As they got closer, Wake cast his sailor’s eye over his new command. She appeared to be set up well in the rigging—a sloop rig, relatively high freeboard, wide beam and shallow draft of a coaster used to the Southern sandbars and inlets. She was obviously a centerboarder—still, he wondered how she would point into the wind. He could see now the twelve-pounder howitzer set up on her deck just abaft the mast and hoped that they had strengthened her deck beams for it. At forty-five feet long, she was the smallest ship in the squadron. But she was his.
The dinghy was approaching the starboard side of the sloop, and Wake could see what appeared to be the bosun standing at the stern giving orders to some seamen forward. The boy startled Wake by giving the traditional shout for a naval captain coming to his own ship, “Rosalie!”
Suddenly they were alongside and the boy tossed his oars in a sailorlike fashion, impressing his new commander. Wake immediately went up the side at the chains as the boy struggled to hold the dinghy and get the gear lifted up.
“Welcome to Rosalie, sir. I’m Hardin, the bosun.”
Wake turned to look at the eyes that were boring into him and saw a muscular man about fifteen years older than himself. The man had the air of a hunter who was examining his freshly trapped catch. The New York accent and the obviously broken nose did nothing to diminish the image. Wake knew immediately that Hardin was the type of man who disdained kindness as weakness and judged men only from their ability to steer, reef, row, drink, and fight. He had known many such men in his life on the sea.
“Very well, Hardin, see that my baggage is put below. Muster the crew for the reading of my orders.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Hardin replied in the carefully neutral voice of the veteran sailor to an unknown officer.
When the tiny crew of eight had mustered into line before him, Wake read aloud his orders from the admiral commanding the East Gulf Blockading Squadron, Cantwell Barkley, directing him to assume command of the United States naval vessel Rosalie, take care of her condition and that of her men, and proceed to the southwest coast of the peninsula of Florida to blockade and take action against the Rebel enemy in that area, in concert with the bark U.S.S. Gem of the Sea, to which the Rosalie was now attached. The crew stood in mute apathy as he completed his duty of reading the orders. He stared at the men for a moment, wondering how they had come to this place and time. The bumping of the dinghy alongside reminded him of the ebb tide and the need to get through the required procedures.
“Hardin, I will now inspect the crew.”
“Aye, sir.”
In the freshening breeze the line of men swayed easily. Wake looked at each in the eye and tried to gauge his ability to accomplish what was expected of him. He could detect no sign of surliness, drunkenness, or stupidity in the line of men. It appeared that all, except the boy, had served for a while in the fleet. They certainly had the look of seamen. That was a blessing. With the fleet expanding so rapidly, many ships were forced to go undermanned, with a large percentage of their crew being untrained landsmen. Wake thought it very strange that he should have so many veteran seamen, until he thought of what might be the reason for this windfall: an opportunity for the captains of the ships anchored around him to get rid of their less than desirables? Time would tell. . . .
Next came the inspection of the vessel herself, with Hardin beside him. Wake assumed Hardin’s intent demeanor was due to his responsibility for the condition of the sloop as well as wondering how much his new captain would know to ask about and look at. Rosalie appeared in good shape, with the rigging, spars, sails, and deck gear in proper condition.
The twelve-pounder was a bit large for the vessel, and Wake wondered how her weight would affect the sloop when she heeled. He knew she had been built in 1858, recently captured from the Rebels off Charleston, and brought here to be taken into the navy. During the last three weeks Hardin had been given the duty of arming and provisioning her—and waiting for his new captain, who had been waiting himself at the squadron office for two weeks for orders to a ship. Either Rosalie was already well found or Hardin had done a good job of refitting her. Time would tell on that issue also. . . .
Below decks the inspection worked aft from the forepeak, through the magazine and the crews’ berthing, until he and Hardin came to his own cabin, a crude and miserable affair set against the transom that might measure ten feet abeam by five feet forward along the deck. The deck was five feet overhead. A scuttle hatch above provided the only daylight, and a small and rather shoddy door led forward into the crews’ berthing space. Wake’s sea bag and other gear competed with a rough-hewn bunk and tiny chart table to fill the space so that he could hardly move about. Well, not the great cabin of the captain on a regular man-of-war, but I’ve been in worse, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, Wake caught Hardin staring at him.
“Well, this will do fine, Hardin. Heave her up short and prepare to get under way immediately. I will be up on deck directly.”
After Hardin’s departure Wake unpacked his sea bag and stowed some of his possessions as neatly as he could. He would leave the rest of his belongings packed for now. His immediate duty was to get Rosalie under way and moving out of the channel with what ebb tide remained. He took a deep breath, and a last look around at his place of refuge and privacy on this small warship, and climbed the ladder up and out of the scuttle hatch.
