Jefferson's War Page 12
Even as the squadron was being fitted out in Norfolk for action in Barbary, Eaton was grimly warning that if the United States capitulated to the bashaw’s demands, it could expect to pay double to Tunis, and Algiers would insist on more than either Tripoli or Tunis. War was preferable. “If the United States will have a free commerce in this sea they must defend it: There is no alternative. The restless spirit of the marauders cannot be restrained.”
Watching the situation darken from Madrid, Ambassador David Humphreys said a show of force would serve as a warning to the other Barbary States and raise America’s reputation in Europe: “... it would strike with astonishment those who for a succession of Ages have submitted to the most humiliating indignities wantonly inflicted upon them by a handful of Banditti....” It was time for the United States to show the Barbary States its talons. What was Tripoli to the fierce new republic that had so recently stood its ground against the European superpowers, England and France?
After the Jefferson Cabinet endorsed sending a squadron to Barbary, the president weighed whether to also obtain Congress’s approval. His decision not to consult Congress established the president’s authority to unilaterally send armed forces abroad. Jefferson’s rationale was that Congress was in recess, and most members would not return to Washington, even if he called a special session. But the fact was that he believed he had authority to act alone: It was his prerogative to send warships to defend U.S. commerce. His advisers concurred, especially Treasury Secretary Albert Gallatin and Navy Secretary Samuel Smith, who said it was the president’s duty to defend the nation if an enemy declared war. The United States embarked on its first distant foreign war without Congress even being informed, much less consulted.
Cathcart, his wife, and his young daughter embarked for Leghorn, Italy, ten days after Yusuf’s soldiers cut down the consulate flagpole. As Cathcart well knew from history, legend, and what his own good sense told him, a Barbary diplomat’s freedom, even his life, became subject to the caprices of the bashaw, bey, or dey when their countries went to war. And he wished to avoid returning to the bagnio at all costs now that he had a family. With relief, he watched Tripoli slip below the horizon. But unforeseen troubles awaited the Cathcarts.
Off Sicily, Tunisian pirates stopped and looted their ship, taking the Cathcarts’ wine, fowl, vegetables, and fruit, and the captain’s octant, chart, and only compass. The captain strenuously protested to the corsair chief, Reis Candioto, about the compass; they might wander lost for weeks without it. Candioto grudgingly gave him an old, battered French compass, and the resourceful Cathcart repaired it with paste and sealing wax so that they could navigate. When they finally reached Leghorn, the ship and all of its occupants were quarantined for twenty-five days because of the boarding.
While Cathcart and his family were enduring the extended quarantine, four U.S. warships were being readied for a long Mediterranean cruise: the 44-gun President, 36-gun Philadelphia, and 32-gun Essex, all frigates; and the 12-gun schooner Enterprise. Not yet informed of Tripoli’s war declaration, Navy Secretary Smith had issued broad orders to cover all contingencies. The squadron was to appear before the Barbary capitals to project American power, and to serve as “a squadron of observation”—if Tripoli, Algiers, and Tunis all were at peace with the United States, which the squadron would not know until reaching Gibraltar. If any Barbary States were at war with America, “you will then distribute your force in such a manner, as your judgement shall direct, so as best to protect our commerce and chastise their insolence—by sinking, burning or destroying their ships and vessels wherever you shall find them.” Convoy, blockade, and engage. Smith recommended that warships display false colors to trick the enemy into thinking they were neutrals and letting down their guard. It will “give you a fair chance of punishing them.” The drumbeat of war resonated as well through Madison’s instructions to Eaton, written May 20, five days after the Cabinet meeting: “It is hopeful that the contagion will not have spread either to Tunis or Algiers; but should one or both of them have followed the perfidious example, their corsairs will be equally repelled and punished.”
America was alone in deploying its state-of-the-art frigate fleet—a good welterweight with a knockout punch—because war had been threatened. For centuries, England, France, Spain, and Holland had dispatched punitive naval expeditions to the western Mediterranean, but never in response to threats alone. Only when the pirate depredations crossed the threshold from acceptable to unacceptable losses did the European powers negotiate by cannon.
