Rork, smiling his big grin, leaned out from the main shrouds of the Wendy and waved at Wake. Smiling and waving in return, Wake wondered how Rork had felt in those gut-wrenching moments with the French guns ready to blast into them several days ago. Rork never showed fear and Wake was envious of that strength within him, remembering how his own bowels had cramped into knots at that terrifying moment. He wondered if his fear had shown to the crew around him.
“Course, sir? We’re at the anchorage.”
Carter’s voice brought him back to the present and the tricky job of anchoring two ships in the crowded area off the naval docks.
“Yes, well, Carter, steer for that steamer over there and we’ll anchor astern of her. Luff her up when we get abeam of Tift’s building.”
“Aye aye, sir. Luff when abeam o’ Tift’s building ashore.”
Faber, standing with the anchor detail on the foredeck, called aft to his captain.
“Ready with the anchor, sir. Ready with the jibs an’ fores’l.”
Wake nodded his acknowledgment and replied. “Very good, Faber. When we pass the steamer and the Tift building ashore, we’ll luff up and drop the hook.”
As Wake gestured to Rork to follow their lead, his eye caught the flash of a glass reflected in the sunlight coming from the squadron’s headquarters building. Turning to examine the spot where the flash glared, Wake saw a man in the second-story window with a telescope to his face. It was aimed at the St. James. Faber called again from the bow, while stepping over one of the prisoners laying on the deck.
“Abeam now, sir.”
Carter brought the helm over and the schooner swung to windward. The ship started losing steerageway as she glided forward, all her sails flapping a protest at being deprived of the wind. As she edged closer toward the steamer just two hundred yards off their bow, the time came for the anchor to be cast.
“Let go the anchor!”
At the captain’s order the men on the foredeck cast off the lashing holding the anchor to the gunwale and a splash was heard. Soon the schooner was drifting sternways as the crew paid out the rode through the hawsehole on the starboard bow.
Behind them the Wendy was doing the same evolution and falling back on her own hook. Wake couldn’t help a smile when he thought of the unknown official in the window watching a naval schooner and her prize coming in from sea and providing such a professional show as that just done. The man in the window was probably the admiral or the chief of his staff—Wake couldn’t tell at this distance, but that window was the admiral’s. Whoever it was was probably envious of the commander of such a lovely vessel that had the freedom to go to sea and do what the navy was there to do. Wake thought it must be hell to sit in there and watch others bring in captured enemy ships.
“Holding firm, sir!” came from the foredeck as Faber watched the men belaying the rode on the sampson posts. The lazy coils of the rode were thrown down on the prisoners who were still shackled by the fore pinrail. Wake called to the men at the foremast.
“Douse the jibs and foresail.”
Immediately the sails slid down the forestays and the forward mast. Wake turned to the men at the mainmast.
“Lower the peak and halliard. Douse the mainsail, men.”
The quiet beauty of the two ships tacking in unison up the channel was now replaced by the swearing and grunting of both crews as they fought to control the heavy canvas along the booms and bowsprits. Furling the sails under the eyes of the squadron called for special care, and the men of the schooner and her prize made a proper harbor stow of the sails, with which no admiral could find fault. Twenty minutes later, when all was completed, Faber came aft. He glanced ashore at the admiral’s offices. The flash of the glass was gone from the window.
“Said an’ done, Captain. They’re all a jealous o’ the ol’ St. James today! Shall I have the gig swung out for you?”
“Yes, Faber. And send a message to Bosun Rork. My compliments on a fine display of seamanship, and I’d be pleased if he would ready himself to accompany me to report to the admiral in half of an hour.”
Faber’s eyes crinkled into a slight smile but his voice betrayed no emotion as he replied and turned away, continuing to oversee the many chores that needed to be done every time a ship came to anchor.
Wake surveyed the harbor and thought about his upcoming meeting with the admiral. The capture of the Wendy, and her neatly packed instruments of death, was a significant victory in this squadron. But the method of that capture would be open to debate at the least, and possibly censure or even worse discipline. Once again Wake went through everything in his mind, and once again he decided that he had made the correct decisions at the times he had made them.
He touched the scar on the side of his face as he leaned against the railing and looked at his prize floating docilely in the harbor. He thought of all it had taken to get her and knew it was worth it. And very shortly he would find out if the man with the glass in that window would agree.
3
Home Port
“Sir, Lieutenant Wake and Bosun Rork, of the naval schooner St. James, reporting upon arrival at the port.” After making the announcement, the senior yeoman turned on his heel and left the room, securing the door with a thud behind him.
Wake and Rork, dressed in the best uniforms they had, which
