“Captain! . . . there’s water atop the bilges. Everything’s floatin’ down there. Water is in the powder store. We’re takin’ on water, sir!”
Wake screamed back at the boy’s face, “Tell Durlon to throw over the gun’s round shot. Now! Go forward and tell him, boy!”
Wake could see relatively calmer water a mile ahead where the low island formed a poor lee from the wind, which was increasing to a constant roar. No longer were different sounds distinguishable. The wind had become a cacophony of raw noise that physically assaulted a man. Wake had trouble thinking. He just wanted it all to stop. The black swirling clouds of the wall were now almost above them. Underneath to the northwest Wake saw only black clouds meshed with the black sea, no horizon to be found. The entire world had become the storm, with the only other color the gray of the wave tops as they blew off.
“One!” screamed the leadsman in the shrouds as another wave smashed into the weather bow. Wake didn’t understand how the canvas of the jib had stood up so far to this wind, now at full gale strength and gusting higher. Nelson on the helm, assisted by Sampson, could barely stop the sloop from rounding up into the wind. Wake knew that the end was near, and he looked forward to the bows where he saw Rork gazing aft with a strange, comical grin on his face. Rork’s eyes met Wake’s, and the Irish bosun let out a deep-throated Gaelic scream that pierced the storm itself. It was a scream that surely came from centuries of the Irish going into battle, a scream that, combined with the crazed look on his face, gave Wake a new sense of strength, as if at least he had this crazy man on his side in this battle to the death. Wake lifted his fist against the clouds, and his father’s words came back to him. Be a navy man, son. At least if you have to die, you’ll die clean and not in the mud.
Seconds later they felt a crunch as a wave let the sloop down into a trough and then lifted her up again. The crunch was a solid feeling as if they had hit a reef. The leadsman was trying to say something, but it all was lost, blown far away on the wind. The front wall of the storm passed over them and swept off to the southeast, casting a shadow over the sea. The blackness of the clouds within the storm turned the day into darkest night and all visibility disappeared.
Attuned to every movement of his ship, Wake was relieved to feel that at least they were still under way. Durlon, Schmidt, and Holmes were still trying to do the impossible job of jettisoning the ball shot in an effort to lighten the ship, forming a line from below and handing the rounds to each other and then over the side. The men on the helm were still trying to steer due north though they could not see the island, now somewhere ahead of the sloop.
Wake felt something odd in the motion of the sloop and tried to determine the source of this new threat. Then he realized that it was not a threat but a blessing. The motion was a bit easier, not much, but discernible. Were they starting to get under the lee of the island? Then he heard a loud crack and saw the jib explode into tatters from the sheer force of the storm wind.
“Set the second jib! We must get farther up into the lee of the island!”
His hand gestures told more than his lost words, and Rork, who had already decided on the same thing, got the men to set the larger second jib sail in an effort to move further under the lee of the island to windward, before it too inevitably blew out. In the moments of pandemonium while they got the jib up, the sloop pitched wildly, tossing the men on her deck with a violence that made all tasks, even simple ones, take much longer to complete. Finally, after sliding off to leeward a hundred yards among the unseen reefs, they got the jib up and sheeted, and Rosalie took off again for the island’s lee.
Out of the black mist ahead came a frothing horizontal form. Wake realized that the island was close by and he dared not go any further toward the shore. The wind and seas had decreased slightly when he gave Rork a gesture to let go the anchor, which was done without delay. The jib sheet was also let go, and it quickly began a gunfire of snapping as it was hauled down on deck. The men let the chain and then the rode pay out with some tension on the line. The turns around the samson post forward started to groan as they bit into the wood.
Then Wake saw two things come into his eyes’ focus. In his immediate fore he saw Rork, muscles straining, take the strain on the rode and bend down several more turns on the post. And beyond Rork, on the beach of the island, he saw several men standing and pointing at the Rosalie.
With a tremendous jerk, the sloop stood up to the taut anchor rode and spun around into the wind. She instantly started to pitch violently on the bow, and Rork pushed his men aft as a wave came over his position. Wake called for all men to come aft, and they collapsed around him, clinging even to rigging and deck bolts.
Every third or fourth sea came over the bow, but even with that, they were relatively safe and could survive if they could keep her afloat. Wake told Rork to have half the men work the pump for fifteen minutes while the other half rested, then switch. Durlon reported that the water below had stopped coming in as fast, and he thought it was seams that had worked free in the bending of the hull while sailing in the storm.
By this time the wind had diminished enough that speech could almost be heard, and the first words that Wake heard from Rork were “Now just who would those lads be?” as he pointed to several more men on the beach who had joined the earlier ones.
Wake shouted back, “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? We’ve got to save her first and worry about them later.”
But worry did start to make its way into Wake’s mind as he tried unsuccessfully to figure if the shipwreck was close enough to this spot that those men could be from her. He couldn’t tell at this point, so he settled for dealing with the more serious problem of keeping his ship afloat.
