A Red Soaked Morning

By Joshua Lancellotti

Sex, violence, daring secret missions, diplomatic back channel maneuvering, thrilling warship battles, intensely loyal friendships bound by blood, chivalrous love affairs, heart wrenching deaths, unimaginable bravery and soulless treachery! All swirled about the nascent United States Navy as she fought her way into existence just ten years after the Revolution.

Although there were many larger and more powerful navies in 1794, none were manned by such a thorough cast of brave young gentlemen, eager and destined to travel the world, bringing glory and victory to both themselves and their nation.

In their travels across many of the worlds oceans, they would learn and hone their battle skills, transforming their small squadrons of American fighting ships into unstoppable powerhouses. Time and time again, Americas enemies would change their minds by the mouths of their cannon!

Just boys as the Navy is formed, they will grow to men at sea, stumbling into love, tests of their honor, new landscapes and thrilling adventures. Some will die, and others will form unbreakable lifelong friendships that will serve them well through three wars.

As the navy is slated to do battle with African pirates a world away, Europes larger world war looms into view, ensnaring the men and the nation in a war that may be impossible to win! It will take all their courage, daring and skill with the sword to keep the navy from ceasing to exist, as Americas enemies surround her from all sides!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469152103

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Betsy

1784

The dry Mediterranean heat weighed heavily upon the room and the sun shone pervasively through the large aft windows in the captain’s cabin. Broad thick rays lit the room and adorned her pale naked flesh and blonde hair as if they radiated their own luminescent beauty. She looked down into his face as she sat straddled above him, a protruding grin and playful eyes; she gently began using her hips as a fulcrum upon him. He felt his blood pump stronger, and she sighed as he went deeper.

Occasionally, a swift sea breeze blew off the water and through the open windows, hitting their heated damp skin in an absolute moment of refreshing ecstasy. They rolled and played in bed, running their fingers over each others’ exposed necks, backs, and thighs. The ship was making good speed over the languid waves, and the gentle roll of the vessel only enhanced their lovemaking. The sound of the rising and ebbing waves rushing past the ship and swirling about the rudder put their minds in a most wondrous place, allowing them to focus almost purely on pleasures of the flesh.

The room had various nautical accountrema strewn about the cabin—signal flags, a detailed cargo manifest, the ship’s register displaying her name as the Betsy from Massachusetts. There were also various layers of fine clothes haphazardly cast about the room, on the back of the captain’s chair, lace underwear lying on an exquisitely crafted wooden sea chest, and almost all were of women’s design. This, in itself, was strange, especially aboard a ship at sea. A woman aboard was thought to be particularly bad luck, and crews would often shun such flagrant acts contrary to superstition. For notoriously squirrely and fearful sailors, bad luck could be brought upon them easily, even from shore; especially if one flaunted the time-tested sea rituals, and would surely lead to misfortunes at sea. In this case, those time-tested manners had been overruled and ignored.

A young, buxom, and lively blonde beauty of twenty-five had been taken aboard to sail with her new and generously healed twenty-year-senior husband, aboard a ship which had been renamed in her honor. The Marla, as she had been previously known, had been repainted and rechristened the Betsy just two months before and now carried a full cargo and fresh complement of crew. She was setting out for the first time this summer sailing season, hopeful to reap nearly astronomical profits on the European continent. Mind you, it was believed to be extremely bad luck to rename a ship.

Ill-timed, a sharp wrap of knuckles was heard upon the captain’s door. He slowly rose, unhurriedly pulled his trousers to his waist, and glanced back at her, gingerly tucking his interest in her away for soon-hoped-for reuse. She was gorgeous and lazy eyed from the tryst, as was he. With great reluctance, he swept up his silken shirt and slid it around his shoulders, buttoning it as he walked toward the door. He slipped on his leather-buckled shoes that had been set next to the door and made sure he was presentable; he tucked in his shirt and clasped his belt just before he unlocked the latch. His fleshy face was still glowing from activity and pleasure as he cracked the door ajar and focused his eyes on the caller. It was Mr. Andrews, his second-in-command.

Andy, I thought we had a certain agreement, lad. I’m giving it to my wife, and you’re to manage the ship’s affairs, aye? the captain chidingly, but with some obvious irritation, relayed to his young protégé.

Apologetically, the executive officer looked visibly stressed to have disturbed the captain, but he quickly forced himself to get his point across, and it was urgent.

Sir, large sail spotted due south of us not ten minutes ago.

The captain, almost bored, responded, And, what of it? These are busy lanes, Mr. Andrews. We aren’t the only ones to ply it. Any colors to be seen?

That’s just it, Captain, the mate replied, she’s no colors and she has been mimicking our course since we noticed her, almost as if… she’s following us, sir.

This was a little more alarming. Captain Southeby was a veteran merchant master and ship captain. He had logged thousands of miles, over more than three decades at sea, and he had been tailed before. But this was different. The captain had recently begun to hear rumors throughout the American merchant marine that piracy was now a very real threat when passing the straits and sailing deeper into Mediterranean waters for more distant ports. Before, the plague of violence and theft had always been kept at bay because American shipping had enjoyed the full favors of their British master’s protection. Britain, with her global armada and military prowess, had easily intimidated; making herself understood to all nations and city states from the African continent. English fleets, merchantmen and her American colonies, were to be left alone. The other large maritime powers of Portugal, Spain, France, and the Dutch had also threatened; patrolling enough to keep their merchant fleets safe as well, but the lesser nations, or those with no warships to be seen providing convoy protection or small, far weaker fleets; were left completely to their own skill, luck, or predation. Self perservingly, many of the larger nations agreed that if the African ‘savages’ plundered the lesser merchant fleets, it might in fact, lead the pirates to leave their merchantmen well enough alone. It was purely, every man for himself.

