The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  I hurried around to the door and peered in. The Turkish captain was hunched by the window on the wind’ard side and was holding a lantern to it. The sailor assigned to watch him appeared to be unconscious in a chair.

  “Here. What are you doing? Put out that light!” The Turk, startled, dropped the lantern and stepped back from the port. The crash and my exclamation had awakened the ‘unconscious’ sailor from his nap, and the three of us stared silently at one another for several heartbeats. The burning oil from the lantern crept across the deck, gaining strength as it consumed the woven carpet and the legs of another chair.

  “FIRE! FIRE!” The sailor screamed as he leapt to his feet. The Turkish captain pressed himself into a corner, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He said something unintelligible, in Turkish, I guessed, and waved his arms in dramatic fashion, then pointed at the growing fire.

  Judd, alarmed by the scream, headed into the cabin to determine the problem. He collided head-on with the exiting sailor, and the pair crashed to the deck in a heap. Devon was on his feet in an instant, issuing orders, the very ones which I should have issued even before he arrived. I had little time for self-recrimination, however.

  “Buckets, get some buckets. And all hands on deck. Form a chain to the side.” The men I had earlier spoken to appeared and moved swiftly to carry out Judd’s orders. The light from within the cabin was getting brighter and brighter as the fire gained ground, fanned by the wind whipping around the corner and through the door. The wind’ard bulkhead of the structure was engulfed in flame. It would only be minutes before it burned through and then would threaten the whole ship. The Turkish captain was still in there, on the other side of the fire.

  “Judd, Judd! The captain is in there. We’ve got to get him out!”

  “Let the scoundrel burn, damn his eyes. He’s the one ‘at started this mess, tryin’ to signal that ship out there.” Judd snarled at me and shot a glance into the cabin where the Turk still huddled in the corner farthest from the flames. The features of his face shimmered through the heat, and I noticed that his smile was gone, while his eyes darted wildly from the flames to the doorway.

  I was stunned! In the four months I had known Judd Devon, I had never heard him utter such venom, certainly not about another human being, not even Thomas Wheatley. For a long moment I didn’t, couldn’t, move, then a sailor returned toting a full bucket of water.

  I snatched it from his hands and, stepping partly into the room, threw it into the hellish confines of the cabin. For a moment, some of the flames were extinguished. Tossing the bucket aside, I jumped farther in and grabbed the captain by his shirt front. With more strength than I thought I possessed, I dragged the man out behind the fire and into the night outside the cabin.

  A bucket of water was dashed on his smoldering lower parts. He lay there on the deck simply staring at the activity around him. I caught my breath and joined the bucket line while the flames shot out the cabin wall and overhead.

  Judd grabbed an axe and began crashing it into the burning wood, hauling pieces of it away from the rest with each bite of the blade. Another sailor joined him, wielding a hatchet, while a third, his hands wrapped in scraps of canvas, threw the smoldering, cherry-red bits they had cut away over the side. It was hot work, but quickly in hand. Soon the cabin was little more than a glowing pile of wreckage that all hands then pitched overboard. Each piece left a fiery arc and a trail of smoke in the darkness and landed in the water with a satisfying sizzle. Then the fire was out and the danger past.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the excitement of the conflagration, no one had thought to check on the other vessel. No one on deck, that is. The lookout had divided his attention between the progress his shipmates were making with the fire and the progress the strange ship was making—toward us, as it turned out. One danger gone and another looming! My joy at being selected as “first lieutenant” on this vessel was rapidly evaporating.

  She was now almost within cannon-shot and Judd studied her from the deck with a night glass. He spoke in a low voice without taking his eye from the glass.

  “Oliver, send the men to quarters; we may have to fight. I can make no colors on this vessel, and I am sure we must look like easy pickin’s after that fire.” Devon paused, and I headed forward to carry out his orders. “And make sure there are cutlasses and half pikes on deck; they may well try to board us if they think we still have problems. Get yourself a pistol as well.” He studied the closing ship for another heartbeat, then added, “And see that some of the guns are double-shotted with ball and some loaded with grape or canister, whatever you can find. No telling what we might be in for, here.” This last ominous comment was under his breath; he might not even have realized he spoke aloud. But I heard it, plain as day.

