Читать книгу Point of Honor - Robert N. Macomber - Страница 9

Desperation

The grotesque war raging far to the north of them frequently provided a topic of conversation for the soldiers and sailors at the fortress but no actual sense of threat. The real enemy in the Dry Tortugas was the dazzling tropical sun. Its breathtaking heat and blinding glare could make a man slowly go crazy with skin rashes and hallucinations or cause a sunstroke that could kill him outright. Rank or position provided no protection in this place—senior officers and newly enlisted men were struck with egalitarian efficiency.

It was all so cruelly strange to the pasty, white-skinned boys from the Maine or Pennsylvania or New Jersey regiments. They hadn’t joined up for this, had never even imagined a place like this existed. Not long after each man’s arrival he would start to curse the incessant pounding of the sun, and by the time a week had passed he would despise the shadeless coral rock islands and those sadists in Washington who had sent him this godforsaken place. The boy from up north who used to love the warmth of the spring sun was now a man who hated it as his mortal enemy.

“Gawd, how I hate everything about this damned hell-hole! Smell the stink o’ the place. Ya’d think the poor army sods ashore would have better latrines than that. Half-wit fools can’t even get that right!”

Able Seaman Thomas Mason, sweat soaked and grimy, looked over at a privy on the dock a hundred yards away. Frustration vented, he bent down to seize a crate addressed to the army regimental staff ashore and, grunting out additional opinions about the soldiers of the garrison as he lifted, manhandled it to the edge of the gunwale with a crash. Mason lay over the top of it, catching his breath. Slinging a wave of slimy perspiration from a stubbled face, he gazed aft and sneered between gasps. From a gig alongside, a figure in a dark blue uniform had arrived on deck. The brass from the buttons and insignia gleamed in the steaming glare of the sunlight.

“Ah Lordy, Jackson, see what the United States Army in all their glory done sent us now? Will ya look at that little boy back there all dressed up like a officer. Ya know, maybe it’s a girlee by the look o’ him, come ta think on it. Gawd, no wonder they can’t get it done up in Virginia, little boys like that leading the army.”

White, the coxswain standing by the foremast and supervising the unloading detail, heard the comment and quickly silenced Mason, who was supposed to be helping Jackson sway down some gear into the workboat. The captain wanted to weigh anchor in an hour and they didn’t have much time left. And making fun of officers was never a good idea, especially when they might hear it.

“Mason, never you mind the army, it’s the ever lovin’ navy you’re in and the navy that’ll have your hide! Now shut your damned hatch and do your work, and mind that fall tackle there. Jackson, ya poxy idiot, get that damned thing lashed up proper and swayed over!”

With that said, White turned aft and examined the object of Mason’s sarcasm. Shaking his head and smiling, he found himself in silent agreement with Mason’s comment. The officer did look pretty pathetic.

The badly sunburned army second lieutenant who was the unknowing subject of Mason’s assessment looked distinctly uncomfortable as the St. James rolled with slow rhythm in the low swells of the anchorage off the fortress. Hanging onto a nearby shroud for support, the young man appeared to have little military experience and absolutely no confidence. Sweating profusely in his heavy wool formal coat and hat, he stood on the deck of the naval schooner trying to convey, as professionally as he could, a request from his colonel ashore to the captain of the vessel, Lieutenant Peter Wake of the United States Navy. Tanned and wearing a cool white duck cotton shirt and trousers, Wake’s lean frame swayed easily with the deck as he listened to the army officer’s awkward recitation of the message. The blinding sun made the army lieutenant’s eyes squint, accentuating his less than imposing appearance. The naval officer’s face, by contrast, was in the shade of a broad-brimmed straw hat, haggled from an ancient Bahamian weaver woman in a Key West tavern four months earlier. Wake, uncertain whether the lieutenant’s discomfort came from the nature of the request, the roll of the deck, or both, almost felt sorry for him until he thought about what the man—boy really—was asking him to do.

