“ . . . and when Lieutenant Peter Wake offered his services to assist in the search, little did he know what it would eventually cost him in blood, horror, and pain. He received grievous wounds while leading the captives’ escape and fight against the Devil-worshiping fiends that were transporting them into slavery. But the result was most certainly worth his sacrifices and travails. For most of the hostages, including two Americans, were rescued, and one of them, the lovely Madame Catherine Faber, is here today.”
Catherine came forward and kissed him on both cheeks, the guests gushing and clapping. Wake gritted his jaw, for he knew he was losing control, as he almost had at the goodbye at Rabat. Here were the two women of his life, one his love and the other his dear friend. It was almost too much for him. Henri came up with Rork, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Geaugeard continued. “So, by the authority of the President of France, I have the privilege of bestowing on a son of America—the republic which showed the people of France that liberty and equality were indeed the rights of man—the highest honor that France can bestow. This is the honor first established by that most sainted son of France, Napoleon Bonaparte, on the nineteenth of May, in the year eighteen-oh-two, and it is still the award to which many aspire and all respect.”
He paused for effect. “And now . . . I hereby proclaim that Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, is awarded the La Légion d’Honneur, rank of Chevalier!”
An honor guard of French naval officers marched out to the beat of drummers, wheeled right and stamped to a stop before Wake and the admiral. With a clicking of heels and a flourishing salute, the senior officer of the guard presented Geaugeard with a blue-satin-lined shadow box, then carried it for him as they both stood before Wake.
The admiral held up the medal for all to see, eliciting a hush from the crowd. The white-enameled cluster star, on the center of which was embossed Honneur et Patrie, was below a blue-enameled oak wreath, the entire medal suspended by a red ribbon. Linda held her breath at the sight and Catherine cried. Wake was speechless.
“This medal, long known for its value among brave men, hereby welcomes another to its brotherhood of honor.” Geaugeard pinned it on the left side of Wake’s uniform, above his medal from the sultan of Morocco.
The crowd thundered its approval. Wake knew he had to say something, but he wasn’t prepared, couldn’t even think straight. Besides, he felt that he didn’t deserve it. Sokhoor and Faber and Rork, yes, but not him. All he did was get shot.
He managed to get out, “Merci beaucoup. Merci.”
The musicians struck up an old French army marching song, La Marseillaise, since the Franco-Prussian War the new anthem of the republic, and the French in the ballroom sang it lustily as people closed in around Wake, shaking his hand, offering congratulations, patting his shoulders, asking questions in half a dozen tongues. Wake tried to be polite and answer, but there were too many people and his wounds began to ache, then throb. He became separated from Linda and the others, finally seeing her in the distance talking with Catherine. They were standing closely, speaking intimately.
Someone shuffled Wake over to a flag display where he was presented to a new dignitary and a photograph was taken. A moment later a champagne flute was put in his hand and he was expected to give a toast, but only said “Merci” again, to wild applause. Music started and a woman asked Wake to dance, a man asked him to dance with his wife, but he just wanted Linda. He needed to have her close. Then Admiral Case asked him to come to a quiet corner, for there was another matter they needed to cover.
Rork cleared the way with his body toward an alcove, where Wake and Case sat on a couch. The admiral was concise. “Your work is done with this squadron, Peter. You and your family are going back home to America. You’ve been overdue for shore duty for sometime. That’s being rectified by the powers that be in Washington. In fact, that’s where you’re heading, Commander—Washington Naval Yard. Seems that you’re wanted there.”
“Sir, all of this. I don’t know what to say, Admiral, except thank you.”
“No, son, it’s I who gets to thank you. You went into a terrible situation, endured unspeakable experiences, and came out with victory, making our country smell like a rose. You gained us prestige with those Moroccan Arabs, and gratitude with the French—not an easy outcome in the very best of times. Hell, Wake, you even made me look good on this.”
“Admiral, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. And now all this. And Linda. Did you know she was coming, sir?
Case grinned. “Of course I did! Why do you think we had to delay this shindig? She was late in getting here and that set us back. She’s been heading here for two months, since we got word you survived and were coming out of the desert. Hell, half the naval know-it-alls of France came here tonight, just to see the grand surprise. We did get you, though, didn’t we, son?”
“That you did, sir. That you did. I had no idea.” Wake abruptly remembered the snickering in the wardroom, Rork’s odd expressions. “Rork! The bosun knew too?”
“That he did, the old rascal. The Irish make great conspirators. I’m one too, you know. It’s in our bones.”
***
Linda’s arm was wrapped around his waist as they climbed up to the seat in the open carriage for the ride to her hotel. Wake had no clue as to
