“Shut the hell up, Hammersley, and listen to me. These Floridians are much tougher than your soft city boys, especially in this country. These boys down here kill things to live. This is all their land, and they know it well and will defend it viciously. Only a fool would think there’ll be no opposition here. I am tired of fools. There will be opposition. Strong opposition. There may very well be far more than militia here too.”
Wake walked to within two feet of Hammersley’s face. “So get back there and tell Major Martin that if he wants to make this invasion of his work, he had better put his baggage down and get his courage up. Move forward toward the enemy, and that means come right here. Now! Not three days from now when we are surrounded by five times our number while he’s having a full dress parade of the regiment. Now. Today! Do you understand that message, Lieutenant Hammersley?”
Terror replaced hauteur on Hammersley’s face. He suddenly looked much younger. He stammered out a reply. “Ah, yes, sir. Come now. There are enemy around the area.”
Wake returned to the crude map spread on the table. “Good, now go and find the petty officer who will escort you back. I want some army blue coats coming up that road in two hours at the most. I just hope it isn’t too late.”
Hammersley mumbled a reply, saluted, and turned on his heel, fleeing the room.
Wake sat down again at the table and stared at the sketch map he had drawn. The anger had drained him, but he had to think this through. Overpowering sounds of the storm filled the dim room. The sweet smell of rain-laden air mixed with the caustic odor of lightning and the foul stench of the nearby swamps. Outside he could hear petty officers and sailors yelling to each other above the din. McDougall plodded back inside the hut, stamping the mud off his brogans and advising that he had formed the escort detail to go the beach, before he collapsed with fatigue in the other chair. Wake was too tired to reply.
The crack of another lightning strike smashed through the air. Men were shouting something outside. Wake was temporarily dazed as one more lightning bolt detonated close to them. The rain must have turned into hail now for he could hear a constant shower of it hitting the building—thudding hard into the thin walls, some of it coming through the cracks. Then he heard men screaming—screaming in pain. Wake went to the window with McDougall to see if lightning had struck some of his sailors.
Both men stood staring, mute with shock, at the scene outside. Wake felt sick.
The attack had come. The Confederates had timed their assault on the crossroads to coincide with the overwhelming noise of the storm’s onslaught. In the seconds since the attack started two Rebel field pieces had blasted open several of the thatch huts and their infantry was now charging into the hamlet. Hilderbrandt and Hammersley and the escort detail were just leaving the village for the beach, but ran back into the buildings when the first volleys swept through the air. Hammersley stumbled back into the trader’s hut, tripping over the threshold. He finally stood against the wall and clung to a log post. Wide-eyed, he screamed at Wake.
“Oh dear God, they’re attacking us! They’re attacking now!”
McDougall glanced at Wake and shook his head as he dashed out of the hut to his defensive position on the perimeter, yelling at the army lieutenant as he shouldered Hammersley out of the way. “Aye, ye’ve got the grand honor o’ seein’ that elephant now, young Lieutenant. Hell, you’ll probably be close enough to smell the bastard’s breath!”
Hammersley stood motionless, sword askew, full dress uniform soaked and disheveled, looking around for someone to give him guidance, to give an order. Wake rushed out also and left him there. There was no time for instructions on what to do.
As McDougall ran to a dwelling on the Collmerton road approach, Wake ran to the other side of the perimeter to get an idea of how big an attack it was. He got only to the northerly coastal road approach when he saw that it was a large-scale attack—by regulars in tan and gray uniforms, with regimental and battle flags. The enemy musket fire was coming in massive volleys, unlike Wake’s previous experience with Rebel militia. The artillery was evidently firing grapeshot from somewhere in the trees on the north side, the blasts cutting through the dwellings and barns as well as the open areas. Wounded sailors, some with gaping laceration wounds from the artillery, stumbled back to the center of the crossroads as others, led by Bosun Meade, withdrew slowly as they fired at the enemy. Meade rushed up to Wake and shouted to be heard over the rain, wind, and shooting.
“Sweet Jesus, Lieutenant, but they got us! Blasted us with grape when the lightning an’ thunder was striking. Then they charged. Before we knew it they was in among us.”
Wake tried to think rapidly. The sheer pandemonium of noise and motion around him made simple concentration difficult. The noise would not stop. His fights with the Florida irregular companies in the last year were nothing like this. These Confederate regulars were overwhelming in their ferocity and discipline. The sailors would have to hold here to give everyone else time to withdraw. Otherwise it would be a massacre.
Wake gestured at a dwelling nearby. “Can you hold at this second or third house?”
“We can try, sir.”
“Good man. Try to hold here while I check the rest of the perimeter.”
Meade turned and rallied the rest of the Bonsall sailors, calling them to stop and shoot from behind the dwellings next to him. Of the fifteen original sailors in his detail, only ten answered his call. Wake ran the hundred fifty feet to the western side of the defenses where Hilderbrandt was
