The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  With the splash of shot landing all around us, some close enough to wet our sail, Captain Decatur shouted for all the boats to attack the easterly grouping of the enemy and ordered our oarsmen to “Pull for all you’re worth, lads!” The sails were adjusted to provide what little help they might, which wasn’t much since we were headed almost directly upwind. Still the shot from the corsairs’ guns splashed the water into geysers all around us. Had it not been so terrifyingly close and deadly, I would have reveled in the tiny rainbows and sparkle of the spray as each splash caught the sunlight.

  As we stroked into battle, I looked around for the other boats. Somers’ was making no headway to windward at all. He remained to leeward of us all and finally turned to attack some of the polaccas that were closing with him. In fact, only James Decatur’s boat managed to fight its way sufficiently to windward to join in with our group. Blake seemed to be hanging back, and, while his guns fired, I could see that few of their shots told. Why he did not at the least assist with his division commander’s attack on five of the enemy gunboats, which had stood out for him, I have no idea. But he did not, and Somers, by himself, fired repeatedly at point blank range, almost every one his shots telling. When the enemy turned to ran under the guns of the fortress, Somers followed, firing all the while, but was unable to inflict any more damage on them than he already had.

  A loud thwack followed by a shower of splinters and water and a definite lurch, almost a stagger, of our gunboat caught me unawares, and I grabbed onto the nearest support I could, which turned out to be Judd’s shoulder, to keep myself from falling into the water.

  “Careful, Oliver! You’ll put us both into the sea!” Judd barely gave me a glance, and his tone was surely not that of one irritated at being grabbed at in a manner so undignified.

  While we had suffered a hit, it seemed not to impede our progress; we continued to close quickly with a large Tripolitan gunboat.

  Lieutenant Somers will have to carry on without me! No time now to keep my eye on him, I thought, surprising myself with my drollness, given the circumstances.

  The enemy maintained his fire without restraint, but Decatur instructed all the boats with us, save Lawrence’s, to hold fire while we closed; that vessel, which had suffered the loss of its lateen yard by an enemy ball, he ordered to lay back some and maintain as heavy a cannonade as they could manage.

  As the Tripolitans drew closer, I suddenly realized it was our captain’s intention to board them and so take the boats and their bloodthirsty crews captive. My experiences in our ‘most bold and daring act of the age’ passed quickly through my mind but did little to quell the growing anxiety that gnawed at my stomach and drew any remaining moisture from my mouth. My fear gathered me to its bosom in a suffocating hug, rendering me quite incapable of even moving. So held by my fears I was that I scarcely started when our first gun discharged, at Decatur’s order, its deadly load of grape, followed by a load of canister. Immediately the others joined the fray, firing at their chosen targets. Again, our ‘bold and daring’ adventure and its stealthy approach to our object came to mind. This was certainly to be a horse of a different color!

  Then we were alongside one of the pirate polaccas, grapnels hooked into the enemy’s bulwark, and lines pulled tight to hold us cheek by jowl with them. Too close for the supporting fire from our colleagues or the bigger ships, we were on our own. I saw that one other of our number, at some distance from us was similarly engaged, though I could not determine which.

  “MEN! Follow me! We will take them. Judd! Oliver! Take your men forward.” Decatur’s cry broke my chains of immobility. I was aware of Judd rushing by me, cutlass held aloft and pistol aimed to the front, shouting at the top of his lungs some unintelligible sounds.

  “OLIVER! Come. Follow me. And cock your pistol!” I made out the words as Judd paused to rally me and our men.

  Without a conscious thought, I mimicked his pose and followed, cocking my pistol as he had instructed. Ten or twelve of our sailors, armed with half-pikes, tomahawks, and cutlasses followed us, pushing and scrabbling to be first to gain the enemy’s deck. Another group followed the captain, and the Neapolitan sailors, of whom we employed about six, remained in the gunboat.

  Screaming and yelling in English and the unintelligible guttural invectives of our turbaned adversaries competed with the clashing of steel on steel and the sharp crack of pistols. In the background, I could identify, without looking, the flagship’s steady, rhythmic broadsides. Small comfort, that. As I stepped over the enemy bulwark and onto his deck, a white-robed fellow with a dense, black beard and fiery black eyes rose up in front of me.

