The Greater the Honor
“Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered;
yet we have this consolation with us,
that the harder the conflict,
the more glorious the triumph.
what we obtain too cheap,
we esteem too lightly:
it is dearness only that
gives every thing its value.”
Thomas Paine
The
Greater
The
Honor
A Novel of the
Barbary wars
WILLIAM H. WHITE
© 2003 by William H. White
ISBN 1-888671-44-0 (Hard Cover)
ISBN 1-888671-20-3 (Soft Cover)
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems—without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. The publisher takes no responsibility for the use of any of the materials or methods described herein, nor for the products thereof.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 2002 Paul Gamett
Ships left to right, USS Constitution, a fishing smack, USS Argus, USS Enterprise, USS Syren
Illustrations © 2002 Paul Garnett
Graphic design and production by:
Words & Pictures, Inc., 27 South River Road South, Edgewater, Maryland 21037
Printed in the USA by:
Victor Graphics, 1211 Bernard Drive, Baltimore, MD 21223 USA
Questions regarding the content of this book should be addressed to:
TILLER Publishing
605 Talbot Street, Suite Two
St. Michaels, Maryland 21663
410-745-3750 • Fax: 410-745-9743
www.tillerbooks.com
DEDICATION
This book is for the ladies to the south,
Felicity, Missy, Lizzy, and Sally, with love.
And for Andrew who joined us in September, 2002.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
During the course of researching and writing this novel, I was assisted by several people whose efforts contributed accuracy and wisdom to my efforts. I would be remiss were 1 not to thank them publicly.
At the USS Constitution Museum, Charlestown Navy Yard, Boston, MA: Margherita Desy, Curator, who provided access to the brilliant new research library there and, more importantly, recommendations for titles, papers, and logs that would prove invaluable.
Kate Lennon, Librarian, patiently explained to me the intricacies of the microfilm reader and printer, then sorted me out when I got in trouble with it, and provided microfilmed logs from the USS Constitution during that ship’s involvement in the Barbary Wars.
At the Massachusetts Historical Society: William Fowler, PhD, made available to me countless sources about the practice of dueling, and provided a read of the manuscript to ensure its accuracy as well as his fine introduction.
At the Gibraltar Tourism Office, Gibraltar: Tina Gache, who offered voluminous historical information on “The Rock,” including its early development from first settlement to modern times, and responded to my many emails with patience and alacrity.
At The Chipstone Foundation, Milwaukee, WI: Nancy Sazama, provided a photograph of the splendid contemporary engraving of the August 3rd 1804 bombardment of Tripoli and allowed its use in this book.
Donald Petrie, writer, historian, and expert in prize law, helped with issues concerning prize law and a complete read of the manuscript with an eye toward its historical accuracy. His suggestions were invaluable. His lovely wife Mary offered her enthusiastic endorsement of the literary aspect of the book.
Others include:
Bob Paulus, my friend and mentor, has the most remarkable collection of esoterica regarding the formative days of the U.S. Navy and an unstinting willingness to share it.
Joe Burns, friend and sailing pal, was always available to discuss a plot concept, provide a read with suggestions, and offer continuing encouragement.
Deborah Bowles, a legal secretary in Washington, DC, stumbled across a wonderful, long out-of-print book in a used bookstore in Maine and sent it to me. It became a significant source which proved accurate to a fault.
As always, my sister, Linda W. Wiseman, an independent scholar of the decorative arts, way of life, and interior design of the early days of the Republic, was available with minutiae about life in the 18th and 19th centuries including food, music, and customs.
My editor at Tiller Publishing, Jerri Anne Hopkins, was helpful in making the text more readable and grammatically accurate; and patient with my sometimes obstinate reluctance to amend a grammatically offensive passage.
And jay Benford, Publisher, willingly took a chance on an untried writer some years ago and has a continuing appetite for my yarns.
Of course, Paul Garnett, artist extraordinaire, provided his splendid and creative cover and inside sketches. While we’re not supposed to “judge a book by its cover,” we do, and an eye-catching illustration is surely a help in attracting attention!
Last, but surely not least, 1 could not have found a more supportive family than my wife Ann, sons Skip, John, and Josh, and daughters-in-law Felicity and Missy. Your encouraging words and love were inspirational.
If I have succeeded in making this story interesting, exciting, or historically accurate, it is in no small measure because these good folks were unstinting in their willingness to help. Thank you all for making me look good.
William H. White
Fall, 2002
INTRODUCTION
Novelists, like historians, are storytellers. Unlike historians, however, they find the elements of plot and suspense not in libraries and archives but in their own imaginations. Bill White is one of those few novelists who is comfortable both in the world of imagination as well as amongst books and dusty manuscripts. In The Greater the Honor he weaves an imaginative tale of young men in war set against an historical background that is accurate in nearly every detail.
