DOCTOR DARBY SAT BY HIS PATIENT IN THE DIM LIGHT OF THE SICKBAY. The man in the cot was bandaged like a pharaoh, his face and hands wrapped in strips of linen that concealed a number of deliberate and horrific mutilations. His name was Joseph Fuller, first lieutenant of Torch. When he was brought below, Darby could hardly tell him apart from the pair of corpses he had been found with. Even now Darby did not care for the victim’s thin, rapid pulse or the wheezing grumble in his chest.
Captain Pelles leaned over the cot. He had his head turned, bent close to the place where the bandages moved. Pelles held the scrap of parchment Lieutenant Fuller had put into his hand, and looked at it now and again as he listened. What came from the bandaged face were hardly more than grunts. The words were mumbled and occasionally disjointed, but they made known a tale of shipwreck, a battle lost, captivity, and torture. Fuller’s voice was a rattle, an increasingly incoherent one, and Darby feared that his patient might talk himself to death.
“He must rest now, sir,” Darby said.
The captain stood, touched the man on his shoulder, and walked from the sickbay. As he climbed the ladders up from the orlop, the eyes beneath the bandages haunted him. Fuller and the men with him had gone five days without water. All of them had been maimed and emasculated by the cruel scimitars of the bashaw’s Janissaries.
A SINGLE CANDLE GUTTERED IN THE LANTERN ON NOLAN’S FOLD-DOWN DESK. A dull light was projected onto the ceiling, casting shadows onto the cabin walls, accenting the gloom rather than illuminating space. The cabin was thick with the smell of fresh paint and cut wood. One of the diagonal knees above Nolan’s cot had been replaced, and he had leisure now, lying on his back, to study it closely. Nothing else, materially, had changed. His clothing and possessions had been gathered up on Yunis and returned to him. They were placed back on their shelves and hung from dowel hooks: his ditty bag, sketchbooks, colored pencils, and his pins, threads, patterns, and needles all stowed. Nolan’s hands were folded behind his head and his feet were crossed on the foot of the cot. It was in just this position that he had waited on his first evening aboard Enterprise, expecting to be rousted out by the ship’s corporal. He closed his eyes and made himself still. As silent hours passed, it was easy to believe that he had never stirred from this place and that all of the events of the last months had been a dream.
Nolan had been returned to the ship under ambiguous circumstances. He had helped carry the wounded man from the boat. In the tumult that followed, the celebration aboard Enterprise had been instantly terminated. As the disfigured survivor from Torch’s whaleboat was carried aboard, some looked away in horror while others stared in mute fascination. The frigate had been cleared of visitors, the guests hurried over the brow and back to their carriages. Curran ordered Nolan to be put under guard and confined to his cabin.
At four bells, Nolan had heard the pipe and the call of the bo’suns to unmoor ship. It was followed by the stamp and go of the men at the capstan as the frigate warped away from the pier and recovered her boats. The increasingly deep, easy roll told him that Enterprise had left port and then cleared the bay. The frigate was under way—but bound where? The crew was mute. Gone were the half-facetious comments, jokes, and semi-insults that passed between the watches. Even the midshipmen’s berth, a place of almost constant laughter, was as quiet as the moon. Nolan heard the sentry relieved outside his cabin door; that he had again been placed under guard did not surprise him. His attempted escape had been both ill conceived and badly executed. Thrust from one extreme to the other, from future’s impossibly bright promise to the past’s regrets, Nolan had once again forsworn optimism.
In his cabin he closed his eyes but could not block out the sight of Lorina. Her movements had been languid, her complexion pale and sallow, and he thought now that her breath had the sweet, deadly smell of opium. She had spoken slowly, but the words she gathered struck Nolan like stones. He was gripped again by the same searing pain he’d felt when he went over the bow of Yunis.
When he ran down the quay, he’d had no idea where he would go. It was an instinct to flee—which is simply and always an impulse for self-preservation. He did not care much now that he’d failed to get away from the ship; confinement was his fate, ironbound and forever. Nolan cursed himself for having thought that anything could have changed: hope was the cruelest blade a man could ever turn upon himself.
In the passageway the sentry came to attention and Nolan heard the rattle of keys. The lock in the louvered door was opened and a light shined into the compartment. “You’re wanted, Mister Nolan,” said a voice behind a battle lantern. “Right directly, if you please.”
Up the ladders and aft, led by a Marine and followed by another, Nolan went across the spar deck. Above, the masts whispered. The wind was abaft the beam, and the frigate was under all plain sail. Land was a low, red smudge far away to starboard, and the sea around was the sapphire blue of deep soundings. Nolan, so long a nautical creature, could tell that the frigate was headed south-southwest. He did not trouble to ask why.
Nolan was led into the wardroom. Pelles was there at a small podium. Papers covered the desks on either side, letters and orders and files; black tape, green, and red. As he entered, Nolan stole a glance at Curran, seated at Pelles’ right hand. Some of the other officers looked up as he came in, but most did not. Nolan scarcely knew the recently appointed officers. It was obvious they were gathered to dispense some sort of justice. All wore their dress uniforms and sat rigidly. Nolan could glean nothing from their expressions, and even Curran’s face seemed to be veiled with grave, silent authority.
Pelles asked that Nolan be given a chair. Newsome, the captain’s clerk, held a board in the crook of his left arm; clipped to it was a short stack of papers. His pen scratched as Pelles spoke.
