As an adolescent, during the Revolution, Preble had served as a midshipman in the Massachusetts state navy. When his ship, the 26-gun Protector, was captured in May 1781, it was Preble’s bad luck to be imprisoned in the notorious prison ship Jersey. The Jersey had once been a 64-gun Royal Navy battleship, but in 1781 she was a blackened and rotting hulk, permanently anchored in Wallabout Bay in New York’s East River, near the present-day site of the Manhattan Bridge. Mortality rates for prisoners of war in the Jersey almost certainly exceeded 50 percent; an estimated eleven thousand American prisoners died while confined in her lower decks. The stench of waste and death was so powerful that boats would not approach her from leeward. Newly arrived prisoners inoculated themselves against smallpox by making a small cut in their arms and massaging in a bit of blood or pus taken from one of the sick. One survivor told the editor of the Niles’ Register that “the hardest battle he ever fought in his life was with a fellow prisoner on board of the Jersey; and the object of contention was the putrefied carcass of a starved rat.” Each morning the guards opened the hatches and shouted down to the living to turn out the dead. Burial details took the bodies in boats to the beach, heaved them into shallow trenches, and threw a layer of sand over them. Heads and limbs were left jutting from the surface. When it rained, bodies sometimes washed into the river and floated out to sea.
Preble was fortunate. His imprisonment in the Jersey lasted only two months before a parole was negotiated and he was permitted to move to lodgings in New York. During those weeks, however, he nearly died of typhoid fever, and he continued to suffer from bad health for the rest of his life.
In the postwar years, Preble served as master or supercargo on several merchantmen. At the outset of the Quasi War, in April 1798, he received a naval lieutenant’s commission and a year later was promoted captain. As commander of the USS Essex in 1799, he sailed to Jakarta to fetch home a convoy of stranded merchantmen. It was the longest voyage that had ever been made by an American naval vessel, and the first beyond Cape Hope.
Preble had hoped to have the Constitution at sea in three weeks, but an inspection of the hull using iron rakes and boat hooks showed that the copper sheathing was “ragged and full of small holes with a quantity of grass and sea moss.” The original panels, imported from England at great cost in 1797, would have to be torn off and replaced. The careening and coppering operations would require a minimum of seven to eight weeks.
Within days of his arrival, Preble had whipped the Boston naval establishment into a paroxysm of activity. While the Constitution lay in ordinary, her guns had been loaned to the shore battery at Castle Island, which guarded the approaches to Boston’s inner harbor. The huge iron weapons would have to be transported, one by one, up the harbor to Charlestown Wharf. An inspection of the rigging and stores, laid up in the Charlestown warehouses, was discouraging. Examining the huge coils of tarred hemp, Preble judged that some of it was in passable condition but much was decayed and useless. The ship would need new anchor cables, and most of her old powder would have to be discarded. New blocks and rigging would have to be built and fitted.
On May 28, in a dead calm, the ship was warped across the harbor to May’s Wharf, where she would be hove down for the replacement of her copper sheathing. It was a complicated and costly operation. But the replacement copper, at least, would not have to be imported from Europe, because high-quality copper sheets were now being manufactured at a local mill owned by an entrepreneur named Paul Revere. Revere’s copper, Preble wrote, was “good, and of proper thickness.”
Revere was respected as a master silversmith and a Revolutionary War veteran, but he was not particularly well known outside Massachusetts. If a time traveler from the future had told him that his name would one day be on the lips of every schoolchild in America, he would have laughed. He was just a tradesman—a glorified platemaker. But in January 1861, more than forty years after his death, the Atlantic Monthly would publish a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that began:
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
They listened, with drawn breath and wide eyes, to the story of the covert plan to warn of the coming British attack by means of lanterns placed in the belfry of the North Church—“One if by land, two if by sea”—and of Revere’s dead-of-night gallop through the countryside to Lexington and Concord, rousing the militiamen from their beds to fight the battle that would begin the American Revolution. After the publication of “Paul Revere’s Ride,” Revere’s name was as familiar to posterity as those of Benjamin Franklin or Samuel Adams. History would forget two other men who rode alongside Revere: William Dawes and Samuel Prescott. Their names did not rhyme with “hear.”