  I hurried off, urging the men to their action stations. Most were already on deck and obviously shared Judd’s opinion as to the likely outcome of a meeting with a strange vessel, making my words quite unnecessary. Bradford and another I recognized from one of Wheatley’s gun crews had already bent to the task of loading our few cannon. I mentioned Judd’s instructions as to their loads and, after issuing hand weapons to the others, saw that we were ready for a fight. This one, I feared, would not go as easily as our last.

  I felt the ketch change her motion through the seas as Judd brought her bow higher to the wind; he was closing the distance to the stranger rather than trying to get away. Sails were braced and sheeted home and Mastico quickly picked up speed, toward a confrontation with the stranger. Why would he want to get closer? We have only a few hands aboard to fight her and even fewer guns!

  “What ship is that?” The hail drifted down to us from the stranger, carried by the wind over the mile or less separating us. The accent was clearly English, but that was meaningless in these waters, I reminded myself.

  I watched Judd to see what he would do. He continued to study the ship through his night glass and finally stepped onto the bulwark with a speaking trumpet held to his lips.

  “We are American. The prize of the American schooner Enterprise and the frigate Constitution. Who are you?” Without moving the speaking trumpet from his lips, he shouted, “Blow on your matches, lads. Stand by!”

  “He’s lost his mind! We cain’t fight with this toy of a ship!” One of the men crouching behind a carronade muttered to a mate. My thoughts, exactly. I realized that, once again, I had difficulty swallowing and found that my breathing seemed considerably faster than it had been only moments ago. In spite of the cool of the night, I realized my shirt was some wet and sticky.

  After a short delay, a different voice, with a decidedly educated accent, answered, “His Britannic Majesty’s brig Amazon. Lieutenant Throckmorton commanding. Are you experiencing difficulty? May we be of assistance?” The ship continued to close with us. Over my own exhalation, I heard a collective release of breath from the men near at hand.

  “It would appear we have the situation under control, sir. But I thank you for your offer. We are directed to make for Syracuse to rejoin with Constitution and Enterprise. If you are headed that way, we would welcome the company.”

  “You are only a day or two from your landfall, captain. While we are only going as far as Malta, we would be pleased to give you escort that far. You may maintain a position under my lee.” The disembodied English voice stopped. There was a bit of happy chatter from the hands as they realized there would be help at hand should it be needed. “Name your commander, sir, if you please.” The same voice floated over the water, carried undiminished on the strong breeze.

  “Midshipman Judd Devon of Enterprise. Stephen Decatur commanding.” Judd’s voice rang out quickly and must have satisfied Captain Throckmorton (or whoever on the British ship was our inquisitor) as the conversation ended, and we watched the dim figure of the ship change as Amazon bore up to continue on her original course. Mastico bore off to sail a cannon-shot off and in her lee.

  “Stand down, men. Looks like we won
’t be fightin’ tonight!” Even without seeing him, I, and I’m sure all the others aboard, could hear the relief in Judd’s voice; indeed, we all shared it. Suddenly I could barely keep my eyes open. I staggered to the quarterdeck in the hope of relief.

  “Aye. You’ve done well, Oliver. Go to bed. With Amazon standing by to weather we’ll be fine. I managed to get a few hours’ sleep, and now you should do the same.” Judd’s smile was accompanied by a hand on my shoulder. As I stepped toward the ladder below in the charred area of our deck where once the cabin had stood, he called quietly after me, “Have Wilson or whoever it is watching our Turkish friend there secure him to a chair, or the mizzenmast or anything else. We don’t need him causing us any more troubles this night!”

  I did so, barely noticing that the captain offered no resistance to the order. I was asleep even as I touched the cot, never removing my boots, dirk, or jacket.

  The sun was up, indeed, it was quite high in a sky of the purest blue I had ever seen, when I returned to the deck, having been summoned by Captain Devon. The brightness of the day, the effulgence of the water, and having slept the sleep of the dead, all conspired to cause my eyes to squint almost shut for some minutes. Eyes shut or no, I could feel that the wind had eased to a pleasant breeze. Once again, Mastico was under her full sail. Judd laughed when he saw me.

