Dawn came very slowly. Clouds kept the sun from lightening the area until two hours after sunrise. Moore sent a patrol of five sailors up the narrow path from the beach into the mangroves to see if they could find any sign of Rebels in the area. The others on the beach divided their time between standing guard duty and organizing the supplies piled there.
A lookout in the crosstrees of the sloop gazed around the horizon to see if any vessels were approaching from upriver or out on the wide expanse of Charlotte Harbor. When the land patrol came back, Wake sent eight men in one of the cutter boats upriver with the flood tide to check the shorelines for signs of Rebel activity.
By midafternoon Wake started to worry. No sign of the cutter had been seen or heard. As he was debating whether to send another cutter after the first, a bang was heard from the river bank on their side, downstream. Instantly a small geyser reached up from the water between the sloop and the beach. The lookout cried out that there was rifle smoke from the mangroves about a hundred yards down the shoreline. No orders had to be given, for the crew of the gunboat sloop and the sailors on the beach immediately went to their quarters for battle.
Durlon had the twelve-pounder slewed around in seconds. He and the rest of his small gun crew looked at Wake for permission to fire. But Wake decided to wait. He knew that he had to conserve ammunition in case they would need it later. The gunboat did not carry much and resupply was not near. He shook his head at Durlon and said, “Durlon, I know you want to blow him out of there, but we may need your little darling for more numerous targets if they rush the beach. I want to save her for when she can do the most good.”
Rork nodded his head and added, “I agree, Captain. We do not have much ammunition for the gun and should spend it wisely. Like the liberty in New York Port on half pay, Durlon! Ye find the good places first and then spend your money!”
“Thank you, Rork. Couldn’t have explained it better myself. But I do think that a musket shot in that direction might be in order. Durlon, could you attend to that, please. It might keep our little Rebel friend put off for a while. And with any luck you might even hit him!”
Durlon, laughing now, started to take wagers on the coming target practice as he rose to the challenge of getting a .58 caliber musket ball accurately into the area of the sharpshooter from a hundred yards. Wake was glad to have the diversion for the men and not to have to sit there and take sniper fire without firing back. Personally, he didn’t think Durlon would hit anything, but he entered the betting as well, placing a penny on Durlon’s skill and hoping for a cry of wounding from the Rebel in the mangroves. A penny was the most he would allow for wagering on the sloop, which was more than naval regulations would allow. Regulations from the Secretary of the Navy in Washington disapproved of any form of gambling at all. Wake reasoned, however, that the Secretary of the Navy was a very long way away and was not being shot at, and therefore that little rule could be dispensed with for the time being.
Durlon shot three times into the tangle of mangroves at different places along the shoreline. They saw no sound or movement afterward and Wake ended the contest and paid his penny to Rork, the main bettor against Durlon.
Wake ordered more men to watch that shoreline and all hands to stay as much under cover as possible. His thoughts were returning to the problem of the missing cutter when the lookout, now the most unwanted position because of its vulnerability, called down to say that he saw it coming downriver. As the sailors afloat and ashore stared upriver at the approaching cutter, a commotion could be seen among the men rowing the small boat. As they got closer, one of the cutter’s men yelled that a sailor was snake bit and fever ridden.
Wake met the boat as it grounded ashore, and the unfortunate boy was pulled to the lone sail tent that was set up. The stricken sailor, named Fox, was bitten in the hand. He was convulsing, and his hand was swollen and turning red.
Wake could see two bite marks and heard Fox tell of how he had put his hand down to sit on the ground after they had gone ashore far upriver. Fox said that the snake was where he had planned to sit, and that it was dark brown and about five feet long. The mouth was a grayish white with large fangs that sank into his hand as he tried to get away. The boy was terrified and breathing heavily. Moore quickly told a sailor to get water and douse Fox’s head to try to cool him off as well as divert his attention. Then Moore took his sheath knife and cut open the hand where the bite marks were. As he worked, he looked up at Wake.
“We’ve got to get the poison out, sir, quick like. The boy’s hand’ll rot if we don’t get it out. Seen it before. Got to bleed it out. Lie still, son.”
“Rork, get some men to help Moore hold Fox down.” Wake wished he could do something to help Fox, who was now crying with the pain as his hand trembled out of control. “And, Rork, get something to give Fox. Is there any rum or whiskey?”
At this last comment, the attention of the men surrounding the boy turned to Rork, who replied, “A wee bit in the medical chest, sir. I’ll get it now for the lad.”
Then Wake heard a thud and turned to see Fitzhugh, coxswain of the cutter that had gone on the patrol, pulling his fist back after he had pounded it into the side of Fox’s head. Moore looked up and said to the astonished officer, “Sir, the boy’s in pain that even rum can’t help. Fitz’s punch took care of that. Boy can lay still now while we bleed him.”
“Very well, Moore, if you say so,” muttered Wake as he stood looking to see if Fitzhugh had enjoyed his hit. Seeing no joy in that weathered face, Wake turned and made his way back to the water’s edge to be rowed out to the Rosalie. As he got in the dinghy, he called out in a level tone to Moore and Fitzhugh to come out to the sloop and give the patrol report after they were done with Fox.