Captain Southeby knew a facet that now irreparably changed that understanding for American merchant captains. Since the revolution, ended by peace treaty just one year before, his ship and those of his compatriots seemed like fat little sheep left completely alone in a wilderness… and the stories of circling wolves close by had begun to surface. Even so, his ship was fast and his skill impeccable. He wouldn’t stop for anyone until he reached port, that, he knew.

Accompany me to the deck then, Andrews, and we shall have a look at this situation then, shan’t we…

Stepping aside deferentially, the officer replied, Aye, Captain.

Turning to his young wife, the captain said, Hopefully, this will just take a moment, gorgeous… rest up for round two! and he broke into a beaming, telltale smile.

Captain Southeby strode up the ship’s aft stairwell to the quarterdeck and immediately took out his glass to catch a long-range sight of his unknown shadower. He was uncomfortably able to discern she had lower gun ports, though they were still, at this moment, closed. She had on a full press of sail, obviously trying to make faster flanking speed on the Betsy. But why was this ship following them, and at speed, was his immediate interest. At this rate, the foreign ship would close within the hour.

Mr. Andrews, ready the long tom, the captain calmly spoke to his senior officer.

And put on all sail too, Andy. Let’s not see what they want, Captain Southeby spoke as he watched the strange ship’s bow rise and plunge as she bounded toward them on a strong wind.

The executive officer repeated the order and immediately set the crew to readying the sole gun kept aboard, a long-range heavy eighteen-pound gun; so named for its useful ability to hurl an angry eighteen—pound cannonball hundreds of yards at an enemy! Larger merchantmen often held this tactic of carrying one large caliber gun to dissuade all but the largest and the most determined pirates from even trying to get too close, never mind board. The gun was positioned amidships on a turn-able trundle, giving the most latitude and ability for defense. The men undid the heavy rope and canvas which covered the artillery piece and began priming the weapon for possible threatening fire.

As the first mate came back from readying the gun, he glanced over the side and spoke to the captain, Sir, they’re pulling up on us, even with our full sheet spread. Your orders?

I don’t much like the aggressive way they’re pursuing us, Andy. Let’s think about lightening our load, worst-case scenario.

It was now apparent that the Betsy was not swifter than her opponent, so running was all but out of the question, as there were no friendly ports for at least two hundred miles. The unease among the crew was beginning to heighten, perceivably. Men were starting to gossip and rumor among themselves as they went about the running of the ship. But all wary eyes aboard kept peering over the stern rail toward the unknown warship.

Calm yourselves, men, the captain reassuringly interjected. Keep the chatter to a minimum and be at your jobs, and we will pass this annoyance as we have done all others. You’ll see.

This went for some time, perhaps twenty minutes; all the while the strange vessel tacked aggressively every so often and gained yet more priceless maneuverability upon the fleeing merchantman. It was during this increasingly tense time that the captain’s young wife came out onto the stern near to her husband, fully clothed now in her full evening dress, her shapely chest filling out the laced-up neckline. She alighted next to her new husband, taking his arm in a most jovial spirit.

Not realizing, as she had come up silently next to him, he was slightly startled by her arm; having become completely engrossed on studying the details of the assumed menace, relentlessly bearing down on them. She noticed her husband’s mood was one very different from when he had left her, just after their lustful encounter not even an hour previous.

Darling, I said I would return momentarily. You know you shouldn’t be on deck, he said still somewhat distracted but off putting, almost as if he didn’t want her here.

"I know, my love, but it’s been quite some time and you didn’t return." She glanced in the direction he was still presently studying through the spyglass and perceived both the ship in view and her husband’s obvious discomfort with its very presence.

Husband, is something wrong? The men are starting to look agitated and keep… staring at me… she spoke in a low voice, her eyes moving from side to side, glancing around at the crew. I don’t like it.

The captain immediately pulled the telescope from his eye and did see a few of the men looking toward his wife… some, quite lecherously. It had been nearly two months since any of the crew had seen a woman in the flesh, and his wife was as gorgeous as any they had seen, at sea or not.

Go about your business, men… Now! he bellowed, beginning to be angered by their lack of respect. And they did so, like a pack of chastised dogs. The captain turned to his wife gently and took her by the hand, speaking, Sweetheart, please, go back inside and wait for me there, this isn’t the time to… Just then, the strange ship almost simultaneously opened her gun-port doors, and slowly, but eventually, barred twelve heavy cannon from her port side. Things were worsening by the minute.

Captain, I think we can assume she means an unfriendly conversation, sir, Andrews spoke with some alarm rising in his young voice. He was only twenty-eight years old. And he was deathly afraid now.

The lines of the captain’s face grew hard and furrowed now, his concern palpable. He felt his mouth go dry as sand. Abruptly turning to his love, he half spoke, half ordered, Betsy, please go inside and if I need you to, hide yourself! He spoke seriously, but still trying not to alarm her.

"Why? What’s happening, John? I don’t understand. What is that ship and why does she scare everyone so?"

With a visible frown of worry, Captain Southeby looked down the deck, towards the on-rushing stranger and then back to his wife. I think they are pirates… and I am not sure how this will play out, love. There was no guile or joy to his face.

She raised her hands to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream, and felt a flash of cold clear panic rush through her blood. She was trapped, never having expected any of this… not even aware it could happen.

Can’t we out sail her, John!? Tell your men, put on more speed and get us far from here! she almost pleaded, desperation clear in her feminine voice.

"I wish I could, Betsy, but she’s a swifter ship, designed for more speed than we can hope to pull. I will fire upon them if they do not back away and the men will defend the ship, but I will not abandon you, my love! I will not," he promised her, cupping her small hands in his own.

