“Deck there! The lugger to windward has sent up an ensign, sir! Don’t know it. Red, white and blue stripes. Big stripes, sir.”
Wake looked to windward and saw the big lugger, now a half mile away, sailing fast with battle ensign streaming and two deck guns manned and ready. She slid downwind ahead of St. James and rounded up close to the other schooner, which was now being boarded by Rork and his party. As the lugger, as big as St. James, came up into the wind, Wake saw the ensign fluttering out astern of the mainsail.
It was the tricolor of the French Navy. . . .
The sailors around Wake grew hushed again, as their captain gripped the pinrail by the mainmast and stared at the French deck guns aimed directly at him. A commotion on the prize vessel caught his attention and he shifted his gaze over to Rork’s boarding party.
He could see that they were rounding up the crew and herding them forward. Rork and another man, Jackson it looked like, were yelling something to the water on the far side of the schooner, out of Wake’s sight. Jackson was raising his musket and aiming at something in the water, stopped from firing apparently by Rork’s uplifted hand. Faber called Wake’s attention back to the Frenchman off their bow.
“Sir, what’ll we do about her? Looks like they’re sayin’ somethin’, but I don’t parley the French lingo.”
Faber was correct, the officers on the afterdeck of the lugger were excitedly yelling something toward the St. James, but Wake couldn’t understand French either. Now the officers were pointing at something in the water, in the same direction that Rork and Jackson were. Some action was taking place on the far side of the enemy ship, where the French and the boarding party could see it, but Wake could not. He was on the point of swearing aloud in frustration when Mason, up on the foredeck, yelled out.
“Escapin in’ a boat, sir. Look at ’em! There’s a couple of ’em getting’ away! Wan’ us ta shoot ’em, sir? I think we could get ’em from here!”
Suddenly, a small boat was seen emerging from behind the captured vessel, the three men in it rowing madly in the direction of the French ship. Wake didn’t need command of the French language to know that the Frenchmen were cheering on the escapees and taunting the Americans.
“Should we fire, sir?” asked Mason again. Wake wasn’t sure what to do at this point, but decided against using the guns.
“No! Wait for now!”
Wake strode aft to the binnacle box and got his telescoping glass. Focusing on the fleeing boat, he examined the men in it. None of them appeared armed. One was black-skinned and another was white with flaming red hair and beard. The older one, on the after pair of oars, was the closest to the St. James and the easiest to see. They were getting very close to the French ship, and Wake knew they were safe under the French Navy’s protection. As the boat came alongside the lugger, the red-haired man stood up and made an obscene gesture toward the Americans, throwing the French crew into a pandemonium of wild shrieking and yelling. Wake could see the French officers laughing. The man in the stern of the boat, dressed better than the other two, immediately pulled the red-haired one down in a disapproving manner. That older man looked familiar to Wake, but as he was trying to place him in his mind Faber tugged his arm.
“Sir, I said Rork is trying to yell over to us, sir. Oh, here comes our boat.”
The St. James’ s boat was returning with only three men in her. Rork, still on the British schooner, was trying to yell something and was pointing to the boat alongside the French lugger. With all the noise from the Frenchmen, Wake could not make out what Rork was saying. Faber brought Wake’s attention back to the lugger.
“Sir, looks like they’re leavin’.”
The French vessel, her jibs starting to fill as she swung around, was hoisting the small boat aboard. Wake could see the older man from the escape boat standing on the lugger’s afterdeck with her officers, all of them looking right at Wake. Rork’s bellowing was continuing from the prize vessel, but Wake could only catch part of it. He could tell Rork was upset and was pointing to the departing lugger.
“ . . . onders! . . . onders!”
And then it came to him. He couldn’t believe it. Rork was yelling ‘Saunders’. Instantly he turned his glass on the lugger and focused on the men at the stern, still standing together laughing. He saw him and recognized him now: John Saunders, one of the most notorious blockade runners in Florida, Cuba, and the Bahamas.
Saunders had first come to Wake’s attention in ’63 off the coast of Sanibel Island on the west coast of Florida. He had deceived Wake then and made a close escape through a false story. Wake had last seen him in Havana the year before and had instigated the Spanish authorities to capture Saunders and destroy his shipping organization in Cuba. However, somehow Saunders had escaped the Havana dungeon and gotten out of Cuba, for Wake had later heard of him in the Abaco Islands of the Bahamas. That had been six months ago, and no later intelligence of his whereabouts was known. Until now.
From the demeanor of Saunders it was clear that he recognized Wake also. By his enthusiastic reception, it was also clear that Saunders was known to the French on this coast. Suddenly several events of the last few days became clear. The Spanish had recognized Saunders’ vessel too, but without the warmth of the French. Perhaps he had replaced his Havana depot with one in Mexico, guarded over by the French Navy. Who knew what they had stumbled