During the Adams administration, Benjamin Stoddert had preached the importance of fostering a domestic copper sheet-rolling industry, and had promised to finance Revere’s start-up operations by lending him $10,000 from the federal treasury. With Jefferson’s election, Revere at first assumed that the loan would be canceled, but after a tenacious lobbying campaign he managed to obtain the money, which he paid back in full by the end of 1802. In 1803, Revere’s mill generated revenues of $14,610 from sales of copper sheathing, bolts, spikes, and nails. Revere’s largest customer was the U.S. Navy, but his highest-profile customer (literally) was the Bulfinch State House in Boston, for which he manufactured 6,000 feet of copper sheets to cover the dome. Demand expanded rapidly, and production was limited only by a scarcity of raw copper. Working through agents in New York, Philadelphia, and Providence, Revere bought whatever copper could be found on the American market. He also suggested that the old copper sheets “Stripped off Ships belonging to the government, should be reserved to be worked over again,” and that the American warships departing for the Mediterranean should be ordered to call at Smyrna, where high-quality copper could be purchased and carried back to Boston as ballast.
On June 11, 1803, under hazy skies and a soft rain, the Constitution was hove down until the keel was completely out of the water: “The mast did not complain although the ship hove out very heavy.” The larboard copper was torn off and Revere’s new panels bolted to the hull, and then the hawsers were slackened, a few inches at a time, and the ship was allowed to right herself. On June 21, all hands manned the capstan and the big ship was hove down again, this time with the keel raised to starboard. The operation was repeated. By June 25, the difficult work was done: “At five in the afternoon, the copper being entirely finished, the carpenters gave nine cheers and were answered by the caulkers and seamen.”
Constitution had an authorized complement of more than four hundred, and filling out her crew would be a challenge. The Navy Secretary had authorized a monthly wage of $10–$12 for an able seaman. This was one third lower than the wage offered during the Quasi War, in 1798. If market wages for seamen had declined, they had not declined enough, and on June 26, Preble reported that he could not recruit a full crew without raising the rate of pay. The Boston labor market was tighter; the fishermen had all gone to sea, and many merchant vessels had already advanced wages to the best seamen. Able seamen, Preble reported, would not enlist for less than $13 per month and a two-month advance. While awaiting Smith’s reply, the commodore sent a lieutenant to New York and another to Providence in search of good men.
During the final preparations for sea, the Constitution lay alongside Boston’s Long Wharf, an enormous pier that began at the foot of State Street and thrust out into the harbor for a distance of nearly half a mile. As men came aboard they were mustered and divided into watches, and life aboard the frigate began to take on the familiar disciplined daily routine of naval service. A Sergeant’s Guard was kept constantly on duty, with sentinels at each gangway. The crew was kept busy setting up the rigging, taking on ballast and water, and recaulking the deck
seams. On July 29, it was found that the gun carriages were “so badly constructed that it is absolutely necessary to send them on shore to be altered.” On August 4, the logbook noted: “We are lumbered from morning till night with provisions and stores and surrounded all day with lighters.”
At dawn on August 12, Constitution sailed down the main channel, threading between the dozens of little green islands separating the harbor from the sea—Bird Island, Governor Island, Castle Island, Spectacle Island—and anchored between President Roads and the Narrows, eight miles below Boston. Next morning, with the wind blowing fresh, the ship put to sea under double-reefed topsails, clearing the lighthouse a little after 8:00 a.m. Preble was pleased with her: “The ship sails well, is perfectly tight, and the officers and crew healthy.”
