On February 16, 1804, young Stephen Decatur, Jr., a naval lieutenant, completed his dangerous and extraordinary mission to destroy one of America’s best naval ships, the frigate Philadelphia, moored deep within the harbor of Tripoli (Libya, today). Decatur was 25 years old at the time, serving under Commodore Edward Preble.

The Philadelphia, under command of William Bainbridge, had run aground in the reef-ridden harbor of Tripoli the previous fall while chasing a Tripolitan ship. All 307 officers, sailors, and Marines aboard the Philadelphia were then captured and enslaved by Tripoli, which had declared war against the United States in 1801. The capture of the ship and crew was a disaster. Not only was slavery in Tripoli a nightmare of torture and endless labor (there’s a reason why Barbary and barbarous sound so much alike), but the Philadelphia, which boasted 28 18-pound guns and 16 carronades capable of shooting 32-pound cannonballs, was now in the hands of the Bashaw (or Pasha, ruler) of Tripoli. The Bashaw intended to repair the ship and use it in his pirate fleet. Think of this as Osama bin Laden getting hold of an aircraft carrier.

“Most Bold and Daring Act of the Age”

To thwart the Bashaw’s plans, Commodore Preble devised a plan, described by Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson as the “most bold and daring act of the age.” He would send a ship into the Tripolitan harbor in the dead of night and burn the Philadelphia. Command of this intrepid venture was given to Decatur.

Some weeks before, Decatur, commanding the Enterprize, and Preble, commanding the Constitution, had captured an enemy ship — a Tripolitan “ketch,” which is a fairly small, two-masted sailing ship. This ship would make the perfect “Trojan Horse” needed for the mission.

Accompanied by the 16-gun brig Siren, Decatur and his crew of about 60 men aboard the ketch (re-christened Intrepid, suitably enough) set sail in early February from the harbor at Syracuse (southeastern Sicily). The trip was rough. For two weeks, the two ships were buffeted by severe storms; and the salted meat with which the Intrepid was stocked was discovered to be rotten — forcing the men to subsist on sea biscuits and water. But cramped quarters and poor food didn’t dampen the determination of Decatur and his crew, and on February 16 the Intrepid and the Siren lay outside Tripoli’s harbor.

While the Siren waited for the Intrepid’s return, the Intrepid drifted slowly into the harbor under cover of darkness, making for the dark hulk of the Philadelphia, which was anchored directly beneath Tripoli’s gun batteries.

The majority of Decatur’s men lay flat on the ship’s deck, hidden from view by the bulwarks. Ten or so men, disguised as typical Mediterranean seamen, stood on the deck in plain view. As they neared the Philadelphia, Decatur’s pilot, a Sicilian by the name of Salvatore Catalano, called out that they were a ship from Malta who had lost their anchor in the recent storm, and asked if they could please tie up to the Philadelphia for the night. Amazingly, the crew on the Philadelphia fell for this ruse and tossed over a hawser. As the ships touched, Decatur gave the signal, and the hidden sailors leaped up and boarded the Philadelphia.

As one midshipman wrote about the fray, “The Tripolitans on board of her were dreadfully alarmed when they found out who we were. Poor fellows! About 20 of them were cut to pieces and the rest jumped overboard.”

Following a plan laid in advance, Decatur’s men raced through the ship, distributing and lighting combustibles in strategic places. Decatur wrote in his report, “I immediately fired her in her Store Rooms, Gun Room Cockpit and Birth [Berth] Decks, and remained on board until the flames had issued from the Spar Deck Hatchways and Ports.”

Bittersweet Victory

In only 15 minutes, Decatur had successfully turned the Philadelphia from a graceful frigate into a mass of flames. Now escape remained. Not only were the men of the Intrepid under fire from sailors aboard nearby Tripolitan vessels, but the flames from the Philadelphia were an inferno, which created a huge vacuum that tried to suck in the Intrepid. A cannonball from Tripoli’s battery left the Intrepid’s topgallant sail in tatters; Decatur ordered two small boats with sweeps (oars) lowered, and the men rowed for their lives, towing the unsailable Intrepid behind them, to rendezvous with the Siren.

