The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  “There is still time, Judd. When Thomas gets here, you have only to apologize and it will be over. I am quite certain he will accept your apology. And I would wager he will have learned his lesson.”

  “No. He will only learn his lesson, and remember it, if he carries a scar, a reminder, of his arrogance and stupidity. I am doing all of us, and his future shipmates, a favor by facing him. Fortunately, I do not feel imperiled by it.” His face was a mask of confident determination and then he turned away, marching to the center of the field.

  I withdrew to the sidelines and consulted my watch. Five minutes until noon; perhaps Thomas would not show up. James had also not appeared with the doctor. After the passage of what I was sure was several minutes, I looked at the watch again; still five minutes ‘til noon. Had it stopped? I held it to my ear and heard the steady rhythm of its movement. I looked around the hilltop; no sign of anyone save Judd, still standing with this arms folded across his chest in the center.

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps crunching through the undergrowth as they approached from below. Then Thomas’ head broke the edge of the hill, followed by the rest of him. He walked straight to Judd and stood facing him.

  “Mister Baldwin, the hour, if you please?” Judd raised his voice to a command level.

  Again I consulted my watch. “Three minutes ‘til noon, Mister Devon.” I thought the formal seemed more appropriate, especially since he had used it first.

  “Very well. Please inform us at the stroke of noon.”

  I watched the hands of the timepiece move imperceptibly around the dial. I shifted my glance from the face of my watch, the same one I had lost in Boston so long ago, to the two of them standing in the center of the field. I studied their faces and saw no sign of softening. Surely Judd would apologize, and he and Thomas would shake hands, and we would all leave the hill, joined by James and Mister Wakefield as we made our way to a splendid restaurant for a celebratory dinner. I glanced back to my watch. Suddenly, it was noon. How had the time gone so quickly? And still no sign of James or Mister Wakefield.

  “Mister Devon, Mister Wheatley, it is noon, but Mister Stevens has yet to bring the doctor. Perhaps we might wait until they arrive.” It seemed quite reasonable to me.

  “We will begin. You may bring the weapons here, Mister Baldwin. Give Mister Wheatley first choice, if you please.”

  I walked slowly the ten or twenty steps to where they stood, still facing each other. Presenting the box, I opened the lid and showed its contents to Thomas. He shifted his gaze from Judd’s eyes to the box. “This one will answer nicely, I am sure.” He looked carefully at the pistol, and ensured that it was loaded and primed. His demeanor was quite different from that first time I saw him pick up a pistol on Argus.

  Judd took the other, scarcely looking at it, he had loaded them himself, and turned about, his back to his adversary.

  “If you are ready, Mister Wheatley, we will begin.” Judd’s voice held no rancor; in fact, it sounded almost friendly. And calm, I thought, considering what he was about to undertake.

  “Aye, I am ready to gain satisfaction, Mister Devon.”

  “Mister Baldwin, you will count out twenty paces, if you please. Then, at your command, we will turn and fire.”

  “Judd, Thomas, please, will you not reconsider this business? Must this go all the way to one of you dying?” I made one final desperate plea.

  “Begin your count, Mister Baldwin.”Judd’s voice was a trifle harder.

  “Very well, then.” I shook my head, resigned to seeing one of them hurt, or killed. “ONE.” I probably shouted the first several paces. I thought I must be as nervous, scared, as they. Where are lames and the doctor? FOUR. I was still shouting. I realized I had not moved from where I stood at the outset, now very nearly between the two of them. I hastened to the side of the field. What would I do if Wakefield didn’t show up? SIX. I watched as my two messmates drew farther apart. Maybe they will both miss. Forty paces is a great distance.

  My mind continued to reel and my glance shifted from Thomas to Judd to the edge of the hill where I hoped James and the doctor would appear. I continued to count.

  FOURTEEN. What if lames had been unable to find Wakefield? Maybe he wasn’t aboard and lames is looking for him. SIXTEEN. The two were far enough from each other and from me that I now had to shout to ensure they would hear me. SEVENTEEN. Where was that fool? Why couldn’t he carry out the simplest of orders? EIGHTEEN. Oh, God. Please come to your senses and stop this foolishness. NINETEEN. One more step and somebody is going to get hurt or killed. Suddenly I found myself hoping that neither would hit their marks and that both would remain unscathed. TWENTY.

  “You may turn and fire!” My throat was dry, and I am afraid the words were more of a croak than a ‘command’ as I had been instructed.

