“Yes, sir.”
“I see by your report file that you are not an academy man. You started out a volunteer officer during the war. And you got a regular commission? How very unusual.”
“Yes, sir. I was commissioned in early sixty-five. East Gulf Blockading Squadron.”
“Yes. Then shore duty at Pensacola. Then . . .” Case looked up from the file on his desk. Wake felt the man’s eyes boring into him. The admiral continued, “The Canton affair down in Panama. Some legal confusion on that, I believe.”
Wake had had to explain that situation so many times to so many people. But admirals were different. “The court ruled that there was insufficient cause for a prosecution of violations of regulations, sir.”
“So no censure, no acquittal.”
“No trial, sir. The court-martial decided that it would be a court of inquiry, then ruled there was insufficient cause to do anything further. In effect, that no rules were violated, sir.”
“And yet, Lieutenant, you have been under a cloud for the five years since then, haven’t you?”
Wake didn’t like the direction this was taking, but controlled his anger. “Admiral, I have been at sea and in the jungles of Panama on the canal survey expedition in the five years since then. I have done my duty and none of my commanding officers have given me the slightest indication of anything other than satisfaction with my performance. I know nothing of any cloud over my career, sir.”
Case slapped his hand down on the desk and allowed the beginning of a smile. “By God, that’s the attitude I like! Good for you, Mr. Wake. I didn’t graduate from that damned school of arrogance either. I learned seamanship and leadership on the deck of a ship, from the age of sixteen onward.”
Wake let his breath out. “Thank you, sir. I will do my very best for you, Admiral.”
“I do believe that you will, Lieutenant. I heard in Brooklyn from my friend Frankie Munroe that you were a man of decision and action. That’s good, Lieutenant, ’cause there’re damn few of ’em around anymore, especially in this scow, and I need one right about now to take care of a problem so I can concentrate in more important things.”
Rear Admiral Monroe was the president of the court that had ruled on Wake’s actions in relieving his captain aboard Canton on the coast of Panama. Wake wondered exactly what Monroe had told Case and if it was his influence that was behind this assignment.
He snapped his attention back to the admiral.“Yes, sir.”
“We have some sort of potential problem on the African Med coast at some Gawdforsaken place called Chetaibi. No idea where the hell it is, except it’s some fishing village between Tunis and Algiers. Usual kind of thing—missionaries reporting that they are being harassed and are in fear of their lives. Report arrived back in January—it was sent in December—so it’s already five months since they asked for help. Hell and tarnation, they could be dead by now. That’ll make the papermen howl with indignation at Uncle Sam’s Navy. At any rate, now that the squadron’s back we’ve got to look into it. You will join the first available ship as my representative, go to this Chetaibi place, and ascertain the situation. Then, without angering whoever is the national authority in that area, or the ship’s captain either, you will solve it. It’s called showing the flag, Lieutenant. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Very well.”
“Good. Now, what is the next ship due to arrive here?”
Wake didn’t know. Hadn’t a clue since no one had briefed him what ships were where. He stood there trying to conjure up an answer.
“You don’t know?” asked Case. “At your reporting-in briefing no one informed you?”
Wake knew he was stepping on dangerous ground. There had been no briefing since no one had cared enough to fill Wake in on the squadron’s business, but to let Case know that would be fatal to establishing a rapport with the staff.
“Sir, I reported aboard late yesterday and was just about to be briefed. I can find out immediately, sir, if I can have a moment.”
“Hmm. Go ahead and find out from the staff yeoman. Those petty officers know everything anyway.”
Wake was back in seconds with the answer, one that pleased him greatly, since his best friend in the navy was aboard.
“Sir, it’s the Alaska! She departed Cadiz three days ago and will be here tomorrow. I can be aboard and under way the moment she arrives, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Wake. Get orders cut for Alaska to proceed to wherever the hell I said to go to. After that mission is completed she will return here for further assignment. Make it so.” Case returned to scrutinizing the purser’s report in his hand, then looked up.
“Oh, and one more thing, Lieutenant Wake.”
“Sir?”
“Kindly take that ridiculous grin off your face before exiting my cabin. I realize you are overjoyed at the prospect of escaping the confines of the flagship, but I do have a certain reputation to uphold. Can’t have junior officers grinning like monkeys when they’re seen walking out of here, can I?”
“No, sir,” replied Wake, face flushing red again, this time from embarrassment.
“Very well. You are dismissed now, Lieutenant Wake. Good luck.”
Wake managed to get out “Aye, aye, sir” before he fled the cabin. Once in the passageway and beyond the sight of the Marine sentry, he glanced overhead and whispered, “Thank you.”
He was free at last. Free of the rancid surgeon, the dungeon of a ship, the sick social mess of Genoa, and of Europe with all its pretensions. And it would be wonderful to sail with Sean Rork again.
27
Fishing for Apostates
Alaska was new, clean, strong. She was surging ahead at ten knots to the south along the western coast of Corsica, a northeasterly filling her canvas on the perfect point of sailing. Along the decks the warrant officers and their men were toiling in their sections—the carpenters in the waist caulking the launches, sailmakers on the
