we
  are. The captain then turns and says to us: ‘Gentlemen, this is most
  unfortunate. I was in hopes this was Commodore Dale’s squadron, but it
  is evidently not.’ And now we are bearing away due north, with every
  stitch of canvas set that will draw! I said that all of us are
  infuriated. That is not quite correct, for two or three odd fish among
  us have become infected with the captain’s mania, and declare that,
  for the credit of the thing, they don’t wish to be caught, for it is
  really a chase and a pursuit.

  “In regard to my shipmates, I find them pleasant fellows, but still I
  feel, as I always shall, the loss of your companionship, my dear
  Decatur. Perhaps, had I a father or a mother, I should feel
  differently, but your parents are the persons who have treated me with
  the most paternal and maternal affection. As for you, we have lived so
  long in intimacy, that I can scarcely expect to form another such
  friendship, and, indeed, it would be impossible. I am glad that you
  are becoming fond of young Macdonough. Several of the midshipmen on
  this ship know him, and speak of him as a young officer of wonderful
  nerve and coolness. Well did you come off in your dispute with the
  Thunderer! I only hope that Macdonough, as young as he is, may
  exercise some of that restraint over you which you have always charged
  me with, Decatur. You are much too rash, and I wish I could convince
  you that there are occasions in every officer’s life when prudence is
  the very first and greatest virtue. Of course, you will laugh at this,
  and remind me of many similar warnings I have given you, but I can not
  help advising you; you know I have been doing that ever since we were
  lads together at Dame Gordon’s school. I heard a story of the great
  Nelson, the other day, that reminded me of you. When he was a very
  young child he went one day to his mother and said to her: ‘I hear
  people speak of “fear,” of “being afraid.” What is it? What is fear?’
  The child was, indeed, father of the man in that case.”

   [Illustration: _The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate._]

Here came another break, and a new date.

  “I was about to close my letter, when one of our officers got a letter
  from a friend on the Enterprise; and as it shows how the Barbary
  corsairs fight, I will tell you a part of it. While running for Malta,
  on the 1st of August, the Enterprise came across a polacca-rigged
  ship, such as the Barbary corsairs usually have, with an American brig
  in tow. It had evidently been captured and her people sent adrift.
  Sterrett, who commands the Enterprise, as soon as he found the
  position of affairs, cleared for action, ran out his guns, and opened
  a brisk fire on the Tripolitan. He got into a raking position, and his
  broadside had a terrific effect upon the pirate. But—mark the
  next—three times were the Tripolitan colors hauled down, and then
  hoisted again as soon as the fire of the Enterprise ceased. After the
  third time, Sterrett played his broadside on the pirate with the
  determination to sink him for such treachery; but the Tripolitan rais,
  or captain, appeared in the waist of his ship, bending his body in
  token of submission, and actually threw his ensign overboard. Sterrett
  could not take the ship as prize, because no formal declaration of war
  had reached him from the United States; but he sent Midshipman
  Porter—you remember David Porter, who, with Rodgers, carried the
  French frigate L’Insurgente into port after Commodore Truxtun had
  captured her—aboard of the pirate, to dismantle her. He had all her
  guns thrown overboard, stripped her of everything except one old sail
  and a single spar, and let her go, with a message to the Bashaw of
  Tripoli that such was the way the Americans treated pirates. I
  understand that when the _rais_ got to Tripoli with his one old sail,
  he was ridden through the town on a jackass, by order of the Bashaw,
  and received the bastinado; and that since then the Tripolitans are
  having great trouble in finding crews to man their corsair ships
  because of the dread of the ‘Americanos.’ One more thing—I must tell
  you about our red-headed captain. There was a great dinner given at
  Messina to the officers of a Swedish frigate and ourselves. You know
  how the Swedes drink! Well, Captain McNeill, in addition to his other
  virtues, is very abstemious. So, the night of the dinner, when the
  Swedish officers began to pass the decanters, Captain McNeill lay back
  in his chair scowling, and the next thing he was sound asleep. After
  he had snored about two hours, he suddenly waked up and bawled out,
  ‘Have those d——d Swedes got through with their guzzling and tippling
  yet?’ Imagine our feelings!

  “Now I must tell you a piece of news almost too good to be true. I
  hear the Government is building four beautiful small schooners, to
  carry sixteen guns, for use in the Tripolitan war, which is to be
  pushed very actively; and that you, my dear Decatur, will command one
  of these vessels, and I another! I can write nothing more exhilarating
  after this; so, I am, as always,

                             “Your faithful friend,
                                                       “Richard Somers.”

Many letters passed between the two friends, but they did not once meet
during the whole cruise. Captain McNeill, true to his intention, never
allowed himself to be overhauled by his superior officer, and at the end
of two years returned to the United States without ever having seen the
flagship of the squadron to which he was attached. He had done good
work, though, and so the authorities winked at his odd cruise, and the
brave old captain enjoyed his triumph.




                              CHAPTER III.


Never had the blue Mediterranean and the quaint old town of Syracuse and
its fair harbor looked more beautiful than on a certain sunny September
afternoon in 1803. The green shores of Sicily stretched as far as the
eye could reach; the white-walled town, with its picturesque and
half-ruined castle, lay in the foreground; while looming up on the
farthest horizon was the shadowy cone of Etna with its crown of fire and
smoke. The harbor contained a few fishing vessels, most of them with
their white lateen sails furled, and motionless upon the water. A large
pleasure boat, with a gay red awning, moved lazily across the “lesser
harbor,” while two or three fruit-laden vessels were beating in or out
of the offing under a “soldier’s wind”—that is, a wind which enables a
ship to go in any direction she wishes.

But in the midst of all this placid beauty lay a war ship—the majestic
Constitution—the darling frigate of her country, looking as if she
commanded everything in sight. Never was there a more warlike-looking
ship than Old Ironsides. Her towering hull, which was higher than the
masts of most of the vessels in the sunlit harbor, was, like all
American ships, painted black. In contrast to this were her polished
decks, her shining masts and spars, and her snowy canvas, whose
whiteness was visible although tightly clewed up. Her ports were open to
admit the air, and through them could be seen a double row of
wicked-looking muzzles, like the grin of a mastiff. The other vessels
rocked with the tide and wind, but the great frigate seemed to lie
perfectly still, as if defying both wind and tide. Her colors, too,
caught some wandering puff of air, and “Old Glory” fluttered out
proudly, while the other flags in sight drooped languidly. At anchor
near her were two small but beautiful schooner-rigged vessels, which
also flew American colors. They were precisely alike in their lines,
their rig, and the small but serviceable batteries they carried. On the
stern of one was gilded “Nautilus,” while on the other was “Siren.”
These were indeed the gallant little vessels that Somers had written to
Decatur about, and his dream was realized. He commanded the Nautilus,
while Decatur commanded the Argus, a sister vessel, which was hourly
expected.

The perfect quiet of the golden afternoon was broken when around the
headland came sailing another small but beautiful cruiser,
schooner-rigged, and wearing American colors. As soon as she had
weathered the point of land, and had got fully abreast of the
Constitution, her guns barked out a salute to the commodore’s pennant
flying on the Constitution, which the frigate acknowledged. The schooner
had a handsome figurehead, and on her stern was painted, in gold
letters, “Argus.” She came to anchor in first-class man-of-war style,
close under the Constitution’s quarter, and in a wonderfully short time
her sails were furled, and her anchor had kissed the ground, the cable
emitting sparks of fire as it rushed out of the hawse-hole. In a quarter
of an hour her gig was lowered, and her young commander, Stephen
Decatur, stepped into the boat and was pulled toward the Constitution.
At that time neither he nor Somers was turned of twenty-four, although
both were commanding officers.

As the boat shot past the Nautilus, Decatur stood up and waved his cap
at the officers, but he observed that Somers was not among them. A
captain’s gig, though, looking like a mere speck under the great quarter
of the Constitution, made Decatur surmise that Somers was at that moment
on board the flagship. The two had parted only six weeks before, when,
Somers’s vessel being ready in advance of Decatur’s, he had sailed to
join Commodore Preble’s squadron in the Mediterranean. The prospect of
seeing Somers again raised Decatur’s naturally gay and jovial spirits to
the highest pitch, and he tried to distinguish among the officers
scattered about the Constitution’s decks the handsome, lithe figure of
his friend. While watching the frigate as he advanced toward it, he saw
another boat come alongside; an officer stepped out and ran lightly up
the ladder, while the boat pulled back to the shore. Decatur was struck
by the fact that this officer, who was obviously a young man, wore two
epaulets. In those days only flag officers were allowed to wear two—all
others wearing but one. Commodore Preble was, in fact, the only man in
the whole American fleet then in European waters who was entitled to
wear two epaulets. Decatur was much puzzled by the officer’s uniform,
and the only explanation that occurred to him was that the gallant
Preble had been superseded—an event which would have filled him with
regret. Although the commodore was a stranger to him, Decatur had
conceived the highest respect for his abilities, and had heard much of
his vigor and enterprise, to say nothing of his untamable temper, which
at first the officers chafed under, but had soon come to regard as “Old
Pepper’s way,” for so the midshipmen had dubbed Commodore Preble.

The deck was full of officers, standing about enjoying the lovely
afternoon, and they all watched with interest the Argus’s boat, knowing
it contained Decatur. While it was still a hundred yards off Decatur
recognized the figure of Somers running down the ladder, and in a few
minutes Decatur literally jumped into Somers’s arms. Their affectionate
way of meeting amused their shipmates very much, and even Danny Dixon,
who was Decatur’s coxswain, grinned slyly at the men in the boat, and
whispered, as the two young captains went up the ladder together, their
arms entwined like schoolboys:

“They’re lovyers, them two be. They keeps locks o’ each other’s hair,
and picters in their bosoms!”

The officers greeted Decatur warmly, among them Macdonough, now a tall
young fellow of eighteen; but Decatur noticed that all of them seemed
convulsed with laughter. Lieutenant Trippe, who was officer of the deck,
laughed to himself as he walked up and down. A little way off,
Moriarity, who was quartermaster, was standing just as near the dividing
line between the quarter-deck and the forecastle as the regulations
allowed, his mouth stretched from ear to ear, and even the stolid marine
who stood guard at the hatchway wore a broad smile. Two or three
midshipmen loitering about grinned appreciatively at each other.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this hilarity, Somers?” cried Decatur,
observing a smile even on his friend’s usually grave countenance.

“Matter enough,” responded Somers, bursting out into a shout of
laughter. “The commodore needed a surgeon’s mate for this ship, so he
succeeded in getting a little Sicilian doctor for the place. He was
entered on the ship’s books regularly under an acting appointment and
ordered to prepare his uniforms and outfit and report on board this
afternoon. Well, just now he came aboard, in full regalia, with cocked
hat and side arms, but instead of having one epaulet, he has two; and
the commodore isn’t the man to permit any equality between himself and a
surgeon’s mate. The little fellow has gone below, and—ha! ha!—we are
waiting for the explosion.”

There was one of the midshipmen, though, the youngest and smallest of
them all, a bright-faced lad of fourteen, who laughed as much as the
rest, but who looked undoubtedly a little frightened.

“Mr. Israel, there,” continued Somers, still laughing, “was the officer
to whom the doctor applied for instructions about his uniforms, and we
are apprehensive that the commodore may call upon Mr. Israel for an
explanation.”

“I—I don’t know what I shall do,” faltered the little midshipman, “if
old Pep—I mean the commodore—should ask me. I’m sure I’d never have the
nerve to own up, and I certainly can’t deny that I _did_ tell the doctor
he’d look well in a cocked hat and two epaulets.”

“Never mind, Pickle,” said Macdonough, clapping the boy on the shoulder,
“you’re always in mischief anyhow, so a little more or less makes no
difference.—Captain Decatur, we in the steerage do our best to reform
Mr. Israel, but he has a positive genius for getting into scrapes.”

“Queer thing, that, for a midshipman,” answered Decatur, with a wink.
“That was the way with Captain Somers when we were midshipmen together
on ‘Old Wagoner.’ If it had not been for my watchful eye and discreet
judgment, he would have been in trouble all the time.”

This was so conspicuously to the contrary of the truth, that Somers did
not condescend to deny it, merely remarking:

“A likely yarn, that.”

Scarcely were the words out of Somers’s mouth before a wild yell was
heard from below. The next moment the unlucky Sicilian dashed out of the
cabin, hotly pursued by Commodore Preble himself. The commodore was six
feet high, and usually of a grave and saturnine countenance. But there
was nothing grave or saturnine about him then. He had been in the act of
shaving when the surgeon’s mate with the two epaulets appeared, and he
had not taken time to wipe the lather off his face or to take off his
dressing-gown, nor was he conscious that he was flourishing a razor in
his hand. The Sicilian, seeing the razor, and appalled by the reception
he had met with, had taken to his heels; and the commodore, determined
to have an explanation, had followed him, bawling:

“What the devil do you mean, you lubberly apothecary, by appearing
before me in that rig? Two epaulets and a cocked hat for a surgeon’s
mate! I got you, sir, to pound drugs in a mortar—not to insult your
superiors by getting yourself up like a commodore. I’ll have you
court-martialed, sir!—no, sir; I’ll withdraw your appointment, and take
the responsibility of giving you the cat for your insolence!”

The poor Sicilian darted across the deck, and, still finding the enraged
commodore at his heels, suddenly sprang over the rail and struck out,
swimming for the shore.

Commodore Preble walked back to where the officers stood, who had
watched the scene ready to die with laughter, and shouted:

“Mr. Israel, I believe you were the midshipman, sir, that I directed
that miserable little pill-maker to go to for information respecting his
uniforms?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Pickle in a weak voice, the smile leaving his
countenance. The others had assumed as serious an expression as they
were able, but kept it with difficulty. Not so poor Pickle, who knew
what it was to fall into the commodore’s hands for punishment.

“And did you, sir, have the amazing effrontery, the brazen assurance, to
recommend that little popinjay to have two epaulets and a cocked hat?”
roared the commodore.

“I—I didn’t recommend him, sir,” replied Pickle, looking around
despairingly, and seeing Decatur, Somers, Macdonough, and all the others
with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, “but he asked me if I thought
two epaulets would look well on him, and I said ‘Y-yes’—and—”

“Go on, sir!” thundered the commodore.

“And then I—I told him if he had two epaulets he ought to have a cocked
hat.”

“Mr. Israel,” said the commodore in a deep voice, after an awful pause,
“you will go below, and remain there until I send for you!”

Poor Pickle, with a rueful countenance, turned and went below, while
Decatur, advancing with Somers, managed to recover his composure enough
to say:

“Commodore Preble, I have the honor of presenting myself before you; and
yonder is my ship, the Argus.”

It was now the commodore’s turn to be confused. With his strict notions
of naval etiquette, the idea that he should appear on the quarter-deck
half shaved and in his dressing-gown was thoroughly upsetting. He
mumbled some apology for his appearance, in which “that rascally
apothecary” and “that little pickle of a midshipman” figured, and,
asking Captain Decatur’s presence in the cabin in a few moments,
disappeared. As soon as the commodore was out of hearing the officers
roared with merriment.

“That’s the same old Preble,” said Decatur, laughing, “that I have heard
of ever since I entered the navy.”

“Yes,” answered Somers. “At first we hated him. Now, there is not an
officer in the squadron who does not like and respect him. He is a stern
disciplinarian, and he has a temper like fire and tow. But he is every
inch a sailor and a gentleman, and all of us will one day be proud to
say, ‘I served under Preble at Tripoli!’”

“Yes,” broke in Trippe. “On the outward voyage, one very dark night, we
found ourselves suddenly about half a cable’s length off from a large
ship of war. We hailed her, but got no answer. After a very little of
this, the commodore sent the men to quarters, had the guns run out, and
took the trumpet himself. Then he shouted:

“‘This is the United States frigate Constitution, forty-four guns. This
is the last time I shall hail, and if you do not answer I will give you
a shot. What ship is that?—Blow your matches, boys!’

“This brought an answer, you may be sure, and a voice out of the
darkness replied:

“‘If you give us a shot, we will give you a broadside! But since you are
so anxious to know, this is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal, razee,
eighty guns!’

“‘I don’t believe you!’ bawled back old Preble; ‘and I shall stick by
you until daylight to find out what you are!’

“The men gave a great cheer then, and the officers joined in—for we
couldn’t help cheering a man who with a forty-four gives the lie to
another man with an eighty-gun ship. In a little while, though, a boat
came alongside with a very polite explanation. The ship really was the
Maidstone frigate, thirty-eight guns, and the delay in answering our
hails came from suspecting that we might be French, and therefore they
wanted to get their people at quarters. After that we all felt
differently toward ‘Old Pepper,’ as the steerage fellows call him, and
we know his heart is all right if his temper is all wrong.”

The conversation then turned upon the distressing news of the loss of
the frigate Philadelphia, the handsomest in the world, and the capture
of all her company by the Tripolitans. While commanded by Bainbridge,
Decatur’s old captain in the Essex, the Philadelphia had run upon a rock
at the entrance to the harbor of Tripoli, and, literally mobbed by a
Tripolitan flotilla, she was compelled to surrender. All her guns had
been thrown overboard, and every effort made to scuttle her, when the
Americans saw that capture was inevitable, but it was with grief and
shame that the officers of the Constitution told Decatur that the ship
had been raised, her guns fished up, her masts and spars refitted, and
she lay under the guns of the Bashaw’s castle in the harbor, flying the
piratical colors of Tripoli at her peak. If anything could add to the
misery of the four hundred officers and men belonging to her, it was the
sight of her, so degraded, which they could not but witness from the
windows of their dungeons in the Bashaw’s castle. Her recapture had been
eagerly talked over and thought over, ever since her loss; and it was a
necessary step in the conquest of the piratical power of the Barbary
States, for she would be a formidable enemy to any ship, even the mighty
Constitution herself.

When Decatur entered the cabin, nothing could have been a greater
contrast to the scene he had lately witnessed. Commodore Preble was
handsomely shaved and dressed, and was a model of dignity and courtesy.
He made no allusion to what had just happened, but at once began
questioning Decatur as to their present and future plans.

“_I_ have a plan, sir,” said Decatur, after a while, with a slight
smile—“just formed since I have been on this ship, but nevertheless
enough developed for me to ask your permission. It is, to cut out the
Philadelphia as she now lies in the harbor at Tripoli. I hear that when
Captain Bainbridge was compelled to haul down his flag he ordered the
ship scuttled. Instead of that, though, only a few holes were bored in
her bottom, and there was no difficulty in patching them and raising
her.”

