“That’s when he shot him. Shot him in the face, dead, sir. I’m sorry.”
***
Symons watched their simple little faces turn to terror when he came out of the water and sneered, as he staggered toward the line of huts. He loved that feeling of domination, of seeing the abject horror in their eyes as they beheld his strength and realized his power over life and death. They obviously feared him, as they should, and now he would have them fetch him some new clothes and hide him so he could rest awhile.
“Le Blanc Fou has arrived, you savage sons of Africa! Now get over here and bear a hand.”
When the shooting ended, a crowd formed on the beach, gaping in terror at the vision of a bloodied white man with reddened arms and face, rising from the harbor. He yelled at them again, but none of the Haitians moved. Symons, bleeding from gashes everywhere, clothing in rags, stumbled over a bush but kept walking, his skin beginning to send waves of agony to the dazed brain. His ears could barely distinguish a voice behind him call out.
“Aye, Symons! So ya wan’ a wee bit o’ help, do ya?”
He wondered who would be calling him by that name? It had been so long, so very long, since he had heard it used. He turned slowly around and saw a tall petty officer on the stern of the gunboat, thirty yards away—those same thirty yards he had just forced himself to swim to his new freedom. The petty officer was leaning over a rifle laid on the transom railing.
It was aimed right at him.
“Well, here’s some help from Uncle Sam, Symons. Enjoy your little journey to hell. . . .”
Presley Theodocious Symons was still trying to comprehend what was happening when Bosun Sean Rork’s 1865 model, .58 caliber, United States Navy Springfield rifle sent its minie ball thudding into the center of his chest, where it exploded his heart, the exit wound in his back spraying tissue and gore over the beach.
El Gringo Loco’s body collapsed to the sand. His eyes spent the last five seconds of life staring at the crowd of Haitians—as they watched him die.
42
Rocks and Shoals
September 1869
The windowless room was a hot and humid small space in the middle of the second floor of Building Number Fourteen, United States Navy Yard, Washington, D.C. Wake had been told to meet his counsel there at two in the afternoon to prepare his court-martial defense. They were allowed the use of the room for one hour. He arrived five minutes early, sweating profusely from the heat of a late summer, and left the door half-closed. There were three chairs at the small chart table in the middle of the room and Wake sat down and pulled out of his valise a stack of witness statements.
Unable to concentrate on the content of the statements, he thought instead about Linda. In response to his letters about the court-martial, she had come by train all the way from Pensacola to be with him. Leaving the children in Pensacola with the Curtis family, she had arrived the day before, surprising him with her presence. He was overjoyed at her arrival, but not happy with her attitude, which had turned into loathing for the navy for what they had done to him. And to make matters worse, she made no attempt to conceal it, from anyone.
Wake was confined to the Naval Yard premises and living in the transit officer’s section of Quarters B, where women were prohibited. Thus, he could not visit her lodgings at a cheap hotel, a block away on Ninth Street, and she could not visit his at the Navy Yard. They could, and did, walk hand in hand along the river and embrace under the oak and willow trees, but that was the extent of the affection allowed by the circumstances, which did not improve Wake’s outlook at all.
In fact, he suggested to Linda that she surreptitiously join him in his room, invoking memories of their liaisons in Key West during the war to entice her. Her calmer head prevailed, however, and she explained that though she needed and wanted that also, his current legal situation was such that the consequences of that transgression of naval law would not be worth it. She added that she hated “the damn navy” for that too. The fact that he could not enjoy the affections of his wife due to bureaucratic legal idiosyncrasies made Wake angry at the navy himself.
Hearing the tread of someone approaching down the passageway and the door creak open, Wake looked up from the papers in his hand to the men who would be responsible for presenting his defense, and possibly saving his life. The two of them were completely different from each other in appearance and demeanor, but Wake desperately hoped they would be a cohesive, and persuasive, team.
Commander Andrew Stockton was a tall, thin, dark-haired man in his late thirties, his gaunt facial features giving him a predatory aspect, which was heightened by coal black eyes that displayed no emotion. Commander Stockton—graduate of the Naval Academy, class of 1856—commanded small gunboats during the war and had been the post-war executive officer of a steam frigate in the Mediterranean Squadron during Farragut’s victory tour of Europe. He was now assigned to a year at the Hydrographic Survey Office in Washington before his next sea duty, which would probably be a command billet.
Known as an “intellectual warrior,” he was widely read and as close to a lawyer as a serving naval officer was likely to get. Wake had never met the man, but requested him as senior counsel due to his reputation. He was the best on the list of potential line officers that had been put on court-martial standby duty. A civilian counsel was allowed by regulations, but Wake had no money for a real lawyer.
Stockton dropped a stack of books and pamphlets onto the scarred top of the government-issue wood table and sat in the chair across from Wake, pulling out documents from a pouch and opening books. He was obviously not enthusiastic with his assignment.
