Point of Honor. Robert N. Macomber
him into a sleep that occupied four hours.
“Deck there! A big lugger is coming out of that bay ahead!”
The sound of the lookout’s report startled Wake’s dreaming mind and he sat bolt upright, almost cracking his head on the beam above. By the time he had reached the main deck, most of the crew on watch was staring off to the south, pointing at a two-masted triangular-sailed vessel standing out to sea, straight at St. James and the other ship. The Cuban coast was only three or four miles away. Abruptly, a spot of color appeared in the after rigging of the new vessel: the gold and white colors of the empire of Spain. The lugger was naval, and she was now steering directly for the schooner ahead of St. James.
With a determined countenance, Rork shook his head and turned to his captain, who had just come up to the foredeck.
“Captain, I’ll be a sheepherder in Bantry if it don’t look like the dago navy will be protecting our friend there. Probably escort them into harbor so’s us yanks don’t violate the precious sanctity of Spain’s waters! Won’t have her afore she reaches their protection. More’s the pity too, sir. Me relatives in Eire would’ve loved it here. Luck o’ the ever bleedin’ Irish.”
Wake, who usually tried not to show great emotion in front of the crew, believing it lessened the trust they had to have in him, gave in to his frustration.
“Damn, Rork, I think you’re right. She’ll just make it. Damn it all. Make ready to come about. We’ll just head home the minute they come up to her.”
But Rork was not right. The fleeing schooner did not rush into the protecting arms of the Spanish Navy. Instead, moments after the lugger had shown her official colors, the mystery schooner bore off to the west and put her sails out wing and wing again. St. James was close enough now, less than a mile, that Wake could look through his glass and see figures on the fleeing ship setting more sail.
“By Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ll not fathom that move, Captain!”
“I don’t either, Rork, but let’s follow her around and bear off the wind. And get everything aloft that will catch air! Maybe we won’t turn around after all.”
Now a puff of smoke showed from the Spaniard and the dull pop of a cannon shot came across the water. A splash erupted two hundred yards behind the other schooner.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch! ’Tis the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, sir! The dagos are goin’ after her.”
“Now I’ve absolutely got to see what’s aboard her, Rork. This is getting very interesting.”
With all hands in the evolution, St. James’s crew completed a very dangerous jibe and brought all sail wing and wing. Every sail aboard was sent up and spread out on either side of the ship as the chase continued to the west with the wind from astern. She rolled to her beams but stayed under the control of the men, for now it took two at the helm. Everyone in the crew was excited as they watched the other ships, pondering the reasons for the actions of the lugger. Wake stared at the Spaniard, waiting for a shot to come his way. But none were fired toward the American naval vessel. Only the mystery ship was a target of the Spanish—three more times.
Their course was now along the Cuban coast, heading for Mexico. This far inshore there was a westerly countercurrent of the Stream that assisted all three vessels in their progress. The two schooners slowly outfooted the lugger, and by sunset she was a distant third place in the bizarre race. Wake went down to the table in his cabin and pulled what charts he had for this area. The drawer held only small-scale general charts with no details of harbors and bays.
The lack of decent charts reinforced the irrefutable fact that he was taking a huge chance. He was leaving his patrol area. His ship was short of water. They were obviously involved in some sort of situation with the Spanish Navy and heading along the coast of a foreign power. Hopefully, and from what Wake could tell, probably, they were outside the territorial waters of Spain. But what exactly was the situation?
Had Spain declared war against the Confederate States while St. James was away from Key West? But the other vessel flew no colors. Or did the Spanish know that schooner and have some other reason for trying to capture or destroy her? Wake knew in his gut that the schooner ahead of them was no run-of-the-mill blockade runner. Something was different about her, and he had sensed it from the beginning. The competency of the captain and crew in complicated maneuvers, the determination to carry sail in rough seas, the veering off from the Cuban coast—it all added up to something important, but Wake couldn’t deduce what. He did decide that it was important enough to risk the lives of his crew by running extremely low on the water supply. They were going to continue west and capture that ship and the men upon her, wherever they fled.
***
At the western end of Cuba stood a notorious cape called Cabo San Antonio. Beyond it, across the 150-mile wide Yucatan Channel, lay the coast of Mexico. That much Wake knew from charts and other naval officers. He had heard that the channel was home to a ferocious current moving north between the two coastlines, as well as a southeast wind that came up unimpeded five hundred miles from the South American mainland. But he had never sailed this far west along Cuba and knew he was going fast into a dangerous confrontation blind. The young ship commander thought about the variables of their situation, and how his superiors would later view his decisions, as the schooner raced through the night on the heels of the ship ahead. The range between them had closed to half a mile, the faded moonlight of the last watch making it seem a bit more.
In the light of a swaying lantern in his cabin he and Rork were studying the skimpy chart of the area. Wake stabbed the chart with a finger and looked at his bosun.
“I place us here, ten miles from Antonio and off the Colorados Labyrinth Islands, by best guess.”
Rork stabbed his own finger at a notation on the chart.
“I agree, sir. On deck in the moonlight a minute ago I thought I saw that last island on the chart there. O’ course, I been wrong afore. An’ I don’t want to make the acquaintance of those reefs!”
“Well, I think we’re both right on this. Just wish it would calm down enough for a decent sight with the octant. I hate dead reckoning in this strange area. I don’t know the currents here.”
“Captain, it looks like she might be headin’ for goin’ round Cuba. Maybe makin’ for Jamaica. Or maybe Mexico. Our water won’t last near long enough for that, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
A larger than usual wave thudded into the quarter of the ship right by Wake’s back, and he lurched across the table as the hull dropped away.
“Yes, I know that. We’ll turn if we can’t get her by the morrow’s night. We’ve got to get her though. There is something going on here. We must get her, Rork.”
“Can we go into a Cuban port for provisions an’ water?”
“Only certain ones. None around this part of the coast. We’d probably be taken into custody.”
“Jesus above! The luck o’ the Irish is holdin’ for this crew. The devil is laughin’ tonight.”
“Now that the beer’s gone, how much water’s left?”
“Four of the small ones, sir. One was drunk today, and the boat’s cask is still there an’ full.”
“Four small casks for twenty-five men, and we’re two or three days from Key West. It’s going to be very close. Damn. “
Wake looked at Rork’s eyes and suddenly felt much older than his twenty-five years. Then he remembered the date: the 25th day of June. It was his twenty-sixth birthday. He did not tell Rork.
***
The Gulf Stream hit them again. The genesis for that mighty river started here where the currents of the Caribbean were compressed between Cuba and Mexico and shot out into the Gulf of Mexico and the Straits of Florida. Cabo San Antonio got its reputation from sailors who quickly found themselves in extremely dangerous conditions after they left the lee of