The blood-thirsty pirates—it seemed there were hundreds of them—scrambled aboard immediately, crying out in their heathen tongue with blood-curdling screams and their evil-looking curved swords, called scimitars, brandished aloft, and herded all the men into the waist and the officers onto the quarterdeck, while others in their number plundered our ship and personals without regard to decency or need. When they were quite satisfied that they had discovered all of any value (to them) we were put into the ship’s boats and, under the gaze of an armed pirate in each, the men were forced to row us—their mates and officers—ashore. It was quite late of hour and nearly full dark by this time. They forced us overboard before we had reached sufficiently shallow waters, and each of us were soaked to the skin, head to foot. Our plight held no significance to them, save to further amuse them, and they marched us, wet and bedraggled, through the dark town, amid jeering and abusive citizens who held torches aloft, to a most daunting prison. Few among us thought we were in any particular danger of being put to death as we all had heard tales of merchant crews held captive until ransomed by their countrymen. We reasoned that we were worth more to these rascals alive than dead. But privation and torture held prominent positions in the forefront of most of our minds. With a sudden (to us) shift in attitude, the officers were not marched with the men into the prison, but rather forced to carry on to the palace of the Bashaw.
At that momentous place, we were herded into a splendid and opulent room of great proportion to wait, for what we knew not. After some hours, (I am sure it was well into the middle watch) during which we had nothing to eat or drink, we were marched into another chamber and forced at the points of scimitars to fall prostrate before the most enormous human being I have ever beheld. He lounged on a proliferation of cushions and viewed us through hooded eyes. His clothes were of magnificently embroidered silk, and there was not a finger on either hand that did not hold at least one ring of enormous proportion.
Of course, this person—the Bashaw—spoke no English, preferring instead the uncivilized and unintelligible tongue of his land and, after haranguing us for some time before coming to the realization that we understood not a word of the gibberish he spoke, he called into the room a Mr. Nissen, who is Denmark’s consul in this hostile land and fluent in both Arabic and English.
After some lengthy discourse, it was related to us by Mr. Nissen that we would be provided some replacement clothes for our ruint ones and held, not in the prison with the sailors, but in an adjoining palace—ironically, the former residence of the American Consul here—nearby to the Bashaw’s own. And he further procured for us some food, scant in quantity, but most welcome.
We are allowed no discourse with the world beyond our prison walls save for Cap’t Bainbridge, who, through the good offices of Mr. Nissen, has won the privilege of corresponding with the Commodore and by whom I hope to ensure this letter’s delivery to your hands. I would, in light of our difficulty in correspondence, ask that you inform our parents of my situation, begging them not to worry overmuch as my plight, while surely not of my own choosing, does not appear to be a threat to my well-being. And you, brother dear, take heart in that same fact and, while I would much welcome your thoughts and more particularly, your prayers, I would most assuredly not wish to burden you with concern for my situation. We are, at the present, comfortable and reasonably fed.
Lieutenant Porter has taken in hand the midshipmen and has them spending their time studying their trade and reading texts salvaged from the ship by our captors. They seem fully engrossed in furthering their understanding of the art of navigation and mathematics. As for the other officers and yrs. truly, we are, while surely not in positions we might wish on ourselves, not in any danger to our persons. As we have had no contact with our seamen since being separated from them those many weeks ago, I have no clue as to their welfare or condition.
As you reread this letter by the light of a candle and, perhaps choose to discuss it with our fellow Philadelphian, take heart in the knowledge that sitting idle will not answer and action will best occupy your mind and person.
With greatest affection, I am yr. Brother,
Edward Baldwin, Lt. United States Navy
I sat, the letter, twice read, in my lap, as I pictured Edward, dressed in the same rags I had seen in my dream, wasting away in his captivity. His brave words, and mention of his confinement in a palace, held little conviction in my mind. I was quite sure he had included them to allay my own concerns as well as those of our parents when I passed the grim news to them. I was certain he was held in a prison of dubious comfort and fed or not at the whim of his captors. I felt a tear starting again—indeed many of the words he wrote had been smudged by my own tears as I read and reread his letter. I felt drained, expunged of any will to do more than sit where I was and remember my brother in better times.