Awhile later the three were squeezed into the captain’s cabin.
“Well, Moore, your man can give his report now on the river patrol. Include why they went ashore and why they were late.”
Moore, who had stayed at the beach camp during the patrol upriver, prompted his man and told him to be clear. Fitzhugh cleared his throat and said, “Well, sir, we started upriver and got about five mile with the flood tide. Saw a landing place on the starboard shore and went close aboard to see if they was any signs of Rebs there. Saw none standing around and decided to look at a camp we saw just inland by about fifty yards, sir. Looked fresh to me. Fire pit looked ’bout a day old or so. Had some stumps sittin’ around the fire and some bones layin’ round there too.
“Crew was tired and I knew they would be having to fight the tide some on the way back so I told the lads to lay down if they wanted. Young Fox there sat himself down and shot right back up again. Started screamin’ ’bout snakes. That set the other lads to prancin’ around, and I ordered the lot of ’em to the cutter. Then we got in and shoved off an’ came back, but the tide was still aginst us. Had a hell of a row, shorthanded and all. Had Fox down, and another man holdin’ him. Took a bit to get here. Sorry, sir, for Fox. Us Yankee boys don’t know ’bout these damn Southland creatures. Goddamn this place. Don’t know why anybody would want it. That snake serpent was right in the middle of a camp!”
Wake sighed and told Moore to write up Fitzhugh’s report. He finished the meeting by saying, “Gentlemen, we cannot go wandering off into the jungle of this coast with green sailors. There’s more than just snakes out there. You were lucky, Fitzhugh. Fox may lose his arm or his life, but you might have lost your whole crew. You were supposed to stay in the boat. If you had to go ashore, you should have been more careful.” Wake turned to the coxswain. “Moore, try to keep Fox quiet tonight, but without hurting him any more. His screams will alert the Rebs and unnerve our boys.”
He indicated that they were dismissed. After they were gone, Wake lay down on his crude bunk, thinking of the many ways for a man to die on this coast and hoping that no more exam
ples would appear. Wake knew they would have to spend at least another night in this dreadful spot, as he prepared to go up on deck and present a confident appearance for his crew. He took a deep breath and sighed, then climbed up the ladder.
The afternoon was fading and the wind was definitely turning cooler and more northwesterly, more signs showing that winter had arrived. Wake looked around and saw nothing but the sailors, both afloat and ashore, eating their evening meal early. Rork came up to him on the afterdeck and saluted.
“Boy was lucky, sir, that the snake bit him in the hand. Lose the hand, or lower arm maybe, but live through it. Heard that a sailor lad up by Tampa lost a leg, the rot was so bad.”
“Thank you for that anecdote, Rork. Fox has just become an object lesson for the rest of the flotilla here. One they won’t soon forget. But I expect the petty officers to lead, and not allow their people to become object lessons!”
“Aye aye, sir,” replied an astonished Rork, who had never seen his captain raise his voice at anyone. “Sir, Fitzhugh ain’t the brightest man I’ve seen. But he’s not too bad neither. He’s a bit shaken by it too. Tough place, this . . .”
Rork drifted off without finishing his sentence. When Wake turned to see why, his gaze followed Rork’s to the shoreline in the gathering dusk. Downriver by quite a ways, there was substantial movement in the mangroves.
“Durlon, lay a musket round in that clump of tall trees over there,” ordered Wake, as he pointed out the suspicious area to the gunner.
Bang! All hands strained to see the musket’s results, though none appeared.
“That will do, Durlon. Thank you.”
With a very studied attempt at nonchalance, Wake then said to Rork, “I believe that I have not eaten yet, and I am famished. Will you join me for supper?”
“Why, you do me an honor, sir. I would be pleased to share a meal with you,” replied the smiling bosun.
The two men sat on the deck of the sloop and ate the salted beef junk that had been boiling in the cookpot set on the charcoal box just forward of the mast. As they ate, they discussed the probabilities of an attack that evening against the beach camp and the sloop. That they were being watched by Confederate pickets was obvious. What was unknown was what had happened to Cornell and his contingent and when the Rebels would attack the beachhead camp. Rork opined that the camp would not be attacked until Cornell’s soldiers were returning, exhausted and not alert. Wake thought that there would be two attacks. First, one on the sailors to cut off retreat, then one on the soldiers inland to destroy this first attempt to push Union forces into the interior of this coast.
After the supper, Wake told Rork to get some sleep since from now on one of the two of them would be up and alert all night, watch on watch. Rork dutifully went below to cocoon himself in his swaying hammock. In these now-cool nights, the berthing area below decks was no longer hot and miserable. Rork was glad to get out of the rising wind with its cutting moisture.
Wake sat on the stern watching Moore on the beach arranging his night positions. All of Rosalie’s crew on watch were alert and under cover. Another night of waiting began. Four hours of peering into the darkness for any sign of the enemy took its toll on Wake and his men. Keeping them awake and alert was paramount, however, and no one was allowed to doze even for a moment.