The lieutenant explained that the 52nd New Jersey Artillery, stationed there at Fortress Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas Islands, had managed to lose some of its men. Five of them, to be exact, had evidently decided to take “French leave” and head somewhere, anywhere, other than the notorious Dry Tortugas Islands. Wake stared at the lieutenant for a moment, wondering how you could lose five men out in the middle of nowhere in the Gulf of Mexico, but was distracted by some whispering forward. Around him the crew of the schooner snickered about the army’s problem and were offering ideas as to why the men had left the desolate outpost. The bosun of the schooner, Rork, standing with arms akimbo on the foredeck, soon put an end to their fun by putting them on the windless to heave the anchor rode short. Rork was not in a good mood. The crew knew the look on the bosun’s face too well. Wake returned his gaze to the unfortunate youngster before him.

“How in the world did they leave the islands here?”

“The Colonel thinks they took an old rowing boat that was on the beach at Bird Key. Nobody thought it would float. Thought it was pretty much rotted out, sir. But I guess they somehow patched it up and made it float. Musta’ made a sail too.”

“You say they’ve been gone for three days? Why didn’t your people go after them right away? Well, they’re probably dead by now.”

“Colonel said that he didn’t want nobody else goin’ off in a little boat and gettin’ killed themselves, sir. All we’ve got are the garrison’s small boats. Colonel’s pretty mad about all of this. Said to ask the navy to go over to the Marquesas Islands and see if the boys made it over to there. He really wants those men back, Captain.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll check those islands for his men. If I find them, we’ll bring them back here for the colonel to deal with as he sees fit. Tell the colonel I don’t think we’ll find his men alive though.”

With that said Wake dismissed the lieutenant, turned and walked aft toward his cabin ladder, glancing at the tall square-framed bosun.

“Rork, get her under way for the Marquesas. The ebb should carry us out of the anchorage a bit. Have the anchor ready in case we need it in a hurry to keep off a reef. I’ll be below for a minute.”

Descending the ladder to the cabin, he listened as Rork roared out to the crew in his deep voice with the Irish brogue.

“Aye aye, sir. All right now, lads, you heard the captain. Turn to and lay on the halyards. With a will, boys! Let’s send ’em up an see what she’ll do.”

In his airless cabin Wake sat at his desk studying the chart of the islands in the Marquesas group. If those men had made it to that archipelago, over forty-five miles away against what little wind there was, then they’d had better luck than most. The Dry Tortugas were surrounded by very dangerous water, filled with bewildering swift currents and uncharted coral reefs. There were many ways for the deserters to die before they made it to the dubious safety of the uninhabited Marquesas Islands. And once they made it there, if they did, there was no fresh water or help. Only mangrove jungle. Those islands were as desolate as the Tortugas.

Wake tried to puzzle out exactly what had made them try it. Didn’t they know the odds? Had they any maritime experience? He remembered when the 52nd New Jersey had arrived two months ago he heard that they were from some place inland in that state and were angry at being assigned to the bleak and barren Fortress Jefferson. Probably the fugitives had no idea of what they were doing. Probably, in fact, they were dead.

His patrol station for the ninety-foot-long St. James included the Tortugas, the Marquesas, and the western Florida Keys. He had been assigned this station for three long months, since April. The year 1864 was over half gone, and Wake was sick of this duty. Beyond the mind-numbing routine of patrolling the area for blockade runners, message relaying between Key West’s Fort Taylor and Fort Jefferson, and the occasional special mission to go to Havana for dispatches, there wasn’t much to do in this patrol area.

Wake sighed and involuntarily touched the scar on the side of his head, a memento from when he had had a much more active station on the coast of the mainland last year. The blast of the cannon during the fight with the Rebs on the river was still absolutely clear in his mind. As was the pain of the wound inflicted that morning. He flinched as he recalled the chaos of the fight and the carnage afterward. Part of that scene of carnage were members of his own crew lying on the deck of the sloop Rosalie, dead or wounded during the battle. It seemed a long time ago and far away. Wake realized there was no such danger from the enemy in these islands. He dragged himself up from the desk in the torpid heat and made his way to the main deck again, where he found himself amidst the bustle of the crew’s laboring at the pinrails around the masts.