As Decatur spoke, some inward voice seemed to cry out to him, “Hold on
to this plan, for that way lies immortality!” His dark eyes gleamed with
a strange light, and he seemed to hear such words as “Glory!
immortality!” thundering in his ears.

As soon as he spoke, Commodore Preble answered him quickly and firmly:

“Certainly, the ship must be destroyed, for the honor of the flag, and
it will also be a measure of prudence in the coming campaign against the
fleet and town of Tripoli. But as to cutting her out, _that_ is an
impossible thing.”

“I think not, sir,” answered Decatur, with equal firmness.

“You think not, Captain Decatur, because you are not yet twenty-five
years old. _I_ think to the contrary, because I am more than forty. The
flag will be vindicated if the Philadelphia is destroyed, and never
permitted to sail under Tripolitan colors. Anything else would be
quixotic to attempt.”

“At all events,” said Decatur, “I may ask the honor of being the one to
make the attempt. My father was the Philadelphia’s first commander, and
if I can rescue her it will be glory enough for a lifetime.”

“No doubt all my beardless captains will ask the same thing,” answered
the commodore with a grim smile; “but as you have spoken first, I shall
consider you have the first claim.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Decatur, rising. “Whenever you are ready to
discuss a plan I shall be gratified.” He then went on deck again.

As Decatur felt obliged to return to his ship, Somers went with him, and
saying good-by to the officers on the Constitution, with the hope that
the little midshipman would get off from the commodore’s wrath, the two
friends were soon pulling across the placid harbor. The last rays of the
sun were reflected on the water, turning it all red and gold, while in
the sky a pale opaline glow still lingered.

The two friends had only been separated a few weeks, but they had much
to talk about. At dinner, as they sat opposite each other in the cabin,
with a hanging lamp between, Decatur, who was overflowing with spirits,
noticed that Somers was more than usually grave.

“What ails you, man?” cried Decatur. “Those lantern jaws of yours have
not opened with a smile since we left the flagship. Are you disappointed
about anything?”

“Yes,” answered Somers, continuing his dinner with a very rueful
countenance. “_You_ will be the one to go upon the Philadelphia
expedition. The rest of us will have to hang on to our anchors, while
you are doing the thing we all want to do.”

“How do you know about that?” asked Decatur, with sparkling eyes and a
brilliant smile.

“Oh,” answered Somers, resignedly, pushing his plate away, “I had a
presentiment as soon as you went down in the commodore’s cabin. Here are
the rest of us, who have been wanting to speak of this thing for weeks,
and watching each other like hawks, but all afraid to beard the lion in
his den; when you, with your cool impudence, just arrived, never saw the
commodore in your life before, _you_ go and plump out what you want at
your first interview, and get it too. Oh, I guessed the whole business
as soon as I saw you come out of the cabin!”

“You are too prudent by half, Dick,” cried Decatur, laughing at Somers’s
long face. “Now, if I had taken your advice about prudence I never would
have got the better of you. The commodore, too, has enough and to spare
of prudence—that beggarly virtue. When I offered to go into the harbor
of Tripoli with the Argus and bring the Philadelphia out, he said No,
she must be destroyed, as it would be too risky to attempt to cut her
out. Think of the misery of old Bainbridge and his men when they look
out and see this beauty of a ship lying at the mole, with a gang of
Tripolitan pirates at work on her!”

“I’ll never say a word in favor of prudence again,” groaned Somers,
still thinking of his disappointment. Then began questions about their
shipmates. Decatur was lucky enough to have as his first lieutenant
James Lawrence, who was afterward to give the watchword to the American
navy, “Don’t give up the ship!” James Decatur was also in the squadron,
although not on the Argus; Decatur also had Danny Dixon as his first
quartermaster; while Somers had as his quartermaster, Moriarity, who
“never was in ould Ireland, God bless her!” The two young officers went
on deck, where they found Danny, whom Somers went forward to greet.
Danny was delighted to see him, and could not touch his cap often enough
to express his respect for Somers’s new rank.

“Lord, Cap’n Somers, when I remember you and Cap’n Decatur as reefers
aboard o’ ‘Old Wagoner,’ and now I sees you both commandin’ smart
vessels, like the Airgus and the Nartilus, I says to myself, I must be
a-gittin’ old. I ain’t very old, sir; you know I warn’t but a little
shaver when I was on the Bunnum Richard with Cap’n Paul Jones——”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Somers hastily, remembering that once, started
on Cap’n Paul Jones and the Bunnum Richard, Danny was difficult to stop.
“We have a fine lot of young reefers here now.”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Macdonough, he’s a fine young gentleman, and there’s a
little ’un, they calls Mr. Pickle Israel, ’cause he’s allus in a scrape
o’ some sort. But he ain’t got no flunk at all in him, and the men says
as how, when it’s work or fightin’ to be done, that this little
midship-mite is right on top. ’Course, there ain’t no Paul Joneses among
’em, axin’ your pardon, sir—there never was but one Cap’n Paul Jones—but
we’ve got as fine a lot o’ young officers as ever I see, and no
ladybirds among ’em—all stormy petrels, sir.”

Somers presented Danny with a pound of tobacco, which was shown in the
fok’sl with great pride, accompanied with more reminiscences of “Cap’n
Paul Jones.” Some days passed in giving the men on the Argus liberty and
in making ready for a cruise to Tripoli, which was to precede the great
attack. The bomb-vessels, shells, and many of the preparations necessary
for the gigantic struggle with the pirates were not completed, and would
not be for some time; but Commodore Preble wisely concluded to give the
Tripolitans a sight of his force, and also to encourage Captain
Bainbridge and his companions in captivity by the knowledge that their
country had not forgotten them. The commodore had determined to wait for
the return of the Siren, under Lieutenant-Commandant Stewart, which had
been sent to Gibraltar for some stores and to have some slight repairs
made. The Siren, however, did not return as promptly as was expected,
which annoyed Commodore Preble excessively. The officers, all of whom
were Stewart’s friends, were fearful that it might hurt him very much in
the commodore’s opinion. His arrival, therefore, was looked for
anxiously, and every hour of the day the question was asked, “Has
anything been heard of Stewart?” and every day Commodore Preble’s
vexation became more evident. At last, one morning, seeing a very fine
merchant ship that was bound for Gibraltar making her way out of the
harbor, the commodore signaled to her and sent a boat with a letter to
Captain Stewart. The letter was written in the commodore’s most fiery
vein and with his curtest decision. It simply directed Stewart to sail
at once, without waiting for further repairs.

A day or two afterward, when the usual inquiries were made about
Stewart, Trippe answered dolefully:

“The commodore has just had a letter from him saying his mainmast is so
badly sprung that it is unserviceable, and he is having a new one made.
Was there ever anything so unlucky? Of course, he can’t get here for a
considerable time, and all that time ‘Old Pepper’ will be lashing
himself into a rage; and on top of this Stewart gets the commodore’s
orders to sail at once.”

Things seemed black enough for Stewart, and as they were all looking
forward to the chance of distinction in the approaching attack on
Tripoli, it seemed more unfortunate than ever. However, one morning,
only a day or two after this, a vessel which looked very like the Argus,
a sister ship to the Siren, was discerned, and a few minutes revealed
her to be the Siren. But she had no mainmast, and her appearance with
only one mast was grotesque in the extreme.

“What can it be that Captain Stewart is towing?” asked Pickle Israel of
Lieutenant Trippe, as the two watched the Siren’s approach from the deck
of the flagship.

Trippe examined it carefully, but before he could make out what the
object was, the commodore walked up, and, handing Trippe his glass,
asked him:

“Will you be kind enough, Mr. Trippe, to examine the Siren and see what
sort of a spar she is towing?”

Trippe took the glass, and, after a minute’s survey, he could not
refrain from smiling as he answered the commodore:

“It is undoubtedly the Siren’s mainmast, sir. As you see, she has only
her foremast standing, and the spar is much too big and too long for
anything but the mainmast.”

Commodore Preble’s mouth twitched; he had never seen a ship of war in
such a plight before. He remembered his peremptory orders to Stewart to
sail at once. Stewart had evidently taken him at his word, and had
sailed with one mast and was towing the other.

The good news that Old Pepper had smiled instead of scowling at
Stewart’s device quickly communicated itself to the officers and gave
them great satisfaction. The reception of the Siren’s captain, when he
came aboard the Constitution soon after, was comparatively mild, and his
explanation so satisfactory, that he was invited to prolong his visit
and have luncheon with the commodore.

Decatur and Somers, standing together on the deck of the Nautilus, and
seeing that Stewart did not return from the frigate, concluded that he
would either be sent home or given a chance for promotion; and much
relieved they were at the news brought them that “Old Pepper grinned
when Stewart told him about the mainmast, and said that was the way he
liked to have his orders obeyed.”

The fleet was now assembled for the first demonstration against Tripoli;
and not until Commodore Preble had himself seen the Philadelphia and her
position in the Tripolitan harbor would he finally fix upon any plan,
although Decatur had a promise that he should have the honor of
commanding the expedition.

One morning, in response to a signal from the Constitution, all the
captains—Decatur, Somers, Hull, and Stewart—assembled on the flagship to
hold their first council of war with the commodore. As the four young
captains met on the quarter-deck, the extreme youth of every one of them
seemed to strike them simultaneously. After a moment’s pause Somers
remarked:

“Decatur will be the only one of us with assurance enough to parley with
the commodore.”

“Somers,” said Decatur with unwonted gravity, “I do not feel as if I
could make a suggestion, or argue with Commodore Preble, if my life
depended upon it.”

“Heaven help the rest of us, then!” said Stewart dismally.

As the four young captains entered the cabin they passed a gentleman of
middle age, who was a guest of the commodore’s on board of the flagship.
Captain Hull saluted him as Colonel Lear, the American consul at
Tangiers, and with a bow to the assembled officers the consul retired.

After the usual formalities, which Old Pepper was careful to observe,
unless he happened to be in a choleric humor, the captains seated
themselves around the table, the commodore at the head. Commodore Preble
then opened his plan of campaign, which was listened to with the most
respectful attention. He next asked each of the youthful commanders for
an individual opinion. Each hastened to agree with that of the
commodore.

The commodore then asked if any one of them had a suggestion to offer.
Somers looked at Decatur, and Decatur looked gravely at Somers. Hull and
Stewart looked straight before them. After hemming a little, each one in
turn protested that he had no suggestion to make. “Old Pepper,” with a
glance around the table, rose suddenly.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “this council is over. I regret to say that I have
not had, in any way, the slightest assistance from you. Good-morning!”

The four young captains filed out in the same order in which they had
entered, but very much quicker, and looking like whipped schoolboys.

Some hours after, Colonel Lear, entering the cabin, found Commodore
Preble sitting at the table, leaning his head on his hands in an
attitude of the deepest dejection.

“Lear,” said he, raising himself up, “I have been indiscreet in
accepting the command of this squadron, with the duty of punishing
Tripoli. Had I known how I was to be supported, I certainly should have
declined it. The Government has sent me here a lot of schoolboys as
commanders of all my vessels, and not one of them but is afraid to open
his mouth before me!”

Nevertheless, the commodore went on with his preparations, and about the
middle of December he set sail.

The squadron kept fairly well together for some days. Then a heavy gale
arose, and for several days more they did not see each other. Toward
night, on the afternoon that the gale abated, Decatur, while off the
Tripolitan coast, caught sight of a low vessel with lateen sails and
flying Tripolitan colors. He at once gave orders for the pursuit; but
the ketch—for such it was—showed herself a fairly good sailer, and it
took several hours to overhaul her. She was skillfully navigated and ran
very close in shore, hoping to induce the Argus to follow her. But
Decatur was wary, and, keeping well off the shore, declined to trust his
ship upon the treacherous rocks and shoals toward which the Tripolitans
would have led him. At last, just as a faint moon rose in a murky sky,
the Argus got to windward of the ketch, and, bearing down on her, opened
fire with deadly precision. The Tripolitans at once hauled down their
colors; but Decatur, remembering their treachery as told him by Somers,
and knowing that the pirates preferred hand-to-hand fighting, did not
slacken his fire, but, standing on, ranged up alongside. The call for
boarders had been sounded, and, of the Argus’s small company of eighty
men, two thirds were ready to spring aboard the Tripolitan at the word.
In another minute the two vessels were broadside to broadside. Decatur
himself gave the order to board, and as the Americans sprang over the
side they were met by every available man in a crew as numerous as their
own, and armed with the terrible curved sword of the Barbary pirates.

The fight on the deck of the ketch was furious but short. The
Tripolitans fought desperately, but in disorder, and within fifteen
minutes they were beaten. Decatur, in examining his prize, found that
she had sustained but little injury; and bearing in mind, as he had done
ever since the first day he had heard of the Philadelphia’s loss, the
destruction of the frigate, he determined that the ketch would be of
great use on the expedition, and he would therefore take her back to the
rendezvous at Syracuse with him.

“She is of a build and rig common in the Mediterranean,” he said to his
first lieutenant, James Lawrence, who had lately joined, “and in
arranging a surprise it would be best to have a Mediterranean vessel,
which would not be readily suspected.”

Lawrence agreed with his young captain. Leaving the prisoners on board,
a midshipman was put in command of the ketch, with a prize crew, and
sent back to Syracuse. Decatur then joined the rest of the squadron, and
they proceeded to Tripoli, where, lying off the town, they gave it a
bombardment by way of a promise of what was to come. The lack of small
vessels to enter the tortuous and rocky harbor prevented much damage
being done; but the Bashaw saw the fine fleet the Americans could
muster, and it was conveyed to him that it would return in a few months
with guns, vessels, and bombards to sail in and attack the town in
earnest.

To Captain Bainbridge and the poor prisoners with him in the dungeons of
the castle the sight of “Old Glory” fluttering from the gallant little
fleet in the far distance was an assurance of hope, and the cannonade,
which was merely a defiance, was sweet music to the captives. The sight
of the great Philadelphia riding at anchor under the guns of the castle
and the fort, and degraded by wearing the Tripolitan colors, was a sore
one for the American officers and sailors. But Decatur, during all the
days of the cannonade, kept his eyes fixed on the frigate whenever he
could, studying her position, examining charts, and thinking out his
scheme for destroying the ship to save her honor. Every time he saw her
his heart beat with a strange premonition, and he felt with rapture the
presentiment that he was destined to glory in that undertaking.




                              CHAPTER IV.


Upon the return of the squadron to Syracuse, preparations went on
vigorously for the attempt upon the Philadelphia. Decatur’s first plan,
which he held to eagerly, of going in boldly and cutting out the
frigate, was flatly forbidden by Commodore Preble as being too rash.
Decatur’s second plan—going in with the ketch, disguised, and destroying
the frigate—was approved of by Commodore Preble, who had, in fact, first
suggested the idea to Decatur. He and “Old Pepper” spent many long hours
in the cabin of the Constitution perfecting the details of this glorious
but hazardous expedition, and the commodore’s respect for his “schoolboy
captains” increased every day that they served under him. Particularly
was he gratified at the spirit of instant acquiescence they showed when,
after the keenest rivalry among them all for the honor of supporting
Decatur, the privilege was accorded Captain Stewart, in the Siren, which
was the fastest and most weatherly of the brigs and schooners. Somers
felt the deepest disappointment, but, with his usual calm good sense, he
allowed no impatient word to escape him. On the day that the use of the
ketch was determined upon, Commodore Preble said to Decatur:

“And now, Captain Decatur, what shall be the name of this craft?”

“The Intrepid, sir,” answered Decatur promptly.

“Good!” was the commodore’s instant reply.

When Decatur and Somers were together that night—for no day passed
without their seeing each other—Decatur spoke of the name of the ketch.

“Do you know,” said Somers, thoughtfully, “that was the very name that
occurred to me?—and as I, too, long for a chance for glory, when you
have returned in her I shall ask for her to carry out a plan of mine. I
will not tell you of it until you come back—and you _will_ come back,
that I feel; but then you must give me all your time and abilities to
help me with _my_ scheme.”

“I will,” answered Decatur, “and I warrant it is something ten times
more difficult, more desperate, than what I shall attempt; for, when it
comes to taking chances, I know of no man who takes such odds as you,
Dick Somers, for all your long face and continual preaching to me.”

The ships were to remain at Syracuse all winter. Meanwhile every effort
was made to communicate with Captain Bainbridge and his officers
imprisoned at Tripoli. A large reward was offered for the conveyance of
letters to and from the prisoners, and two letters were thus conveyed to
Captain Bainbridge, and answers received.

One afternoon, as Decatur and Somers were strolling along a mountain
path that led to the famed fountain of Cyane, above the city, a man
wearing the costume of a Sicilian peasant came up to them, and, touching
his cap, said, in the _lingua franca_ which both Somers and Decatur
understood:

“Signors, are you not American naval officers?”

“Yes,” answered Decatur, while Somers eyed the man closely.

“Then I have a communication for you from the American captain now held
at Tripoli.”

“Give it to us, then,” said Decatur.

“It is not here,” answered the man, with a sly look. “But if you will
come to-night, at nine o’clock, to the tavern of the Three Doves, up a
little higher beyond the fountain of Cyane, I will introduce you to a
pilot, brother of Salvatore Catalano, who is employed by the American
squadron. This other Catalano is a pilot too, and, wishing to oblige the
Americans, as you have taken his brother into your service, he managed
to communicate with the American captain. He has a letter for you, from
him, and he will bring it to the Three Doves to-night, at eight. Shall I
tell him you will be there?”

“Certainly, without fail!” replied Decatur.

The Sicilian then touched his cap again, and disappeared in a path by
the side of the mountain road.

“Do you know,” said Somers, who had taken no part in the colloquy, “that
I have much doubt whether such a person as Catalano’s brother exists?
and I am perfectly certain that our peasant friend is really a sailor.”

“Why?” asked Decatur, surprised.

“First—well, I can only say, as the sailors do, ‘by the cut of his jib.’
Besides, he did not bow, as these peasants do here; and the way he
touched his cap was very like a salute. And you perceive he made no
demand for money. Now, that is the only thing that would induce these
people to take the risk of communicating with Captain Bainbridge.”