“Mister Nolan, do you know what a captain’s mast is?”
“I do, sir.”
It was the ritual of shipboard justice. A person charged with an offense was brought before the captain, masted, as they said, and charges were read out. It was the captain who sat as judge and jury, and his power to chastise, even to flog, was immense. Nolan had known Captains Bainbridge, Lawrence, and even Decatur to routinely sentence malefactors to floggings or confinement on bread and water.
“I am convening a captain’s mast,” Pelles continued, “as charges have been laid against you, Mister Nolan.”
Nolan glanced across the table. Curran sat with his knees together, looking at the painted black and white squares on the deck cloth.
“Mister Nolan, you are aware that you continue to be under the custody of the United States Navy and are bound by the conditions of the sentence you received at general court-martial on September 2, 1807?”
“I never thought anything had changed sir,” Nolan said.
Pelles let a moment pass. He went on in a cold, official baritone. “Mister Piggen has placed you on report. He has made several serious allegations: quitting the ship without permission, disobedience of a direct order, evasion, and attempted desertion.”
Nolan looked at Piggen, gray-faced and pinched. The room was so still that Newsome’s scratching pen could plainly be heard.
“I am compelled,” Pelles said, “on hearing Mister Piggen’s charges, to inquire into the circumstances. Several of these are serious allegations. One is a capital offense.” Pelles put down the paper. “You are aware that as a result of this mast, the material conditions of your custody may be affected?”
“Yes, sir.”
The pen went on and then hissed to a stop. Pelles said, “I will question you and the other officers and come to a judgment regarding this matter. My decision is final and binding. You will be accorded an opportunity to speak after I have heard the evidence against you. You may call any witnesses you think may help your case. In the case that a capital offense is judged to have occurred, your sentence will automatically be appealed and referred to the commodore of the Mediterranean Squadron.”
Nolan lowered his eyes. He thought of the execution he had witnessed once in Gibraltar. Three deserters were hanged from the yardarm of the frigate HMS Bellerphon. Captain Bainbridge had thought the spectacle would enlighten Nolan and had him rowed over in one of Constitution’s boats so he could witness the horror close at hand. Nolan had not forgotten what a hanged man looked like.
“Am I to plead guilty or innocent?” Nolan asked.
“You are not,” Pelles said.
Nolan looked at Darby. The doctor seemed extraordinarily sad.
“Do you wish to name any persons of the crew to speak on your behalf?” Pelles asked.
“No, sir.”
“Will you call any witnesses?”
Witnesses to what? Nolan thought. Easton had seen Curran and Nolan on the wharf. He saw plainly that Curran had pointed his pistol at Nolan. Nolan could not know how much the young officer had heard, but what he’d seen was certainly enough.
Nolan said clearly: “I will not call any witnesses.”
“Mister Piggen, please repeat what you told me.”
“I will, Captain. Last night, I saw Nolan going over the side of Yunis. He went over the bow and lowered himself to the pier by the spirit yard. And then he went running down the pier, toward town. I called out to him and remembered him of his duty, but he went along pretending not to hear. I told him twice.”
Nolan watched Piggen closely. He might have seen him go over the bow, but no one had hailed him. Nolan wondered why Piggen would choose to embellish this point.
“Who else saw Nolan quit the ship?” Pelles asked. No one answered. “Did anyone hear Mister Piggen order Nolan to return?” Again, silence. “Mister Piggen,” Pelles continued, “what did you do after seeing Nolan leave the ship?”
“I told him to return, like I said,” Piggen jerked his chin toward Curran, “then I told the exec.”
Pelles turned to Curran. “Did you see Nolan leave Yunis?”
“No, sir,” he answered. “I did not see him leave the ship.”
“Go on, Mister Piggen.”
“That was it, sir,” Piggen nodded. “I saw him try to escape. I ordered him to halt, twice, and then I told Mister Curran and Mister Easton, him being officer of the day.”
“Did you make any attempt to go after Mister Nolan?” asked Pelles.
Piggen blinked. “Me? No, sir. He was wearing a sword.”
“But you are sure it was Mister Nolan,” Pelles asked, “and not someone else going ashore from Yunis?”
“I saw him, sir,” Piggen said. He pointed at Nolan’s face. “He knows I did, too.”
Nolan shook his head. “Captain, I was—”
Pelles lifted his hand from the table; the gesture cut Nolan short. “You’ll be given an opportunity to make a statement, Mister Nolan.”
Piggen seemed delighted. Around the wardroom, the other officers were sullen and mute. Darby ran his fingernail up and down the edge of the table. Pelles cleared his throat and put on his glasses.
“Mister Nolan, yesterday afternoon you were ashore with permission and in the custody of the executive officer. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Nolan said.
“At any time did Mister Curran ask you for a formal parole or elicit a promise that you would not try to escape?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask Mister Curran to clarify the conditions under which you had been allowed liberty ashore?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
“In June of this year, you assumed command of the prize vessel Yunis, navigating her to the port of Cartagena, after Mister Curran had been wounded, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Mister Curran, during the time at the Lofa River, or later in Sierra Leone, did you ever fear that Mister Nolan would attempt to leave the ship?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Did you think at any time ashore during liberty yesterday afternoon that Mister Nolan might attempt to flee?”
“No, sir.”