Light and unfavorable winds made for a long, uneventful crossing, but Preble was grateful to escape the punishing weather that had tormented his predecessors. During the passage Preble imposed his will on the flagship’s officers and crew. He was, like Truxtun, an uncompromising disciplinarian, quick to reprimand his subordinates for seemingly minor infractions. But whereas Truxtun had been calm and pedagogical, Preble was prone to sarcastic outbursts and humiliating tirades. The younger officers, many of whom were accustomed to a more collegial shipboard environment, chafed under the new regime.
Passing the hours in the Constitution’s spacious greatcabin, Preble wrote out 107 standing orders. The officers would be censured if they should “suffer the most trifling thing under them to be executed with indifference.” In their treatment of the common seamen, they were to set an example of probity and good manners: “Blasphemy, profanity, and all species of obscenity or immorality are peremptorily forbid,” and the officers were not to tolerate “such disorderly and despicable practices amongst the men.” Like Truxtun, Preble insisted that the officers do the enlisted men the courtesy of learning their names. Preble could even sound like an anxious mother, as when he ordered that the crew should not be allowed to wear “their best clothes” when cleaning the ship. When the hands were washing the deck, the officers were “to make them pull off their shoes and stockings and tuck their trousers up.”
On September 6, Cape St. Vincent was sighted from the masthead. The Constitution was entering the long funnel between Spain and Morocco, and the land closed in from both sides as the ship coasted along toward the Straits. Just eight miles wide at its narrowest point, separating two continents and two oceans, the Straits of Gibraltar are enclosed by the two great rocks known since antiquity as the Pillars of Hercules—Jabal Musa to the south and the Rock of Gibraltar to the north. The Straits are a notoriously difficult passage to navigate. A powerful hydraulic current draws water in from the Atlantic along the surface, always setting to the east, and counterbalanced by a cooler subsurface current setting to the west. The prevailing westerly winds build to gale force as they enter the long, steep-sided funnel. When a rare easterly wind sets against the current, a nasty chop kicks up in the channel and the sea “boils like a pot.”
On the tenth, a dark and hazy night, Constitution’s watch officers noticed that a strange ship, evidently large enough to be a warship, had suddenly come within close range. The commodore was quickly alerted, and he hurried up on deck. Midshipman Charles Morris, in his autobiography, described the incident that followed:
The crew were immediately but silently brought to quarters, after which the Commodore gave the usual hail, “What ship is that?” The same question was returned; in reply to which the name of our ship was given, and the question repeated…. Again the question was returned instead of an answer, and again our ship’s name given and the question repeated, with no other reply than its repetition, “What ship is that?”
The Commodore’s patience now seemed exhausted, and, taking the trumpet, he hailed and said, “I am now going to hail you for the last time. If a proper answer is not returned, I will fire a shot into you.” A prompt answer came back, “If you fire a shot, I will return a broadside.” Preble then hailed, “What ship is that?” The reply was “This is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal, 84 guns, Sir Richard Strahan, an English Commodore. Send your boat on board.” Under the excitement of the moment, Preble leaped on the hammocks and returned for an answer, “This is the United States ship Constitution, 44 guns, Edward Preble, an American Commodore, who will be damned before he sends his boat on board of any vessel.” And turning to the crew, he said, “Blow your matches, boys.”
The conversation here ceased and soon after a boat was heard coming from the stranger, and arrived with a lieutenant from the frigate Maidstone. The object of this officer was to apologize for the apparent rudeness which had been displayed. He stated that our ship had not been seen until we had hailed them; that it was, of course, very important to gain time to bring their men to quarters, especially as it was apparent we were not English, and they had no expectations of meeting an American ship of war there; and that this object had induced their delay and misrepresentation in giving the ship’s name. The excuses were deemed satisfactory, and the ships separated.