The sun was making itself felt when Wake returned to the deck and noted that the ship was ready to get under way. It didn’t take long on a vessel of this size. Hardin reported to him that the anchor was hove short, the mainsail was ready for hoisting, and the ship was ready for sea. Wake looked out across the harbor and, seeing no vessels close enough to warrant danger, quietly told Hardin to haul the mainsail up. After the ponderous sail was lifted, thundering in protest along the mast, the gaff peak was hauled taut and belayed. Six of the crew then took hold of the anchor rode and walked away with it aft, their bodies straining against the line as the anchor slowly ascended off the bottom of the harbor. As her head swung off to the west, Hardin took the large tiller himself and steered her out of the harbor. He called out to the men on the mast to set the jib, and the men at the waist hauled in the sheets. Wake, standing at the windward rail to the right of Hardin, noted that all of this was accomplished quietly and with no confusion or loud oaths. Indeed, the crew had not uttered any words during the entire process. As they now coiled and stowed the various lines they had just hauled, Wake noticed them casting occasional glances at him.
Rosalie, her main and foresail up and drawing well, was surging along the edge of the Frankfort Bank bound out of the harbor through the Northwest Channel. On several of the nearby ships men stopped and looked out at her, and Wake felt a bit of sympathy for the sailors who were cooped up in this harbor on some of these ships like the Dale and the Magnolia. What his vessel lacked in power, image, and comfort, she made up for in freedom. She was heading out to do the job they were all there for, to go to war and end the Rebellion as soon as possible, not sit in harbor and waste away. Wake took in a deep draught of fresh sea air and reveled for a moment, in the way of so many captains before him, in the obvious envy of those watching from the other ships, who were condemned to sit and rot at the hook in this harbor.
As he watched the houses of Key West getting smaller and more indistinct, he thought of Linda. She was probably having breakfast right now. He could picture her in his mind, sitting at the table conversing with her mother and father about the day’s news in the Key West newspaper, the pro-Union New Era. Her father would be raging about the “Yankee lies” about victories won in Virginia and Tennessee, and her mother would be cautioning her father against getting too upset about the war when there was nothing he could do to change the outcome. Linda was probably acting ever so innocent during the family morning meal, he thought wickedly, and never giving any indicat
ion that she loved a despicable Yankee sailor. If her father only knew the truth of the matter he would be absolutely outraged. Linda’s beautiful image swam back into his vision and replaced the harsher one of her father. He could see her green eyes and feel her soft auburn hair. Her voice, its Southern accent tinged with an Irish lilt, called to him. Wake realized that he was probably smiling as he thought of Linda and her considerable charms. He frowned and turned to Hardin.
“Hardin, that departure was well done. The crew appears to be about their wits and know their jobs.”
“Aye, sir, that they do,” Hardin said with what Wake imagined was the slightest hint of pride in his voice.
“Well, we’re bound up the coast to the war, so they’ll get their chance to show it some more. Set the watches and follow the channel until the light ship, then close-haul in to the northeast. Any questions?”
“Where are we bound for exactly, sir?”
“The Rebel haven by a place called Sanibel Island. We’re to assist the Gem of the Sea in shutting down the supply route through there. I don’t know that coast. Have you been there?”
The voice turned neutral again, “Aye, sir, I know that damned coast.”
“Well Hardin, I shall rely upon your local knowledge then. But you don’t sound pleased to see action there again.”
“You’ve not been there, sir. I have. You’ll understand when you’ve been there.”
Wake turned from Hardin’s look, suddenly unnerved by the man’s negative demeanor. As Wake gazed out over the water to the massive structure of Fort Taylor receding in the distance, he spoke loudly for the crew’s benefit.
“Well, at least it’s better than rotting afloat here in port. The sooner we get this damned war over, the better. Put the scoundrel Rebs in their places, and we can get back to our lives.”
The crew, who had heard the entire dialogue, were now silently looking at Wake and Hardin from the foredeck.
“Aye, sir, we’ll put ’em in their places and get it over with.”
Hardin thoughtfully regarded the island of Key West on the horizon, then turned and walked away to the gun carriage.
“Nor’ by west . . . and mind ya steer small,” he muttered to the duty helmsman as he passed him.
As the Rosalie slid along the quartering seas, Wake stared off to windward and barely heard the helmsman, Conner, a short, thin man of indeterminate age over thirty and below fifty, quietly speak to him.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but is we bound fer that jungle coast agin, sir? We all been there afore, in other ships. We thought maybe in Rosalie we’d be a guardship for the channels at Key West, sir. That was the scuttlebutt amongst them idlers on the docks. Liberty ashore every week, they said, sir. Dockside yeoman clerk of the boiler shop, him own self told me that, sir, an’ that’s no lie.”
“No, Conner. The idlers and clerks told you wrong. We’re not stationed at Key West. Rosalie is bound for the jungle coast. We’re bound for the war.”
At that, Conner turned and stared at the luff of the jib and busied himself in steering the sloop. The dutiful manner of his voice eerily echoed Hardin’s. “Aye, sir. Bound for the war. . . .”
2
A Question of Identity
The day progressed in the way of the sea, through the endless changes of the watch. The wind held steady in strength but began to veer to the south. Soon Rosalie was not sliding along the waves as before. Now she was surging along and rolling with the wind further aft. Wake ordered the centerboard lowered completely in an effort to dampen the roll. It was moderately successful, but still she rolled. They held course to the northeast, where Wake hoped to make a landfall to the south of his destination and then work his way up the coast to this place called Sanibel Island.