Decatur stopped in his walk, much struck by what Somers said.

“And did you notice,” continued Somers, “that although he was dark and
had black eyes, like the Sicilians, he was of altogether different
build? He was larger and stouter, and his features were aquiline. His
eyes were of a sleepy black, like a Turk’s—not soft and bright, like
these handsome peasants about here.”

“At all events,” said Decatur, “we can not refuse to keep our
appointment, for it is possible that these suspicions may be only
suspicions after all, and we could not lose the chance of hearing from
Captain Bainbridge.”

They determined, however, to seek out the pilot, Catalano, and ask if he
had a brother such as the Sicilian described. But on inquiry they found
that the pilot had got a few days’ leave, and had gone into the country
to visit his family.

Somers and Decatur, however, concluded that it would be only prudent to
go armed upon such an expedition, as Sicily was then much infested with
brigands. About seven o’clock they started. The evening was warm and
murky, and a fine mist shrouded the town and the water. They could only
see the Constitution looming up like a great black shadow in the harbor,
while the smaller vessels were mere patches of darkness.

As they were making their way, in the gloomy half-light, up the rocky
path that led through a straggling wood of ilex trees, they suddenly
came upon Macdonough and Pickle Israel, coming down the mountain from
the little tavern for which Decatur and Somers were bound. It was a
resort of the better kind, and not much frequented by seafaring men of
the Salvatore Catalano class.

Somers stopped the two young midshipmen and made some inquiries,
mentioning at the same time that they were in hopes of getting news of
Captain Bainbridge. After parting with them, Decatur looked back and saw
the midshipmen following them at a respectful distance.

“Look at those two fellows!” said Decatur to Somers, laughing. “They are
afraid we will get into mischief, and they are following us—to protect
us, I suppose!”

Somers, too, could not help laughing at the idea of little Pickle, who
was not much more than four feet high, imagining he could protect
anything. Macdonough was, indeed, a stalwart fellow, and might be of
service. Somers called out, half joking:

“So you young gentlemen are dogging our footsteps, so as to take care of
us.”

Macdonough did not know what to say, but Pickle, coming up the path at a
run, answered in his shrill boyish treble:

“Yes, sir. We thought something might happen——”

“And you’d be there with that brawny arm of yours to help us out, eh?”
asked Decatur. “Very kind of you, I’m sure; so come along. After we get
the letters at the tavern we will have some supper, and will get on
board ship before ‘lights out.’”

As they were toiling up the slippery path Decatur remarked to Somers:

“This seems like a safe enough sort of business, but yet I wish I had
brought my dirk with me instead of my sword.”

Somers said nothing, but in his heart he echoed the wish. He, too, was
only armed with his sword.

“I’m a prudent fellow, I am,” cried little Pickle, wagging his head
triumphantly. “I brought _my_ dirk; I always wear it, Captain Somers,
and here it is.”

Pickle took out his midshipman’s dirk and flourished it around.

“Hide that thing,” said Somers. “I hope we sha’n’t have to murder
anybody on this expedition.”

They were still some distance away from the tavern, from whose low
windows, half a mile higher up, they could see a faint gleam, and the
two young midshipmen who had fallen behind were concealed by a turn of
the path, when some one stepped out of the bushes, and said quietly:

“You are the _Americanos_, are you not?”

Both Somers and Decatur recognized their acquaintance of that afternoon.

“Yes,” answered Somers, “and we have come to receive the letter from the
American officers at Tripoli that Catalano, the pilot, has brought.”

In the meantime four men had approached silently and surrounded the two
American officers. Somers, coolly putting his back to a stone wall that
ran along the path, said:

“Where is Catalano?”

“One moment,” said the supposed Sicilian with a wolfish smile. “Have you
ever heard of Mahomet Rous?”

“Yes,” answered Decatur—“the Tripolitan captain who hauled his colors
down three times and then threw them overboard.”

“And when he got back to Tripoli the Bashaw rode him through the town on
a jackass and gave him the bastinado,” added Somers.

Scarcely were the words out of the young captain’s mouth before the
supposed Sicilian made a dash at him, and, as in a flash, both Somers
and Decatur realized that they were caught in a trap. Decatur, whose
powerful frame made him a match for two ordinary men, turned and
grappled with Mahomet Rous, and the two men rolled over, fighting
together on the ground. Somers, with his back to the wall, was set upon
by the three; but at that moment the two young midshipmen, hearing the
clash of swords in the darkness, rushed forward. Macdonough went to
Somers’s assistance, while Pickle Israel, seeing Decatur struggling
desperately with the Tripolitan pirate, drew his dirk, and with one
well-directed blow pinned the arm of Mahomet Rous to the earth. Decatur,
thus freed, rose. The other brigands were being well taken care of by
Somers and Macdonough, and seeing Decatur on his feet, concluded they
had had enough of it, and took to their heels, disappearing quickly
among the shadows of the stunted ilex trees. Mahomet Rous, half killed
by Decatur’s powerful arm, lay on the ground swearing frightfully at all
“_Americanos_.” The people from the tavern, hearing the noise of the
brawl, came out with lanterns and torches; but the four young officers,
glad to escape from such an adventure, ran down the mountain path as
fast as their legs would carry them. As soon as they reached the
outskirts of the town they stopped for breath, and to repair damages as
far as they could. While Pickle Israel was industriously rubbing the mud
off Decatur’s back he could not forbear saying, with a mischievous grin:

“Well, Captain Decatur, I—I—believe we did manage to look out for you
and Captain Somers.”

“You did, indeed,” answered Decatur, laughing. “That dirk of yours did
good service. You left it sticking in the pirate’s arm, but I’ll give
you another one that will always be a reminder of this night.—Somers, we
shall have to learn from these cautious reefers how to take care of
ourselves.”

“We will indeed,” answered Somers gravely.

Macdonough was old enough not to take this chaff seriously, but Pickle
fairly swelled with pride as he marched along through the town at the
heels of the two young captains.

The general plans of Decatur’s expedition were now known among the
American officers and privately discussed. “Old Pepper” gave Decatur one
last warning.

“You may dream, Captain Decatur, that you could bring out a frigate of
the Philadelphia’s draft through that tortuous harbor at night, under
the fire of every battery in the town, of the castle, and the whole
fleet in the harbor. Very well, sir; if you attempt it and get out
alive, you shall be sent home at once under charges; for, look you,
Captain Decatur, it is as dangerous to do too much when you are under my
orders as it is to do too little.”

Decatur very wisely held his tongue, and realized that the destruction
of the ship was all he could aim at.

It was known that a draft of officers was to be made from the
Constitution, and the wildest excitement prevailed in the steerage,
where every midshipman thought himself cocksure of being one of the
lucky ones to go. Pickle Israel, in his anxiety to curry favor with
Decatur, who had the selection of the officers, stopped at nothing. At
the same time he felt convinced—from his prowess on the night of the
adventure with the brigands, and from Decatur’s present to him of a
beautiful dirk to replace the lost one—that he would undoubtedly be
permitted to go. Whenever Decatur came on board the Constitution, the
first object he would see would be Pickle, who would bow to the deck and
make the most insinuating inquiries about his health. Decatur was sure
to find Pickle, cap in hand, at every turn. The other midshipmen saw
through it, and determined to get a “rig” on Pickle. One day, at dinner,
therefore, Laws, one of the older midshipmen, casually remarked that he
had seen Captain Decatur on shore that day with a box of frogs and
lizards. “And you know,” said he, turning half round so that Pickle
might not see him winking at the rest, “Captain Decatur has a craze for
frogs and lizards. He’s making a collection to take home with him. I
gave him a tree-toad to-day, and you’d have thought from the way he
thanked me that I had given him a forty-four-gun frigate. The fellows
that want to go on the Intrepid can take the hint.”

That was enough for Pickle. The next day he got shore leave, and in the
afternoon, as the result of his day on shore, he returned with a box
about a foot square full of frogs and snails and lizards. This, he
himself took on board the Enterprise, and, asking to see Captain
Decatur, was very much disappointed to find that the captain was not on
the ship. He left his box, though, and returned to the Constitution.

Again, at dinner, more tales were told respecting Decatur’s extravagant
fondness for frogs, and Pickle chuckled to himself on his astuteness in
sending the captain a whole boxful. At last he burst out with—

“I tell you what it is, fellows, I’ve got ahead of all of you! I went
ashore to-day, and I got a dozen of the biggest bull-toads you ever
clapped your eyes on, and I sent ’em to Captain Decatur with my
compliments!”

“Pickle,” remarked Laws solemnly, “something ails you that doesn’t often
afflict a midshipman: you’re too long-headed by half.”

“Yes,” said Morris, another of the midshipmen, “and soon we’ll see the
effect of Pickle’s sharpness. Captain Decatur will say to himself: ‘Now,
there’s that little Pickle Israel, he’s a very sharp fellow—knows a
lizard when he sees one, and isn’t afraid of a jumping frog. Likely as
not he isn’t afraid of a jumping pirate either. He’ll be a good fellow
to have on the Intrepid, so here goes!’ Then the captain will take out
his list and put your name down, and you’ll go and cover yourself with
glory as with a mantle, and get promoted to be lieutenant, and be at the
top of the list, ahead of all us poor devils, and all on account of
sending Captain Decatur a box of frogs.”

Pickle could not forbear grinning with delight at this pleasing
prospect, but thought it proper to disclaim his future distinction by
cocking his head knowingly, and saying:

“Oh, well, you fellows stand just as good a chance as I do, but it _was_
pretty clever of me to do that frog business so neatly!”

Pickle waited in vain for a note of enthusiastic thanks from Decatur,
including an invitation to dinner, but none came. At last, about a week
afterward, Decatur being on the Constitution’s deck one day, and Pickle,
as usual, hanging around, he turned to the little midshipman with a very
quizzical smile, and said:

“I think, Mr. Israel, that some one has been playing a joke at your
expense. I received, the other day, a box of frogs and lizards and what
not, with your compliments. Of course I had them dumped overboard, and
determined to ask you about them.”

Pickle’s black eyes grew wide with amazed disappointment.

“I heard, sir—I heard you liked frogs,” he managed to stammer, and then
stopped short, appalled by the reflection that perhaps, after all, he
had injured his chances of going in the Intrepid.

“And suppose I do like frogs,” said Decatur, laughing; and then, eyeing
the boy closely, he continued: “I know now, Mr. Israel, that some one
has been playing on you. I understand you are very anxious to go upon
the expedition to Tripoli.”

“Yes, sir,” cried Pickle, eagerly, “I want to go more than I can say,
though all the other fellows want to go too; but, Captain Decatur, if
you’ll take me——”

Decatur put his hand kindly upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Now, my young friend, dismiss the idea from your mind. You are entirely
too young——”

“I’m fourteen, sir,” cut in Pickle, straightening himself up, “and I
look as old as some fellows at sixteen.”

“Nevertheless it is not my intention to take any of the very young
midshipmen. If I did, I should certainly take you, for I have perfect
confidence in your determination and coolness. But remember, we expect
to have a hand-to-hand fight with the Tripolitans; and although they are
neither good seamen nor even tolerable gunners, they are superb as
hand-to-hand fighters, and for that reason I shall choose the strongest
and oldest of the midshipmen. I feel sorry for you”—for Pickle’s eyes
had begun to fill with tears—“but your turn will come some day, and then
I have not the slightest doubt you will give a good account of
yourself.”

The expedition was to start about the 1st of February, and during the
last days of January the excitement among the junior officers was
intense as to which would have the honor of being selected. Decatur
consulted with Somers, and with his help, after much deliberation, made
out a list of the officers he desired, which he submitted to the
commodore. The men of the Argus were to compose the crew, and they were
to be asked to volunteer. Decatur found himself unable to make a choice
among his three lieutenants—Lawrence, Thorn, and Bainbridge, the nephew
of Captain Bainbridge—and felt obliged to take them all.

Somers and Decatur were constantly together during these last days, and
Decatur was ably assisted by Somers’s extraordinarily good judgment in
matters of detail, especially regarding the disguising of the ketch and
her company. Every officer and man was to be provided with a jacket and
trousers such as the Maltese sailors wear—for the Intrepid was to steal
in as a fruit-laden vessel from Malta. At last, every preparation being
well forward, on the afternoon of the 3d of February, Decatur, with
Somers, was pulled to the Constitution, where they found Stewart. Every
officer and man in the ship, by some strange mental process, knew that
the choice of officers was to be made that day, and all were on hand, so
as not to miss the chance of going upon an expedition of so much glory.

Decatur went immediately to the commodore’s cabin, when he submitted his
list, and every name was approved. As he appeared upon the quarter-deck
with the commodore, he could not but smile at the ill-concealed
eagerness of the officers, who could scarcely restrain their
impetuosity.

The commodore looked around and smiled. Not an officer was missing. He
took his station near the gangway, and an instant hush fell upon them.
The boatswain’s call to “Attention!” was a mere form.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you perhaps know that it is in contemplation to
send an expedition, under the command of Captain Decatur, to Tripoli,
for the purpose of destroying the Philadelphia, which has been raised,
refitted, and now flies the Tripolitan colors. Captain Stewart, of the
Siren, is to support Captain Decatur with his whole force. The ketch so
gallantly captured by Captain Decatur is to be used, as being of a build
and rig often seen in Mediterranean ports, and therefore not likely to
excite suspicion. She has been fitly named the Intrepid. Her ammunition
is now aboard of her, and she sails at daylight. Captain Decatur has the
selection of his brave assistants. I can only say that his choice, like
mine, of the ships and the captains to do the work, will be made solely
upon the ground of availability. If willingness to go were the only
test, there could be no choice; but in other respects there is a choice,
which Captain Decatur has made with my approval.”

The commodore then read off the first name, “Midshipman Izard.”

An electric thrill seemed to run through the group of midshipmen as the
names followed in quick succession: “Midshipmen Morris, Laws, Davis, and
Rowe.”

The older officers looked acutely disappointed; many of them had hoped
to go, but they gave the lucky five a rousing cheer, while the
“stay-at-homes” among the midshipmen joined in, and all shook hands
cordially with their more fortunate messmates. Decatur could not but
notice little Israel, the boy’s face was so doleful. He turned to the
lad and said kindly:

“Mr. Israel forgets that his stature is not as great as his spirit; but
some day he will have a chance, and no doubt he will make glorious use
of it.”

These kind words consoled Pickle a little, but except the lucky five, it
was a disappointed lot of reefers who stood on the Constitution’s
quarter-deck and magnanimously cheered the more fortunate of their
number.

The ketch was anchored close in shore, with the red flag flying at her
fore, showing that she was taking on powder. Decatur then ordered his
boat, and said farewell to the commodore and the assembled officers. He
directed the midshipmen to report on board the Intrepid at daylight, and
then, inviting Somers and Stewart to go to his ship with him, all three
were pulled to the Argus. It was about four o’clock on a lovely
afternoon in February, which is a springlike month in Sicily. On the
Argus, too, there was the tension of expectation, as they knew from the
state of forwardness in the preparations of the ketch that the time of
adventure was at hand.

The three young captains came over the side together, and immediately
Decatur ordered the boatswain and his mates to pipe “All hands to
muster!” Almost before the sound had died away the men crowded up the
hatchways, and the officers quickly ranged themselves on the
quarterdeck. “All up and aft!” was reported, and Decatur advanced with
the list in his hand.

“Gentlemen,” said he to his officers, in his usual impetuous way, “you
know, perhaps, that an expedition leaves at daylight to-morrow morning,
in the ketch Intrepid, to destroy the Philadelphia in the harbor of
Tripoli. I have the honor of commanding the ketch, while Captain
Stewart, in the Siren, commands the supporting force. I have selected
the officers to accompany me from the Constitution and the Argus. My
selection was governed by expediency only. All will wish to go”—a murmur
of assent was here heard—“but all can not go. Hence I select those who
seem to me best adapted to bear the hardships and to withstand the
peculiar fighting methods of the Tripolitans. I have concluded to make
no choice among my lieutenants, but to take them all, and Midshipman
Macdonough and Dr. Heerman, surgeon.”

A rousing cheer, as on the Constitution, greeted this announcement, and
the five officers were warmly congratulated. Decatur then turned to the
men:

“Of you, my men,” he said, “I will name one who may go—the pilot,
Salvatore Catalano. I wish sixty-one men out of the ship’s company, and
I shall take the first sixty-one that volunteer. Let each man who wishes
to go advance two steps.”

As if moved by a common impulse, every man and boy on the ship,
including two or three just out of the sick-bay, who had not yet
reported for duty, advanced two steps.

Decatur stood looking at them, his fine face lighted up with pleasure.

“My men,” he said, “it is impossible that all should go. Let those who
are not physically strong, and those under twenty and over forty, step
back.”

Not a man moved. In the midst of the dead pause Danny Dixon spoke up,
touching his hat:

“Please, sir,” he said, “ain’t none of us more’n forty or less’n twenty.
And ain’t a one of us that ain’t jist as healthy and strong as a bull
whale.”

Decatur managed to take this without smiling, but replied: “Very well;
pipe down, boatswain! Within an hour I shall have a list made out of
sixty-one men that I wish to accompany me.”

Summoning Lawrence, his first lieutenant, Decatur, with Stewart and
Somers, disappeared in the cabin, and the men were dismissed.

Next morning, at daylight, the five officers from the Argus, the five
midshipmen from the Constitution, the sixty-one petty officers and
seamen, and the pilot Catalano, were assembled on the deck of the ketch.
The accommodations were bad, and not more than one half the officers
could sling their hammocks at one time; but not a word of complaint was
heard. Early as it was, Somers was on hand to bid his friend good-by.
Just as the pale pink flush of dawn lightened the dark water, the
Intrepid, hoisting one lateen sail, got under way, and Somers, wringing
Decatur’s hand, dropped into his boat alongside. As the ketch caught the
morning breeze and began to glide rapidly out toward the offing, Decatur
ran aft and waved his cap at Somers, standing up in the boat, who
returned it, and then pulled away to his own vessel. The Siren, being a
fast sailer, did not leave until the sun was well up, when she, too,
spread her white wings and flew.