While natural U.S. pugnacity certainly played a large role in its unique response, prevalent attitudes toward Islam in 1801 also made it easy to vilify the Barbary States. European writers often held up Islam as an object lesson in the depravity that results from tyranny. Moslem absolutism, the literature said, discouraged reason and inquiry, learning and enterprise—the very engines of American invention. As examples, historians of the era liked to point to Egypt, once an oasis and now a burning desert due to Arab neglect; and to Turkey, where, as a consequence of Islamic obsession with religious worship and devaluation of learning, only one book had been printed during the entire eighteenth century.
And then there was the Moslems’ supposed unrestrained sex, a flouting of the Puritan view of sex as a means of procreation and nothing else—and even of Benjamin Franklin’s looser standard of sex for procreation and health. Polygamy and the fabled seraglio turned all of this on its ear; one could see that political and religious tyranny easily became sexual tyranny. Moreover, Europeans believed that segregating the sexes led to all sorts of abysmal vices, foremost among them homosexuality, the great taboo. This skewed picture of the Islamic world, shreds of which survive in the twenty-first century, contained just enough truth to resist contrary evidence. It was no wonder that Americans enthusiastically supported the naval expedition against Barbary when they finally learned about it.
There was another reason for the “cruise” besides striking a blow against the Barbary terror and Islamic tyranny: training seamen. “One great object expected from this Squadron is, the instruction of our young men: so that when their more active service shall hereafter be required, they may be capable of defending the honor of their Country.” The inevitability of another war with England was gospel among America’s leaders, as was the caveat that it should be postponed as long as possible, until the United States was strong enough to bear it. The cruise, Madison said, “will exercise our mariners and instruct our officers in the line of their service and in a sea, where more than any others, their services may be wanted....” There was no better time than now, with America at peace with the great European powers. For good reason, the Mediterranean squadrons would become known as the “Nursery of the Navy.”
The Quasi-War had proven that Americans were surprisingly well suited to the peculiar rhythm of naval warfare: months of monotony punctuated by bursts of intensive violence. Perhaps the high seas, like the oceans of prairie grass on the Great Plains, were a good fit for the blunt, restless American frontier spirit. The young lieutenants especially displayed a striking gift for explosive personal mayhem. They were men in their twenties, proficient with the sword and dirk, and able marksmen. The best, like Andrew Sterett, James Lawrence, Richard Somers, and Stephen Decatur, Jr., seemed to exult in personal combat. Sterett was said to have boasted that aboard the Constellation, where he had impaled the balking sailor, “We would put a man to death for even looking pale on board this ship.” Indeed, it later developed during the War of 1812 that the Barbary War’s junior officers would command famous ships and fight great battles.
Even as the Mediterranean squadron took on provisions for its war cruise, Jefferson and Gallatin chopped at the budget and the Navy’s fleet. While the one action might seem to have undermined the other, Jefferson and his officers were confident they could do both. The president certainly was unwilling to turn his back on the war he had contemplated for nearly twenty years. Yet, in his inaugural speech,
Jefferson had promised Republican frugality. President Adams helped him toward this goal with his last-minute flurry of bill signings, which included the momentous Naval Reduction Act. Even while readying the squadron for war in Barbary, Jefferson didn’t flinch from carrying out the act’s requirements, ordering the sale of all but 13 frigates, 7 to be laid up. The Reduction Act also slashed the naval officer ranks from 28 captains, 7 masters commandant, 110 lieutenants and 354 midshipmen to just 9 captains, 36 lieutenants, and 150 midshipmen. When Jefferson and Gallatin were finished, they estimated the annual savings to be $500,000. Encouraged by their success, they began cutting federal spending elsewhere, paring the entire annual federal budget to $2.3 million, less than half the previous year’s, which left $7.3 million in projected revenues for debt service and reduction.