  “I am sure that Mister Cutler, were he here, or Mister Lawrence for certain, would have some suitably caustic comment on your appearance, Oliver. Did you not even remove your clothes when you retired?”

  “Not even my boots, Judd. I have never been so fatigued.”

  “You’ll find that the weight of responsibility can be tiring, Oliver. And while I can not apologize for dropping you headlong into that position last night, I was most pleased that you weathered it, and the other excitement we enjoyed, quite splendidly. You may rest assured that Lawrence and Decatur will receive favorable reports on your abilities.” Judd seemed no worse for the wear. I doubt he had gotten any more sleep than I, yet he had the full weight of command on his shoulders whether he was asleep or not. But hearing that he would report to my credit put me in a happy state of mind. I caught myself smiling.

  The men had been working to restore the ketch to a seaworthy condition, hammering boards down to replace the ones on the deck that had burned. I noticed a pair of unfamiliar faces in the group near where our deckhouse once had been. Their confident movements and the instructions they gave to the Enterprises working with them made them more than sailors, and I turned back to Judd. He anticipated my query.

  “Captain Throckmorton was kind enough to lend us, early this morning, a carpenter and his mate, along with a few boards he felt they could spare. They’ll be into Malta before the middle watch tonight, and, with the weather calmed down as much as it is, he didn’t think the Royal Navy would miss them. The boards, of course, not the carpenters. Doing a fine job of fixing the damage, they are!” He smiled wearily at his little joke.

  Indeed, except for the complete lack of the deckhouse, there seemed little to attest to our potentially disastrous excitement that just last night, or rather, early this morning, had looked so dreadful, even in the dark. A temporary chart table had been built on the quarterdeck to take the place of the one which had occupied much of the structure. Not only had the wind eased, but the seas were down considerably, and the ketch sailed on an easy reach with a pleasant motion to her. Amazon kept pace, now about a musket shot to wind’ard. Mas-tico’s former captain, the Turk, dozed in the chair to which he was still secured, just for’ard of the mizzenmast.

  “When do you figure we’ll get in, Judd?” I looked all around the horizon and could see no land. Obviously, we were still some distance away, even from Malta where we would lose our escort.

  “By my calculations, we ought to be seein’ the southern point of Sicily about first light tomorrow and in the harbor by mid-day.” He looked at me, the beginnings of a smile working at the corners of his mouth. “Why don’t you see if you can get a noon sun line and work our position from that? See if you agree with me. Shouldn’t be more’n an hour from now ‘til noon, I’d guess.”

  The remainder of the day was spent putting Mastico to rights, returning the carpenter and his mate to the brig, with a jug of Spanish brandy Judd had found in the captain’s cupboard by way of a thank you, and feeding the crew and our cargo. During the dark of the night, but before the middle watch began (I had relieved Judd shortly after our meager supper) a voice hailed from windward.

  “Ahoy there, Mastico! We’ll be taking our leave now. A safe passage to Syracuse to you! And thank you for the brandy. Right decent of you, that! And a glad Christmastide to you all.”

  “Thank you, sir, for the escort. And the assistance. And Christmas tidings to you, as well.” I shouted back, hoping I sounded more like an officer than a fourteen-year-old midshipman. At least my voice broke into the higher registers less frequently now. To my joy, it held while I shouted through the dark to the English ship. As I watched them haul their wind and bear up to fetch Malta, I realized with a shock that we—the British commander and I—had just exchanged Christmas greetings—tomorrow would be that holy day. I could scarce believe it; the day had nearly arrived unnoticed! This exchange was the first thought I had had of Christmas, and I was startled by the suddenness. As long as I could remember, I had always anticipated the arrival of Christmas and all that it entailed. Now here it was very nearly upon me. My thoughts, as Mastico moved comfortably through the warm Mediterranean night, turned to Philadelphia and family, and the contrasts were inescapable.

