Key West still smelled the same to Wake—an earthy combination of fruit trees, rum parlors, sponge docks, and sail lofts. He couldn’t help smiling as he stepped onto the dock at the foot of Duval Street from the Mallory Steamship Lines packet. There were so many memories here.
Some of the memories were wonderful—the tender moments he and Linda stole away from the chaos of the war, the hilarious gatherings of the junior officers in the bars, his old bosun friend Rork’s antics at the Anchor Inn, his wedding at the old African graveyard on the south beach during a beautiful tropical sunset.
Other memories brought past anguish back to him—Linda’s zealot pro-Confederate father and uncle, the death of her beloved mother from yellow fever, the cynical innuendoes by other naval officers about Wake’s affair with an “enemy” girl, the way that many island women treated Linda for consorting with a Yankee occupier while their men were fighting and dying with Lee in Virginia.
But Wake could see his future here, for lying alongside the old naval wharf was the United States Steamer Canton, newest ship in the Navy. She had pulled in the night before to bunker coal and secure provisions. As Wake lugged his sea bag and valise along the waterfront, he smiled. She was a good-looking ship, easy on the eyes. He stopped to get a good look at her. She was the first warship he had seen painted dark gray with a continual black sheer line stripe. It accentuated her one-hundred-eighty-foot length and hid her considerable armament, since her gun ports were not painted a different color. Wake knew that when required, she could deal with any ship her size by utilizing the potent one-hundred-ten-pound breech loading rifled gun forward, or the four sixty-four-pound smooth bores mounted in broadside.
The one thing he worried about was her speed. It was only ten knots, since they had not installed one of the larger types of engines that had been put on merchant ships since the war, but instead retained the original reciprocating six-hundred-ninety horse power version from her initial building in 1863. Commodore Redthorn had told him that was because of budgetary constraints, but that at least she had large coal bunkers and could make a transit of almost a thousand miles under steam—if the Navy Department would part with enough money to top off those bunkers. Wake, the old schooner man, saw that Canton had gaff and square sails on the fore and main masts. Good, he thought, at least we can get her moving a little bit if the mechanical steam monster decides to quit.
Wake started toward her again and was stepping around a coil of hawser on the wharf when he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard a voice from the past.
“Now Peter Wake, afore ye step on that gangway an’ naval tradition takes over our reunion, preventin’ a proper hello between ol’ sailors, let me jes’ say that it’s been many a dreary day since I last laid eyes on you, my friend. I am sorely glad we’re shipmates once again.”
It was the one and only Sean Rork, Boatswain, United States Navy—and Wake’s best friend, whom he hadn’t seen in a year, since Rork’s last ship had put into Pensacola.
“Good God above, man! I didn’t know you were aboard Canton! ” Wake ignored naval regulations against fraternizing with enlisted personnel and hugged his old friend.
“This is excellent, Sean. Really excellent news.”
“An’ just how is me namesake and his lovely sainted mother? An’ pretty wee Useppa? Must be about four years now, an’ cute as an Irish lily, I’m a-thinkin’.”
Wake was beaming. He and Rork had served together during the war on several ships, and gotten through many scrapes by relying on each other. One of those times Rork had saved his life. It was not by chance that his only son was named after this Irish immigrant seaman who had made a home in the U.S. Navy.
“All hands at home are doing well, very well. I thought you were still on Wyoming, bound for the Med squadron?”
“Aye, I was. Then I heard from a yeoman—it was old DeTar, if ya remember him—that a new ship was needin’ some bosuns an’ he had a notion I might like to request her. When I found out who the executive officer would be, why it ’twas like an order from Saint Patrick himself. I had to get aboard.”
“Are you joining her here?”
“Aye. Been waitin’ for a week at ol’ Mrs. Boltz’s on Duval Street.” A statuesque dark-haired lady, Martha Boltz was much loved by the sailors who had stayed at her boarding house over the years. Wake was glad she had escaped the fire. Rork added with a mischievous smile. “An’ jes’ guess who is assistin’ Mrs. Boltz there?”