  The two turned toward each other and lifted their pistols. Judd fired first but only by scant margin. As his piece discharged, I saw, behind him and to the side, James’ head appear over the edge of the hill. Finally! Thank God. Where’s Wakefield? And then Thomas cried out and fired. His arm had been flung to the side by the impact of Judd’s ball, and his pistol appeared not even aimed in Judd’s direction. Judd remained unscathed, standing where he was with the start of a smile forming on his lips.

  “Thank God! He missed.” I said aloud. Then I heard a cry from beyond Judd. James’ form had not broken the hilltop. Where did he go?

  I saw Mister Wakefield kneeling at the edge of the hill. Oh, no! Thomas’ bad aim has hit the doctor! But it was not he who was hit. The doctor was in fact bending over the inert form of my messmate, my friend, James.

  “You damn fools! You’ve gone and shot this poor boy who had nothing to do with your foolishness!” Wakefield shouted at us.

  Judd got there first, the look of horror on his face rivaled only by my own. My hand flew to my mouth, and I must have stopped breathing. It took a moment for the tableau to impact in its fullest and, when it did, I felt my stomach turn over and my knees grow suddenly weak. I knelt, as much to keep from collapsing as to be closer to my friend. When Thomas came to the scene, he, too, dropped to his knees, his own wound, though bleeding copiously down his arm, quite forgotten.

  “Oh, my God! What have I done? James, James. Damn you! What were you doing there? Why did you show up then? Mister Wakefield, he’s going to be all right, is he not?” I had never heard such concern from Thomas. The look he gave to Wakefield was truly pitiful. The doctor had opened James’ waistcoat and shirt, both covered in gore, and was trying to staunch the bleeding in his chest. The surgeon’s medical box stood open at his side, its contents spilling out of the drawers and shelves within, a result of his hasty search for the needed supplies. When he removed his hand, Mister Wakefield’s arm midway to his elbow was red with blood. He looked first at Thomas, then at each of us in turn; I can not recall having ever, before or since, seen such a look of utter contempt and loathing.

  James opened his eyes; they fluttered at first, then fixed on the nearest face, Thomas.’ “Why did you shoot me? I had nothing to do with this.” His voice was faint and it obviously took some effort to speak. “I think you have killed me, Thomas. I would have hoped to see real fighting against . . . piratical bastards.” He smiled thinly, as though pleased he had at last been able to use the words he had been hearing for so long. “Now I will not.”

  Thomas touched James’ forehead in the most gentle way and smoothed his hair. The young mid’s hat had fallen off when he was shot, and his hair ruffled in the easy breeze, much as the grass did. “James, you will be fine. You’ll surely see a fight with those pirate bastards. You damn well will! And I’ll be at your side. I am sorry for all the bad things I said and made you do, James. You just let Mister Wakefield fix you up; you’ll be right as ever afore you know it.” Thomas looked searchingly at Wakefield. We all caught the barely perceptible shake of the doctor’s head.

  “NO, DAMN YOU! NO!” Thomas grabbed Wakefield’ arm. The midshipman’s eyes
were overflowing. “You can’t let him die, damn it. I didn’t mean to shoot him! He just appeared over the damn hill at the very moment when I fired. Fix him! Stop the bleeding! You’re a surgeon. Do it!” Thomas couldn’t will it so and the doctor could do no more. James’ life ebbed quickly and, with Thomas, tears streaming down his face, still patting the youngster’s head, my friend, James Stevens, went limp, his head lolling to one side.

  “He is quite beyond my help now, Thomas. But you are not. Let me have a look at that arm. You have lost some considerable blood yourself.” Mister Wakefield took up Thomas’ arm gently and began to examine the blood-stained shirt for the entry point.

  “NO! You fix my friend. I am fine. Help James!” He jerked his arm back and, while I know it must have hurt mightily to do it, he made no sound or flinch.

  “Thomas, hear me well, son. There is nothing that I, or anyone else, can do for James; he is dead. Unless you have some desire to follow him, you must let me stop the bleeding in your arm. Here, now, let me see.” Again, Wakefield picked up Thomas’ arm and, with a surgical knife, cut away the sleeve of his blood-soaked shirt. Thomas was unresisting and just sat next to the inert form of our shipmate, tears streaming down his cheeks, while the surgeon probed his arm for the bullet. In spite of what must have been excruciating pain, Wheatley never moved or changed his expression; his eyes seemed to be focused on a point a thousand yards away.

  I stole a look at Judd. The horror I had seen on his face earlier had been replaced by a look of abject sorrow. I am sure he was thinking, as was I, that had he only agreed to the apology, none of this would have happened, and James would still be with us. The whole incident was playing in my head, as clear as if I had been watching it on a stage before me. Me counting, Thomas and Judd moving away from one another, then turning, raising their pistols, and James appearing over the hilltop. Judd’s gun firing, silent this time, with only the flash of the primer and the fire and smoke from the muzzle offering testimony to the deadly missile hurtling out on its errand of destruction. It seemed to take minutes for the ball to find its mark, and I could quite clearly see the splash of blood fly up from Thomas’ arm, thrown to the side by the impact of Judd’s ball. Wheatley’s pistol discharged in the same silent, exquisitely slow way: primer flash, smoke, then fire and smoke from the barrel. I saw Mister Wakefield’s mouth moving as he shouted out what had happened, but heard no sound. And then Judd running, but slowly, as though through waist deep water. My own progress was no faster, and it took us forever to reach the side of our fallen friend. Thomas arrived, drifting to his knees in silence, not the screaming sudden arrival of the actual event. Mouths moving, but no words coming forth.

  “. . . back to Enterprise now. Come, there is nothing more we can do here.” Wakefield’s voice penetrated my conscious. I looked at him, uncomprehending.

  “We can’t just leave him.” I must have spoken aloud as the surgeon put his hand on my arm, raising me to my feet, and he spoke kindly, gently.

  “Judd will stay with him until I can send someone from town up to take care of his body. We will arrange to bury him here.”

  I followed Wakefield and a silent Thomas down the hill and back to the dock. It was a melancholy procession we made, all of us deep within ourselves. I took no heed of the stares Thomas’ blood-soaked shirt and bound arm drew. Indeed, I barely noticed that the doctor had stopped and spoken to someone along the way. And then we were aboard the schooner. Still my vision was obscured; it was as if I were looking through a bit of gauze, and if I blinked my eyes enough, it might leave, but only for a moment. Rubbing them helped not a whit, and it was in this daze that I made my way to the cockpit, followed by Thomas.

  He was still in a state of anxiety, and his tears continued to flow down his face, though he made no sound. His arm was tied in a jury-rigged sling to his chest. The bandage Mister Wakefield had wrapped around the wound was showing varying shades of crimson. It registered in my mind that he must still be bleeding. We both sat at the table, staring into nothingness. We were still in that state when Captain Decatur, followed by the surgeon, appeared in the doorway. Neither of us stood, but nobody seemed to notice, or at least care.

  “Reliance, I think you might give them both a draught of something. Is Devon is the same condition?” Decatur’s voice was quiet, barely penetrating my senses.

  “I suspect he is, Captain. He should be appearing directly, as I have already instructed the local undertaker to collect the boy’s body.” Wakefield poked around in his box and produced a small bottle of powder. Without seeing him, 1 looked on as he stirred a measure of it into two mugs of water and handed one to each of us. “Drink this down, the both of you. It’ll make you feel some better, I reckon.”

  Thomas and I did as we were bidden. I have little recollection of anything further that happened that afternoon. When I awoke, I was in my cot and Judd was standing at my doorway.

  “Cap’n would have you in his Cabin, Oliver. Wants a word with you and Thomas. Best not to keep him waiting.” His voice was hollow sounding and distant, not at all like it should have with him standing no more than a foot away from me.

  I struggled up from the depths of my sleep, trying to focus my eyes, eyes which were all crusty and hurt, even though I had only just opened them.

  “Wha . . . who . . . are you . . .” I finally managed to put thoughts into words. “Oh, Judd! I had the most terrible dream. You and Thomas had your duel, and I watched it happen! James got hurt from Thomas’ bad aim. Judd, don’t do it; apologize to Thomas and be done with it. It was a silly argument; don’t let it come to killing each other! What does it matter?”

  Judd became still, watching me with worried eyes. His voice, when he spoke was very quiet and gentle. “Oliver, you did not dream that. We did duel, Thomas got hurt, and James . . .” Judd looked at me and waited until I looked straight at him. “James is dead, Oliver.”

  I let out a gasp. My hand flew to my mouth as the truth, the horrible truth hit me like a shot from a twelve-pounder. I hadn’t dreamed it at all. James really was dead and Thomas was wounded. It all flooded back to me, and I felt hot tears well up in my eyes.

