Wake heard it before Durlon told him—an odd mournful sound that he occasionally heard in Key West. It was a conch shell being blown, with a plaintive wail stretching out the sound. After the initial elongated blast, several loud, short ones followed. Wake, Durlon, and Rork looked ashore where a gathering had formed on the dock by the large schooner.
Activity swarmed on the schooner and the dock in the last light of the day after the sun had gone down. People came out of their homes, and men around the shore stopped and looked over at the schooner as the crew aboard bore a hand at the halyards to raise the huge mainsail. Other crewmen were casting off dock lines, while still more were backwinding the jib to get her turned around and headed down channel. It was as if the conch shell sounding had stirred a mound of ants into some frenzied action. Everywhere on the island people were taking notice of the schooner. Some were yelling encouragement, and now Wake could make out Commissioner Williams standing on the dock, pronouncing in a loud voice that did not seem to go with his small body, “God speed to you, and may your return be with success! Give Captain Dunbarton our good wishes!”
Wake turned to Rork and Durlon. “I believe that conch shell sounded an alarm that a runner is near the island. We can’t hope to catch up with the schooner over there or get close to the runner, but maybe we can get some intelligence from that crew later about what ship they met and where she was bound.”
Both petty officers nodded agreement as they all watched the schooner quickly gather headway and sail out of the anchorage, with the shore entourage still shouting encouragement.
Rork suggested moments later, “Perhaps I could have a drop of rum with those lads later, if they return tonight, sir? Nay tellin’ what I may be hearin’ if they are feelin’ good enough.”
Wake regarded Rork in the dim light. He had come to trust and rely on this man. Rork had an easy way with other sailors, an instinctive basic bond. He seldom had to raise his voice. He could be trusted and would be the one to get the information better than Wake could.
“All right, Rork. Upon their return I’ll let you gauge the moment to go and get the information. Durlon and I will remain aboard. Don’t stay too long. I presume I don’t have to warn you about the obvious, so I won’t.”
Durlon, mute through this dialogue, could be still no longer. “An’ don’t you do any stirrin’ of their limey blood, Rork, ya Irish rebel!”
Rork took all of this approval and assistance in stride. “Aye now, me Captain. I’ll not partake o’ too much as that wouldn’t be very sociable like, sir. And you, Gunner Durlon, know well that I am the picture of politeness even when with difficult people. Why, I’m an Irish gentlemen, I am, sir.” This comment was accompanied by a smile and a glance into the eyes of his friend.
It was well past midnight when Rork came to Wake’s cabin and told him he was off to have a drop with the schooner’s crew. Throughout the next four hours Durlon and Wake stayed on deck and listened as the drinking and carousing went on a hundred yards away aboard the large Bahamian vessel over at the dock. Occasionally they could hear an Irish ballad rise up as the other noise fell away. No sound of argument or discord was discernible and they relaxed their vigil but still stayed awake to listen if their crewmate might need help.
At dawn a very exhausted Wake greeted a very gleeful Rork as he came over the side at the shrouds after handing Durlon the dinghy’s painter. They all retired below to Wake’s cabin to hear the intelligence that Rork had gathered.
“What a wonderful bit of sailors those boyos are, Captain. Not a bad one in the lot. Well, not a really bad one anyway. They are mainly from Nassau and don’t like the perfidious English any more than I do!” Wake smiled as he listened. Rork’s brogue was thicker than usual with the rum inside him.
“It turns out, sir, that you and ol’ Durlon here were right on the runner meetin’ up with them offshore. They took a pilot from Savannah out to a runner about three miles offshore. The pilot had just come into Nassau from Charleston. They don’t have the runners go into Nassau nowadays prior to goin’ through our navy’s blockade. Now they have them come to these islands and meet up with the coastal pilot offshore, then go into the Confederacy. The little buggers’re doin’ this at least once a week! Makin’ a nice little bag o’ gold, real gold, a fee for bringin’ mister pilot from Nassau to the runners out by this island.
