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 Ididtell 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.
“Ihave 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,thatis 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.Ithink 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. “Youwill 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,yougo 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.
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 youwillcome back, that I feel; but then you must give me all your time and abilities to help me withmyscheme.”
“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 thelingua francawhich 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 broughtmydirk; 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 theAmericanos, 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 itwaspretty 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: