Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  Townsend looked over at Hendricks. He had chosen the Bahamian as his watch partner because none of the other sailors knew him. He wasn’t sure about the mindset of these men, how they would react to a Negro crewmember, and he wanted no problems on board ship. You could know a man on land, but at sea was a different story. As there was no space in the cramped forward cabin house, Hendricks was sleeping in one of the available pipe berths in the galley area, not far from his quarters. It would be safer that way.

  Some fifty miles down the coast, Townsend had Hendricks loosen and detach the preventers. They both sheeted in the main and foresail, and the schooner headed on a northerly course away from the treacherous Colorado reefs off the Cuban coast into the open Gulf. The dark distant shore of Cuba soon faded into blackness. The only light on board was the glimmer from the compass light. Townsend had no way to do a sighting, so he was charting a course by dead reckoning. He thought about these men he had chosen. They were all hardened sailors with rough-hewn, weather-beaten faces to prove it. The steely eyes of Higgins, the whiskery jaw of Red Beard, the tangled hair of old Dutch Olsen, and the roguish smile of Bertrand, all told a story of men who had seen too much to be overly hopeful about life’s rewards. What he liked was they might have their sympathies about secession and the war, but they were all outsiders. No Southern fire-eaters among them, as far as he could tell. Nor were there any true believers. They sailed for adventure and money. Higgins had deserted from the US Navy and it sounded like Red Beard had done the same from the Confederate States Navy. Maybe they were all running away from something, forever drifting, like sun-bleached driftwood, beaten and battered by life’s storms. Havana just happened to be where they washed ashore for a time.

  In some ways, he told himself he was no different. He was an outsider like them, someone whose only creed had now become the art of survival. He had told them about doing prison time in Havana for helping an Englishman escape, and this had earned him respect. None of them cared much for the Spanish. They all knew about him getting kicked out of the Naval Academy. After the bar fight with Van Cortland, he had explained what had happened. They understood. He was young, younger than all of them. He remembered what Higgins had told him. He’d said he would sail with him because he wasn’t just another pig-snouted bookworm full of useless information. What mattered to these hardened sailors was that he knew his way around boats, and was well trained in navigation as well as gunnery—experience and knowledge they didn’t have. If they had any doubts, they kept it to themselves. But he knew they would be watching him. He remembered what one of his instructors had said about leadership back at the Naval Academy. “Show no fear and do what it takes to get the job done. Be tough with your men, but respect them and above all, never humiliate them.”

  Townsend handed over the wheel to Hendricks and stepped down into the main cabin house. The schooner was now heeling over sharply as the bow heaved into the waves. They were battling the strong currents of the Gulf Stream, and he wanted to consult the charts that Don Pedro had given him. He was surprised to find Salazar and Nolo sitting up at the table, leaning over buckets with faces of despair.

  The two Spaniards were bunked together in the stateroom opposite his quarters. They had been below in their cabin ever since they left Havana. It was clear they were in dire straits from seasickness. He saw that both Spaniards had retched volumes onto their laps before they’d found the buckets. Townsend bit his lip to hide an unkind smile and gave each of them some ginger lozenges, feigning sympathy.

  He went into his cabin and began pouring over the charts. One of them was an old survey done by Josiah Tattnall in 1830 for the US Navy, a thorough guide to the chain of sandy islands that made up the Tortugas. One quick look at the different charts, including the ones Captain Evans had left behind, told him these were tricky waters filled with treacherous shoals. His gunnery professor had ominously called this tiny archipelago “Land’s End.” He noted the location of the tall 150-foot lighthouse, recently built on Loggerhead Key. He knew he wanted to sail west of that island, not only to avoid the risk of running aground on a particularly dangerous shoal called the Quicksands, but also to stay well out of reach of the powerful guns of Fort Jefferson. He was counting on the Gaviota’s camouflaged gray sails and hull to allow them to pass undetected before the early morning light would strike their sails.

  Townsend had learned about this massive sea fortress at the Naval Academy. The Federal government had started building Fort Jefferson in 1846 as a way to protect shipping in the Gulf. It was a six-sided, four-tiered brick fort built on a sandy island called Garden Key. It was being used as a Union prison for deserters, but Townsend knew the fort was also well fortified, with everything from forty-pound James rifles to the long-range eight- and ten-inch Columbiads that could fire shell and shot two to three miles away.

  Just before four o’clock in the morning, Townsend roused Red Beard and Higgins. It would soon be time for their watch. When he came back, Hendricks was shaking his head.

  “Gulf Stream too strong. We bes’ head off further west.”

  “See there now, I know what I’m doing,” Townsend snapped.

  “I tellin’ you,” the Bahamian insisted. “We gon’ run into problems. The current pushing us too far to the east.”

  “Heigh-ho!” Townsend said. “Never mind, just leave the calculating to me.”

  Hendricks shrugged his shoulders, surprised at Townsend’s uncharacteristic reaction. He was about to say something, but perhaps out of deference to the captain or fear of being rebuked, he remained silent.

  It seemed as if Townsend had just laid down on his bunk when he was jolted awake by Higgins at the door, tense and agitated, his brow furrowed.

  “You need to see this, Cap’n.”

  Townsend grabbed his telescope and ran up the small stairs to the deck. One look at Red Beard’s shadowy face at the helm and he knew something was terribly wrong. The first mate pointed 30 degrees off the port bow.

  “Look yonder,” he said with his Texas drawl. “It’s the onliest light out thar.”

  Townsend had expected to see the Tortugas lighthouse off to the starboard to the east of the schooner, but instead the gleaming light on the horizon was on the port side of the boat to the west. The realization hit him like a heavy blow to the head. Hendricks had been right—the current had swept them much farther off course than he had calculated.

  “I reckon yer miscalculatin’ has gotten us into trouble, Cap’n,” Red Beard snapped. He bit off some tobacco from a black plug and began chewing.

  Townsend didn’t like the surliness in Red Beard’s voice—he knew he might have a problem with this man. He picked up his telescope again and scanned the western horizon. It was still dark and the sky was hazy from the storm. The winds remained south, southeast. He thought he could see a faint tip of what could be a sail, and not too far from that a suspicious splotch of darkness that could be black smoke from a steamship. He knew there were Navy cruisers patrolling off the Tortugas. Higgins clambered up the ratlines and agreed there was something shadowy on the western horizon about seven miles away that could be smoke from a steamship.

  “Fall off one quarter so we are sailing north, northwest, and then hold course,” said Townsend, trying to sound as confident as he could. His mouth had become parched and he tried to moisten his dry lip with his tongue.

  Red Beard looked at the young captain with a stubborn set of his jaw, and then back down to the compass. “That course will take us directly to that fort! As soon as those bluebellies see our gray sails, they’ll know for sure we’re a blockade runner, and they’ll blast us out of the water like ducks in a pond.”

  Townsend felt his temper rising. He told himself he needed to maintain a quiet, calm manner to project confidence.

  “The garrison is not likely to fire on us,” he said steadily.

  “How you calculatin’ that?” Red Beard snapped back
. “What in thunder do you mean!”

  “With our Spanish flag, they will likely assume we are legal traders headed for Mexico.”

  “I hope you’re right,” grumbled the Texan as he pulled at his beard.

  Townsend turned away from the brooding face of the first mate and looked over at Hendricks, acknowledging his mistake with a shake of his head. The Bahamian responded with a nod of confidence. That’s what he liked about Hendricks. So much could be said without words.

  “How soon before the sun comes up?” he asked the Bahamian.

  Hendricks looked up at the sky and said, “I gon’ guess one more hour.”

  “Keep her good full on this course, Red Beard.”

  “Aye, Aye, Cap’n,” the Texan said with an edge in his voice.

