The Greater the Honor

by William H. White

  I looked down; my shirt had somehow gotten torn from stem to stem, and one sleeve had been rent from elbow to wrist. My white trousers were filthy. My mother’s face, wide-eyed in dismay at the state of my clothes, flashed into my mind as I thought of the time I would have restoring them to an acceptable level of cleanliness. I smiled in spite of it; Bradford had paid me the highest compliment of my almost-one-year Navy career! An even better one than the compliment Captain Decatur had paid me. I wiped a hand across my sweating face making the sailor laugh aloud.

  “You got all that black mess on your face, sir. Take a look at your hand.”

  I did; both were filthy from the powder residue and the grease on the gun. Now that grime had mixed with the sweat on my face. I suspected I must look as bad as Bradford and laughed with him.

  “Aye, Bradford. But you should see your own self. I can’t possibly look as bad as you!”

  Judd chose that moment to arrive; he was . . . well, not spotless to be sure, but he certainly bore no resemblance to either me or the gun captain.

  “Well, 1 reckon we gave them a good . . . Oliver, what in the name of all that’s holy have you been doing? You look like you were wrestling with a pig! And lost!” He started to laugh, and soon the three of us were joined by our gun crews as we guffawed and bellowed, slapped one another on our backs, and congratulated each other on the fine job we did against the corsairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Our squadron, called off by the commodore while Constitution maintained a heavy covering fire, had reassembled outside the eastern breakwater before dark, and the captains were all called to repair aboard the flagship. Captain Decatur took with him to Constitution his brother’s corpse, as well as the person of Daniel Frasier for further medical attention. Our surgeon accompanied his patient and the captain. We surmised that Reliance Wakefield felt he was unqualified to do more than stanch his bleeding and sew up a few of his wounds. He was particularly concerned about the deep, cruel hurt to the sailor’s head caused by the Tripolitan cutlass. The prizes were transferred to the flagship as well, unburdening the smaller of us from the drag they created astern. Our bomb vessels and mortars retired also, to be taken in tow by the flagship. Finally, boats shuttled back and forth ferrying the Tripolitan prisoners, wounded and intact alike, to the frigate, as none of the smaller vessels had room to hold them.

  As we drew close to Constitution, we could see that her rigging and sails were a good deal cut up by shot, and even from where we sailed alongside her, we could plainly observe that her mainmast had received a cruel wound, from a twenty-four-pound ball, according to the gunner, leaving a substantial hole nearly through the lower mast itself. I wondered how it continued to stand.

  “I’d warrant we have their wretched aim to thank that the flagship wasn’t more cut up, Oliver. That and the grape she kept layin’ into their batteries from so close in. Commodore must have sailed to within three cable-lengths of the wall to do the level of damage he did! I wouldn’t have wanted to be ashore and on the receivin’ end of that, by God!” Judd stood with me as we watched from the rail the activity on the frigate.

  With now several encounters with these scoundrels to my credit, I felt qualified to offer my own thought. “Aye, they must have suffered considerably in the fortress. Looks like Constitution’s guns did more than cut up their walls and towers; seems like there’s fewer houses poking up from behind the walls there. And I imagine the shells from the bomb vessels took their toll as well. I wonder how many they lost of their gunboats and galleys; I’d reckon it was considerable. Not to mention the several we all took as prizes!”

  As I spoke, it occurred to me that Edward had been locked up somewhere in the middle of all that! Oh, my stars! I hope nothing has happened to him or the others there with him, I added with a twinge of guilt. Would that he has remained safe throughout our bombardment!

  “Judd, where do you suppose they’re keeping the Philadelphias? I mean, could they have . . . do you think . . . well, they’d be in a dungeon, somewhere, right?”

  Judd took my meaning at once. “Oh, no, Oliver. I’d think the Bashaw would keep them locked up where they couldn’t escape during the attack. I mean, think of the confusion and chaos that must have been rife there; would have been the perfect opportunity for those lads to make a run for it, given half a chance. No, I don’t think you have to worry about Edward and the others. They likely heard it and maybe even felt the ground shakin’, but I would wager they weren’t anywhere exposed.”

