“Bayonets and cutlasses, men. Forward at a trot and follow me!”
The column broke into a run behind their lieutenant, accouterments jangling and making a racket worth far more than twelve men. Wake turned while trotting and spoke to Rork.
“I want Young up here in front with me, Rork.”
The bosun eagerly responded with a hard slap to the back of the English merchant captain, who found himself in a very dangerous situation. Rork was laughing as he cajoled his charge.
“With pleasure, sir! Mind the captain, your lordship, and double quick now!”
Another fifty feet found them around a bend in the pathway and facing a crowd of fifteen armed men of varying ages dressed in an assortment of filthy rags. The villagers raised their shotguns and pistols as Wake stopped three feet from the man he picked out as the leader. Wake pointed his cutlass to the large man’s chest. The sailors spread out to either side of their lieutenant and leveled pistols and muskets at the ragtag group in front of them. Rork pushed Young up to stand next to Wake. Two lanterns held by what appeared to be boys provided enough light for both groups to see the other.
“I am Lieutenant Peter Wake of the United States Navy. Put down those arms immediately and stand easy.”
Rork, standing to the rear of his commander, quietly gave the order to the sailors to cock their weapons. The sound of the clicking punctuated the scene and several of the local men laid their firearms on the ground. Others, including the big man in front of Wake, stood fast, holding their guns. Wake was correct in picking him out as the leader, for the man spoke next.
“Jes’ who the hell are you, mister high and mighty, ta come on in here in the middle o’ the night an’ steal our boats an’ cotton an’ such! We ain’t part o’ your country no more, an’ we doan’ wanna have none o’ y’all down here. Just get back in yer boats an’ go off back on up north an’ leave us be. Jes’ leave us be!”
Wake stared at the man, who was a head taller, forty pounds heavier, and twenty years older. The man pointed his shotgun at Wake’s abdomen. No one else in the group spoke. The man started up again, this time in a louder voice, the muzzle of the shotgun waving around as his emotions got stronger.
“I said git outta here! Take yer Yankee ways an’ go home. This is our land an’ our homes, an’ I’ll die afore you steal my work!”
Wake stared into the man’s eyes in the loom of the lantern light. The man was not threatening so much as pleading. The war had come to this little place in the middle of the backcountry, and this man was going to lose all that he had spent a lifetime building. Behind his right arm, Wake could feel Rork moving slightly. He felt the hard barrel of a pistol sliding along his side, now under his armpit. Events were deteriorating quickly and the planned rescue of refugees was unraveling. One more try at diplomacy was worth it.
“No one has to die. No one has to be hurt. We are here to see if any of you want to come to the safety of the Federal areas of Florida. We are not here to hurt you or take your small fishing punts. You know my name. What is yours?”
“Y’all a pack o’ lying Yankee dogs, an’ we shoot dogs that doan’ mind down here. Y’all er here ta take our cotton an’ turp an’ the ships that carry ’em. Those are our lives now. Ain’t nothin’ else left, ’cept fishing ta eat.
“We heard all that about the Union places in Florida. Been hearin’ that for two years now, an’ saw my own kin uncle go down the coast ta y’all. But it’s all lies an’ we know it. None o’ them folks ever come back.”
The man’s facial muscles flexed and his eyes grew larger. Like a snake about to strike, the shotgun muzzle swung up toward Wake’s face. Tears were coming out of the man’s eyes even as he grimaced, as if he were trying to steel himself against the flood of emotional pain. Seconds were taking hours. Wake became aware that he was about to be shot and that many would die in the reaction of the sailors, but he had no idea of what to do other than keep talking.
An older man in the back of the group, one who had already put his own shotgun down, calmly spoke.
“John Newton, I think we can think an’ speak for our own selves here. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ta stop these Yankees an’ we all know it. Only thing we can do is maybe ta not have a person hurt doin’ somethin’ that won’t mean nothin’ in the long run o’ things. If’n ya shoot this man, a lot them and us’re gonna get shot too. Your uncle Hervey’d be mighty disappointed at you if he heard o’ all this carryin’ on. Maybe this here Yankee man is right after all, an’ it’s time to go where ya don’ have ta worry ’bout such things as this. Ol’ Hervey did it more ’n a year ago, an’ I’m a thinkin’ now he was right.”
Several other older men grumbled agreement and the sound of metal thudding onto the sand path was noted with relief by the sailors. But the distraught man holding the shotgun on the lieutenant stood his ground, even as some of those in his group turned and walked away. His eyes were locked onto Wake’s. Something in the words just said was bothering Wake. Then he made the connection.
“You are John Newton and your uncle is Hervey Newton?”
“Never you mind who my uncle is or ain’t.”
“I know your uncle and was with him a few days ago. He and many others are doing very well