  It was a gray black sky when they caught their first good look at Fort Jefferson, some four miles away. No one spoke as the grim fortress seemed to rise out of the dark sea as they sailed closer, like an ominous ironclad warship made of rusty red bricks. In the gray light it was still mostly in shadow, but the size of the fort left them speechless. Through the telescope Townsend could see the red and black sea buoy marking the entrance to the South East Channel.

  “What is the range of these guns?” asked Bertrand as he nervously pulled on his beard. “Quelle est la portée?”

  “Two miles for the Columbiads,” Townsend replied matter-of-factly, causing Red Beard to frown.

  “How many guns them blue bellies got in that fort?” asked the Texan.

  “Better than fifty,” replied Townsend somberly, glad for the darkness that kept a nervous twitch in his face from being seen. “The fort is manned by about two hundred men.”

  “Mon Dieu,” whispered Bertrand.

  “No way around it. We’re in the devil of a hobble. We’ll be comin’ in range shortly,” said the Texan.

  “Hang it all!” Townsend said angrily. “Let me reason with you, Withers. Hitting a vessel as small as the Gaviota at that range will be like you swatting a fly with your tallywacker.”

  The entire crew stood watching in awed silence as they drew closer to the giant walls bristling with destructive firepower. A desperate calmness hung over them like a dark cloud. Between them and the fort were reefy shoals, bare sandy islands, and waves dashing up against the walls. Off to their right, they could barely see a hint of foaming breakers, pelicans diving into the water and more sandy islands. Beyond that lay the passage north to the open Gulf.

  Townsend pulled out one of his Havana cigars and began chewing on it. The dull black of the night had given way to the smudgy gray of early morning. He could hear the muttering and mumbling around him. He knew there was a shiver of disquiet on board ship.

  “Hendricks, how many minutes before sunrise?”

  “Com’n soon Captain. . . .”

  Townsend pointed to a sandy bump on the ocean’s surface with scraggy vegetation, barely visible some three miles off the starboard bow.

  “That’s East Key. Sail due east toward that island,” Townsend instructed Red Beard.

  “Why in blazes . . . that will take us outside the channel. We’ll be in the shoals. We’ll run aground,” the Texan grumbled. At first, the first mate looked like he would refuse the order, but then one look at Townsend’s wild and determined face made him pause. He turned the wheel so that the ship’s bow pointed at the small island, all the while muttering to himself. “Dad-burned fool idea if I ever saw one.”

  Just then, Higgins cried out from his perch in the masthead. “Smoke to the east, southeast, steaming in our direction. Looks to be a Navy gunship.”

  Townsend swung around, holding the glass to his eye. He’d almost forgotten the danger from that gunship they’d seen in Havana harbor. He could see the smoke on the horizon and the gray outline of a warship. It was coming directly toward them, steaming into the Gulf Stream current. He estimated it was three to four miles away.

  “She just fired at us, Cap’n,” Higgins shouted.

  Townsend felt the grim tension even as he fought against the cross current of fear and anticipation running through him. He kept looking at the ship through his telescope as if that would make it go away. He heard the first report and saw another flash of a bow gun. They were well out of range so there was no immediate danger. He knew the Navy gunboat was probably firing its cannons to alert the gunners at the fort.

  “Keep your eyes on the fort, Higgins,” Townsend shouted.

  At that moment, the sun peaked up from the horizon exploding in the eastern sky like a trumpet blast, blinding everyone on board. Townsend looked back toward the sunlit fort where he now could detect the gleaming black muzzles of scores of cannons and small figures running on the parapet, gesturing and signaling.

  “Steer due east into the sun. Hold course.”

  “I can’t see a solitary thing,” Red Beard exclaimed as he held up the palm of his hand to his eyes.

  “Never mind,” Townsend said. “Just hold your course, damn it. You can’t see, but neither can those gunners on the fort. So hold your tongue. It’s waggin’ like a mangy dog’s tail.”

  “Doomed. We’re doomed,” declared Red Beard and he spit a gob of tobacco juice onto the deck.

