Honorable Mention Read online

  “Good morning, sir. We did it. We’ve completed the provisions and ammunition and are ready to get under way as soon as Bosun Rork here can get the hatches secured. Mr. Emerson was looking for you to make his report, sir. He’s in the wheelhouse, I think, sir. Mr. Ginaldi’s there too, sir.”

  Wake acknowledged the ensign’s information, noting the positive tone in Rhodes’ voice. Making his way forward and up the ladder to the small wheelhouse, Wake heard Rork and Rhodes conferring about which lines would be taken up in what sequence when they departed the wharf. It appeared that young Rhodes was feeling more confident, having accomplished far more than he’d originally thought, and his demeanor was showing it. Wake was glad to see the change.

  The wheelhouse was dark, the binnacle giving the only light from its faint glow. Two forms stood by the wheel and straightened as Wake entered. One of them stepped forward into the light.

  “Good morning, sir. Mr. Ginaldi and I were just getting ready to go to your cabin to make our reports to you.”

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Go ahead with your reports.”

  Emerson’s weariness was apparent in his tone. “Sir, all authorized hands are aboard. We have water and provisions aboard for three weeks. Powder and ammunition spaces have been filled. Medical supplies were sent aboard with some extra clothing and hammock gear from the slop chest at the naval station. I thought we might have to burn the Ramer men’s clothing, sir. I had the bosun lay out a towing hauser aft, and we have fenders ready for coming alongside. We also got another small boat from the carpenter’s shop ashore. We’re supposed to deliver it to the San Jacinto if we see her. It might come in handy if we need to transfer supplies in a sea to Ramer.”

  “Very good, anything else?”

  “Ship is secured and the engine has steam, lines are manned, and she is currently being readied for departure.”

  “What about the men, Mr. Emerson?”

  “The men? Yes, sir, they’re tired out. I’ve sent half the sailors below and have half on deck standing by to get underway.”

  “And you, Mr. Ginaldi?”

  “The bunkers are mostly full and stowed level. We have enough coal aboard for approximately fifteen hundred steaming miles at seven knots, sir. The steam machinery is up to pressure and the gears and shafts are ready. Condenser tubes have some corrosion buildup, but they’ll last awhile. Oil pressure was down due to a leak, but McKinney says he’s got it found and fixed, Captain.”

  “What about that man Chard? A coal heaver, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, sir. A coal heaver. McKinney and I persuaded him to join the crew. Told him we were heading north, which of course is completely true—just not as far north as he might like. He’s below on duty right now with the other men.”

  “And your men—how are they?”

  “Ready to drop, Captain. But they’ll handle it. They have to. We’re the ones that make this beast move.”

  Emerson darted a glance at the engineer in the gloom, starting to say something but then staying silent. Wake took note that Ginaldi did not make his comment with bravado or complaint. It was simply a fact. Exhaustion in the heat of the tropics was a normal state for the men in the engine room. Wake didn’t know how they did it. He had only been in there while at anchor in the last few days, but it was too hot and claustrophobic for him even then. He was not looking forward to being in there when the engine was producing the heat needed for moving the ship, or the beast, as Ginaldi had called her.

  Wake wasn’t too sure about Ginaldi yet—he had no experience with engines or the engineers who made them run, and they seemed to be an odd type. Not at all like the deck sailors, the real sailors. More like passengers on a packet ship who knew the sailors disliked them, but without whom the sailors would have no ship. Wake was literally at Ginaldi’s mercy as far as the ship’s steam engine was concerned and would have to trust the man. There was no other choice.

  “All right gentlemen, let’s get her under way, then set the watches and allow the men to get some sleep. Mr. Emerson, you may stay here with me. Mr. Rhodes and the bosun can handle the lines.

  “Mr. Ginaldi, I believe Schnieders and McKinney can handle the engine room. I would like you here to be a resource for me on how the engine will respond to commands. I know the commands and have read the book, but I want your opinion.”

