Point of Honor. Robert N. Macomber
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