Several days of delightful weather followed. The officers amused
themselves with rehearsing the proposed strategy by which they were to
make the Tripolitans believe them to be Maltese sailors and the ketch a
Maltese trading vessel. Catalano was to do the hailing, prompted by
Decatur, when they had got, as they hoped, to the Philadelphia’s side.
Except a few men, the vessel’s company was to remain below, but ready at
a signal to leap on deck. The Intrepid proved to be a better sailer than
was thought at first, and on a lovely afternoon, four days after leaving
Syracuse, anchor was cast about a mile to windward of Tripoli. The Siren
followed some distance behind. She, too, was disguised, her ports being
closed, her guns covered with tarpaulins, and her sails daubed with
lampblack, and patches painted on them to represent old and worn canvas.
Nothing could disguise the beauty of her lines; but for want of paint on
her hull, and by devices of various sorts, she looked like a staunch
American or English merchantman after a long voyage. Having got the
Intrepid in a good position without being discovered, Decatur was eager
for night to fall, that the desperate adventure might be made. Right out
before them lay the large though dangerous harbor of Tripoli, the
frowning castle, and the numerous forts that protected the town. Among
all the shipping collected at the mole, the dark and towering hull of
the Philadelphia was most conspicuous, and from her peak flew the
crescent of Tripoli.

“There she is, my men!” cried Decatur, as he pointed her out. “All her
guns are kept double shotted, and when we make a bonfire of her she will
give the rascals a broadside that will make them squeal.”

While waiting for the brief twilight of Africa, Decatur noticed a boy
about twelve years old standing by the mast. Two or three of the boys on
the Argus had been brought along to act as helpers, and who could be
left in the ketch while the rest of the crew made the proposed dash for
the Philadelphia. Decatur, passing by at the time, was struck by the
little fellow’s bright face, and stopped to ask him what he wished to
say.

“Please, sir,” said the boy, in a piping treble, “I belongs to the
Argus, but because I was so little they never put my name on the ship’s
books. I hear ’em say, sir, for’ard, as how there’ll be a big lot o’
prize money to divide arter we has blowed the Philadelphy up; and Mr.
Dixon, the quartermaster, sir, says as I won’t get no prize money unless
my name is entered reg’lar; and so I axes you to enter me.”

“Certainly I will,” replied Decatur, laughing at the boy, who was
evidently a victim of fok’sl wit, but who had the spirit to ask for what
he thought his due. “What is your name?”

“Jack Creamer, sir, apprentice boy.”

“Very well, Jack Creamer, apprentice boy, you shall be regularly entered
in the ship’s books, and you’ll get your share of whatever goes round.”

The wind had been rising for some little time, and just then it blew
violently from the southwest. The sky became overcast, and suddenly
darkness seemed to envelop them. This Decatur thought rather favorable
to his scheme; but Catalano, the pilot, who knew every foot of the
harbor, came up at that moment.

“Sir,” he said in fluent English, but with a strong Italian accent, “it
will be impossible to take the ketch in to-night. The water is no doubt
now breaking clear across the reef of the western passage, and even if I
could get in, there would be no chance of getting out. I know this
harbor well, sir, and the water must be moderately smooth before it is
safe to go near the reefs.”

Decatur was of too impetuous a nature to accept all at once this
decision.

“I will have the cutter lowered, and I desire you, with Mr. Morris, to
go and examine the entrance, and, if possible, the ketch shall go in
to-night,” he said.

The cutter was lowered and manned, and pulled away in the fast gathering
darkness. They could see at a little distance that the Siren’s boats
were hoisted out and manned and only awaited the signal to advance. But
every moment the wind increased, and at last Decatur began to feel
seriously uneasy regarding the absent cutter. It was obviously
impossible to attempt the attack that night, and the Intrepid
accordingly so signaled the Siren. After a while the cutter was seen
approaching, tossed about on the great waves, and every man in her
drenched to the skin. The storm was now on them, and the cutter was
brought up with difficulty, and her company clambered into the ketch;
but in hoisting the boat in she was dashed violently against the ship,
and her side completely stove in. This was a trifle; but when the anchor
was weighed it was found to be broken in three pieces. The wind had now
become a roaring gale, and soon the Intrepid was stretching out to sea.
It was observed, though, that the Siren was having trouble with her
anchor, too. She was rolling her gunwales under water, and the anchor
held firmly on the bottom.

“Stewart is well able to look out for himself, while it is as much as we
can do to take care of ourselves,” said Decatur, as he gave orders to
claw off the land.

For six days the storm raged. The brig, which had finally been obliged
to leave her anchor and cable, managed to keep in company with the
ketch, which threatened to founder at every moment. Their provisions
were soaked, and in cold and wet and hunger these brave men weathered
the gale. But at last, on the morning of the 15th of February, the
weather moderated, the wind fell, and a bright sun shone. The ketch and
brig found themselves in the Gulf of Sydra. Good weather promising for
some days, Decatur signaled the Siren to bear away for Tripoli, and
began to make his preparations for the attack.

Toward evening they found themselves in sight of the town, with its
circle of forts crowned by the frowning castle. The great hull of the
Philadelphia, larger than any in the harbor, stood out in bold relief,
her masts and spars clearly defined against the dazzling blue of the
African sky. Two frigates, anchored about two cables’ lengths apart, lay
between her and the castle, while nineteen gunboats and a few galleys
lay near her. From the castle and the batteries one hundred and fifteen
guns could be trained upon an attacking force; but the bold tars on the
Intrepid took all chances cheerfully, and even gayly. Every man had been
instructed in his duty, and the crew was not mustered, for fear of
awaking distrust. The watchword “Philadelphia” was passed around. The
men quietly took their places below the hatches, while half a dozen
officers sat or lay about on deck. Catalano took the wheel, while
Decatur, in a common sailor’s jacket and fez, stood by him.

The breeze had become light and baffling in the offing and the Siren,
which kept well away from the Intrepid in order to avoid suspicion, was
evidently unable to get any nearer until the wind should change; but at
the entrance to the harbor it was very fresh, and carried the ketch
forward at a lively rate. Decatur saw that his best hope was to make a
bold dash then, without waiting for the gallant little brig, which was
almost becalmed. At the moment when the steersman made straight for the
western entrance of the harbor, Decatur addressed a few last words to
his officers and men.

“You see,” he said in a firm, clear voice, perfectly audible to all,
although not loud, “that Stewart and his gallant crew can not assist us.
Very well; the fewer the number, the greater the honor. Our brave
shipmates now in prison have been forced for many months to see the
shameful spectacle of an American frigate wearing the colors of her
pirate captors. Please God, it shall be so no longer after this night.
Let every man think of this—let him think of his country; and though we
can not hoist ‘Old Glory’ at the Philadelphia’s peak, we can at least
send her to the bottom, rather than let her float disgraced by a pirate
flag!”

A half-suppressed cheer greeted Decatur’s brave words, and every officer
and man felt himself possessed by that noble enthusiasm which works
miracles of courage. Jack Creamer allowed his voice to get so far the
better of the instructions given him to keep quiet, that he screeched
out a boyish cheer, for which Danny Dixon came near chucking him
overboard.

It was not desired to get in before ten o’clock, but at the rate they
were going, under a good breeze, would have got them in before sunset.
Afraid of attracting attention by shortening sail, Decatur had all the
vessel’s buckets, spare sails, etc., towed behind, so that she moved
very slowly through the water. About nine o’clock, when they were a mile
off the town, a brilliant moon rose trembling in the heavens. Decatur
noticed it.

“Just the light for us,” he said.

The scene was one of perfect peace and beauty. All the shipping in the
harbor lay quietly at anchor, and the water was so smooth that their
lights were as stationary as those that twinkled in the town and the
Bashaw’s castle.

The Intrepid stole quietly in, leaving the Siren farther and farther
astern. The moon was now high, flooding the sea with glory, and making
the harbor lights mere twinkling points of flame. The Intrepid steered
directly for the Philadelphia’s bows, and this caused her to be hailed
while still a considerable distance off. A number of Tripolitans were
seen lounging about the Philadelphia’s decks, and an officer smoking a
long pipe leaned over the rail and called out:

“What vessel is that?”

“The ketch Stella, from Malta,” responded Catalano in Italian, which is
the _lingua franca_ of the East. “We were caught in the gale and nearly
wrecked. We lost our anchors, and our commander would like the favor of
riding by you during the night.” Decatur, in his round jacket and fez,
lounged near Catalano, and whispered to him what to say.

“Your request is rather unusual,” replied the officer.

“Bananas and oranges, with a few bales of raw silk,” answered Catalano,
pretending that he had understood the Tripolitan to ask what the
Stella’s cargo was. The ketch continued to draw rapidly near, and from
the Philadelphia could be seen the supposed Italian mariners moving
lazily about and gesticulating to one another.

“Mule-head and son of a jackass,” cried the Tripolitan, “it is nothing
to me what you are laden with! I say it is dangerous to have you dogs of
Christians made fast to us. If you get on board, you will steal anything
you lay your hands on.”

“That’s not a very pleasant way to meet men who have been in a whole
gale for six days, with all our provisions spoiled, and on short
allowance of water, and expecting every moment to go to the bottom. On
the voyage we met with a xebec of your country with her captain ill and
half the crew down with scurvy. We broke our cargo to give them fresh
fruit, and took the captain on board and landed him at Tunis.” So
answered Catalano, in an injured voice, the ketch still advancing
steadily.

“Then you may lie by us until daylight,” answered the officer. At the
same time he ordered a boat with a fast to be lowered. Then he called
out again, his voice resounding over the smooth water, now lighted by
the moon, that had climbed high in the deep blue of the night sky:

“What vessel is that in the offing?”

“The Transfer,” answered Catalano, prompted by Decatur.

This was a small frigate lately purchased of the British at Malta, and
which the Tripolitans were anxiously looking for.

“Good!” said the officer.

“The wind died out before she could get in,” continued Catalano, “and
she asked us to report her.”

Not the slightest suspicion had yet entered the minds of the Tripolitans
that the Intrepid was anything but a trading vessel, and luckily enough
for Decatur and his dauntless company; for at that moment a puff of wind
came, the Intrepid’s head fell off, and she drifted directly under the
Philadelphia’s broadside.

At this appalling moment the least hint of the Intrepid’s real character
would have meant death to every man on board. Decatur, with his
unshakable coolness, ordered a boat out, with Lawrence and three seamen,
carrying a hawser, which they quietly fastened to the forechains of the
Philadelphia. The ketch meanwhile was drifting under the port batteries
of the frigate, toward the stern, where, if she had escaped the guns on
broadside, the stern chasers could have annihilated her. But every man
on board shared Decatur’s calm self-possession at this critical moment.

The frigate’s boat containing the fast had now put out. Lawrence, rowing
back to the ketch, met the Tripolitan boat.

“Give us your fast,” he said, “so we can let go another hawser. We lost
our best cables with the anchors, and our hawsers are so small that it
will take two to hold us in case the wind should rise during the night.”

The Tripolitans handed out the fasts, which Lawrence coolly carried on
board the Intrepid. The men on deck, catching hold of the fast, then
drew the ketch close to the frigate’s huge black hull, and were soon
breasting along under her port side.

The shadow cast by the Philadelphia’s hull was of immense help to the
Intrepid’s men, but near her stern was a great patch of white moonlight,
and any object passing through this glittering and shimmering belt could
be seen as plainly as in daytime. As the ketch glided steadily along and
into this brilliant light, her anchors, with their cables coiled up,
were seen on her decks.

“Keep off!” shouted the Tripolitan officer, suddenly taking the alarm;
“you have deceived us—you have not lost your anchors, and we do not know
your character,” and at the same moment he ordered men with the axes to
cut the fasts. But, as if by enchantment, the deck of the Intrepid was
alive with men, whose strong arms brought her grinding up against the
frigate’s side in a moment’s time. Then a great yell went up from the
frigate:

“_Americanos! Americanos!_” cried the Tripolitans.

The next instant Decatur, who was standing ready, made a powerful
spring, and jumped at the Philadelphia’s chain-plates, shouting at the
same moment:

“Board!”

Morris and Laws, two of the midshipmen of the Constitution, were at
Decatur’s side clinging to the frigate’s plates. Morris and Decatur both
sprang at the rail, and Morris, being little more than a boy, and very
lithe and agile, his foot touched the quarter-deck first. But Decatur
was second. Laws had dashed at an open porthole, and would have been the
first on the frigate, but his boarding belt, with his pistols in it,
caught between the gun and the port, so that he was third.

Instantly, in the dazzling moonlight, turbaned heads appeared over the
rail and at every port. The Americans came pouring over the side, and as
the Tripolitans rushed above they found the quarter-deck already in
possession of the “Americanos.” The Tripolitans ran forward and to
starboard. The Americans, quickly forming a line across the deck, and
headed by Decatur, dashed at them, and, caught between an advancing body
of resolute seamen and the ship’s rail, those who were not cut down,
after a short but desperate resistance, leaped overboard. The Americans
were more than a match for them in hand-to-hand fighting, at which they
excelled, and they fought in disorder. In five minutes the spar deck was
cleared and in possession of the Americans.

Below there was a more prolonged struggle. The Tripolitans, with their
backs to the ship’s side, made a fierce resistance, but were clearly
overmatched from the beginning; and as it is their practice never to
fall alive into the hands of an enemy, those who were not cut down on
the spot ran to the ports and jumped overboard, and within five minutes
more there was not a Tripolitan on the frigate except the dead and
wounded. Not until then did the batteries, the castle, the two frigates
moored near the Philadelphia, and the gunboats, take the alarm.

The ketch, however, fastened close under the overhanging quarter-gallery
of the frigate, and completely in the shadow, still escaped detection.
Lights began to flash about from the ships and the batteries, but not
enough could be discerned to justify the Tripolitans in firing upon
their own ship. Warning had been given, though, and it was now only a
question of a few moments how long the Americans could work undisturbed.

Decatur now appeared upon the quarter-deck to have the powder on the
ketch rapidly transferred to the frigate. Lawrence was with him. When
the moment came that Decatur must give the order for the destruction of
the frigate, his resolution to obey orders almost failed him.

He turned to his lieutenant, and, grasping him by the shoulders, cried
out in an agonized voice:

“Ah, Lawrence, why can not this gallant ship be cut out and carried off,
a glorious trophy of this night?”

“She has not a sail bent nor a yard crossed,” answered Lawrence firmly.
“The tide will not serve to take so large a ship out now; and remember,
it is as dangerous to do too much under Commodore Preble’s orders as to
do too little.”

“I care nothing for that——”

“Then, if you value your reputation, give the order at once to hand up
the powder!” exclaimed Lawrence. “See! the frigate off the port quarter
is lighting up her batteries.”

For a moment or two, as Lawrence watched Decatur’s agitated face, he
almost feared that his young captain literally could not give the order
to destroy the ship, so intense was his desire to bring her out. But
after a moment or two Decatur recovered himself; the opposition of so
fearless a man as Lawrence convinced him, against his will, that it was
impossible; and by a powerful effort he gave the order, and the men
began rapidly hoisting the kegs of gunpowder over the side and carrying
them along the decks. In a few moments the gun-room, the magazine
scuttle, the cockpit, and the forward storerooms were filled with
combustibles, and smoke was already pouring from the ports on the gun
deck before those in the lower parts of the ship had time to get up.
They ran to the forward ladders, and when the last firing party reached
the spar deck the men were jumping into the ketch—all except Decatur and
a small party of his own. Two eighteen-pounders, double shotted, had
been dragged amidships and pointed down the main hatch, in order to blow
the ship’s bottom out; and a port fire, with a train of powder, had been
started so as to fire these two guns with certain effect. The sailors
then, seeing their glorious work well done, dropped quickly over the
side into the ketch, the officers followed, and Decatur, taking one last
look at the doomed frigate, now enveloped in curling smoke, was about to
leave her deck—his the last foot ever to tread it—when he saw little
Jack Creamer trying to drag a wounded Tripolitan across the deck. But
the boy was scarcely able to do it, and the man, who was large and
heavy, was too badly wounded to help himself, and Decatur stepped
forward to assist.

“I found him under the hammock netting,” Jack gasped, “and I took him,
sir—I captured him.”

“Bear a hand here!” shouted Decatur, cutting Jack’s magnificent claim
short; and the next moment Danny Dixon’s brawny arms were around the
wounded man, while Jack Creamer hopped lightly into the ketch. And
then—the frigate being quickly enveloped in fire and smoke, with little
tongues of flame beginning to touch the rigging—Decatur leaped from the
Philadelphia’s deck into the ketch’s rigging, and, the sixteen sweeps
being already manned, the order was given to cast off. At that very
moment the guns from the Bashaw’s castle, half gunshot off, boomed over
the heads of the Americans.

In this instant of triumph, though, they incurred their greatest danger
of that perilous night. The headfast having been cast off, the ketch
fell astern of the frigate, out of whose ports the flames were now
blazing. The Intrepid’s jigger flapped against the blazing quarter
gallery, while on her deck, just under it, lay all her ammunition, only
covered by a tarpaulin. To increase their danger, the sternfast became
jammed, and they were fixed firmly to the blazing frigate, while the
ships as well as the shore batteries now opened a tremendous fire upon
them.

There was no axe at hand; but Decatur, Lawrence, and the other officers
managed, by the most tremendous efforts with their swords, to cut the
hawser; and just as they swung clear, the flames rushed up the
tar-soaked rigging of the Philadelphia, and the two eighteen-pounders
roared out their charges into the bottom of the burning ship.

The Intrepid was now plainly visible, in the light of the blazing
Philadelphia to every man on board the aroused fleet and batteries, and
of the crowds collected on the shore. Then the thunder of a furious
cannonade began. And now, after this unparalleled achievement, the
Americans gave one last proof of their contempt of danger. As the
Intrepid worked out in the red blaze that illuminated the whole harbor,
a target for every gun in the Tripolitan batteries, the men at her
sweeps stopped rowing, every officer and man rose to his feet, and with
one impulse they gave three thundering American cheers.

When this was done they settled down to getting out of the way.

     [Illustration: _The expedition to destroy the Philadelphia._]

As they drew farther from the shore they were in more and more danger
from the batteries; but although every shot threw showers of spray over
them, the Americans only gave back derisive cries and cheers. A rapid
count showed that not a man was missing. Jack Creamer, however, shouted
proudly:

“Cap’n Decatur, please, sir, besides capturin’ that there man, one o’
them wuthless Turks throwed his pistil at me and knocked me down, and I
expects some smart money for this ’ere cut.”