The sun was lowering now; it was toward two or three in the afternoon. The breeze was again freshening, which only meant the aggressive ship off their lee would proceed all the fleeter upon their position. The presumed pirate was now about three hundred yards off and would be upon the Betsy in no more than fifteen minutes now. There wasn’t much time.

Even with his exhortations, Betsy had not followed his orders and gone below. A wife could apparently ignore direct orders from the captain; a move unthinkable to a ship’s crew, upon pang of corporal punishment. But she was too panicked to leave his side. The trailing stranger then sent Betsy’s crew into a spike of fear and listlessness as she finally raised her national flag.

Goddamn it… , Captain Southeby murmured, almost to himself. The crew also seemed to audibly exhale with nervous breath.

Betsy looked to her husband, then all around, scanning the faces of the crew. Their reactions filled her with dread and she clutched her husband’s arm with enough force to get his attention. What is it, John? What just happened?

He turned around and looked into her large, helpless eyes and saw that it was too late to shield her from their worsening predicament. For all the world, for all the love in his heart; he would have kept her nieve and ignorant of their probable fate, but fate would now teach Betsy what she had never wished to know.

Mr. Andrews! the captain turned and shouted, leaving her un answered, "fire the long gun across their bow, but do not aim to hit them yet…" His eyes again came back to her and he took her hand, escorting her from the ship’s railing toward the cabin doors.

The flag you just saw raised was that of Tripoli, my darling. That barbaric nation makes its living attacking and pillaging the poor souls who cross its paths, if they can take them. And we seem to be in a tight spot, for we passed their shores at the wrong time, from the looks of it, he explained solemnly.

Can’t we just pay them to leave us be? The hope in her voice revealed how utterly young she really was.

No sooner had she finished her pointed question, than the long tom was fired, an ear-splitting explosion followed by a dark cloud of smoke wafting across the deck. The shot flew straight and landed some fifty feet from the threatening vessel’s bowsprit, throwing a large angry spray in front of the pirate. And yet, he came on, undaunted in the least. About thirty seconds later, he himself fired six shots toward the fleeing American. All landed wide, except one. The shot crept terrifyingly through the open space in mere seconds, immediately smashing the mizzen mast, near the cap, splintering the thick beam. Once the mast was shattered, the attached sails swung limply, and shards of splinters, both small and feet long, rained murderously down on deck. One unfortunate sailor was not fleet enough and was caught under a two-foot-long shard that impaled his leg as it fell. The shrapnel ran straight down like a javelin and caught him about the thigh, peeling the skin and muscle like a knife, reaching his bone and easily breaking it. His scream made the crew’s blood run cold. Grown men now began to shiver.

Oh my God! Betsy wailed as she saw the shot’s gruesome effect.

Dress that man’s wounds! the first mate was heard to scream down the deck.

Captain Southeby now took Betsy steadily by both arms and spoke plainly, face-to-face. They will take our money, my darling, all of it, and I’m afraid… much else. They don’t often take prisoners and the ones they do had often wished they had died. Captivity is not an option here.

What do you mean!? she responded weepily, almost to hysterics. What are you saying!

Southeby grimaced, returning, "You are a woman and they respect nothing, not women, not religious values… not life!"

He stared at her, acutely aware the pirate vessel was almost in range of putting a full broadside into them if they should try to fight or flee further. The witching hour was at hand. There would be no salvation.

"Darling, I will beg for you to be spared and untouched by their detestable hands, but you must go below and hide, for God’s sake, hide! I will come to you, if I can… , he said, peering over his shoulder fearfully. Turning back toward her, one last time, he said, his voice full of emotion, I love you."

Through her tears, she spoke, I love you too… very doubtful she would ever see him alive again.

Almost overwhelmed, she at last ran and shut the cabin door; fleeing to the exterior most part of the cabin. She had little else to do but tremble and await the imminent boarding of the enemy. She crouched low behind a heavy sea trunk and sobbed, tears streaming, mixed with panicked thoughts of leaping from the ship’s aft windows to a death by sea rather than by unknown hands. Should she? Could she make shore by swimming?! She had no idea what lands were passing by, just beyond the ship’s windows, but the alien terrain looked harsh and withering. She was paralyzed.

With only a hundred or so yards now separating the two vessels, the men aboard Betsy could clearly see how absolutely dire their situation was. The pirate vessel was swarming with armed men, in various states of dress and undress, almost all whooping and hollering with terrific effect. Her guns were all rung out, twelve per side, and the Americans assumed them to be manned, primed to fire deadly metal through the Betsy within minutes.

Although Captain Southeby tried to retain order, the crew was disintegrating from fear and the men’s thoughts of self-preservation. This was no ship of war and the men were not trained soldiers. Some began to wonder if they should try to resist by force. Others immediately held out the idea of captivity and ransom. Still others completely gave up all hope of survival and began to succumb to the worst of human nature.

The first mate noticed it rather quickly and came to the captain immediately.

Sir, some of the rougher men are panic stricken, and I’ve heard the idea being spoken of… And he stopped short, almost embarrassed to continue.

Captain Southeby still didn’t understand what Mr. Andrews was trying to get across. What is it, man? he abruptly asked of his second-in-command.

Stealing himself again, Andrews continued, I overheard some men talking about… taking your wife for pleasure before we are most likely slaughtered, sir! the mate finally blurted with forced shame. He had hated to relay such disgusting and brutal news to his trusted superior and role model, but times were dire.

