The older of the two, Admiral Bluefield, spoke first. The coat of his uniform was draped over the back of his desk chair and his shirt showed no insignia, but his imperious demeanor was warning enough of his rank and position. Bluefield’s mouth turned into a sneer and his words came out in a slow monotone as his eyes held Wake’s in an intimidating gaze.
“You’re late, Mr. Wake. The supply cutter came in from Jefferson two days ago and said you had left there early last week. No one has seen you.”
The room became silent and Wake could feel his face turn crimson and heated. He opened his mouth for a reply but stopped. Bluefield was not through yet.
“I saw that you came in today with a prize. That is always good, but it does not excuse your leaving your assigned area without permission. Mr. Wake, you may have impressed my predecessor but you do not impress me, sir. I’ll have no rogue ship captains going off for plunder and personal gain while the business of the squadron is left undone. And I’ll be damned if a pup of a schooner skipper will desert his area without a very good explanation!”
This time the silence after the statement was long enough that Wake realized he should make some sort of answer. He tore his gaze away from the admiral and glanced at the other man by the chart table, Captain Morris, the chief of the squadron’s staff. He had replaced the previous chief of staff, Johnson, who had served the prior squadron commander and then Bluefield. Rumor had it that Johnson had besieged Washington with requests to transfer away from Bluefield, finally being rewarded with command of a division of monitor gunboats at Charleston a month earlier. Morris, tall and thin, almost gaunt, had a noncommittal look that showed Wake was on his own. Rork cleared his throat. Wake tried to sound respectful and confident.
“Yes, sir. I understand that quite well, sir. There was good reason, sir. I’ll explain the circumstances of the capture and my absence, sir.”
The admiral glanced at his second-in-command as he sat down with his hand still on the chart. Morris followed suit.
“Morris, this will only take a moment. Then we’ll get back to that plan.”
Bluefield bored in with his cold gray eyes on Wake again and his voice took on a lower tone.
“Wake, get on with it. And quickly, man. We’re busy here with important matters.”
Wake found himself comparing Bluefield with the predecessor in this room, Admiral Barkley, who had died of fevers and consumption several months earlier. His death came just a week before his transfer north for medical recuperation would have been effected. Wake truly missed Barkley, a respected commander who had been somewhat of a father figure to him. The old veteran sailor had grown to trust the young man with responsibilities usually given to more senior officers. It was Barkley who had seen to it that Wake had been commissioned up from a sailing master of a small sloop gunboat to a lieutenant. It was Barkley who had given Wake command of the St. James.
Both admirals were in their sixties, somewhat overweight and graying. Both had done at least forty-five years in the navy. But there the similarities between the two flag officers stopped. Where Barkley was self-confident but polite, Bluefield was arrogant and usually mean-spirited. It was not so much what the man said, but how he said it and the look in his eyes when he conveyed the words. It was as if he hated his assignment and the men under him. Wake had seen little of the new admiral but did not like what he had observed.
Bluefield, it was rumored over drinks among the junior officers at the Rum and Randy Tavern, had been refused a more active command in this war because of his demeanor during the war with Mexico twenty years before. The story was told by a lieutenant commander who claimed to have heard it from an old gunner on the Octorara. It seemed that Bluefield, then a lieutenant himself, had refused to go up a river by ship’s boat to reconnoiter a Mexican fortified position without an army patrol along the river bank in support. This had the effect of angering his captain and embarrassing the commodore of the squadron on that coast in front of his army counterparts. Bluefield, it was further said, only made admiral recently because of the death of senior men above him. This command was given as some sort of favor to a politician who was a friend of Bluefield. To Wake’s knowledge, the admiral had not commanded a ship in almost fifteen years and had been stationed at naval yards since then.
“I said get on with it, man. Are you deaf as well as incompetent?”
“Sir, I was just forming my thoughts.”
Again Rork cleared his throat, this time also nudging Wake slightly with his boot. Both were still at attention.
“Sir, it is true that we left Fortress Jefferson a week ago bound for this port. It should have been a two-day passage, but we spied a strange vessel just east of the Tortugas and fell in to inspect her. However, she refused to submit and instead sailed off to the south, toward Cuba. We chased her,