The Bashaw’s master plan for refitting the Philadelphia for battle now backfired — quite literally. Many of the Philadelphia’s cannon had been loaded by the Bashaw’s crew prior to Decatur’s boarding; as the flames ignited the charges of the loaded cannon, a huge broadside was automatically fired into the town. According to a letter written by Antoine Zuchet, who was the consul for République Batave (now known as Holland) in Tripoli at the time, the Philadelphia burned for 36 hours.

As Decatur looked back at the mighty Philadelphia engulfed in flames, he must have felt pride in the success of his mission, and relief that all had gone well — no Americans were killed, and only one was wounded. But there was likely a bit of sadness, as well; no sailor worth his salt likes to see a beautiful ship destroyed. And in one of those weird twists of fate that make life interesting, the Philadelphia was sort of a member of Decatur’s family — his father, Stephen Decatur, Sr., a well-known sea captain in his own right, had commanded the frigate on its maiden voyage in 1799. The younger Decatur, for his bravery, was promoted to captain, at the tender age of 25.

The destruction of the captured Philadelphia dealt a major blow to the Bashaw of Tripoli. He had planned to use the ship to further his hold on Barbary waters; now that was a forlorn hope.

Pernicious Pirates

For 200 years prior to Lieutenant Decatur’s daring mission, the Barbary States — Tripoli, Tunis, Morocco, and Algiers — had been marauding in the Mediterranean, demanding tribute from all nations who wanted to sail and trade in the region. France, Holland, England, and the newly minted United States were all frequent contributors to the Barbary coffers. In 1784, the U.S. Congress allocated $80,000 for tribute payment to the Barbary States; the next year Congress ransomed two American ships and their crews of 21 people from the dey (king) of Algiers for $60,000. In 1795, the United States gave nearly a million dollars in cash, naval stores, and a frigate to ransom 115 sailors from the dey of Algiers. Twenty percent of U.S. government annual revenues in 1800 went toward paying ransom and tribute to the Barbary States.

Not surprisingly, the American people despised the idea of paying pirates not to attack our ships and paying huge ransoms to keep our American sailors off the slave-auction blocks. The slogan “millions for defense, but not a cent for tribute” became popular (first in regard to the French, who wanted America to pay them not to attack our ships; but it was equally applicable to the Barbary situation).

Thomas Jefferson, who became president in 1801, was usually vociferous in his anti-tribute stance. For example, he wrote in 1786 that “I acknolege [sic] I very early thought it would be best to effect a peace thro’ the medium of war,” and again, “The states must see the rod; perhaps it must be felt by some one of them.” And, when he did become president, Jefferson refused Tripoli’s demand that his administration pay $225,000 immediately and $25,000 annually after that, causing Tripoli to declare war on the United States.

In response, Commodore Preble bombarded Tripoli no fewer than five times from 1803 to 1804. In April 1805, Captain William Eaton led an overland strike against Derne, an important city somewhat to the east of Tripoli. Eaton’s capture of the town was intended to set the stage to replace the Bashaw with his brother, Hamet, who was, ostensibly, more inclined to deal kindly with Americans. But Hamet never got his chance.

While U.S. forces attacked Tripoli, other American representatives were negotiating the payment of both ransom and tribute. The habit of paying off the pirates appeared to be hard to break.

In June 1805, Tobias Lear, the American consul general in Algiers, negotiated the release of the Americans from the Philadelphia out of the nightmare of Tripolitan slavery they had endured for almost two years (five had died during their captivity), bringing to an end what came to be known as the First Barbary War. Lear agreed to exchange the Americans man-for-man for captured Tripolitan citizens; since there weren’t quite a hundred of these, and there were about 300 Americans, Lear agreed to pay $300 each for the remaining balance of American sailors — a total of $60,000. In addition to this ransom, Lear agreed to give the Bashaw of Tripoli a “consular present” of about $6,000.

Indeed, although Jefferson abhorred paying ransom and tribute, it appears that pragmatically he was not completely set against it. At a meeting of his Cabinet in April 1803, it was agreed that the U.S. consul (at the time, James Leander Cathcart) had the authority to offer up to $500 per American captive, a lump sum of $20,000 for peace, and $8,000 to $10,000 per year tribute. According to then-Secretary of State James Madison, “The arrangement of the presents is to form no part of the public treaty, if a private promise and understanding can be substituted.”

