The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  “I think I can trust you, Mister Baldwin. Where are you gonna go anyway? We’re gonna be gettin’ the barky sailin’ quick as the fog lifts and less’n you take to swimmin’, ain’t much chance of you gettin’ away from me! ‘Sides, you’re an officer, or almost one, and, I reckon, a gentleman.” As he made this wondrous proclamation, his expression never so much as changed a whit! I had survived yet another financial crisis! My joy knew no bounds!

  “Thank you, Mister Tarbox. I promise I will pay you straight away on getting my money from the purser. And you needn’t worry about my ‘taking to swimming,’ sir; I was never much for it. And thank you for understanding—and for finding my watch.” I smiled as he nodded and turned back to the rail. I started aft and could hear him, as likely could any other on deck, telling Bosun Anderson of our encounter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two days later, as predicted by Lieutenant Morris and Judd, the fog did, in fact, lift, replaced by a brilliantly clear late September sky. The breeze that blew out the fog remained, and Captain Decatur pronounced it fair for getting Argus to sea. In a cacophony of thumps, groans, clatter, and shouted commands, we began the process, sending men to their stations, pulling sheets and halyards from their racks, and securing loose items around the decks. With my knowledge, recently acquired through Bosun Anderson, I was quite pleased to be able to make sense of the activity surrounding me.

  From my vantage point on the quarterdeck, the frenzied activities of the men carrying out the orders shouted by, first, the sailing master, and then relayed by the bosun and his mates, appeared as something less than a ballet of precision and efficiency of effort. The topmen, the most experienced of our hands, were sent aloft to cast off the brails holding the furled sails to their yards; the anchor was hove short and, on the bellow from the deck “Layout and loose! “ the brails came away. That was about the last part of getting Argus to sea that went smoothly.

  Immediately, the sailing master shouted, “Man tops’l halyards and sheets. Stand to the weather braces! Hoist away the fore and main tops’ls. Haul taut and sheet ‘er home! Hoist away the jib and fore stays’l. Lively, there, step lively.”

  The response to these commands, heard by some of the seamen for the first time ever, was not inspiring, even to me. I thought briefly back to my ride with Captain Decatur in his jolly boat when I had first heard many of these commands from another ship and how utterly nonsensical they were to me then and sympathized with the landsmen (first-timers) who scurried about in utter confusion. Many could not tell a tops’l halyard from a jib sheet, having not had the benefit of Bosun Anderson’s tutelage as I had. With a great amount of cursing, kicking, and shoving, the proper lines were picked up and hauled, and the fore and main tops’ls, gleaming white in their newness, tumbled out of their furls and were pulled around to catch the breeze. Forward, the jibs snapped as they shivered, ready to be sheeted home to help haul the ship’s bow off to leeward. I stole a glance at our captain; his look was one of utter despair, and I noticed he shook his head more than once at the efforts of his crew.

  When things had settled down once more, Captain Decatur waved his hand which brought a shouted command from the bosun. And the thirty men manning the capstan bars “put their backs into it.” Stepping in time to the beat set by the Marine drummer, they marched the capstan around, their progress measured by the click of the pawls on the capstan’s base and the movement of the continuous messenger line that hauled in the dripping hawser. The great hempen rope, actually three ropes braided together, disappeared into a hawse hole in the deck and wound up on the orlop deck where a half dozen idlers carefully laid it out so it could be used again quickly. As Anderson leaned over the ship’s bow to watch, the anchor was hauled clear, dripping great gouts of black ooze that splashed into the sparkling waters of Boston Harbor, leaving a dark cloudy stain on the surface as the only mark of Argus having spent some five weeks and more in this place. As the great bower became visible, it was, this time, the bosun who waved toward the quarterdeck. Sailing Master Chase ordered the jib and stays’l backed, and I felt Argus stir to life.

  A quietly spoken command from Decatur to the quartermasters at the wheel brought the ship’s head around. The brig paid off on the larboard tack heading for the open sea. The sails filled with a whoomp, and gradually we gained speed.