  Ten minutes later, Wake and the two officers were standing on the starboard deck outside the wheelhouse, watching the men take in the mooring lines. Wake asked for suggestions and Ginaldi was the first to respond.

  “Put the wheel midship, sir. Then back her by ringing astern slow. She’ll back off into the stream of the ebb and be away from the wharf. With this ebb, I think we’d do better with astern slow, rather than dead slow. Need to get her away from the dock before the ebb gets ahold of her stern.”

  Wake nodded in understanding. In a schooner he would have warped the vessel aft and kedged her out with an anchor. This was different—very different.

  Emerson was looking at the area astern of the Hunt.

  “I think he’s right, sir. That should work. The tidal current’ll catch us and help swing her around.”

  Wake took in a breath and smiled, then turned to the man stationed at the large bell outside the after bulkhead of the wheelhouse.

  “Very well, ring for engine astern slow.”

  Three bells rapidly rang out as Wake leaned outboard and called to Rhodes forward, who had only the fore- and aftermost lines still holding the ship to the wharf.

  “Take in the bow and stern lines, and stand by to fend off with spars. Stand by the anchor in case we need it fast.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” came the reply from somewhere at the bow as men along the starboard side of the Hunt pulled out the two extra spars kept aboard and held them in readiness.

  And then Wake felt something very strange with the ship. At first he thought something had gone wrong and was about to ask Ginaldi, but that man showed no concern. Suddenly the source of the unusual tremble in the deck was obvious. Wake realized that it was logical when one thought about it, actually, and he stood there almost mesmerized by the sensation as the ship shuddered while the reversal gear was engaged. The wheelhouse started to shake, and the swashing sound of water could be heard as the propeller began to churn counterclockwise, pulling the Hunt away from the wharf and into the tidal current. Wake heard a high-pitched sigh come from above him and knew that the effort of the engine had sent a small black cloud from the smoke stack into the dark sky. The sight of the wharf gliding by next to them made Wake almost giddy, but he was brought back to his senses by the engineer.

  “I believe that right about now I would ring for the engine to stop, sir. The stern is already swinging with the current. Then I would ring for ahead slow and put the helm over to port. That’ll get her around.”

  “I agree with Mr. Ginaldi, sir,” added Emerson, a trifle too quickly.

  “Very well, make it so, Mr. Emerson,” Wake said, and the engineer gave the proper orders.

  The Hunt swung her bow around into and then across the current as she turned. The stern came toward the wharf but not close enough for the spars to be used. Then suddenly she was away, completing her circle and moving slowly with the ebb tide through the harbor as the eastern horizon showed a tinge of gray and the stars faded from view.

  Wake moved back into the wheelhouse, followed by Emerson and Ginaldi. Dirkus appeared next to Wake and held out a mug of coffee without saying a word.

  “Thank you, Dirkus. I think I will have some. You look as if you assisted in the loading too.”

  Dirkus looked down at his grimy shirt, then nodded without expression.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wake looked at his steward, gauging the man.

  “Well, it was a job done well by all hands, Dirkus. See if you can conjure up a quick breakfast for the officers and
me. Then get some sleep.”

  “It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, sir. I figured you’d want it once we got away from the channel and out to sea.”

  “Excellent, Dirkus. I’m very hungry this morning and looking forward to what you’ve got prepared.”

  The steward nodded again and walked away quickly in short gliding steps, delicately sidestepping Emerson, who was easily visible now in the growing light, watching the steward depart.

  “He’s an odd one, sir. But he does his job.”

  Ginaldi stopped on his way out of the wheelhouse.

  “Mr. Emerson’s made an understatement, Captain. Dirkus is beyond odd, he’s eerie, if you ask me.”

  Wake felt the same way, but had only been aboard for a few days and had no proof of anything.

  “Gentlemen, he can be as odd and eerie as he wants, as long as the coffee’s hot and the food is good. Thank you both for the assistance in getting away from the wharf. I’ve still some learning to do about the Hunt’s ways.”

  Ginaldi put a knuckle to his brow in a quick informal salute as he stood on the deck outside.

