That was the most important fact—no order to arrest. Wake permitted himself a slight smile.
“Are we ready to sail?”
Rork’s grin showed that his mind was one with his captain’s.
“Aye, sir. I got her watered from the lighter this morn early, an’ we got food and supplies yesterday to last a couple weeks. Wind is piping up to the east this morn, an’ I can get her underway in two shakes o’ a bishop’s hat!”
“Well then, Rork, that bishop’s hat is shaking now. Let’s get her out of this harbor right away! We’ve got orders to carry out. And the sooner the better!”
They emerged on deck a moment later and the crew was called to stations for weighing anchor and making sail. The sun was already two hours into the sky as they hauled with enthusiasm on the rode and the halyards, the sailors walking away with the lines faster than Wake had ever seen them before. A general air of light-hearted fun showed from the crew as they participated in the escape of the most famous man in the squadron, their very own captain.
The east wind provided a perfect beam to quarter reach, the best point of sail for the St. James, as they glided out of the harbor in the smooth water behind the reefs and up the Northwest Channel. All hands were watching aft to see if some vessel would come charging along with orders to stop and return, but none came. Still, the crew peered at the southern horizon, until the town and fortress of Key West receded into the distance, looking like a child’s toy model of a town.
Nervous as he was, Wake also felt a thrill and pride as they sailed away from the harbor. His pride in his men was never higher. They were willingly forfeiting their liberty, one certainly due them after the dangers and deprivations of the chase to Mexico. Their eagerness to help their captain was heartwarming to him. Even old McDougall was smiling at him from the foremast, where he was cleaning firing strikers.
But it was more than that. His interception by Linda had turned his attitude and outlook around completely. Her words and her eyes and her embrace had filled him with a hope that his future could have meaning. Not even the dire consequences of the previous night’s riot—for even he was thinking of it as that now—could diminish his elation.
Wake stood by the main shrouds and breathed in the full-bodied salty air of the Gulf of Mexico. He stretched his limbs and sat on the gunwale, relaxing for the first time in what seemed to be ages. Even the pain from the wounds on his head and shoulder were fading away as he thought of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He had gone from arriving hero of the Wendy chase, to undisciplined subordinate to the admiral, to drunken fighter with a visiting superior officer, to tender lover of Annie the whore at the officers’ pub. And now this morning he had Linda back, albeit at a distance, and was some sort of roguish champion to the sailors of the squadron. It was all too much, too fast, and as relaxed as he felt, there was a gnawing question within him of what the future would bring.
His next interview with Admiral Bluefield would no doubt make the last one look like a Sunday picnic. And prior to the next meeting with Bluefield, he had to fulfill his apparently routine assignment on the Florida west coast, a place where he had known many tough times in this war. The threatening potential of his mission and his future invaded his soul and displaced the euphoria of his temporary fame and good fortune.
Wake returned to his cabin to begin the navigation plot of his course to the coast, over a hundred miles away. He was at sea again, in command of a ship of war, and there was no room for whimsy. In the dim light of the cabin he struggled to stay awake long enough to complete his initial course entries, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had taken over his body. An hour later Rork found Wake slumped across the chart table and did not disturb him. He knew the captain of the St. James might well need that rest in the days to come.
5
The Jungle Coast
Sanibel Island appeared low on the horizon, sinister in the moonlight, like the hump of a great black monster rising out of the sea in response to this interloper who dared to intrude upon the desolate coast of Florida. Wake had spent quite a lot of time here in the last year, but he had never become used to how he felt when he arrived here after the bustle of Key West. It wasn’t just the beauty of the land and sea, the sparseness of habitation, nor even the incredible danger from disease, shoals, and Rebel bullets. Perhaps it was the mystery left behind by the ancient empire of the Calusa that had once governed this coast.
The broad reach was producing a quick passage, and Wake estimated his arrival at Boca Grande to be sometime just before the coming noon. His watch on deck would end just after sunrise, and then he could plunge into the mundane duties he hated: review the provisions list, update the pay list, inspect the stowage of the storeroom, inspect the magazine, check the cash account safe, and write up the monthly report. He sorely wished he had a paymaster or even just a yeoman aboard to help with the clerical duties, but a small schooner with a complement of only twenty-five did not rate either. He remembered that the captains of his family’s schooners in New England also had to do their own paperwork, but there was so much less in the merchant service than the naval service. He frequently