The main and foresail were up and drawing slightly on the zephyrs of wind coming in puffs from the southeast. As the crew set her jibs, the schooner came slowly around the eastern side of the fortress. Wake glanced at the parapets and saw a group of officers standing together talking. He recognized one as the messenger lieutenant, who listened as a man who appeared to be Colonel Grosland, commanding officer of the 52nd New Jersey Artillery, was speaking and waving a hand in the youngster’s face. Then the colonel pointed at the schooner.

The voice could be vaguely heard across the water but the words were not discernible. Wake could guess at what they were, however. Grosland was a martinet in love with his uniform but never satisfied with his people’s efforts. Wake had met him a month before while at the fortress and not liked his condescending attitude. This war was bringing out men like Grosland in all the services—those with no experience or capability leading other men, much less leading them through difficulty and danger. A place like Jefferson would be even more of an ordeal with a man such as Grosland in charge.

Fort Jefferson had been built over the last twenty years on an island in a small group of scattered coral islets known as the Dry Tortugas, seventy miles west of Key West. And dry they were. There were no fresh water wells on the islands. The three hundred men of the garrison relied upon huge cisterns on the parade ground and under the walls of the fortress to gather enough water in the rainy season to last for the rest of the year. Surrounded as they were by some of the most beautiful salt water imaginable, the army rationed fresh water among the souls assigned to the fortress.

Fortress was an appropriate term. Wake had never seen anything like it. Jefferson was huge. It was known as the Gibraltar of the Gulf because of its size and the emplacements for a potential of 450 guns. At the moment, they held only six ten-inch Columbiad cannon, along with a couple of small howitzers by the docks. Wake knew from his reading of the New Era newspaper at Key West that the massive walls designed in the forties were already outdated. Reports of battles pitting naval vessels against forts in Charleston and on the Mississippi had revealed that much. Modern rifled naval artillery such as those very Columbiads would make short work of the faded brickwork of the fortress—a mere façade of strength, like so many façades that Wake had seen thus far in this awful war. Colonel Grosland was its human counterpart.

Still, Wake had to admire and respect the men who planned and actually built this edifice of war in the middle of a tropical sea. The efforts and expenses made were unparalleled. But there was an ugly side to the fortress as well. Almost two hundred army prisoners were held here, Union Army prisoners who had committed some of the worst military offenses known. Fortress Jefferson was so notorious in the army, Wake had heard from an engineer captain at the island, that soldiers under sentence of death could have it commuted to hard labor at Jefferson as it was considered the same. The labor battalion worked on the never ending project of improving the fortress. They lived in stifling cells under the walls and eked out their lives toiling in the brutal sun under the eyes of a garrison that was under a similar, but shorter sentence. Periodically the regiment on garrison duty would be replaced by another, so that each only served six or eight months at Jefferson. But the prisoners never left.

Fortunately, Wake had the freedom to leave. As the St. James ghosted away from the immense brown brick walls that rose out of the bright green waters, the crew of the schooner could see the soldiers of the garrison, and a few of the prisoners, watching them sail quietly away. It was the same every time. The men of the fortress always stopped their work and stared at the schooner. It was always eerie.

It took two days to cover the distance eastward to the Marquesas. The wind was light and from varying directions the whole way. Twice they anchored when the wind died and the current started to sweep them southward. By the time the St. James anchored off the westernmost island of the group, the crew of the schooner had thoroughly cursed the 52nd New Jersey Artillery, their colonel, and their deserters.

The Marquesas Islands were a uniquely formed group. Unlike the Keys of Florida, which stretched out westward in a string of islets for one hundred fifty miles, the Marquesas were a circle of islands around a central shallow lagoon. The lagoon averaged only about a fathom or less deep, with brown and green grasses covering most of the bottom. Deeper, smooth-bottomed swash channels snaked their way in varying shades of blue all over the lagoon, giving a contrast to the colors of the grassy shoals. When viewed in conjunction with the thin, white sand beaches backed by the tumble of dark green mangrove jungle, the whole effect on a brightly sunny day was one of a dazzling spectrum of colors.