The man who immediately followed Stockton into the meeting room was Lieutenant Charles Hostetler. He was a jovial giant of a man with a ready grin, and it was obvious by his girth that he liked food and beer, but Wake knew something else about him. The man was intensely loyal to anyone he called a friend and absolutely fearless in the midst of danger. Wake had called him a friend since 1865, when Hostetler served as his executive officer aboard the armed tug Hunt, Wake’s last independent command.
They had occasionally seen each other since leaving Hunt in ’66, their last meeting being in a pub in Charleston a year earlier, where Hostetler had regaled Wake with stories of being gunnery officer of the Contoocock, a frigate with a reputation in the navy as a bad sea boat. Since she was decommissioned eight months earlier and turned into a quarantine vessel in New York, he had been on half-pay and living with his sister in Pennsylvania, but now, as an officer serving on court-martial duty he would get full pay for the duration of the trial. By contrast with Stockton, he looked very enthusiastic as he bounded into the room and grabbed Wake’s hand.
“Peter, it’s good to see you again, my friend. Over the last week or so Commander Stockton and I have discussed this little predicament and I’ve got no doubt we’re gonna prevail.”
Before Wake could reply, Stockton spoke for the first time.
“Lieutenant Wake, I am Commander Andrew Stockton, the senior counselor you requested for the court-martial. Lieutenant Hostetler, the assistant counsel, has filled me in on your character and I have read your record, which appears to be very good, with the exception of some irregularities in eighteen sixty-four regarding a certain U.S. Army colonel with whom you had a . . . disagreement while stationed in Florida. Other than that episode, which thankfully is mostly undocumented, I see nothing glaring in your records that shows that you are mentally unstable, insane, or have violent tendencies toward your superiors. Therefore, I believe that we may have a chance, but first we all three need to understand the nature of the charges, the difficulties we will face, and the consequences of failure. Are you ready to begin?”
The uneasiness in Wake’s stomach had turned into gnawing turmoil at hearing the distant, and borderline insulting, tone of Stockton’s voice.
“Commander, it�
��s obvious that you don’t want to be my counsel. Therefore I’ll discharge you and take my second choice on the list.”
“You’re going to discharge me for my not wanting this case, Lieutenant Wake?” Stockton replied, his brow furrowed in wonderment. “Do you actually think that any career naval officer with half a mind wants to defend you? Especially on these charges? And in Washington of all places, with a board made up such as this? Tell me you’re not that naïve, Lieutenant.”
Wake was stunned. As he looked at Hostetler’s obvious embarrassment he realized that Stockton was right. No one would want to tie their name with his case, or his fate. “Ah, yes, Commander. I guess you have a point there,” Wake admitted.
“Good. I’m very glad that you are bright enough to see it. Now, can we begin? We have a lot to discuss.”
Wake quietly assented, and Stockton began asking him about his most recent activities after he had received orders to present himself at Navy Department headquarters. Wake explained that after the Canton had destroyed Symons’ vessel and gang in Haiti, he had steamed to Key West Naval Depot. As per the orders of the secretary of the navy he had then turned the ship over to the next senior, Lieutenant Connery, and made arrangements for his transportation to Washington.
Upon arrival in Washington three weeks ago, he had presented himself at the Navy Department, was asked for his sword by the chief of the Bureau of Navigation, placed officially under open arrest and confined to the limits of the Naval Yard, and told his initial charge was mutiny. He was given quarters in the transit officers’ building and a week later received a preliminary charging document. At that point he was informed that the final charging document would be presented in three weeks.
Wake pointed to his papers and said they were the statements of his witnesses, which included the officers and petty officers of the Canton, officers of the Spanish warship Sirena and British warship Plover, and the statements of a Venezuelan diplomat and American businessman in Panama.
Wake concluded by saying he was innocent and would help his counsels in any way they needed.
“Very good, Mr. Wake,” said Stockton. “Then the first thing is to understand the allegations against you. Here is the official charging document.”
The legal form was put on the table and turned so Wake could read it. As his eyes passed down the page Wake felt his blood run cold when he got to the important part.
Charges and Specifications:
That Lieutenant Peter Wake, United States Navy, on the 20th day of June, 1869, while aboard the United States Ship Canton, in the Caribbean Sea, did violate the following Articles of War contained within the Regulations of the United States Navy in the below specified manner:
Charge One—Violation of Article XIII:
Specifically that he,
—Treated his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington, U.S.N., with contempt by word and deed.
—Uttered mutinous and seditious words to his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington.
—Made a mutinous assembly against his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington.
Charge Two—Violation of Article XIX:
Specifically that he,
—Disobeyed the lawful order of his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington.
—Struck or offered to strike his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington.
Charge Three—Violation of Article XX:
Specifically that he,
—Negligently performed the duties assigned to him by his superior officer, Captain P. Terrington
Wake found it hard to breathe, for the room had suddenly gotten hotter, and he unbuttoned his coat.
“You will stay in uniform, Lieutenant Wake,” commanded Stockton, his eyes leveled into Wake’s. “The fact that the charges make you uncomfortable does not give you permission to violate the regulations of the service. Or do you habitually ignore regulations when you are uncomfortable?”