“Oliver! There you are! I have waited these hours and more for you in our cockpit, putting up with Wheatley’s insults and abuse. What have you been doing? I was afraid Captain Decatur had mastheaded you when I couldn’t find you. Are we going to get supper ashore like you promised?”
My thoughts of home and Edward shattered like a bottle dropped from the mainyard as James’s interruption brought me, with breathtaking suddenness, back to the present and the foredeck of Enterprise. I blinked at James, recalling our earlier conversation (it seemed so long ago) and raised myself from the inboard end of the bowsprit, where I had been sitting. I folded my precious letter, placed it carefully into my pocket, and tried to smile at my young shipmate.
“Why are your eyes so red, Oliver? You’ve been crying, haven’t you.” It was not a question. “Did Decatur take you to task? What happened with him? What did you do?”
James’s concern was genuine, and I could not help but be touched by it.
“No, James. The captain was not angry with me, and I am not in any trouble. In fact, he had a letter for me from Edward. From the Tripoli prison. I have been reading it this last hour and more. My apologies for having kept you waiting.”
“How did Decatur get the letter? Why wouldn’t your brother write directly to you? Is it because he and the captain are friends?”
“The letter was sent to the commodore with papers from Captain Bainbridge and, I collect, was more or less smuggled out of the prison. It came in on Constitution last night. I am some happy to have it, I can tell you.” I smiled in spite of myself at his continued concern for my well-being. “Let us find Lieutenant Lawrence and see if perchance he will allow us leave to sup in the town.”
As the schooner’s boats were in the employ of others more senior to midshipmen, we managed to attract the attention of a passing craft which, for the consideration of several coins, carried us to the dock, just where Mastico rested. Her holds were open, presumably being aired out after their recent employment, and her sails neatly furled with tight, seaman-like harbor furls.
“Wonder how soon they’ll be selling the ketch off. I don’t imagine we’ll see much in prize shares from such a small vessel, and since her human cargo was released rather than sold, I reckon there won’t be but a pittance there either.” I mused—more or less to myself—as we stood on the dock looking at my late home and scene of my ‘first-lieutenancy’ until James plucked at my sleeve, entreating me to ‘hurry along.’
I am afraid I was less than an enthusiastic participant in our excursion in search of supper and, perhaps, entertainment. I mulled over Edward’s letter while we walked, barely hearing James’s excited comments over this shop or that coffee house. There was something about the words, or the things Edward had mentioned or something else, I could not put a finger on it, but I knew I missed something he had written. I was lifted from my thoughts by a booming and familiar voice.
“Here, you lads. Join me for a bite of supper, if you please.” Mister Wakefield, our surgeon, stood in the doorway of a small tavern. A pewter mug of something was lifted aloft in one hand, while the other was extended in greeting to us. He ha
d most obviously been eating; a white cloth napkin, far from spotless, hung from his collar, protecting both his shirt and his waistcoat. He wore no jacket. A welcoming smile split his broad face and caused his flushed cheeks to puff out.
“Oh, Mister Wakefield, sir. What a surprise to see you.” James’s enthusiasm at seeing a familiar in this foreign place burst out with his words. He turned to me. “Come on, Oliver. Let us join the doctor as he suggested.”
I barely had time to agree before we were seated in the additional chairs brought quickly by an employee of the establishment on Wakefield’s signal. In rapid and completely unintelligible Italian, the doctor gave instructions to the man, and moments later, food and drink appeared in front us. James immediately attacked it with the same gusto he had exhibited in Decatur’s Cabin so many months ago.
