Pensacola, Florida
December 18th, 1873
Dear Peter,
Here is a short note to say hello which I’ll put on the steamer southbound. The children are well and Useppa’s pain is appearing to diminish, but it’s too early to tell if it is permanent. The latest gossip from Pensacola is a rumor that the navy is going to shut down the yard here due to budgetary constraints, but there’s nothing official from the yard commandant. That’s caused some panic among the store owners. By the way, the new navy yard commandant is Alexander Semmes, an old wartime colleague of yours, I think. He told me he knew you when you had Rosalie back in sixty-three—that seems like ages ago. He is a cousin to that famous Confederate commander of the Alabama, Raphael Semmes, who works in Mobile as a lawyer. Both are in good health and see each other. Alexander asks about you.
Peter, I can’t wait until you come home. We need to talk about our marriage and your work. I understand your love of the sea and have come to admire that in you. You can still have that on a merchant ship, dear—without the negativity of the navy.
I love and miss you more than you’ll ever know and count the days until we can hold each other and be a real family again.
Linda
His hands were shaking when he finished reading. Folding the letter carefully back into the envelope he put it into the desk drawer devoted to her letters. They were his sole treasure—a chronologically arranged connection to his family. He took in a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to slow his pounding heart and calm down.
A knock on his door disturbed his swirling thoughts.
“Officer of the deck present his respects, sir! He reports that the chandler’s barge is alongside and they need your signature on the provision manifest.”
Wake sighed—there was no real privacy aboard a warship. No place to hide, especially for the executive officer. “Pass along my compliments to the officer of the deck. I’ll be there directly.”
***
The reception was held at Farley Hill Plantation on the other side of the island. It wasn’t specifically in honor of the U.S. Navy’s visit, but the Americans were invited to send two officers to an annual ball given each January by the plantation owner, a titled Englishman who for some obscure reason found himself in one of the more remote stretches of the empire. Attendance necessitated an overnight stay, so when Wake picked Laporte to be the other officer he gave him a short lecture on deportment, all the while thinking about his own behavior in Martinique.
“Remember, John, you represent the navy and your country. Do not drink too much and do not let your tales go beyond your good sense. I picked you because in a few days you’ll be the executive officer and I want to be confident you can handle the social duties of the ship since the captain doesn’t want that chore.”
“Yes, sir. Don’t worry a bit about me, sir.”
Wake and Laporte reported to the Royal Navy’s small pier a quarter mile up the river that ran through the heart of Bridgetown. The British navy had no regular station at Bridgetown, maintaining a supply depot only. The petty officer explained that Commander Laylock, the officer-in-charge, was already at the plantation along with the governor and awaiting their arrival. He then showed them to a government carriage reminiscent of the one at Antigua, making Wake wonder if rickety wagons were characteristic of the English islands in the Caribbean.
The ride to Farley Hill showed an island that was completely unlike Martinique. A recent drought had combined with a depression in sugar prices in ’73 to devastate the economy of Barbados, and the villages along the west coast showed it. The black islanders were in a subsistence mode, fishing or farming small tracts, and the white islanders they passed were disheveled and sullen-looking. Black Rock, Holetown, and Sandy Lane had no modern equipment in sight and Laporte said the sights reminded him of parts of Georgia after the war.
At noon they ascended the last hill and arrived at their destination, which the driver reported the height of as precisely seven hundred forty-three feet, and the location to be exactly in the center of the northern part of the island, between the east and west coasts. Wake disembarked in front of the great mansion and stood for a moment taking in the sight. Incongruously, it was a giant manor house in the English Georgian style, set in a forest of pines with a magnificent view of the Atlantic ocean smashing ashore on the distant east coast, far below them. Not a palm was in view—they could’ve been in England.
Laporte broke Wake’s reverie. “Sir, they’re coming out.”
Wake turned to see porters and an older Royal Navy officer with the epaulets of a commander approaching. He straightened up to attention and said, “Good afternoon, sir. We are Lieutenant Peter Wake and Lieutenant John Laporte, of the United States Navy, here for the gala. Thank you for the very kind invitation.”
“I am Commander Clive Laylock, RN, station officer-in-charge. Welcome to Barbados, Lieutenants. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you when you came ashore, but I trust that Petty Officer Edmonds did that duty well. Please, gentlemen, come this way. The porters will get your things.” Laylock started toward the massive doors but stopped and gave Wake a curious look.
“Did you say your name is Wake, Lieutenant?”
“Ah, yes, sir. Peter Wake.”
“Oh my . . .