  “You’re learning fast, Captain. You’ll pick it up in no time. By your leave, sir, I’m heading below to check on McKinney.”

  Emerson looked briefly at the engineer then moved to stand next to the helmsman, noting the bearing of Fort Taylor on the port bow.

  “Fort Taylor bearing east s’east, sir. Channel mark for the turn is coming up. I’ll ring for half ahead once we get to that leg of the channel. We’ll be away from the anchorage then.”

  “Very well, Mr. Emerson. You have the deck. Take her out the channel to sea. Once we’re beyond the ship channel, I want her at best speed heading nor’east along the Keys to the east coast. Use the lighthouses as references to keep her at least four miles off the reef, but keep her going fast. Ramer needs us there as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And Mr. Emerson.”

  “Sir?”

  “The decks are filthy, but they and the rest of the ship can wait for a cleaning until the men get some rest and some food. All duty watchstanders not being employed on something important should get some rest. I want the men still standing watch to have a good breakfast, and I want a good supper for all hands later in the day. When we arrive at Mosquito Inlet we’ll need all our strength and our wits about us. Do not hesitate to notify me of any vessel sighting, weather change, or unusual occurrence.”

  Emerson stared at his captain, who had just spoken heresy in not keeping a naval vessel as spotless as possible at all times.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Wake looked around the wheelhouse as the gray on the horizon spread into pale blue, and colors aboard the Hunt became apparent. He watched as the helmsman gazed ahead, periodically glancing down at the binnacle to check his course. The messenger stood against the after bulkhead, arms folded behind him with eyes focused on the helmsman’s head, and the lookouts on either side scanned the harbor and the sea beyond. None of those men had reacted in any obvious way to Wake’s orders, but all of them had heard them and knew they were on a very different kind of ship than the one they had arrived in Key West aboard. It wouldn’t be long before the whole crew would know what had been said in the wheelhouse.

  The crew had heard the rumors about Wake. How he had a knack for finding action. How he made his own luck. They hoped that luck would hold, for the other rumors had them heading for a yellow jack death ship up on the east coast. They knew all about death ships. Their very own Hunt had been one.

  As the sun moved west they moved east, counting off the lighthouses marking one of the most dangerous reefs in the country as they were passed—Sand Key, Sombrero Key, Carysfort Reef. These lighthouses were most unusual, since they were not built on land but on reefs offshore and had spindly frames that appeared quite frail. Wake pointed them out to Emerson as they slid by the Hunt’s beam.

  “Interesting point of fact, Mr. Emerson. The famous General George Gordon Meade, who vanquished Lee at Gettysburg last year, was the man who designed and built those lighthouses for us a few years ago.”

  “They don’t look that sturdy, sir. Been through any hurricanes?”

  “Well, they have stood several storms so far. They’re not that old. Mostly from the fifties, when Meade was a captain in the engineers. Screwpile design, where the iron is screwed down into the coral somehow. Amazing.”

  By sunrise the next day they were in the Gulf Stream’s dark blue water well north of Cape Florida’s old brick lighthouse on Key Biscayne. The beaches of the Florida mainland were now visible far off to the west, mile after mile of them. Steaming northward through the undulating seas with an easy motion, and using that ocean river to make nine and a half miles good toward their destination each hour, Hunt was in her element. Not sleek and beautiful like the schooner St. James, but strong and purposeful. The ceaseless pounding of the pistons and cranks that drove the shaft around and turned the propeller reminded Wake of a beating heart. He was starting to feel that she was his. He just wished he understood her better.

  In mid-afternoon they passed the new red lighthouse at Jupiter Inlet. Wake was peering at it on the far horizon when Emerson came up to him.

  “Another of Meade’s, sir?”

  “Yes, his last one on this coast. Got it done in sixty. Navy hasn’t repaired it since the Rebels sabotaged it in ’61. It isn’t worth it. We’d have to keep a garrison to protect it. Shame really. Brand new lighthouse and it’s not even lit.”

