Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

“Let no difference of religion induce us to shed the blood of harmless men who think little and know nothing,” Eaton told him. “If you are a man of liberal mind you will not have to think long about my propositions. Hamet pledges himself to me that you shall be established in your government. I shall see you tomorrow in a way of your choice.”

The governor’s terse reply did not take long to arrive, and it did not require much interpretation.

“My head or yours.”

Derna

April 27, 1805

The battle with Governor Mustafa’s forces was just over an hour old, but it was already turning into a catastrophe. Eaton’s army was pinned down at the southeastern edge of Derna by an enemy twice its size. As bullets flew past them from the barricades defending the city, Eaton’s men were approaching a state of panic. His European mercenaries were faltering and his Arab allies were ready to retreat.

Eaton, however, remained calm. He had waited his whole life for a battle like this. Decked out in the white, homemade officer’s uniform he’d designed himself and worn since leaving Alexandria, Eaton surveyed the scene. He tried to imagine what the great military minds of his favorite history books would do in this situation.

Ahead of him was a well-entrenched, superior enemy. To advance into Mustafa’s seemingly impregnable line was to invite death, but to remain pinned down and panicked was unacceptable. And to retreat . . . No. He caught himself. He would never entertain the thought. William Eaton had not crossed a desert and defied hunger, desertions, and near mutiny only to run from the first sight of bullets.

“Fix bayonets!” he yelled over the crash of the cannonballs launched from the naval ships on Eaton’s flank.

The word was passed down the line, disordered as it was. It was hard to hear over all the noise, and for a moment, it looked like the orders had been lost. Then, a few of the Marines, the ones closest to Eaton, attached the sharp blades to the ends of their muskets, and the rest of his misfit army followed suit. The next order was the one Eaton believed he was born to give.

“Charge!”

Racing ahead of his men, his eyes flashing with excitement, he sprinted for the barricades. He knew the eight blue-and-red-clad leathernecks would follow him, but he wasn’t sure about the others. The hired guns had barely followed him out of Alexandria; would they really charge with him into a hailstorm of musket fire?

The answer, Eaton quickly saw, was yes. Whether it was out of a selfish desire to loot Derna, a dream of putting Hamet in the Tripolitan throne, a fear of retreating and starving in the barren desert, or something else entirely, did not really matter. What did matter was that they were now following Eaton and the Marines, rushing headlong into a wave of heavy fire.

Their shouts came in at least half a dozen different languages, but they were all the same. “To Derna!” “To Tripoli!” And, in Arabic, “Hamet Qaramanli!” from those with their scimitars held high.

As bullets whizzed by Eaton’s head, he leapt over the barricade and into the enemy line, his army at his heels. An enemy soldier lunged at him with a bloody sword, but Eaton ducked, dropped to the ground, and rolled past his attacker. His foe spun around but was too slow. Eaton plunged his bayonet into the Arab’s stomach.

The leathernecks fired their muskets into the chests of the enemy at point-blank range. Through the cloud of noise and dirt, one unlikely reality was quickly becoming clear: Mustafa’s soldiers were panicking. They hadn’t expected the audacious bayonet charge and now they were in a mad rush to retreat.

The bravest enemy soldiers, Eaton saw through the chaos, were firing through the swirling dust, then running for cover, reloading and firing again. It was one of those soldiers who took direct aim at him. Eaton heard a “thwack!” and felt a piercing pain. The bullet had been aimed at his heart.

It had only missed by inches.

Eaton fell to the ground as his triumphant leathernecks, mercenaries, and Arabs—their swords and bayonets colored red with blood—rushed past him in pursuit of the retreating enemy. He clenched his teeth and wrapped his wound. His limp arm, which had taken the brunt of the enemy bullet, was not able to hold a musket any longer. Eaton drew his pistol and charged ahead, firing into any enemy soldier brave or foolish enough to still resist.

Finally, after four hours of fighting, Derna fell silent. Atop Derna’s highest flagpole, the Stars and Stripes flapped in the wind.

The city now belonged to the United States.

Eaton took a deep breath. He was pleased, but he wasn’t finished. He would not be satisfied until the same flag flew over the Pasha’s palace in Tripoli.

Derna

May 31, 1805

In the month after Derna fell, the enemy continued to fight. The Pasha’s late-arriving reinforcements surrounded the city and outnumbered Eaton’s force. But Eaton had something the Pasha’s troops did not: a navy. With warships supplying Eaton with food, weapons, and money, the Pasha’s troops soon began to realize that the American army could hold out for as long as it took. Many of the Pasha’s men deserted and one enemy commander even approached Eaton about defecting.

On this late spring morning, Eaton was pleased to see a new frigate, the USS Constellation , pulling up at the dock. An hour later, a messenger from the warship approached Eaton as he sat down for lunch.

After briefly exchanging greetings the messenger got right to the point. “Sir, I am here to advise you that President Jefferson has revised his orders.”

Eaton had expected news about additional weapons or troops. He was confused.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you are talking about.”

The messenger continued: “When you took Derna, the Pasha quickly realized that he could lose the throne. So he sued for peace. He told President Jefferson that he would stop all attacks on American ships and release the Philadelphia prisoners in exchange for sixty thousand dollars. It is my duty to inform you that the United States government has decided to accept his offer.”

Questions raced through Eaton’s mind. Why would the United States allow a tyrant to remain on the throne when his defeat was imminent? Did they really expect him to live up to his word? What would happen to Eaton’s Arab allies? To Hamet?

The messenger, sensing Eaton’s apprehension, continued. “I am here under orders from the president to escort Hamet Qaramanli and all American troops to Sicily. I can also transport your European soldiers and a few of the Arabs. The rest must fend for themselves.”

Tripoli

June 4, 1805

William Ray had lived as a slave for nineteen months. He ate when the Pasha’s men said he could eat. He worked when the Pasha’s men ordered him to work, which was from sunrise to sunset, seven days a week. He slept when the Pasha’s men allowed him to sleep.

But today was different. When he’d woken up this morning, no one was there to drag him out to the sea.

The captain of the Philadelphia called together his former crew and told him what he’d learned: reports of a treaty. Details were still sketchy, but the Pasha had granted their release.

“We are free,” the captain told them. “And tomorrow, we’re going home!”

For the second time, William Ray’s life was saved from suicide—which he had contemplated many times in the last nineteen months—by the words of a sailor in the United States Navy.

At sea; Washington, D.C.; Sicily

June 20, 1805

William Ray and the men of the Philadelphia were emaciated and exhausted, but they were also elated. They were sailing home to the United States, where a hero’s welcome awaited them.