“See, sir, Mister Governor of the Bahamas can say that no runners are comin’ in from across the ocean to Nassau and the American Navy should not be a-worrying about Bahamas waters. ’Course they still come in on the short haul from the Rebel mainland and put off their cargo and pilot quick like. Merchants of Nassau are very happy with that. These boyos I met with are delighted with the way things have worked out!”
Wake wanted to get the specifics before Rork passed out, which looked imminent.
“Rork, what was the name of the ship they met? What was her cargo, and from where was she?”
“Well now, sir, they was a bit quiet about that, sir. Took several more turns at the jug to get ’em to speak on that. But the rum loosened them all after a while.” Durlon looked at Wake with a grin as they both thought of their Irish friend loosening someone else’s lips with rum. Rork appeared pretty loose himself.
“She be the Mary Anne, screw steamer two weeks out of Bristol with manufactured merchant goods and some rifles, they think. Not sure on the rifles. They just hear from the crews what is aboard. Last night it was calm and they came alongside of the steamer for mail and small stuff. Got to talk to the crew. Crew of the steamer said their captain was . . . oh well, sir, they did not like their captain. Some unpleasantness aboard of her evidently. Anyway, they say they do this once a week and get good money for it from a merchant in Nassau.”
“Anything else, Rork?”
“That you’re able to remember?” added Durlon, laughing.
“No, sir. Oh, exceptin’ one little thing, sir.” Rork ignored his friend and turned to stare rather blankly at Wake. “It would seem, Captain, that your friend, the English gentleman named Williams, of Her Majesty’s Government of the Bahamas and the Honorable Commissioner of these particular lumps of sand in the sea, is not following Her Britannic Majesty’s neutrality orders. In point of fact, he is assisting the Rebels in some disturbing ways. For it turns out that a man named Saunders, aye, sir, I said Saunders, has come here before and is the man who used the island for the pilot rendezvous in the first place, two years past. It further seems, me good Captain, that the man in question, Mr. Saunders, is from Virginia with relatives around here and was recently in Cuba arranging some other shipping for the American Rebels.” The grin was gone from Rork’s face now as he continued in a low and menacing voice. “And that particular bastard was last seen here on this island not more than a month ago. A month ago! Sailed up from Nassau with me boyos over there and got aboard a runner bound for the coast by Savannah a fortnight back.”
Wake and Durlon sat there staring at Rork. He was a little drunk, yes, but not enough to misunderstand or imagine that intelligence.
“Rork, they are sure it was a man named Saunders? Our Saunders?”
“No doubt, sir. He was a friend of the commissioner and stayed at his house until the runner arrived offshore for the rendezvous to get the pilot. Not more than a month ago. Captain, I am thinkin’ that our enemy Saunders is more lucky or more skilled than we ever thought, sir. Must definitely have a bit o’ the Irish in his bones, that one.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” It was the only thing Durlon could think to say as Wake tried to decipher the meaning of what Rork had said. There was no good meaning to it. Saunders had either escaped from the Spanish or bought his way out through friends in the bureaucracy or through some other relationship. How? How did he do it?
“Permission to retire to me hammock, sir. I’m a wee bit tir
ed, sir.”
“Very good, Rork, get some rest, for we will weigh anchor by noon and sail for Nassau. You did well.”
Wake thought about the information that Rork had gathered. Saunders out of Cuba. And that quickly. He wondered why the admiral didn’t know it in Key West. Then he remembered that the admiral had said that the civilian intelligence had dried up in the Abaco Islands of the Bahamas. Evidently even the consulate in Nassau had not been able to find out how the runners still got their Confederate pilots to steer them in through the blockade. Now, however, they had that information and knew the Havana operations of the enemy were tied to the Bahamas. But why hadn’t the Havana consulate passed on the news of Saunders’ departure from that city? This was more complex than anyone had imagined. He thought that perhaps one more visit to the commissioner ashore might be beneficial and yield additional facts. Besides, he still wanted to know if anyone had heard of John Saunders in these islands and what, if any, connection he really had here. He remembered Saunders explaining, that day when Wake had decided to let him go free, his family’s post–Revolutionary War Loyalist connection here. The memory caused him to burn with humiliation.
