CHAPTER XI THE YOUNG DECATUR AND HIS BRILLIANT DEEDS AT TRIPOLI How Our Navy Began and Ended a Foreign War IN the ship Essex , one of the fleet that was sent to the Mediterranean to deal with the Moorish pirates, there was a brave young officer named Stephen Decatur. He was little more than a boy, for he was just past twenty-one years of age; but he had been in the fight between the Enterprise and the Tripoli , and was so bold and daring that he was sure to make his mark.

I must tell you how he first showed himself a true American. It was when the Essex was lying in the harbor at Barcelona, a seaport of Spain. The Essex was a handsome little vessel, and there was much praise of her in the town, people of fashion came to see her and invited her officers to their houses and treated them with great respect.

Now there was a Spanish warship lying in the port, of the kind called a xebec, a sort of three-masted vessel common in the Mediterranean Sea.

The officers of this ship did not like to see so much respect given to the Americans and so little to themselves. They grew jealous and angry, and did all they could to annoy and insult the officers of the Essex. Every time one of her boats rowed past the xebec it would be challenged and ugly things said.

The Americans bore all this quietly for a while. One day Captain Bainbridge, of the Essex, was talked to in an abusive way, and said little back. Another time a boat, under command of Lieutenant Decatur, came under the guns of the xebec, and the Spaniards on the deck hailed him with insulting words. This was more than young blood could stand, and he called to the officer of the deck and asked him what that meant, but the haughty Spaniard would give him no satisfaction.

"Very well," said Decatur. "I will call to see you in the morning. Pull off, lads."

The next morning Decatur had himself rowed over to the xebec, and went on board. He asked for the officer who was in charge the night before.

"He has gone ashore," was the reply.

"Well, then," said Decatur, in tones that every one on board could hear, "tell him that Lieutenant Decatur, of the frigate Essex, calls him a cowardly scoundrel, and when he meets him on shore he will cut his ears off."

There were no more insults after that. Decatur spoke as if he meant what he said, and the officers of the xebec did not want to lose their ears. But the United States Minister to Spain took up the matter and did not rest until he got a full apology for the insults to the Americans.

I have told this little story to let you see what kind of a man Stephen Decatur was. But this was only a minor affair. He was soon to make himself famous by one of the most brilliant deeds in the history of the American navy.

In October, 1802, a serious disaster came to the American fleet. The frigate Philadelphia was chasing a runaway vessel into the harbor of Tripoli, when she got in shoal water and suddenly ran fast aground on a shelf of rock.

Here was an awkward position. Captain Bainbridge threw overboard most of his cannon and his anchors, and everything that would lighten the ship, even cutting down his foremasts; but all to no purpose. She still clung fast to the rock.

Soon a flock of gunboats came down the harbor and saw the bad fix the Americans were in. Bainbridge was quite unable to fight them, for they could have kept out of the way of his guns and made kindling wood of his vessel. There was nothing to do but to surrender. So he flooded the powder magazine, threw all the small arms overboard, and knocked holes in the bottom of the ship. Then he hauled down his flag.

The gunboats now came up like a flock of hawks, and soon the Moors were clambering over the rails. In a minute more they were in every part of the ship, breaking open chests and storerooms and plundering officers and men. Two of them would hold an officer and a third rob him of his watch and purse, his sword, and everything of value he possessed. The plundering did not stop till the captain knocked down one of the Moors for trying to rob him of an ivory miniature of his wife.

Then the Americans were made to get into the gunboats and were taken ashore. They were marched in triumph through the streets, and the men were thrown into prison. The officers were invited to supper by the Bashaw, and treated as if they were guests. But as soon as the supper was over, they, too, were taken to the prison rooms in which they were to stay till the end of the war.

The Tripolitans afterwards got the Philadelphia off the rocks during a high tide, plugged up the holes in her bottom, fished up her guns and anchors, and fitted her up for war. The Bashaw was proud enough of his fine prize, which had not cost him a man or a shot, and was a better ship than he had ever seen before.

