Several days of delightful weather followed. The officers amused themselves with rehearsing the proposed strategy by which they were to make the Tripolitans believe them to be Maltese sailors and the ketch a Maltese trading vessel. Catalano was to do the hailing, prompted by Decatur, when they had got, as they hoped, to the Philadelphia’s side. Except a few men, the vessel’s company was to remain below, but ready at a signal to leap on deck. The Intrepid proved to be a better sailer than was thought at first, and on a lovely afternoon, four days after leaving Syracuse, anchor was cast about a mile to windward of Tripoli. The Siren followed some distance behind. She, too, was disguised, her ports being closed, her guns covered with tarpaulins, and her sails daubed with lampblack, and patches painted on them to represent old and worn canvas. Nothing could disguise the beauty of her lines; but for want of paint on her hull, and by devices of various sorts, she looked like a staunch American or English merchantman after a long voyage. Having got the Intrepid in a good position without being discovered, Decatur was eager for night to fall, that the desperate adventure might be made. Right out before them lay the large though dangerous harbor of Tripoli, the frowning castle, and the numerous forts that protected the town. Among all the shipping collected at the mole, the dark and towering hull of the Philadelphia was most conspicuous, and from her peak flew the crescent of Tripoli.
“There she is, my men!” cried Decatur, as he pointed her out. “All her guns are kept double shotted, and when we make a bonfire of her she will give the rascals a broadside that will make them squeal.”
While waiting for the brief twilight of Africa, Decatur noticed a boy about twelve years old standing by the mast. Two or three of the boys on the Argus had been brought along to act as helpers, and who could be left in the ketch while the rest of the crew made the proposed dash for the Philadelphia. Decatur, passing by at the time, was struck by the little fellow’s bright face, and stopped to ask him what he wished to say.
“Please, sir,” said the boy, in a piping treble, “I belongs to the Argus, but because I was so little they never put my name on the ship’s books. I hear ’em say, sir, for’ard, as how there’ll be a big lot o’ prize money to divide arter we has blowed the Philadelphy up; and Mr. Dixon, the quartermaster, sir, says as I won’t get no prize money unless my name is entered reg’lar; and so I axes you to enter me.”
“Certainly I will,” replied Decatur, laughing at the boy, who was evidently a victim of fok’sl wit, but who had the spirit to ask for what he thought his due. “What is your name?”
“Jack Creamer, sir, apprentice boy.”
“Very well, Jack Creamer, apprentice boy, you shall be regularly entered in the ship’s books, and you’ll get your share of whatever goes round.”
The wind had been rising for some little time, and just then it blew violently from the southwest. The sky became overcast, and suddenly darkness seemed to envelop them. This Decatur thought rather favorable to his scheme; but Catalano, the pilot, who knew every foot of the harbor, came up at that moment.
“Sir,” he said in fluent English, but with a strong Italian accent, “it will be impossible to take the ketch in to-night. The water is no doubt now breaking clear across the reef of the western passage, and even if I could get in, there would be no chance of getting out. I know this harbor well, sir, and the water must be moderately smooth before it is safe to go near the reefs.”
Decatur was of too impetuous a nature to accept all at once this decision.