The wind shrieking, the sloop pitching, and the men groaning from pain and exhaustion produced an almost overwhelming desire in Wake to just go to sleep, but he knew they were all in deathly peril if the rode should part. He and Rork conferred and decided to get the jib ready to set again if they should start to drag.
As the day wore on, gray and wet, the men worked at the pumps or rested as best they could on the pitching deck. After several hours the wind decreased to a near gale. The seas receded to the point that they no longer washed over the bow, and the motion of the sloop relaxed just enough so that the men could move about. The storm continued, however, and as the day progressed into evening the temperature dropped further than Wake had felt in this area of Florida before. With the wind and the wet clothes, the men began to suffer from the cold as they still lay on the deck.
Durlon reported that the seams were probably not working apart as much as before since the water in the hull was now starting to stay level and possibly fall. Wake ordered the men to continue on the pump, and he took his turn along with everyone else. The men off watch lay huddled together on the afterdeck with a sail over them as the men on watch working the pump struggled to stay awake. It was the worst night Wake had ever spent at sea, and he wondered if they would make it to see the dawn.
***
The dawn they did see was misty with a blood-red sun rising out of the east like the devil himself. The wind had finally calmed down until it was strong and constant from the northwest. As the light gradually grew around them, Wake looked over his command.
The bilges still had water, but Wake at last had given in and let all his men rest. Every man had wounds sustained during the fight with the storm—cuts, gashes, and bruises. There seemed to be no broken bones, but most of the men had legs and arms that seemed leaden, muscles that refused to function. The eyes impressed Wake the most. All the men had a look in their eyes he had never seen before. Was it the look of men who had seen death and did not fear it anymore? Even little Fritz Schmidt appeared ten years older this morning.
Wake walked slowly over to where Rork lay on the deck. He sat down next to him and looked where Ro
rk was staring. The air had cleared so that they could see not only the wreck a half mile away by mangrove-covered Indian Key but also the beach nearest the wreck on Lower Matecumbe Key. And on that beach they now could see a camp of lean-tos made from sails draped over oars and pieces of broken spars. A few boxes and pieces of shattered wood dotted the beach. Nearby they also saw men lying on the sand surely staring back at them on the sloop, anchored a hundred and fifty yards off the beach. It was obvious that the men on the beach were from the destroyed ship in the shallows. But are they Rebels? Wake wondered as his body rose more slowly than his mind willed. He hoped to find his telescope intact somewhere in his cabin.
Rork was wondering too. “Don’t see a Rebel flag, sir. But that cloth we saw yesterday before the tempest descended upon us could have been their banner. Torn away now, by the power of God, sir. Those boys don’t look much better than our lads.”
“You’re right, Rork. They probably are Rebels. And they probably are pretty desperate by now to get away. We must be on our guard. We need to assess the damage to Rosalie and get her in sailing condition before anything else.” With that goal in mind, Wake began to function at more normal speed. “Durlon! I want you to immediately check the weapons and make as many ready as you can. Rork, check the hull first, then the rigging and sails. Get all ready for sea as soon as possible.”
Slowly at first—from exhaustion, not insubordination—the men of the crew started to follow the orders. Every movement exacted its toll of pain. Every man was needed, however, and every man did his duty to make the sloop seaworthy again. Rork reported to Wake as the captain stood holding onto the mast, watching the beach camp.
“We can manage the water in the bilge, sir. Durlon was right. It was from the seams working open, and they look to be tight again. Everything everywhere is wet though. By Jesus it is a mess down there. But fortune smiled on the lads’ possessions in their hammocks. They were lashed up properly afore the storm and stayed intact. Everything else is soaked.”
Abruptly, a thought came into Wake’s mind. It had been so long since he had thought about food that he had forgotten a basic factor.
“What about our provisions?”
“Ruined, sir. The lot of it. Some fresh water in the scuttlebutt and some of the new biscuits in the tins. That is it.”
Wake looked at the now-calmer waters around them. Farther offshore of the island the seas were still rough, but here it was starting to lie down a bit. “What about Hewlitt? Wasn’t he a fisherman in New Jersey?”
“Right you are on that, sir.”
“Well, let’s see how good a fisherman he was and is. Set him to fishing for dinner. Use whatever you have to get something to eat.” The talk of food had made Wake hungry. Rork smiled and almost laughed.
“Very good, sir. By the power of Saint Patrick, we’ll have fresh fish for dinner today!”
Durlon was next with his report on the weapons aboard. “Powder is completely useless, sir. Not even able to dry it out. The water also got into the special dry-wrapped charges they just issued us. Dissolved the whole bunch, includin’ the musket charges. I found a canister round completely broken apart. All the shrapnel strewn about. All we’ve got left is the cutlasses, I am sad to say.”
Durlon looked completely demoralized. Wake had never seen him this way. “Very well, Durlon. Help the others with the sails and rigging. I want her ready to weigh anchor in two hours.”
