The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  The conversation, what little there was time for as we savored our duff, remained trivial. Finally even James refused an additional helping, and Harris cleared away the wreckage. A decanter of Madeira appeared and was shared out to each of us. I noticed Captain Decatur and Lieutenant Cutler deep in conversation, but carried on in undertones and quite inaudible to me, across the table and one removed from them.

  “. . . from your brother before we sailed?” Mister Wakefield was studying me closely, I realized with a start, waiting for an answer. So intent on eavesdropping on the captain’s conversation that I had quite missed what it was he had said.

  “Excuse me, sir. I didn’t hear all of that. Would you mind . . .?”

  “I merely inquired as to whether or not you had heard from your brother before we sailed. Of course, a letter could not have reached Boston yet from Gibraltar, as I am sure they have only recently arrived there.”

  “Oh, sir. Yes, he did leave a letter for me with Captain Decatur, I collect you knew they were acquainted, which the captain was kind enough to give me shortly after I reported into Argus. I am hoping to see him in Gibraltar when we arrive. I s’pose it’s possible—likely even—that they will already have sailed when we reach there. Perhaps he will have left a letter for me, should that turn out to be the case.” Even as I spoke, I kept my ear cocked to pick up any morsel of the captain’s conversation.

  “Mister Baldwin, I suspect that, should Captain Decatur wish to include you in his conversation, he would have invited you to join him and Lieutenant Cutler in a glass.” The surgeon’s reproach caused me to color, and I could feel the heat rise up my neck. I quickly turned my eyes to meet his and saw the sparkle that belied his tone.

  We chatted about Edward and my family in Philadelphia and sipped our Madeira. I noticed that the Cabin had become intolerably warm since we finished our meal and thought some fresh air might serve to clear my head, which, as the heat rose, had become a little muddled. I felt a trickle of moisture making its way down my cheek and brushed at it half-heartedly. My stomach suddenly seemed a little uncertain as well. Quickly I made to stand up, realizing as I did so that the room seemed to move in a way unrelated to the motion of Argus. I steadied myself with a hand on the edge of the table.

  “Have you the watch, sir?” Wakefield questioned me.

  A perfect excuse! How better to hide my discomfort. “Indeed, I do, sir. I just heard eight bells chime and should be on the quarterdeck even now.” I stood all the way up, trying not to sway beyond that caused by the motion of the ship. I knew most of the blood had drained from my head and realized I must look poorly.

  “You must ask the captain’s permission, Oliver,” the surgeon whispered at me as I steadied myself.

  “Sir,” said I. “Captain Decatur.” He looked up from his conversation with the first lieutenant. “Excuse me, sir, but I must be on deck, er, the quarterdeck, sir. I think the next watch is mine, sir. Thank you for a splendid dinner, sir. May I be excused?” It sounded reasonable to me, and I missed the quizzical look from Decatur and the smiles from the good doctor and the lieutenant.

  “Of course, Mister Baldwin. Wouldn’t do at all to miss your watch. Punctuality is the hallmark of a good naval officer. Hurry along now.” Decatur stood and smiled as I turned and took my departure. As I closed the door behind me, I caught a burst of laughter that was cut off as it began by the door.

  Thankfully, I had only one ladder to navigate and emerged into the fresh air and daylight blinking and still quite unsteady. My stomach, apparently sensing that relief was close at hand, began to churn most disturbingly.

  “About time you showed up, Mister Baldwin. Promptness to take a watch or a meal is one of the captain’s ...” Mister Hobbs stared at me over his spectacles and as he spoke, I realized that I needed to be close to the leeward bulwark. My stomach, having spent sufficient time merely churning, now lurched and heaved. My mouth was quite wet, causing me to swallow repeatedly. Without hearing another word Lieutenant Hobbs uttered, I fled to the rail and offered my splendid dinner to Davey Jones.

  “Are you ill, Mister Baldwin?” Hobbs called to me as he witnessed my undignified behavior.

  “No, sir. Just fine, now, sir. May I get myself some water, sir? And then I shall return to stand my watch.” I hoped my voice sounded stronger to him than it did to me.

  I walked as steadily as I could to the scuttlebutt amidships and ladled out a measure. Some I drank and some I spilled down my neck, which felt quite good. My head was clearing. Wiping my face on a sleeve as I returned aft, I smiled at the second lieutenant and assumed my position near the wheel, trying to look more competent than I felt.

  “I would bet we’re due for some weather, Mister Baldwin. The clouds seem to be filling in and the wind is moving toward the east. Likely won’t be pleasant during the night watches.” He paused, cast a glance aloft, and added quietly, “Or tomorrow, neither, for that matter.”

  I cast a look at the sky and noticed that the brilliant blue sky we had enjoyed for several days had turned white. Puffy gray clouds were superimposed here and there and seemed to be moving toward the sou’west at a considerable pace. I recalled the fiery sunrise and Mister Hobbs’ comment that it foretold bad weather only that very morning.

  Staring at the heavens made my head swim. I quickly looked down at the binnacle, trying to regain my balance. As I did so, I noticed the slate on which the quartermaster or the watch officer had written our speed and course at each turn of the glass. Our speed had been steadily increasing from the leisurely five knots around the noon hour to nearly ten knots at the last reading. Our course seemed to be more southerly than I recalled it had been earlier. I commented on it to Lieutenant Hobbs, hoping to distract myself from the dizziness and renewed churning in my belly, as well as impress him with my sharp seaman’s eye.

  “I just told you the wind was hauling to the east, Mister Baldwin, and rising. Of course we’re making better speed and, on account of the barky being unable to sail into the wind, we must adjust our course to the south so as not to put ourselves in stays.” He made no attempt to disguise any of the disdain he felt at having to explain such a basic fact of seamanship.

  “Aye, sir. I should have figured that out for myself, sir.” I stopped, chastised, and, hoping that doing so would not cause me further discomfort, looked aloft at the straining sails. We were still rigged to the t’gallants, and each was as taut as could be. The braces had been hauled around to allow the sails to catch the less-than-favorable breeze, and I could see that they and the sheets were pulled tight and shivering under the strain.

  “Will we be shortening down, sir? Should I call out the watch?” I shifted my gaze to meet the watch officer’s. Maybe this time he would think I had become more seamanlike.

  “Not right away, I think. But I would reckon the captain will order some reduction within the next glass or two.” Hobbs looked at me again with the same intensity that had met me when I returned from the leeward rail. “Are you quite all right, Oliver? You look some pale. You’re not getting seasick, are you?”

  “Oh, sir, no. I don’t think it’s that at all. Perhaps I ate too much at dinner with the captain and it’s not sitting well. I shall be quite fine soon.” I hope, I added silently.

  “Drank too much is more likely, I’d think.” Hobbs’ comment was under his breath, but quite audible to me, standing directly in front of him as I was. Louder he added, “Perhaps you might like to take a position closer to the rail there.” He motioned with his chin to leeward, and I thought it prudent to take his suggestion.

  The remainder of the watch passed without incident or further offerings to the deeps. Before I was relieved by Thomas Wheatley, I thought I might be beginning to feel better again. It occurred to me that my relief was somewhat subdued when he appeared to take the watch, but it didn’t signify immediately. There was none of the rancor in his voice when he announced himself, and, until I noticed his chin thrust forward, I had about convinced myself that
he would be pleasant. In spite of my misgivings, he said nothing designed to anger or intimidate me. In fact, he said very little, save, “Thank you, Mister Baldwin; I relieve you.”

  I doffed my hat in a perfunctory salute and stepped to the break of the poop as I made my way to the hatch leading below, looking forward to crawling into my cot even though four bells had only just sounded, signaling 6 o’ clock in the evening.

  But it was not to be, at least not immediately.

  My messmates greeted me at the door to the cockpit, each grinning from ear to ear; James, particularly, was fairly dancing with excitement about something. I had only to wait a moment before he grabbed my arm and, still grinning, poured forth a torrent of words at such a rate that I had trouble understanding what he was saying.

  “Oliver! You missed it! You left before Mister Cutler and the captain each gave Thomas a full broadside!” James continued his dance of joy as he spoke and, while his words didn’t seem to make much sense to me, I did notice that he was using naval terms, and correctly.

  “Shortly after you left—were you feeling poorly, Oliver?—Wheatley asked Cutler to join him in a glass.” Judd took over and began to relate the story more calmly. I simply nodded at his question.

  “James and I, as well as the captain and Mister Wakefield, were still at table chatting quite amiably about not much of anything. Since I was sitting just to the other side of Cutler, I could hardly help but overhear their conversation. I think Thomas might have had a trifle more wine than he should have, and his voice carried some beyond Cutler’s ears. He started out by saying, ‘Perhaps, sir, were it not too bold of me, I might suggest some small changes in the gun crews on the gundeck carronades which might serve to improve our speed and accuracy, two elements I know both you and Captain Decatur hold dear to your hearts.’ I saw he had Cutler’s attention right off and, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the captain cock his head slighdy so as to better hear the conversation.” Judd smiled as he recalled the incident. “So Cutler looks this funny look at Thomas and nods his head, I guess telling him to go on.”

  James, having gained some measure of control over himself, jumped in and picked up Judd’s story. “Thomas went on in some detail about how the changes he wanted would help his battery and, ‘after all, was not the midship battery the most important in the ship?’ so he should have Bradford and two or three others from your guns. I think he wanted one or more of my men also.” In spite of this revelation, James continued to grin.

  “Decatur, I reckon, heard all of this, likely including the part James didn’t mention about how bad some of his gun crew was, especially one of the captains,” Devon continued. “He stared at Wheatley with a look like none I ever saw before. Scared me a little, actually, and it wasn’t even aimed at me. The silence was long, and I saw Thomas get a little red in the face, like he knew what was comin.’ But he didn’t, not by a long shot! None of us did.

  “Captain Decatur stood up and leaned forward onto the table, so his face was close to Wheatley’s. Looks him right in the eye and, almost growling, says, ‘I will not countenance your denigration of the crews assigned to you for their poor performance. Your gun captains are among the more experienced in the ship and, with proper leadership, would easily exceed the performance of the other crews. I recommend, sir, that you look to yourself for the explanation of their less-than-acceptable cannonading.’

  “Well, Oliver, I can tell you Wheatley was stunned, stunned as if he’d been knocked on the head with a belaying pin. He just sat there, getting redder and redder in the face. His mouth hung open and he started to sputter a little. Then Mister Wakefield leans across the table and says, real quiet-like, ‘I would suggest, Mister Wheatley, there is little to say at this point. You had best keep your own counsel and go about your duties.’ Thomas looks at him, his expression never changed, and stands up, turns about, and leaves the Cabin.”

  “Judd and I looked at each other ...” James started out, and the senior midshipman interrupted him.

  “And then you started to titter, like a little girl. It was all I could do to keep a serious face, but James, here, he didn’t even try. Just busted out giggling and laughing and carrying on ‘til Cutler says, ‘I think you young gentlemen may be excused, now, to see to your duties.’ We both stood, made our bows to the captain, and left. But what a show! Wouldn’t have missed it for all the world! Reckon Wheatley’s going to be some nicer, or perhaps he’ll be even worse. But he sure ain’t likely to offer any more suggestions to the first lieutenant!”

  I smiled at my messmate’s misfortune, feeling better just from hearing about his encounter with our two most senior officers, either of whom had the ability to end his career with a word. And I suddenly understood Wheatley’s subdued behavior as he took over the watch a few moments earlier.

  My general lack of goodwill for Thomas Wheatley overshadowed my fleeting guilt at enjoying the suffering of another. I uttered some words of restrained joy at our good, and Wheatley’s ill, fortune as I made my way to my cot.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mister Baldwin! Mister Baldwin, sir! Wake up! They’ve called out all hands and yer wanted on the quarterdeck.” It was late into the middle watch when I was roused from my dreamless sleep by a seaman sent by the watch officer. As I swam up through the depths of my slumber to consciousness, I became aware that the attitude of the ship was different than it had been; the cot was swaying back and forth quite vigorously and, when I set foot upon the deck, I discovered that standing upright was impossible. Argus was heeled over to a degree that had me reaching for a handhold as I struggled one-handed into my clothes. After completely losing my balance as the ship shuddered violently several times, I finished dressing and staggered out of the cockpit to the ladder. Already I could hear sounds of men shouting, feet pounding, and the louder sounds of the ship herself, groaning of the rig, creaks and squeals as lines ran through blocks and fairleads, and the banging of a line or block as a sail was adjusted. They were sounds to which I had become so accustomed in the days we had been underway that I barely acknowledged them. Now they demanded notice. This cacophony was set in counterpoint to another symphony, one which I had never before heard, a roaring quite unearthly and ferocious in its intensity. Even from where I stood, hanging on to the ladder, it seemed to overwhelm my senses.

