“Good idea, Pete. I really need a drink about now, too. Besides, it might be our last together,” added Wake as the jarring carriage accelerated over the uneven pavement.
Moments later Allen exclaimed, “My God, Peter, look at that! He found one,” as they rounded a corner down by the waterfront and stopped suddenly.
The driver turned around in his seat, beaming as he held his hand out toward O’Brien’s Irish Pub. “¡Señores, el pub!”
Wake laughed. “Oh, boy. I can tell that this is gonna be a hell of a goodbye, Peter Sharpe Allen. A hell of a goodbye.”
***
When Wake said goodbye to Allen at the pierhead several hours later, he asked him the question that had been on his mind since Barbados. “Pete, did they assign you to spy on me because of what happened at Antigua?”
The British Marine’s face tightened. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, Peter. But, having said that, I don’t think Great Britain has anything to worry about with you. And quite inexplicably, despite my reticence about fraternizing with you colonials, you’ve actually become my friend.”
Allen changed the serious mood by breaking into a grin and clasped Wake’s hand. “I’ll see you somewhere in the Med, Peter Wake. And by the way, Yank, unlike the last few, next drink’s on you!”
***
The British frigate left an hour after Allen reported aboard. That evening a bumboatman delivered a note to Wake aboard the Trinidad, which he read prior to dinner.
Lt. Peter Wake, USN
In transit aboard RMS Trinidad
2nd February 1874
Peter,
They did change my orders. Aboard Immortalitie now, heading immediately for Malta and Vice Admiral Drummond’s flagship, HMS Lord Warden. I guess they can’t do without me anymore! The Flying Squadron is combining with the Med Squadron for evolutions in western Med. Should be interesting, but pretty dull compared to our adventure in Spain. Maybe see you in Genoa.
Your friend,
Peter Sharpe Allen, Lieutenant, RMLI
***
The next morning Wake made his official visit to the American consulate. The consul handed Wake a dark blue envelope, the kind that came from the Navy Department. Wake had a fleeting hope that it was a rescindment of his orders, but that was dashed when he read it.
It was a routine change in orders, copies of which were sent to all ports on his route. He was not to go to Villefranche in France to meet the squadron, since they had been recalled again to the West Indies, due to tensions there with the Spanish. Instead he was to disembark at Genoa and wait there for the European Squadron to eventually return. Accommodations were authorized and the consulate at Genoa would have funds for him upon his reporting in. At the bottom he saw there was a postscript ordering him not to go ashore at any Spanish port due to the bilateral tensions and the Spanish civil war.
“Wish I’d gotten this at Cadiz,” he muttered to himself.
The consul looked at him. “What was that?”
“Orders to stay at Genoa and wait for the fleet. And I’m not to go ashore at a Spanish port. Civil war going on and tensions over Cuba.”
“Yes, the squadron is off demonstrating to the Spanish at Cuba how tough we are. The Brits are doing the same around here. Suppose you saw their frigate in the harbor?”
“Yes, had a friend report aboard her.”
“Oh, you know Fisher? I met him at a reception two nights ago. Just came in from England and went aboard her. Some sort of torpedo expert. Everybody calls him Jackie. Up and comer in the Royal Navy they say. Interesting fella to talk with.”
Wake turned around and faced the consul. “Who?”
“Commander John Fisher. Wasn’t that your friend? I heard he went aboard the frigate just before they weighed anchor.”
“No. My friend was a Royal Marine.”
The consul saw the pensive look on Wake’s face and didn’t ask anything further. It was obvious the naval officer was bothered by something he had said.
16
The Old World
February 1874
“Not exactly the sunny Italy you read about, is it?” said the engineer as the Trinidad steamed up the channel toward Genoa’s harbor.
“No, Mr. Monroe, it’s not,” agreed Wake, standing at the rail bundled up in his great coat. It was freezing cold. “And I thought it would be a bit more . . . historic. Quaint.”
“Reminds me of Liverpool. Even the stink is the same. Ach, I’m going below to my domain and a better sight for my old eyes—my beautiful iron darlins!”
The city slowly came into view through the winter rain squalls. Wake took it all in, overwhelmed by the magnitude, first seeing an ancient stone lighthouse on a point of land, then the jumbled gray city surrounding the crowded harbor, finally the brown hills rising rapidly from the city. The colors were faded and tired. Ornate cathedral domes, utilitarian government buildings, and bustling commercial blocks covered his view, and smoke from a thousand chimneys melded with the rainy mist to present an unreal aspect to the scene. Rancid sewage and smoky cooking fires filled his nostrils. The shriek of steam cranes and clattering of hooves echoed around the stone buildings. Frenzied motion was everywhere.
The harbor held dozens of steamers and hundreds of smaller sailing vessels. Wake saw warships from Austria, France, Italy, Spain, and the Ottoman Empire at anchor. All of them were more powerful than any American naval vessel he had known since the war. Genoa wasn’t anything like what Wake expected.
As they came alongside a dock crowded with jumbled piles of cargo, he heard shouts from the stevedores in several languages—French, Italian, and German, from what he could tell. The Italian passengers aboard were excitedly showing others the points of interest, and seeing their euphoria, Wake was plunged into sadness. They were going home, but he was on the far side of the world from his own home and family, in a place as alien as any jungle he had known in the Caribbean.
Beyond his
