Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (21 page)

Warfield's hulking shape was at the entry port when I hobbled through, every part of my body hurting. The dream of stretching out in bed filled my mind like a beckoning narcotic, a vision I was trying to ignore.

“I thought you all were goners, Captain,” he blurted out. Then, with a tinge of apology he added, “This damned storm's gotten up far worse than I'd predicted. Good thing the German turned to help. We were trying to weigh the anchors and get to you, sir, but they're stuck in deep as hell.”

“Don't worry about it, John,” I gasped while clinging to a stanchion. “I didn't think it'd be this bad either. And yes, we were lucky Captain Blau helped. He just finished coaling at the pier.”

A shouted report came down from officer of the deck on the bridge. “Lookouts report
Atlanta
and
Essex
are through the main channel and south of the island, sir! The German and Spanish cruisers are southbound in the main channel now, sir.
Chicago
is getting under way at the wharf.”

All eyes went toward the wharf. Walker and his men had done it. The flagship was free of the wharf and the land, her bow swinging to the southwest and the main channel. She was following
Gneisenau
and
Reina Regente
to run downwind through the channel and get under the lee of the Florida Keys. I concluded the two foreign warships would probably shadow Walker's ships for the next week or so, and thus be in a position to observe the squadron's upcoming gunnery practice. That would give them valuable intelligence as to the true state of the American Navy's combat readiness.

Well, I decided, that was going to be the admiral's problem. I had enough other things to worry about.

My pocket watch showed it was now almost midnight on the fourteenth. Time had run out for doing anything else but proceeding directly to Tampa. Making the 260-mile run from Man O War Anchorage at Key West to the Tampa docks usually took twenty-four hours—in fair weather. But the weather was the opposite of fair, and getting worse with each minute.

I staggered like a drunk along the deck to my cabin. Once there, while gradually recovering the use of my wrenched arm muscles by flexing them gently, I reviewed my options.

The secondary channel into Key West is the twenty-foot-deep Northwest Channel, which leads into the Gulf of Mexico and is the normal route to go north to Tampa. The nor'wester gale was blowing right down the channel.
Chicago
and the foreign cruisers drew too much water for the channel, but
Bennington
's fourteen feet could proceed through the meandering
center of the passage, though it would be a very risky navigation challenge in the rain-shrouded dark and against the brute force of the storm.

I calculated the timing. If we stayed in comfortably safe, deep water by going south out the main channel, then steaming west sixty miles toward the islands of the Dry Tortugas, there to turn north and head for Tampa, it would add about eighty miles and at least half a day. On the other hand, if we slogged up Northwest Channel into the teeth of the gale, we would save time and distance, but it would be extremely dangerous. Foolhardy would be a more appropriate description.

Even so, that was my decision, for time was paramount.

Key West
Midnight Wednesday evening
14 December 1892

I called for Commander Warfield to come to my cabin. As I changed my clothing, I briefly presented him with the facts of how the entire situation had unfolded, from Jamaica until then. His face grew grimmer as he took in the explanation for all our apparently bizarre endeavors of the prior week.

Warfield's only comment was a cryptic, “Well, now I understand, sir.”

Then I gave him my plan of action, afterward asking for his candid evaluation. True to form, he presented an analytical summary of the salient points.

“It'll take some time to get our anchors up, sir. Once that's done, we can make it through Northwest Channel, even in this bad a storm,
if
we go slow and the searchlight functions well. We'll have both the tide and wind against us on this side of the Keys, so we'll make no more than six knots during the ten-mile
transit. Once we're free of the channel, we can make maybe twelve knots against the storm, but I'd count on ten over the bottom. That puts us at the docks in Tampa at approximately three o'clock in the morning on Friday, the sixteenth.”

I nodded my concurrence. It was the same time of arrival I'd estimated. Warfield held up a hand while shaking his head. “However, there is a major factor involved here we haven't spoken of yet, sir. The engineer officer reports three of our four boilers are in dire need of overhauling—boilers A, B, and C—and the fourth one not far behind. He told me it would take at least four days to flush and clean the almost four hundred tubes inside each boiler. The pressure readings prove his point, sir. I've read the reports myself. We are straining the boilers and engines as if under war conditions, and Lieutenant Angles is very concerned.”

I'd been worried about that very thing. Warfield next spoke as if he was reading my mind.

“The ship and boilers are new, or they probably would've blown the safety valves already, sir. If two or more boilers
do
end up tripping their safety valves, we'll be stopped dead in the water right then and there. In the midst of a storm. The only alternative at that point would be to sail downwind back to Key West. I recommend we maintain steam for ten knots and no more on this transit to Tampa, sir. It'll help lessen the strain on the boilers.”

He'd presented it well, the facts without hysteria. Lieutenant Edward Angles, the dour engineering officer who kept to himself and his mechanical beasts below, had been telling Gardiner and me the same thing for a week.

But one more run was needed. Then we could lay up and overhaul the boilers, a nasty job for the men who tended them. As for being in war conditions, I considered us in war
preventative
conditions. We had to go.

“Thank you for bringing that up, Commander. It is a valid and important point, but a risk I must take.”