  “Another casualty of the war, Captain. I guess the Rebels control the whole coast?”

  “Yes, most of it. You never know where they will be, and so you have to always assume . . .”

  Rhodes called out enthusiastically from the chartroom behind them. “Bearing on that distant lighthouse shows we are making good time over the bottom, sir. The Stream is helping considerably. I estimate we should be at Mosquito Inlet in approximately eleven hours at this speed. Possibly twelve.”

  Wake smiled at the report. These officers were new to Florida and the Gulf Stream. The Stream was a fascinating force of nature, but it couldn’t help them all the way to their destination.

  “Mr. Rhodes, thank you. Let me show you something.”

  Walking back into the tiny chartroom annexed to the rear of the wheelhouse, he put his finger on their present position. Emerson followed, and watched as Wake began.

  “We must always be very careful when around the Stream. It behaves very unpredictably. Today it has helped us, but we can’t count on that. We also won’t be in the Stream for much longer, because we won’t be steering due northerly anymore. Sighting Jupiter was the sign to turn n’nor’west. That will do several things, gentlemen.

  “First, it will allow us to follow the trend of the coast in that direction, but stay offshore enough to clear Cape Canaveral tonight. The Cape’s light won’t be lit—same Rebel sabotage problem—but soundings should be a good enough warning. Secondly, it will diminish our speed to around seven and a half knots. Thirdly, it will change our estimated transit time to about seventeen and a half hours. That will put us there just after sunrise tomorrow. Questions?”

  Emerson looked at the chart and shook his head, Rhodes looked up at Wake, with a concerned mien.

  “Sorry for the wrong estimate, sir.”

  “Not a problem. I am learning this ship, you newer officers are learning Florida.”

  Wake turned and departed the wheelhouse spaces, descending to the main deck and walking aft. At the number two gun, Durlon was teaching the gun’s crew the loading and firing drill of the twelve-pounder howitzer, and Wake paused to listen for a moment.

  “This darlin’ will save your life, and the ship’s life, if used properly. I remember a time when me and the captain were up a river on the west coast of this vermin-ridden state, surrounded by them dirty Rebs by the doz
en. Thought they had us paid and done, but then the bastards knew they was sadly mistaken when they felt the hot touch of a navy twelve come their way. She was served by a gun crew much like yourselves, boys who knew what to do.” Durlon looked up and saw Wake watching. “Do you remember that one, Captain?”

  “Aye, gunner. That I do. You and your iron daughter did good work that day. Saved our lives for certain, Durlon. You men listen to this man. He knows his guns.”

  Nods and grins all around rewarded Wake, who walked further aft as Durlon went through the numbers of the loading drill, calling them out and having the men repeat them.

  Wake was seeing something he had hoped for—men were smiling and looking rested. They were laughing and complaining and cajoling. The ship had gotten cleaned up and the equipage stowed. They were ready.

  “When sailors get quiet, officers had best get very careful,” his father told him once. “It means the men are past the point of words and are contemplating evil doings.” Wake had never forgotten that wisdom, and knew it applied in the naval service as well as the merchant service—especially when facing unknown danger and death.

  Wake stood by the towing bits at the stern and looked at the swirling path behind them. Pounding incessantly, the steam engine never stopped or slowed. The stack spewed a gritty cloud of soot, some of which fell around Wake. The rhythm of the pounding engine reminded him of the description he had heard once of an African tribe’s war drums—never changing, always throbbing along, the self-discipline and inevitability terrifying. Wake wondered if he would ever get used to the sound that vibrated through every part of his ship. The steam engine is in real control of this ship, the men are simply pointing her, he thought as he turned forward again.

  He knew where he was going next. The noise grew rapidly as you got closer, until, when one was at the hatchway to the engine room, a man had to shout to be heard just a foot or two away. Inside the hatch, it was like a scene from a newspaper cartoon of a New York madhouse. Communication was done by sign language. Danger was everywhere, with metal arms pulling and pushing, steam wooshing and hissing from valves, and fire raging from the red hot boxes below the boilers.