At the Edge of Honor (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  Wake, seeing that the schooner was now just about at the line of anchored vessels and was firing into Thorton’s boat, stood up and yelled as loud as he could, “Fire, Durlon, fire!”

  The roar of the twelve-pounder overwhelmed all other noise and action. The flame it spewed out carried for twenty feet and lit up the entire river, clearly showing the damage along the starboard side of the schooner from the dozens of small rounds that had been packed into the canister ammunition. The schooner, with no sweeps now working on her starboard side, suddenly swerved to her right toward the middle of the river and the Rosalie. The sound of the screaming and yelling and shooting from the schooner made it sound like a ship from hell as it continued out of control toward Wake’s sloop.

  Wake looked forward and saw that Hardin had gotten the anchor up and the men at the sweeps pulling. Durlon was yelling at his little gun crew to reload the gun faster so they could fire at the schooner again. Conner was at the helm and Wake told him to steer for the sloop, which was trying to get by the line of Union vessels, along the right-hand shoreline. He yelled over to Moore to board the schooner and then looked at Thorton’s boat. Thorton was taking musket fire from the Confederate sloop now alongside him. It appeared to Wake that the sloop and Thorton’s boat were about ten feet apart and firing continually into each other. As the Rosalie swung her bow over to the right, Wake saw the schooner coming up close ahead on the port bow. He pointed her out to Durlon and told him to fire when ready. Wake then kept his eyes on Thorton’s boat and yelled for Hardin to get the men pulling hard so they could reinforce Thorton.

  Another roar and eruption of light announced that the cannon had struck out again, this time over Rosalie’s port side into the port side of the schooner drifting by. The nightmarish glare from the blast lit up the schooner in sharp detail, showing the carnage as it erupted along her decks at close range. Men aboard her were staggering, crawling, screaming for help. The main mast was canted over and the rigging was in chaos. Acrid smoke was everywhere in the hellish scene.

  Durlon was jumping up and down, screaming for his gun crew to do it again, while Wake heard Moore yelling maniacally as his boat grappled the schooner on her other side and his men poured up and over her decks. Above it all he heard Hardin’s deep voice, edged with anger. “Goddamnit, Durlon, you fool. You’ve holed her, you idiot!”

  It seemed to Wake that everyone, including him, was screaming something to someone, and that no one was paying any attention to what anyone was saying. He found that he couldn’t hear anything in detail, and he focused on getting his ship over to where Thorton was still battling the sloop. His eyes were blinded now, and he told Conner to steer for the musket fire since none of them could see in detail after the last blast of the cannon.

  The musket fire now appeared to be moving down the river, and Wake realized that the fire was coming from the sloop and that she was probably past Thorton’s boat. A moment later they surged past the ship’s boat that had been commanded by Thorton. A sailor was still firing from her bow, but the rest of the crew was crawling or lying still. Another sailor called out to Rosalie that Thorton had been shot and that there were many wounded in the boat. Wake yelled back for them to row over to Moore for help, that he was going after the sloop, which was dead ahead of the Rosalie’s bowsprit.

  Suddenly, Wake heard an explosion from close ahead and saw Smith, on the gun crew, clutch his left thigh and drop the rammer he was holding. Sommer, also on the gun crew, helped him to the deck as Durlon yelled to the helmsman, “Turn the bitch so I can get a shot!” Then a ragged series of explosions came from the bow, and Wilson, pulling the forward starboard sweep, doubled over onto Burns, who was pulling the after sweep. A yell came from the sloop ahead as Hardin fired a musket at them from his position at the mast.

  Wake turned to Conners, told him to get a musket and start shooting, and pulled the tiller to turn the ship to the port, guessing that the Confederate sloop would then be exposed on Rosalie’s starboard side. He yelled to Hardin to get all the men off the sweeps and start firing at the sloop, running forward to fire his own pistol at the unseen enemy who was cutting down his men in the darkness.

