The “black gang” petty officers—coalers, boilermen, enginemen and mechanics—bought their pleasures at the Steam Room, located just outside the gate of the naval repair yard. The customers of this shop were always obvious from their greasy, coal-covered appearance, the dirt imbedded in them from their daily work on the newfangled steam engines. Despised by the sailing ship sailors, who were normally fastidious in their habits about keeping a ship clean, the black gang looked down on all others as fools who were at the mercy of the men who kept the modern-powered ships functioning.
Sometimes these various groups, whose gathering places were spaced relatively far apart, would collide in intentional or accidental conflict. At those moments the provost guard would not even attempt to intervene until the companies of Fort Taylor could be roused and the force of a battalion could be applied to subjugate and reoccupy the area in turmoil. Only rarely did it happen, but when it did, the results could be far reaching.
It was two hours past sunset when Wake wandered along the lane toward the officers’ tavern. Monthly pay had been distributed that morning to the squadron and the rum was flowing freely in Key West. The sounds of laughter from men and women were heard all along the waterfront and town. Thoughts of the gaiety around him turned Wake’s mind to his own life, which had become devoid of that luxury. As he walked on, images of the time when he had known love, in this very town, filled his reflection with images of Linda and the stolen hours they had had together, laughing and crying, making love, but most of all he missed having someone to live for.
Now he had none of that. Linda had rejected him out of the stress of their impossible situation—she was a Southerner in an occupied town, and he one of the Yankee occupiers. And the war was far from over, judging from the newspaper reports coming in from the main battlefields of Tennessee and Virginia. This lack of feminine love, combined with the obvious hostility of his new squadron commander presaging a dismal professional future, made a mockery of the sounds greeting Wake along his path. By the time he reached the Rum and Randy he was in a decidedly foul mood, which the crowded and noisy parlor did nothing to dispel.
“A double shot of your best rum,” he said to the burly older man, known as Old Tom, who stood behind the plank bar.
“Aye, then Cuban Toro it is, sir. That’ll be ten and five o’ them coppers in your pocket, sir.”
Though it was twice the going rate of seven cents a shot, it also might be less destructive of his head the next morning. He had a month of pay money in a large wad in his pocket, which showed when he dug out the coins for the barkeep.
“Old Tom, slide the bottle over. I feel like letting my tired mind go on liberty too. No need to be sober till the morrow. I’ll pay now for that bottle.”
“Aye, Cap. The bottle’s yours now. It’ll be a good friend.”
In the dim far corner a man started playing a fiddle, a plaintive tune that Wake didn’t recognize at first but then realized was “Lorena.” A sadder song hadn’t been heard in this sad war. Wake sat on a barstool and listened as the fiddler was now supported by an officer who sang the lyrics. Half the room was listening, and the other was talking even louder over the music. On his second swig of the bottle with the gaily colored label proclaiming in Spanish it was the rum with the strength of a bull, a dark-haired girl came over and stood next to him.
Leaning over into his face she slyly whispered. “Cap’n Wake, ain’t it? Remember me, Annie? Never seen ya take the whole bottle afore. Celebratin’ something I can tell. Can I help ya celebrate there, Cap’n? I’m real good at celebratin’, Cap’n.”
Annie rubbed a thin torso against Wake’s arm as her hair brushed his face. She was somewhere around thirty years but had seen a rough life and looked older. Her body may have been impressive at one time, but it now appeared sickly and slumped in a faded gingham dress that did nothing to assist her femininity. Her eyes held a shrewdness manifested in a continual evaluation of the worth and vulnerability of the man in front of her. Their blank gaze was surrounded by wrinkles set into her face by sadness—they were turned down at her eyes and mouth. Annie’s voice was low and hoarse with a bit of a middle Atlantic state accent to it, projecting a sour odor that penetrated even the heavy perfume she emanated. That she was the best of the Rum and Randy’s girls was not a large statement but did show a relative merit. And she did know men, and what to do and when to do it.
He had seen her many times but never spoken more than “hello” and “no thank you” to her. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, her presence was reassuring now, and he didn’t want her to leave him. In fact, he was almost desperate that she should stay next to him and share the evening in the tavern. He was tired of being alone, in command and here ashore on liberty.
“Annie, I’m not celebrating anything but that freedom a man has when he’s got nothing but money and no one to spend it on. Can I spend it on you? I’ve got to spend it on somebody, and nobody else wants