Pelles looked down at one of the files. “The ambassador seems to have been particularly animated against you, Mister Nolan. And I am informed that a certain Mister Slingeker . . . ”
“Slonecker, sir,” Piggen corrected him.
“The ambassador’s vice consul has alleged that you were disrespectful to him while you were ashore.”
Nolan looked down and shook his head.
The captain asked Piggen: “Did you speak to Mister Slonecker about this?”
“I did, sir. He mentioned that the prisoner had been disrespectful of his person while ashore.”
Pelles frowned. “Disrespectful how?”
“Well I don’t know exactly what he said. He asked me about Nolan, so I told him about his confinement.”
Pelles put his hand to the side of his face, cradling his chin. “Were you not informed, Mister Piggen, that the conditions of Nolan’s sentence and confinement are a confidential matter?”
Piggen was flustered. “Well, he already knew, sir. I mean about Nolan being a traitor. The ambassador, too. I told ’em how Nolan was supposed to be kept.”
Pelles said, “Did you discuss any other confidential matters with Mister Slonecker?”
Piggen was taken aback but managed to press on. “Well, no, sir. We both saw Nolan go over the side. I saw him first, then I pointed it out to Mister Slonecker.”
“Were you watching Mister Nolan particularly?” asked Pelles.
“I was, sir. I saw Nolan on deck talking to a woman. I thought there might be some possibility of him asking inappropriate questions.”
“Who was this person?” Pelles asked.
“She looked like an American, sir. I would say she was a lady of quality.”
“Did Mister Nolan seem acquainted with her?”
“He did, sir.”
“Why do you say that?” Pelles asked. Nolan felt his stomach churn.
“They was talking close. They was talking, and then all of a sudden Nolan walks off. Angry like. He went right over to the gangway and down onto Yunis. I was watching, sir, from the larboard rail. I saw him go forward and then I saw him go over the bow.”
Pelles turned his gaze on Easton. “You were officer of the day yesterday, Mister Easton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were aware that Mister Nolan was out of the ship?”
Easton took a second to think. “In the morning, sir.”
“How many times, Mister Easton, did Mister Nolan leave the ship yesterday?” Pelles asked.
Easton exhaled. “I am not aware that Mister Nolan ever left the ship without permission, sir.”
“That isn’t what I asked, Mister Easton. How many times did Nolan leave the ship?”
Several seconds passed. Nolan did not expect Easton to lie for him. “I left the ship twice, Captain,” Nolan said firmly.
“To whom did you speak while you were on deck?” Pelles asked.
“I had occasion, sir, to meet an acquaintance,” Nolan said. “An old friend. The result of that meeting put me into a state of something, I regret to say, that was very much like melancholy. I went aboard Yunis.”
“Did you tell anyone you were quitting Enterprise?”
“He told me, sir,” Fancher said.
Nolan looked at Fancher. This was a lie, a perfect, blatant lie. Nolan remembered that Fancher was near the larboard gangway, but he did not ask his permission to leave the ship.
“He went aboard Yunis just after eleven o’clock,” Fancher said, utterly straight-faced.
“Do you own a watch, Mister Fancher?”
“No, sir. Mister Nolan spoke to me just as the fireworks was going. Per schedule that was eleven o’clock.”
Nolan looked at Fancher. He is risking his career and honor for me—why?
Pelles made a note and turned to Nolan. “Mister Curran tells me that when Torch’s whaleboat collided with the wharf, you were with him. Is that correct?”
Nolan hesitated.
“Yes or no, please, Mister Nolan.”
“Yes, sir, I was there.”
“And Mister Easton has stated that you helped fend off the boat when it looked like it would strike the pier.”
Nolan looked at Easton. It was Easton who had fended off the boat, and he certainly knew that Curran had been holding him at pistol point. Now Easton was protecting him too.
Pelles said, “Is it correct that you all went together when you saw the whale-boat coming through the anchorage?”
“I saw him go over the side,” Piggen croaked. “Nolan was scooting out.”
“Thank you, Piggen. I heard you the first time,” Pelles said. “Mister Fancher, when you saw Nolan go aboard Yunis, was it before or after Torch’s boat came into the harbor?”
Fancher automatically said the thing that would favor Nolan: “After, sir, right after it came across the bar.”
Pelles was not likely fooled; but he did not want to see Nolan hang. “Mister Piggen, did you speak to Mister Nolan last night?”
“Why no, sir.”
“Do you have any idea why he might choose to go ashore from Yunis by the bow? By dropping off the bowsprit?”
“I reckon he was running, sir. It was the fastest way to the pier. I still think that.”
“You said it looked like he was in a hurry, did you not?”
“He was sneaking, like,” Piggen minced.
“Was this during the fireworks?”
“Around that time, sir.”
Pelles leaned back in his chair and smoothed the empty sleeve pinned to the front of his coat. “Seeing that the entire harbor was illuminated by star shells, could it have been that Nolan had seen the whaleboat enter the harbor?”
“I didn’t see anything, sir,” Piggen said.
“You stated previously that you were on the larboard side. Were you looking out into the harbor, Mister Piggen?”
“I was looking over the side, sir. I saw Nolan go forward on Yunis. Outboard. Staying in the shadows, like. It was right dark, sir. A black night.”