  He held the same curved blade I had seen on the decks of Philadelphia, and his menacing posture stopped me in my tracks. He studied me for a moment and actually smiled. His teeth, stained and blackened, made the smile all the more horrible. I was rooted to the deck, unmoving even when he stepped toward me, raising his scimitar as he likely relished the joy of splitting me open.

  “Shoot him! Shoot him, Oliver!” Judd’s voice seemed far away as I faced this fellow who, though not a large man, was fearsome in his posture and intent, even at a distance of several steps.

  As though underwater, I managed to raise my pistol, sight it as I had been taught, and pull the trigger. The fiery black eyes, the smile, and thick black beard disappeared in a wet red cloud as the man fell backward, dead by my ball taken full in the face. There! Didn’t expect that, I’ll warrant! I stood looking at him for a moment, perhaps a second, and then rushed past his inert form to catch up with Judd. My terror was forgotten as I gained Judd’s side, replaced by the shock of my action. My shock, my horror, turned quickly to jubilation at my deliverance.

  “Judd! Did you see? I shot that man! I killed him, Judd!” My excitement was tempered some by my realization that, once again, I had ended the life of a fellow human being.

  “Aye, a fine shot it was, Oliver, and not a moment too soon. He would have killed you as soon as look at you had you waited. Split you stem to stem with that scimitar!” Judd shouted back, not looking at me; his eyes moved about the knots of men locked in combat. Almost without thought, he parried a corsair’s thrust and, with a backhand stroke, laid open the man’s chest to the bone. The enemy quickly lost his taste for the fight and leaped over the rail.

  Around us the sounds swirled and clashed, combining their several distinct and identifiable ones into a single, continuous din, punctuated by the steady cannonading of Constitution, Argus, and Syren. It was confusing by itself, but added to the tide of white-robed Turks that seemed to flow in undiminished numbers amid the canvas trousers and blue jackets of the Americans, all fighting by now with spent pistol and cutlass, fist and tomahawk, it was astonishing to me that any of us landed a blow where we intended. But we did, even me. And presently, just as I struck a swarthy fellow with the butt of my discharged pistol, giving him a blow which caused him to drop to his knees, I heard the voice of our captain floating above the sounds of the dying fracas.

  “They’ve struck, men. HOLD! We carried ‘em!”

  With surprising suddenness, the noise around us, the cries, the clanging steel, seemed to stop completely. The long guns of Constitution and the others continued their cannonade, now a barely noticed background noise. We stood panting, breathless, on the polacca’s deck amid a dozen and more bodies clad in red-stained white robes which covered legs, arms, and torsos in contorted poses. Most were quite dead; a few moaned pitifully and stirred, not wishing to be heaved over the side to whatever fate had greeted their dead mates. The remainder, perhaps five of them, had surrendered and were herded in a group onto our gunboat. The polacca was secured astern and taken in tow, a prize of war.

  Back aboard gunboat four, I stood amid my shipmates, numb with the emotions that coursed through me. The jubilation was gone; I was at times on the brink of tears while at others I wanted to shout out in glee. My twice spent pistol still hung in my hand, useful now as only a cudgel, and my cutlass, as in
nocent of blood as when I had boarded, remained firmly in my right hand, an extension of my arm. I watched without comprehension as our sail was unfurled and the oars manned, moving us in a direction that held no significance for me.

  “Captain Decatur! Captain! Your brother, sir!” A voice from gunboat two, which I recalled was under the command of James Decatur, was carried by the scant wind to the ears of our captain. Turning, I spied the boat making for us from astern under sail and oars. That was the boat I had earlier witnessed attacking the enemy as we did. A midshipman (I recognized him, but was unable to call to mind his name) stood in the bow, hands cupped around his mouth.

  “Avast heaving, lads. Shiver the sail.” Decatur ordered us to wait for the pursuing boat, which quickly drew nigh.