“No idea,” laughed Wake.
“Why that cute wee lass Mary Alice we met back in sixty-five. She’s been helpin’ the freedmen for the government, teachin’ writin’ an’ such, an’ staying at the boardin’ house. But she’s no girl anymore. Grown to a very pretty lady, she is, sir. Fancy an’ fetchin’ as a spring day in Waterford. Her sister Cynda is in Puerto Rico now.”
Wake did indeed remember both ladies. He really liked Mary Alice. “Good to hear that, and good to serve together again, Sean. Just like the old days.”
“Aye, like days past, it is, sir. Why, I even saw those ol’ troubadours, the Yard Dogs, playin’ their tunes at the Green Parrot Tavern. Remember them?”
Wake smiled as he remembered the carefree musicians, former Union soldiers who settled in Key West after the war. “That I do. They were in the pub riot in sixty-four.”
Lost in memories, they were quietly walking to the gangway, Rork carrying Wake’s sea bag on his shoulder, when the bosun stopped, a grin on his face. “An’ sir, you won’t be believing who is the father of the main deck gun on this ship. ’Tis fate, I tell ya.”
Wake looked at him and started grinning too.
“No! It couldn’t be. Not old gunner Durlon! Mark Durlon’s aboard?”
“In the rum-soaked and wrinkled flesh, as I live an’ breathe.” Rork slapped his thigh. “DeTar got him aboard afore he got me. Ya know, that ol’ dog DeTar always was a sly one. Me thinks the three of us owe him a bit o’ Nelson’s nectar the next time we’re near naval headquarters.”
“Good Lord, Sean. This really is like the old days in the war—the three of us in Key West, the Yard Dogs, the little Rosey, St. James, and the Hunt . . .”
“Ah, but here’s new gam for ya. The ol’ gunner’s got a new twist. Seems he’d been a holdin’ out on us about his past. A shady thing, that. But ’tis worked out well an’ he’s still on course.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Sean?”
“Why the gunner isn’t named Durlon! Nay, sir. Had his name legally changed up in New York after he killed a man over—you guessed it—a lass in Connecticut, way back when. Been on the run since then. It happened years an’ years ago, back in the early forties, afore he shipped in the navy for the first time. Now he’s found out they ruled it not murder an’ he didn’t have to change his name an’ run all those years ago. So the silly sod’s changed it back to his real name, an’ there’s the joke. The whole lot of the petty officers aboard are havin’ a laugh at it.”
“So what’s his real name?”
“Durling! Mark Durling changed his alias to Durlon to escape the noose. Can ye imagine it? He used an alias that sounded like his true name, the silly damn bugger. Good bloody thing he can shoot a cannon, ’cause he’s worthless as a fraud.”
Both of them stood there and roared with laughter, bystanders wondering what could be so funny. Finally, they made their way through the debris of the dock toward the ship. When they neared Canton, Wake mentioned the names of the ships they served on. Rork nodded and sighed as he remembered some of their shipmates that didn’t make it. “Wish ol’ gunner McDougall were here. An’ Mr. Emerson an’ Mr. Rhodes. We could have quite the fancy time then. But, alas me friend, no’s the worry—those boyos slipped anchor an’ went home to Saint Michael, God bless their souls, leaving us to do the sailor’s work o’ the country a wee bit longer.”
The tw
o men walked around some sailors carrying boxes of provisions from a cart on the wharf. Nearby, two women on the wharf were arguing with an officer up on the main deck of the Canton, explaining in lewd terms how one of the ship’s sailors had cheated them of money he owed for services rendered, which they described as laundering, and had run off.
Rork laughed. “Aye, ’tis the same in every navy port—no matter the year, no matter the navy. Now, I’ll be the Bishop o’ Wexford if either o’ them doxies have even laid a hand on soap in a month. Launderin’ me ass. I feel for the poor lad who woke up next to her. ’Tis he that needs a coin for his fright!”
They reached the gangway and started up, Rork’s demeanor changing from friend to senior petty officer as he took the valise from Wake and announced up to the quarter deck, “Lieutenant Peter Wake, the new executive officer, arriving, sir.”
The officer of the deck, who had been distracted by the women, spun around at Rork’s warning and raced to the gangway, to stand at attention. Just before he stepped officially aboard, Wake saluted the ensign floating from the stern staff, then repeated the gesture of respect to the quarterdeck. Rork came up behind Wake, paid the same respects, laid the baggage down on the deck, then disappeared without further word—they were back in the world of naval discipline, where their friendship could not be displayed.
“Lieutenant Peter Wake reporting aboard as ship’s company as ordered.”
The young ensign was flustered at not having noticed Wake’s approach until the last minute. “Yes, sir. Welcome aboard. I’m Ensign Kennard Moe, officer of the deck. The seaman will take your gear to your stateroom and the captain is being notified of your arrival right now, sir. Very sorry I didn’t see you coming, sir, or we would have had men down on the wharf to get your things for you.”
Moe looked very young. Probably right out of this year’s class at Annapolis, Wake thought. He had heard they were graduating them two months earlier this year, in April, as a budget constraint. The young man looked worried that he had given a bad first impression to the executive officer.
“Very good, Ensign Moe. No problem on not seeing me. I could tell your attention was temporarily distracted by those, ahmm . . . ladies. Just be more careful in the future—it might be the captain or an admiral, you never know.”
A messenger boy arrived almost out of breath, stretched to full height in front of Moe and stammered out that the captain presented his compliments and would see Lt. Wake when it was convenient for the lieutenant.
Wake nodded his acknowledgment and followed the messenger to the captain’s stateroom. As they walked aft, Wake took in the activity around him, but mainly concentrated on the men themselves. There was no shouting, no cursing, no threatening. That was the sign of a confident and motivated crew and it cheered Wake. He caught the glances his way—the whole ship by now was aware of his arrival and, courtesy of Rork and Durling, they knew of his record. He knew they were also gauging their new executive officer by the way he walked, the way he interacted with the men, the expression on his face.
So far Wake was impressed with the ship and men. His spirits were building as he emerged from the companionway into the captain’s stateroom, after the messenger had announced him and opened the door. He walked in, heard the door close behind him, and stood at attention in front of the desk, but the captain wasn’t there. The lamps were not lit; only the skylight was providing a little illumination.
“Lieutenant Peter Wake, reporting aboard as ordered, sir.” He called out, peering around the gloom of the cabin for the captain, but seeing no one.
“Yes, Lieutenant. Come over here and sit down.”
In the corner he could make out a figure relaxed with legs crossed, sitting back in a comfortable chair. The man was in his early thirties, Wake’s own age, with wavy black hair combed straight back. He was wearing the tropical working uniform of white cotton duck shirt and trousers. The shirt was open at the collar and the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The blue coat was thrown on the berth. The man waved an arm to the other chair.
“Sit there. I’m Captain Terrington.”
This is different, Wake thought. He didn’t know much of anything about Lt. Commander Terrington, but he instantly understood that the man who had authority over them all on this ship was not the usual naval officer. This is very different, he repeated to himself as he lowered himself into the proffered chair and faced his new captain. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Wake became very wary.
10
Welcome Aboard
“Tell me about yourself, Lieutenant Wake.”
“Yes, sir. I have six years in. Served in sailing gunboats with the East Gulf Blockading Squadron in sixty-three and sixty-four, then had the tug Hunt until sixty-seven. Since then I’ve been stationed at Pensacola.”
“Very succinct, Lieutenant. So you have been a small ship man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And before the war?”
“Schooners in New England, Captain.”