“It was, Mister Piggen,” Pelles said. “It very often is dark when the sun is down and there is no moon; I am heartily glad you noticed. Now, Doctor Darby, when the call came for stretchers, you went down to the pier?”
“I did, sir.”
Pelles removed his glasses. “Was Mister Nolan on the wharf when you arrived with surgeon’s mates?”
“He was.”
“Did Nolan assist in carrying the wounded man aboard the frigate?”
“He did, sir.”
“Did he come freely or was he forced?”
“Forced, sir?” Darby blinked.
“Did anyone compel Mister Nolan to carry the stretcher? Was he compelled by force, or threat of force, to assist in bringing the wounded man aboard?”
“No, sir. He did it of his own.”
There was a long, strained silence. Pelles went though some of the papers in front of him. Nolan had an instant to look into Curran’s eyes—he looked tired and bereft.
“I must conclude that you did leave the ship, Mister Nolan,” Pelles said. The room was still. “But I can draw no conclusion as to your motives.” Pelles flipped closed the file in front of him. “But given that you were previously at liberty, both when in command of Yunis and ashore yesterday afternoon, I am not willing to pronounce that you were attempting to desert the ship. Especially as Torch’s boat, obviously in distress, was visible from the deck. I have been given proofs of your courage, and I believe that you are an honorable man. I choose to think that you were more disposed to help than to run.”
Nolan felt shame rather than relief. He barely heard Pelles say, “This matter is closed.”
Nolan stood, ready to depart. Pelles moved away from the podium and toward the wardroom table. He said, “Sit down, Mister Nolan. There are other matters before me that I would like to discuss with you.”
Pelles turned to Piggen and said coldly, “These will be tactical matters, Mister Purser. I do not think you need trouble yourself with them.”
Piggen surveyed the faces. Every eye was on him, and in every one there was nothing but loathing. Piggen went out of the wardroom, his shoes squeaking.
As the door closed, the captain handed a piece of parchment to Curran. It was written in extravagant, flourishing Turkish—wafered and sealed and beribboned.
“This was found in Torch’s boat. I suppose that it is some sort of ransom demand. Can you confirm it?”
Beyond the opening remarks, in the name of the most merciful, etc., the message was very far from mercy or peace. “It is a demand for compensation,” Curran said. “It announces that the Bashaw of Arzeou has captured the gun sloop USS Torch and her crew.”
“Captured? How is that possible?” Ruggles stammered.
“From the survivor we know this much,” Pelles said. He nodded, and Pybus unrolled a chart of the Barbary Coast. “Torch was on patrol off Arzeou, here.” Pelles put his finger down between Algiers and Tangiers. “Her orders were to observe the harbor and fortress at Arzeou. After Mister Curran gave Um Qasim a shiner, she took refuge there in the harbor at Arzeou. Torch’s orders were to observe, but their commander, Mister Penniman, showed a bit too much zeal. A week ago, in a calm, a dozen galleys came from the harbor and made for Torch. Penniman was not surprised and managed to sink three and maul the rest. But while Torch was withdrawing she struck a reef to the west of the fortress.”
“It ain’t on the large-scale charts, sir,” said Pybus.
“Which doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Pelles said. “Torch went hard aground and came under constant attack by the batteries at the mouth of the harbor. It was not long before they had her range. Torch did what they could to get off, starting their water, guns, and supplies. When it was clear that they could not make her swim, Commander Penniman sent the unfortunate Mister Fuller and three men in the cutter to get help. Their boat was overtaken by one of the bashaw’s row galleys. You saw what was done to the men.”
“Don’t we have a treaty with the Bashaw of Arzeou?” asked Pybus.
“We did,” Curran answered. “The bashaw’s public treaties are worth less than his private ones. The bashaw has entered into an agreement to sell prizes taken by the Dey of Bou Regreg, whose normal remit is on the Atlantic.”
“That is why he allowed Um Qasim to refit in Arzeou’s harbor,” Pelles said. “It is also believed that the bashaw is holding the crew of McKendrie Evans—what remains of them.” The captain smoothed the chart and continued, “Now the Arabs have refloated Torch and taken her under protection of their guns at Arzeou. The crews of the whale ship and USS Torch are being held as captives.”
Pybus frowned, “If they were to repair Torch and Um Qasim, sir, and arm them with the Portuguese guns . . . ”
Easton piped up, “And I have seen Arab divers recover guns from the seabed . . . diving to more than five fathoms. They’re likely to recover Torch’s guns as well.”
“Suffice it to say that our task to protect American shipping would become burdensome.”
Ruggles asked, “What do they want?”
Curran scanned the document. “An apology. That was put in rather strenuous language. They demand a payment, as an indemnity for Torch’s violation of their territorial waters. They also want the recommencement of tribute. They are asking for the same payment made by President Jefferson to the previous Dey of Algiers.”
“What is the sum?”
“Five hundred thousand Spanish dollars, sir. In gold.”
“Who is it that makes this demand?”
“It is signed by the vizier, sir, the bashaw’s chief of staff.”
“Not the sovereign himself?”
“No, sir. That is not unusual; should the demand be refused, it will not reflect upon the bashaw’s authority.”
“I shall refuse, Mister Curran,” Pelles said pleasantly. “And the bashaw’s authority shall look rather funny hanging out of his arse.”