The captain looked around, quickly taking in five or six men eyeing both himself, the mate, and the ship’s cabin door. He immediately shot across to the weather chest on deck and grabbed two loaded flint lock pistols, kept aboard for defense and keeping order amongst the crew. Southeby then flew with amazing alacrity and speed until he stood directly in front of the cabin door. Turning to face the crew, he cocked both pistols and lowered his head, as if ready for a charge.

"I am the captain of this ship… and you have always been my loyal and praised crew… but I see some of you are becoming overwhelmed and contemplating things that cannot happen… can not. Appeal to your greater natures and pride and chose to spend these last remaining moments as men, untouched by shame and vice."

One of the rowdier men, apparently wracked by personal hopelessness and desire to fully enjoy his last few free moments, stepped toward the captain, not heeding his gentlemanly advice. Maybe he was even testing the captain, as there wasn’t much left to lose.

"You should never have brought her aboard in the first place, Captain! Her bad luck and your lack of respect for tradition has damned us all! the man spat with disgust, looking around to his fellow seamen for agreement. At least let us enjoy that young lass of yours for a moment, before we pay with our bloody lives!"

Before the sailor even finished speaking, Captain Southeby raised his dual pistols and took dead aim at the man’s face.

I have two guns, gentlemen, and I will surely kill two of you before you pass to my innocent wife. His mouth was a thin line, angrily tightened and pressed together, his eyes steadfast. "So you may die now or you may pray for ransom and solace from our soon-to-be captors. You choose."

The desperate sailor stepped back, lecherousness dashed by the captain’s obvious will and determination. The African vessel was basically upon them now anyway, so all that was left to do was await their fate. It wouldn’t take long.

The warship trimmed her sail and abruptly pulled alongside the Betsy, her large cannon trained on the merchant’s hull. The crew was helpless, neither armed nor able to flee. The stranger’s perceived first mate made a sign the Betsy’s crew took as Stop moving! and they regretfully complied, slackening the sails until the merchant brig stood near motionless in the water. They could see the animated and excited crew aboard the pirate vessel, and soon, lines were cast from the captor for the crew to secure the prize.

Closer and closer the two vessels were made as the tow lines were drawn taught. When about four or five feet was left, a spectacularly large, physically imposing man was seen walking from the aft of the belligerent vessel toward the closest point between the two ships. He was dressed in large flowing white pants, tall black leather boots and an animal skin draped over his huge muscles. In one leap, he was atop his ship’s bulwark and then leapt over the span of five or so separating feet, landing on the Betsy’s side railing. In another quick move, he dropped down on deck, hard. He barely crouched as his huge boots hit the deck loudly, owing to his extreme size and weight. He stood up and must have registered some six feet or more. He broke into a disturbingly pleased smile, large white teeth seeming to gnash in anticipation of all that was now his to inspect.

The crew of the Betsy could not help but be awed. The man was well groomed and his hair long and meticulously braided. His eyes were actually surprisingly light, a very striking hazel, and his mouth smooth and soft, with a large flat nose. At his side swung a huge curved sharp sword, and all knew it was the famed and dreaded weapon of the Muslim pirates, the scimitar. The captive crew stepped back, as if to give the intruder room, in deference to his sheer presence.

Your ship is mine. Everything here, now mine, he spoke in thick broad accent. He also noticed the two armed pistols Captain Southeby carried at his sides.

If you raise those guns, I kill your crew, every man. I will display their insides like sheep hanging from the market. He was still smiling, terrifyingly.

Captain Southeby composed himself, tried his best to show strength, and spoke to the African captain, You may take my ship and cargo, but leave my crew, myself, and my wife at a friendly port, I beg of you.

The pirate smiled quite ominously now, with a sort of sneer. "Shut up, I am your master now. I will sell you all as slaves, my choice… and show me this… white woman. I wish to see her for myself."

Captain Southeby was no small man himself. Although forty-five, he was broad-shouldered and still quite strong, although a tad overweight. His hands were weathered but nimble from rigging work during his younger years. The African’s pointed desire to see the woman aboard immediately set Captain Southeby’s blood afire. She was not to be touched, by anyone but himself! He had heard the stories of women who had fallen into captive hands previously, all Americans had, and they were the stuff of nightmares. It had been better if she had taken her own life.

I cannot let you near her, Captain Southeby said deliberately as he stepped in front of the pirate’s passage to the ship’s cabin. She is my wife, and she is not part of your spoils. I will kill you if you try to touch her, so please… keep this gentlemanly, as men.

The aggressive captain’s look changed perceptively. He seemed to disdain this merchant captain’s threat, as he was in no position to make such talk. The unwelcomed intruder raised his left arm suddenly, and before Captain Southeby realized what was happening, a hot rifle shot tore into the right side of his chest. The strong solid hit had been pre aimed, for when the pirate ship had pulled alongside, a sniper had taken aim at the merchant’s deck. The ball knocked captain Southeby flat on his back, forcing him to drop his right pistol, and almost as soon as he was sprawled out, the African Captain was upon him, kicking away his remaining gun. The savage kicked Southeby twice in the face, so severely the American was left spitting a mouth full of blood upon the teak deck. The American crew was incredulous and some even seemed to make moves as though they were deciding to retaliate when ten more pirates stormed over the side, brandishing various edged weapons; threatening menacingly. They were almost goading the Americans to try a defense, undoubtedly excited for the slaughter that would follow.

The enemy captain now told two guards to pick Southeby up and they stood him on his own two feet, still holding and restraining his arms forcibly. Captain Southeby was wincing in horrendous pain now, his chest burning and the blood welling up from beneath his silken shirt, staining his topcoat an insidious red. He panted audibly, short of breath and weakened. With that, the pirate started to walk toward the cabin and when Southeby again struggled to stop him, the black warrior turned and immediately punched Southeby with ferocious force in his gut. Southeby went limp but was held upright by his guards, drooping in their grip. He was cowed—impotent to stop what he feared would happen. He too had heard the stories.