“Is all this really worth the risk, sir? For a foreign rebel leader, not even an American? If and when we fail, your career will be over. Thirty years for nothing.”

The man was genuinely concerned for me. It brought memories of another time and place, far away and long ago, and another man who was concerned for me because of a decision I'd made.

“John, I learned an excellent lesson almost twenty years ago from a wise Mohammedan scholar in Northwest Africa. His name was Mu'al-lim Sohkoor, and he was the royal scholar to the king of Morocco. This was at a time when I faced an overwhelming Tuareg enemy, had little time to rescue hostages, and had few assets to use. Just before I had to make a decision about what to do, Sohkoor told me, very quietly, something I have never forgotten since: ‘You are a warrior, Peter, and for a warrior, there are times to risk everything. It is true that when a warrior does take a risk, he may lose everything in defeat. But always remember that if a warrior never takes a risk, he will always know defeat.'”

Warfield asked, “So what did you do, sir?”

Intense visions flashed in my memory. Once again, I felt the doubt in my mind, the intense pain of a chest wound, and despair of Rork and I knowing we were about to die, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the Sahara Desert. Remembering made the wound begin to throb as if reopened, and I absentmindedly massaged it. I suppose I was grimacing, for Warfield was looking at me oddly.

I didn't tell him about the memories or sudden pain, but simply said, “I risked everything—the life of myself, my partner, and several others. We were wounded very badly and almost died, but we accomplished the mission, and the innocents were saved. John, I don't want to seem melodramatic, but Martí is the innocent in this situation. He must be saved to do his work. The future of this hemisphere needs him.”

Warfield nodded pensively. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Good. So we'll still go, but we won't push the engines any more than absolutely needed. I accept your recommendation of ten knots of speed. That should still get us there in time to prevent this assassination. I want the safety valves inspected right now to make sure they are working well. Also, have Lieutenant Angles provide steam log hourly reports to the officer of the deck, with immediate notification to both you and me if anything looks like it's getting beyond control.”

Normally, the hourly steam log, which detailed temperatures, pressures, and oil and water levels, was reviewed at the end of each watch by the watch officer, with the executive officer and captain getting daily reports.

“Aye, aye, sir. Concerning the safety valves—I had them inspected an hour ago and they are functioning well.”

“Excellent. All right, I'll meet you on the bridge in ten minutes. In the meantime, set sea watches, secure for heavy weather, and start weighing the anchors, starboard one first.”

Warfield stood. “Aye, aye, sir. Ship is already secured and watches set. Anchors are already hove short.” At the door, he said, “Oh, one more thing, sir. The station delivered our mail bags when we first arrived at the wharf and you were with the admiral. You've got several official and private envelopes on your desk.”

“Thank you. I'll see you in ten minutes.”

Then I looked at the mail and groaned. More things to read, more decisions to make, more worries. What I really wanted to do right then was lie down on the bed, so enticingly near. Just five minutes to rest my aching bones and muscles. Five minutes.

A deep thud sounded from forward. A second later, a speaking tube in the rack of three beside my desk whistled. It was the bridge. I opened it and said, “This is the captain. What happened?”

“Warfield here, sir. Number two anchor cable just fouled on the steam windless. They're putting nippers on the cable to take the strain while they clear the fouled cable on the drum. We're
also hauling in on number one to help.”

That was dangerous work on a pitching bow. The cable nips probably wouldn't hold for long and a cable lashing around a deck kills and maims at blinding speed.

“I'll be right up, Commander Warfield. In addition to what you're already doing, get ready to buoy the cable and let it slip if we have to.”

Damn it all to hell and back! What friggin' else will go wrong?
Those were the thoughts roaring through my mind after Warfield's report. The bed, and any respite for my bones and muscles, would have to wait.

Both I and the ship rose at the same time, knocking me off balance. Lurching across the deck, I grabbed at the chronometer on the bulkhead for support and almost fell over, further aggravating my outlook on how things were going. Once the wave passed astern I adjusted my mindset about potential future setbacks, for I had enough hard-won experience to know better than to dwell on that sort of thing. It was a pointless waste of time and effort. Whatever would happen, it would probably be the one thing I never anticipated.

Nothing is ever easy on a warship.

Southeastern Gulf of Mexico
Early Thursday morning
15 December 1892

Unfortunately, Warfield was right. It did take a long time to get those hooks dislodged and hauled up to their catheads. After almost two hours, and three men hurt with lacerations while freeing the fouled cable, I was about to order the anchor cable slipped and buoyed when both anchors were finally weighed.
Bennington
swung northward into the teeth of the gale and began punching into the seas.

Tremendous clouds of spray flew aft from the bow as she smashed into waves every thirty seconds. Jagged reefs lined the channel close on either side for the first couple miles. The swinging beam of light illuminated their frothing walls of coral rock just waiting for us to make a mistake—or for those boilers to fail.

Standing beside me, Warfield called out the course orders, maintaining a calm demeanor throughout, an image so unlike
his predecessor. His composed manner was contagious among the bridge watch, the members of which peered through the watery gloom to find the next channel mark and keep an eye on those reefs, keeping any sound of fear or false cockiness out of their verbal reports.