  This year for Oliver Baldwin, there would be no snow softening the hard edges of the streets and buildings of the city, no sleighs sounding the happy tinkling of bells as they carried red-cheeked and laughing families to and fro, visiting relatives and going to church, waving to the like-minded occupants of other sleighs they passed, and no fine dinner with family and relatives. Just warm winds, sea, this battle-scarred little ketch, and the monotony of watches, meals and the same faces. Faces that were familiar to be sure—and friends as well—but it would not be the same as being home. With an effort I hauled myself out of the sadness that washed over me and, with the realization that my brother’s circumstances would allow even less, thought guiltily of Edward. He was even farther away, even though he was likely only a few hundred miles from where I stood this moment.

  The poor man! I wonder if those piratical Arab scoundrels would even give the prisoners leave to acknowledge the day. Did the Philadelphia frigate carry a chaplain? Was there anyone who might lead a service of some kind for the men? I know he must be lonely in his captivity. Anderson has told me of the conditions in those pest holes. I reckon he’ll not be having a juicy goose with dumplings and a tasty duff for dessert, any more than I. And I am sure he would relish the ‘monotony’ of my life. His must be dreadful! At least I can see the sky and smell and feel the fresh sea breeze. And move about freely, even on this little vessel. I must finish my letter and find a way to get it to him. And one to my parents.

  Wonder if they’ll do the same thing as every year, even though Edward and I are absent. This would be one of the only days in the year the shop will be closed for business. Father will have Martha hitched between the shafts of the sleigh, ready to pull him and Mother to church and then, afterwards, to visit with Aunt Sally and Uncle Jim and those noisome cousins of mine. Maybe they’ll stay there for dinner, since there’s only the two of them now, and Mother likely wouldn’t want to fix a big dinner for just her and Father. And I’m sure she would be just as happy for the distraction of dining with her younger sister’s family. Aunt Sally will make a fine dinner of a goose and dumplings and a wonderful plum duff for dessert. Oh! How I miss home. Even those cousins might not be so intolerable! Wonder if they’ll think of me. I know they rarely spoke of Edward when he was away, a year and more at a time, when I was home, or within earshot. Maybe they . . .

  “LAND! Deck there! Land just off the wind’ard bow. M
aybe four leagues.” The cry of the lookout jerked me rudely from my sorry reverie. I expected we would be coming onto Malta, especially after Amazon bid us farewell, but didn’t think it would be this soon. I laid our track on the chart and extended it onward based on the numbers written on the slate.

  Yes, that would have to be Malta. Sicily by dawn, just as Judd had predicted. My own earlier confirmation of his landfall was something less than exact and hardly confirmed his own calculations, though I had refrained from voicing anything beyond a vague agreement with his estimate. But what better proof could be had than our landfall at Malta! I looked forward to a return to my duties as midshipman on Enterprise; perhaps the responsibility of my temporary position was premature. I resolved to content myself with waiting until I had made further progress along the “course to manhood.”

  Judd appeared to take the middle watch and, after showing him our position on the chart and the dark smudge of land off our windward bow, I climbed down the ladder to the single cabin that we shared. This time, before climbing wearily into the cot, I stripped off my clothes and boots, anticipating another dreamless sleep, at least until I was called to relieve Judd before the dawn.

  But it was not to be; my mind whirled and thrashed, first with thoughts again of home and, then turning once again to my poor brother. I pined for both, and wondered in my restlessness why I missed Edward so much when I was quite used to his long absences over the past five years and more. Perhaps, I decided, it was because of his nearness and the knowledge that I would not, and could not, see him. And because it was Christmas, a time of closeness and sharing for the Baldwin family.

  Yes, that must be it. When he missed the holiday the first time, Father and Mother were quite beside themselves. Never mind that I was there, a mere boy of ten years. They tried to put on a good face and be jolly, but it was hollow, even to me. We did everything we had always done, visiting friends and family, attending services at the church, and sitting down to a wonderful dinner in mid-afternoon. But Edward’s chair was empty, a sight that none of us could overlook. It cast a pall on the joy of the day and made Mother weep in spite of her efforts to avoid showing her dismay. Now both our chairs would be empty; what will Mother and Father be doing? I should have finished that letter to them. They should know that Edward is held captive. I reckon they don’t even know where I am. Did Edward manage to get a letter out to them? Or to me? Oh God! Let there be some word in Syracuse when we get in!