Midmorning Wake again ascended the hill to Commissioner Williams’ house. Williams was polite and inquired how long Wake was planning to stay among the Abaco Islands.
“I am under way today, sir, with the tide for Nassau. Maybe there will be a cargo there for me since not much seems to be available here. I was told though that there might be some small cargo here to sail to Florida, which is why I came here. I guess my friend was wrong.”
“And what friend might that be, Captain Wake?”
Wake plunged in and hoped he would not betray his feelings when he said the man’s name. “A gentleman who said he was from these islands, sir. Man named John Saunders, whom I met on the west coast of Florida. I assisted the gentleman and afterward he advised me of the situation here in your islands.”
“John Saunders, you say? And how is John?” Williams was looking directly at Wake now.
“Don’t rightly know, Commissioner. It’s been a year since I saw him. Have you seen him since?” Wake was using all of his willpower to remain calm.
“No, Mr. Wake, I have not seen Mr. Saunders lately. I have heard that he has been busy with other obligations in other places. Saunders told you correctly. There are opportunities here for a man knowing the Southern coast. But none at the present, I am afraid. Good luck on your voyage to Nassau.”
Wake bade his respects and departed. He could not ascertain any more intelligence from the commissioner’s words than what he had heard, and he knew what he had heard was a skilled lie. The man was inscrutable and more than a little unnerving. Wake decided that it was definitely time to leave the anchorage. Things were getting complicated quickly.
They made sail at noon, Rork seemingly none the worse for wear and waving goodbye to his friends from a few hours before. The wind was fair for leaving the island but promised a rough hundred-mile voyage to New Providence Island, where Nassau was located. As they left Man-O-War Cay, Wake noticed none of the enthusiasm among the population that had accompanied the departure of the pilot’s sloop the evening before. In fact, the people along the waterfront barely appeared to register that fact that they were leaving. Wake had the vague feeling that the people of this island were different from any other people he had ever met. In fact, the entire situation in these islands, from the commissioner’s demeanor to the islanders’ behavior to the undercurrent of Confederate blockade-running operations, made him feel very uneasy. But navigating out through the reefs soon fully occupied him.
Wake had only the jib set. Even then, Rosalie still moved at a brisk pace on the full reach, heading northeast. Once she rounded the reefs and was in five fathoms, they hauled up close to the wind with a fully reefed mainsail and slogged into the southerly wind.
The wind was steady and strong as the sloop, centerboard down, tried to make long tacks in the beat to the south along the islands skirting the Abaco coast. Wake had heard that the wreckers of these islands were related by blood to some of those in the Florida Keys. As Rosalie passed Elbow Cay, he saw that the British government was building a lighthouse there. He had heard while ashore on Man-O-War Cay that the lighthouse on Elbow was to protect ships that came upon the island in the dark after crossing the ocean from the east. It was the first land seen since leaving Europe, and frequently the last since so many wrecked there. But when the islander had told him about the lighthouse, he had spoken with contempt of how it would deprive so many islanders the living their families had been making for generations. Wake shook his head at the memory, thinking that many a sailor considered them little better than pirates, in spite of some spectacular rescues of stranded crews that had been made by these very same men, in both Florida and the Bahamas.
The rest of the day was spent smashing into the confused seas by Ocean Point on the east coast of Great Abaco Island itself. The sloop was trying to point as far as she could into the wind, but that was at the expense of speed. Wake knew that it would take a long time to get his little ship south to New Providence Island, but there was nothing he could do about it.