  I was thrilled! Nothing I had seen or experienced in my time in Argus had prepared me for feeling her come to life under my very feet! It quite literally took my breath away and, at the same time, made me want to shout out in glee. The energy and glory, the grace and dignity, and the power of my ship actually going to sea, to fight the pirates of North Africa, left me in awe. I was transfixed and drank in everything around me much as a thirsty man might gulp his life-saving elixir.

  “Oliver, your mouth is hanging agape!” First Lieutenant Cutler spoke quietly to me from his where he stood at the weather rail. While I could not see his face—he had turned back to observe the progress of the ship—I was quite certain he was as close to a smile as he was capable of. And I closed my mouth.

  I tore my eyes from the men aloft and stole a glance at Captain Decatur as he studied his vessel’s performance. We were moving slowly and, I thought, majestically. But apparently not majestically enough for the captain. He was frowning as he studied the sails and our progress, his eyes shifting from the dazzling white aloft to the dazzling white of the streamers of foam pushed away from our hull.

  “Mister Church, you may set the courses and the spanker, if you please. And we’ll have the main tops’l and t’gallant stay’ls as well.” Almost to himself he added, “Now’s as good a time as any to see how she feels under a press of canvas.”

  “Aye, sir. Courses and spanker it is. Stay’ls as well, sir. Larboard watch, stations for making sail for’ard. Starboard watch, stations for making sail aft! Top-men aloft! Let’s look lively now, lads.” Church fairly bellowed his orders and then enlisted Bosun Anderson to assist him in shoving, kicking, and dragging the poor sailors to their posts. The men still seemed quite confused and, amid the milling, shuffling gangs of seamen, Anderson and Church stood out; their voices were clear above the cacophony of the chaos. I saw Judd Devon and Tom Wheatley both assisting the warrant officers with their task. I stepped forward to take a role myself.

  “You just watch, Baldwin. You don’t know no more’n most of these lubbers, your own self. Maybe by the time we get into the action over yonder, you’ll know the difference ‘twixt a brace and a sheet.” Wheatley had moved away from his own task to greet me in a voice that, had there been less noise about the deck, would have been clear to any hand on the spar deck. I noticed that his true accent, the one that had no hint of education mixed into it, had come through. Without waiting for a response and, I thought, to demonstrate his authority to me, he turned away and grabbed a sailor, shoving him toward the main weather brace and telling him to “Clap onto that sheet, sailor, and heave around when you’re told.”

  As it happened, I knew the sailor was an experienced hand who well knew the difference between a “sheet” and a “brace.” The man simply stared for a moment at the midshipman, then headed aft to assist in setting the spanker as he had previously been directed. I decided aft was a better choice for Oliver Baldwin as well and followed.

  It was not long, or so it seemed to me, before Argus was tearing across the waters of Massachusetts Bay on a heading that would take us clear of the dangerous shoals off the tip of Cape Cod and into the broader reaches of the Atlantic. The cloud of dazzling white canvas aloft strained to contain the wind that drove us; I could not tear my eyes from the spectacle and again reviewed my knowledge of the sails, lines, and spars gained from the hours I had spent in the dizzying heights with Judd and Bosun Anderson. My joy at realizing that I could name all the sails and their associated ropes, tackles, and lifts knew no bounds! I smiled as I shifted my gaze to the sea astern and watched the white feather of our wake laid straight as an arrow on the deep blue of the Bay, the so
le mark of our passage.

  The cool breeze felt good as it ruffled my hair and puffed out my jacket. I stood by the main backstay on the wind’ard side, but well aft, of the quarterdeck (I had early learned that the wind’ard side of the quarterdeck itself was the exclusive domain of the captain and, on occasion, the watch officer) and watched the white tipped waves march towards us and lift the stern gracefully as we sailed east. The late morning sun glinted off the sea in a blinding effulgence. I felt like dancing, it was so exciting and exhilarating. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined anything so wonderful. I could hardly believe that I, Oliver C. Baldwin of Philadelphia, was here, at sea as an officer in the United States Navy, and headed off on a grand adventure!