When the American commodore learned of the loss of the Philadelphia he was in a bad state of mind. To lose one of his best ships in this way was not at all to his liking, for he was a man who did not enjoy losing a ship; and to know that the Moors had it and were making a warship of it was a hard thing to bear.

From his prison Captain Bainbridge wrote letters to Commodore Preble, which the Moors read and then sent out to the fleet. They did not know that the letters had postscripts written in lemon-juice which only came out when the sheet of paper was held to the heat of a fire. In these the captain asked the commodore to try and destroy the captured ship.

Commodore Preble was a daring officer, and was ready enough for this, if he only knew how it could be done. Lieutenant Decatur was then in command of the Enterprise, the schooner which had fought with the Tripoli. He asked the commodore to let him take the Enterprise into the harbor and try to destroy the captured ship. He knew he could do it, he said, if he only had a chance. At any rate, he wanted to try.

Commodore Preble shook his head. It could not be done that way. He would only lose his own vessel and his men. But there was a way it might be done. The Moors might be taken by surprise and their prize burned in their sight. It was a desperate enterprise. Every man who took part in it would be in great danger of death. But that danger did not give much trouble to bold young Decatur, who was as ready to fight as he was to eat.

What was the commodore's plan, do you ask? Well, it was this. Some time earlier the Enterprise had captured the Mastico, a vessel from Tripoli. Preble gave this craft the new name of the Intrepid and proposed to send it into the harbor. The Moors did not know of its capture and would not suspect it, and thus it might get up close to the Philadelphia.

Decatur was made commander and called for volunteers. Every man and boy on the Enterprise wanted to go; and he picked out over seventy of them. As he was about to leave the deck, a boy came up and asked if he couldn't go, too.

"Why do you want to go, Jack?"

"Well, Captain, you see, I'd kind o' like to see the country."

This was such a queer reason that Decatur laughed and told him he might go.

One dark night, on February 3, 1804, the Intrepid left the rest of the fleet and set sail for the harbor of Tripoli. The little Siren went with her for company. But the weather proved stormy, and it was not until the 15th that they were able to carry out their plan.

About noon they came in sight of the spires of the city of Tripoli. Decatur did not wish to reach the Philadelphia until nightfall, but he was afraid to take in sail, for fear of being suspected; so he dragged a cable and a number of buckets behind to lessen his speed.

After a time the Philadelphia came in sight. She was anchored well in the harbor, under the guns of two heavy batteries. Two cruisers and a number of gunboats lay near by. It was a desperate and dangerous business which Decatur and his tars had taken in hand, but they did not let that trouble them.

At about ten o'clock at night the Intrepid came into the harbor's mouth. The wind had fallen and she crept slowly along over the smooth sea. The Siren stayed behind. Her work was that of rescue in case of trouble. Straight for the frigate went the devoted crew. A new moon sent its soft lustre over the waves. All was still in city and fleet.

Soon the Intrepid came near the frigate. Only twelve men were visible on her deck. The others were lying flat in the shadow on the bulwarks, each with cutlass tightly clutched in hand.

"What vessel is that?" was asked in Moorish words from the frigate.

"The Mastico, from Malta," answered the pilot in the same tongue. "We lost our anchors in the gale and were nearly wrecked. Can we ride by your ship for the night?"

The permission asked was granted, and a boat from the Intrepid made a line fast to the frigate, while the men on the latter threw a line aboard. The ropes were passed to the hidden men on the deck, who pulled on them lustily.

As the little craft came up, the men on the frigate saw her anchors hanging in place.

"You have lied to us!" came a sharp hail. "Keep off! Cut those lines!"

Others had seen the concealed men, and the cry of "Americanos!" was raised.

The alarm came too late. The little craft was now close up and a hearty pull brought her against the hull of the large ship.

"Boarders away!" came the stirring order.

"Follow me, lads," cried Decatur, springing for the chain-plates of the frigate. Men and officers were after him hot-foot. Midshipman Charles Morris was the first to reach the deck, with Decatur close behind.