  Rosalie was still turning when several bursts of light came from the Rebel sloop only a few feet away. Wake felt a stinging thud in the side of his head even as he methodically observed that the enemy was right where he had thought they would be. Swaying unsteadily on his feet, he tried to understand what had happened and what he should do next. Squinting his eyes to try to regain his night vision, he felt some sort of warm liquid covering them.

  The night erupted again into an earsplitting explosion as the cannon belched out fire and metal over the starboard side directly into the sloop alongside. Wake, having stumbled close to the muzzle of the gun, was almost knocked over by the blast and went to his knees. He tried looking for the sloop, but he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything but various blurs and patterns of light. He tried blinking and rubbing his eyes, but nothing would bring back his sight. He couldn’t even see where he was on the deck or anyone around him. His hearing was gone too, replaced by a tremendous roar that filled his head and made him dizzy. Wake felt his blood pounding through his head with a growing ache of pain increasing by the second. He sensed that people were around him and something was happening close by but could not tell who or what. Blinded and deaf, Wake slowly sat down on the deck and held his ears, still blinking his eyes, and prayed aloud to God that this was only a temporary condition.

  It could have been a moment, or several minutes, before his vision somewhat came back into focus. He still could not hear, but he now saw that Hardin was leading several men across to the sloop, which was right alongside. Wake staggered forward, holding his head and looking for someone to let go the anchor. When he found no one, he sat on the foredeck and cast loose the anchor himself.

  Returning aft, he saw that the Reb sloop had no one but his own men standing on her deck. His own deck had Smith and Wilson rolling in pain as they held their wounds, tended by a terrified Billy Sommer, who was ineffectually trying to bandage them.

  Wake then looked back upriver toward the schooner and saw a blur that was probably Moore, who had Thorton’s boat alongside. Lanterns were showing men moving about on the deck. As his vision developed sharper detail, he saw Hardin and Durlon cross back to Rosalie, leaving Conner and Burns on the sloop holding their weapons on the Rebs who still lived. Lamar, the man who had been on the forward port sweep, was coming toward him with a smoking musket in one hand and a bandage in the other. A moment later Wake was sitting on the afterdeck with Lamar and the two petty officers squatting around him.

  “Looks like a clean wound. Grooved alongside the ear,” offered Durlon as he probed Wake’s right ear, sending a searing pain like a hot fire poker through his brain. Durlon’s hand came away covered in blood, and now Wake realized that the substance he had unconsciously assumed to be sweat or water all over him, not just his face, was his own blood.

  “Looks like he can’t hear or see. Get ’im to lay down. . . . Captain, lay down!” yelled Lamar into Wake’s face from a foot away.

  “Can you hear me, Durlon? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?” Wake glared at the men in front of him, angry at his own inability to hear what they were saying about him. Lamar and Durlon nodded affirmatively as they examined his wound.

  “Lay down, Captain. We’ve got to dress that wound on your ear,” Durlon said slowly into Wake’s face. As he held Wake’s head, Lamar wound the dressing around several times and tied it off tightly.

  Hardin, watching Wake’s wound with intense interest, now stood and turned to go forward. “He’ll be okay. If he ain’t dead by now, he’ll survive. Let’s see what happened to Wilson and Smith. And tell them Rebs to shut up over there, Conner!” Durlon guided Wake down to the deck and told Lamar to tend to him, then got up and went forw
ard following Hardin.

  Sommer, sitting there crying next to the now-motionless body of Wilson, scrambled out of the way as Hardin approached. Smith still lay doubled over and clutching his thigh, staunching the flow of blood from the large exit hole. The entrance wound on the back of his thigh was bleeding too, but not as badly. Smith’s eyes were fixed on the exit wound his hand was compressing, as his wounded leg involuntarily trembled. His mouth was moving in a slow, never-ending stream of oaths that were directed at everything and everyone.

  Hardin knelt down by Wilson, who had always been thought of by everyone else in the crew as his toady, and felt against his neck for a pulse. Feeling nothing, he looked into the dead man’s eyes looking up at him. They were open but the lids were slitted, giving him a piercing expression. His face was tightened into a grimace with his teeth bared and clenched. The whole effect in the lantern light was one of malevolent intent. Wilson had been transformed in death from the subservient fawning pet into a rabid mongrel.