  Moments later a ball struck the water about a quarter of a mile ahead of them, sending spray everywhere. Townsend looked back and saw an ominous yellow muzzle flash and then the report from a heavy gun. It was the flat dull boom of a smoothbore.

  Soon dozens of guns were firing, and the buzz of round shot could be heard overhead. Spouts of water shot up all around them, blasting spray over the schooner’s decks.

  “Set gaff topsails,” Townsend cried out, a sudden urgency in his voice. The glare from the sun was so bright his eyes hurt.

  Bertrand scrambled up the ratlines of the foremast some seventy feet to the hounds to set the topsail. Higgins, who was already high up the mainmast hanging onto the topmast shrouds and backstays, maneuvered an unwieldy pile of lines and canvas into position to raise that sail. Just then a black streak screamed over the two men’s heads with an ear-splitting rush like a freight train, causing them both to cry out. Townsend knew these were explosive shells fired from rifled guns, and were far more dangerous to a wooden-hulled ship than shot. If the fuses were timed correctly, the shells would explode on impact.

  “I jus’ see the yellow flash again Cap’n! Watch yeself!” Hendricks cried.

  Townsend heard the high-pitched crack. He threw himself on the deck just as he heard the roar overhead. The shell plowed into the main cabin, blowing off the roof in a shower of splinters. A second later the water ahead of them erupted in a geyser-like explosion.

  “Check the two Spaniards down below,” Townsend cried out to Olsen. Townsend breathed deeply and looked around at the shattered deckhouse. After a quick check, Olsen reported that Salazar and Nolo had some splinters but nothing too serious. Townsend sighed with relief that no one was seriously hurt. He estimated that they soon would be out of range of the fort’s guns.

  The schooner headed directly into an enormous sun that swallowed the horizon with an explosion of gold. The glare was so bright the silhouettes and cries of the birds helped to guide them toward East Key. From studying the charts earlier, Townsend knew the water around East Key was quite shallow. There were no channel markers here, no way to know where the dangerous shoals and sand banks were. They would have to navigate by sight. Townsend nodded to Hendricks, and without saying a word the Bahamian sailor quickly climbed the ratlines. When they’d sailed through the Bahamas, Townsend remembered how Hendricks had piloted the boat through the shoals by conning from aloft. As soon as the Bahamian reached the foremast head, he began signaling to Townsend.

  “Fall off one quarter,” Townsend shouted to Red Beard. The Texan turned the wheel quickly and the bow of the ship veered off to port. Off to the starboard side, Townsend could see how shallow th
e translucent water had become. Brown and red shapes were visible just three feet from the surface. Coral heads, he whispered to himself. They were big enough to have ripped a hole in the ship’s hull. He breathed out deeply to calm himself. He looked up to Hendricks for further guidance. The Bahamian was now signaling to turn more sharply west. Again Red Beard adjusted course. Hendricks and Higgins slacked the sheets of the foresail and the jib to help the bow of the schooner swing over more quickly. Off the starboard side, Townsend looked down through the glassy water at the shallow sandy bank they’d almost struck. They would have run hard aground. Another close call.

  Soon they cleared East Key, and the ocean became a darker blue, indicating deeper water for the moment. The boom of cannons could still be heard, but most of the shots were falling far behind them. Townsend could barely make out the foaming white water in the distance that marked more shoal areas. The old charts from 1830 had told him there would be two more sandy islets, but as he looked through the glass there was nothing there, just breakers and diving pelicans to mark where the sand once had been. He thought to himself this indeed was Land’s End, a watery world where the small strips of ever-shifting sand remained permanently under siege.

  At the sound of another cannon, Townsend swung around and looked back at the fort. They were well out of range now. From the faint smiles on the crew’s faces, he guessed he might have won a grudging nod of respect from these men. Perhaps they had fewer doubts about his seamanship. Still he was aware they’d been lucky. His underestimation of the strength of the Gulf Stream current had been a serious navigational error.