  “Sir! Your brother, sir . . . he’s been . . . he got . . . shot, sir.” The midshipman struggled to give voice to the dreadful words.

  Our captain, who had come aft to better hear the messenger, stood quite close to me, and I perceived the fire leave his eyes, the fire that had glowed there so brightly since the commodore sent us on our way. Indeed, the captain’s face seemed suddenly bereft of color, or even animation. His mouth was agape, and he shook his head slowly from side to side as if saying “No.” With a visible effort, he recovered some of his composure.

  “What happened, lad? My brother is not killed, surely?” Decatur stood in the quarter as the other vessel approached. Even though he shouted the words, the emotions that must have surged through him were plainly evident.

  “Sir, I am afraid so, sir. He led a boarding party after the pirates struck, and their captain drew a pistol and shot him, sir. In the head. I am afraid he died most quickly. And I am sorry, sir.” The report was given in a trembling voice, fraught with emotion both at the loss of the midshipman’s captain and at being the bearer of such dreadful tidings. I was stunned at the horror of the treachery and the enormity of this tragedy. I glanced again at Captain Decatur; his shoulders were slumped, his head lowered, and he grasped tightly to a shroud as if unable to support himself without it. For a moment, I thought of Edward and what a devastating blow it would be for me were he to be shot.

  “Sir!” our captain, after collecting himself, shouted to the midshipman. “Take our prize in tow, if you please. I will cast it off as we must make all haste and a vessel in tow would only act to slow us.” As Decatur quickly gave orders, the polacca was set adrift, and our gunboat turned to move with alacrity toward the enemy. Our oarsmen, only moments before tired and spent with the rigors of battle, were now vital and strong, pulling for all they were worth, the quicker they might avenge our captain’s tragedy.

  The messenger had surely identified the enemy vessel captained by the treacherous villain who killed James Decatur, and, after a chase of barely one hour, we were within a musket shot of it. During that interval, I noticed that I held no thoughts of butterflies or twelve-pound shot, beyond that which I hoped we would be pouring into the enemy. I had shaken off the terrors of my previous encounter, and, like our crew, was now intent on standing with our captain in his retribution. Judd, his eyes as hard as flint, and I shared a glance and a barely perceptible nod, confirming an unspoken agreement.

  “FIRE!” Decatur cried out, and our cannon spoke with a mighty roar, sending a bag of grape into the deck of the vessel. Our vessel never hesitated, but continued its headlong rush straight into the enemy, propelled by men who drew their strength from their love for our captain and, without the exchange of a single word, had resolved, each in his own mind, to right this wrong.

  With a resounding crunch of splintering wood, our gunboat landed alongside the pirate’s polacca. Even before we heaved grapnels, our men were shouting their blood curdling yells and arranging themselves to board. Quickly we were secured alongside with hook and hemp, and then we were aboard them, scrambling over bulwarks to attack with pistol, cutlass, and hatchet. I spied a towering figure, cloaked in a white robe and holding aloft an enormous scimitar, standing on what I took to be the quarterdeck. He let out a mighty roar as our men landed on his deck. Without a word, Decatur made straight for him, armed with only his sword.

  I and the others of our boarders fought the pirates with pistol and cutlass, halfpike and hatchet; we took it harder than in our first encounter, and I saw several of our men go down. Whether they were dead or not I could not tell, and I had little time to wonder as I fought side by side with Judd. We had both discharged our pistols, with some less luck this time, and used the spent weapons as bludgeons while swinging our cutlasses about us to inflict as much damage as possible. I wounded several who, after feeling the edge of my steel, backed away. Judd enjoyed some success as well, and I was aware of several of the white-cloaked demons lying blood-soaked at his feet.

  We stood shoulder to shoulder amidships in the polacca, surrounded by Americans fighting like badgers against these scoundrels. I had broken the blade on my cudass, striking it against the heavier blade of a native sword, and was saved from being split like a chicken by a thrust from a sailor’s halfpike.