The naval cutbacks affected the important appointment of a Mediterranean squadron commodore. The unanimous choice was Captain Thomas Truxtun, the Constellation’s rugged captain during her Quasi-War victories. Truxtun’s proven aggressiveness persuaded Jefferson, Navy Secretary Smith and Secretary of State Madison to select him over Richard Dale, his senior on the captains’ roster because of his longer service. Truxtun, however, wanted Smith to appoint a flag captain—a naval captain who would command his flagship, the President, while Truxtun devoted all his attention to running the squadron. But this was impossible; no captain less senior than Truxtun was available to serve under him, and protocol forbade his commanding a more senior captain. Smith informed him that his request could not be met and that he would have to command both his flagship and the squadron. Truxtun declined. Command of the Mediterranean squadron instead fell to Dale, who did not object to the dual command.
The squadron mobilized rapidly, passing the Virginia Capes on June 2, 1801, and entering the Atlantic. When it was safely at sea and past the reach of a swift recall, Jefferson formally informed Congressman Wilson Cary Nicholas of its mission. Lest the squadron’s dispatch be mistaken for a policy shift regarding all the Barbary regencies, Jefferson added that his administration planned to send Algiers its overdue naval stores. The three-year delay, the president said, wasn’t due to “any want of the treasury”—a dig at the Adams administration. Yet he made it clear he didn’t believe for a moment that the shipments would buy America peace. “We have taken these steps towards supplying the deficiencies of our predecessors merely in obedience to the law; being convinced it is money thrown away, and there is no end to the demand of these powers, nor security in their promises.” The president attempted to massage any bruised feelings over his failure to consult Congress with a belated nod to its authority: “The real alternative before us is whether to abandon the Mediterranean or to keep up a cruise in it, perhaps in rotation with other powers who would join us as soon as there is peace. But this Congress must decide.”
The squadron was in experienced hands even if they weren’t Truxtun’s. Dale had made his reputation as a fighting naval officer during the Revolutionary War. Captured three times by the British and having escaped once, he had served under John Paul Jones on the Bonhomme Richard. During the epic victory over the HMS Serapis on September 23, 1779, off Flamborough Head, Dale, then a twenty-three-year-old lieutenant, was the first American to board the enemy ship, swinging onto the spar deck on a rope. As a reward for valor, Jones awarded him a gold-mounted sword that Louis XVI had given him. When the U.S. Navy recalled Dale to active duty, he was making a good living as master of a West Indies merchantman.
From the quarterdeck of his flagship, the President, the shy, moody commodore directed the squadron’s four ships with a caution that belied the reckless courage he had displayed as a firebrand lieutenant. Either age had mellowed him, or his Revolutionary War exploits had spent what boldness he had once possessed. Dale’s subordinate commanders included Captain Samuel Barron of the Philadelphia, destined for a future commodoreship; Captain William Bainbridge of the Essex, former commander of the unlucky Retaliation and the ill-starred George Washington; and Lieutenant Andrew Sterett of the Enterprise.
The four ships together mounted 124 guns, giving them at least parity with Tripoli’s navy. They were crewed by more than 1,000 men, including about half of the U.S. Marine Corps, which in its fourth year numbered fewer than 350 men. Already friction had arisen between the naval officers and the Marines, who eschewed nautical duties and on each ship operated under a separate command structure. The Marines’ independent spirit grated on the ships’ officers.
Bad weather slowed the squadron’s Atlantic crossing. The Enterprise, much faster than the three larger, heavier frigates, had to keep trimming her sails to allow the other three to keep pace. Dale gave Sterett permission to sail ahead. The Enterprise reached Gibraltar on June 26 to find the Mediterranean jittery over the renewed fighting between Britain and France—the same global war they had been waging sporadically since 1744. British warships came and went from Gibraltar, and the two combatant nations wrung the Mediterranean ports dry of provisions.
Three days after Sterett’s arrival, the Meshuda, the 28-gun flagship of Tripoli’s grand admiral, Murad Reis, and a 14-gun Tripolitan brig sailed into Gibraltar Bay. Evidently unobserved, Sterett kept a close watch on them until the President, Essex, and Philadelphia arrived on July 2. Their appearance caught Murad Reis off guard. Suddenly the Tripoli navy’s admiral and his best warships were mousetrapped at Gibraltar.
