“A day to remember, Captain. A hard day, sir.”
“Aye, that it is, Rork. And I’ll see Scarbond in my mind’s eye for many a year. That’s a sight I could do without.”
“’Tis the nature of the work, Captain. By the by, sir. I meant no disrespect to the lady Indian. I said nothing that I know of that would infer that, Captain.”
“I know that Rork, and so does Mr. Newton now. It’s just that much has happened in these islands and among these people. They are more than a bit protective here, even of one who is not originally of their own, like that Indian woman. I like that in a people and respect them for it. This is an odd place, but the more I’m here, the more I like it. If only this damned war would stop so that men wouldn’t have to get shot over six bales of cotton and some turpentine. What a waste for all of us.”
Rork had seen Wake in this mood after battles over the last year, when the bloody consequences of his decisions would haunt him. Rork was a man of the world far beyond this civil conflict in America. His understanding of people and war came from a wider perspective.
“Aye, sir. But that devil McDougall has already figured the adjudication price of the sloop in admiralty court and totaled it at five hundred dollars, maybe more. The fo’c’sle’s not angry about what happened today or philosophizing upon it at all. It’s a war, like any other, an’ they’re all bad. But ye’ve gotta get what ye can, when ye can, Captain.”
Wake looked up at Rork, knowing that a story was coming, and finding a smile in his heart for the man next to him. Rork went on undaunted.
“ I knew a wench in New York who taught me that, she did. Took no money from me, sir, not a single coin. But she taught me more than most o’ the sailors’ girls about how to look at life and the bad times. More than any other lass in any other place in the world this ol’ son o’ Eire has washed up at. ‘Bad times are the spaces between the good times,’ she taught me, Captain Wake. ‘Sometimes they’re long spaces an’ sometimes they’re little wee ones. Ye’ve jus’ got to weather ’em for a bit, an’ then things’ll be looking up.’”
Wake shook his head and laughed out loud, startling the watch on deck.
“Rork, you should have been a priest.”
The bosun joined him laughing.
“Oh, Captain, me dear mother would want to hear ye say that sentiment, sir! That she most certainly would. ’Twas her most heartfelt desire for her second son Sean to be a man o’ the cloth. Did all she could to make it true, but failed in the end, sir. Pleasures o’ the flesh held too much sway o’er this lad, to be made into saintly stuff. Still, she’s smilin’ down upon us both from heaven above, Captain, for what you say in humor was a serious quest for her.”
“Well, you do sound like a priest at times, Rork. But you’d disappoint the saints if you were, for you surely don’t act like one!”
Rork was clutching his side in mirth at that image. He spoke while trying to catch his breath between chuckles.
“The saints up there are alaughin’ with us down here at the idea o’ Sean David Rork, o’ County Wexford in the Isle o’ Eire, being a priestly man!”
Laughter subsided and strength started to leave Wake’s mind and body. He made his way slowly forward and down the ladder to his cabin below. As Wake descended, McDougall, the petty officer of the watch, called for the lookouts to pay mind to the jungle island that lay close by in case there were any other Rebs ashore that wanted to shoot a schooner sailor. The comment had its intended effect upon the alertness of the watch, but it brought Wake’s mind back to the deathly seriousness of his position and the image of young Scarbond screaming in pain. As exhausted as he was, it took a long time for Lieutenant Wake to finally fall asleep.
6
Random Opportunities
The storm was apparently pursuing them. Typical of the summer weather, monstrous thunderheads were building rapidly over Tampa Bay, expanding outward in all directions. It would not be long before the St. James would have to deal with the effects, if not the full brunt, of the storm. Out along the coast, the daily sea breeze was piping up. Wake was tacking his ship out the northernmost entrance channel of the bay, having just left the supply depot at Egmont Key. He estimated that they should have some sea room before the storm could reach them.
The St. James was bound north to the Cedar Keys station to unload some supplies for the naval vessels in the area and take on mail and prisoners or passengers for Key West. Cedar Key was the end of their run, and a place Wake had only sailed to once, the year before when he had been stationed on the lower west coast. When he was done there they would sail back to Boca Grande and check on the progress of their wounded, who he hoped had benefited from the attentions of the surgeon aboard the Gem of the Sea as well as the kind women of Useppa. Perhaps they had even been transported to the Key West hospital aboard another ship bound there, but Wake doubted that was the case. Few ships put in at Boca Grande, most were in transit and didn’t stop there unless ordered. Wake himself was desperately anxious to return to Key West. The prize sloop should be there by now—it had been a week