Now unmolested, the pirate strode back and kicked in the heavy door, which Betsy, in her apparent terror, had forgotten to lock. But it would have been no matter; the ship was theirs, as was all aboard. The intruder now entered the cabin, determined to inspect his new treasures himself. Southeby tried desperately to catch his breath and regain his focus, but the punch had winded him and the blood loss and pain in his chest was making him pass out. He awoke to Betsy’s screams and wild terror, realizing his worst fear was a reality. There were sounds of a struggle, and again, Southeby tried to move; but his guards forced him to his knees upon deck, smiling the whole while at his obvious mental torture. He was being forced to listen to his beloved suffering the worst life had to offer.

This went on seemingly forever, sounds of tossed furniture, tearing clothes, a woman’s screams from both pain and horror, and occasionally deep guttural ebullitions from the attacker. Southeby cringed in anger and impossible anguish.

I’ll kill you! I swear to God, you animal! he screamed as tears loosed down his weathered, sun-stained cheeks.

After an interminable amount of time, it was finally over. The African captain stepped from the aft cabin back into the sun, seemingly pleased with himself. Beside him was a near-naked Betsy, held in tow by her hair as she stood limp, bloody and broken. She fell to one knee as he bragged.

My compliments, Captain, she is quite the tiger in bed, the pirate mocked, laughing, taunting.

He then looked down at her and barked, Get up, slave! and yanked her to her feet.

Southeby’s eyes met hers and his soul fractured in that gaze. She was destroyed, an absolute shell of her previously innocent and magnificent self. Her youth and beauty now lay shriveled like a butterfly that had been sucked into a kiln. Blood ran from her nose, and mouth, where the brut had repeatedly slapped her before raping her. She was only wearing her underwear which, although still on, was ripped along the seam, owing to the brutality. Her breasts sat bare under the radiating sun, transfixing the men of both crews as she sat on display—a living prize.

The pirate captain then placed his large right foot squarely on her backside and heaved her forward with great force, sending her sprawling violently until she lost her footing and crashed hard to the deck. She had landed not quite five feet from her husband, but she didn’t move to get up. Her knees were now scraped and bleeding as well. Her face was seemingly dark, uncaring. She met her husband’s face, and her eyes seemed almost to plead for an end. She knew what her life would be now. A beautiful woman like her had no hope of salvation or mercy. She would be a sexual slave forever, either sold into slavery or kept as a concubine until she, mercifully, died.

Southeby was beyond what would happen to him or his crew; they had known the risks, but she was innocent. And yet she had borne the brunt of the torture. He couldn’t live with this; he just couldn’t shoulder his remorse and guilt knowing how she would suffer excruciatingly. He summoned the last of his strength and spoke to his wife, trying to bring her back from the abyss of despair.

Baby, do as I say…

She stared blankly, but then slowly shook her head in recognition.

Stand up and embrace the man holding my right arm, he said in a low voice.

She furrowed her brow, as if to say, ‘Are you insane?’

He shook his head, implying, ‘please… just do it.’

She slowly stood up, gathering the last of her strength, and fell about the man to her husband’s right side, forcing the captor to let go of Southeby, while Betsy fell into the pirate’s arms. The guard easily caught the lightweight woman, but this was just enough time for Southeby to turn and strike his other guard tremendously in the groin, felling him to the deck in a mere moment. With his momentary freedom, the captain grabbed the dropped pistol and aimed it at the guard that had caught his wife. With a quick steadying, he fired the weapon, obliterating the surprised guard’s face. With a now second liberated pistol, Southeby grabbed it and, looking into his wife’s wounded eyes, murmured tenderly, I love you with my whole life! Realizing his intentions, she only smiled as a single tear crested her eyes and slipped down her lily cheek. He fired into her, a direct shot to her chest, hitting very near her heart. Her beaten body flew backwards and slammed to the deck like a rag doll, lifeless.

The shot had barely struck when the captain was thrown headlong down the deck, crumpling to a stop. The African pirate had run over and hit Southeby so hard he had flown. Within a second of landing, the American merchant captain was surrounded by armed men.

The infidel captain walked over slowly, angrily. You have cost me a great deal, slave. She was my trophy from this raid.

A wounded Southeby only looked up at the towering pirate in disgust. "She was never yours to have! he screamed with all his might, and said, May you rot in hell!" and he spat on his boots.

I will make sure you suffer greatly for this, his captor promised threateningly.

The pirate waved his crew to dispose of Betsy’s body, and it was unflinchingly heaved over the side, as you would a piece of trash. Southeby teared to the point he could barely see, still bleeding profusely, as he caught the last glint of her pale, beautiful, lifeless body careen over the side rail. His face ached from the despair.

She is now shark bait, Captain… , the pirate mused. But you will get your turn, don’t worry.

Some of the enemy crew now drug a large table out of the aft cabin and set it on deck, amidships. Upon instruction, Southeby was roughly stripped and placed upon the table, tied down and left prostrated. The fearsome African captain walked over and spoke to Southeby directly, crouching near his face, Don’t ask me for death, slave… because only God will grant you that…

For the next several hours, the screams and grunts of torture would pierce the sky and reverberate off the sea; all that could be thought to be humanly endured, was, and with no respite. Captain Southeby’s crew could only look on in horror, but most couldn’t even bare to watch. The whole while, Captain Southeby tried desperately not to cry out, but was often unsuccessful, due to the sheer, unrecountable, pain. But more often, he stayed mute, keeping only the thought of her aflame within his mind’s eye. She was the only reality he cared left to see.