Here Jack displayed with great satisfaction a small cut, that would not
have hurt a baby, behind his left ear. A roar of laughter from the men
followed, while Decatur smiled, and said:

“You shall have your smart money, sure.”

As they pulled with powerful strokes toward the offing, where they could
see the vague outline of the Siren and her boats, fully manned, lying
like black shadows on the water, the harbor and town were as light as
day with the reflection from the blazing frigate and the silvery
radiance of the moon. The Philadelphia seemed to be burning in every
spot at the same moment. Flames poured from her ports, and her fifty
guns, all double shotted, began to go off in every direction as her
blazing hull drifted helplessly with wind and tide. Many of the shot
from her guns crashed into the fleet around her, while at almost every
turn she poured a furious cannonade into the castle. As her decks fell
in, the guns were lowered at the breech, and their hot shot went farther
and farther, even into the town itself. One shot from the castle passed
through the to’gallant sail of the ketch; but the men only laughed,
while Catalano, the pilot, sang out in his Italian-English:

“Eet ees a peety we can not get a piece of Meester Bashaw’s trousers for
to mend our sail! Next time we come to Tripoli, Meester Bashaw, we will
get you, and your trousers too, sair.”

They were now well out of the range of firing, and close to the launch
and cutter of the Siren. Decatur hailed the cutter, which was very fast.

“Bring up alongside,” he cried, “and take me aboard!”

The cutter quickly drew alongside. Decatur jumped on board, and the boat
shot ahead of the slower ketch. As they neared the Siren, Decatur by the
light of the moon perceived Stewart at the gangway anxiously peering
into the darkness. Stewart could only see the officer in command of the
boat in uniform, and he did not recognize Decatur disguised in the
jacket of an Italian sailor. When the boat got near enough, Decatur made
a spring at the hawser that hung astern, and in another moment he had
sped along the deck and clapped Stewart on the shoulder.

“Didn’t she make a glorious bonfire?” he cried, “and we came off without
losing a man!”

Stewart, astonished, turned round, and recognizing Decatur, could only
wring his hand, while the other officers crowded around and overwhelmed
Decatur with congratulations. In a little while the Intrepid neared them
and hailed, asking that the wounded Tripolitan be taken aboard the
Siren, as there was no place on the ketch in which he could be made
decently comfortable.

The man was hoisted on board, and as Jack Creamer claimed the honor of
capturing him, the boy was allowed to be one of the helpers. The
Tripolitan had kept so quiet that Dr. Heerman, who had come with him,
flashed a lantern into his face to see if he were alive or dead, and
Decatur, who was looking on, to his surprise recognized Mahomet Rous.
Mahomet opened his eyes and shut them again quickly, but there was no
doubt that he was very much alive.

“He’s a-playin’ possum, sir,” said Jack Creamer, who was holding up the
Tripolitan’s head. “When he s’rendered to me——”

An involuntary shout of laughter followed this, as Jack’s little figure
was contrasted with Mahomet Rous’s brawny form.

“When he s’rendered, sir,” kept on Jack stoutly, “he was bleedin’ from a
wound in the leg, and one arm was hangin’ down like ’twas broke, and if
I hadn’t captured him when I did he’d ’a’ jumped overboard, as sure’s my
name’s Jack Creamer. He give me his sword and pistil, leastways,” Jack
added, blushing. “I took ’em from him, ’cause he couldn’t hold on to ’em
no longer, and I’ve got ’em hid in a pork-barrel on the ketch, and I
axes, sir—” turning to Decatur and Stewart, who could not help laughing
at him—“if I can’t be allowed to keep ’em, and I’ll take ’em instid o’
smart money for my wound, if I can’t have both.”

Jack here gravely displayed his scratched ear, which Dr. Heerman
examined with equal gravity.

“I’ll tell you what you ought to do for this ear: go and wash it,” said
the surgeon; at which Jack, unable to stand the laughter of the officers
and the grins of the men, dropped Mahomet’s head and disappeared
forward. But Decatur called after him:

“You shall have the sword and pistol, and the smart money too.”

The wind still held, and, the Siren getting up her anchor, Decatur took
Jack Creamer with him and returned on board the ketch, and all sail was
made for Syracuse.

On the morning of the 19th of February, just fifteen days after they had
left Syracuse, the Intrepid and the Siren stood into the harbor.
Stewart, from motives of delicacy, kept his fast-sailing brig astern of
the ketch. The Nautilus lay farther out than the Constitution, and
Somers, taking his morning walk on the quarter-deck, saw the ketch and
the brig approaching, and the next moment the lookout sang out, “Sail,
ho!”

Instinctively Somers knew that it was Decatur and Stewart. The morning
was one of those clear, brilliant days when the earth and sea seem like
paradise. In the bright blue air he could see the white canvas of the
brig, now cleaned and fresh, and the low hull of the ketch with her
lateen sails. Soon they were near enough to be hailed, and, with a joy
and thankfulness not to be described, Somers saw Decatur standing on the
bow of the ketch, waving his cap—a signal meaning success, that had been
agreed on between them.

The next instant they were seen from the Constitution, and as soon as it
was certain that they were observed an ensign was run up to every
masthead on the Intrepid. This was enough—it meant complete success. At
once the commodore gave orders for a salute to be fired, and the guns of
the Constitution roared out their welcome. This was taken up by the
Nautilus, and by the Sicilian forts on shore—for Sicily, too, had her
grudge against Tripoli. In the midst of the thundering salutes, and in a
cloud of blue smoke, the brig and the ketch came to anchor. Somers had
ordered his boat lowered, and had made for the Constitution, in order to
be the first to meet Decatur. His boat and the Intrepid’s, which carried
Decatur and Lawrence, came to the ladder at the same moment. Decatur
sprang out and caught Somers in his arms, and they hugged each other
very much as they had done in their midshipman days, when both were
larking together in “Old Wagoner’s” steerage. Somers then went over the
side, in order that he might witness Decatur’s triumphal entry. The
commodore and all the Constitution’s officers were waiting at the
gangway to salute Decatur. Somers greeted the commodore and the other
officers hurriedly and walked aside, as Decatur stepped upon the
quarter-deck, followed by his first lieutenant. Decatur wore a perfectly
new naval uniform, with a handsome sword. His fine black eyes were
sparkling, and he had a happy air of success. He bowed low to the
commodore. “Old Pepper” grasped Decatur’s hand warmly, and, taking off
his cap, cried:

“If every plank in the Philadelphia is destroyed, you shall have my best
efforts to make you a post-captain for it!”

“Every plank is destroyed, sir; every gun is burst and at the bottom of
the harbor; and the ship, after burning to the water’s edge, exploded,
and you could not have told the place where she lay,” answered Decatur,
in a quiet voice.

At this a mighty hurrah went up from the officers and men on the
Constitution.

“Not a man was lost——” continued Decatur, but at that another storm of
cheering cut him short. Somers, the quietest and most self-contained man
on the squadron, was cheering wildly, and literally dancing in his
excitement. The commodore hurried Decatur into the cabin to get the
particulars. Lawrence told the glorious story on the quarter-deck; while
Danny Dixon, who was coxswain, got permission to leave the Intrepid’s
boat, and to a listening crowd of blue-jackets on the fok’sl he narrated
the noble adventures of the Intrepid.

When Decatur returned to the deck to get into his boat he found the
rigging full of men, and as he left the ship, taking Somers with him,
that they might have their usual long and intimate talk, the yards were
manned, and three rousing American cheers shook the Constitution’s deck
in honor of the Intrepid’s young commander.

Amid all the felicitations on the outcome of the expedition, the modesty
and calmness of Decatur under his weight of splendid achievement were
remarked upon—especially as he was so young and so impetuous. But when
he and Somers were alone in the cabin of the Argus, they suddenly threw
aside their dignity and acted like a couple of crazy schoolboys. They
hugged and pounded each other, they laughed, they cried, they joked,
they sang, and at last the only thing that quieted them was the usually
grave Somers shoving Decatur into a chair and shouting:

“Now, you lucky rascal, don’t dare to move from that chair until you
have told me all about the fight!”




                               CHAPTER V.


On the morning of the 3d of August, 1804, began that immortal series of
five assaults on the town, the fortresses, and the fleets of Tripoli
that were destined to forever destroy this piratical and barbarous
power. The force of the Americans was but little. With one heavy
frigate—the glorious old Constitution—three brigs, three schooners, two
bomb vessels, and three gunboats, manned by one thousand and sixty
officers and men, Commodore Preble stood boldly in to attack the town
defended by the Bashaw’s castle, not less than a dozen powerful forts, a
fleet of three cruising vessels, two galleys, and nineteen gunboats,
manned by twenty-five thousand Turks and Arabs. The harbor was,
moreover, protected by a line of shoals and reefs perfectly well known
to the Tripolitans, but very imperfectly known to the Americans, and
which the Constitution could not approach very closely without incurring
the fate of the unfortunate Philadelphia. But whatever “Old Pepper”
lacked in ships and guns he made up in men; for every soul in the
American fleet was worthy to serve under the flag that flew from the
mastheads.

In considering the claims of his different officers in leading the
attack, Commodore Preble had at last determined upon Decatur and Somers.
The larger vessels were to cover the advance of the gunboats, which were
to do the real fighting, and these gunboats were divided into two
divisions—the first under Decatur, the second under Somers. Besides the
natural fitness of these two young captains for this dangerous honor,
the commodore knew their perfect understanding of each other and the
entire absence of jealousy between them; and with two officers acting in
concert this harmony of ideas and feelings was of great value. But few
officers were to be taken in the gunboats, and none of the midshipmen
from the Constitution were permitted to leave her. The frigate’s
situation would not be nearly so exposed as the boat divisions, yet she
was the force to support them all, and would require much and skillful
manœuvring. Commodore Preble, therefore, had use for all his officers.
These brave young men accepted the inevitable, and only little Pickle
Israel begged and pleaded unavailingly with both Somers and Decatur to
take him.

“Now, Captain Decatur,” said Pickle, in a wheedling voice, finding
himself in the cabin of the Nautilus with both Somers and Decatur the
morning of the attack, “I’m nearly fifteen years old, sir.”

“And a great help you’d be,” cried Decatur, laughing, and much amused by
Pickle’s persistence. “If a strapping great big Turk were to board us, I
should at once sing out: ‘Where is Mr. Israel? Let him tackle this
fellow; he’s too much for me!’”

Pickle looked very solemnly into the laughing faces of the two young
captains, and then gloomily remarked:

“I’m afraid you’re joking, Captain Decatur.”

“Not at all,” answered Decatur, winking at Somers. “Didn’t that little
apprentice boy, Jack Creamer, capture a whole live Tripolitan by himself
the night of the destruction of the Philadelphia?”

As Jack Creamer’s claim of having captured Mahomet Rous was a joke in
the whole squadron, Pickle did not feel Decatur’s remark as any
encouragement. So he turned to Somers, and said earnestly:

“Well, Captain Somers, if Captain Decatur won’t let me go with him——”

“That’s very ungrateful of Decatur, too,” interrupted Somers, quite
seriously, “considering the way you and Macdonough came to our
assistance the night of our adventure with the brigands at Syracuse. And
Macdonough is going in the boats.”

Here Decatur, seeing that the little midshipman was really in earnest,
thought they had amused themselves at his expense quite enough; so he
said kindly:

“Now, Mr. Israel, let us talk common sense. You are as brave a little
fellow as ever stepped—both Captain Somers and I know that—but you could
be picked up and thrown overboard like a handspike by any full-grown
man. Macdonough is several years older than you, and as strong and able
to take care of himself as any lieutenant in the squadron. Never you
mind, though. Just as soon as your body grows up to your spirit, you
will have your chance at distinction.”

“And then,” added Somers, looking at the boy with a strange interest,
“every officer who has a desperate enterprise on hand will want you.”

Poor Pickle had to go back on the Constitution fortified only by this
promise.

James Decatur, Stephen’s younger brother, was put in Somers’s division,
which consisted of three gunboats, while Decatur’s consisted also of
three boats, and each was armed with a single long twenty-four-pounder.
The two friends had spent many days and weeks in perfecting their plans,
and when, at noon on the 3d of August, the Constitution flung out the
signal of battle, each knew exactly what was to be done.

It was a beautiful August day, and the white-walled city, with its
circle of grim forts, its three smart cruisers lying under the guns of
the castle, crowned with heavy mortars, and its fleet of gunboats,
manned by sailors in quaint costumes, made a beautiful and imposing
picture. The American fleet looked small to grapple with such a force,
but, although it was estimated as about one to five of the Tripolitans’
force, every man went into action with a coolness and determination not
to be excelled.

At half past twelve o’clock the Constitution ran in, with a good breeze,
about three miles from the town. She wore ship, with her head off the
land, and signaled to the brigs, schooners, gunboats, and bomb vessels
to prepare for the attack, and at the same moment the frigate herself
was cleared for action.

It was seen that the Tripolitan batteries were manned, and the cruising
vessels had lifted their anchors, so that the Americans knew that they
would have a warm reception. At the moment that the Constitution wore
with her head pointing out of the harbor, the Bashaw of Tripoli was
watching the fleet with a glass from one of the windows of the castle,
and haughtily remarked:

“They will mark their distance for tacking. These Americanos are a sort
of Jews, who have no notion of fighting!” But Captain Bainbridge and his
officers and men, who watched the scene with the eager eyes of prisoners
hoping for release, knew perfectly well that every manœuvre made by the
Americans that day would be only to get closer to the enemy.

By half past one o’clock the gunboats were manned, and separated into
two divisions. Somers led the first, with young James Decatur commanding
the boat next him, while Stephen Decatur led the second division. Danny
Dixon was, as usual, acting as coxswain, and with him was a brawny young
sailor, Reuben James, who had captivated Danny by his admiration for
Captain Paul Jones. Danny had, in consequence, recommended him highly to
Decatur. “For, cap’n,” he said, “a man as thinks as highly o’ Cap’n Paul
Jones as Reuben James does, and kin listen oncet in a while to my yarns
’bout the fight between the Bunnum Richard and the S’rapis, is apt to be
a mighty good sailor. And if one o’ them murderin’ pirates was to do for
me, sir, I’d like to think there’d be a good man to take my place. I’m
a-thinkin’, Cap’n Decatur, this ain’t goin’ to be no picnic, but good
hard fightin’. ’Course ’twon’t be like fightin’ the Britishers on the
S’rapis——”

“I’d rather fight the Britishers ten to one,” answered Decatur, cutting
short Danny’s reminiscences, which otherwise would have been
interminable. “The British are seamen and gentlemen, while these
wretches are corsairs and pirates. But Reuben James may be with you, if
you want him.”

“Thanky, sir,” responded Danny; and Reuben was the first man Decatur saw
when he stepped aboard the gunboat.

Somers had for his coxswain Moriarity, who, while waiting for his young
commander, remarked, with a wink to his messmates who were resting on
their oars:

“Begorra, although ould Oireland is a good counthry, Oi’m roight glad,
Oi am, that I was born and bred in Ameriky. There’s goin’ to be great
doin’s this day, and Misther Somers—or Cap’n, as I should say—is one o’
them young gintlemen as has a grip like a bulldog on a enemy. And Oi
promise ivery wan of yez that if yez follows Misther Somers—or Cap’n, I
should say—ye’ll git into a warm place, shure; and ye won’t come out of
it, nayther, as soon as ye’d like; for Misther Somers—or Cap’n, I should
say—for all he be as soft as a May mornin’, is got more fight in him nor
any murtherin’ Turk as iver smoked a poipe or tould a lie.”

Which was perfectly true.

As the two divisions of three boats each formed and pulled away, they
saw two divisions of Tripolitan gunboats, much larger, stronger, and
more fully manned, pull slowly out from behind the line of reefs. The
windward division consisted of nine gunboats, and the leeward of five,
while a reserve of five others lay just inside her harbor, protected by
the reefs.

As Somers took his place in the gunboat he said to the man at the
tiller:

“Do you see that division of five boats to leeward? Steer straight for
it and within pistol shot of it, when I will give you further orders.”

The breeze was easterly, and the one lateen sail drawing well, the boat
was soon covering the distance between her and her enemies across the
blue water. The firing had begun, and a terrific roar, as the
Constitution barked out all her great guns in broadside, showed that the
ball was opened. Somers watched until his boat was abreast of the
Tripolitan’s, when, himself sighting the long gun amidships, he fired,
and saw the shot had instant and terrible effect. Just then Moriarity
leaned over and whispered in his ear:

“Sorr, the flagship is showin’ a signal of recall.”

“Moriarity,” answered Somers quietly, and without turning his head, “I
thought you had too much sense to see a signal of recall in action!”

“Thrue for you, sorr,” said Moriarity, with a grin, “but I jist
mintioned it to you, sorr, so you wouldn’t turn your head that way. Why,
it’s a mishtake, be the powers! but Cap’n Blake, in the next boat, seen
it—bad luck to it!—and he’s gone and obeyed it.”

Somers turned around, and, carefully avoiding looking toward the
flagship, saw the next boat to his, under Lieutenant Blake, a brave
young officer, drawing off, obeying the signal of recall; and the very
next moment the third boat, commanded by James Decatur, caught a puff of
wind that brought her head round and carried her directly into the other
division of boats, which was dashing forward to attack the nine
Tripolitan gunboats.

“Very well,” said Somers, with his usual calm smile, “as Decatur says,
‘The fewer the number the greater the honor!’ So we’ll go ahead, boys.”

The sailors gave a cheer, and in another moment they were under the fire
of the five gunboats. The situation of Somers was now critical in the
extreme, but he gave no sign of it in his manner, which was as cool as
if he were exercising at boat drill. He opened a steady and
well-directed fire, that soon began to weaken the attack of the
Tripolitan boats, and not one of them dared to come near enough to
attempt boarding him. Still, he was drawing nearer and nearer the
batteries. Commodore Preble, who was watching him from the
Constitution’s quarter-deck, exclaimed:

“Look at that gallant fellow Somers! I would recall him, but he will
never see the signal.”

At that the commodore heard a boyish voice at his elbow, and there stood
little Pickle Israel.

“If you please, sir,” said he, with the air of one making a great
discovery, “I don’t believe Captain Somers _wants_ to see any signal.”

“You are right, my boy!” cried “Old Pepper,” who was in high good humor
over the gallant behavior of his “schoolboy captains;” “but, at least,
he shall be supported.”