At the bottom of the letter was a notation, added in a compact, flowing hand. It was written in English and read, “Witnessed, and attested: Taken with the frigate under my command are one hundred fifty-six men; seventeen sergeants and petty officers. During the engagement, one hundred and twenty men were killed and sixty-three wounded. Signed, Lieutenant August L. Penniman, USN.”
Torch’s unfortunate commander had been prevailed upon to certify that the demand was genuine. Though his pen was steady, you might see distress plain in the neatly ruled and smallish letters. The S in USN was written backward.
“What do you make of it, Mister Curran?”
Curran studied the paper. “It was obviously written under duress. There are of course no sergeants in the navy, and Commander Penniman commands a brig sloop, sir, not a frigate, and he did not carry any Marines.”
“Might this letter say anything else?”
Curran looked closely at the addendum, and then at the spaces between the lines. He looked briefly at the back of the document. “Can you tell me something about the officer, sir?” Curran asked.
“Penniman? Not very much. He is unlucky.”
“Torch was his first command sir?”
“It was.”
“May I ask, Captain, where he served previously?”
“Brister, Vesuvius, and I believe he was attached to the mission in Paris.”
Curran looked again at the postscript. The man had taken his time to write this. It was closely, neatly written and as lined up as though he had used a straight rule.
“If he had been with the Paris mission, sir, he probably knows of secret writing.”
“I am not sure I can put Commander Penniman among intelligence agents,” Pelles said blandly.
“The technique is very commonplace in embassies, sir. When I was a boy I sometimes helped my father with his correspondence.” Curran peered at the back of the paper, angling it in the lantern light.
“Would he not have required secret ink?” asked Fancher.
“He would not, but he would require privacy—just a few moments without the guards hovering around.” Curran held the parchment up to the top of the lantern’s globe. “There is another message on the parchment, sir, written on the back.”
To the naked eye, the paper showed nothing. Curran let the flame climb out of the shade, toward the paper with a series of rhythmic stabs. The parchment was brought nearly to the point of combustion and a series of lines appeared. Slanted large across the back were a scrawl of letters and numbers: ME62T124EBBAGNO.
“I’ll be damned,” said Fancher.
“Commander Penniman was apparently left alone to add his postscript.” Curran tapped the paper. “He used a pen and ink to write the confirmation but used an old trick to write the other. It is visible now, sir, as you see.”
Pelles took his glasses and threaded them behind his ears. “Pray, what was it written in?”
“Urine, sir,” Curran said. “Daubed on with a matchstick.”
“Piss on a stick?” frowned Pybus.
“Now,” Pelles mused, “what does it mean?”
Five silent faces starred down at the parchment. Finally Nolan spoke, “McKendrie Evans, 62. Torch, 124 . . . ”
“And EB?”
“East Battery,” said Nolan.
“And a bagnio is a prison, sir,” said Curran.
“Now we must question whether Commander Penniman’s gaolers might have discovered his secret message or written it themselves. Mister Pybus, the chart of Arzeou, please.”
“It’s here, sir. Only one we got is a French one, imperial, that I bought off’n a French merchant when we was off New Providence, the bashaw being a former pal of Napoleon, as you might say. As ’yer can see, the emperor’s navy gents surveyed his harbor nice and regular.”
“Commander Penniman might have appreciated your chart, Mister Pybus. It clearly shows the reef straddling the offshore approach.”
The chart showed a harbor open to the north and enclosed by two fortified causeways. The wall on the eastern side was a short, slightly squat affair, the first part perpendicular and the second angled to the west and ending in a two-story Martello tower.
“I ain’t never been there, sir, but old Franklin in Constitution, he was captured with Bainbridge in ought three. They sold him as a slave over to Arzeou. Used him cruelly. He told me that Arzeou and Tripoli is of a type, sir. Very similar with walls and batteries, but with Arzeou having less people, it’s of a smaller scale.”
The longer, eastern causeway went nearly straight out to a rocky islet, most of a mile from the shore. Like the other causeway, this one was studded with gun emplacements and had a steep wall facing seaward. It led to the island, which was itself walled and towered. The islet, tear shaped, looked to be a little over four acres, and nearly all of it was filled with a warren of buildings. The narrowest part was a battery facing over the harbor mouth, positioned to support its neighbor half a mile across the channel. The town was layered up in terraces overlooking the anchorage. The city had been fortified from time out of mind, first by the Romans and Vandals, and before them the Greeks and probably the Carthaginians. The walls had been expanded several times to enclose a greater urban area, and these expansions had been made by knowing engineers.
“Mister Nolan, I wonder if you might share your lights? We need your opinion as an artillerist.”
“I am at your service, sir,” Nolan said quietly.
“I thought you’d feel that way . . . the wounded Mister Fuller has plainly sketched us an idea of the bashaw’s guns at Arzeou.” Pelles handed Nolan the paper Fuller had given him in sickbay.
Nolan studied it—the merest scratches of lead, numbers that looked like fractions, which he finally determined were weight of shot and the height of guns. “These are very plausible emplacements, sir,” Nolan said. “At these heights, with the calibers mentioned, nearly the entire harbor and most of the approaches are well covered.”
The imperial chart was marked with two anchorages: a military anchorage to the west and merchant piers to the east. The chart showed that it was deep right up to the longer causeway, and there was a beach and yard at the foot of it. It was a perfect naval base and port, valuable commercially and militarily, which explained why the French had troubled to make such a painstaking chart.
