Still, every time he saw a ship put to sea he dreamed of standing on her deck as she made her way out there beyond the horizon. Of being her captain and having a crew like the one he had on the Hunt. There was no feeling like that ashore, where so many officers were now assigned.
The navy had changed not only in ship numbers, it had changed in attitude and atmosphere too. The budget decline and slow promotions and politics had taken their toll, with many officers simply putting in their time, spending much of their energy in petty intrigue during shore duty to further their careers. It depressed Wake when he thought of it.
Action—real action where things got accomplished, had become rare in the navy, but it was still around, he knew. You just had to be the type of officer to create your own luck out there and make things happen.
He watched the Nygaard pick up speed as she rounded the point of Santa Rosa Island. She was heading to the Mississippi River for a port call at New Orleans. He visualized her captain on the quarterdeck, checking the officer of the deck’s calculation of course and speed, and glancing back at the receding shoreline as the restrictions of the channel ended and the freedom of the sea opened ahead of them. It was something Wake had done many times on the three ships he had commanded during and after the war. His mind could see it with absolute clarity.
At eight o’clock the next morning he was to see the commandant of the yard. Wake’s present tour of duty was ending and he would get his next assignment. Many officers were going on the half-pay assignment termed “awaiting orders,” an indefinite suspension of their careers made necessary because of the lack of positions at sea or ashore. But Wake had heard rumors about his orders and could barely wait, anticipating the meeting with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. He took in a deep draught of the sweet, thick sea air and gazed at the line of the far-off horizon.
Wake thought of his celestial observation the previous night when he was doing his weekly practice of navigation skills. Sweeping the naval telescope forty-five degrees above the southwest seaward horizon, he had spotted Sirius, the bright star of the constellation Canis Major, the “faithful dog” who always followed Orion the Hunter’s red star across the sky. He remembered first seeing Sirius as a new naval officer sailing out of Key West during the war and had always associated it with the excitement of beginning his career. Seeing it again was like an omen to Wake and a chill of the old anticipation had flooded through him in the darkness.
Standing there holding Linda and gazing out to sea in the bright sunlight, he knew he was going to return to where he belonged. He was going to sea again.
4
Fortune’s Hand
The next morning the sun was just rising but already warming the breeze as Wake strode down the narrow bricked footpath beside Central Avenue in the center of the old section of the naval station. Under the shade of magnolia trees he passed the octagonal white frame chapel, where sailors serving out a disciplinary sentence were trimming the gardenia bushes under the scrutiny of a scowling master-at-arms. Returning the petty officer’s salute, Wake continued on to the end of the street and crossed to the other side of North Avenue, where the senior officers of the station lived.
Instead of turning left, where the captain and commanders lived, he followed another brick walk straight ahead, to where the largest of the houses stood apart from the others. It was an imposing framed structure with a huge verandah that wrapped around the front and sides. A signboard in front proclaimed it as Quarters Number One. It was the home of the commandant of the Pensacola Naval Yard, Commodore Samuel Micah Redthorn, hero of the 1862 battle of Fort Quincy on the Kentucky River. Wake proceeded up the walkway bordered with just-budding red and yellow roses, their scent lightly perfuming the air. The rose beds were famous among the officers’ wives and had been faithfully tended for years by Mrs. Redthorn.
As Wake mounted the steps he heard a screaming steam whistle over at the boiler repair shop two blocks to the south. The shriek rose above the constant percussion of hammers at the boat shed he had just left. It all made the morning feel alive to him and, senses keyed with anticipation, he almost shouted to relieve his tension.
A servant, his white hair stark against the leathered ebony of his face, stood in the doorway like a statue. In dark blue waistcoat, tie, and jacket, he looked ancient and frail but greeted Wake in a pleasant slow bass drawl that belied his appearance.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Wake. The commandant is expecting you and presents his compliments. Would you be so kind as to wait in the library, sir? The commandant will be down shortly.”
“Thank you, Nelson. I trust that all is well?”
Nelson had been the servant to the commandants of the Pensacola Naval Yard for the last fifteen years, which included the Confederate commandant in 1861. The man knew everything that went on in Pensacola and in the navy, but his discretion was legendary, his furrowed face never showing the secrets his mind held. Nelson gave his standard reply.
“All appears well, sir.”
Wake, as a member of the commandant’s staff, had been to the house many times. Frequently the commandant liked to have private meetings at his home in the morning before he went to his office. Wake nodded his assent to Nelson’s offer of tea and sat in a cane chair in the musty library, reading the titles in the commandant’s historical and theological collection. Redthorn was an avid reader of the Bible and history and often would ask his staff their opinion of some ancient strategy of the Romans or Phoenicians. At the naval yard’s wardroom, officers circulated history books among themselves to try to be ready for any sudden queries from Redthorn.
Wake reviewed his situation while waiting. He had the impression that the commandant liked and respected him, but wasn’t certain. With a man like Redthorn it was hard to know for sure. His career was very unlike Wake’s.
After three and a half decades in the U.S. Navy, Redthorn had been set to retire with the rank of commander when the Confederate rebellion broke out and one third of the officers resigned to fight for their states, but he stayed in the service out of a sense of duty. He was immediately assigned to assist Flag Officer Foote in the western theater of the war, where he commanded two makeshift gunboats converted from river steamers.
His only combat of the war was a minor but successful engagement where his command dislodged a small rebel artillery fortification on a tributary off the Kentucky River, a small success during a time of constant Federal failures. Immediately afterward, he was ordered to return to Washington and spent the rest of the war at the Navy Department headquarters, in charge of ship design and procurement in the Bureau of Construction.
Wake thought that odd—successful officers were seldom taken from combat commands—but had never heard an explanation. Redthorn was promoted to full captain in 1864 and after the war was assigned as a commodore to relieve Admiral Thatcher at the downsized establishment at Pensacola, so Wake reasoned that he must have had some success in Washington during the remainder of the war. The commandant was due to retire in a few months, and speculation about a replacement was rampant among the staff.
The lumbering clump of descending footsteps heralded the arrival of Redthorn on the first floor, by which time Wake was standing at attention. It was joked among the officers at the yard that the main reason Redthorn had not been given command of a ship since 1862 was the fear she might go over from excessive top-heaviness. Wake had to agree that the commandant’s bulk would definitely be a problem in any ship’s boat.
Redthorn moved ponderously into the room and squeezed down into a large upholstered wing chair, waving a hand toward the one opposite as he breathlessly greeted Wake.
“Ah yes, Lieutenant Wake. I trust you have had a good and productive day so far?”
After more than two years serving under him, Wake knew that the commandant did not ask rhetorical questions—he wanted to ascertain what Wake had accomplish
ed so far that day.
“Yes, sir. I checked on the boat shed’s progress and those cutters are still on schedule. They should be done by the end of the month. The hauling dock is cleaning up after the Nygaard’s departure and should be ready for the next ship tomorrow. That will be the Powhatan, of course, sir. Minor repairs. She’s due to arrive later today and will be done next week. Oh, and the foundry shop is still waiting for that blacksmith coal. It’s supposed to come in by rail soon. Maybe today.”
“I see. Very good. All as I expected.”
That was as much of a compliment as Wake had ever heard from Redthorn. He waited for the commandant’s next words.
“So, Lieutenant Wake, tell me what you have learned here.”
Wake hesitated, caught off guard. “During the last two years’ assignment here, sir?”
“Yes. That’s what I said. I’m not accustomed to having to repeat myself, Mr. Wake.”
“Well, yes, sir. Ah, probably the most important thing I have learned here is the value of routine maintenance done regularly aboard ship. It most definitely decreases the time a ship loses to a yard refit, diminishes the cost for repairs and replacement for the yard, and increases the ship’s efficiency. Most of that is an engineering officer function, but I think the deck officers bear much responsibility for it also.”
“And what about the ship’s captain, Mr. Wake? How much of it falls to him?”
“Well, of course, the responsibility and authority is ultimately his, sir. But he needs to delegate it to his officers to accomplish.”
“And when you commanded the Hunt during the late war, how did you view the necessity of ongoing routine maintenance?”
Wake raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Not nearly as critically as I do now, sir.”
Redthorn stretched his neck and regarded Wake. “I just asked a simple question that had an obvious answer, Mr. Wake. I was not wondering what you would say—that much was predictable—but far more I was wondering how you would say it. I was looking for conviction, Lieutenant.
“It is my assessment that you have learned a great deal while with us here, and that you do understand and value the role of maintenance, especially when done preventively in a continued fashion.”
Redthorn paused as if to collect his thoughts, then went on.
“We entered a new age of industrial innovations and progress during the war, Mr. Wake. Even though Congress doesn’t see fit to equip us appropriately now so that we are the equal to the Europeans, we have changed considerably in the last twenty years from the days of sail only. But all the machines in the world won’t do us any good unless they are kept in working order. If not, they are merely hunks of iron.
“Unfortunately, our Congressional stewards have not seen fit to fund the maintenance of machinery as it should be done. That means innovative ways must be created and used to keep our ships at sea, where they belong. And that, Lieutenant Wake, is where bright young officers such as yourself will stand out in times such as these. . . .”
Wake filled the pause with the only comment permitted. “Yes, sir.”
A trace of smile started to appear on Redthorn’s face. “So I would imagine that you are wondering where your next assignment will be, are you not?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“And I would further imagine that you have asked around to see what the chances are of going back to sea, am I correct?”
Wake tried not to show embarrassment, knowing that Redthorn had him dead to rights. I wonder if the yeoman told him I was asking, Wake pondered. It had been the yeoman that let slip a hint Wake might be getting a command.
“Well, sir, I . . . actually, ah . . .”
Redthorn held up an arm and laughed. “It’s all right, Mr. Wake. It’s quite all right. I used to pester the clerks to find out where I was going, too. I seriously wonder about those who blithely wander along in their career without the slightest gumption or care about their assignments. If they’re uncaring about themselves, how do they feel about their ships, I wonder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I won’t continue the suspense any longer. You’re going to sea on the Canton.”
“Canton? I’m not familiar with her, sir. Oh wait. She’s the one that’s been up at Portsmouth Yard in Maine, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She’s the only new construction out of Portsmouth in quite a while. Laid down in sixty-three, then stopped in sixty-five as they were nearing the end. Restarted construction two years later and launched last year. Politics kept getting in the way, as usual. It’s a wonder she was ever finished, really.”
“A gunboat, if I recall correctly, right, sir?”
“Yes. A smaller version of the Brits’ Cormorant class. The designers copied the plans to give it a quicker turnout time. Took ten months off the startup—just used their plans. Bought them off the British builder, Wigram, then modified them down to fit our shallower coasts and rivers.”
That information surprised Wake. He had never heard of the United States Navy using another country’s ship design. “Really, sir? I didn’t know we did that. Very unusual.”
Then he remembered who was a senior officer in 1863 in the Bureau of Construction at Washington. Redthorn cocked his head, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, it was unusual, but I thought it was a good idea at the time, and still do. If the politicos had continued the funding, we would have had her out in time to help in the war. But,” he sighed, “they wanted to spend money on other projects in other Congressmen’s districts, so it got diverted.”
Wake hoped that Redthorn didn’t think he had been critical. The political battles of Washington were still foreign to him, although he had learned a bit about them on this shore duty. “I see, sir. It sounds like it was a very good idea. Logical actually. At least we have her now.”
“Yes, well, one more thing, Mr. Wake. This won’t be a command for you. I know you wanted one, but you don’t have enough seniority yet. She would’ve rated a lieutenant during the war, but now with fewer ships and too many officers, she gets a lieutenant commander. You’ll be the executive officer. I can’t remember the captain’s name. Didn’t recognize it. Just so many officers these days I don’t know. Can’t keep up with them all.”
Wake tried not to let the disappointment show. Command had been too much to hope for in reality. He knew he had been very lucky to get even the number two billet aboard her.
“Yes, sir. Executive officer will be fine. Do you know where and when I join her?”
“Your orders are at the office, but I think it’s Key West in several weeks. The initial paperwork came down from Washington a few days ago.”
A hundred questions about his new ship and her captain suddenly flooded Wake’s mind. There was so much to do. He struggled to stay focused on the commanding officer sitting in front of him.
“Well, thank you for the word, sir. It’ll feel good to get back out to sea.”
Redthorn leaned back, making the chair creak with strain. He regarded Wake carefully. “You deserve it, Lieutenant Wake. You’ve done well here. I hope you retain what you’ve learned here.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
The commandant braced his arms on the chair and heaved himself up with a grunt. Wake leaped up as Redthorn continued with paternal softness replacing his usual grumpy tone.
“Very well, Lieutenant. I see that it is now eight. You may return to your quarters and have a nice breakfast with your family, then get under way for the office afterward. I’ll see you over there about nine—not before that, mind you. Your orders are being sent to your home now, so that you can read them in privacy.”
That was an extraordinary gesture of kindness on the commandant’s part, Wake knew. He was touched. “Thank you very much, sir.”
Redthorn resumed his command presence. “Yes, wel
l . . . once you get to the office, I want to see the detailed request list on Powhatan’s repairs. She’s due to be flagship of the Home Squadron when she leaves here for New York, and I want everything squared away. You will be in personal charge of those repairs. I advise you to make acquaintances with her officers, since Canton will be in their squadron. This is a good opportunity for you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Redthorn called back over his shoulder as he trudged down the hallway from the parlor. “Oh, and Lieutenant Wake. One more thing . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
In the shadow of the hallway the massive bulk of Samuel Micah Redthorn stopped and turned around to face Wake. The voice came out from the old man’s distant past. It was a quarterdeck voice, thunderous in the confines of an old house.
“You take damn good care of my ship when you become her exec, young man. I went through hell to get her built for us and I want her to be kept in excellent shape. And I’ve gotten you aboard her to do precisely that. Understood?”
Wake couldn’t help smiling. “Absolutely, sir.”
5
La Langue Diplomatique
Don Pablo Monteblanco, special assistant to the United States of Venezuela’s deputy ambassador to the United States, thought about what he had just done. Men would die because of it. He did not care.
Monteblanco knew that the details of his conversation a moment earlier with the officer commanding the Bureau of Navigation of the United States Navy would immediately go to Admiral David Porter, the senior admiral and a war hero of the navy, who was looking bored while standing against the wall over in the corner, and from him to Adolph Borie, the brand new secretary of the navy holding court on the other side of the French embassy’s ballroom. Borie, fifth glass of champagne in his hand, was conversing with the French ambassador and trying to be impressive, but Monteblanco had heard that his own naval officers despised him as an incompetent political appointee. It made no difference, as long as the decision was made and carried out.
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 3