With that he gave orders, and the ship, advancing slowly but as steadily
as if working into the roadstead of a friendly port, delivered a
tremendous fire upon the batteries that were now trying to get the range
of the daring little boat.

In spite of Somers’s efforts to keep from drifting too far toward the
reefs and the reserve squadron by backing his sweeps astern, he soon
found himself directly under the guns of one of the larger forts. The
Constitution was thundering at the forts, but this one was a little too
near, and her shot fell over it. The situation of Somers was now
desperate, but his indomitable coolness stood him in good stead.

“If we can knock down the platform that holds those guns, my men, we
shall be all right,” he cried, “and see, it is very rickety!”

Then, ordering a double charge put in the long gun, he sighted it
himself. A shot went screaming over the water, and immediately a cloud
of dust, bricks, and mortar showed that it had struck the right spot.
The platform was destroyed, and the battery tumbled down among the
ruins.

Somers then turned his attention to the five gunboats, that he could now
drive still closer to the reef, and on which every shot was telling. At
this moment Moriarity whispered anxiously in Somers’s ear:

“For the love of Heaven, sorr, don’t look toward the flagship! They’re
flyin’ a signal as you’d be mighty onwillin’ to see, sorr.”

“Thank you, Moriarity,” answered Somers, smiling, who knew that the
coxswain meant that the signal of recall had been sent up—this time in
earnest. But, feared as Commodore Preble was by his young captains, he
could not make them retire under the fire of an enemy.

“Look at Decatur over there!” cried Somers, pointing to the southern
entrance to the reef, where there was heavy firing and a terrible
struggle going on. “If we leave these gunboats, they will at once
re-enforce their windward division; and Decatur already has as much on
his hands as he can manage.”

And so, for an hour longer, did the little American boat, with her one
gun, her resolute young captain, and her brave crew, hold in check a
force of five times her own; and not until a general recall was ordered
did she leave her perilous position, and retire under the guns of the
frigate.

As Somers was unexpectedly weakened, so Decatur was unexpectedly
strengthened by James Decatur’s boat. Decatur, under sails and sweeps,
and making for the nine gunboats advancing to meet him, saw Somers’s
desperately gallant attempt, and, turning impetuously to his men,
shouted:

“Do you see, men, how Somers has turned like a lion on a whole division
of gunboats? We must do our best this day, or else Somers and his boat
will reap all the glory!”

The Tripolitans advanced boldly, keeping up a hot fire of grape and
musketry, which Decatur returned with interest. In the midst of the
smoke from the vessels and the batteries the Tripolitans could not quite
make out where the _Americanos_ were; but suddenly a boat was laid
alongside of the first Tripolitan gunboat, and Decatur’s voice was heard
ringing out, “Board!” and then they knew indeed where the _Americanos_
were.

The Turkish gunboat was divided into two parts by a long, open hatchway
extending from her port to her starboard side. The Tripolitans, taken by
surprise, rushed to the farther end of the hatchway, while Decatur,
joined by his lieutenant, Thorn, and his favorite midshipman,
Macdonough, made a dash for them. Now, these pirates were celebrated for
their hand-to-hand fighting, at which they were considered almost
invincible; but they could not withstand the steady charge of the
Americans, and the boat was carried with the first rush. Scarcely were
the Tripolitan colors hauled down and the captured boat taken in tow,
when in the midst of the drifting smoke an American gunboat was found to
have ranged up directly under the stern of Decatur’s boat.

“What is the matter?” shouted Decatur.

“Lieutenant Decatur is wounded!” answered Midshipman Morris, the one
whose foot had first touched the Philadelphia’s deck. He was standing on
the gunwale of the boat, and the instant Decatur saw his agitated face
he knew that his brother was desperately injured.

“Severely wounded?” asked Decatur, turning pale.

“Yes, sir,” answered Morris in a low voice.

“Mortally?” asked Decatur.

To this Morris made no answer for a moment; then he said huskily:

“He had boarded a Turkish boat yonder, and the flag had been hauled
down, when, as he advanced across the deck, the Tripolitan captain drew
a pistol and shot him. We carried him to our own boat. The Turk escaped,
and there is his boat now within the enemy’s line.”

Decatur knew his duty to his country and to the brave men under
him—whose lives and reputations depended upon his judgment and
coolness—too well to spend a moment indulging his private grief.

“I can not go to him yet,” he cried in an agonized voice; “but I can
punish the treachery of the wretch who shot him!”

The Tripolitan boat was now well in the line of the rest, a few hundred
yards away; but the Americans, bending to their sweeps and unshipping
their bowsprit, in a little while had reached the boat and had run
aboard of it. They could see that it was strongly manned, and its decks
were crowded with turbaned heads. Decatur had put his pistol in his
pocket, and had taken a boarding pike in his hand to parry the Turkish
scimitars. As the two boats neared each other, Decatur—whose heart was
torn with grief for his brother, and filled with the determination to
punish the enemies of his country—recognized the treacherous Tripolitan
captain, a man of gigantic frame and ferocious countenance, standing
near the bow. The next moment he noticed the young sailor, Reuben James,
at his side, who threw with unerring skill a grappling iron aboard of
the Tripolitan boat, and the Americans, dragging on the chain, drew the
boat toward them. There was no need to call away the boarders. Every man
that could be spared from the sweeps was up and ready to spring. Next
Decatur stood Macdonough, and immediately behind him were Danny Dixon
and Reuben James. Before the boats had touched, the Americans leaped
over the side and found themselves on the Tripolitans’ deck, surrounded
by twice their number of enemies.

Then began a hand-to-hand fight to which all that had gone before was as
child’s play. The Americans, keeping together as much as possible,
fought from one end of the deck to the other, while Decatur made a dash
for the Turkish captain. Decatur was a tall and athletic fellow, but the
Turk was a giant. As the young American captain charged with his pike,
the Turk caught it and wrested it out of his hands. The Turk then
standing up on tiptoe to bring the pike down with terrific force,
Decatur had time to draw his sword. The blade flashed over his head for
a moment, and then the heavy iron pike, descending, broke it short off
at the hilt. Decatur felt the sharp point of the pike enter his breast,
but tearing it out in a moment, covered with blood, he suddenly clinched
with the Turk, who, although a much larger and stronger man than
Decatur, was taken by surprise, and went down on the deck, locked with
Decatur in a mortal embrace.

Seeing the desperate plight of their young captain, the Americans
rallied around him, but they were followed by the Tripolitans, and were
forced to defend themselves at every step. Fifty scimitars were leveled
against them, and the noise and clash of arms were deafening. In the
midst of it, Reuben James, who was almost surrounded, saw a Tripolitan
raise his curved blade above Decatur, lying prostrate on the deck and
struggling with the pirate captain. There was no time for the young
sailor to use his cutlass, but dashing forward he threw up his left arm
and caught the descending blow. It nearly cut the arm in two, but it
saved Decatur’s life.

Meanwhile Decatur, almost overmastered by the brawny Tripolitan, managed
to put his hand in his trousers pocket, and, drawing his pistol cocked
it and fired into the captain’s shoulder. With a scream the Tripolitan
relaxed his hold, rolled over, and Decatur sprang to his feet. That was
the turning point. The Americans, seeing their captain on his feet, and
having been kept together by the coolness of Macdonough and the
steadiness of Danny Dixon, now charged the Tripolitans. This last
onslaught was too much for them. They retreated, fighting to the last,
and when driven into the after part of the boat, were disarmed. The
reserve of the Tripolitan gunboats, inside the reefs, then tried to come
out, but the Constitution, hauling her wind, poured a heavy fire into
the opening in the rocks through which they attempted to make their way,
and they were driven back. The brigs and schooners also kept up the
cannonade, and at half past four o’clock, the Tripolitans having drawn
off, the American gunboats and their captured prizes were towed out into
the offing.

Somers’s boat was the first to reach the frigate’s side when he heard of
James Decatur’s mortal wound. Somers loved James Decatur like a younger
brother, and was deeply distressed at the news. Commodore Preble had his
own barge manned, and as soon as Decatur reached the Constitution and
reported on deck the commodore said:

“Captain Decatur, there is my barge. Take any officer you wish, and
bring your brother on the Constitution.”

Decatur, too overcome to reply, bowed silently, and motioned to Somers.
The two friends, without speaking a word, got into the barge together.
Decatur unconsciously gripped Somers’s hand hard, as he had often done
in the old days when they had been schoolmates together, and in this
hour of grief Somers seemed closer to him than ever before.

They soon reached the gunboat, and found James Decatur lying on the
deck, where he had gallantly fallen, still alive but unconscious. His
handsome boyish head was supported by Midshipman Morris, of whom he had
been very fond, and around him the sailors gathered in sympathetic
silence, and showing in their humble way the grief they felt at the
death of their brave young commander.

The sailors then, lifting James Decatur tenderly, placed him in the
Constitution’s barge. Morris followed and still supported him, helped by
Somers, while Decatur for the first time gave way to his grief, and,
holding his brother’s fast-chilling hand, sobbed aloud. James Decatur
did not seem to be in pain as his breath grew fainter and fainter.
Somers looked apprehensively at Morris, who shook his head sadly in
response to Somers’s glances of anxious inquiry. The men, although worn
with the labors of that glorious day, pulled with a will. They were
about fifty yards away from the frigate, when James Decatur opened his
eyes, and they rested on his brother for a moment. A faint smile passed
over his face, and he said in a pleasant voice, “Good-night,” and with
one gasp all was over.

Decatur was the first to realize it. Neither Somers nor Morris could
restrain his tears; but Decatur, regaining his composure, said, “I loved
him so much that I would rather see him as he is than living with any
cloud upon him.”

In a few moments James Decatur’s body was carried on board the frigate
by the sailors, and followed by Decatur, Somers, and Morris. The bodies
of thirteen other brave men who had died gloriously for their country
that day, were also taken on board; and the Constitution, after having
inflicted terrible damage on her enemies, hauled off, and in company
with the rest of the squadron ran out of gun-shot.

The frigate was much cut up aloft, and had lost her main royal yard, but
otherwise the tremendous onslaught of her guns upon the enemy had
brought no corresponding injury to herself. The brigs, schooners,
gun-vessels, and bombards had also escaped comparatively unharmed; while
the Tripolitans had had three gunboats sunk, three captured, one of
their strongest batteries destroyed, and all the defenses much battered.

At sunset the whole squadron came to anchor three leagues from the town.
The bodies of the thirteen seamen, and James Decatur, the only officer,
were decently dressed in uniform, covered with ensigns, and laid upon
shot-boxes arranged on the quarter-deck. All during the short August
night Decatur watched by the body of his brother, and Somers kept that
solemn vigil with him. As the hours passed on, with the silence of the
star-lit August night, broken only by the regular step of the deck
officer and the occasional striking of the ship’s bells, Somers began to
say some things that had long dwelt in his heart.

“Why should we pity him, Decatur?” he asked, pointing to the body of
James Decatur, wrapped in the flag, “Can you imagine a better death than
to die for one’s country and for the good of humanity?—for the conquest
of these pirates will save many innocent lives, and release many
thousands of prisoners who are suffering like our own countrymen. The
feeling has been on me for a long time that there is but one thing worth
living for or fighting for, and that is our duty. You love pleasure
better than I; and, so many things that you value seem worthless to me.
I acknowledge an ambition to leave an honorable name behind me, and to
do something for my country that will be remembered; and if, in trying
to do this, I should lose my life in this far-off land, recollect I lose
it willingly.”

Somers spoke in a prophetic voice; and as Decatur, in the shadowy
half-light, looked into his friend’s eyes, he saw an expression there as
if Somers were already gazing into another world.

Just as the radiant sunrise turned the blue Mediterranean into a sea of
gold, the solemn call resounded through the Constitution, “All hands to
bury the dead!” The ensign flew at half-mast, the yards were set
cock-a-bill, the sails half furled, the ropes hung in bights; everything
was arranged to express mourning and distress. Commodore Preble himself
read the service at the open gangway; and as the awful words were
uttered, “We therefore commit their bodies to the deep, looking for
their resurrection when the sea shall give up its dead,” the bodies of
James Decatur and the thirteen gallant seamen who were his companions in
death as in glory slid over the rail and sank swiftly into the sapphire
sea. In another moment the drums beat a double roll, the bugler sounded
a cheerful call; as if by magic the yards were squared, the sails were
clewed up, the ropes hauled taut, the flag hoisted; for among men who
put their lives daily and hourly in peril at the service of their
country it is considered that those who die gloriously are not to be
mourned, but envied. So felt Somers, as, taking Decatur’s arm, he said
to him with strange prescience:

“Let no one mourn for me if it should be my fate to die bravely, like
your brother. Rather let those who love me rejoice that so noble an exit
was permitted me.”

Only a breathing-spell of a few days was allowed the squadron, but in
that time the tone of the Bashaw changed wonderfully. He wanted the
Americans to send in a flag of truce; but this Commodore Preble refused,
with the menace that, if a hair of the heads of the imprisoned Americans
should be injured, the Bashaw should be made to pay such a price for it
as he would remember the longest day of his life.

On the 7th of August, repairs having been completed and the captured
Tripolitan boats refitted, another attack was made, about two o’clock in
the afternoon. The gunboats, of which there were now nine, were again in
two divisions, commanded by Somers and Decatur. Covered by the guns of
the brigs and schooners, they dashed boldly in. Immediately a terrific
cannonade was opened on them from the forts, the castle, and the
Tripolitan fleet of gun-vessels that were ranged directly across the
harbor. The Americans, however, returned it warmly, and over five
hundred solid shot and fifty shells were fired at the forts. The
batteries were very nearly silenced, the gunners driven away from their
guns, and the masonry almost demolished.

The Tripolitan gunboats no longer gave the Americans a chance to board
them, but remained at a prudent distance within the reefs, preferring to
fight at long range. While the divisions were advancing, Somers, who was
leaning against the flagstaff of his boat, turned around as Moriarity,
the coxswain, uttered an exclamation. The second boat in Decatur’s
division had been struck by a Tripolitan shell. It exploded, and for a
moment or two the unfortunate vessel and her brave crew were lost in a
cloud of smoke and the water thrown up around it. When the boat became
again visible the after part was already shattered and under water. Upon
the forward part, which still floated, were a young midshipman and
eleven men. They had been engaged in reloading the long
twenty-four-pounder she carried, and at this terrible moment the gun
captain, under the midshipman’s orders, was coolly applying the match.

“That’s Mr. Spence, sorr,” said Moriarity, pointing to the little
midshipman.

The gun roared out, and the shot struck the muzzle of a gun in the
battery of Fort English, breaking it into a hundred pieces. The bow of
the boat was beginning to sink, but, before thinking of saving
themselves, the men, led by the midshipman, gave three hearty American
cheers. Then Decatur’s boat approaching, they leaped into the water, and
were hauled on board.

“Hurrah!” shouted Somers, standing up and waving his cap at Decatur, who
was doing the same thing at him.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when he suddenly felt himself
seized around the waist by Moriarity’s strong arms and thrown down on
the deck. The next moment a shot struck the flagstaff against which
Somers had been leaning and cut it off short at the very spot where but
a moment before his head had been.

“Beg your parding, sorr,” said Moriarity, as the two scrambled to their
feet, “but I seen her comin’, and ’twarn’t no time for to be axin’ what
the regulations is ’bout gittin’ a orficer’s head out o’ the way when a
shot is a-comin’ straight for it, sorr.”

“No apologies are necessary,” cried Somers, shaking Moriarity’s hand,
“for saving a man’s life as you did mine.”

The attack was so spirited, and so much damage was done, that on the
next day came an offer from the Bashaw to surrender the officers and
crew of the Philadelphia for five hundred dollars each.

“Tell your master,” said Commodore Preble to the envoy, “that I will yet
have every officer and man belonging to the Philadelphia, but without
paying one dollar of ransom for them.”

This was supplemented by a night attack on the 18th of August, which
Somers and Decatur both urged upon the commodore. But finding that it
was more risky and not so effective as the day attacks, Commodore Preble
told his two young captains that thereafter the attacks would be by
daylight.

The Tripolitans now began to be very much alarmed, and made several
offers to treat; but Commodore Preble would listen to nothing but the
unconditional surrender of the officers and crew of the Philadelphia.

On the 24th and 28th of August two more attacks were made, which as
usual were led by Somers and Decatur. After every attack came renewed
offers from the Bashaw; but Commodore Preble meant to destroy, at once
and forever, the power of this barbarous nation of pirates and corsairs.

In the first days of September another attack in force was determined
upon. It was the third in which the Constitution had taken an active
part, and the magnificent way that the stout and beautiful frigate
withstood the bombardment of all the guns of the forts and vessels,
gained for her the name of “Old Ironsides”—a name she has now borne
gloriously for nearly a hundred years. At daylight on the 4th of
September the Tripolitans were awakened by the roar of a cannonade, and
the eyes of the captive officers and men of the Philadelphia were
gladdened by seeing the gunboats advancing boldly in the first flush of
dawn, supported by the brigs and schooners, while Old Ironsides was
standing in, her men on the yards shortening sail as deliberately as if
she were working into a friendly port. Arrived at a point opposite the
mole, she backed her topsails and then let fly her thirty great guns in
broadside. In vain the forts pounded her. Moving slowly, and
occasionally throwing her topsail aback, she skillfully avoided being
raked, and, except for some slight damage aloft, she came out of the
action without injury and without losing a man.

Meanwhile the Tripolitan gunboats had advanced to the reefs, and just as
the sun rose the divisions under Somers and Decatur went at them
fiercely. The brigs and schooners also directing their fire toward the
Tripolitan flotilla, Commodore Preble was sanguine that it would be
utterly destroyed. The Tripolitans, though, whose vessels drew less
water than the Americans’, and who knew the intricate maze of reefs and
shoals perfectly well, ran into shoal water, where they could not be
followed. Somers sank two boats, while Decatur managed to bring off
three. As soon as the frigate hauled off and made for the offing, the
gun-vessels were towed off, and when they were well out of gunshot the
whole squadron came to anchor, about three o’clock in the day.

