The coastal terrain of Florida changed as Wake sailed north. No longer did he see the mangrove jungle crowd close down to the water’s edge. From Tampa Bay northward the topography showed more height and fewer tropical features. The coconut palms of the Sanibel Island area were gone, and more marsh was visible. As they sailed northwest with Egmont Key receding behind them, Wake remembered hearing about the ship captures made by the squadron along the next hundred miles of coastline. Clearwater, Bayport, Cedar Keys, Suwannee River—they were all places the squadron had encountered the Confederates afloat and ashore. With any luck, St. James might pick up another small blockade runner that thought she’d slipped past the regular patrol vessels. That would make for some more pleasant prize money arithmetic for MacDougall.
The storm cloud behind them looked like a volcano erupting, the main head was climbing so fast. An angry dark gray line was hardening on the eastern horizon below the giant anvil of cloud. Jagged lines of bright white javelined out from the squall lines below the monster as if they were thrown at potential prey in its path. Wake had never seen thunderstorms like this in New England. The Florida summer storms were like miniature hurricanes and could often reach that force of wind. Every summer day sailors had to plan around the building and onslaught of the storms. The morning land breeze was followed by a noonday calm, which was followed by several hours of sea breeze, like that in which they were now sailing. Each day the weather was the same, little wind then a full gale. The lightning was something Wake had never gotten accustomed to in Florida. It made the summer storms even more deadly and added an almost intentional evilness to them.
The squall line on their side of the storm was just about to Egmont and gaining speed. Soon the wind would shift. Wake could see the wall of rain in the distance underneath the line of clouds rolling toward him. Above the rain, clouds the color of blue-gray gunmetal were swirling and tumbling horizontally in an intimidating show of power. Wake knew this was going to be a bad one.
“Rork, get her sail reduced now. That storm looks to be particularly unpleasant. Down to the jib, if you please, and we’ll run to the northwest out to sea with it.”
Rork, standing by the starboard foreshrouds, grinned aft and nodded toward the thing heading for them.
“Aye, sir. ’Tis them Rebs ashore that cooked that one up!”
By the time the wind shifted, the main and fore sails were lowered and St. James was wallowing in her slackened speed. Rork took the tiller himself and all hands braced themselves as first the rain came and then the blast of the wind. The wind blew the waves down at first with tremendous gusts that came one after another, getting stronger with each successive attack. The schooner had little canvas showing but she heeled over until her leeward beam was awash. Hanging onto a windward shroud as the other side of the deck dropped, Wake looked aft and saw that two other men were helping Rork fight the tiller around to prevent the schooner from broaching.
The attack of wind increased to a constant roar, accompanied by the shriek of the rigging and the crackling sounds of wooden spars and decks reacting to the sudden strains thrust upon them. The jib flogged a staccato percussion to the cacophony, which sounded as if gunshots were going off. Then the storm’s heavy artillery struck. Lightning rent the atmosphere very close by, the ripping sound so clear above everything else that Wake almost expected to see God Himself gashing the cloud apart in an effort to fling a bolt of electricity into the schooner. It was a profoundly personal conflict between the storm and each man aboard. The fact that it happened almost every summer day made it no less terrifying, for all hands knew that any vessel could succumb to such an onslaught if not handled properly, and sometimes even then. Yelling could not overcome the wall of sound that had descended upon them, but no orders had to be given, for most of the men had been through this kind of maelstrom and knew what to do.
Visibility decreased until the helmsmen could barely see the bow. They steered by feel, for the binnacle compass was spinning with the skewing of the ship in the building seas. By aligning the schooner with the wind-driven seas they steered her out to the northwest, away from the dangers of the land behind them. Sea room was safety.
Wake had heard stories that the Rebels would wait until these summer storms appeared and then sail out of their harbors into them, knowing that the naval vessels on blockade would be preoccupied with self-preservation and blown off station. The runners would then slip through and make their way to Cuba or the Bahamas. Good luck to them, he thought. If they were desperate enough to enter these storms intentionally, then the strangulation of the blockade must be working.
It seemed like longer, it always did, but after an hour and a half of surging along out to sea under jib alone, the lower sky cleared enough for Wake to see his immediate surroundings. No ships were in sight. The soundings of the lead and their dead reckoning indicated they were about ten miles to the west of Egmont. Wake ordered the ship turned northward on a broad