The surprise was complete. There was no resistance. Few of the Moors had weapons, and they fled from the Americans like frightened sheep. On all sides the splashing of water could be heard as they leaped overboard. In a few minutes they were all gone and Decatur and his men were masters of the ship.

They would have given much to be able to take the noble frigate out of the harbor. But that could not be done, and every minute made their danger greater. All they could do was to set her on fire and retreat with all speed.

Not a moment was lost. Quick-burning material was brought from the Intrepid, put in good places, and set on fire. So rapidly did the flames spread that the men who were lighting fires on the lower decks had scarcely time to escape from the fast-spreading conflagration.

Flames poured from the port-holes, and sparks fell on the deck of the smaller vessel. If it should touch the powder that was stored amidships, death would come to them all. With nervous haste they cut the ropes, and the Intrepid was pushed off. Then the sweeps were thrust out and the little craft rowed away.

"Now, lads, give them three good cheers," cried Decatur.

Up sprang the jack-tars, and three ringing cheers were given, sounding above the roar of the flames and of the cannon that were now playing on the little vessel from the batteries and gunboats. Then to their sweeps went the tars again, and drove their vessel every minute farther away.

As they went they saw the flames catch the rigging and run up the masts of the doomed frigate. Then great bursts of flame shot out from the open hatchways. The loaded guns went off one after another, some of them firing into the town. It was a lurid and striking spectacle, such as is seldom seen.

Bainbridge and his fellow-officers saw the flames from their prison window and hailed them with lusty cheers. The officers of the Siren saw them also, and sent their boats into the harbor to aid the fugitives, if necessary. But it was not necessary. Not a man had been hurt. In an hour after the flames were seen, Decatur and his daring crew came in triumph out of the bay of Tripoli.

Never had been known a more perfect and successful naval exploit. All Europe talked of it with admiration when the news was received. Lord Nelson, the greatest of England's sailors, said, "It was the boldest and most daring act of the ages." When the tidings reached the United States, Decatur, young as he was, was rewarded by Congress with the title of captain.

We are not yet done with the Intrepid, in which Decatur played so brilliant a part. She was tried again in work of the same kind, but with a more tragic end.

A room was built in her and filled with powder, shot, and shells. Combustibles of various kinds were piled around it, so that it could not fail to go off, if set on fire. Then, one dark night, the fire-ship was sent into the harbor of Tripoli, with a picked crew under another gallant young officer, Lieutenant Richard Somers.

They were told to take it into the midst of the Moorish squadron, set it on fire and escape in their boats. It was expected to blow up and rend to atoms the war vessels of Tripoli.

But the forts and ships began to fire on it, and before it reached its goal a frightful disaster occurred. Suddenly a great jet of fire was seen to shoot up into the sky. Then came a roar like that of a volcano. The distant spectators saw the mast of the Intrepid, with blazing sail, flung like a rocket into the air. Bombs flew in all directions. Then all grew dark and still.

In some way the magazine had been exploded, perhaps by a shot from the enemy. Nothing was ever seen again of Somers and his men. It was the great tragedy of the war. They had all perished in that fearful explosion.

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Now let us turn back to the story of Decatur, of whom we have some more famous work to tell.

In August, 1804, the American fleet entered the harbor of Tripoli and made a daring attack on the fleet, the batteries, and the city of the Bashaw. In addition to the war vessels of the fleet, there were six gunboats and two bomb vessels, all pouring shot and shell into the city which had so long defied them.

The batteries on shore returned the fire, and the gunboats of the Bashaw advanced to the attack. On these the fleet now turned its fire, sweeping their decks with grape and canister shot. Decatur, with three gunboats, advanced on the eastern division of the Moorish gunboats, nine in all.

Decatur, you will see, was outnumbered three to one, but he did not stop for odds like that. He dashed boldly in, laid his vessel alongside the nearest gunboat of the enemy, poured in a volley, and gave the order to board. In an instant the Americans were over the bulwarks and on the foe.