  “All right, Oliver. Try to get control over yourself. Get up and put on your jacket and shoes and go and see Decatur. I’d reckon that Thomas is already there.” Judd handed me a small basin of water and a cloth.

  As I left the cockpit, my eyes were uncontrollably drawn to James’ cupboard. I saw his cot with several books left open where he had stopped reading them. I recalled him telling me how proud and happy he was to be finally able to read, and grateful to me for teaching him. God! It seemed so long ago, yet it was only a few weeks back when Judd and I had brought in the prize ketch. His spare shirt, wrinkled and stained, was lying across the foot of the cot, likely just where it landed when he had hastily changed to his best before bringing Wakefield to the hilltop. His sea boots, blackened but still showing the white stain of saltwater, stood neatly in the far corner. His chest remained by the table, and I realized, with a great sadness, that he would never be sitting on it at our mess table again, laughing and joking, or being the butt of Thomas’ jibes. He was gone. I didn’t cry this time. I think my tears had been used up, but I felt as though a great weight hung from my shoulders and another was on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  The marine guard at the captain’s door saw me coming and had already announced me when I stopped in the passageway.

  “You may go in, sir. The captain’s waitin’.” He stood to rigid attention, the musket at his side gleaming dully in the yellow lantern glow. Seemingly without moving, he opened the door in front of me. I saw Thomas’ back, one sleeve hanging empty at his side, standing before the captain. As I stepped in, I saw also that Reliance Wakefield sat to one side, a serious look on his face.

  “Ah, our witness. Mister Baldwin, step in and stand there, next to the wounded Mister Wheatley. Are you sufficiently shed of your bout of emotional distress? I would like very much to hear the
details, all the details, if you please, of the events of the afternoon and those which led up to them. Mister Wheat-ley has offered his tale, and I would now like to hear yours.” Captain Decatur was not smiling; his face held a quite neutral expression, but his voice gave away his feeling. It was cold and sounded like it could cut, so sharp it was.

  “Oh, sir. Yes, sir. I am quite able to speak.” I struggled to get the tremor out of my voice. I had no idea what was to happen to me, or to Thomas and Judd, but I was quite sure it would not, could not, be good. “There was some problem between Thomas . . . I mean, Mister Wheatley and Mister Devon. It started . . . umm . . . well, I don’t actually recall when it started, exactly, sir. But they didn’t seem to get along too well. One day, maybe a month and more ago?” I shot a glance at Thomas, hoping for a nod, a sign, anything, and got nothing; he didn’t even turn his head toward me. His face was ashen, and there was none of the defiance I had come to expect. “Yes, sir. I think it must have been something over a month ago when Judd . . . I mean, Mister Devon said something that Mister Wheatley took exception to and challenged him to a duel. Mister Wheatley challenged Mister Devon, I mean. I was asked to be Mister Devon’s second and tried to talk them out of it, but they insisted I find a place for them to hold a duel. It wasn’t ‘til we got in here, sir, to Messina, that I actually did it. I showed it to Mister Devon yesterday and, well, he told me it would answer fine. Then he told Mister Wheatley and James about it and set the time.” I felt the tears starting at my mention of James’ name, and again pictured him appearing over the edge of the hill. My breathing sounded ragged as I struggled to maintain my “course to manhood,” though I was beginning to have doubts about that as well. I struggled also to catch a breath.

  Decatur waited patiently while I collected myself to continue the tale. Finally, I caught my breath and picked up the story where I left off.

  “They were supposed to be there by eight bells, sir, this noon.” I hoped that my reference to ‘bells’ might soften his expression. It had no effect, whatever. “James, Mister Stevens, was supposed to find Mister Wakefield and bring him without telling him what was afoot. Mister Devon refused to wait for the doctor to show up and told me to start counting right at noon. After I had given each of them a pistol, of course. Which I did. To twenty. Then they turned, and Judd fired first, hitting Thomas in the arm. I reckon . . . uhhh . . . well, it looked like the ball from Mister Devon’s gun made Mister Wheatley’s arm fly out just as he fired. And, well, Mister Wakefield and Mister Stevens were just coming over the top of the hill. I think James was first. And he appeared just in the right place to . . .” I stopped. Again, my vision blurred and I could feel wetness on my cheeks. I choked, struggling for a breath. This was harder than I had expected.