Faber saw him there finally and told the men to shut up, the captain was on deck, whereupon they all looked at Wake for some comment about this unwelcome event. Wake did not know what to say. He shared their worry, their fear. But there was nothing they could do. They still had to go about their tasks until told otherwise.
“Well men, that’s just another reason I still like sails on my ships. Go on now. Off watch, go below and get some rest if you can. We’ll have plenty enough to do in just a short while, so don’t worry about what you can’t change.”
Silently the off-watch men went forward and down the hatchway to the berthing deck. The duty men dispersed to their stations. No one said a word in reply or support of Wake’s speech, but there was resignation to the inevitable in their deliberate movements.
After they had gone, Faber glanced past Wake’s shoulder and nodded. “Mornin’, Bosun. The ferryboat got her stack aflamin’ for a while there. Nice little bonfire for the Johnny Rebs to see.”
Rork stepped up beside Wake and nodded his acknowledgment without saying a word, signaling Faber with his eyes to go forward.
When they were alone Wake spoke in a low tone to his bosun. “It was pretty bright, Rork. Anyone on or near that shoreline would’ve been able to see it probably. Not a good omen for those who believe in signs. Damn. Well, we should be about five miles offshore right about now. The lead confirms that.”
Rork set his jaw and looked over at the Fort Brooklyn, whose stack was now under control and no longer belching sparks.
“We’ll do what we have to, Captain. We’ll make it through all this somehow.”
Wake decided to lighten the mood. “Rork, you’re right, of course we will. How can we not, my friend, with the luck of the Irish with us?”
“Aye, Captain. The luck o’ Irish has stood me in good stead many a time. Did I ever tell o’ the time in Wexford, with a wee bitty lass who had the temper o’ a tigress? Crazier than Finnegan’s cat, she was, an’ that’s no lie.”
Wake held up his hand for Rork to stop. The ships ahead were slowing. They must be getting near the anchoring point for the gunboats. It seemed too early by Wake’s timepiece—they must still be too far offshore, but Commander West had determined that here was where the gunboats and the ferryboat would stop. The tug would tow the schooners, two at a time, further in toward shore to the place where they would anchor. Then the final leg would come when the tug would tow the boats full of sailors ashore.
The gunboats Bonsall and Nygaard stopped and were anchoring abeam the shoreline with springs on their hawsers, the better to cover the landing with gunfire if needed. The Fort Brooklyn anchored to seaward of the gunboats to stay out of their line of fire. There was some confusion, with the men’s whispers between ships becoming louder with frustration until they were shouts, as several of the schooners cast off their towlines to the other steamers and were taken by the tug two miles further east into the very shallow water. While all of this was going on with the schooners, the steamers were also lowering their boats and readying their portions of the landing party to make for the beach. It was chaos to Wake’s orderly mind and he hoped it would soon resolve itself into an organized effort, but he doubted it.
The time taken to move the five schooners seemed interminable to Wake as he waited for the David to take St. James and the Fox forward. The wind at least was cooperating, a slight breeze coming out of the east off the land retarding the ability of anyone on shore to hear the commotion out in the Gulf.
Finally the tug came alongside and took St. James under tow, with the Fox towing astern of them. The tow lasted about a mile until they arrived where the other schooners were anchored and already disembarking their sailors into the boats.
Wake looked at his watch as they anchored St. James, noticing that it was now six o’clock in the morning. The eastern sky was changing from dark gray to light gray. A check of the horizon showed no sign of land and he started to wonder exactly how far offshore they had anchored the fleet. Had there been some giant miscalculation of position? The water depth was ten feet, which indicated that they should be around two miles west of the river entrance, but where was the shoreline? At two miles they should be able to see it.
Rork walked up to him with a puzzled mien. “Where would the mainland be, sir? I can’t see it an’ we’re behind the schedule now.”
“I don’t know, Rork. We may be farther off than they think.” Wake sighed but tried to keep a positive face. “Means a longer tow for the tug, Rork, but at least we’re not having to row.”
Rork was not amused and not positive. His tone was borderline sarcastic, a rare manner for him. “Aye, Captain, towing not rowing.”
The sky was actually light now, with clouds visible to the east and a glow starting to be seen over the water. Details of waves coming toward them with the easterly wind could be seen easily and a smoke plume was in sight somewhere beyond the horizon where Florida lay waiting. But Wake could still see no land.
“Send your sharpest-eyed man aloft to the masthead and report, Rork.”
Rork acknowledged the order, sending a youngster to the top of the mainmast with a stern warning not to drop the telescope he was given, the precious instrument