  “I thank you, sir,” I shouted to him as he turned to take on yet another opponent. The sailor grinned at me and waved his hand dismissively. As he did, Captain Decatur’s long ago admonition to a young and untried midshipman flashed through one part of my mind, i recall actually smiling as I picked up a dropped tomahawk, very much aware of my surroundings, but hearing him say, “Oliver, they call you sir, not the other way ‘round!”

  As I straightened, my newfound weapon in hand, a snarling Arab thrust at me with a short, evil-looking dagger. Without a thought, I screamed something unintelligible even to me and swung the hatchet; he stepped back, his startled and confused gaze shifting between the gory, spurting stump of his wrist and his hand, which now lay on the deck, still clutching the dagger. Clearly, he had no further interest in the fight.

  Caught up with a blood-lust I could scarcely believe, I looked around me, seeking another adversary. Instead, I caught sight of our captain as he parried with his sword a blow from the huge scimitar wielded by the giant corsair, the one I had earlier deduced was the pirate captain. So strong was the blow that Decatur’s lighter weapon, like mine, broke off at the hilt, leaving him unarmed in the face of this great bear of a man. But for him, there was no convenient sailor to wield a halfpike in his defense.

  A quick, though mercifully, poorly aimed stroke from the pirate left Decatur with a gash in his arm that flowed freely. He seemed quite unaware of it as he stepped toward his assailant, grabbed the scimitar and wrested it away from his attacker.

  “Judd! The captain!” I rushed toward the polacca’s quarterdeck, my dirk and hatchet, both bloodied, one held aloft, one at my hip, to attack. Judd was close on my heels.

  The fighting continued all around the two captains, who now wrestled on the deck armed only with their strength of arm and will; the struggling officers, unnoticed by most, were only two more combatants in the melee. The noise was fearsome: clashing steel, shouts and curses in two languages, the thump of pike shafts banging off edged weapons and flesh, and the stamping of leather shod feet all blended into an unimaginable cacophony. I was unaware of the pounding of long guns, ours or theirs, though I am quite sure both sides continued their cannonade unabated. As we neared the quarterdeck, we had to fight a few of the white-clad pirates away; a single stroke with cutlass or hatchet usually convinced them to give way, that and the fearsome look we both wore.

  As we neared me place where the two captains now wrestled on the deck, I saw happily that Decatur was uppermost in the intertwined pair. Then a white-clad arm raised a cutlass, perhaps one of our own he had snatched, to make a killing blow on our captain’s unprotected head. My heart stopped as I witnessed what I was sure to be the demise of my captain, and I held my breath, too far away to do naught but shout a warning, unheard by any but those close at hand.

  An American seaman, one I recognized as Daniel Frasier, with both arms rendered useless by cruel wounds, saw the deadly blow a
bout to fall, and threw himself across Decatur’s shoulders just as the lethal blade fell. The man absorbed the stroke intended as fatal to his captain and received a severe gash in his scalp for his efforts, but Decatur was unscathed. The sailor, bleeding profusely, rolled off the struggling captains and the Tripolitan, being bigger and stronger by half than our own captain, quickly turned the tables and had Decatur pinned below him on the deck.

  He held him down with his body weight and one hand which grasped Decatur’s throat; with his other, he drew and raised a dagger which he clearly intended to plunge in his helpless victim’s chest. The captain, his face scarlet with the effort and lack of breath, realized what was about to happen and with his left hand seized the pirate’s raised arm, holding the fatal plunge at bay while, with his right hand, he reached into his pocket.

  Suddenly a shot, strangely muffled, rang out and the pirate captain crumpled atop Decatur. With some considerable exertion, Decatur rolled the lifeless body of the pirate off him and stood, a little unsteadily at first. In his right hand, hanging limply at his side, was the pistol our captain had secreted in his pocket and managed to twist around until it was aimed into his adversary’s chest.

  In seconds, it seemed, the splendid news of our captain’s triumph had spread throughout the polacca. With the death of their leader, the remaining corsairs quickly laid down their arms and struck, having no wish to join their brothers, and their captain, in paradise. The polacca was ours, and the treacherous barbarian who had murdered James Decatur was dead, but at greater cost than any would have wished.