Rork’s normal enthusiasm had been unusually subdued in the days since the St. James had left the Timucuahatchee River, silence replacing the humor that he used so effectively to get the crew to accomplish their tasks. He was affected deeply by the suffering and loss of his friend McDougall to yellow fever, and by the melancholy of his other friend, Wake. The bosun was still effective in his position, but the spark had gone. It was one more thing for Wake to worry about as they lay at anchor waiting day after day.
It was Rork who came down into the cabin of his commander with the welcome word that the harbor guard cutter had just sailed by, saying that the quarantine would be lifted at noon that day. Wake looked up from the ink-smudged papers spread on his desk and saw that the news had not cheered the bosun, who was turning to leave.
“Wait, Bosun. I want to ask you something.”
Rork nodded and stood quietly looking at his captain.
“Sit down, Rork. Let’s talk about how the men are doing.”
Rork sat at the chair by the chart table, the concern showing on his face. “Is something wrong with the work o’ the men, Captain?”
“Yes, Bosun, there is. One of the petty officers seems to not be himself lately. Brooding, silent—that sort of thing. Not a good sign for a leader of men who’ve got to do the job we’re assigned. The work is getting done, but it’s only a matter of time until something bad happens with that man. I’m worried.”
Rork leaned back in the chair and shook his head. “Captain, I don’t know which petty officer you’re speakin’ about, sir. Please tell me which one ain’t trimmed up proper, an’ I’ll have him squared away in a admiral’s minute.”
Wake leaned forward and looked into his friend’s eyes. “It’s the senior bosun’s mate aboard St. James, Rork. He’s wounded in the heart by the death of his friend, but he needs to mend and come back the way he was. The men of this ship need him, and I need him.”
Rork nodded and looked down at the chart on the table, his hand tracing the outline of the coast as he spoke in a quiet voice. “I suppose I have been a bit tired lately. I do miss that ol’ paddy codger, for some crazy reason. It was grand to have another son o’ Eire aboard, ya’ know, Captain. Another lad who understood the soul of me home country, so to speak, sir.”
Wake sighed as he slowly rolled an ink pen across his desk. “He was a good man and a good gunner.”
Rork’s tone became hard edged as he nodded again, the hand now clenched into a fist. “A damnable bloody shame, Captain. A shame a man like that had to go the way he did, like some sort o’ sick dog, outta his mind and spewin’ his guts out. After all the things he’d come through in life. Things you don’t know about, sir. Damnable shame.”
Wake understood exactly. “I know, Rork. No way for a navy man to go. Better to die quick from the enemy while standing on your own deck.”
“Bloody well right, Captain.”
Wake breathed deep and raised his voice slightly. “McDougall was the kind of man who didn’t give up or run when times got rough. He’d want us, you and me, to get back to leading this crew through whatever may come our way, and he’d want us to do it with some spirit, Rork. Time for both of us to get past the sadness.”
Rork unclenched his hand and let out a sigh of his own, returning Wake’s gaze. “Aye, sir. You’re right as rain on that. You’ve had a gale o’ problems on your heart too, I know. Don’t you worry, your good lady’ll be fine on that island with those gentle folks. Better’n here at Key West, with all the hate that’s about.”
“Yes, she’s been spared. Rork, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Linda. I hated leaving, but as you said, they are taking good care of her at Useppa, and that’s a comfort.”
Rork stood up and spoke with positive inflection for the first time in many days. “By your leave, sir. I’ve got to go on deck and attend to things. You know how the lads look forward to a bit o’ a romp at Key West. In addition to teachin’ the mates some little things on small boat navigatin’, I’ve got some work for the others an’ best get it done now while we’re at sea, an’ they’re still able to!”
“Very well, Bosun. Get her ready for sailing.”
Wake stood and the two men shook hands. “Aye aye, sir. An’ much obliged for the good words, sir. You’re right, o’ course. That ol’ gunner wouldn’t want to have us failin’ the lads, would he?”
“No Rork, he wouldn’t want us to waste time feeling sad. He’d want us to get on with it and get this war done and over, at least our part of it. And I suspect he’d want a pint hoisted for him at Key West.”
Both men looked at each other and smiled somberly, then went back about their particular business of the moment. For Wake it was writing a letter to his father about James’ death, while Rork returned to teaching the junior bosun’s mates coastal dead reckoning navigation.
Noon that day was greeted with relief by the men of the St. James and the eleven other vessels, both steam and sail, that were anchored off the port. As anticipated, a signal gun was fired at noon and the large faded yellow flag came down the signal mast of the naval wharf on the northwest corner of the island. Another gun was