  “Well, he’s dead. Now, what about you, Smith?”

  “Get the hell away from me, Hardin. Just get the hell away from me, you bastard. I don’t want your hooks on me! Durlon, fer God’s sake, get me a decent dressing and help plug this damn thing. The kid can’t handle it.”

  Hardin moved back over to the Confederate sloop as Durlon assisted Smith in wrapping his wound tightly. Burns and Conners made way for him as he climbed over the human and structural damage that littered the decks of the sloop.

  “Any still kickin’?” Hardin asked Conners.

  “Yeah, a couple on the stern. They may make it. Can’t tell for sure. That twelve-pounder shorely did do its work on ’em. Ol’ Durlon showed ’em.”

  There were about half a dozen lifeless bodies on the decks of the sloop, and several more that were half-alive, crawling and squirming at the stern. The screams had turned into moans now. The end was near for some. Hardin ignored the wounded and instead looked about the captured vessel, checking her hold and cabin spaces, the rigging and hull. The rigging was cut to pieces, but the hull did not appear to be holed. Hardin yelled over to the sloop, “Well, Durlon, looks like ya at least didn’t sink this one! Maybe five hundred, maybe more if we can get her fixed up afore Key West.”

  Wake’s hearing was starting to come back now in his left ear. The entire right side of his head felt inflamed and throbbed with each rapid heartbeat. As he looked at the carnage around him, he made himself think about what he should do next. The loud pandemonium of the battle was over, replaced by quiet sounds of men crying and moaning, and ships’ broken spars and rigging clattering. Wake was almost moved to tears as he thought of all that had happened since Sommer had awakened him. Then he thought of the time. It had been four o’clock in the morning when he climbed out of his dream about Linda. What time was it now? He dug into his pocket and found the watch his brother John had given him when he had left for the navy. By the lantern light he could see that it was still working, which gave him an illogical feeling of comfort, embarrassing him with the emotion of knowing that something was normal in this world of his that had descended into a hellish nightmare. Four twenty-two. Twenty-two minutes. All that happened had taken only twenty-two minutes. Wake sat there stunned. The mental effort to understand this profound fact overwhelmed his mind. He looked over at a sound from the enemy sloop and saw Hardin going through the pockets of the dead Confederates. It shocked him into action, and he stood up uncertainly on the afterdeck of his small ship.

  “Hardin, leave the searching of the dead to Conner. Yell up to Moore to come downriver and raft up here. After the dead are searched, have Burns put them into the dinghy and take them ashore. And Hardin, as soon as Moore and his vessels are rafted up, I want a report on the men and the ships.”

  Wake felt a strength come into him as he took notice of Hardin’s glare of anger upon hearing these commands. But he noted also that Hardin, watched by the others in the crew, moved to carry out the directions. Wake moved slowly forward to where Smith still lay swearing. Wilson lay next to him, the look of evil still stamped on his face. Durlon told Wake that it looked to him like Smith would survive the wound, if they could keep it clean and uninfected. Wake looked Smith in the eye and nodded silently. Smith stopped his swearing for a moment and made a grimace that was the best he could do for a grin. He then made an obviously tough effort and laughed. “I’ll be all right, Captain. Ol’ Durlon’s an ugly cuss, but he’s dressed me leg up rightly. Jus’ gotta get to the surgeon and close it up. Hurts like a bitch though, sir, I don’t mind tellin’ ya’. Hell, Captain, ya’ look worsen I do!”

  “We’ll both see the girls again, Smith, and this time we’ll have a hell of a story to tell them, won’t we?” Wake managed a laugh of his own and turned to survey the rest of the deck.

  Sommer leaned against the twelve-pounder gun, his face aged ten years in the last thirty minutes. He was no longer distraught. He appeared now to be resigned to his fate and ready to handle whatever might come next. Wake nodded at him and turned to go back to the stern.

