It is a moment of terrible suspense. The least mistake, the least disturbance or excitement, must mean detection, and detection now will seal the fate of all. But Decatur has that perfect calmness and clearness of judgment which is the highest bravery. There is no flurry. In his low quiet voice he orders the boat manned. His calmness calms the men, and with an air of lazy indolence they get in and take the oars, carrying a rope to another boat which meets them from the frigate. The work is done in silence; the ends are fastened, and the boat returns. The hawser is passed along the deck; the crew lying on it pull noiselessly, and the ketch slowly, slowly but surely, nears her place and lies fast alongside the enemy.
Suddenly a piercing cry breaks the stillness. "Americanos! The Americans are upon us!" The enemy has now discovered the disguise. But at the same moment Decatur's voice is heard ringing out, "Board!" and he and Morris, who has been watching him, leap to the enemy's deck. Springing to their feet as one man, the crew follow them, each with his cutlass and pistol. The Tripolitans are panic-struck; for a moment they huddle in a frightened crowd on the forecastle. One instant Decatur pauses to form his men, and then at their head he dashes at the enemy. The few who stay to offer resistance are cut down; one is made prisoner; the rest, driven to the bow, leap from the rail into the water.
The ship is now captured, and the victorious crew hurry to their appointed stations. Two parties are told off to the berth-deck, one to the forward store-rooms, and one under Morris to the cockpit. Each prepares its supply of combustibles, and when all is reported ready, the order is given to set fire. This done, each party leaves the ship, but Morris and his men barely escape through the smoke and flame with which the lower deck is already filled. Decatur, standing on the Philadelphia's rail, while the smoke rises around him and the flames are bursting from her ports, waits till the last man has returned, and as the "Intrepid's" head swings off, he leaps into her rigging.
"THE 'PHILADELPHIA' LIGHTS THEM ON THEIR WAY."
By this time all the Tripolitans have caught the alarm, and from batteries and gunboats in quick succession, all around the wide sweep of the harbor, are seen the sudden jets of flame followed by clouds of smoke, and the shores resound with the roar of cannon. One hundred guns are firing upon the little ketch, whose white sails are lighted up by the flames of the burning frigate. The harbor is a circle of fire, and the gallant band seem doomed to pay the penalty of rashness. The frigate is herself a source of danger, for her magazine must soon explode. But the crew of the "Intrepid," after giving three rousing cheers for their success, man the long sweeps and head their vessel seawards. The "Philadelphia," which reveals them to the enemy, lights them on their way. Her appearance is magnificent. The flames illuminate her ports, and mounting up the rigging and masts form columns of fire, which, meeting the tops, branch out in beautiful capitals. Behind her, thrown out into strong light by the burning ship, are the city walls and roofs, with dome and minaret rising above them,—bright points against the sky.
The guns of the "Philadelphia" commanding the harbor have been loaded and double-shotted. As the fire reaches them they are discharged, but their missiles do more injury among the Tripolitans than among their foes. The "Intrepid" seems to bear a charmed life under the converging fire of the enemy. The cannon-balls fall thickly in the water, ahead, astern, alongside, throwing up columns of spray; but only one shot touches her, and all the harm that does is to make a hole in her top-gallant-sail. A favoring breeze now springs up, and aided by the strong arms of the rowers at their sweeps, the ketch is carried out of range, and in a short time she has reached the open sea and joined her consort.
Meantime in the squadron lying at Syracuse the officers and men, and above all the commodore, had undergone profound anxiety. It had been thought that a week, or ten days at most, would be sufficient time for the two vessels to accomplish their work and return to the station. But as the time wore on and day after day passed by, the hopes of all began to turn to apprehension; for no one knew that for a week after they reached the enemy's coast the "Siren" and "Intrepid" had been driving about before the gale, their efforts for the moment directed only against the elements. Each day the horizon was scanned by the lookouts aloft, and as the second week came to an end with no sign of the expedition, the most hopeful shook their heads, and all were filled with a sense of dull foreboding. But on the morning of the fifteenth day the fleet was startled by the cry of "Sail ho!" from the mast-head, and every face peered anxiously toward the southern horizon. First one ship was seen, then two; and as they came nearer, and little by little their spars and rig could be distinguished, the hope that they might prove to be the missing vessels grew slowly into certainty.