  That eased my mind, and I hoped that our bombardment might make their captors consider giving up the sailors and officers from our late frigate. Wouldn’t that be glorious! Then we could end this business and go home.

  By the time Captain Decatur’s boat returned to Enterprise, it was full dark, and the ships of our squadron tarried safely offshore, sailing off and on in company. Judd and I were taking our ease in the cockpit, having just finished our supper, when Mister Lawrence knocked once on the doorframe and stepped in, bending his tall frame through the opening and, so he would not have to remain stooped, took a seat at the foot of our table.

  “Gentlemen,” he offered as he sat. His somber tone warned us that our celebration of the day’s events was done. “As you may have noticed, the captain did not return with his boat; indeed, he has sent word that he will remain with his brother throughout the night. But he also has requested that those of our officers who wish it join him in the flagship on the morrow to witness the burial at sea. As Lieutenant James Decatur was our only casualty of today’s action, I suspect that Commodore Preble will personally commit his body to the deeps. And even though Captain Decatur implied that only those who wish to should go, it is my suggestion that not going might only show disrespect to a great man who has suffered an incomprehensible loss.” He stopped and looked from one to the other of us, seeking something in our expressions.

  I was about to offer to remain aboard the schooner to keep the watch so another might go in my place (I am uncomfortable in such situations) when Lawrence looked directly at me and, like a gypsy fortuneteller, read my mind. “He has asked Mister Hobbs to again keep the watch on Enterprise, since he was not in the action today, so as the rest of us might attend. You should both plan on accompanying us.”

  Well, that settled that! Uncomfortable or no, I would be there; I would not want to be thought disrespectful, especially as I held our captain in such high esteem.

  As two bells in the morning watch signaled nine, we, the officers and midshipmen (I still had to remind myself that we were only two now with Thomas ashore and James . . . well, James gone now) assembled in the waist to be rowed across to the flagship for a disagreeable assembly. We wore our dress uniforms, including swords for the officers and dirks for Judd and me. I had scrubbed my skin raw to remove the grime from the previous day’s activities and had found, to my great joy, that my dress uniform had suffered little since we left Syracuse; it seemed so long ago.

  We arrived on Constitution’s deck after a short and mercifully dry ride in the cutter. The officers and mids of the other ships were assembling with us. Under the direction of Mister Lawrence, we all took our places in ranks by ship and seniority. Standing on the spar deck with us, but forward of us, was the ship’s company of the frigate, those, I assumed, who were not occupied with a watch. Commodore Preble stood at the foot of the mainmast talking in quiet tones to our captain. Both were dressed in their finest uniforms complete with their several decorations and swords. Near at hand, but closer to the bulwark, was a flag-draped sailcloth shroud in the form of a man. A large round ball could be seen at the lower end of the pall. I must admit to giving the damaged lower mast a more careful scrutiny than I might have under different circumstances, but in the event, it gave me exercise for my mind as well as an occupation for my eyes, save staring at my grief-stricken commander and his shroud-covered brother.

  Then the commodore was speaking in glowing terms of our action of the day previous, using such w
ords as “heroic,” “glorious,” “honorable,” “gallant,” and “daring.” He gave the account of James Decatur’s demise, emphasizing the treacherous behavior of the Tripolitan pirate who, through deceit and “inhuman behavior, cut down our brother-in-arms, the brother of our dear and valiant friend.” I watched Captain Decatur during the commodore’s speech; I saw no movement, recognition, or signal of acknowledgement during the whole of it. He stood ramrod-straight with an unwavering gaze focused somewhere distant. I imagined he was recalling memories of growing up with his brother in Philadelphia, standing up for him in winter snowball fights and uneven wrestling matches in the schoolyard, much as Edward had for me until he went off to the Navy. Of course, the Decatur brothers were closer in age than Edward and I and so likely had more time to develop a closer bond. I wondered, were I in his place, would I be able to maintain such a dignified composure.