That night the first clouds started to arrive from the south. The air started to feel more humid and tense. Wake had the mainsail reefed and the jib taken in as precaution for arriving at the coast in the dark. He had made many a landfall in his time, but never on this low coast. The cast of the lead showed a shallow bottom of eight to ten fathoms, and they were still about forty miles off the coast. The seas were steep and short, with very little length to the trough. Wake started to think about the currents in the area and pondered whether he should stand further offshore.
The motion of Rosalie was such that most of the crew was sleeping up on the deck. Below decks was a chaos of creaking joints, falling gear, moaning rigging, and stinking bilge water sloshing around in the rhythmic ritual of a rolling ship. Only the dead could sleep in there, Wake thought as he came out on deck and lay down, braced against the raised transom board across the stern.
There were only three men aboard who could stand watch as officer of the deck: Wake, Hardin, and the gunner’s mate, Durlon, a short, thin man of maybe thirty years, who had shown a positive demeanor so far on this voyage. Durlon was an unknown to Wake, but Hardin had informed the captain that Durlon could do duty as a deck officer, so Wake had him put on the watch bill. As he lay on the rolling deck, Wake’s mind reeled from watch bills to mysterious coasts and the multitude of other thoughts competing for attention and decision. They all faded, however, when he remembered the last time he had lain down. It now seemed as if Linda and Key West were from another life. He wondered what she was doing now, and immediately put the thought out of his mind. Forget her and pay attention to keeping your men alive and your ship afloat, the captain of the Rosalie admonished himself. He finally started to feel the mental and physical exhaustion of the last eighteen hours and slowly succumbed to sleep, one hand unconsciously gripping the transom for security against the constant movement of the ship around him.
When the first light of the coming day filtered through the black of the night, Wake was back on watch. The lead now showed the bottom at five fathoms with more shell in the tallow, so he told the helmsman to steer northerly to keep further off the coast. That order had the effect of increasing the roll so that occasionally the end of the large main boom would dive into the seas alongside. She was sailing by the lee now. Wake worried about an accidental jibe and watched the helmsman, a man named Smith, struggle to keep her from slewing around. Rosalie was making very good time and was bound to see the coast at any moment, somewhere around the Romano Cape.
He tried to put a confident look in his appearance for the first landfall with a new crew. Since the night and morning had been cloudy, he had had no opportunity for a celestial sight and had been dead reckoning, hoping they would sight land before the Cape Romano Shoals would wreck them. Wake had no idea of the state of the tide or strength of the current and so could only hope his navigation was correct.
Suddenly the bow lookout yelled against the wind, “Land ahead, sharp on the starboard bow! Looks like ’bout three or four miles off, sir.”
Wake couldn’t see the dark line on the horizon yet, but he wasn’t going to wait.
“All hands on deck to wear ship! Time to stay off the coast, men. We’ve got to get the mainsail over to the starboard tack!”
The crew came awake at Wake’s yell and began to rouse themselves up and to their sail handling positions along the deck. Hardin came striding aft and asked, “Sir, wear the ship, or tack her?”
“Well, Hardin, how’s she handle when wearing in a sea and wind like this?”
“It’s a bit much, sir. I’d like to tack her through the wind to save the strain on the spars.”
“Very well, Hardin. Let’s get her around through the wind,” Wake yelled against the increasing breeze.
Moments later, the Rosalie slowly turned to starboard, her huge mainsail of thick canvas thundering in protest as her turn became a circle back into the wind and seas from the south. The moment of truth came when she continued turning, seas smashing over her bows, around to the west and then the northwest
, the mainsail abruptly announcing with a loud crack that it was full of wind again. Rosalie quickly heeled over on the starboard tack and surged forward, having completed a full circle with the mainsail on the other side of the ship.
Throughout it all Hardin was watching and directing the men in their duty, from the man on the tiller to the men on the sheets. Wake did not have to intervene at all. Part of him appreciated the smooth evolution of a very dangerous maneuver, and part of him wondered at Hardin’s control of the crew. Wake was definitely getting the impression that he was on Hardin’s ship, as opposed to the other way around.
After the ship was secured on the new tack, the off watches were sent to their breakfast, a cold porridge and salt beef junk because no galley fire could be lit in these sea conditions. The seas continued to build and were moving with the wind from the southwest. It certainly looked as if a storm was heading their way.
“Hardin, do you recognize that coast yonder?”
“Sir, the coast all looks pretty much the same from this far off. From the size of the beaches I’d guess that we’re somewhere around Cape Romano. I think definitely not to the south of the Cape. There’s fewer beaches along that stretch of the coast, and the soundin’s would be far less. I’d suggest stayin’ off this far and running up the coast till we see an island in front of us, sir. That’d be Sanibel Island. About forty miles from here I’d venture. Should see it afore dark at this speed.”
At the Edge of Honor (The Honor Series) Page 2
