Edward Preble took upon himself full responsibility for the hazardous enterprise. “It is my order,” he wrote Decatur, “that you proceed to Tripoli, in company with the _Siren_, Lieutenant Stewart; enter the harbor in the night; board the _Philadelphia_; burn her; and make good your escape.” The courage it requires to write such an order is seldom appreciated. If the expedition had failed, as certainly it looked very probable, all the blame would have fallen on Preble. He would have been accused of sending officers and men to their death while he remained in safety. And, if the attack should succeed, the credit and honor would belong to Decatur. But Preble was not guarding his own interests. He was striving to further those of the Navy and the country. [Illustration: In Tripoli harbor] For two weeks the _Intrepid_ was battered about by a succession of storms. On this little craft, much smaller than a submarine chaser, seventy-four men were crowded. Their sufferings can scarcely be imagined. But at last the weather moderated and the long-awaited opportunity was at hand. As a reënforcement Midshipman Anderson and nine sailors rowed over in one of the _Siren’s_ cutters. This was towed astern of the _Intrepid_. She started in. The sea now was smooth. The wind lulled slowly to a calm. As night came on, a young moon, the enemy’s emblem, diffused a gentle light over the phosphorescent waters. Wary Odysseus might have turned back his prow at sight of such an unfavorable omen, but not all the gods on Olympus could have turned back Stephen Decatur that night. Slowly and silently steals the _Intrepid_ toward the harbor entrance. This cold wintry night there are no vessels on patrol. Only irregular ranks of jagged rocks keep watch. The moonlight discloses these ever present sentinels. The ship passes through. Quietly there on deck stand Decatur, Catalano, and ten seamen—all disguised as Sicilians. Close down behind the bulwarks crouch the remainder of the crew. Ahead looms up the great hulk of the _Philadelphia_. Her foremast has not been replaced, but the main and mizzenmasts, with their network of rigging, trace a spider web of black against the dull red glare of the city’s lights. Fifteen gaping gun ports are dotted with the muzzles of frowning 18-pounders, loaded, shotted, and ready to be touched off. High overhead towers the dark mass of the Bashaw’s castle, its embrasures filled with one hundred and fifteen cannon. The frigate’s bell rings out the hour. It is ten-thirty in the evening watch. Her sentinel hails. Catalano answers with long-rehearsed lines. He has lost his anchors. May he not secure alongside the frigate for the night? The answer is, “Yes.” Lawrence lowers a small boat. With a line from the _Intrepid_ he pulls for the frigate’s bows. Quickly he secures his end to the fore chains. At the other end crouching seamen haul away.