The contest was short and sharp. The captain of the Tripolitans fell dead. Most of his officers were wounded. The men, overcome by the fierce attack, soon threw down their arms and begged for quarter. Decatur secured them below decks and started for the next gunboat.

On his way he was hailed from one of his own boats, which had been commanded by his brother James. The men told him that his brother had captured one of the gunboats of the enemy, but, on going on board after her flag had fallen, he had been shot dead by the treacherous commander. The murderer had then driven the Americans back and carried his boat out of the fight.

On hearing this sad news, Decatur was filled with grief and rage. Bent on revenge, he turned his boat's prow and swiftly sped towards the craft of the assassin. The instant the two boats came together the furious Decatur sprang upon the deck of the enemy. At his back came Lieutenant McDonough and nine sturdy sailors. Nearly forty of the Moors faced them, at their head a man of gigantic size, his face half covered with a thick black beard, a scarlet cap on his head, the true type of a pirate captain.

Sure that this was his brother's murderer, Decatur rushed fiercely at the giant Moor. The latter thrust at him with a heavy boarding pike. Decatur parried the blow, and made a fierce stroke at the weapon, hoping to cut off its point.

He failed in this and his cutlass broke off at the hilt, leaving him with empty hands. With a lusty yell the Moor thrust again. Decatur bent aside, so that he received only a slight wound. Then he seized the weapon, wrested it from the hands of the Moor, and thrust fiercely at him.

In an instant more the two enemies had clinched in a wrestle for life and death, and fell struggling to the deck. While they lay there, one of the Tripolitan officers raised his scimitar and aimed a deadly blow at the head of Decatur.

It seemed now as if nothing could save the struggling American. Only one of his men was near by. This was a sailor named Reuben James, who had been wounded in both arms. But he was a man of noble heart. He could not lift a hand to save his captain, but his head was free, and with a sublime devotion he thrust it in the way of the descending weapon.

Down it came with a terrible blow on his head, and he fell bleeding to the deck, but before the Tripolitan could lift his weapon again to strike Decatur, a pistol shot laid him low.

Decatur was left to fight it out with the giant Moor. With one hand the huge wrestler held him tightly and with the other he drew a dagger from his belt. The fatal moment had arrived. Decatur caught the Moor's wrist just as the blow was about to fall, and at the same instant pressed against his side a small pistol he had drawn from his pocket.

A touch of the trigger, a sharp report, and the body of the giant relaxed. The bullet had pierced him through and he fell back dead. Flinging off the heavy weight, Decatur rose to his feet.

Meanwhile his few men had been fiercely fighting the Tripolitan crew. Greatly as they outnumbered the Americans, the Moors had been driven back. They lost heart on seeing their leader fall and threw down their arms.

Another gunboat was captured and then the battle ended. The attack on Tripoli had proved a failure and the fleet drew off.

I know you will ask what became of brave Reuben James, who offered his life for his captain. Was he killed? No, I am glad to say he was not. He had an ugly cut, but he was soon well again.

One day Decatur asked him what reward he should give him for saving his life. The worthy sailor did not know what to say. He scratched his head and looked puzzled.

"Ask him for double pay, Rube," suggested one of his shipmates.

"A pocket full of dollars and shore leave," whispered another.

"No," said the modest tar. "Just let somebody else hand out the hammocks to the men when they are piped down. That's something I don't like."

Decatur consented; and afterwards, when the crew was piped down to stow hammocks, Reuben walked among them as free and independent as a millionaire.

That is all we have here to say about the Tripolitan war. The next year a treaty of peace was signed, and Captain Bainbridge and the men of the Philadelphia were set free from their prison cells.

In 1812, when war broke out with England, the gallant Decatur was given the command of the frigate United States, and with it he captured the British frigate Macedonian, after a hard fight.

Poor Decatur was shot dead in a duel in 1820 by a hot-headed officer whom he had offended. It was a sad end to a brilliant career, for the American Navy never had a more gallant commander.

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