SCENE II. EXIT THE “PHILADELPHIA”
An effective demonstration off Tangiers soon cooled the ardor of the Sultan of Morocco. He reconfirmed the old and highly favorable treaty of 1786. One potential enemy had been removed. On now for Syracuse, the naval base from which our campaign against Tripoli was being conducted.
Off the coast of Sardinia the Constitution hailed H.M.S. Amazon, a frigate attached to the squadron of Lord Nelson. From her Preble received “the melancholy and distressing intelligence of the loss of the U.S. ship Philadelphia.” Here, Commodore, is a problem which will put to the test all your intelligence and stoutness of heart.
At Syracuse Preble learned the full extent of the disaster. The fine frigate had been run aground off Tripoli. Captain Bainbridge, discouraged by his ill fortune, had surrendered too quickly. Three hundred and fifteen of our officers and men had been led ashore in triumph. In his haste Bainbridge had not even taken effective measures to destroy his own ship. She was floated and brought into the harbor of Tripoli. Her guns were fished out of the water and remounted. She was manned with a strong Tripolitan crew. Thus she contributed to the strength of the defenses, and constituted a threat to every merchant vessel in the Mediterranean. Gloomy were the thoughts of poor Bainbridge as he viewed these developments from his prison window.
Preble was not the man to worry over past disasters. He was concerned with future successes. How could he counteract, in part at least, the loss of the Philadelphia? There was no direct method for rescuing the crew. But there might be a chance to regain the ship, or at least destroy her so that the enemy could not use her. Bainbridge, through the connivance of the Danish consul at Tripoli, had suggested that she be attacked by a party of men secreted in the hold of a merchant vessel. The capture of a Tripolitan ketch provided the means of carrying through this daring plan. The next essential item was a cool and daring commander.
The commodore invited to this post of honor and danger Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, then in command of the Enterprise. To this young officer might well be applied a sentence from Plutarch: “Being ever thirsty after honor, and passionate for glory, if anything of a greater or extraordinary nature was to be done, he was eager to be the doer of it himself.” Decatur eagerly accepted his commodore’s invitation.
Once the squadron got wind of the venture and of the commander selected, there was no lack of volunteers. Decatur naturally gave first choice to the people in his own ship. Five of her officers and sixty-two of her sailors shifted over to the ketch. This was formally commissioned and appropriately renamed Intrepid. Five midshipmen from the Constitution completed the complement. Last, but by no means least, was a brave Sicilian pilot, Salvador Catalano.
Edward Preble took upon himself full responsibility for the hazardous enterprise. “It is my order,” he wrote Decatur, “that you proceed to Tripoli, in company with the Siren, Lieutenant Stewart; enter the harbor in the night; board the Philadelphia; burn her; and make good your escape.” The courage it requires to write such an order is seldom appreciated. If the expedition had failed, as certainly it looked very probable, all the blame would have fallen on Preble. He would have been accused of sending officers and men to their death while he remained in safety. And, if the attack should succeed, the credit and honor would belong to Decatur. But Preble was not guarding his own interests. He was striving to further those of the Navy and the country.
For two weeks the Intrepid was battered about by a succession of storms. On this little craft, much smaller than a submarine chaser, seventy-four men were crowded. Their sufferings can scarcely be imagined. But at last the weather moderated and the long-awaited opportunity was at hand. As a reënforcement Midshipman Anderson and nine sailors rowed over in one of the Siren’s cutters. This was towed astern of the Intrepid. She started in.
The sea now was smooth. The wind lulled slowly to a calm. As night came on, a young moon, the enemy’s emblem, diffused a gentle light over the phosphorescent waters. Wary Odysseus might have turned back his prow at sight of such an unfavorable omen, but not all the gods on Olympus could have turned back Stephen Decatur that night.
Slowly and silently steals the Intrepid toward the harbor entrance. This cold wintry night there are no vessels on patrol. Only irregular ranks of jagged rocks keep watch. The moonlight discloses these ever present sentinels. The ship passes through.
Quietly there on deck stand Decatur, Catalano, and ten seamen—all disguised as Sicilians. Close down behind the bulwarks crouch the remainder of the crew. Ahead looms up the great hulk of the Philadelphia. Her foremast has not been replaced, but the main and mizzenmasts, with their network of rigging, trace a spider web of black against the dull red glare of the city’s lights. Fifteen gaping gun ports are dotted with the muzzles of frowning 18-pounders, loaded, shotted, and ready to be touched off. High overhead towers the dark mass of the Bashaw’s castle, its embrasures filled with one hundred and fifteen cannon.
The frigate’s bell rings out the hour. It is ten-thirty in the evening watch. Her sentinel hails. Catalano answers with long-rehearsed lines. He has lost his anchors. May he not secure alongside the frigate for the night? The answer is, “Yes.” Lawrence lowers a small boat. With a line from the Intrepid he pulls for the frigate’s bows. Quickly he secures his end to the fore chains. At the other end crouching seamen haul away.
Watchers on the frigate, if they had not been too sleepy, might have wondered at the hidden power which draws the little craft so steadily upon her prey. It is not until she is almost alongside that they see the crowd of men on her decks. “Americanos!” yells the sentinel. But now it is too late. Another pull brings the Intrepid alongside. Then rises a confused din as her crew begin a wild scramble for the honor of being the first over the enemy’s side. Decatur trips on his scabbard. Morris passes him. Over the high bulwarks, sword in teeth, he disappears. Lieutenants, midshipmen, sailors follow him. Here have ceased the privileges of rank. Those of courage begin.
Surprise has won the day. There is no resistance on the upper decks. The startled enemy dive over the side or scuttle below. Wild Americanos or hungry sharks—what a choice to have to make! Some twenty Tripolitans fall before the former. How many succumb to the latter we may only guess. In twenty minutes the ship is everywhere ablaze. As the flames shoot up the guns ashore fire on the clearly illuminated target. Back into the ketch our sailors spring. Lines are cut with battle-axe and cutlass, just in time to evade the outrushing flames. Out ring three good American cheers above the crackling roar of fire and the thunder of cannonade.
The flames now have mounted the frigate’s rigging turning night into day. The Intrepid is clearly disclosed to the enemy gunners. From every direction shot converge on the little ship. Out are run sixteen great sweeps. Strong men, willing galley slaves for an hour, double-bank their handles. Their long blades churn the waters into foam. Away she races through the shell splashes.
From an old painting Chase of the Constitution
From the painting by John W. Jarvis Edward Preble
Thus ended with complete success what Lord Nelson called the most bold and daring act of the age. When, three days later, the Intrepid sailed through the American squadron in Syracuse, each ship gave Decatur and his men a deafening salute of cheers. What music to a sailor’s ears!