  The brig settled into what would quickly become her ‘at sea’ posture: one watch on deck tending to the chores necessary to keep her on course and moving swiftly through the seas, and the other below or taking their ease topside, busying themselves with personal chores or just, in the case of the landsmen, enjoying the spectacle as much as I. I heard the pipe and drum sound the call to ‘spirits up’ and, a short while later, dinner; the weather deck became quickly crowded with sailors who queued up for their ration of whiskey mixed with water and then, the noon meal.

  Our meal in the cockpit would not be served for another hour, and I contented myself with roaming the deck, chatting with the watch and getting used to the feel of the motion of Argus as she flew past the tip of the Cape, visible only as a low spit of land well to our south.

  As I made my way forward, I caught sight of James, our reluctant midshipman, standing at the bulwark by the foremast shrouds on the windward side of the spar deck. His two-handed grip on the thick tarred hemp and the chalk-white color of his face when he turned at my approach spoke more eloquently than any words could of his condition. His new varnished straw hat was gone, presumably over the side. He seemed not to notice or at least, to care.

  “Is this not the most terrible feeling, Oliver? How can you just walk about so carelessly, without bracing yourself against this tossing and rolling? I can’t imagine how dreadful it will be when we get farther from land! Why Captain Decatur had to leave Boston in the middle of a storm is beyond my ken. I should think one would have to hang on just to keep from being hurled over the side!”

  “Oh, James, it really isn’t so bad. And we surely are not in a ‘storm’ or anything like one from what I’ve heard of them from my brother. Try to move with the motion. It doesn’t seem to bother me even a little. You should . . .” Before I could finish the sentence, Midshipman Stevens turned away from me and poured out his breakfast. It was immediately caught by the wind blowing in our faces and returned to him, the bulwark, and the deck. It would have covered me as well had I not stepped away as he turned.

  “Oh, my Lord! I think I will die! I can not do this. And what a mess!” Stevens turned back to face me, wiping off the front of his newly decorated jacket. His eyes streamed with tears, whether from his recent upheaval or frustration or fear I knew not. His countenance remained as white as his shirt should have been.

  “I would suggest, James, that the other side of the deck would be a better place to stand, should you feel that coming on again!” I smiled encouragingly at the poor boy and pointed at the leeward side of the ship. “Dinner will be set out in the cockpit shortly. You might want to change before we eat.” I added with some, I am shy to admit, pleasure.

  “Oh, God! Even the thought makes me ...” He turned and, with less to offer this time, repeated his earlier performance, with much the same result. I patted him carefully on a dry spot and left him to his misery.

  I continued my tour of the deck and delighted in the spray that Argus flung over her bows as she flew with the wind. The waves, rollers, actually, that greeted us came from far out in the Atlantic, and the swift little brig rode up and over some, while she brushed aside the smaller ones with her stout bow. The spray that occasionally showered the fo’c’sle deck caught the sun and made miniature rainbows that sparkled for a moment and then vanished, only to be replaced by another and then another. I was captivated by the wondrous display and cared not a whit that much of the spray managed to wet my canvas jacket and trousers. I laughed aloud as a particularly large wave smacked thunderously into the bow, causing the ship to shudder as she pushed the offending impediment to our progress aside and pressed onward, her pace unslack-’ed. The wave was gone, but in going had sent a great deluge of water straight up into the air. Much of it landed on me and suddenly I was wet to my skin. I had had no idea that going to sea would be this much fun. No wonder Edward loved it so much!

  “Mister Baldwin, have you nothing better to do than stand here in the bows getting wet? I should think you would be better used learning your responsibilities while we are underway!” First Lieutenant Cutler had approached me unseen and caught me quite unaware.

  “I . . . uh . . .oh, sir. Yes, sir. I will do so at once!” I stammered a reply, my face feeling hot and flushed at having been caught acting more like a child than an officer in the United States Navy.

  Quite abashed, I made my way on the rolling deck toward the quarterdeck. I could see Captain Decatur standing near the wheel on the windward side. As I approached, he shifted his gaze from the t’gallants to me, taking in my bedraggled appearance. A smile started on his lips, a sparkle in his eyes.

  “Enjoying your first day at sea, Mister Baldwin?” The smile grew broader and his eyes crinkled.

