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.
2
The Stream
