Above his head he heard the thumping of feet on the deck as the sailors went to their stations to weigh anchor and haul away on the halliards. Petty officers’ voices rose to give the orders that all hands knew by heart. Next came the thundering of heavy canvas as it rose on its clattering parrels up the masts, and the clanking of the windless as the anchor rode came in over the bow. It was a familiar and systematic cacophony that Wake had heard so many times in his life. But now, as he read the second sentence of his father’s typically brief letter, it faded away until there was only a beating sound in his ears from the blood pounding through his head.
His brother James was dead. Shot by a Rebel sharpshooter from a tree along a river in South Carolina. His father didn’t even know the name of the place where it had happened, just that his son had been shot as they steamed up a river unaware that any danger was close by. James had been standing on the open deck speaking with the monitor’s captain when the shot hit him in the chest and he fell dead. Wake’s father reported that the captain had sent a letter saying that James Wake had died instantly and without any pain.
Peter Wake knew better than that. He had seen men writhe in horrible pain from chest wounds as they drowned in their own blood and begged for help. Only an improbable shot directly through the heart would kill quickly, and even then it would take several seconds. Wake hated knowing these things. He wished he could have been ignorant of how men died of wounds. The war had taken that away. He now knew too much about that subject.
Wake’s chin quivered as he sat down at the chart table and said a prayer aloud for his brother James and his parents. The Wake family had gone to church for the celebrations of the major feasts over the years. They were religious but not pious. Their faith was not a pillar of their lives, but rather a backdrop. The brothers had occasionally spoken together on the subject and mainly reflected the attitude of their father—that it was the proper thing to be a Christian and show allegiance but it need not dominate the everyday actions of a man.
The ship heeled over suddenly and Wake realized they were under way, broad reaching south with a westerly sea breeze. His hands were shaking as they clutched the letter. He felt nauseous as the cabin seemed to close in around him, but his logical mind knew it wasn’t seasickness. Taking the letter with him, he made his way through the cabin and climbed up to the deck, devoid of any sea legs and wondering if it was due to the time ashore or the shock of his father’s message. Lurching on deck, he swayed aft to where Rork stood near the helmsman. At the stern rail he motioned for the bosun to come over to him.
Rork could see something was very wrong and strode quickly to the rail as Wake stared out to the endless horizon to windward, wishing he could appreciate the sight before him. It was a sailor’s kind of day, with a good sailing breeze coming up, a few puffy clouds building over the coast, the schooner dashing along on her best point of sailing, and a course ahead free of dangers. The men on deck were performing their tasks with the confidence of sailors who knew their work, and were glad to be at sea again.
As Wake wordlessly handed Rork the letter, he thought of old times with his brothers, times at sea and other times at home when they were all much younger. Of how James was the one who was quieter than the others, sometimes enduring teasing about it, and how he had a talent for drawing seascapes and landscapes. As Rork read the letter beside him, Wake thought of how James had always sailed in New England’s cold gray waters and never seen the beauty of the tropical seas.
When he finished reading it, Rork dropped the letter to his side and looked at his captain, but Wake didn’t notice. He was thinking of how much James would have loved to be sailing with them at that moment. That quietest of the Wake brothers would have truly appreciated the wonder of it all.
***
The humidity was oppressive as Wake jumped out of the schooner’s boat and waded onto the crushed shell beach at Useppa Island. Old Hervey Newton was there to meet him and could tell that the naval officer had heard the news.
Wake was terse as he stood in front of the elderly man. “Where is she, Mr. Newton?”
Newton replied in a fatherly tone. “Son, she’s at the last home up there on the hill. She’s past the danger time and she’s recovering now. She’ll be fine in a while.”
Wake didn’t wait to hear the last of Newton’s explanation—he was already running up the path to the top of the hill. The terror inside his heart and the heat in the air around him soaked his shirt with sweat until beads of perspiration flung off him in sheets as he ran by two startled women coming down the path. Yards before he had made the home at the top he called out in a voice choked with emotion.
“Linda! I’m here! I’m here, darling.”
A young dark-skinned woman wearing a simple faded frock came out of the palm-thatched home and stood silently as Wake rushed past her and through the doorway. He stopped, adjusting his eyes from the searing glare of the sun outside to the black gloom of the interior.
“Linda? Are you here, dear?”
The voice seemed to come from far away. “Oh, Peter!”
A figure leaned forward in the crude cot in the corner. With his eyesight adjusted to the dim room, Wake could see her