“Well, boys. It is a pleasure to have your company this evening; you are most kind to humor an old man. How have you enjoyed your employment as naval officers thus far? I trust it has been to your liking? And Oliver, were you not involved with bringing in that prize ketch some days ago, the one we took off Tripoli? I heard she carried a cargo of slaves. As a gift for the sultan of Constantinople I was told. I’d warrant those poor souls are still giving thanks to whatever deities their heathen religion might dictate for their timely rescue!” The doctor beamed at us as he listened to my tale of bringing in Mastico, including the fire and the visit from the English brig. James, for the most part, remained involved in his meal and offered only an occasional grunt of agreement around mouthfuls of food. After a brief silence in which I, too, took advantage of Mister Wakefield’s generosity, he spoke again.
“I heard you have received a letter from your brother, Oliver. I trust he is well, in spite of his unfortunate circumstances?” Wakefield smiled at me and took a draught of whatever was in his tankard.
“Oh, sir. I . . . that is . . . he says he is quite fine, sir, and not in any danger. In fact he mentioned the officers are being held in a palace nearby the Bashaw’s own. He described their capture and what followed and said that only one man was hurt in the attack.”
“Then why, pray tell, do you seem so disheartened? Knowing that your brother is safe and unhurt should lift a great burden from your young mind. You seem something less than pleased at the news.”
“Oh, no, sir. It is not that at all. Of course I am greatly relieved that Edward is alive and unhurt and I am so pleased to have his letter.” I smiled quickly at the thought. “But there is something about it . . . I don’t know . . . just . . . it seems that there ought to . . . be something . . . something I should see, but am not.” My concern over what my brother hadn’t said caught the doctor’s attention, and he frowned, then spoke very quietly.
“Perhaps, Oliver, if I should be allowed to see your letter, I might see what you think you have missed. Or perhaps there is nothing and your worry is for naught. Did you, perchance, bring the letter with you?”
I handed my prized missive over to Reliance Wakefield, who took it, smoothed it out on the table after pushing aside a plate recently emptied of his supper, and donned a pair of spectacles. He became solemn and quiet as he studied the papers with great intensity. His jaw worked from time to time as if chewing some last vestige of his supper, and lines formed in his forehead and around his mouth as he absorbed the words. I was sure that he was as caught up in Edward’s descriptions of the tragedy as I had been earlier. I watched him in silence. James ate.
Suddenly the doctor looked up and, finding an employee of the tavern, called to him in Italian. The man disappeared and in the next moment was standing close at hand lighting a candle which he had thrust into a small ceramic holder in the center of the table. I was baffled by this addition, as the lantern sitting on the table augmented perfectly the light from other lanterns along the walls and the failing daylight filtering in through the windows.
“You were quite right, Oliver, to think there was something here you missed; there is, I am sure. It’s the way Edward ends; you see, he says ‘... as you reread this by the light of a candle ...’. That’s the clue! Then he says, ‘sitting idle will not answer and action will best occupy your mind and person.’ He is telling us that we must do something’. And he suggests that you should show this to Captain Decatur, your fellow Philadelphian. I am sure he has given us something here he would not want his captors to see. Watch!”
“How to rescue him ... and the others, sir?” I asked. I noticed that James, caught by the doctor’s animated tone, had stopped eating mid-chew. His cheeks puffed out in the familiar way that, at another time, I might have laughed at.
“I don’t know yet, Oliver. Push that candle closer and let’s see what shows up!” The mysterious smile and cryptic words caught my own attention fully, and I reached for the holder to edge it nearer to him. He selected a page of Edward’s letter and held it toward the flame.
“Here, sir. Be careful, if you please. You will burn my letter!” I nearly shouted out my caution, completely forgetting my station, and the doctor’s, in my horror of seeing the long-awaited sign of my brother’s survival consumed by the flame.