Realizing he finally was close to death, Southeby began to laugh weakly, in such a light-heartedly way that his torturers were actually unnerved and stepped back from their work. The pirate captain stepped closer and stared, lips curled in disapproval when he asked Southeby, in a thick voice, What makes a dying dog like you laugh… do you think we are done with you?

Southeby began to move his head back and forth as if to say no. At last, he spoke weakly to the pirate’s ear as he leaned in, "My countrymen will eventually be moved by what happened here. You will have hell upon your doorstep everywhere you look, Captain… and you will pity the day you laid a bloody finger upon that which is the United States."

The corsair captain seemed to ponder the dying man’s threat for a minute, then waved it off as useless bluff.

I am admiral Rais Mohomet Rous, the warrior said pointing to his chest, and I fear nothing!

Unnaturally convinced, Southeby spoke his final prediction, You’re a dead man, you just don’t realize it yet.

The merchant captain’s body gave out, finally releasing him to death. His eyes were still open, his mouth still graced by an ever so slight grin. His body was barely recognizable, ripped to shreds.

Although slightly shaken by the dead American’s premonition, the corsairs shook it off and had Southeby’s ravaged body now thrown over the side as well. They would return to Tripoli’s main harbor and show of this newest American prize, letting the Pasha decide what to do with the other extraneous American prisoners. They would be either ransomed, killed for sport, kept as servants or sold as slaves to their Turk trading partners. Their fate was that of a growing number of Americans who had increasingly fallen under the Muslim crescent while sailing into the Mediterranean. As of yet, there was no help on the horizon. Only God yet heard their prayers and pleas from the dark, airless dungeons that lay beneath the castle prison, sight of misery for as long as sea travel had existed.

*     *     *

It was still early morning, not quite six, and the sun had not yet risen. A man of normal height and normal breadth was dressing himself for the day ahead. He straightened his button shirt and pulled on his vest, gave one last check in the mirror, then stepped into his family’s aromatically enticing kitchen. His wife was already busily making breakfast for her small family. She was buttering biscuits with fresh jam preserves and tending to a slow cooking roast in a thick cast iron pot. It simmered over a low open-hearth flame, needing many more hours until finally tender and suitable for supper. The savory mix of smells absolutely filled the relatively large upper middle class three-room home.

Hello, sweetheart, the man spoke softly to his wife as he came up behind her, holding her hips as he kissed her check.

Ah, there you are… I had begun to think you might never rise from that bed, sleepy, she said teasingly, her lips curling into a familiar smile.

He smiled in quiet agreement. Work had been busy lately, but that was a good thing. His name was Stephen Decatur Sr., and he had a five-year-old strapping young son who bore the same name. He also had a three-year-old boy, James, and a new addition to the family, a baby girl of nine months, Sarah. He was a small part owner of a local merchant shipping company that occupied an unimposing span along Philadelphia’s waterfront. Here, he toiled with mountains of paperwork and unruly stebbadors in charge of unloading and loading goods from the multitude of ships arriving daily from around the world.

Philadelphia was the place to be in shipping, the busiest American port, and she was also the most populated city in America. Her boatyards churned out a plethora of vessels of every type each month; she contained the most veteran and skilled shipwrights in the states and her business along the water was the largest in breadth by far. It was true other American coastal towns such as Boston, Newport, New London, Charleston, and Norfolk contained substantial ship traffic and maritime yards, but Philadelphia was also the political and cultural center of the country as well. With seventy thousand full-time city inhabitants, Philly was the most polished, fast paced and vibrant city for making money. The newest goods and wares from Europe, the Mediterranean, and the Caribbean always arrived there first, as well as even newly ‘picked up’ customs and manners of dress. Decatur senior had based here, hoping to partake in this energy and to make his fortune. If it was to be made, it would be gained here.

Philadelphia also boasted the most varied smattering of social and economic juxtapositions as well. It was not unusual to see leading politicians walking by, sharing the sidewalks along with wealthy elite, but even average mill workers and seamstresses, beggars, and even freed black men. All levels of society mingled and fought to eke out their livings within this great city, pulse of the larger nation of thirteen million or so Americans, spread thinly along the contiguous American coast from Maine to Florida.

But if Philadelphia was the industrial, political, and cultural scion of the newly formed United States, she too still unfortunately portrayed the numerous issues from which the young nation still suffered from, even after the American Revolution had ended. Every summer, as surely as the sweltering heat would come, so did debilitating bouts of fever and disease. With startling regularity, much of the population would be forced to flee the sick and dying for more remote suburban dwellings. And the poor still suffered indignantly in small, ill-built, and dank dwellings far from the public view.

As Stephen Decatur Sr. sat for his morning tea and biscuit, he unfurled the morning gazette that had arrived on the steps not long before. The paper was crisp and ink still somewhat wet when he caught sight of some very unwanted news. The Philadelphia Advisor’s headline read: "American merchant brig Betsy attacked and savaged by Barbary Corsairs!"

Oh lord… Stephen murmured, not loud, but load enough that his wife saw his face crinkled in concern.

What is it, dear?

He read further. The news was horrific in its detail.

Apparently, without our British protection anymore, a few African pirate nations are attacking our unprotected merchant shipping going into the Mediterranean. Bastards, he opinioned.

Decatur senior was not one to take attack of American vessels lightly. He himself had served as a captain in the fledgling revolutionary American Navy when it had opposed Great Britain in the war of Independence. He had fought to protect his fellow Americans and their liberties. It seemed, with the disbursement of one stoic foe came another, just as malicious, in its place.

Is the crew safe, Stephen? his wife queried.

Hardly… the ship was attacked, the crew taken into captivity, Decatur sadly relayed.

His wife turned from her counter and said, "Well, isn’t that better than hurt?

