“Deary, that sounds like a cause for celebratin’ to me! The night is jus’ startin’ and we’ve got to spend that money in the proper’est way. Let’s start out with some o’ Old Tom’s pork sausage to go with the rum. An’ I’ll need a glass, deary, ’cause a lady don’t drink none outta the bottle now, do she?”
The bottle lasted only another fifteen minutes or so, by Wake’s slow-minded calculations, and he knew at that point that his money would be completely gone by sunrise and there was nothing he could do about it now. He let Old Tom and Annie take over his evening and see that he financed what was turning into a major celebration in the tavern. When asked by a lieutenant commander what the occasion was, Wake replied that it was the occasion of his glorious victory over the Wendy and the possible engagement to his new sweetheart, Annie. Even as he said it, he knew it sounded stupid, but he didn’t care. The rum had lifted the restrictions of what was proper and what was stupid. The lieutenant commander just smiled and walked away to a table of other officers from the Itasca, a steam gunboat just arrived at Key West that day for a port call on their way from New York to the Mobile squadron under the famous Farragut. Wake wondered what they thought of the East Gulf Blockading Squadron and its admiral.
The third bottle lasted even less time than the previous ones, and the band of musicians had grown with the addition of a guitar and a banjo. Soon, lively tunes played by the band were subsidized by a laughing Wake and his growing entourage, which now included Annie’s friend Liza and a lieutenant named Carter from the harbor ordnance ship. As the evening went on, the frivolity of the tavern was increasing with the amount of money spent. The noise prevented Wake from hearing the comment made by the ensign at the Itasca table at first. But when Carter repeated the words and pointed at the steam gunboat ensign, Wake slowly registered them. Carter, a drunken twenty-one year-old who had not seen much of life or war, felt the need to repeat the comment once again, this time louder so that everyone in the tavern could hear.
“That man there says we don’t fight in this squadron, we only play transport for the army when they get bored and need a yachting excursion.”
Carter’s attempt to sound offended was mitigated by his inability to stand and glare at the culprit, and the issue would have been dropped then and there if the lieutenant commander from the Itasca had not pressed the matter with his own pronouncement to his shipmates.
“Not true, Sidington, not true at all. It seems that the navy at Key West does face an enemy occasionally. I heard today at the squadron offices that some of our gallant sailors actually shot some of their soldier brethren that were trying to take French leave from Jefferson. Heard that it took twenty shots at twenty feet—but they bagged their man! I wonder what they’d do if they ever faced an enemy who shot back?”
Wake stood up from the barstool and faced the officer sitting ten feet away. The lieutenant commander felt Wake’s presence and turned around, standing as Wake spoke. “Commander, that remark is a slur against the officers of this squadron, many of whom are in this room tonight. If it was a miscommunication, sir, then say it and we’ll take it as an apology and drink on.”
“Me, apologize to the likes of you? Go back and suckle on your dolly, boy. Or is she your mamma?”
It amazed Wake how fast the noise level dropped away. Silence was dominating the space between the two men as Wake sized up the man he knew that he now had to fight. The other officer was perhaps five years Wake’s senior and had around twenty pounds of weight advantage, but Wake felt that the other’s arrogance would lead to his demise in personal combat. The itch of his scar started up and his hand went to scratch the side of his head, an action that implied to others an uncertainty.
Carter said, “Damnation,” and Old Tom was coming around the bar with a belaying pin. Annie began tugging on Wake’s arm as disdain showed on the lieutenant commander’s face. Her voice raised an octave as she tried to salvage her pay for the evening.
“Come on ol’ Peter Wake. He’s not to spoil our time. Not him, not anybody. Forget the bastard and let’s have another tip o’ the bottle.”
“I haven’t heard the commander’s apology yet, my dear. Upon a suitable one, we’ll all drink on my money to the glory of the squadron.”
The movement was fast. Wake barely saw the initial twitch as the lieutenant commander grasped and slung the chair his hand was resting on. Wake’s duck was too late to avoid the chair entirely and his shoulder caught part of the impact. It was followed by the lieutenant commander’s shoe into Wake’s face as he rose from his crouch. The instant pain cleared Wake’s head of any rum-sodden fog and he roared out in anger.
“God damn you, sir! Now I’ll show you how it is we fight!”
The belaying pin in Old Tom’s hands was close by and Wake’s eyes fastened onto it for a moment. Suddenly, and without conscious effort, his own hands snatched it as Old Tom was about to crack the Itasca officer over the head. The weight in his hands felt good as he shifted it between them. He used enough judgment not to use it overhand but instead to stab forward for the middle of the lieutenant commander’s chest as the man lurched toward him. That blow stunned the larger man and Wake delivered his next to his target’s mouth.
“Suckle this, you piece of pompous ass. And mind your mouth about the men of this squadron, sir!” This was