Young America was a sea minded nation. In the early years of the republic, merchants in Boston, New York, Philadelphia and a dozen other ports sent their vessels to sea instructing their captains “Try All Ports.” These ships were venturing into a hostile world where few nations wished us well. Nowhere was the danger greater than in the western Mediterranean where the Barbary Corsairs waited to pounce upon our trade.
For centuries these North African Corsairs had made their livelihood preying upon merchant vessels sailing in the western Mediterranean. Nations that wished to pass through these waters
had either to pay or fight. Most decided to pay—it was cheaper. Our new nation did not have the means to do either. Our government had neither the money to offer tribute nor the resources to build a navy. Not until 1797 did we finally launch fighting ships. “Old Ironsides” was the first but others soon followed, and in 1801 during his first administration, President Thomas )efferson dispatched an American squadron to protect our trade against the “Barbary Pirates.”
The year is 1803, and young Oliver Baldwin arrives in Boston to take his berth aboard the newly launched United States brig Argus commanded by Stephen Decatur. Argus is bound for the Mediterranean to join Commodore Preble’s squadron.
Baldwin and his shipmates are in for a rollicking adventure. Under Decatur’s careful eye the young men serving under him learn to hand, reef, steer and fight!
William Fowler, Ph.D.
Director, Massachusetts Historical Society
The attack made on Tripoli on the 3rd August 1804 by the American Squadron under Commodore Edward Preble to whom this Plate is respectfully dedicated by his Obedient Servant john B. Guerazzi. Courtesy Chipstone Foundation. Photo Gavin Ashworth.
CHAPTER ONE
“Excuse me, sir. Perchance can you direct me to the ship Argus? I have been told she was to be found at this wharf.” My voice broke, an embarrassment to my effort at maturity, raising further sweat on my brow, which immediately trickled down my reddening cheeks. I had hoped not to be taken as a mere boy. The heat of the August afternoon could easily be blamed for my flushed countenance and the sweat that now ran freely. Indeed, it was a sweltering day, even for August; it seemed of late as though each day was determined to be more uncomfortable than its predecessor.
The fellow—a bit of an unsavory character I thought after he had turned to give me his attention—looked me over top to bottom and scowled at me from under a beetle brow trimmed in bushy eyebrows. He took in my forest green suit, white shirt, now wilted and travel worn, and low boots, taking time in his appraisal. He then fixed his rheumy gaze upon my youthful face. His very look made me blanch, but there appeared no opportunity to make my escape. And I didn’t think it would do to insult or irritate this fellow. His countenance looked for all the world like I imagined the demons to look, the ones my father spoke of so often while reminding me of the unwholesomeness of the world beyond Philadelphia.
I could not help but notice that his dress was akin to what I would associate with a drayman at home, a none too prosperous one at that. He wore a plaid shirt of indeterminate color covered by an unbuttoned waistcoat that had perhaps been fawn-colored but was now stained with so many colors that its original shade was lost forever. It was unbuttoned, not because of the heat of the afternoon, but due to a complete lack of buttons. Trousers of canvas marked him a sailor to all but me. Topping off this costume was a tarpaulin hat that had long since seen better days covering greasy black hair which, judging from what stuck out under the hat, was some unruly. His voice, when I finally heard it, was raspy and nasal, nearly a snarl.
“She ain’t a ship, boy; she’s a brig. An’ just what would a lad of your stripe be wantin’ with the Argus brig?” He stopped and again took my measure. When I met his gaze and remained silent, he added, “She be lyin’ yonder in the roads.” He pointed in a generally seaward direction where, following his outstretched arm, I was able to make out several vessels lying to their anchors in the shimmering haze.
“I thank you most kindly, sir. I shall endeavor to get myself out there on the morrow. I am, you see, assigned in her. Midshipman, I am, and ordered to that brig, Lieutenant Stephen Decatur commanding, by Mister Robert Smith; he’s Secretary of the Navy. Signed my Warrant with his own hand, he did.” I dispatched him neatly with the practiced words I was sure would leave him suitably impressed. Hoping I had, indeed, put the gentleman (I am only assuming that he was indeed worthy of that distinction) off with my brusque manner, I turned about, relieved that my voice had not this time failed me and, again shouldering the chest I had earlier set down, stepped off for a house I had earlier espied which advertised ‘rooms.’
“Heave to, there young sir. I had no idea I was bein’ spoke to by such as yerself. Where are ye bound under such a press of canvas?” His scowl had disappeared, replaced by what I imagined to be a smile, and his brow lifted inquiringly as he spoke.
“Why, I am going to secure for myself a room for the night and some supper, I suppose. There.” Now I pointed and he looked. “It seems convenient.” Maybe I had proven my independence to him.