Somers was the first captain to report on board the flagship. As soon as
he caught sight of “Old Pepper” on the Constitution’s quarter-deck he
knew that something had gone wrong. The commodore, while fighting his
own ship, could give but little attention to the boat divisions, but
seeing the Tripolitans almost surrounded by the American boats, with the
brigs and schooners closing up, he had expected the whole flotilla to be
captured. When, therefore, he saw it making back into the harbor with
the loss of only five boats, and not knowing the shoalness of the water
at that point, he could not understand the conduct of the American
boats, and was deeply disappointed for the first time in his “boy
captains.” As Somers approached and made his report in a few words, he
was received in angry silence, and the only words the commodore said
were, “I shall have something to say on this matter when Captain Decatur
reports.”

Somers, although annoyed, yet knew that, when the circumstances were
explained, the commodore would do both Decatur and himself justice—for
Commodore Preble’s heart was as just as his temper was fiery. But
knowing Decatur’s high spirit, he could not but be fearful of a meeting
between the two in “Old Pepper’s” state of mind. He had but little time
to think, though, for at that instant Decatur stepped over the side. He
had on a short jacket, in which he had been through the fight, and he
was grimed with powder, besides being stained with blood from a slight
wound he had received. Advancing with his usual alert step to the
commodore, he raised his cap and said quietly, “Well, commodore, I have
brought you out three of the gunboats.”

At that, “Old Pepper” suddenly seized him with both hands by the collar,
and, shaking him violently as if he were a refractory boy, cried out:

“Ay, sir, and why did you not bring me more?”

The officers stared, paralyzed with astonishment. Decatur involuntarily
put his hand on his sword; and the next moment the commodore turned on
his heel and went into the cabin.

Decatur, pale with anger, walked to the gangway. Somers caught him by
the arm and cried earnestly:

“Decatur, where are you going?”

“Away from this ship,” answered Decatur in a voice of suppressed rage.

“No,” said Somers, holding him, “you must not—you shall not go! The
commodore has misunderstood what you have done to-day. He met me with
almost equal anger; but you know how excitable he is—but how just,
brave, and magnanimous. Do nothing that is insubordinate, and I’ll
warrant the commodore will make you every amend.”

Somers could always exercise a powerful influence over Decatur, whom he
actually held to prevent from leaving the ship. The other officers
gathered around, trying to reason with Decatur, who, although a captain,
was still only a boy in Commodore Preble’s eyes. Just then the
commodore’s orderly appeared with a message.

“Commodore Preble desires Captain Decatur’s presence in the cabin.”

“I will not go!” was Decatur’s determined answer.

Somers gave the man a significant look, which meant that he was not to
repeat the message, and then began pleading with Decatur. He led his
friend to one side, and said to him solemnly:

“You know what is planned for four nights from this? Remembering that
this may be my last request of you, I ask you, therefore, to go to
Commodore Preble, and not to sully by one single act of disobedience the
glorious record you have made.”

The appeal touched Decatur deeply, and he could not say No. Somers went
with him to the cabin door, saw him enter, and the door close after him.

Fifteen minutes passed, and Decatur did not return. Somers, whose
anxiety was by no means over when he had brought these two impetuous
spirits together, began to be very unhappy. He walked back and forth,
uncertain what to do; but at last, remembering that his rank gave him
the right to seek the commodore even when not sent for, and taking his
courage in both hands, he knocked gently at the cabin door. No reply was
made, but he ventured to open the door slightly.

Seated near each other were the gray-haired commodore and his young
captain, both in tears. Somers, softly closing the door, moved off
without being noticed. Half an hour later, when the commodore appeared,
he was leaning affectionately upon Decatur’s arm.




                              CHAPTER VI.


And now, after a series of heroic ventures which had raised the American
name to the highest point of honor, was to come another—the last, the
most glorious, and the most melancholy of them all. Three officers and
ten men enlisted in this enterprise, and offered the choice between life
and honor, each one of them chose the better part.

It had been known for some time that, as the season would soon compel
the American squadron to leave Tripoli for the winter, Commodore Preble
was anxious that one great and decisive blow might be struck before he
left. True, the Bashaw was anxious to negotiate, but Commodore Preble
was not the man to treat with pirates and brigands as long as four
hundred American captives were imprisoned in Tripolitan dungeons. He was
the more anxious to strike this great blow because he had discovered
that the Tripolitans were almost out of gunpowder—a commodity which, at
that time of general European warfare, was of much value and not always
easy to get. The Americans, though, were well supplied, and this put the
thought into Somers’s mind of attempting a desperate assault upon the
shipping and forts by means of a fire-ship, or “infernal.”

He first broached the plan to Decatur, the night after the last attack
on Tripoli. The two young captains were sitting in the cabin of the
Nautilus, Decatur having come in answer to a few significant words from
Somers. When the two were seated at the table, Somers unfolded his plan.

It was a desperate one, and as Somers lucidly explained it, Decatur felt
a strange sinking of the heart. Somers, on the contrary, seemed to feel
a restrained enthusiasm, as if he had just attained a great opportunity,
for which he had long hoped and wished.

“You see,” said Somers, leaning over the table and fixing a pair of
smiling dark eyes upon Decatur, “it is an enterprise that means liberty
to four hundred of our countrymen and messmates. Who could hesitate a
moment?”

“Not you, Somers.”

“I hope not. The beauty of my plan is, that it requires but the risking
of a few lives—two boats to tow the fire-ship in, four men in my boat
and six in another boat, and one officer besides myself—in all, twelve
men. Did ever so small a number have so great a chance for serving their
country?”

Decatur made no reply to this, and Somers went on to explain the details
of his scheme. Decatur aided him at every turn, advising and discussing
with a freedom that their devoted intimacy permitted. But, instead of
the gay impetuosity that generally characterized Decatur, Somers was
surprised to find him grave, and almost sad; while the sober Somers was
for once as full of enthusiasm as Decatur usually was.

After two hours’ conversation, and it being not yet nine o’clock, Somers
asked Decatur to go with him to the flagship, where the plan might be
laid before the commodore.

As soon as Commodore Preble heard that two of his young captains wished
to see him, he at once desired that they be shown into the cabin. When
Somers and Decatur entered, they both noticed the somber and careworn
look on the commodore’s face. He had done much, and the force under him
had performed prodigies of valor; but he had not succeeded in liberating
his old friend and shipmate Bainbridge and his gallant company.

When they were seated around the cabin table, Somers produced some
charts and memoranda and began to unfold his idea. It was, on the first
dark night to take the ketch Intrepid—the same which Decatur had
immortalized—put on her a hundred barrels of gunpowder and a hundred
shells, tow her into the harbor through the western passage as near as
she could be carried to the shipping, hoping that she would drift into
the midst of the Tripolitan fleet, and then, setting her afire, Somers
and his men would take their slender chances for escape.

Commodore Preble heard it all through with strict attention. When Somers
had finished, the commodore looked him fixedly in the eye, and said:

“But suppose for one moment the explosion should fail, the ketch should
be captured, and a hundred barrels of gunpowder should fall into the
hands of the Bashaw? That would prolong the war a year.”

“Have no fear, sir,” answered Somers calmly. “I promise you that, rather
than permit such a thing, I myself will fire the ‘infernal,’ if there is
no alternative but capture. And I will take no man with me who is not
willing to die before suffering so much powder to be captured and used
against our own squadron.”

“Are you willing, Captain Somers, to take that responsibility?”

“Perfectly willing, sir. It is no greater responsibility than my friend
Captain Decatur assumed when in that very ketch he risked the lives of
himself and sixty-two companions in the destruction of the
Philadelphia.”

“Old Pepper,” leaning across the table, suddenly grasped a hand each of
his two young captains.

“My boys,” he said with shining eyes, “the first day you sat with me at
this table the sight of your youth, and the knowledge of the duties you
had to perform, gave me one of the most terrible fits of depression I
ever suffered. I deeply regretted that I had assumed charge of such an
expedition with what I bitterly called then a parcel of schoolboy
captains. Now I can only say that you have all turned out the best boys
I ever saw—for I can not yet call you men.”

This outburst, so unlike Commodore Preble’s usual stern and somewhat
morose manner, touched both Decatur and Somers; and Decatur said,
laughing, but with moisture in his eyes:

“You see, commodore, it is because we have had such a good schoolmaster
in the art of war.”

The conversation that followed was long and animated, and when Decatur
and Somers left the ship and were rowed across the dark water the
commodore’s permission had been given. On the Enterprise, the very next
morning, the squadron being well out of sight of the town and at anchor,
the preparation of the ketch began.

The day was a bright and beautiful one, although in September, which is
a stormy month in the Mediterranean. The ketch was laid alongside of
“Old Ironsides,” and the transfer of the powder and shells was begun at
sunrise; for it was characteristic of Somers to do quickly whatever he
had to do, and time was of great consequence to him then. The men worked
with a will, knowing well enough that some daring expedition was on
hand. Wadsworth, Somers’s first lieutenant, with the assistance of
Decatur, directed the preparation of the fire-ship; while Somers, in the
cabin of the Nautilus, arranged his private affairs and wrote his will,
remembering well that he might never return from that night’s awful
adventure. He wrote several letters and sealed them, and then the last
one, inclosing his will, was to Decatur. The other letters were long,
but that to Decatur was brief. It only said:

  “Herein is my will, which I charge you to see executed if I should
  never come back. For yourself, dear Decatur, I have no words that I
  can say. To other men I may express my affection, and ask their
  forgiveness for any injury I may have done them; but between you and
  me there is nothing to forgive—only the remembrance of our
  brotherhood, ever since we were young and innocent boys. If I were to
  think long on this it would make me too tender-hearted, and when this
  thought comes to me, I can only say, Good-by and God bless you!

                                                       “Richard Somers.”

The golden noon had come, and as Somers glanced through the cabin
windows of the smart little Nautilus he could see the preparations going
on aboard the ketch. Anchored directly under the quarter of the splendid
frigate, men were busy passing the powder and arranging the shells,
doing it all with the cool caution of those accustomed to desperate
risks. Decatur’s tall figure was seen on the Constitution’s deck. He
paced up and down with the commodore, and was really unable to tear
himself away from the ship. Tears came into Somers’s eyes as he watched
Decatur. Somers had no brother, no father, and no mother, and Decatur
had been more to him all his life than he could express.

Meanwhile it was well understood on the other ships that, except the
first lieutenant of the Nautilus, Mr. Wadsworth, who was to command the
second boat, no other officer would be permitted to go. Although any and
all of them would have been rejoiced to share in the dangers of this
expedition, they knew it would be useless to ask—that is, all except
Pickle Israel, who marched boldly up to the commodore, as he was pacing
the deck, and, touching his cap, suddenly plumped out with—

“Commodore Preble, may I go with Captain Somers on the Intrepid
to-night?”

“Old Pepper,” coolly surveying Pickle, who was rather small for his
fourteen years, and reprobating the little midshipman’s assurance,
sternly inquired:

“What did I understand you to say, sir?”

The Commodore’s tone and countenance were altogether too much for
Pickle’s self-possession. He stammered and blushed, and finally, in a
quavering voice, managed to get out—

“If—if—you please, sir—m-may I go——” and then came to a dead halt, while
Decatur could not help smiling at him slyly behind the commodore’s back.

“May you go aloft and stay there for a watch?” snapped “Old Pepper,” who
suspected very shrewdly what Pickle was trying to ask. “Am I to
understand that is what you are after?”

“No, sir,” answered Pickle, plucking up his courage and putting on a
defiant air as he caught sight of Decatur’s smile; while Danny Dixon,
who had been sent on a message and had come back to report, stood
grinning broadly at the little midshipman—“No, sir,” repeated Pickle,
with still more boldness. “I came to ask if I might go on the Intrepid,
with Captain Somers, to-night.”

“Has Captain Somers asked for your services, Mr. Israel?” inquired the
commodore blandly.

“N—no, sir,” faltered Pickle, turning very red, and unconsciously
beginning to practice the goose step in his embarrassment.

“Very well, sir,” replied the commodore, still excessively polite,
“until Captain Somers asks for an officer of your age and experience, I
shall not request him to take you or any other midshipman in the
squadron.”

“The truth is, commodore,” said Decatur, who could not but respect the
boy’s indomitable pluck, “Mr. Israel has the courage and spirit of a
man, and he forgets that he is, after all, a very young gentleman.” A
very young gentleman meant really a boy.

The commodore smiled at this, and looking into Pickle’s disappointed
face he said:

“Never mind, Mr. Israel. Although I can not let you go on this
expedition, your gallant desire to go has not hurt you in my esteem; and
the day will come when your country will be proud of you—of that I feel
a presentiment at this moment.”

True it was, and sooner, far sooner than any of them dreamed at that
moment.

Pickle turned away, his eyes filled with tears of disappointment. As he
was going sadly below, he heard a step following him, and there was
Danny Dixon’s hale and handsome face close behind him.

“Mr. Israel, sir,” said Danny, touching his hat, “I wants to say as how
I likes your spirit; and when you’re a cap’n you’ll find the men mighty
willin’ to sarve under you, sir, for they likes a orficer with a spirit.
You oughter been in the fight with Cap’n Paul Jones, on the Bunnum
Richard.”

“I wish I had been, Dixon,” answered Pickle, almost crying with
vexation.

“Never you mind, Mr. Israel,” said Danny, with an encouraging wink, “all
the orficers and men knows you ain’t got no flunk in you; and if you
hadn’t been such a little ’un—beg your parding, sir—you’d ’a’ had a
chance at somethin’, sure.”

Pickle, not exactly pleased with being called “a little ’un,” marched
off in high dudgeon, angry with Danny, with the commodore, with
Decatur—with the whole world, in fact, which seemed bent on balking his
dreams of glory. However, after an hour or two of bitter reflection, it
suddenly occurred to him as a forlorn hope that he might yet ask Somers.
As if in answer to his wish, at that very moment he was ordered to take
a boat with a message to Somers, saying that at four o’clock—eight
bells—a call would be made for volunteers to man the boats.

Pickle swung himself into the boat with the agility of a monkey, and in
a few moments the stout arms of the sailors had pulled across the blue
water to where the lovely Nautilus lay, rocking gently on the long,
summer swells of the sea. Pickle skipped over the side and up to Somers
on the deck, like a flash of blue light, in his trim midshipman’s
uniform. His message was delivered in a few words, and then Pickle
artfully continued:

“And as there’s to be a call for volunteers, Captain Somers, I wish,
sir”—here Pickle drew himself up as tall as he could—“to offer my
services.”

“I am very much obliged, Mr. Israel,” answered Somers courteously, and
refraining from smiling. “Your courage now, as always, does you infinite
credit. But as only one officer besides myself is needed, I have
promised my first lieutenant, Mr. Wadsworth, that honor.”

Poor Pickle’s face grew three quarters of a yard long. He suddenly
dropped his lofty tone and manner, and burst out, half crying:

“That’s what all of the officers say, Captain Somers; and the next
thing, maybe, the war will be over, and I sha’n’t have had a single
chance of distinguishing myself—or—or—anything; and it’s a hardship, I
say—it’s a hardship!”

Somers put his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder.

“But you have already distinguished yourself as one of the smartest and
brightest midshipmen in the squadron; and this gallant spirit of yours
will yet make you famous.”

Pickle turned away, and was about to go over the side, when Somers said:

“Wait a few moments, and see that there are others as brave and as
disappointed as you.—Boatswain, pipe all hands on deck, aft!”

The boatswain, who was ready, piped up, and in a few minutes every man
of the eighty that formed the company of the handsome brig was reported
“up and aft.”

Somers then, with a glow upon his fine face, addressed the men, the
officers standing near him.

“My men,” he said, “you see that ketch yonder—rightly named the
Intrepid, after the glorious use to which our brave Decatur put her. She
has on board one hundred barrels of gunpowder, one hundred shells, and
all the apparatus for lighting these combustibles; and to-night, if wind
and tide serve, she is to be taken into the harbor of Tripoli and
exploded among the shipping. I have obtained the honor of taking charge
of this expedition, and I wish my boat manned by four men who would
rather die than be captured; for the pirates are short of gunpowder, and
they can get no more from Europe, so that unless they capture this, it
will be easy work to reduce them next spring, when we shall take another
and a last whack at them. But—the Intrepid _must not be captured_! The
commodore, on this condition only, gave it me. I do not disguise from
you that the enterprise is one full of danger, but fuller of glory. No
man shall be ordered to go; but I want four men to volunteer who are
ready, if necessary, to die for their country this very night; and let
them hold up their right hands and say ‘Ay!’”

Every man in the brig’s company held up his hand, and their deep voices,
like the roar of the sea, shouted out, “Ay, sir!”

Somers shook his head and smiled but his eyes shone with pleasure at the
readiness of his brave crew.

“Ah,” he cried, “I might have known! My men, I can only take four of
you. I shall take the four that are most able-bodied, and who have no
wife or family.—You, Moriarity,” he said to the quartermaster, “I know,
are alone in the world. I want you.”

“Thankee, sorr,” answered Moriarity, stepping out of the line with a
grin.

“And you—and you—and you,” said Somers, walking along the line, as he
picked out three more men; and every man smiled, and said, “Thankee,
sir.”

“You understand perfectly well, then,” said Somers, addressing the four,
“that this is an undertaking of the utmost hazard. We may, in the
performance of our solemn duty, have to light the fire that will blow us
all into eternity. There will be twelve of us, and it is better that our
lives should be sacrificed than that hundreds, perhaps, of valuable and
gallant lives be required to subdue the pirates in a longer and severer
struggle. So, think well over your engagement; and if you are of the
same determined mind, follow my example, and leave all your worldly
affairs in order. And then, make your peace with Almighty God, for we
may all meet Him face to face before the sun rises on another day.”

Somers’s solemn words had a great effect on the men. While not in the
least dampening their enthusiasm, their tone and manner changed from the
jaunty gayety with which sailors meet danger to a serious and grave
consideration of their situation. Moriarity acted as spokesman:

“We thankee, sorr, for remindin’ us o’ what we has got to face. We’ve
done a heap o’ wrong, but maybe the Cap’n up above, if we has to report
to him to-night, ’ll say: ‘Them chaps died a-doin’ o’ their duty to
their country; mark their shortcoming off the list, master-at-arms!’ And
he’ll let us in, bekase we means to do our duty—don’t we, men?”

“We does!” answered the three sailors all together.

A hearty American cheer rang out at this, and Somers shook hands with
the four men. He then ordered his boat, and in a few moments, was
pulling toward the frigate.

