This 2nd stratagem was more Burlingamish than the 1st, for in addition to “H.B.-ing H.B.,” as Barlow put it (i.e., Burlingaming Hassan Bashaw), we served ourselves in several ways at once. One of the older American prisoners, a certain James Cathcart, had ingratiated himself with the Dey to the point of becoming his English-language secretary & closest non-Moslem advisor; he was also our chief liaison with the other prisoners & our principal go-between with the Dey himself. It was Cathcart’s errand, for example, to relay to Barlow, almost daily, the Bashaw’s impatience that the ransom money had not arrived. Not surprisingly, the Dey’s only other confidant amongst the Infidels — our friend Bacri — was jealous of this secretary, the more since Cathcart was Christian & Bacri Jewish. It was, in fact, in the course of jesting with me on the advantage an atheist like himself ought to have in negotiations involving a Moslem, a Christian, & a Jew, that Barlow hit on his pretty inspiration: if the Dey were to send Cathcart to Philadelphia to supervise construction of the Crescent, we would in a single stroke liberate a chief prisoner, oblige Bacri to us for removing the object of his jealousy, & relieve ourselves of some pressure from the Dey, who could then look to Cathcart instead of us to make good on that part of his extortion. Moreover, Barlow had the wit to see that the idea should appear to be Hassan Bashaw’s own. We discust how it might best be put to him without arousing his suspicion — and it occur’d to me to suggest that Bacri, rather than ourselves, bring up the matter. Not only was he a better hand at insinuation (& at judging the Dey’s moods), but, should the proposal arouse the Bashaw’s suspicion or displeasure, it would fall upon Bacri — who however would have only his diplomacy to blame — rather than upon ourselves.
Barlow embraced me, then waltzt merrily about the room. I was my father’s son, he cried, my father’s son! This was 1 May: a week later Cathcart set out for Philadelphia, scarcely happier than the Dey, who preen’d & strutted at his shrewd idea. Or than Bacri, who — Smollett’s dictum notwithstanding — now clamor’d to return our favor. Or than Barlow, despite his fuming over Humphreys’ inability to raise the ransom money. Or than I, who till then had not recognized in myself the family precocity in diplomatical intrigue.
Barlow took thereafter to consulting me seriously on tactical matters, tho I reminded him that calling me my father’s son was sorely qualified praise; also, that any service I might render was to him, whom I owed so much, and not to his country, for which I had at best mixt feelings. Nonetheless I was able to be of use to him, not long after, as follows:
Our dearly bought 90 days were two-thirds spent. Colonel Humphreys’ efforts to sell three-quarters of a million dollars’ worth of discounted U. States Bank stock had got him no gold at all, only letters of credit on Madrid & Cadiz from the London banking firm of Baring & Co. They must have known (at least Barlow did) that the Spanish government was unlikely to permit the export of so much gold — particularly to those Barbary pirates who from time out of mind had made slaves of Christian Spaniards, not least among them the author of Don Quixote. Barlow had therefore shrewdly suggested that Humphreys transfer Baring & Co.‘s letter of credit from Spain to the branch office of Joseph Bacri in Livorno, Italy, where it could promptly be negotiated & the credit transfer’d in turn to Bacri of Algiers. The Dey would have his money (at least credit with someone he trusted); the treaty would be concluded; the prisoners could return to America & we to Paris — and the firm of Bacri would have earn’d two separate commissions on the transaction! Bacri himself had readily agreed, and we’d dispatcht a consular aide to Livorno (the English “Leghorn,” where, as it happens, old Smollett is buried) to manage the matter. But the transfer of credit had yet to be effected by Humphreys with Baring & Co.; our letters to Lisbon & London & Cadiz & Livorno & Paris & Philadelphia had as well been posted into the sea for all the answer we got. And to make matters worse, with the coming of summer Algiers was smitten by an outbreak of plague.
Of this last, dear child, I shall not speak, except to say that I had rather take my chances with a dozen red Robespierres than brave again the Terror of the Pest, the black flag of Bubonia. We were doubly desperate: by the day our three months’ grace expired (8 July, just after my 20th birthday), hundreds of Algerines & five American prisoners had expired also, and unspeakably. Daily we expected the pestilence to attack our little household. Barlow made his will. I wisht myself in Switzerland. Yet no word came from across the Mediterranean.