“That’s a place seamen gather. Right rowdy they are, they been drinkin’. Ain’t no place for a young lad to be by hisself. I’d be pleased to accompany you and give you a good steer.”
“I am fourteen, sir. I would reckon to be able to take care of myself.” I didn’t savor the thought of spending any more time than I had already with this fellow and I again started toward the hotel. With him at my heel.
As I approached the building that I had selected as my shelter for the night, a quick glance to my rear assured me that, yes, he was still following and apparently determined to provide me “a good steer” whether I needed one or not. That I had little idea of what he meant by “a good steer” concerned me only slightly as I stepped through the front door trying to look as if I weren’t staggering under the weight of my seachest, and that I knew exactly what I was about. I managed to bang it more than once against the doorjamb and, upon setting it down, with some considerable relief, checked it carefully for dents and scratches. The words on the front were undamaged and, as I read them for the thousandth time, I felt the same rush of pride I had felt when first I had gazed upon them: Midshipman Oliver C. Baldwin—United States Brig Argus.
I took stock of my surroundings: a narrow stair rose in front of me, disappearing into darkness somewhere on, I assumed, the second storey. To my right, a door stood closed. It held no indication of what lay behind it, but from the sounds issuing forth, I gathered, correctly, it was the taproom and pushed the door open.
The noise of twenty or more men talking and laughing and trying to be heard over their own din assaulted me, and I very nearly tripped over my self-appointed escort as I stepped backwards. I regained my footing and peered into the room. Through the gloom, it seemed to be longer than it was wide by about twice and was filled with tables surrounded by ladder-back chairs. None, that I could discern, appeared particularly stable; many were missing slats in their backs, and even several of the unoccupied ones seemed to teeter precariously on uneven legs.
Certainly not furniture from the Baldwin shop of Philadelphia! I mused silently.
Lanterns gave off a sickly yellow glow in a dismal effort to augment the waning daylight that struggled in through the narrow, grime-covered windows; the shadows created by the smoky lamps danced grotesquely in an exaggerated imitation of the gestures and movements of the room’s inhabitants. The fog of tobacco smoke and the black oily emanations from the lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams brought tears to my eyes and constricted my throat. The resulting coughing fit made my eyes run even more. I know not whether it was the noise I was making in my attempts to breathe or the rush of clear air into the room, but most eyes turned to me and conversation stopped. The sudden silence was startling.
I hesitated, not relishing the thought of entry into that atmosphere, and reconsidered my decision to spend the night in this place. My friend from the wharf gave me a none-too-gentle shove, propelling me unceremoniously into the room. The noise began again with renewed vigor, in recognition that no personage of consequence was entering. Without a word, my friend guided me through the palpable air, around tables and chairs, mostly unseen by me, to an unoccupied table. These ladder-backs at least had four legs of equal length and more than a few of the slats from which their name arose. He waved a hand and, as if by magic, two brimming tankards appeared on the table.
You’ll not be wanting to taste strong drink, Oliver. And while you’ll be getting a regular ration, half, I believe on ac
count of your youth, aboard ship, you’ll do well to avoid it. Whiskey and rum are the devil’s own creations and most certainly not for young gentlemen from Philadelphia. My father’s words of only a few days ago drifted through my head, surprisingly clear. I fancied I could hear his voice saying them, even over the din of the taproom. A tap on the shoulder brought me back to the present, and I turned to find a large gentleman in a none-too-clean waistcoat over what might have once been a white shirt standing with his hand out.
“Pay the man, lad, so we can get on with it. You’ve money, I collect?” My friend from the wharf prodded me and 1 withdrew my purse from its place within my jacket. I produced some coins that disappeared from my hand, and the publican with them, so quickly I myself was not even sure they had ever been there.
“I am not sure this is where I want to spend the night. Perhaps some other…”
“Nonsense, lad. This here’s a fine place and I reckon ye’ll be as well set here as any place. Now drink yer ale and tell me yer name. And what you’re about. Mine’s Langford, Edward Langford. From right here in Boston. Doubled the Horn twicet and shipwrecked inta the bargain.” He took a long draught from the pewter in front of him and, setting it down noisily, looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“I’m Oliver Baldwin, Midshipman Oliver Baldwin. From Philadelphia— that’s in Pennsylvania. And I am to sail with Captain Decatur in the brig Argus. Captain Decatur is a Philadelphia man, also, you know.” Mister Langford nodded attentively and I continued.
“It is interesting that your name is Edward; I have a brother, older than me by some six years, whose name is Edward. He is also in the Navy, a lieutenant in the frigate Philadelphia under Captain Bainbridge. I am given to understand that the Philadelphia has only recently left for the Mediterranean Sea and will be part of the squadron with Constitution and Commodore Preble.” I fairly yelled to be heard over the noise, and Mister Langford leaned forward to catch my words.