In addition to the beautiful colors, the Marquesas had some of the most fantastic water Wake had ever seen. In fact, offshore from the islands it appeared that there was no water there at all, for the schooner was apparently sliding through the air over a perfectly seen bottom ten feet down. The shadows from the moving ship and her sails covered the sand and coral below like the shade of a large bird gliding over a meadow. The brilliant creatures of this intriguing world would scamper or flit away from the shadow as it approached them, providing an endless source of fascination for the crew, most of whom had never served in the tropics before. As wonderful as it all was, it was also disconcerting, for the depth perception of most of the men was thrown out of scale upon first seeing this splendor. Many times they yelled for the helmsman to head up and avoid a coral head, only to find they were deceived by the transparency of the liquid underneath them when the suspect reef would pass mockingly beneath the warship.

Wake knew his men were exhausted from the humid heat and the exertion of working on the baking deck. A soon as the anchor was down and holding, he told Rork to let them swim for a few minutes before taking the ship’s boat through the islands to search for the soldiers. The grateful sailors immediately stripped down, jumped overboard, and were transformed into energetic boys exploring the amazing world below them in the startlingly clear waters. Their shouts and splashes made Rork and Wake smile when the two glanced at each other.

“Well, Captain, I’d venture a nice swim will do the lads good before their row today.” Rork’s thick Wexford Irish accent flavored the words.

“Yes, I do believe it’s a good tonic for the men in this heat. The soldiers will still be there an hour from now, if they’re alive.”

“I agree with ya, sir. Nary a one could be breathin’ after that journey, I’m thinkin’, sir. Hell of a row from the Tortugas. ’Specially for farm boyos not used to this heat. This ol’ Irishman ain’t used to it neither, sir!”

“Give the men another twenty minutes, then send off a boat’s crew. Have them row all the way around the islands on this side of the group, we’ll search the other side tomorrow. Check anything that looks odd. If those soldiers are here, they’ll be needing help by now.”

“Aye, sir. I don’t much think they’re here though, sir. Me thinks the poor beggars are most likely in the belly of some sharks somewhere.”

“Probably you are right, Rork, but we’ve got to confirm that they’re not here. If they are, the Tortugas might even look good to them by now. Wonder what the colonel will do to them if he gets them alive?”

“No way of telling that one, sir.”

A half hour later the pleasant noise of the men relaxing in the water gave way to the somber sounds of the boat crew rowing away from the schooner. Armed and looking serious, they were like all sailors told to go after deserters. They had no qualms about dragging those men back to their duty and would show no mercy to any deserter who did not surrender. Wake had seen it happen other times at Key West and was always amazed at it. One would think sailors would sympathize with the deserters, but they never did. Instead they despised them as weaklings that made extra work for the others.

For the thousandth time, Wake marveled at the discipline of the navy. That men could, and would, work in such conditions without mutiny showed the tremendous contrast to the merchant marine life he had known up until the year before. As hard as life was for a merchant sailor, the harsh realities of naval service were worse. That he, in his mid-twenties, was the undisputed master of these sailors’ lives gave Wake a chill down his spine. It was such a long way from his previous life aboard the coastal schooners of New England.

That thought took him to another, more melancholy one. The previous year, while stationed at Key West and before commanding the St. James, he had fallen in love with a woman named Linda Donahue. Daughter of a rabid anti-Yankee Key Wester now languishing in a prisoner-of-war dungeon in Boston’s Fort Warren, Linda still lived in Key West with her pro-Confederate uncle. The strain of carrying on a love affair with the enemy of her family had proven too much for Linda, and one day four months ago she had told Wake it had to end, that she couldn’t take it any longer and their love could not endure the hate that was all around them on both sides of this dreadful war.

For those four months Wake had not been the same man. It was as if he’d had a leg amputated and still had the ghost feelings of the severed member. He loved and desperately needed Linda. He was not able to get through a day without thinking of her, and routine things would somehow bring her to his mind, saddening him. His periodic visits to Key West for supplies or orders were a constant pull upon his heart to go near her house and maybe just see her in the distance. But his will power had managed to overcome his heart, and he had not burdened her with his presence since that day.

The sun had sunk low into the western sky when Wake, lying under a shade awning on the afterdeck, was shaken from his reverie by a gunshot in the distance on the lagoon side of the island closest to them. Rork, who was stretched out by the twelve-pounder amidships, leaped to his feet and peered at the island in the failing light.

