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.