Nolan opened a pair of dividers, touched them to the scale, and then swung them in an arc pivoted from several places on the chart. “The strongest point, or rather the best-covered point, is here.” Nolan touched the chart off the inside of the longer causeway. “The guns from the island and those in the main fortress cover this location and the approaches. And it is close to the causeway and this, which I take to be a beach. An easy place to haul out or load a derrick.”
“Very well, I understand their strengths,” Pelles said. “Now what, tell me, are their weaknesses?”
“There appear to be none, sir.” Nolan said. “The arrangements are most complete.”
Pelles let his eyes roam over the chart. There had to be a way into the harbor. “These two batteries at the head of the channel. Am I right to suppose that if they are suppressed, the harbor could be entered?”
“Yes, sir, certainly. I believe it might be done, especially if the eastern battery were to be attacked, say, from the north and close offshore. If the approaches could be commanded long enough to put a party ashore, I believe the battery might be taken from the land side, by assaulting down the causeway.”
“And the world would hear that,” grunted Pybus. “Nothing would stop the Prophet’s own army from marching down the causeway to take back the battery.”
Pelles frowned. “Mister Pybus, could Enterprise cross into the harbor?”
“Past the batteries? I reckon if we fired both sides we could. But I’d not like to try to put about in the harbor, sir. Oh, no. It is damned close, and that would be presuming it was empty.”
“Which it is not,” Curran said. “Um Qasim and Torch are there, at least.”
“It has been my experience with the Barbary corsairs that they are not to be underestimated,” said Pelles. “As they have two important ships, it has surely come to mind to moor a couple of gunboats about to augment what Mister Nolan calls this interlocking fire.”
“This all presumes that we would have to fight our way in,” Curran said. Nolan looked over at him. Curran’s eyes narrowed: “What if we didn’t fight the batteries but just sailed past them?”
“In Enterprise?”
“In Yunis. She doesn’t draw much, so we could surely cross the bar. It doesn’t matter if the batteries are taken or not taken—if they don’t fire at us.” Curran looked at Pelles. “Yunis, sir. Disguised as a coastal trader—what disguise—she is a coastal trader. We could enter the harbor and cut Torch out.”
“I am not an enthusiast for desperate missions, Mister Curran.”
“They would delay fire, surely, until they were certain of trouble. The key to our operation would be stealth. We could transfer the prisoners, sir, to Yunis, and get them from harm’s way. We would then try to get Torch under sail.”
“What if she is anchored with chain? What if the Arabs have taken her sails to make tents?” Pybus grunted.
“Then we burn her.” Curran answered.
Pelles looked again at the chart, considering every angle. “Mister Nolan, if I had a flood tide, and entered the harbor with Enterprise, would I have enough time to free the prisoners and sink Torch?”
“You might, sir. But one thing is certain, the fort might sink you . . . but you will never sink the fort.”
A moment passed: Pelles lost in thought. “I do not think much of councils of war, gentlemen—as they are talking shops in case of defeat. I do not plan on being defeated. There is a chance that Mister Curran’s plan might work. In any event, should it fail, it would be less bloody than for Enterprise to wallow into the harbor and present a target for Arab guns. The xebec will be fitted out to carry seventy sailors and Marines. Command will devolve to you, Mister Curran, as I think this expedition will call for a two-armed commander.” Pelles again tapped the chart, “Mister Curran will take Yunis into the harbor, rescue the hostages, and attempt to cut Torch out. Failing that—you will burn the sloop to deny her use to the Arabs.”
“Captain Pelles, I’d like to accompany Mister Curran.”
“I had anticipated that request, Mister Nolan. But I must decline. I cannot place a prisoner in my charge in such obvious jeopardy. I will also need you aboard Enterprise to help direct suppressive fire against the harbor batteries. We will have to be close offshore to cover their exit.”
“Sir—”
“We do not question orders in the naval service, Mister Nolan. Make ready the plan we have discussed. There is not a moment to be lost.”
TWENTY MILES OFF CABO DE GATA ENTERPRISE WAS HEAVED TO, HER TOPSAILS aback. As befitted a tender, Yunis was under her lee, lolling under sad, backwinded lateens. Pelles said the familiar words, hats were lifted, the hatch cover was tilted up, and the canvas-shrouded body of Lieutenant Fuller splashed into the waves. That he had survived five days in his mutilated state was something of a cruel miracle, and it was considered a mercy that he had passed away. His wounds had been diabolical and were intended to appall and dishearten all who saw them. They had shocked every soul aboard Enterprise, both for their ingenious cruelty and for the malice they evinced. But where the corsairs attempted to sow fear they would reap only cold, determined anger.
The grindstone was in constant use putting a razor’s edge on cutlasses and tomahawks, boarding axes, Bowie knives, and steel bayonets. Fresh flints were passed out for musketoons, pistols, carbines, and shotguns; powder horns were filled; and leather cartridge boxes were lined with freshly waxed linen. The men with Kentucky rifles fussed over their flints and prepared paper cartridges filled with fine-corned powder and freshly cast bullets.
Under an opalescent sky, the barge and cutters shuttled between Enterprise and Yunis transporting arms chests and several of the stubby brass howitzers the Marines served in the frigate’s tops. These guns were mounted on swivels and concealed by canvas on Yunis’ waist and forecastle. They were double-shotted with canister—a rude, lethal surprise for any ship curious enough to look closely.