By nightfall they were still fighting their way to the south. No lights shone on this coast. The deep water came all the way up to the cliffs lining the shore. Wake dead-reckoned his way along the coast, doubling the lookout in the pitch-black night, hoping that he had kept far enough off. Making a long tack offshore to the southeast and a short tack inshore to the southwest, Rosalie pounded her way through the dark ocean, repeating the maneuver with all hands called many times.
When the eastern sky lightened enough that a dim horizon line could be discerned, both lookouts saw a shape in the western gloom and shouted together.
“Broad on the port bow! A steam warship!
The entire crew of the sloop gathered on the cold and wet deck to peer out at the large ship coming at them. It came from the direction of the southeastern point of Great Abaco labeled curiously on the chart as “Hole in the Wall.” The lookouts were correct, she was a warship. And she was heading for the sloop from about five or six miles away.
Wake started to do the geometry in his mind. He calculated that the steamer would be upon them in several minutes, what with the wind behind them and smoke pouring from her funnel. He did not know if they would try to stop and inspect the small sloop, especially in these seas, but he looked over to the cliffs of Abaco to see if there was any way to escape to the east or south if they did attempt to force him to stop.
He turned aft to find Rork eyeing the distant ship. The bosun swayed easily with the rolling deck and just as easily asked Wake what they were going to do. Wake was impressed by his calm demeanor.
“Well, she’ll be here very soon. No time to turn and run. Just make sure the deck gun is hidden but ready to go over in a moment.”
“Aye aye, sir. We’ll slide the little devil off the lee side, should it come to that, no fear, sir.”
“Very good, Rork. Keep her steady on this course. We should make the point with room to spare. Once around we can bear off a bit.”
As Rork acknowledged the order, Wake gauged the imaginary triangle again. The point of intercept for the two vessels would be in about a mile, and it would take just a few minutes. The steamer was getting closer very fast.
“She’s the Peterel, sir!” cried out Chestnut from the foredeck. “I saw her in Key West last year. Took a message to her and saw her close up. Gunboat with a barque rig. Does only about seven knots ’cause her bottom’s foul and they haven’t careened her lately. Limeys were complainin’ about her bein’ slow and all. Said she leaks like a Bahama fish boat, sir!”
Rork was quick on Chestnut’s comment. “Louis, me boy, you say she’s slow? Her own men say it? You heard them say it? No time for the tales, son. T
his is a bit of a serious time.”
“Aye, Mister Bosun. That’s what I heard them say, without no doubts.”
Rork looked at Wake with a gleam in his eye. “Well, Captain. Old Rosey will do seven off the wind on a day like today. Once we double the point yonder there, we can show her our heels. Even if they set sail they can’t point like us. Either way we may have a chance to confound the English bastards. ’Tis always a touch o’ fun to do that, I can tell ya, sir!”
Wake found himself, against his better judgment, infected with the bosun’s enthusiasm. He made his decision in an instant.
“Right you are, Rork. Looks to me that we will pass close aboard of Her Majesty’s steamer and then be able to bear off. When we do, shake out the reefs in the mains’l and set the jib too. Remember, we’re a trader. The crew can pretend to be passengers. We’ll show her how to fly!”
The ships got closer and Wake could see the figures of the men on the Britisher’s bow pointing at the sloop. The men set to their tasks with the enthusiasm of a race crew, but Wake knew the consequences of failure were far worse. All hands held on as she continued close-hauled toward the point at the end of Hole in the Wall, plunging into the seas coming over the port bow.
Then he saw the brilliant spot of color in the steamer’s rigging catch the first rays of the sun as it started to boil up out of the horizon. It was the Red Ensign of the Royal Navy, the navy that had made, and now protected, the British Empire, which spanned the globe and made the American Navy seem puny in comparison. A golden shaft of light lit up the blood red of the flag as it ascended the peak halyard of the mizzen mast on the Royal Navy ship.
At the Edge of Honor (The Honor Series) Page 27