Somers’s words had inspired another heart besides that of the four
sailors. Pickle Israel, with his dark eyes fixed on the bright horizon,
felt a longing, a consuming desire, tugging at his heart. A voice seemed
to be repeating to him the sailor’s words, “We means to do our duty.”
Pickle, being only a boy, could not exactly see the reason why he should
not be allowed to go on the expedition—and some strange and
overmastering power seemed impelling him to go. It was not mere love of
adventure. It was Moriarity’s untutored words, “Them chaps died for
their country.” Well, he had but one life to give his country, thought
Pickle, and there was no better time or place to give it than that very
night. However, Pickle said not one word more to anybody about his
disappointment; but his face cleared up, as if he had formed a
resolution.

On reaching the Constitution, the men were mustered, and Commodore
Preble made a short speech to them before calling for volunteers. “And I
consider it my duty,” he said, “to tell every one of you, from Captain
Somers down, that this powder must not be suffered to fall into the
enemy’s hands. For my own part, it is with pride and with fear that I
shall see you set forth; but, although I value your lives more than all
Tripoli, yet not even for that must the pirates get hold of this powder.
I have not asked this service from any of you. Every man, from your
captain down, has volunteered. But if you choose to take the honorable
risk, all I can say is, ‘Go, and God protect you!’”

As Commodore Preble spoke, tears rolled down his face, and the men
cheered wildly. As on the Nautilus, the whole ship’s company
volunteered, and six had to be chosen. To Danny Dixon’s intense chagrin,
he was not among them. When the men were piped down, Pickle Israel
caught sight of the handsome old quartermaster going forward with a look
of bitter disappointment on his face. Pickle could not but remember
Danny’s glib consolation to him only a few hours before; so he sidled up
to Danny, and said with a smile:

“Never mind, Dixon. If you weren’t so old you’d have been allowed to go.
All the officers know you haven’t got any flunk in you. And we—I mean
those that come back—will have some yarns to spin equal to yours about
Captain Paul Jones and the Bon Homme Richard!”

For answer, Danny looked gloomily in the little midshipman’s face, and
said, in a much injured manner:

“It do seem hard, sir, as when a old sailor, sir, as fought with Cap’n
Paul Jones, is disapp’inted in goin’ on a expedition, to have the young
gentlemen on the ship a-pullin’ his leg.”

“That’s the way you comforted me!” chuckled Pickle in high glee.

By sunset everything was ready. Decatur was with Somers on the Nautilus,
and just as the sun was sinking they stood together at the gangway. It
was a clear and beautiful September evening, with no moon, but a faint
and lovely starlight. Over the dark bosom of the sea was a light haze,
that was the thing most desired by Somers, to conceal the Intrepid as
she made her perilous way toward the city of the corsairs. A soft breeze
ruffled the water and gently rocked the tall ships. As the two friends
stood watching the dying glow in the west, Decatur was pale and
agitated, while Somers, instead of his usual gravity, wore an air of
joy, and even gayety.

“Does not this remind you, Decatur, of Delaware Bay, and the first
evening we ever spent together as midshipmen? The water is almost as
blue at home as it is here, and I can quite imagine that ‘Old Ironsides’
is ‘Old Wagoner,’ and that the Siren over there is your father’s ship,
the Delaware. It seems only the other day, and it is more than six years
ago.”

Decatur, unable to speak, looked at Somers with a sort of passion of
brotherly love shining out of his eyes. He felt, as sure as that he was
then living, that he would never see his friend again.

The boat being ready, Moriarity and his three companions were called
forward. As they advanced, Somers smiling, said to them:

“There is bound to be some disappointment among you. Each one of you has
come privately to ask that he may be the one to apply the match; but
that honor, my fine fellows, I have reserved for myself.”

Somers and Decatur then went down the ladder, followed by the four
seamen; and at the same moment, as if by magic, the yards of the
Nautilus were manned and three cheers rang over the quiet water.

The boat pulled first to the Constitution, where the second boat was
waiting. Commodore Preble was standing on the quarter-deck. Somers, with
an air of unwonted gayety, came over the side. Going up to the
commodore, he said pleasantly, “Well, commodore, I have come for my last
instructions.”

Commodore Preble could only clasp his young captain’s hand and say:

“I have given all that I have to give. I know your prudence and your
resolute courage. You are in the hands of the great and good God, and no
matter what the result of this night’s work may be, your country will
never forget you.”

As Somers, still wearing his pleasant smile, left the Constitution, the
men also manned the yards and cheered him. With Decatur he went on board
the fire-ship, to take one last look, and to wait for complete darkness,
which was now approaching. On the ketch were Captain Stewart and
Lieutenant Wadsworth, first, of the Nautilus, and these four spent this
last hour together. Wadsworth, a man of vigor and determination, like
Somers, was perfectly easy and cheerful. Stewart and Decatur, who were
to follow the ketch as far in the offing as was prudent, were both
strangely silent. Decatur had a terrible foreboding that he and Somers
would never meet again in this world.

Meanwhile the Constitution’s cutter had been lowered, and with the
Nautilus’s boat had been made fast to the frigate’s side, directly under
a port in the steward’s pantry. Somers having determined to wait another
half hour for the blue fog which was steadily rising on the water to
conceal him entirely, the men had been permitted to leave the boat.
Danny Dixon, taking advantage of this, was in the Constitution’s cutter,
making a last examination, for his own satisfaction, of the oars,
rowlocks, etc., when above the lapping of the water against the great
ship’s side, he heard a whisper overhead of—

“Dixon! I say, Dixon!”

Danny glanced up, and saw, poked out of the pantry window, in the dusky
half light, Pickle Israel’s curly head.

“Now, whatsomdever are you up to, Mr. Israel?” began Danny; but a
violent shaking of the head, and a “Sh-sh-sh!” checked him.

“Turn your lantern round,” whispered Pickle.

Danny turned the dark side round, and then drew the boat up close to the
port. When the boat was just below the port, and Danny had raised his
head to hear Pickle’s mysterious communication, the little midshipman
quickly wriggled himself out, and, swinging himself down by his hands,
landed silently in the boat.

Danny was so surprised that he could not speak a word, but he at once
suspected Pickle’s design—to go on the expedition.

“Now, Dixon,” said Pickle, in a wheedling voice, “don’t go and tell on
me. In fact, as your superior officer, I direct you, on leaving this
boat, to go immediately forward, and stay there unless you are sent
for.”

Danny grinned broadly at this, and grasping Pickle’s hand in his own
brawny one, he nearly wrung the boy’s arm off.

“I knows, sir—I knows!” said he, in a delighted whisper. “But I ain’t
a-goin’ to blow the gaff on you. I likes these ’ere venturesome
youngsters that’s allers ready for to risk their lives for their
country. That’s the sort as Cap’n Paul Jones loved. But, Mr. Israel,
I’ll have to git out o’ this ’ere boat, ’cause if any o’ them foremast
men seen me in here, when you is missed they’ll all say as how Dixon,
the quartermaster, was a-talkin’ with you, and then the Commodore will
take my hide, sure. But good-by, Mr. Israel, and God bless you, as the
commodore says; and if you ain’t but a little shaver, let me tell you,
sir, you’ve got a sperrit that’s fittin’ to sarve under the greatest man
as ever sailed blue water—Cap’n Paul Jones!”

With that Danny wrung the little midshipman’s hand again, and with a
spring he noiselessly gained the ladder and disappeared.

Pickle, being very small, crawled under the gunwale of the boat, where
there was an extra coil of rope, spare lanterns, and other things
necessary to repair damages, all covered with a tarpaulin. These things
he carefully distributed along the boat, under the gunwales, and then,
covering himself up with the tarpaulin, made himself as small as
possible in the place of the ropes and lanterns. He had left a little
hole in the tarpaulin through which he could see; and as he curled
himself up comfortably and fixed his eyes on this opening, there was
never a happier boy. He had succeeded perfectly, so far, in his scheme.
He thought, if any of the men suspected he was on board, they would be
inclined to wink at it, like Danny Dixon; and as soon as they cast off
and got the Intrepid in tow, there would be no earthly way, as Pickle
gleefully remembered, to get rid of him. At this idea he almost laughed
aloud; and then, he thought, when they came back in triumph, and Captain
Somers and Mr. Wadsworth were being congratulated and almost embraced,
on the Constitution’s deck, by the commodore and all the officers of the
squadron, and the men cheering like mad, as at Decatur’s return, then
would he be brought forward—Midshipman Israel! and his name would be in
the report sent home, and everybody would know what prodigies of valor
he had performed, and he would no doubt receive a sword like Decatur’s
and be made a lieutenant. Lieutenant Israel! How charming was the sound!
Pickle was so comfortable and so happy that unconsciously his eyelids
drooped. How faint were the stars shining in the quiet skies, and how
gently the boat rocked on the water! It was like being rocked to sleep
when he was a little boy, not so long ago, in his mother’s arms. And in
five minutes the little midshipman was sleeping soundly.

An hour afterward he was wakened by the boat drawing up to the side of
the fire-ship. Ahead, he could see the Constitution’s boat carrying the
towline. The mist was denser still on the water, through which the hulls
and spars of the ships loomed with vague grandeur. The Siren and the
Argus were getting under way; and standing at the low rail of the ketch
were two dark figures—Somers and Decatur.

Somers had taken a ring from his finger, and, breaking it in two, gave
one half to Decatur and put the other half in the breast of his jacket.

“Keep that, Decatur,” he said, “in case we should never meet again. I
need not ask you to remember me——” Here Somers could say no more.

Decatur put both hands on Somers’s shoulders, and his lips moved, but no
sound came. Utterly overcome with emotion, he turned silently away, got
into his boat, and was quickly on board his ship, where, in his cabin,
for a few moments he gave way to a burst of tears, such as he had not
known since he could remember.

Somers descended into his boat, the towline was made fast, and, with the
ketch’s sails set to catch the faint breeze, soon the “infernal” was
making fast through the dark water. The Siren and Argus, having got up
their anchors, followed the ketch at a distance, under short canvas.

The boats and the “infernal” were fast leaving the brigs astern in the
murky night, when Somers, who was sitting in the stern sheets, felt
something moving close by him, and, glancing down, he recognized in the
uncertain light Pickle Israel’s laughing eyes peering up mischievously
at him.

“Why—what is this?” he asked, amazed.

“Nothing, Captain Somers, only me,” answered Pickle, scrambling up from
under the gunwale. “I wanted to go, sir, very much, on this expedition,
just as I did on Captain Decatur’s, and nobody would let me; so I took
French leave, and came by myself.”

Somers, although vexed with the boy, and alarmed at having him on board,
yet could not but admire his pluck.

“Did any man on this boat help you to get aboard?” he asked.

“No, sir,” chirped Pickle gayly. “Not one of them knew I was aboard
until just now.”

“Please, sorr,” said Moriarity, who was sitting next Pickle’s
hiding-place, “I thought as how the lantherns and things was moighty
ristless under there, and wanst I thought I heard ’em snaze, but I sez,
sez I, ‘Moriarity, me man, yez never heard of a snazin’ lanthern;’ and
the next minute, here comes Misther Israel, and it warn’t the lantherns,
afther all!”

Somers could not help smiling at Moriarity and Pickle too; but he said
gravely to the little midshipman:

“Do you understand the terrible risk we run in this attempt, and that it
will be our duty, if in danger of capture, to blow up the ketch?”

“Perfectly, sir,” answered Pickle. He now sat up straight in the boat,
and his eyes were shining so that Somers could see them even in the
gloom. “I know that we have only a few chances for our lives; but—but—we
have a great many chances for immortality; and, Captain Somers, although
I am only a midshipman, and you are a captain, I am as willing, even as
eager, to risk my life for our country and for our shipmates in prison
as you are.”

“I believe you,” answered Somers, in a sweet and thrilling voice; “you
are a brave boy, and, be it life or death, we will be together.”

They soon entered the offing, and drawing rapidly ahead, helped by wind
and tide, they reached the western passage of the harbor. There they
rested for a few minutes. Before them, in the misty night, lay the black
masses of the town, and the encircling forts, over which the Bashaw’s
castle reared its pile of towers and bastions. They saw the twinkling
lights of the town, and those on the mastheads of the shipping in the
harbor. Near the entrance lay three low gunboats that looked unnaturally
large through the dim and ghostly fog that lay upon the water, but left
the heavens clear and darkly blue. Behind them they could see the
outline of the two American brigs, on which, as a precaution, not a
light was shining. The fire-ship, as black as midnight, was stationary
on the water for a moment. Somers, rising in his boat, uncovered his
head, and every man in both boats, understanding that he was making a
solemn prayer, removed his hat and prayed likewise. Little Israel, with
his midshipman’s cap in his hand, stood up, with his eyes fixed on the
stars overhead. He made his prayer briefly but reverently, and then,
pointing to a brilliant group of stars, that blazed with splendor far
down on the horizon, he said to Somers with a smile:

“The stars, I believe, mean glory. That is why we steer by them.”

The breeze had then died out, and the men took to their oars, which were
muffled. Like a black shadow moving over the water the ketch advanced.
The darkness of the night favored their escaping the gunboats. They
crept past the rocks and reefs, entered the western passage, and were
within the harbor of Tripoli. The lights of the town grew plain, and
they could still see the stars, although they seemed to be alone in a
world of fog.

Suddenly and silently three shadows loomed close upon them—one on each
side and one on their bows. The men, without a word, seized the towline
and drew themselves noiselessly back toward the ketch.

         [Illustration: _Exploding the “infernal” at Tripoli._]

As the two American boats disappeared like magic, and as if they had
vanished from the face of the water, the Tripolitan gunboats closed up,
and in another moment the Americans found themselves surrounded on all
sides but one by the corsairs, and that one side was next the fire-ship.
The Tripolitans, with a yell of triumph, prepared to spring over the
side.

“Are you ready to stand to your word, men?” asked Somers, standing up in
the boat, with a lighted torch in his hand.

“Ay, ay, sir!” promptly answered every man in both boats, laying down
his oars.

“And I!” called out Wadsworth.

“And I!” said Pickle Israel, in his sweet, shrill, boyish voice.

“Then may God bless our country, and have mercy on us!” said Somers
solemnly, and throwing the torch upon the Intrepid’s deck.

The next moment came an explosion as if the heavens and the earth were
coming together. The castle rocked upon its mighty base like a cradle.
The ships in the harbor shivered from keel to main truck, and many of
them careened and almost went over. The sky was lighted up with a red
glare that was seen for a hundred miles, and the deafening crash
reverberated and almost deafened and paralyzed all who heard it.

Those on the American ships heard the frightful roar of the hundred
barrels of gunpowder that seemed to explode in an instant of time, and,
stunned by the concussion, they could only see a mast and sail of the
ketch as they flew, blazing, up to the lurid sky, and then sank in the
more lurid water.

To this succeeded an appalling blackness and stillness. Every light on
the shipping and in the castle and the town had been extinguished by the
force of the explosion. Not a cry, not a groan was heard from the
harbor, upon which the dense mist of the fog had again settled; but
floating on the dark bosom of the water were thirteen blackened and
lifeless bodies—the thirteen brave men who had cheerfully rendered up
their lives, when it was all they could do for their country.

All night, at intervals, a moaning gun was heard from the frigate, in
the vain hope that some of those heroic men might yet be living. All
night Decatur swung on the forechains of his ship, flashing a lantern
across the water, and listening vainly and in agony for some sound, some
token, from the friend he was never again to see. But the gray dawn
brought with it despair to him. For Somers and his brave companions had
another morning, and another and more glorious sunrise.

                            * * * * * * * *

Six years after this, one evening in September, 1810, the Constitution,
which had been standing off and on Tripoli for several days, approached
the town. Since her last visit the Tripolitans had been effectually
conquered, and peace had long prevailed; and so highly was the American
name respected, that an American officer could go safely and alone all
about the town and its suburbs.

The captain’s gig was lowered and manned, and Danny Dixon was its
coxswain. Presently Decatur, in the uniform of a post captain, came down
the ladder and seated himself in the stern sheets. The gig was then
rapidly pulled toward the beach at the end of the town. Here Decatur
left the boat, and, telling Danny that he would be back within an hour,
walked quickly along to a little clump of trees outside the wall.

It was just such an evening as that six years before. The sun had gone
down, and there was no moon, but, as if led by some invisible power,
Decatur walked straight along the path to where the few straggling and
stunted trees made a shadow against the white walls of the town and the
white sand of the beach.

When he reached the spot, he saw, by the light of the stars that glinted
faintly through the leaves, a little group of three graves, and farther
off a larger group. These were the resting places of Somers and his men.
At the first of the three graves together, there were four stones laid;
at the second, two stones; while at the third and smallest, in which
Israel, the little midshipman, slept, was only one stone.

Decatur stood with folded arms at the head of Somers’s grave. As in a
dream the whole of his early life with his friend rose and passed before
him. He remembered their boyhood together; then their happy days as
careless and unthinking midshipmen, and the great scenes and adventures
through which they had passed before Tripoli. That night, six years
before, they had parted to meet no more in this world. Every incident of
the night returned to him—the horror of the explosion, the long hours he
spent hanging in the brig’s forechains, the agony of daybreak, when not
a man or a boat or even a spar could be seen.

As Decatur stood by this lonely grave, he felt as if he were still
conversing with his friend.

“No one has ever been, no one could ever be to me what you were,
Somers,” he almost said aloud—“the bravest, the most resolute, and the
gentlest of men.”

He then stood for a moment by Wadsworth’s mound. “You, too, were brave
and generous, and worthy to die with Somers,” he thought. And then he
went to the head of the smallest grave of all. The tears were falling
from his eyes, but he smiled, too. He seemed to see the little
midshipman’s merry eyes, and to hear faintly, from the far-off world of
spirits, his boyish laughter. He thought that Pickle must have gone
smiling to his death, in his white-souled youth. “How can I feel sorry
for you?” thought Decatur, as he stooped and pulled some of the odorous
and beautiful jasmine blossoms that grew on the small grave, which was
almost hidden under their straggling leaves. “You lived purely and died
bravely. Your life, though brief, was glorious. You, too, were worthy to
die with Somers—the best and bravest!”

Decatur turned again to Somers’s grave, but he could not see it for the
mist of tears.

About an hour afterward a young moon climbed into the blue-black sky,
and just as its radiance touched the three graves, Decatur turned and
walked away, without once looking behind at the spot where slept his
friend.




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber’s note:

--Silently corrected obvious typographical errors.

--Non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.