Terrington leaned closer, examining Wake. “And you managed to get a regular commission from a volunteer brevet at the end of the war?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How? There were six thousand volunteer officers in the navy and only a hundred and thirty-three were given regular commissions. How did you get yours, Lieutenant?”
It hit Wake suddenly and everything became clearer. Terrington was drunk. Not falling down drunk, but under the influence enough for his speech to be slurred and slow. There was the faint odor of rum in the cabin. The grog issue had been prohibited since 1862, but was still found among senior officers. And now Terrington, an Annapolis graduate, was thinly veiling his question about Wake’s background.
“The old-fashioned way, Captain. I earned it by my actions.” Wake set his jaw and said no more. He was right on the edge of anger.
Terrington acted as if nothing was strained and continued. “So this is your first real ship?”
It was a blatant insult, one that would have resulted in bloodshed ashore in a bar among equals, but here he had to take it. That he was being baited was obvious, but why?
“Captain, this is the largest ship I have served on, but not the first.”
Terrington nodded, pursed his lips pensively, and took a drink from a glass beside him. Wake could see him swilling the liquid around in his mouth.
“Very well, Lieutenant Wake. You have been assigned to me as the executive officer.” Terrington paused with a sigh, then took an exaggerated breath and resumed. “So you need to find the gunnery officer, Lieutenant Connery, and he will fill you in on our mission, our diplomatic guest aboard, and our ship and crew. Dinner will be at seven in the wardroom, full dress, with guests from shore. The mayor, a judge, and somebody else. As executive officer, you will be in charge of the dinner to make sure it goes off without a hitch. Tomorrow we get under way, at sunrise.” Terrington waved toward the door and said, “Dismissed.”
Wake was stunned at his captain’s demeanor and for a second sat there, then got to his feet, stood at attention, said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and walked out.
He stopped in the companionway and thought about what had just transpired, but it was too much to digest. Besides, he didn’t have time to ponder rude behavior on the part of his captain. He had to find this Connery quickly and find out what was really going on aboard the USS Canton.
***
Lieutenant John Connery was a short man, but had a voice that could stop a bull in his tracks. He greeted his new superior with good-natured hospitality, took him to the wardroom for a glass of juice, then asked Wake to step into his tiny cabin so they could speak privately. While Wake sat on the berth, Connery sat down on a stool and began in a low tone.
“All right, sir, a briefing on our situation. Yes, sir. Guess I’ll start with our mission. Here it is. We are to take Mr. Monteblan
co, the Venezuelan diplomat, back to his country as a favor. Then we are to search the lower Caribbean for a pirate named El Gringo Loco and kill or capture him. Then we get to come home. That’s the short of it, but not all of it by a long shot.”
Wake could see it was far more complicated than that—this would take awhile.
“Mr. Connery, please start at the beginning and tell me the whole thing, but try to be concise.”
“Yes, sir. Well, here it is in the full version. There is a renegade American naval officer who has turned pirate down off Central America. Apparently a former Union volunteer officer, who I presume was dismissed like the rest in sixty-five and, like so many, found employment in the navies down there. But this one evidently alienated even those people, which I think is quite a feat, and was kicked out. Then he turned to piracy. They call him El Gringo Loco because he is said to be without any civilized norms. The man has become a lunatic. He tortures people, steals everything, kills without remorse. Monteblanco’s parents were two of his victims back in February. The whole region is enraged that a Yankee navy man is doing this, and Washington wants it taken care of immediately.”
“Where in the lower Caribbean?”
Connery shook his head. “That’s the thing, sir. We don’t exactly know. He has struck from British Honduras to Venezuela, from Jamaica to Panama. That’s a huge area.”
“They usually send a squadron for this kind of thing. Who else did they send and where are the patrol areas?”
“We are it, sir. There are no other ships. They didn’t tell us anything except go to the area and take care of the problem. I read the orders myself.”
That reminded Wake that Connery had been acting executive officer. “All right, what about the ship and crew? Start with the ship.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 6