Good God above, he’s arrogant but right, thought Wake. If I can’t act calm and professional in here with my own counsel, how will I act in the trial in front of the men who will decide my fate? He buttoned up his collar.
“You’re correct, Commander. I’d better get used to hearing those accusations, though they make me upset because of their speciousness.”
“All right, Mr. Wake. Now that you know what they’re saying about you, here’s what can happen if the board believes those accusations that you believe are specious.”
Wake already knew, but Stockton said the words anyway.
“You shall suffer death.”
For what seemed like a long time no one said anything. Then Stockton spoke again.
“If you are lucky, Mr. Wake, the sentence will be twenty years to life at Portsmouth, if you are extremely lucky, it will be dishonorable discharge and public disgrace for the rest of your life.”
Wake thought of Symons’ dishonorable discharge document he had first read in the dark alleyway in the hellhole of Cartagena and cringed when he thought he might be termed in the same category. He glanced at Hostetler, but the man’s eyes were on the floor, the door, anywhere but his friend. Wake felt drained of courage and wanted to stop all this and run away. He found it hard even to look at Stockton as the man went on relentlessly.
“And here, Mr. Wake is how—as I see it after reviewing the documents furnished to me—they are going to show that you are guilty.
“First, they will prove that you never brought Captain Terrington’s deficiencies to the attention of the Navy Department prior to taking your action, though you touched at several ports from which you could have sent such a report. Plus, the surgeons’ mate will testify that you never sought his opinion until after your decision was made. A fait accompli, as it were.
“Second, they will prove that you did treat him with contempt and uttered mutinous words, since you admit all that in your own statement of the facts where you describe confronting Captain Terrington.
“Third, they will prove, again through your own statement, that you did strike Captain Terrington by the manner of forcibly touching him within the store room and in his own cabin.
“And fourth, Mr. Wake, they will prove that you were negligent in your duties to assist your captain, which they will say is manifestly true because you deposed the man from his lawful command.”
Wake wished there was a window he could see out, the room seemed to be closing in on him. It all was so unreal. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this hopeless. “I don’t know what to say, or do, sir.”
Stockton showed no pity as he leaned closer and glared at Wake. “Well, you’d better figure out something to say, and how to make it sound convincing, pretty damned soon, Lieutenant Wake. Seventeen men have been executed by the United States Navy since seventeen ninety-nine—seven of them for mutiny. And being an officer is no protection. One of those seven was Midshipman Philip Spencer on the Somers in eighteen forty-two. You are fighting for your life, Mr. Wake, and nothing less.”
“What do we do, Commander?”
“I believe that we’ve accomplished our first task, Lieutenant, which is to assess the situation from the standpoint of the enemy—which is how I view the prosecution in this case. And make no mistake, the prosecution will be done very well. The court has already been made up and notified. Commander James Wayne will be the judge advocate, or prosecutor. I know him to be a very thorough and articulate officer.”
“And the board of the court?” asked Wake.
“I presume that you know that in a general court-martial the board may consist of between five to thirteen officers, at least half of which must be senior to the accused. I realize that you started your career during the war as a volunteer officer and were thus prohibited from serving on a board. But since you received your regular commission, have you ever served on a board in a court-martial, Lieutenant
?”
“Three minor courts of inquiry at Pensacola, also one summary court-martial with a petty officer, but nothing involving a commissioned officer. I was a witness on a petty officer’s mutiny case during the war, but they changed it to murder so as not to alarm the public,” Wake said.
“Yes, I think I saw that it your records. Interesting. And what was that sentence?”
“Death,” uttered Wake. He could still remember seeing them slowly swinging from the yardarm. “They hanged the three ringleaders.”
“I see,” said Stockton as he nodded gravely, then dispassionately continued. “Well, I’ve had the experience of serving on several, both during the war and afterward. They are solemn affairs, Mr. Wake, with Marine guards and the special court-martial flag flying aloft. Your sword will be placed amidship on the board’s table, neither point nor hilt pointing toward you, until the end. On the board for this court-martial we will have as president a rear admiral they are bringing out of retirement especially for this case, Franklin Munroe. Good reputation as a seaman and commander.
“The other members are a commodore just back from command of a foreign squadron, three captains and two commanders, for a total of seven in all. Every one of them is a combat veteran and all have been ship captains. None served in the East Gulf Blockading Squadron, which I understand was your squadron during the war.”
Stockton went down the list of names, none of which Wake knew. He was desperate for some positive information, or some constructive task to do, rather than endure this despondent litany.
Hostetler glanced at Stockton and finally spoke. “Peter, this all won’t be easy, but we can win. You’re the one who told me years ago that an opponent’s strength can also be used as one of his weaknesses. These men have a lot of experience and have served under all kinds of commanders, including ones like Parker Terrington. They will understand what you went through, and why you did what you did. Because of their professional experience, they also know the ‘rocks and shoals’ better than most.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 30