“Aye, sir. ’Twill be a glorious story to be told, an’ the lasses will be spellbound as they pour the rum down me throat to facilitate the telling. About time that rogue Rork had a spectator’s part an’ let a veteran such as meself have some o’ the fun.”
Wake grinned at the image of the storytelling of this adventure at the Anchor Inn.
“Get some sleep, gunner. Your story may get very exciting, indeed, very soon.”
“Aye aye, sir. Shut-eye it is for this old sailor.”
They waited the afternoon. No messenger came from the camp or Robbins’ detail. No movement stirred the landscape around them. The huts were mostly of thatch, with a few that were partially wood—coarse-sawn logs without finished boards. The air inside them grew hotter, forcing the men inside to strip to their waists. Everything about the place and the atmosphere debilitated the sailors, and Wake occasionally went from building to building to make sure they were alert. The far-off rumbling of thunder did nothing to alleviate the feeling.
As the sun’s descent started to make shadows lengthen, Wake worried about the lack of an acknowledgment communication from the rear, or even the return of the original messengers, and sent two more men with a message to Major Martin, advising him again of their dispositions and inquiring about the time of arrival of the 195th Infantry. His worry transcended concern and was evolving into a fear that they had been cut off from the beach camp.
His unease was aggravated by the storm building to the south of them. It was growing into a gigantic mountain of energy rolling outward in all directions. The top of the storm was rapidly ascending in a column through the sky until it appeared to be hovering over all of Florida. The color of the clouds grew darker as one looked lower, until the squall lines at the bottom were a swirling blue-black over the dark gray of the waterfalls of rain that poured out of the clouds. The closest edge of the storm looked about five miles distant, which meant around half or three quarters of an hour away to Wake’s practiced eye. He thought of Rork and the St. James anchored offshore but was not unduly concerned. Rork could handle it. He knew Robbins and his men would be miserable patrolling the road and swamp and the men at the beach camp would have to continue to unload the boats and improve the breastworks in the storm. That the crude structures of Claresville would at least provide some protection from the elements gave Wake a reason to smile. It was the first good thing he had to think about since they had left the schooner in what seemed an eternity ago but actually was only ten hours.
The thunder reminded Wake of the naval gunfire he had heard during this war. The continuous background of far-off reverberations was interrupted more frequently by sharp explosions of lightning and thunder cracking nearby. The storm’s impending onslaught was now robbing the air of any movement at all, the barometric pressure suddenly lowering to a degree that was apparent to the ears.
The time just before a storm struck was that time when men would stand mesmerized on a ship’s deck, staring at nature’s violence coming to them on a scale they could not comprehend or adequately describe to those who had never seen it. The sailors in this little town reacted the same way, gazing out their rudimentary windows and thinking that they should do something to get ready, but on land they had nothing to do but wait.
Wake was eyeing the nearest squall line a mile away when he heard a sailor yelling for him. McDougall woke up at the sound and stood next to Wake as a young seaman rushed in the door of the trader’s hut, breathlessly trying to tell his information.
“Sir! That army lieutenant is here. They ain’t coming!”
Wake and McDougall glanced at each other. McDougall spoke first. “Sailor, compose yourself man, an’ give a proper report to the captain.”
“Sorry, Gunner. Sorry, Captain. I ran all the way here from the west side of the village. Quartermaster Hilderbrandt sent me as fast as I could go, sir. That army lieutenant should be here any second now, but Hilderbrandt knew you’d want to know as fast as you could. Sorry for being shortwinded, sir.”
At that point the doorway was filled by the trim young lieutenant of the 195th New York Infantry. He immediately spoke to the men staring at him. “Lieutenant Wake, I must apologize, for I believe we were never properly introduced before. Let me rectify that oversight now. I am Lieutenant Stansfield Hammersley, staff lieutenant to the adjutant to Colonel Wherley, the commanding officer of the 195th New York Volunteer Light Infantry Regiment.”
Wake was stunned. The man was in an incongruously clean and pressed full dress uniform. He must have changed into it at the camp when the regimental staff baggage came ashore. He had the manner of a gallant young officer at a society ball, not a professional soldier deep in enemy territory who might be attacked at any minute. Wake didn’t understand how the man could be so clean and neat after walking four miles through the swamp road. Wake did not say a word, but waited for the man to continue speaking since Hammersley had obviously paused for theatrical effect.
“Yes, . . . well, . . . I am here to assess the situation and report back to Major Martin. He is most curious. Are there many volunteers rallying to the national colors? Have you found anything of military value here?”
Wake
