It was still the smelly domain of the surgeon, who grudgingly allowed him in. Filled with dread, Wake went to the purser and asked for his mail but was told there wasn’t any. Depressed, for that surely wasn’t a good sign, he returned to the cabin and listened as the blowhard surgeon waxed on about the privations of naval medicine, each breath reeking of medicinal brandy.
That evening at the wardroom mess it got no better. Wake felt all eyes on him, but no one asked any details of his assignment, the purser saying he heard it turned out fine and the executive officer remarking that independent duty was just the ticket for escaping the boredom of flagship billets. The surgeon opined that it “must’ve been damned tough in a Mohammedan country, what with the lack of decent rum, or even any rum at all.” That got a round of guffaws. By the time dinner was over Wake was disgusted by the company and not in the mood to remain. He asked the executive officer for permission to leave and took a walk on deck.
***
In the three days since his return Wake had only spoken once for any appreciable time with Captain Staunton, the squadron staff captain. Staunton was noncommittal about Wake’s staff work, saying he should recuperate and that they’d done without him for three months so they could do without him a few days longer. He warned Wake about bothering the admiral, who was busy with Spanish chaos, wounded Greek pride, German machinations, and whining Ottoman Turks, “not to mention our damned American diplos ashore. They think we serve them. God help us.”
Frustrated and worried, Wake went forward and found Rork. Normally he wouldn’t have asked his friend about the situation—it was a breach of custom and would put Rork ill at ease—but Wake was at the point of real worry. Something was very wrong.
“Have you heard anything about me or you in Morocco, Rork? Nobody’s talking to me and it’s as if they’re ignoring me because they think we’ve done something wrong. Damned if I can figure out why they’re acting this way. And no letters from Linda. There is something wrong here, Rork. Good God, I can’t even get in to see the admiral, my boss!”
Rork’s reply had a serious tone, which didn’t ease Wake. “I think it’ll be jes’ fine, sir. Ye’ve nary a thing to be sorry for or worried about. They’re probably jes’ restin’ ya, sir. They’ve gone light on me ownself too. You know how the bloody navy goes, sir. Hurry up an’ wait. Then they’ll bash ya for bein’ so damned lazy. Part o’ the job.”
Rork put a hand on Wake’s shoulder. “Steady on, sir. Your good lady will do you fine. She’s a bright girl an’ a fine lady. Ain’t none better that I’ve seen, an’ I’ve seen plenty.”
***
Wake knocked three times on the door, then entered Admiral Case’s great cabin after the Marine guard announced him from the passageway. After a week of nervous waiting, he’d had a summons from the admiral on this Sunday morning, just before church services on the main deck were about to commence.
“Lieutenant Wake, reporting for duty as flag lieutenant, sir.”
Case, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, spun his swivel chair around and calmly studied the officer standing tall in the prescribed manner, three feet in front of the desk. Staunton got up from the chart table against the bulkhead, nodded quickly at Wake, and departed silently.
“Stand easy, Lieutenant,” Case said tiredly. “I have read your report of the events in Morocco with interest. I’m also told that you seem to be healing well from your wounds. You’ve been back now for what, a week? When will you be ready for full duty?”
“Right now, sir.”
“Hmm. And your bosun?”
“Right now, also, sir.”
“Hmm. So by five days from now you’ll both be ready for an assignment? I have a job for you and I don’t want it fouled up.”
Wake expected some questions about Morocco, possibly a compliment or a concern. Something. But Case was acting as if Wake had just come back from a bar fight ashore in Genoa. Scrutinizing the man’s eyes revealed nothing. They were ice blue and unblinking.
“Fully ready, sir,” Wake replied, evenly.
“Very good, Lieutenant. On next Friday evening I want you to be my personal aide at a big soirée at the French Consulate. Everyone of import will be attending and there will be no room for mistakes or failure. This is a social event of the highest occasion and I want everything done right. Bosun Rork will be in charge of transport. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Are we guests or hosts, sir?”
“Guests. I want my senior staff and all ship captains there, on time, in full dress uniform, sober and ready to converse and impress the diplomatic corps of Europe. You will be in charge of making sure that they all get there, behave, and depart without untoward incident. I’ll repeat that, Lieutenant—without untoward incident. You have a reputation for somehow getting involved with, or creating, unusual incidents. I’ll have none of that at this function. Welcome back to the fleet, Lieutenant Wake, and your staff duties. Your wild adventures are over.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Make it so. You are dismissed.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Wake paced the quarterdeck for an hour afterward, watching the bumboats and coastal cargo boats making their way in and out of the docks while analyzing the brief one-sided conversation with his commander. Did Case disapprove of his actions? Was he jealous of Wake’s “adventures?” Was the admiral in trouble because of Wake’s decisions?
He grew angrier as he paced. Wake decided he