“Quick, Dumfrey, get your sharp eyes up the mast and spy out what would be happenin’ over there with our lads. Did ye hear that, sir? ’Twas a gunshot, sure as Jesus, sir.”

“Yes, I heard it too, Rork. Get the anchor hove short and the furl lashings off her, in case we have to move quickly.”

Dumfrey ran to the shrouds of the mainmast and ascended them to the crosstrees, scanning the eastern horizon in segments. With no sighting, he climbed to the very masthead, clinging precariously. Seconds later he cried out.

“Captain sir! I see the boat over on the lagoon side with a bunch o’ men in the shallows around it, sir. Can’t tell who’s who, but it looks like some o’ them is prisoners, sir. Trussed up, like.”

Wake looked up at the eighteen-year-old Dumfrey and realized his understanding of what was happening was entirely through the boy’s eyes and interpretation. Dumfrey was from Vermont and had been in the navy for five weeks. He’d only been on the St. James for two.

“Anyone lying down, Dumfrey? Can you see if anyone is wounded?”

“Yes, sir. Now I see one man in the boat lyin’ down, like, sir. Could be wounded.”

Rork, standing by his captain, had gotten the remaining crew working to make the St. James ready for weighing the anchor. The dinghy was being repaired in Key West and there was no second small boat to go ashore. He looked over at Wake.

“No way to support the lads, sir. Just have to wait till they come back. But it sounds like they’re all right, by Dumfrey’s eyes.”

“I hate this waiting, but you are right, Rork. We wait.”

Fifteen minutes later, as the sun was making its daily show of farewell on the western horizon, the schooner’s boat was seen coming around the point of the island. It was pulling steadily for the St. James, and from two hundred yards away the men on the schooner’s deck could hear the coxswain, White, calling the steady cadence to the men rowing. In the growing darkness there was no discerning the condition of the men aboard, and all hands on the deck stared without a sound at the boat until Rork bellowed out.

“White! Are ye all right?”

“Nay, Bosun! Man shot!”

The bosun’s voice stirred the others to action and a dozen pairs of arms reached out to fend off and hold as the boat finally came alongside its mother ship. The lantern shed light into the well of the boat. A collective gasp exhaled from the crew looking down. At the same time a wail came up from the boat’s floorboards. A writhing man was down there doubled over and clutching his guts, which were spilling out of his hands like a nest of slimy snakes. Two sailors were trying to hold the man down and stuff the glistening intestines back into the gaping wound in his belly, while several others were prodding three skulking men up from the bows of the boat to climb the hull of the schooner. The prodding was being done with their cutlasses and not too lightly. White looked up from below at his captain.

“Only found four of them soldiers, sir. They said the other’s dead on the beach on the northern island. These ones walked to this island through the shallows. Molloy had to shoot this one, sir. Damned sorry, but nary a choice.”

Wake saw, as he listened to White, that the three ambulatory deserters were now lashed to the foremast and the sailors were trying to get the wounded soldier lifted up on the deck. Gentleness was not employed as they finally threw the now screaming man up after several failures at being more delicate. Wake looked again at White.

“All right, White, come up and tell me what happened. Rork, try to get a dressing on that wound and bind it up. Use some of the laudanum to quiet that man.”

Both men acknowledged Wake, with Rork adding that White had better get the ship’s boat cleaned up before any of the mess set in. White told the ship’s boy to start on it as he climbed up the main chains to the deck and walked aft with the captain. When they reached the stern White stopped, took off his canvas hat, and stood quietly waiting.

“Go ahead, White. What happened?”

“Well sir, Molloy and Hill were walking around the shallows on the lagoon side of the island, looking for them deserters like ya told us all to do. I had three others walking around on the windward side, on the beach there, looking too. Me and the boy was at the boat, waiting for ’em all to come back.”

“Yes, go on. How did they end up shooting him?”

“Well, sir, I sorta seen it myself, ’cause the curve of the island let me see the boys walkin’ through the shallows over there. They’s a walkin’ along and suddenly like, a man jumps outta the mangroves an’ on Molloy with a cutlass or bayonet or somethin’, sir. Saw it my ownself. Molloy starts a hollering and Hill starts a wadin’ back to him, but Molloy finally shot the son of a bitch with his pistol while they’s a wrastlin’. Hill waren’t close enough to help ol’ Molloy afore that bayonet coulda’ done its duty, so Molloy shot ’im and I woulda’ too, sir.”