“Do not fear, young Oliver. I have no intention of burning something of such great moment. To the contrary, indeed! Watch, if you please!” Wakefield held the page of writing near the candle, and, as I watched, more writing, a pale, rusty, brown this time, appeared between the lines of ink. I was speechless! I craned my neck to see more as he moved the page around the flame. Parts of the page became discolored as the heat from the flame built on the thin paper; then, to my absolute horror, the corner of the paper caught the flame and briefly flared before the surgeon quickly blew it out. The edge of my dear brother’s letter was now charred and partially gone where the flame had touched it. Mister Wakefield seemed unmoved as he continued to move the page slowly across the flame, risking, with little regard for the future of the document, its complete destruction.
“Just as I thought. You brother has used his letter to you to communicate with us. This is likely important. We must go at once back to the ship and show this to Decatur, as Edward instructs us to.” The doctor rose, threw a few coins on the table, grabbed his blue jacket, and sallied forth to the entranceway of the place. James, clearly horrified at the turn of events, looked up, a mouthful of food unchewed.
“Wait! I have not finished! Must we go now?” He chewed faster on seeing me rise also.
“Reckon we’re going back to Enterprise, James. Mister Wakefield’s likely halfway to the dock by now. And he’s got my letter! Stay if you will, or not.” I hurried after the surgeon and my precious letter and sensed that James, most probably still chewing his food, had rushed after me. To our great good fortune, one of the schooner’s own boats was at the quay and, with Mister Wakefield’s steady encouragement, carried us quickly to Enterprise.
“Captain! You will want to see this, I am sure. It appears we have received some most important information from Bainbridge. Or at the very least, one of his lieutenants.” The doctor rushed past the Marine at Decatur’s door, giving the startled man barely time to open it, let alone announce him. I followed more in keeping with my station, not wanting to lose sight of my letter, but also not wanting to barge into the captain’s cabin without invitation. I had no idea where James had gotten to since our frantic run across the deck and down the ladder behind the agitated surgeon.
Decatur was as startled as the Marine had been at Wakefield’s pronouncement. He looked up from the chart and other papers he had spread out before him as the doctor snatched up a candle stand from the shelf and set it squarely into the center of Decatur’s table on top of the chart that, prior to our precipitous entrance, had held his attention.
The captain sputtered and fussed over the disruption to his study, but Mister Wakefield paid him no attention; he brandished the letter—my letter—with one page’s corner charred and spoke as if Decatur had said nothing at all.
“Here, here it is. Look here.” Wakefield held the first page of Edwa
rd’s letter close to the flame; I moved around him so I could watch the magical letters as they appeared on this new page. With all my heart, I wanted to cry out a word of caution, but held my tongue as the captain became rapt, watching the paper darken slightly as the words, darker than the now discolored paper, began to appear.
Decatur’s eyes grew wide as he saw them, and, while I suspect it was not in any surprise at their magical appearance, but more in response to the words themselves, he snatched the page from the doctor’s fingers and held it himself, reading as the candle brought forth the hidden message. His hand seemed steadier than had the medico’s and, while the paper as well as its writing became discolored, there was no flame or further charring, for which I was most grateful!
“Reliance, you are quite right! How did you determine that Edward Baldwin’s letter might contain such intelligence?”
“It was Oliver, Captain, who actually figured it out.” Now it was my turn to be surprised; I hadn’t figured anything out. My face, having gone all slack-jawed, surely must have shown that the doctor’s remark caught me all aback. But beyond a cursory nod and quick smile from the captain, I remained unseen, nearly as invisible as the writing in my letter had been. The surgeon continued, telling Decatur of our conversation in the tavern, while the captain shifted his glance from Wakefield to the letter and back again. Finally, the doctor showed Decatur the ending of Edward’s letter with its cryptic instructions, the ones I had not understood. “And as you can see, sir, Lieutenant Baldwin suggests showing the letter to you, ‘our fellow Philadelphian.’”
The Greater the Honor Page 22
