“Not you, Somers.”
“I hope not. The beauty of my plan is, that it requires but the risking of a few lives—two boats to tow the fire-ship in, four men in my boat and six in another boat, and one officer besides myself—in all, twelve men. Did ever so small a number have so great a chance for serving their country?”
Decatur made no reply to this, and Somers went on to explain the details of his scheme. Decatur aided him at every turn, advising and discussing with a freedom that their devoted intimacy permitted. But, instead of the gay impetuosity that generally characterized Decatur, Somers was surprised to find him grave, and almost sad; while the sober Somers was for once as full of enthusiasm as Decatur usually was.
After two hours’ conversation, and it being not yet nine o’clock, Somers asked Decatur to go with him to the flagship, where the plan might be laid before the commodore.
As soon as Commodore Preble heard that two of his young captains wished to see him, he at once desired that they be shown into the cabin. When Somers and Decatur entered, they both noticed the somber and careworn look on the commodore’s face. He had done much, and the force under him had performed prodigies of valor; but he had not succeeded in liberating his old friend and shipmate Bainbridge and his gallant company.
When they were seated around the cabin table, Somers produced some charts and memoranda and began to unfold his idea. It was, on the first dark night to take the ketch Intrepid—the same which Decatur had immortalized—put on her a hundred barrels of gunpowder and a hundred shells, tow her into the harbor through the western passage as near as she could be carried to the shipping, hoping that she would drift into the midst of the Tripolitan fleet, and then, setting her afire, Somers and his men would take their slender chances for escape.
Commodore Preble heard it all through with strict attention. When Somers had finished, the commodore looked him fixedly in the eye, and said:
“But suppose for one moment the explosion should fail, the ketch should be captured, and a hundred barrels of gunpowder should fall into the hands of the Bashaw? That would prolong the war a year.”
“Have no fear, sir,” answered Somers calmly. “I promise you that, rather than permit such a thing, I myself will fire the ‘infernal,’ if there is no alternative but capture. And I will take no man with me who is not willing to die before suffering so much powder to be captured and used against our own squadron.”
“Are you willing, Captain Somers, to take that responsibility?”