A chorus of “aye’s” replied. The men spread out so that each was only barely visible to the next, such was the extent of the forest around them. They slashed and staggered and cursed their way in a ragged line south. Wake knew the line was not straight but hoped he could cover around five hundred feet of frontage with his small group.
The shadows were growing longer and Wake’s worries were escalating when they heard voices to their front. Curses and laughs coming at them indicated it was not the enemy but their own shipmates slogging toward them. Soon the distinctive sound of Rork could be heard above the rest.
“By the power of God above, I will cut your throat me ownself if you don’t stop that caterwauling Goldston! Bloody fool. I’ve seen whores in church better behaved than you.”
Wake couldn’t repress a smile at the sound of his friend. Looking over at the next man in his line he saw a similar reaction as Goldston replied.
“Damnation, Bosun. I jes’ never seen anything like this place. Even the damned plants in here are trying to kill me, what with ’em tripping my feet and cutting my arms and all. And these flying critters are in my hair, Bosun. They’re drivin’ me mad. We need to go back to the ship.”
Wake called out to the other group. It was time to gather and go back to the beach. At least they had the sloop.
“Rork, can you hear me?”
“Aye, sir. Ye’re right in front of me. Yes, I can see you now, Captain.”
“Gather the men together and head back to the beach, Rork.”
Several comments from throughout the forest relayed enthusiastic support of that idea, and the men started to gather in from the western ends of the two lines as Rork and Wake met under a giant gumbo limbo tree. Rork, normally unflappable and humorous, was covered with sweat and greenish-brown stains from the swampy undergrowth. A serious sound in his voice alerted Wake.
“Captain, they could be right next to us in this mess and we’d never see the devils. We’re a fish out of the water, sure as hell, sir.”
“Yes, I know. Night is coming and we’d better get back and secure the prize. Leave the Rebs to their own reward in this place. Let’s go.”
The sound was definite but muffled by the trees. Rork responded first.
“Sweet Jesus, Captain. That’s a gunshot from the beach. They’re attacking the boat crew!”
More shots came through the jungle. The sailors were yelling and running toward the beach, hoping their loud approach would scare off the attackers of their comrades on the beach. Hurtling over vines and bushes, wildly swinging their cutlasses, the disheveled men held their muskets high in the air as they sometimes ran, sometimes fell forward, toward the beach. Wake was running and yelling like the rest, all semblance of commanding manner lost as all of them scrambled their way back to the eastern shoreline of the island. Wake’s mind played images of what he would find at the sloop as he struggled to keep calm enough to determine what he would do when he got there.
They suddenly emerged from the darkness onto the beach. To their right, fifty yards south along the sand, was the beached sloop and ship’s boat. Two men in blue were lying doubled over by the water’s edge, a third kneeling and using a musket as a crutch as he tied a bandage around his thigh. Two others were kneeling with muskets pointed at the woods to their front, with four other bodies sprawled in unnatural poses at the line of the jungle behind the sand. Two shotguns and a pistol were visible close by them. One of the enemy bodies moved an arm slowly, not the jerking movements of a man in pain but the lethargic motion of one who is beyond pain and near death. Then it stopped moving, its arm still outstretched and looking for all the world like it was beckoning others to follow him into death.
Yelling that two more of the Rebels had gone into the woods that way, the two sailors pointing muskets let off their shots in the direction of the Confederates’ flight. Rork immediately told his party to follow him and plunged into the bush in pursuit. Wake told four of his party to stand picket guard at the tree line and the rest to tend to the wounded. Coxswain White was one of those, Wake saw as he arrived panting at the sloop. White was clutching his left side tightly, his arm trembling uncontrollably.
“White, what happened? Can you speak?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m damned sorry they got us, Captain. Came outta the woods while Mason an’ I were below in the sloop looking for any Reb papers for ya. Berger was pushing off the ship’s boat. They musta’ crept quiet-like up to Jackson and Scarbond who were out on picket. Scarbond’s gut shot, Captain. Jackson took one in the leg but kept on firing. I think Mason and Berger are unhurt.
“Them Rebs didn’t run off that far from the boat, Captain. Jus’ laid down and let us run past ’em. Then they jumped us. Never thought they’d have guns, most o’ them runners don’t. Figured they’d give up easy when we ran ’em down. Thank God for McDougall and his men on the ol’ Saint, Captain. Cut loose and knocked down a couple of ’em with musket shots. Damned sorry on all this, Captain.”
“What about you, White? How is your wound?”
“Caught one that went in my side and out my back, sir. Here ’tis.”
White rolled over to show Wake the wound, which showed a ragged small
