Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [88]
A chill ran down Picard’s arm. “Captain Sobel?”
Pushing up behind him, Alexander peeked around at Pennington. “What about the captain?”
Sympathy crossed Mr. Pennington’s face, such as Picard had never witnessed from this man aboard the ship. The first officer looked down at Alexander, then back up. “I’m sorry to report that the captain died as we were rowed in. Rather slowly and grotesquely, I’m pained to say …. We lost many men, including the second lieutenant. Nearly a third of the crew, and seven marines, including Marine Captain Newton, who took a ball through the eye. They fought so valiantly, too…”
“I know, sir,” Picard said gently. “We saw it all.”
“Of course, that makes you the ranking nonparoled officer, Picard,” Pennington told him. “Any decisions and actions on land or on the ship will be yours to make now.”
“I see … yes, of course.”
Together they watched as the last lines were belayed securely to the dock and the bulky British prize became a spoil of war, her masts dominating the dockscape, her cracked yards draping rags of sail that fluttered fitfully in the Delaware River breeze.
“Do you have the entire landing party with you?” Pennington asked, taking Picard’s arm urgently.
“Yes, all accounted for, sir.” Pennington glanced down the dock, saw Nightingale and the two deckhands and Sandy. “Six of you … not enough.”
“To do what, sir?”
To take the ship back, of course.” Alexander bolted forward. “There are only six of us, but with all the officers walking around in the open, we could break the crew out of jail! Let’s do it!” He pulled at Picard’s sleeve. “You said we could do it! Mr. Pennington could lead us!”
Pennington’s sympathy extended once again as he gazed down upon the face of hope and defiance. “I couldn’t possibly participate, swab.”
Instantly shot down, Alexander frowned. “Why not?”
The naval officer dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Because, my boy, I’ve given my word of honor. I promised not to fight. To break that trust would be second only to treason.”
Alexander looked up into the first officer’s eyes and tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Pennington, who had until now seemed so hardened a seafarer and so stiff an officer, softened into an uncle figure. He saw the trouble in the boy’s face, and took time to assuage it.
“The reason we hold to our honor,” he said, “is what war would become if we didn’t. If I could not be trusted to be paroled, they would no longer parole anyone, and all soldiers captured would be shot, or die in some stinking camp. I give my word to my enemy, and sometime in the future, when he gives his word to me, I will have reason to expect him to keep it.”
The boy gazed up at this man whom he clearly admired, and his confusion deepened, just as it was deepening toward Sandy Leonfeld, and Jeremiah Coverman, and his own father.
“But… it’s war,” he protested. “Shouldn’t you do anything you can, anything you have to … to win?”
Pennington smiled through his pain. “I would sacrifice my life, or any officer’s—indeed, the entire crew—rather than break my parole. The cost to everyone of breaking my word is too great to live with. Rules of civility give us our society. There are some things we shall never do, no matter the circumstance. Where there are no rules, in warfare or peace, life becomes chaos. You say it’s war… yes, of course it is. Exactly my point. Warfare without rules becomes barbarism.”
Gazing at Pennington in a comradelike admiration, Picard was glad to see the doubts and troubles in Alexander’s eyes. No answer was crystal clear in times like these, and the boy was looking for clarity where he would never find it. The confusion was a good thing.
Pennington patted Alexander once more on the shoulder, and turned. “Picard,” he said, “listen to me now—”
“Sir?”
“In case this arm proves fatal, you must report your activities to Mr. Frost. He won’t be able to participate, since he’s on his honor as well, but he should be informed. He’ll be the ranking officer among the prisoners. He’s now third lieutenant, and you are now second