“And the others?”

“They’s a hidin’ in them mangroves too. When Molloy used his pistol they came outta there, hands high in the air and beggin’ not to shoot them too. Made ’em all drag their friend back to the boat and put him in. They started to get bowed up when we put them three in the bow, so I had the lads keep cutlass points on ’em to keep ’em quiet like. Sorry he ain’t dead, sir. Know what a pure chore it’ll be, but Molloy only got one shot off and it crossed his belly, lettin’ his guts out. Molloy’s a new man, sir. He’s a feelin’ poorly ’bout it right now.”

“I see. Tell Molloy he did his duty and defended himself, White. I’ll talk to him later. Meanwhile get the boat and schooner cleaned up. Lay back on the rode and get her ready for the night. I want two men guarding the prisoners at all times. Send Hill to me.”

While Rork tended to the wounded soldier, who was still alternately crying and screaming despite the laudanum, Wake surveyed his crew. Still no pity showed toward the deserters, who had made the ultimate mistake of showing violence to the men who were doing their duty to apprehend them.

Instead, the sailors were congratulating Molloy on the fact that at least he had hit his target from a distance of six inches and berating him that he couldn’t make it a kill shot from that range. Molloy, a quiet young man in normal circumstances, was smiling at his crewmates but not joining in the laughter. When the others weren’t noticing, he occasionally looked up to the foredeck where Rork was finishing up his dressing and binding. Wake made a mental note to definitely speak with the youngster and went below to his cabin.

Hill arrived as Wake was lighting his lamp. A skinny man, around thirty, he looked and smelled like he had never known a bath. He ran a filthy hand through his greasy hair to get an errant curl out of his eyes then stood as straight as the cabin overhead would allow.

“Sir, Seaman Hill reportin’, sir.”

Wake sat at the small desk and eyed him for a moment. Hill tried to look away.

“Hill, tell me what happened. Tell me straight, Hill.”

Hill tried to stand still and looked at the chart on the desk.

“Well, sir. That ol’ soldier jes’ jumped Molloy in the mangroves. I’s ahead a Molloy, an’ turned when I heard the splashin’. Deserter man was comin’ at Molloy with a bayonet or long knife. Got him up close too. Molloy said to ’im ‘get back!’ an’ the soldier kept acomin’ with that big blade, so’s ol’ Molloy shot him in the gut. That stopped him.

“Then they’s a bunch o’ other ones in the groves, an’ theys’ all give up right away like. No fuss from them. Molloy had no choice on it, sir.”

“Where’s the knife, or bayonet?”

“We looked, sir, but couldn’t find it. Gotta be there, under that silt ’n sand.”

“Very well, Hill, thank you. Send Bosun Rork here.”

Wake turned his attention to his pen and paper as Hill climbed the ladder to the deck above. He would have to start on a report detailing all of this, with statements from the sailors and from the deserters. From the looks of the wound, the gut shot deserter could well be dead by the morn, and the documentation of all of this would best be started now, while it was all fresh.

Rork’s bulk filled the room as he slid down the ladder and turned to the captain. He was bent almost double due to the five-foot headroom. Blood stained his shirt. His eyes looked weary.

“Rork, sit down and take a load off your feet. How’s the wounded man?”

“Not good, sir. He’ll probably go by tomorrow. I’ve seen ’em last longer, but not much. He’s a bit more tranquil now, Captain. I put a Irish lullaby on his head to make him forget the pain.”

After serving with the bosun for almost eight months, Wake by now knew that an “Irish lullaby” was a stout blow from a strong fist to a head, intended to knock the recipient out cold.

“And what of the others? What did they have to say?”

“They made a pot o’ noise, sir, most of which had no sense. They did tell the story of their venture. Seems they had no idea exactly where they were, ’cause the ship that dropped their regiment off at the fortress in Tortugas steamed there in the night. Didn’t know the distance. They thought Key West was just a ways to the east. Sail a bit with the wind at your back and the magic city would come over the horizon!

