Four short minutes later—Wake was timing each tack and course for his dead reckoning plot on the chart—the lead schooner tacked again, now heading northeast again on the starboard tack. This time the maneuver was quieter, and each schooner behind followed through silently. The leadsman now whispered that they had a fathom and half: three feet under the keel.
Wake could feel every muscle in his body tensing and the blood pounding through the veins in his head. For the tenth time that hour, Wake thought about the fact that all of this was his idea. But for that glimmer of inspiration on the deck of a blockade-runner two days earlier, he and his crew would be sailing south by now on a course for Boca Grande and eventually Key West. The ownership of the plan did nothing to mitigate his uneasiness.
The leadsman’s muffled shout brought him out of his interior thoughts.
“By the mark, one. One fathom . . .”
Wake looked ahead quickly and saw that the Random, which drew as much water as St. James, was still sailing well. They must be plowing over a silt bottom. Sailors around him were staring at their captain until MacDougall roused them to return to their duties. According to James Williams, who knew the tides on this coast, they should have another four hours of flood tide, which would translate to two more feet. The leadsman announced his results again.
“One and a half fathom. Deep two.”
Another swing of the lead followed as all hands strained to hear the words.
“Deep two. By the mark, two fathom.”
They were past the outer reef. Sighs could be heard from everyone. Young had brought them this far, and without any markers that Wake could see. Possibly Young was going to be true to his word. Wake had no doubt that Rork was doing his best to see to it.
A movement among the men forward, and some sort of communication coming aft along the deck, told Wake that something had been sighted. MacDougall leaned close and passed it along.
“Captain, shoreline seen dead ahead ’bout a mile or less.”
Peering through the gloom Wake could see a darker form on the edge of his visibility. Now the form was spreading to the left and right ahead of him. He heard the clatter of sails from ahead and saw the mainsail coming down on Random. They must get theirs down too and reduce speed or risk collision.
“We’re very close, MacDougall. Bring the mainsail down.”
Three men loosed the halliards and eased the gaff and sail down as quietly as they could, putting an easy furl on it and returning to their positions along the deck. Without turning around, Wake could hear Williams doing the same. The three ships were now only fifty yards apart from each other, with little room to maneuver should one ahead take the ground.
The leadsman spoke again.
“One fathom. Hard mud.”
The keel was now bumping the bottom as the St. James slowed down. Random was still moving though, and Wake nodded to continue to follow when MacDougall glanced at him with a questioning look.
“Deep two. Silt bottom again.”
They were over the inner bar now. A little over twelve feet of water. The river mouth should be close ahead. Around them Wake could see the dark land closing in toward them, with the water reflecting the few stars starting to penetrate the haze. To the port he saw marsh grasses. There were almost no beaches on this coast. Even the smell was different, more earthy and sweet.
The current was providing most of the motive power since the land breeze was diminished by the trees they could make out ahead. The man on the helm said the steering was getting sluggish. Then they stopped just as the leadsman called out urgently in his low voice.
“One fathom! One fathom now.”
Glancing ahead, Wake registered that the Random was stopped too, at a different heading than St. James. Studying the situation, he stared forward to the shoreline but soon saw a look of alarm on the faces of his men who were looking aft past him. Wake turned around as the Annie smashed into the port quarter of the St. James. The blow came on the hull just aft of Annie’s bow on the starboard side, sparing her bowsprit, but splitting the bulwarks of both vessels with a rendering crash.
MacDougall instantly told everyone to stay quiet and get spars to push off the other schooner’s bow. He addressed Wake in his gravelly tone.
“Captain, I can get her off with the dinghy and kedge, if’n you want to take the lads ashore an’ get those bastards. Let’s not make all this for nothing. The river mouth is right over there. Captain Williams and I can handle the schooners, sir.”
“Very well, MacDougall. Put the landing party in the boats. We’ll row to the docks. Should be a quarter mile at most.”
MacDougall loudly whispered his encouragement.
“Good luck, sir. An’ bring back a fair load. I could use a bit a money in my pocket for my pleasures!”
The three ships’ boats gathered at the stern of the Annie, where Williams approved the modification of the planned approach to the docks. On the schooners, efforts quickened to free them from the mud and wait for the returning crews. Spars to push off and kedge anchors to pull off were hauled out and by the skeleton details remaining aboard. All knew that there was but a short time to accomplish the mission. If they were still there at low tide, the ships would be a stationary target for Confederate field artillery at point-blank range. And the field artillery could arrive at any moment.
The boats had their oars muffled with rags to diminish the sound of their approach. Even though he knew it was not possible, it seemed to Wake that they could be heard for a mile. The creak of the oar, the whispered curse of a sailor, the