With the crew now up and working, Wake found a moment to ponder his next move regarding the shipwreck and the men on the beach. What should and could he do? There was no dinghy to row ashore. That had been washed away at some point during the wild ride toward the beach in the storm. He decided to sail close along the beach and hail them to determine if they were a Northern vessel that had gone to ruin on the reefs, or the Rebels they suspected. Meanwhile, Wake could see the men on the beach beginning to stir. There were almost twenty men there, watching him look at them. He could not hear their voices but could tell that they were discussing the sloop.
Several of the disheveled men on the beach walked down the sand to a point opposite the sloop and yelled out to Wake. The wind was still strong enough to impede voices and he could not make out what they were saying. They raised their arms and waved repeatedly, obviously asking for help and beckoning him to come to the beach. No sign of their nationality could be observed, and the crew of the sloop could still not be certain where they had come from or with what side of this war they were affiliated.
Finally, two hours after they had started to make repairs, Rork reported to his captain that she was as ready as she ever would be. Wake thanked him for the efforts and granted a half hour rest for all hands. At the end of the rest period, during the meridian of the day, the sun came out, fitfully at first, then stronger as the clouds started to thin out. The effect upon the men was energizing and they fell upon the anchor rode with a will as they walked away with it up and down the deck
The cable was up and down when Rork hauled away on the mainsail halliard himself, assisted by Sampson. Up went the gaff and then the great mainsail. When the gaff was topped off, the main showed a double reef, for Rork did not want too much strain on the rig. Rosalie then tried to sail the anchor out, but the hook would not budge. Wake thought this would happen but had prayed it would not. The storm had put such a tremendous load and strain on the anchor that she had buried far down in the sand. Wake knew what was next.
“Shall I leave it, sir? We’ll never get it up,” Rork admitted as he shook his head.
“Yes, leave it. Buoy it and leave it. Another report for the navy I’ll have to make, Rork. Another hook to be replaced by the supply officer at the yard. They’ll not like to hear that when we return.”
“Well, sir. At least we’re all alive to make the report!” Wake smiled because he knew the bosun was right.
Rosalie came back to life as she swung off the wind and surged along the beach. Wake steered her himself at first, turning the great tiller over to White when she gathered way. As they sailed close into the beach he called out to the men there.
“Are you from that wreck!”
The men nodded and yelled back. “Yes! We have no food left and little water. Can you help us! Take us off here!” They were coming out into the water now, arms outstretched. Some started to swim out.
Wake ordered Rork to luff the sloop up into the wind so he could speak further with the shipwrecked sailors. He called out again. “What ship and where from?”
The answer came back from an older, balding man standing waist-deep in the water.
“The steam schooner Agnes of Nassau! Five days out, bound for Key West for sponges.”
Immediately Wake was on guard. A sponge steam schooner? He had never heard of such a thing. Spongers sailed their own cargo to Nassau and none used steamers. None had this many men either. And that man in the water had a Southern accent. Something was odd about that man’s voice . . . something familiar but negative. The luffing mainsail above his head was making a regular drumbeat of noise as Wake stared intently at the man who had just spoken. Then it came to him, nearly knocking him over with the shock. Wake did not want to believe it. It was too awful to be true, but it was true!
Rork interrupted his horrified thoughts. “Sir, that story doesn’t sound right to me. Not at all, sir. I’m thinkin’ that those men are not what they say they are, and we best be gettin’ back to the squadron for help, sir. Sir?”
Wake turned to his bosun and said the words as if someone else were saying them. He knew that he would remember this decision for the rest of his life. He had to leave the men on the beach and report them as Confederates, to be captured later if they were still alive. He said it slowly, but he said it. “I agree, Rork. We will leave them and sail for Key West to report. Steer close to the steamer as we leave so that
we might get some information on her identity.”
As the sloop turned off the wind again and sailed away from the beach, the men on the sand and in the water began to scream, begging to be taken away with the sloop, begging for food and water the Rosalie could not spare. She couldn’t even get close to them for fear they would attack the crew of the sloop and overwhelm them, as the admiral had warned him.
As they sailed over by the wrecked steamer, Wake forced himself to concentrate on her instead of her crew. He carefully noted the characteristics of the hull and spars for his report. The seas were still too rough to be able to go alongside and look into her and find out what contraband she carried. She appeared to be of new construction and was probably fairly fast. It was a shame to see her there, a dead and mangled ship that was once a beautiful work of man’s creation. But such abstract thoughts did not last long as Wake glanced forward and saw his whole crew staring at the men far behind on the beach, who were still waving at the sloop and probably still screaming even though they were far out of earshot by now. The sloop’s crew all understood why they had to leave the Rebels stranded. But that common bond among all seamen still made them desperately want to go back and try to help them, in spite of the logic.
After making their way out through the maze of reefs, they tacked Rosalie and settled down on a starboard tack broad reach under mainsail alone, bound for the squadron back at Key West to report what they had seen and what they had done. Now the wind was from the northeast, a fair wind for sailing to Key West but a foul one to sail back to the shipwrecked Confederates. It might be days before a ship could get back and capture them—if they were still alive.
At the Edge of Honor (The Honor Series) Page 24