  “Oh, yes, sir! It is quite exciting. I am exhilarated by the whole of it!” I could not contain myself. I, too, smiled broadly.

  “Aye, that it is. I have always enjoyed the feeling of a fine vessel and a good wind. And over the past month and more, I have been chafing to get shed of the dirt and stagnant air of the harbor. Argus is everything Mister Hartt promised me she’d be.” Decatur noticed my blank look; it was apparent that the name meant nothing to me. He added, “He also built Preble’s Constitution, you know. As fine a swimmer—for a ‘44’—as ever one could hope for. Sailed in her myself a year and more back. We will make a splendid crossing, I should imagine!”

  We continued to chat, well, perhaps chat isn’t quite right; Decatur spoke and I listened, about the sailing characteristics of the brig and others until Lieutenant Cutler appeared and stepped with the captain to the windward side of the deck. I remembered my place and remained where I was. The wind carried bits and snatches of their conversation down to me.

  “... quarters . . . afternoon?” Cutler was saying.

  “Aye. Can’t start training ‘em too ... powder and shot. .. hand weapons . . . tomorrow . . .” The captain’s words, most of them, were carried away and I wondered what was in store for us.

  “Mister Baldwin, tell your fellow midshipmen that we will be beating to quarters after dinner, if you please, and find Mister Devon. I’ll be needing a word with him directly.” The first lieutenant threw the words at me over his shoulder as he stepped forward toward the waist. “And put on some dry clothes!”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I had planned ...” He was gone, not expecting or needing a reply to his orders. I set off in search of Judd and the ordered dry clothes.

  Even before I had stepped off the ladder into the passageway leading to the cockpit, I could hear Tom Wheatley’s voice, raised in anger, from within the midshipmen’s apartment.

  “Just who the devil do you think you are? You got no right ordering me to do anything. You think just on account of you been out with Morris and passed through Gibraltar once or twice you got some kinda God-given right to lord it over me acause I ain’t? Lemme tell you something, Devon, I may not always talk like you educated ones, but I know people. I can tell what they’s thinkin’ just by lookin’ at ‘em. I got insight!. An’ you’re thinkin’ you’re better ‘an me— that I’m some kinda pond scum what don’t belong ...”

  Judd’s voice remained controlled and calm; he stopped Wheatley’s tirade with a voice as sharp-edged as a knife. “I would not judge you by your words
, Tom, but by your actions. Same as with the sailors. A man’s got to be able to hand, reef, and steer to gain their respect; I feel the same. We don’t have to be friends, but if you’re able, I will most surely respect you.” He paused. Thomas muttered something I couldn’t make out, then Judd continued.

  “And I am senior to you. It’s not just that I’ve got more experience than you; I have more years in the Navy than you, or any of the others, for that matter. And I spent three years at sea in merchant traders before that. That is why I am, at least partially, responsible for you as well as Baldwin and young Stevens. I expect all of you to listen to me and follow . . .”

  “You ain’t got no right to order me anywhere, Devon. I’ll take orders from Cutler or Decatur or them others in the Gunroom. But not you. You’re no better ‘an me, by God!” Tom was getting more and more exercised. I stepped through the doorway.

  The two stood facing each other, their faces mere inches apart. Wheatley’s jaw thrust forward defiantly, and I saw that his hands were balled into fists. Judd, while flushed with the heat of the argument, remained outwardly calm, his hands clasped behind his back. Both turned at my entrance to the cockpit.

  “This ain’t no concern of your’n, Baldwin. Get yourself gone whilst Mister Devon and I finish this business!” Wheatley spoke without looking at me; his gaze had returned to Judd and he took a half step back, measuring the distance between them. His rancor and defiance had increased, and I knew instinctively that he was a powder keg that any little spark might ignite.

  I shifted my astonished gaze from Wheatley’s red face twisted in anger to Judd’s calm and, outwardly at least, restrained look. Even their bodies were at odds; Tom was tense, rigid, and coiled, ready to strike. Judd, by all appearances, could have been chatting with a friend about nothing more consequential than the weather.