“Fools they were, Captain. A wee bit o’ water and some biscuits. They all were scared proper by the time they spent a night alone in a leakin’ sailin’ skiff made for a day’s sail o’ reef fishin’. Was prayin’ to Peter and Paul, they was, by the sound of their story. Drifted by the wind an’ set by the current across to the Marquesas. Not knowing where they was, o’ course, and landed on the island three days later, damned near dead, all of them. No water left ’n no food. One soul drank the sea water and ended his days on the beach of another island, twistin’ in the guts. Buried the poor bastard on that island where he fell. Rest sat there for a couple o’ days more, till they saw the darlin’ St. James come along like an angel to save ’em.

“Said they was glad to see us, an’ was made up to go back to their regiment. Had quite a bit enough of the life o’ the carefree deserter an’ buckaroo.”

“Really? Interesting . . .”

“Even more curious than that, sir. Said that the one layin’ gutshot came out to talk, an’ got shot by our boy Molloy. Two o’ them twarn’t talkin’ on it, Captain, but the oldest o’ the lot lashed up there, the man named Dobert, he said it looked like the sailor shot the soldier by mistake. Got startled and the pistol fired.”

Rork stopped talking and looked across the dim cabin to his captain.

“Bring them one at a time back here, except the wounded one, of course, and we’ll get statements. It’ll be a long night, Rork.”

“Aye, that it will, Captain. No rest for the wicked or the weary!”

With that the bosun lifted himself up the ladder while Wake returned to his penmanship in the yellow-tinted gloom. The evening moved slowly, with two of the prisoners talkative about how they had stolen the boat and fled the hell of Fortress Jefferson but silent about the shooting, and Dobert strangely devoid of emotion as he described how his companion became mortally wounded.

Next, Rork brought White, Hill, and Molloy down separately. Each gave a sworn statement reciting what they had previously said. In the end, Rork and Wake sat at the desk and spoke of the situation.

“Well, sir, it looks by the face o’ it that our lads should be believed. Accident or in battle, the man was a deserter who got shot, and if he dies on the ’morrow he may be luckier than those who live to see Jefferson and that colonel again. Methinks that those men will have a hard way to go, an’ may plan better the next time they decide to go cruisin’ through the islands. If they live past the punishment! You have a problem with it, sir?”

“No, Rork. You’re right. A deserter deserves whatever he drifts into. Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’ll get written up, and that will be that. Get some sleep. We sail in the morn to bring the gallant colonel his wayward boys.”

***

The scene on the deck the next morning was one not likely to be soon forgotten by the men of the schooner St. James. The wounded man, full of laudanum and rum, was lolling around on the deck, his leg lashed to a ringbolt, and the other prisoners were staring at him with a look of dread in their faces. Wake thought that it might well be a valuable lesson to the younger members of his own crew about the consequences of military, and especially naval, discipline. So far on this ship, Wake hadn’t had to resort to any serious discipline, a result he related to Rork’s ability to lead men through example and deterrence. Still, it was good that those who had not seen such discipline be treated to this sight.

The wind sprung up from the southeast after sunrise, and the St. James sailed on her best point with the air on the port quarter. With six knots of speed she was making good time to the west and the Tortugas Islands. None of the sailors would stand or sit near the prisoners, and the wounded one, now known to be named Drake, had a broad area of deck to himself. His dark, soaked dressing oozing blood onto the deck made the sailors cringe and curse, not from the pain, but from the work to holystone the wood clean again.

As the day went on, the taboo area around Drake diminished in size, until the crew fairly stepped over and close to him as they did their chores. He became just another of the deck fittings, without value or respect. As if he were already dead.

The prisoners lashed to the foremast sat sullenly throughout the day. As deserters, they were not even allowed the amenities that enemy prisoners would be allowed. No periodic freedom to stretch their legs. No regular food or drink from the crew’s mess. Just enough water and rock hard ship’s biscuit to sustain life until Jefferson. Staring at Drake, their eyes appeared to look at him with envy, for at least he was without pain or fear.