  At the appropriate point, Preble nodded to Constitution’s bosun who, with his perfectly turned out group of eight sailors, lifted the board on which the flag-draped shroud rested and moved it some six feet to rest on the bulwark. As the Marine detachment presented arms, then fired a salute, the commodore read the words from his Bible, and the officers assembled doffed their hats in salute to a fallen comrade. At this point, Captain Decatur stepped to the rail and stood quietly next to his brother’s body. He rested a hand on the flag-draped form, and, while I saw his lips moving, I could hear no words even though the ship was as silent as could be imagined.

  When he stepped back and looked up, the board was tilted. From beneath the flag, to the accompaniment of a single muffled drum, the remains of James Decatur slid into the waters of the Mediterranean Sea with a soft splash. A dull thud from forward signaled a salute from Lieutenant Decatur’s late command, Nautilus. Then it was ended. Preble shook hands with Captain Decatur, presented him with the flag that had previously covered his late brother, and, with a nod to Captain Robinson who commanded the flagship, gave permission for the hands and us to be dismissed.

  It was a somber group that departed the Constitution’s deck that morning; but under the gloomy exterior, and more noticeably in the midshipmen, myself included, was the satisfaction that we had exacted suitable payment for the death of Lieutenant Decatur, and the pride of acting with honor in the conflict. I would think the joy of our survival lurked within each of us as well; I know I certainly felt it profoundly and gratefully

  “Did you notice the commodore and Captain Decatur talking with Lieutenant Blake, Oliver? Didn’t look to me like neither was congratulating him on the fine job he did yesterday!” Judd whispered conspiratorially into my ear as we waited at the break in the bulwark for the boat from Enterprise to come alongside.

  I had noticed Blake, after the officers from Argus were dismissed, in deep conversation with Decatur and Preble, but Judd’s comment took a moment to register. I looked around to see what he might be talking about. Then I recalled we had all seen Blake’s gunboat hanging back as we went into the first action yesterday. He had been firing but, even to me, it seemed ineffective; I could remember none of his shots telling. Now Devon’s remark made sense to me.

  “Aye, Judd. I did see them, but it didn’t signify. You think that’s what was happening? That Preble was taking him to task for not fighting?”

  Then the boat was there, and we were climbing down the boarding battens on Constitution with little chance to continue our conversation. Judd merely caught my eye and winked at me as we stepped into the boat.

  Once back on the schooner, and having offered suitable condolences to our captain, Lieutenant Lawrence told us we would spend the day re-rigging our prizes from the lateen arrangement to a sloop rig. Battle damage would be repaired, and, with continued fair weather, we would fight again tomorrow. The squadron remained in close formation under short sail; after all, we had nowhere to go, and each ship would need only a minimum number of hands to manage her. Lawrence charged me and Bosun Anderson with overseeing the rig change to one of our prizes, still astern of the flagship, while Judd would assist Hobbs and Morris to manage the repairs to our gunboat and, time permitting, one of the mortars which had suffered a few stove planks.

  “Sail! Sail! Comin’ out th’ harbor!” The cry from the masthead on Constitution was heard plainly aboard most of the squadron, and I think, without exception, every man topside stopped what he had been doing to look.

  “They comin’ out to fight us out here?”

  “How many of ‘em comin’?”

  “They gonna get whupped again, same as yesterday!”

  “Aye, worse, I’d warrant!”

  That the men and ships were unready and, at that moment, ill-prepared to fight signified not a whit! We showed the pirates a thing or two yesterday and, by God, we’d do it again. Right now, should that be their choice!

  But it wasn’t the corsairs coming out; in fact, it was a single brig, quite small, and flying French colors, that left the harbor. Commodore Preble induced her captain to heave to alongside the frigate. While we could hear little of what transpired when the Frenchman went aboard Constitution, we did see some dozen and more Tripolitans walk or get carried into the French ship, which shortly left the flagship and headed back the way she had come, into Tripoli’s harbor.

  “Commodore Preble’s sent the worst wounded back into that den of iniquity as a gesture of goodwill. Thinks it might make some difference to the Americans they’re holding. Get ‘em better treatment. Maybe even a few of ‘em released.”