Can’t they be ransomed then?"

These pirates have been preying on ships for decades, love… those taken are usually beaten and robbed, or worse, he said as he straightened the parchment for a better read. Some are even sold into slavery to other brutish nations or killed like dogs. It’s the rare individual who touches his native land again when taken by these fellows.

Won’t our government at least send someone to pay their release? she responded while still tending to her cooking. Can’t the government even send warships; teaching them to leave American ships well enough alone?

Again, Decatur shook his head slowly, melancholy. We have no warships, Anny. They’ve all been sold; scrapped.

Sr. already knew that after the war, most of the navy, that hadn’t already been captured or burned to prevent capture; had been summarily sold to raise money or broken up due to their poor shape. Although the continental navy had had some true successes, most of the sea borne campaign had been an utter disaster, leaving many politicians desirous to sell what was left and cancel the navy out of existence. Perhaps one or two coastal cutters had been retained and neither was expected to make long distance voyages. They weren’t even fit for it, for that matter!

How can we defend ourselves with two ships, Stephen? his wife asked, shocked at their country’s current lack of protection, even for the mainland.

Well, I know this, for Americans travelling across the seas to Europe and beyond, they might as well be beyond the sun.

Well, how do other nations deal with these pirates then? Surely the British don’t suffer them as we do, she now asked, curious.

Ha… No, not at all. But the difference is the British fit out and man almost eight hundred warships, Anny, over a hundred heavy battleships alone! No pirate would dare touch any merchant bearing the British red duster. He took a deep draught of his steeped tea and finished, Them being sure over a hundred cannon would beat down their walls the very next day if they did!

Is this bad for business then? his wife nervously asked. Is this bad for us?

They had just begun rising in social strata since her husband’s war participation and subsequent industrious business partnership. They had even bought a small middle-class attached home and started wearing more trendy clothes, mimicking those of slightly higher class. Their very livelihoods utterly depended upon export and import and the ability to safely ship goods worldwide. If business diminished throughout the Mediterannean, Decatur Sr. would lose a major network for shipping and trade.

"Piracy is never good, darling… for sure. Certainly not for American ships, with no protection from anyone in the world at this moment! We need to ship goods, the interior farmers with their surpluses, the textile mills with their gowns and jackets, the huge crops of southern cotton. All of it goes to Europe to fetch high prices, and all of it goes by sail."

Decatur read further still and was incredulous at the details. My God, what a mistake, Captain, he breathed with serious sadness. Ann, this unfortunate captain the paper speaks of… , Decatur hesitated for a moment,  . . . he had brought his newlywed young wife aboard for the trip as well, quite unfortunately. They were to honeymoon in Italy.

She knew this was out of the ordinary, and, by her husband’s eyes, could tell she had suffered far worse than any of the other crew was expected to, solely for being a woman. Hesitatingly, his wife asked, And she was savaged then? She wasn’t even sure she wanted to really hear the response, truth be told.

Yes, she was attacked by the brutes. After, she was then displayed to the crew stark naked, in front of her husband even. He himself had already been shot by a marksman in the chest and laid low.

His wife put her hand to her mouth, Oh, how awful! Disgraceful.

Even though he was badly hurt, the captain overpowered his guards and killed one of the savages, Decatur kept reading aloud, before taking her away from more misery, undoubtedly.

He killed her then? Ann asked, obviously upset by the account. She couldn’t help but imagine herself in such terrible circumstances, and she shuddered. Decatur nodded.

He took her life quickly,knowing she would only suffer until she eventually died in the hands of their captors. A white woman prisoner is worth more than gold, and she would’ve been abused mercilessly… as she had already been.

He saved her… what a brave man, she offered to no one in particular.

Yes, indeed… heroic in that situation but shameful it had to be. American warships could easily defend these merchants and beat these pirates into submission. But I’m sure it will be forever put off, with the associated costs and political bickering going on right now. God help the sailors who venture there. Without a navy, every boat with a rifle and sword can have at us.

He finished his biscuit and porridge and stood up, looking around the room expectantly.

My boy, where is thee? Senior said loudly, smiling. He could already hear the low giggling of his beloved son in the doorway, undoubtedly waiting for his father to come find him for their morning play.

*     *     *

A few states distant, a young man of twelve sat alone in his room. The view outside was of a gorgeous Maryland field, filled with freshly blossomed lilac. The sweet smell of the flowers drifted through the open shutter along with the distinct sounds of warbling red tails, but he scarcely noticed. He was staring more toward the pine flooring in his small, unembellished room with a heavy weight about him.

He finally steeled himself and began to pack his sea bag. All his belongings which would fit, some possessions that would remind him of home, and his father’s ring. That was all that would leave with him. He gently slipped the heavy solid copper ring, with its stylized brass fleur—de—lys emblem, onto his index finger and felt its cold metal snugly fit to his knuckle. It had been one of the few possessions he inherited from his father, who had purchased the piece somewhere deep in Europe. He could only slightly now remember his father sitting him down and explaining why he had chosen the traditionally French symbol. It had something to do with the spoken tradition of lily flowers sprouting up as Jesus wept upon the cross. Supposedly, where each tear fell, a beautiful flower sprang to life. That memory made him smile slightly, even now. At last, he shouldered his bag and slowly walked down the stairs, firmly possessing the wrought iron banister with a desire to turn back. But he did not.

He found his mother in the home’s small rustic kitchen, alone. She was quite upset, even though she tried her absolute best to shield him from feeling remorse towards his decision to go to sea, despite his young age. But in the end, it really hadn’t been much of a decision at all. Thomas Rodgers had built the very house his son and wife still occupied. It was a small, but beautiful house, situated atop a gentle hill, overlooking the mighty Chesapeake river basin. His father had named the house Sion Hill. But not long after purchase, the father had fallen ill and quickly passed, leaving the family in severe financial straits. Young Rodgers knew his responsibility lay in taking care of his mother and hopefully saving the home his father had treasured. Very few professions lent themselves easily to a young boy with, as of yet, no skills.