Curran had a thousand details to attend to, tactical and administrative. There were, in addition to the weapons, a variety of incendiaries, grenadoes, and stink bombs, as well as twenty deadly barrels filled with tow, tar, sulfur, and gunpowder, short-fused to burn Torch if she could not be cut out. Not the least among Curran’s chores was the selection of the sailors and Marines who would go with him. In one way, this was the easiest of the jobs he faced. There was not a man aboard Enterprise who did not want to go, even though Yunis would carry only a pitiful few cannon and was bound for one of the most heavily armed fortresses in all of the Maghreb.
Curran sat in his cabin writing out a plan of signals when there was a knock. “Come,” he said.
Piggen entered, eyes narrowed, and his thick, wet frown set as usual. “Curran, I have come to offer my services on your expedition.” Before Curran could speak Piggen continued, “Please, sir, hear me out. I have a very good idea what you think of me. And I believe you have formed an incorrect opinion of my firmness as an officer. I can command as well as anyone, and I am not shy.”
“I am surprised you have chosen to volunteer, Mister Piggen.”
“I have taken the liberty, sir. I am sure you would not have selected me.”
“That’s correct. I would not have. And I will not now.” Piggen tried to interrupt. “Hear me, sir,” Curran said. “I listened to you. You are surely aware of the disrepute in which you are held aboard this ship. I will not venture whether your character is deserved or not. You are one who calculates, Piggen, and I am sure you realized that volunteering could only elevate your standing aboard. You must have known I would refuse to take you, so you faced little physical danger, only the upside of ameliorating your reputation as a poltroon.”
“I would fight,” Piggen huffed.
“If you were put in a box and prodded. A rat would do that. I am sure your performance in combat would be satisfactory—only that—satisfactory. I am declining to take you because I am certain that if our expedition should fail and we should become captives, your conduct would be exactly what it has been aboard this frigate.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that should we fall into the enemy’s hands, I would expect you to be a gossip, a hoarder, a creature of faction—an informer and even a collaborator. You might declare yourself willing to fight, Piggen, I hardly know a man in the Navy who is a truly born coward, but you are certainly not a person who has the character to lead in adversity.”
“I will ask the captain, then,” Piggen said.
“You might, sir. Though if I were you I would not press him for a recommendation. I will decline to take you regardless.”
Later in the afternoon Doctor Darby also applied to join Yunis, and it was with genuine regret that Curran had to refuse. He agreed with Darby that his services would be needed at the point of attack, but he did not want to risk the only surgeon aboard. If the mission were successful, there would be wounded in plenty and the liberated prisoners also to care for. If the expedition failed, Curran did not want to see the frigate’s only medical officer captured or killed. Darby, a man of reason as well as philosophy, could not disagree. Unlike Piggen, Darby knew his own reputation in the ship and did not doubt his own courage. Neither did Curran.
The ships carried on slowly toward Arzeou. The blue cutter was sent far to windward as a lookout, and an early supper was served aboard Enterprise: Chick’s own New Orleans concoction of chili beef and beans, soft bread, cheddar, and fresh green beans. Great wooden mess kits were rowed over to the hands working aboard Yunis, and the smell of rich chili wafted though the salt air.
Curran would have normally eaten his share, chili beef being one of his favorites, but his appetite was gone. While mirth came up from the mess decks, he stood at the taffrail looking into the last, fading light of sunset. The wake stretched away, straight and luminous as the night came on. As Curran’s eyes became increasingly accustomed to the dark, he could see the cutter far to windward. It showed no lights, but would shine a blue lantern should a stranger be sighted. By full dark the transfer of volunteers and ordinance was nearly complete—Curran might yet enter the harbor with an element of surprise.
Since retreat, no bells had been struck aboard, no pipes were sounded, and what remained of the work was carried out in measured voices, though they were still a hundred odd miles from the coast. The ship took on the tense, expectant air of battle, made more concentrated by the darkness and the instinctive need for quiet.
The raiders were assembled on the spar deck. The orders to make themselves look like natives rather than United States Navy sailors had been obeyed enthusiastically. Most of the hands had seen corsairs close up and made thawbs and djellabas closely resembling the real articles (there were some remarkable tailors among the hands). Others, more avid still, made up the garb of pirates of another century. But none had outdone the Bannon brothers for ornateness or style. Stephen Bannon sported a mountainous black turban with a foot-long feather. Christopher wore petticoats and a veil, both probably the trophies of a July Fourth conquest. Their disguises were topped off with pistols and boarding axes, and both had blackened their faces with soot from the camboose.
“Which Bannon are you?” asked Curran, peering under the turban.
“Which it’s Stephen, sir. I am dressed as the sultan himself.”
It wasn’t likely that the sultan owned a bigger turban. It was certain that the sultan did not have Bannon’s bright green eyes, which were set off starkly by the soot he had painted across his cheeks. Curran looked next at the veiled figure standing next to him.
“Which it’s Christopher, your honor,” said the other Bannon. “And I am the sultan’s harem.”
“Admirable,” Curran said. “You have the devil’s own cunning.” The brothers winked at each other. Curran went on thoughtfully, “But it might not be fair to confuse the enemy so completely. Indeed, Stephen Bannon, you look so much like a bashaw, I am sure the enemy would be too concerned with their salaams to even raise a finger.” Curran reached up and took the turban off Steven’s head. He was surprised to find a loaded horse pistol tucked in it.