  An hour later all the vessels had rafted up together. Moore came aboard Rosalie and made his report. Hardin listened and then made his own report for the sloop.

  Wake listened as the “butchers bill,” that quaint navy phrase, was given to him. Of the crew of the Rosalie, Wilson was killed, and Smith and Wake were wounded badly. Durlon had a cut on his arm that he did not remember getting, but it would heal. Of Thorton’s boat that had ten men in the crew, Thorton and a seaman were dead. Three other men were wounded in limbs by gunshots. Moore thought they would probably live. Of Moore’s crew of eight men, two seamen had cuts from their fight but nothing major. There were sixteen Confederate dead and two seriously wounded. They all had been taken ashore and left for their brethren on the river bank to deal with.

  Wake now received the vessel report. The schooner’s mainmast was gone. She had some holes below the waterline, but they thought that all were plugged. A mainmast, jury-rigged from the main boom, could be fished onto the stump of the severed original. Some rigging could be set up, enough to get her to Boca Grande, where the Gem of the Sea lay at anchor.

  The sloop had her rigging and sails cut up, but the spar was still standing and she could be sailed. No cargo was found on either vessel. Evidently, what they had originally seen on deck had been unloaded in the night. A detailed search for papers or valuables would have to wait until daylight.

  Thorton’s boat was a mess from the human carnage, but serviceable. Moore’s boat was in good shape. Rosalie was disheveled but in good working order.

  The reports of the petty officers seemed to take forever, given in the monotonous dutiful way of the navy, with no emotion or clue as to the reporter’s thoughts. It all served to drain Wake’s strength and make him feel even more exhausted. He told Hardin to have all of their dead placed into Thorton’s boat. The wounded would all come aboard Rosalie. Three-man watches would last until nine a.m., when all vessels would get under way separately for the mouth of the river. Thorton’s boat would be towed by Moore’s. Wake asked for questions and received none. He then ordered everyone off watch to get some sleep.

  As the men trudged away to collapse somewhere, Wake heard the sound of a morning bird just upriver of the rafted boats. It seemed to be a peculiar kind of call, high-pitched and lilting. He thought it was mocking him for his weakness, and maybe for his leadership, in his first real battle in this awful war, which had led to the death and maiming of so many of his men for the capture of two Rebel craft that they had found to be empty of anything of real value.

  Wake sat down alone on the transom board again and looked around him at the river, the jungle, and the vessels rafted together. His hearing had come back in the left ear, but the right side of his head still throbbed and stabbed him with pain. His eyesight had mostly returned, but his right eye wa
s half shut from the swelling of the wound just behind it. That wound, along and through his right ear, had stopped its profuse bleeding. Now it was bonding with the dressing and stinging when his sweat rolled down into it.

  Wake thought of the petty officers’ report and knew he should put his own down on paper as soon as he could. He was exhausted but knew he couldn’t sleep. He also knew that he couldn’t bring himself to write the report just yet.

  Thinking of the report stimulated him to remember the facts now for the report he would write later. He started with the logical beginning, the location where this nightmare of war had occurred, and to his immense shame he started crying. It was just a quivering lip at first, but it grew into muffled sobs as he realized he would have to also write the families of the men who died under his command in this forgotten place. The parents of a boy named Jonathan Thorton would have to know that their son, who tried to be a tough leader and was despised by his own men for his failure, was turned into a grotesque inhuman form by the ruthlessly efficient machines of war. Wake knew that vision would never leave his memory.

  The sky gradually started to lighten into pinks and blues with the coming of the sun, bringing the beginnings of clarity out of the blurred confusion of darkness. Sounds of more birds transiting the sky, land creatures crunching around in the jungle growth ashore, and fish jumping in the coffee-colored waters brought back a false sense of normality to the river, as if the battle had never taken place, had not disturbed the routines of the animals living there. Wake imagined the animals were studiously ignoring the men and the ravages of their war, in the hope that they would soon leave this place to its rightful inhabitants.