In the mid-afternoon the lookout sighted the walls of the fortress rising out of the sea. As eerie as it was when they would depart Jefferson, Wake couldn’t help but be impressed each time he returned. Despite the unsavory and sad aspects of the place, it did hold some spell over him.

An hour after first sighting the Tortugas, Drake stopped rolling around in his stupor on the deck. Rork went over and felt his neck for a pulse, made the sign of the cross, and walked aft to report to Wake that the prisoner was dead.

“Should we bury him here at sea, sir, or take him to his regiment?”

Wake muttered in reply. “Regiment.” He walked over to the windward rail for some air. The business of catching deserters like they were stray dogs did not appeal to him. He hated it.

Dozens of men, some in blue uniforms and others in dirty gray rags, lined the walls of Fort Jefferson and its main dock when the St. James anchored off the fortress later in the afternoon as the shadows were starting to lengthen. The same young flustered army lieutenant arrived at the schooner in the garrison’s boat and awkwardly climbed up the side to the main deck. He stared at the prisoners, three alive and sullen, one dead and serene, lying on the foredeck. One could almost imagine a slight smile on Drake’s lifeless face. The lieutenant finally turned to Wake.

“Sir, the colonel presents his compliments and appreciation for capturing the deserters. He said to say he was sorry for any inconvenience the voyage to the Marquesas to capture this scum has caused you. My soldiers in the boat will take them from you now. But I see only four. Did they resist, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. This one,” Wake pointed to Drake, “resisted. The others gave up. One had died of thirst. He’s buried out there. None of my men were wounded.”

“Well, thank God for that, sir. The colonel, he wants to invite you to be his guest for dinner, sir. Says the army would like to show the navy its hospi . . . hospitality, sir. I’m to come and get you at sunset.”

“Thank the colonel for his invitation, Lieutenant, but I am tired and would not be good company, though I am sure that his table would be splendid. I have written a short summary of the events of the capture and death of your men. I just completed a copy, which you’ll get now, before we leave.”

The lieutenant looked positively scared.

“But sir, the colonel has invited you to dinner! You’ve got to go, sir. He’s invited you to dinner with the senior officers of the regiment. He expects you to be there, sir! I’m supposed to bring you. You can’t leave now!”

“Lieutenant, I am tired and not in the best of outlooks right now. Your deserters are in your boat and so should you be. Tell your colonel that the exigencies of the service deny me the pleasure of his table and company, and that I must and shall depart. Now. Good evening, sir.”

Wake turned away and watched some of his crew start to clean up the large dark stain on the deck. He noticed that Molloy was not among them.

“Rork, weigh the anchor and let’s get her moving along. I want to be out of the fortress channel by the time it gets completely dark.”

When it became clear that no one would look at or talk to him, the army lieutenant finally moved to the edge of the deck. He went down the side without a word and the boatload of misery made its way to the dock. Rork met Wake aft by the tiller.

“Leavin’ outta’ here in the dark, Captain? It’ll be a wee bit dicey dancin’ amongst those reefs tonight.”

“No, Rork. We’ll sail out of the fortress channel and anchor after dark inside the reefs by Garden Key. We’ll cross the outer reefs in the morning light.”

“Aye, sir,” said the bosun, who saw but did not understand the odd look on his captain’s face. “I was a wonderin’ why the sudden departure with the dark comin’. No disrespect intended, sir. Are ye all right, Captain?”

“No, Rork. I’m not all right. But I’ll start to be when we get away from this hellish place and its damned puppet colonels and dungeon atmosphere. And I want that stain off her deck! God, I feel like I’m on a stinking slaver.”

“Aye, sir. By morn she’ll look as clean an’ pretty as an’ Irish bride at the altar, sir! Know whatcha meanin’ about the slaver. Takes a bit out o’ a man to go after one o’ his own, even if they are just a bunch o’ army pogues. Had to do the duty, though, sir.”

“I’d rather be going after the enemy, Rork. It’s cleaner work.”

“Aye, we all agree on that, sir.”

The two of them turned their attention to the immediate issue of sailing the schooner away from the fortress in the gathering dusk, and no more was said about the stain or what caused it. Both of them knew there would be more stains, and there was nothing anyone could do about them, except clean up afterwards.