  As I started up the final ladder to the spar deck, a gout of water cascaded down on me, soaking me quite to the skin and bringing me, with startling suddenness, to a state of full wakefulness. With a new clarity of mind, I grasped quickly that we were either sinking or were about to. In some distant part of my brain I wondered why I had not been awakened sooner. With mounting horror at what surely must be a dreadful finish to my naval career, I renewed my efforts at ascending the ladder. At least if I could get myself topside, I should not perish unseen and unheard in the bowels of the ship.

  On deck, I saw quickly that we were not about to sink, at least not yet. Rain lashed at me with stinging force; the wind threatened to blow me right over. Salt water swirled around my feet and flew through the air, thrown up by waves that rolled Argus down with each new onslaught. I barely had time to take it all in before I felt a strong hand grip my right arm and turned to see Lieutenant Hobbs, hatless, his tarpaulin coat soaked, hair plastered down to his forehead, and water streaming off his cheeks and nose. He thrust his face close to mine, and I noticed that, for the first time since I had known him, he wore no glasses.

  “Get aloft on the foremast with your men, Baldwin, and get the forecourse off her. Then see to short reefing the tops’l.” Hobbs, though only inches from my face, had to shout the words to be heard over the high baritone scream of the wind. Wind, that not only drowned out his words, tearing them away so that I caught only some of them, but tugged and whipped our clothing and, indeed, our very beings, threatening to carry us away.

  The thought of climbing into the rigging and then onto a yard, while the ship lurched and the seas rolled her onto her beam ends and the
wind tried with all its considerable might to rip my hands from the shrouds and my feet from the ratlines, struck me numb with fear. I stood, rooted to the deck and quite unable to direct my feet to carry out Hobbs’ order.

  The rain stung my face, each drop the size of a teacup but felt like sand as it struck me. I half expected to find blood on my hand when I wiped it across my eyes. The rain mixed with the salt spray as it ran down my cheeks and into my mouth, giving it a curiously brackish taste rather than the sweet, fresh taste I had always associated with a heavenly offering.

  “Get a move on, Baldwin. Don’t think about it, just get it done. Half your men are already up there. You don’t get that sail off’n her, we’ll blow it out for sure!” Hobbs screamed into my ear, all the while propelling me forward with a strong grip. He left me to make my way to the weather foreshrouds with a final shouted admonition, “. . . hand . . . lifeline . . . careful.” The wind took most of what he said, but I assumed he had cautioned me to hold on to the lifeline recently rigged fore and aft for the full length of the ship. He would not have to worry about me carrying out that order!

  As I made my way slowly and carefully forward, I took stock of the conditions surrounding me. To wind’ard, the seas reached high over my head; even in the blackness of the night, I could make out the ghostly spume and foam writhing at the tops of their towering crests as they roared down on us, sending torrents of water crashing onto the deck as one after another met the resistance of Argus’ strong oak hull. Water swirled as high as my knees before it ran off astern to leeward and was quickly replaced by more as wave after wave hammered us. The ship rolled with each one, sometimes as far down as to dip her main yard in a retreating sea, then struggled back up to where only her leeward bulwark touched the water. Each time, she shook herself and staggered onward. Some of the waves merely washed under us, heaving the vessel upward with a suddenness that caused my stomach to lurch, then dropping her, heeled unnaturally back to windward, with equal force and precipitousness. Part of my brain idly wondered how long the brig could stand this punishment. A further thought about our surviving the wrath of Nature flickered into my consciousness, and I pushed it away, not wishing to dwell on such a horror.