However, Jefferson’s earlier statement that paying Barbary demands would only lead to more piracy was prophetic. By 1807, Algiers had returned to the practice of taking American ships and sailors hostage, and the United States returned to the practice of paying ransom. It was not until after the War of 1812 that the United States ceased forevermore paying tribute and ransom to the Barbary pirates, sparking the Second Barbary War.

Naval Might Triumphs Over Tribute

In 1815, the United States deployed a force of 10 ships, under the command of Decatur and William Bainbridge, both now promoted to commodore. Decatur took hundreds of prisoners during an attack on Algiers, and negotiated a treaty that released the United States from ever paying tribute to Algiers again. Then, he set off for Tunis to compel a similar agreement. Finally, naval might triumphed over tribute.

By some accounts, about the time Lear negotiated to pay ransom for the captured Americans, the United States was poised to end the Barbary War — thanks to the efforts of Eaton on land and the gathering of an impressive naval artillery in the Mediterranean. But the U.S. government’s apparent waffling between a show of military might and more pacifist measures, plus poor and slow communication between the various parties (Lear, Eaton, Secretary of State Madison, naval commanders, and so on), combined to weaken the U.S. position, and put America right back where it had started — paying tribute to what were essentially terrorists in a very expensive protection racket.

It wasn’t until a more cohesive military policy carrying the message “attack us at your own peril” was formed that the United States was able to extricate itself from beneath the thumb of the Barbary States. Perhaps that is a lesson we could learn again today — that parleying with terrorist regimes and giving them arms, money, and training in the hope that those governments will then not attack us is a disastrous policy.

The Marine Hymn

In his attack on Derne during the First Barbary War, Captain William Eaton left one lasting legacy — giving the Marines their first chance to shine in battle. Accompanying Eaton and a few hundred mercenaries were eight (yes, count them, eight) Marines.

At that time, Marines were not the legendary force they are today; instead, they were primarily an onboard police force for the Navy. However, Eaton’s Marines displayed great courage and discipline in crossing 500 miles of inhospitable desert, helping Eaton hold together a motley, simmering, untrained crew of Christian and Muslim soldiers, and capturing a well-defended Tripolitan town.

The Marine Hymn memorializes the Marines’ participation in the First Barbary War (1801-1805), as well as in the Mexican War (1846-1848) and other hostilities around the globe. The origins of the song, however, are shrouded in obscurity. The lyrics were, according to tradition, written by an anonymous Marine on duty during the Mexican War. The tune can be found both in a Spanish folk song and an aria from a French comic opera, Genevieve de Brabant, written by Jacques Offenbach and first performed in 1859.

In 1929, the commandant of the Marine Corps authorized the “official” version of the Marine Hymn, although virtually every campaign the Marines have participated in (including their action in Iceland in 1941) has resulted in an unofficial verse.

In 1942, the words “On the land as on the sea” were changed to “In air, on land, and sea.” Otherwise, the song has remained unchanged for more than 150 years.

For the record, here is the official version:

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country’s battles
On the land as on the sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
of United States Marine.
Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in ev’ry clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off Northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job —
The United States Marines.
Here’s health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve
In many a strife we’ve fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven’s scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.

Daring Decatur

Stephen Decatur, Jr. was born in 1779, in Maryland. His father, Stephen Decatur, Sr., was an American Revolution-era privateer who took command of a naval vessel when the navy was commissioned in 1798. In that same year, Decatur, Jr. signed on as a midshipman on the frigate United States. In a year’s time, young Decatur had reached the rank of lieutenant.

Besides his daring raid to burn the Philadelphia in the Tripoli harbor, Decatur also distinguished himself during the War of 1812 by capturing a British ship, the Macedonian, and bringing her back to the United States — at this time he commanded the frigate United States. The Macedonian was the only British ship to be refitted and commissioned in the American navy during the War of 1812. In 1814, Decatur was promoted to the rank of commodore, commanded the President, and was taken prisoner by the British during a skirmish in the West Indies.

From 1816 to 1820, Decatur served as Navy Commissioner, and received a sword for his service in the Barbary Wars and a gold medal for distinguished service in the War of 1812. Unfortunately, Decatur was not only a noted and decorated naval officer, but a frequent participant in duels — which was to ensure he didn’t live to a ripe old age.

His final duel was with Commodore James Barron, the brother of Commodore Samuel Barron, who commanded the Mediterranean fleet during most of the First Barbary War. Decatur was killed in the duel on March 22, 1820. He was 41.

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