***
Having been relieved at the end of his watch by Rork, Wake had been asleep for about an hour when he heard the first bang. Then he heard another and then a rattle of pops and bangs and voices yelling loudly about where and who. Wake jumped up on deck from his scuttle hatch. He saw Rork standing by the twelve-pounder, pointing at the beach and telling the men, “Slew her around ta there, laddies. There they are, lads. Gun the bastards down, now!”
The flame of the gun illuminated the night and the sound of the explosion enveloped them. Wake saw ragged-looking men with long guns jumping over the small brush defensive line the beachhead sailors had erected. The men were yelling and whooping at the top of their lungs, their gunfire smashing into the sailors, who were trying to form a line to fire a volley. No Reb uniforms were apparent, but none were needed, for everyone not in the blue of the navy was an enemy. The blindness caused by the gun flash and the noise of dozens of small arms going off in all directions on the beach caused confusion among the Rosalie’s sailors. Fear of hitting their comrades in the melee on shore slowed the rate of musket fire from the sloop’s sailors, as they tried to identify which of the forms in the chaos on the beach were the enemy.
Only Durlon and his gun crew were in rapid action, sponging out and loading the wadding, canister, and more wadding, as the gunner called out the cadence of the official navy gun drill. Like a machine, the gun crew worked through the drill until moments later when they were ready for another shot. Wake saw that Durlon was aiming at the mangrove jungle just in front of the beachhead sailors in an effort to miss the Union men and hit any Rebels who were reinforcing the attack.
Boom! Again the gun flew back on its slides as the mangrove treeline was shredded by the canister, this time closer to the hand-to-hand fighting. The wall of lead fired from the gun leveled the trees beyond the breastworks. Some men had been hit by the hail of deadly balls, but not many.
While Durlon was reloading, Wake yelled over to the beach, “Moore! Get your men back to the water so we can fire into them! Get back to the water!”
The flashing chaos of the beach provided no answer that Wake’s instructions had been heard or followed. The din of yells, screams of pain, and firearms shooting made any exchange of words impossible.
“Rork! Get over there right now and have them get to the water. Swim out here if they have to. We’ve got to get the gun to bear on the enemy!”
Rork immediately understood Wake’s plan and jumped into the dinghy, not waiting for a crewman to assist. The bosun then rowed as fast as he could to the shore, ducking each time a bullet shot a geyser up close to him. As soon as he got to knee-deep water, he got out and yelled, his loud voice transcending the pandemonium, “Boyos! Rally on me that the Rosey can gun ’em down, lads! Come here now!”
Durlon’s loading drill cadence gave an eerie background to the noise of the shore fight, while Rork’s manhandling of the sailors back into the water added another movement into the riot of action on the darkened beach. Once several of the sailors saw what Rork was doing, they urged their crewmates back into their familiar element and away from the shrieking Rebels.
The beachhead shrank to the water’s edge, bodies lying around the camp in various stages of wounding or death. In the darkness the bodies of friend and foe were indistinguishable. Wake could tell the difference only between those standing and those lying on the ground. The sailors in the water were now trying to get into the cutters and row off, at Rork’s urging. Wake saw his opportunity.
“Durlon, fire onto the beach now, man. Fire now!”
Boom! Noise and light took over as the canister shot flew in a cloud of death over the beach. In the moment that the flash lit up the Confederate troops lined up on the beach and firing at the gunboat, Wake saw the last defiant volley launch from the muskets, rifles, and shotguns of a dozen men. The screams he heard from the beach were matched by those of Sommer and Lamar of his own crew, hit by the Rebel volley.
Now with less enthusiasm, Durlon continued his monotone cadence of the gun drill, stepping over the wounded boy on the deck even as he pushed Burns to get around to the muzzle and sponge out the gun. Wake leaned over to check Sommer’s wound, glancing to his side to tell Durlon, “Fire again, gunner. Fire again at them.”
“Aye aye. That we’ll do, sir,” replied the exhausted gunner.
Rork suddenly appeared on deck, having climbed up the main shroud chains on the side of the hull, and seeing the damage to ship and crew, moaned, “Oh, Lord above, bless us and protect us now.�
�
He joined Wake in an examination of the thirteen-year-old’s wounds. There were holes in the thigh, front and back, as well as entrance and exit wounds in the extreme left side of the abdomen. The boy was curled up on the deck, crying and screaming unintelligibly, his body jerking in spasms of pain. The thigh wound appeared survivable, but Wake was unsure of the severity of the gunshot to his side. It looked bad.
“Rork, tend to Sommer here. I’ll check Lamar.”
Boom! Another mind-numbing shock of sound and light engulfed the deck as Durlon fired again. This round of packed missiles swept the beach and the water’s edge, but without return fire from the enemy.
Wake made his way through the men and equipment on the crowded deck to Lamar, who was up forward by the mast holding his left arm and swearing. Wake’s mind registered that there was less noise coming from the land and more coming from the water around the gunboat, where sailors were swimming over to the ship for safety. Lamar’s arm was wounded below the elbow—a gash through flesh that could heal if infection was kept out. The bleeding was under control and the wound less critical than Sommer’s so Wake turned his attention to the beachhead.
At the Edge of Honor (The Honor Series) Page 17