John… you know… , his mother began. You don’t have to go. We can sell the house and you can go to school, pursue whatever course you chose.

For a young man, he was indeed older than his years. He was broad-shouldered and thick in proportion. Very strong for his age, he was also on the quiet and reserved side. He was fiercely loyal to his family and friends and single-minded when focused. Perhaps because he had loved his father so dearly and struggled so much with the loss, he was; within the last year, especially irritable and liable to lash out if threatened or bullied.

I know, Mom, but I want to pursue this. His dark complexion was almost exotic in Maryland. He had olive skin, as had his father, resembling a Spaniard or Italian. He also had full thick and bushy coal black hair and dark piercing eyes. He did not often smile, except around those whom he loved and trusted. It had been a long time since his mother had really seen him smile.

I will send home almost all I make, mom. I’ll only keep enough for my basic needs and will be home soon.

John, she said tearful, I want you to be able to spend some of what you earn, you deserve it. You deserve so much more than I can give you, son.

His mother looked tender, almost frail saying good bye amid the nearly empty and silent house.

Don’t worry, mom. I will find a way to take care of all this, and we will keep the house. He gave her his best well-meaning smile, even though he was secretly upset underneath his stoic exterior. He was even a little sacred.

He was leaving school, leaving his friends, leaving his mother and his home for a world dominated by full-grown men. The life of a merchant sailor was never known to be an easy one. To even find a sailor over mid-forty was truly difficult, as either disease, accident, getting maimed, or even killed by pirates was always a possibility. There was no pension, and the chance to move up the ranks was only earned with devoted long years of study, skill, and practice. Young John Rodgers would be starting at the very lowest level. He had no connections and would not be given any leeway aboard. He would draw a meager pay and be away from his loved ones for months at a time, in vile seas, amidst some detestable men, in putrid situations at times. But he resolved to stay the course, as he was his mother’s only option, save poverty and the sale of their meager family home.

He hugged his mother dearly and turned, walking straight to the waiting carriage already sent for him on the pathway. He did not look back, afraid to lose his resolve. Once they were past the neighborhood he had grown up in, he looked into the long fields and winding Chesapeake in the distance. The splendor, the natural awe-inspiring splendor of the countryside, was unforgettable. All along the river were inlets and estuaries filled with local clam boats and shallow drafts skiffs fishing for blue crab, clams, and mussels.

As the carriage pulled up to the dock, he spotted the Sea Isle City, his new home upon the waves. She was a huge three master, two hundred plus men, and she rode low in the water. Heavily laden with grain and wrought-iron ingots, she would be a slow mover, which meant long stretches at sea and away from home for the young ocean neophyte. He asked permission to board and it was granted by the first mate, a grizzly veteran who scarcely noticed Rodgers at all.

He made his way below and found his superior, a young man around his thirties, who at least made a modicum of an effort to learn his name. His name was Peter Carpielo.

Well, John, I’m not going to sugar coat this. This is a hard living, a rough way to make a sheckle, he said matter of factly as he rested his calloused hands on his hips as though prematurely aged.

And being you’re so young, the older lads might try to run you wild with their work, cause they get old and lazy, so be careful of that.

John was confused. But don’t I have to obey their commands, sir?

Aye, you do. But eventually, you’ll feel out what is malarkey and what is within the scope of your duty, Carpielo said, as he wound a heavy rope into a coil with his arms. He suddenly looked up and made sure Rodgers was looking into his face when he said, And John… make sure you always carry a blade on you around here. There are some questionable fellas on this barge… and you’re young, he said, eyes flitting around them.

Rodgers didn’t like that last bit; it scared him.

Anyways, Carpielo began again, you’ll hang your sleeping hammock here, and store your sea bag on this hook over here, he quickly pointed out. In the sides of the ship and the heavy overhead beams were hammered in large iron hooks where the men would hang their gear. And against the wall on that shelving is where you can store your ditty box as well.

The boy’s eyes scrunched a bit. What’s a ditty box, sir? he asked dumbfounded.

It’s just a small wooden box, like six by four inches, for you to stow some personal belongings, is all. You know, like needle and thread to mend your clothes or spectacles and what not.

But I don’t know how to sew, sir, Rodgers said intimidated.

Carpielo smiled. You will, my boy, if even to sew up your britches, but more likely to stitch closed your skin! he said, being honest, but perhaps trying to scare the boy a bit for fun.

As the week wore on, Rodgers began to meet more boys on board close to his age, and even some older salts began to show him some things. Rodgers was eager to learn and received more help because he often offered to do extra work in exchange for some tutelage. It was a brilliant move as many older deckhands each harbored a task or two that they hated to perform, and Rodgers would offer to take their place. He began to feel more accustomed to his life at sea, but one ugly situation started to present itself after about a month.

The quarters aboard a large ship like this, in fact, almost any ship; were tight. As Rodgers ate his meals, a very peculiar sailor began to sit next to him, much more often than due to pure happenstance. The man was very quiet but always smiling and overly friendly to Rodgers. Even more disturbing still, the man started showing up during communal bath times as well. About twenty men at a clip were allowed time each week to bathe in large wooden tubs with seawater pumped in from the fire hoses. This stranger began showering at the same time as the young Rodgers and, worse still, seemed to use this time to peer at him whenever Rodgers was in line of sight. He began to feel very uneasy about the creepy stares he was getting, but decided to keep quiet, for