  When I heard Mister Hobbs, who had been in Constitution seeking some lumber for his repair efforts, tell Lieutenant Morris what had happened, my heart leaped; would Edward be among those released? Or if not, would he be a beneficiary of better treatment?

  I had heard naught from my brother for some weeks, his last letter leaving me disheartened at the cruel treatment he and his fellows had suffered after our attack on the late frigate, Philadelphia. I dared not imagine what yesterday’s event would lead to for them. Perhaps with the return of their more severely wounded brothers, the pirates might be moved to exercise compassion. Or not.

  We found out later, when the Frenchman returned, that Preble had also sent in letters to the Prime Minister and the French Consul offering to negotiate once more with the Bashaw for the release of our comrades and establish a treaty between our two countries. Of course, the brig brought out no reasonable reply, causing the commodore to rail against the pirates in general, the Bashaw in particular, and to promise further punishment on the morrow.

  True to his word, the dawn of August seventh found us shifting cannon from two of the more badly damaged Tripolitan gunboats to others and preparing for a repeat of our earlier attack. Each boat was crewed and commanded by the same men who had sailed on August third, except for James Decatur, of course, and Lieutenant Blake, whose absence was noted by Judd and me with a nudge and a telling look. The addition of the captured Tripolitan vessels gave us a fleet of nearly a dozen, with the brigs and schooners ready to add their own weight of metal to the considerable firepower of the smaller vessels. Since the wind had veered to the north-northeast, the commodore kept the flagship a greater distance offshore so that, should she be disabled by enemy shot, she would not be blown onto the rocks and lost.

  Decatur’s division attacked a seven-gun battery ashore, successfully dismounting all but one of the guns; Argus accompanied our attack and fired several broadsides at a small group of enemy gunboats that appeared ready to leave the safety of the inner harbor and attack us. Her shots told and dissuaded the pirates from launching a counterattack.

  “Flags on Constitution, sir.” A sharp-eyed quartermaster cried out over the din of our cannonading. “Argus’ number shown. Says ‘Investigate sail to north. Give chase.’”

  We watched as the brig signaled her acknowledgement and wore around. Syren moved quickly to take her place, leaving Vixen, Enterprise, and Nautilus to help the other gunboats should they need it.

  Suddenly a thunderous explosion r
ent the air, overshadowing the steady concussions of the bombardment. It took us a moment to discover that gunboat number nine, manned by a crew and officers from Syren, had taken a red-hot shot into her magazine and been blown up. Her entire stem, from amidships aft, was gone. We watched in rapt fascination as a midshipman, we could not make out which, continued methodically to help several men load the forward gun and then fire it. As the remaining section of the boat sank from under them, they offered three lusty cheers; then they joined their mates in the water, clinging to bits of wreckage until nearby gunboats found them. The men were promptly picked up by other boats and pitched in immediately to assist those crews. The heroic mid, it turned out, was son to a captured officer on Philadelphia.

  Another one of us! I wondered how many of us were kin to prisoners of the Bashaw.

  As the wind was now freshening, Constitution made the signal to withdraw. By dusk, all the gunboats were once again in tow and headed to the northwest. Our attack, while surely successful, had been more costly than the first. We had several men killed, both in the explosion of number nine and in number eight which took two twenty-four-pound shot through her hull. Several others of the fleet had their rigging cut up, masts and yards shot away, and sails rent by balls. To our credit, the fleet fired nearly fifty mortar shells and over five hundred twenty-four-pound shot into the town and castle. To my joy, there was no hand-to-hand combat!

  As evening settled over us, lights appeared—two ships coming toward us from the north. It appeared in the dim light of a crescent moon and the stars that they both were rigged to t’gallants, cracking on a press of canvas to make all possible haste.

  “I’m about fought out, Oliver. I surely do hope they might be friendly.” Judd and I stood shoulder to shoulder at the windward rail, watching as the lights approached. I had to agree; we were still grimy from our afternoon’s efforts, sweaty from the unrelieved heat, and we had both struggled to stay awake during supper. I did not relish the thought of further action now.