Murad Reis was actually the former Scotsman Peter Lisle, captured by Tripolitan corsairs five years earlier while a deckhand on the American schooner Betsey. The former Betsey was now the Meshuda, his flagship, and Lisle had “turned Turk”—converted to Islam. Islam prohibits Moslems from enslaving other Moslems, so Lisle’s conversion exempted him from slavery and opened up fields of opportunity. His conversion was by no means cosmetic, seeing the lengths to which he took it during his long, illustrious career in Tripoli. He adopted the name of the famous sixteenth-century Algerian pirate, Murad Reis, who had kidnapped the family of the Canary Islands governor. The second Murad Reis became a prosperous corsair captain and married the bashaw’s daughter. His trusted position in the family and skill as a mariner enabled him to advance rapidly to Tripoli’s grand admiral.
Without delay, Dale sought a meeting with Murad Reis, intending to learn whether Tripoli was at war with America. Above the stern of the Meshuda, Murad Reis displayed the colors of the nations whose ships he had captured, ranked according to the regard in which the admiral held them. The American flag fluttered beneath all the flags, even the pennant of Naples, the weakest and least-respected maritime Mediterranean nation. It was a testimony to how much Murad despised the United States.
He cheerfully lied to Dale about how matters stood between Tripoli and America. No, he told Dale, so far as he knew, their respective nations were at peace.
Dale learned the truth while making the rounds at Gibraltar, and he resolved not to let Murad get away. The commodore posted the Philadelphia outside Gibraltar to take the Tripolitan ships if they tried to sail away. Taking the rest of the squadron, Dale cruised to Algiers and Tunis, hoping a combination of diplomacy, cold cash, and naval might would persuade the rulers to wait patiently a little longer for the naval stores they were supposed to have received in 1798. Dale gave Bobba Mustapha $30,000 cash and promised that the George Washington soon would bring naval stores, cloth, linen, and at least one cash tribute payment. In Tunis, Dale told the bey his overdue regalia was being prepared for shipment.
The President and Enterprise sailed on to Tripoli, while the Essex began escorting U.S. merchantmen through the dangerous western Mediterranean. The two warships anchored July 25 outside Tripoli harbor. Dale sent a courier in a boat to deliver a letter to the bashaw. “The Squadron under my command will do Every Thing in there power to take and distroy the Corsairs and other Vessels belonging to your Excellency,” he wrote. In a more conciliatory tone, he said it was a shame America and Tripoli could not be at peace, because aboard the President he had a letter of friendship fr
om President Jefferson and a $10,000 cash gift. Yusuf need only send a boat with a message rescinding his war declaration to receive both. Three days passed with no response from the bashaw. Then, a boat made its way across the harbor to the President, bearing a messenger with Yusuf’s defiant answer: He had good reason for declaring war. Dale’s reply pointed out that Article XII of the 1797 treaty required disputes to be mediated by Algiers. He added that it wasn’t too late to make peace, for the president was not yet aware of Tripoli’s war declaration. But by bringing up Article XII, Dale had blundered upon the very reason Tripoli had gone to war in the first place: America’s recognition of Algiers as the predominant Barbary power, entitled to a better treaty than Tripoli. After this communique was sent to the palace, there were no more messages from the bashaw.
Dale’s diplomacy failed, but his officers and men got their first look at the enemy stronghold. Tripoli rose broodingly from the sparkling waters of its crescent harbor. “The shore along is low & sandy, dangerous approaching it in thick weather or night, the marks to know Tripoli by at a distance are the two woody hills on the back of it,” Bainbridge observed when his Essex crew viewed Tripoli from afar some weeks later. Bainbridge, who would come to know Tripoli all too well, was unimpressed by the sight. “The town has a mean appearance, it looks little better than a Village. Their fortifications appear to cover a good deal of ground it shows but few guns & apparently is slightly built.”