The Constitution’s young officers were surprised and impressed with Preble’s handling of the exchange. During the passage from Boston they had resigned themselves to serving under a humorless curmudgeon, a man prone to sudden “ebullitions of temper,” whose hectoring would make life aboard the ship unbearable. Now they saw a man who was obviously spoiling for a fight. If Preble intended to carry on the war against Tripoli in the same spirit, the officers would gladly endure the occasional ebullition—and all at once the “unfriendly feelings” that had sprung up between the commodore and his officers were “mitigated greatly.” The ship’s company had just taken an important step toward becoming a cohesive fighting force. That the Constitution had nearly fired on a British frigate within a few miles of one of the Royal Navy’s primary naval bases did not seem to bother either Preble or any of the junior officers.
At 1:00 p.m. the next day, Constitution’s lookout hailed the deck to report the Rock of Gibraltar bearing northeast by north. The frigate entered the bay at half past three, anchored in 23 fathoms water, and saluted the garrison with fifteen guns. The salute was returned by an equal number of guns from the battery.
Gibraltar was the linchpin of British naval supremacy in the Mediterranean, and Britain was not taking any chances with it. The Rock was the most heavily fortified stronghold on the face of the earth. To the men looking up from the deck of the Constitution, it must have been an awesome sight, a dramatic exhibition of British military power. Deep galleries had been blasted out of the stone to serve as artillery casements. Hundreds of heavy cannon could fire down from a great height on enemies approaching by land or sea. To reach these embrasures from the harbor, one had to ride a mule up a long, precarious, steeply ascending series of switchbacks. No enemy could ever hope to take those positions by force. They could be taken only by starving the defenders out, and the defenders were plentifully supplied with powder, ammunition, and provisions.
In Gibraltar Bay, Preble found one of the ships attached to his squadron, the U.S. frigate Philadelphia, under the command of William Bainbridge. The Philadelphia had three smaller vessels moored under her guns. One was an American merchant brig, the Celia of Boston. The second was the Mirboka, a Moroccan corsair of 22 guns, which had reportedly captured the Celia and was escorting her into Tangier when the Philadelphia ran them both down. Another Moroccan vessel, the Meshouda, was also in custody; she had been run down and captured several months earlier, while attempting to run the American blockade into Tripoli.
On board the Mirboka, Bainbridge had found the equivalent of a smoking gun: an order authorizing the capture of all American vessels. Had Morocco, traditionally the most benign of the Barbary States, declared war on the United States? If so, Preble faced the unwelcome prospect of fighting two wars simultaneously.
But it was not yet clear that Morocco really had declared war. At first, the Moroccans aboard the Mirboka denied any ho
stile intent toward American shipping. When confronted with the translated order, which had not been signed, the Moroccan captain admitted that he had been given the authorization by the governor of Tangier—but added that the country’s sovereign authority, the emperor of Morocco, had no knowledge of the order and would probably disavow it. The American crew of the Celia attested that they had not been harmed, and had only been obliged to hide themselves below when the Philadelphia hove in sight. Evidently, there was confusion and dissent among the Moroccans.
Preble hoped that the affair could be settled quickly, through a deft combination of diplomacy and a show of naval force at Tangier. Needing a free hand to deal with Tripoli, the commodore had no wish for hostilities with Morocco. He settled on his course of action. The Moroccan captain and six of his officers taken in the Mirboka would be transferred to the Constitution. The remaining crew of the Mirboka—ninety-two men in all—would be left aboard a prison ship in Gibraltar. The Mirboka herself would be left at anchor in Gibraltar Bay, manned by a lieutenant and a five-man prize crew.
Bainbridge and the Philadelphia would be sent off to the east with orders to do what Preble’s predecessors had been roundly condemned for failing to do—maintain a rigorous blockade of Tripoli. When she sailed, the Philadelphia would convoy all of the eastbound American merchant vessels that had gathered in Gibraltar Bay and nearby Malaga on the Spanish coast. Once the Moroccan situation had been dealt with, the Constitution and the remaining vessels in the squadron would set sail for Tripoli to rendezvous with the Philadelphia.