“My backup, sir.” Bannon winked.
“Excellent,” Curran said. “But perhaps it would ride easier in a hanger or perhaps even a leather holster.” Then, with the greatest delicacy, Curran said to Christopher, “And I might have you take off one or two of the petticoats, Christopher Bannon. Though I am not completely versed in the couture of the harim, I do not seem to recall so much lace or flattering calico.”
“Really, sir?” asked Christopher sadly.
“I am afraid so. You might wish to consult your own safety as well. Should you be captured, it would not do to have the enemy overcome with precipitate lust.”
Curran walked down the line addressing each man in the raiding party, asking how they did and approving of their preparations. Kanoa had made a short thobe out of his mattress ticking. His garment was not very far off from what a real Algerian slave might wear. “No other weapon, Petty Officer Kanoa? Just your ax?”
Kanoa shouldered his fearsome, shark tooth-studded pahoa. “You only get one shot with a pistol, sir,” he smiled. “A’sides, there’s always plenty of weapons to pick up after a boarding.”
Curran smiled. Behind the first rank of volunteers Fante was sitting on a hatch combing. He was unarmed and he was wearing Nolan’s old duck trousers and a blue jacket made out of brushed blankets. “Fante,” Curran said, “I am surprised you are not among the storming party.”
“I’m surprised too. Me having been to Arzeou. And me speaking like a corsair,” Fante said.
Curran was surprised. “You speak Arabic, sir?”
Fante delivered a blistering Arab curse. It used half a dozen nouns and three verbs that were among the most obscene Curran knew. Together, they defied translation. “You certainly command the language,” Curran said. “Why will you not be joining us?”
Fante stood, arms crossed. “In the first place, no one asked me.”
There were smiles about the deck. “Ask him, sir,” someone said.
“And in the second place,” Fante continued, “I don’t see why you are going to so much trouble.”
“How do you mean?” Curran asked.
“There are more slaves than masters in Tripoli and Arzeou. Every time there is a battle in Africa, slaves are taken. Why is it so important to get these?”
“They are our countrymen.”
Fante shrugged. “They could free themselves instantly by becoming Muslims,” he said. “Everyone knows it is forbidden for a good musselman to own a Muslim slave. Why do you not send ashore a letter to tell them to turn Turk—then they would not have to be slaves and you would not have to be knocked on the head.”
“I’m not sure it is so simple. Nor do I think that the bashaw or even the sultan would scruple from keeping a fellow Muslim as a slave. Any gate, they are Christians, and you would not ask a man to give up his religion.”
“Bah,” Fante said. “I have given up mine. The religions of other people are just superstitions.” Fante’s smile showed no trace of sarcasm. “The slaves in your country,” he asked, “are they Muslims?”
“They are Christians.”
“Then it is a victim’s religion. I think you should simply tell the captured men to become Muslims. Then they can be free.”
“We must fight, Fante,” Curran said. “We cannot submit.”
Fante narrowed his eyes. “Are there white slaves in America?”
“No.”
Fante towered over Curran, his crooked shark’s teeth set in a wry smile. “So it is not slavery that you object to, but when white people are made into slaves?”
“I can see how you might think that.”
Fante gestured to the men gathered in the waist of the ship. “And here you are, every one of you a slave too.”
“We are not slaves,” Curran answered.
“Psssh.” Fante leered. “Do you not bow down to the captain? There is not one here who dares contradict him. He is like a sultan,” Fante said. “Tell me, if you are not slaves, why do what he tells you?”
“Because we took an oath to obey.”
Fante looked astonished. “Were you forced to take this oath?”
“No.”
Fante shook his great, solid, wooly head. “Then why would you do it? Why did you give up your own freedom?”
“When the Portuguese came to your village, did you fight?”
“Of course.”
“When they took away your people, did you fight to get them back?” Curran asked.
“I did, but I was a prince,” Fante said. “They were my own people. These men who were taken, what are they to you?”
“Countrymen.”
“Ha! What does that mean? A king is a countryman, but he would not die for a farmer. You are a free man, yet you bind yourself unto death? You don’t seem to have thought very deeply about this.”
“You make some good points, Fante. And I cannot refute them. I am a naval officer, not a philosopher. I am going to Arzeou because it is my duty.”
Fante grunted. “Why don’t you just order me to fight?” Fante asked. “Am I not a slave?”
“Certainly not. You are member of the ship’s company. There are no slaves aboard Enterprise.”
“None of these men are ordered to go?”
“They are all volunteers.”
“The other Africans, Old Chick and Gubbins, the others who are not white men, they are not slaves?”
“They are free. And as you see, Young Dave and Tommy and others have volunteered,” Curran said.
“But they are Africans. They were slaves in your country?”
“Yes. They were slaves, but they are free men now.”
Curran looked around. A dozen sailors had gathered to listen to the debate. All were smiling. Curran said calmly, “Fante, I would be honored if you would join us in storming the sultan’s fortress and freeing the American hostages.”
Fante considered the offer with the expression of a banker calculating a loan.
Curran said, “Please?”
A grudging smile came over the big man’s face. “Well, I might enjoy it.” Fante ran the tip of his tongue along the pointed row of his teeth. “I have changed my mind. Now I say yes. Let’s go kill some pirate bastards.”