Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (9 page)

“Thank you, Commander. I concur,” I replied. To Lambert, I said, “Make it so in the log.”

Lambert acknowledged and then rattled off his report. “Captain, the ship is fully manned and loaded, steam is up and the shaft is ready, all lines are singled and ship's lines ready to be taken in, the quarter forward spring line belongs to the station and is ready for casting off, and the ship is ready in all respects to get under way.”

I was about to acknowledge the lieutenant when a shout came down from high aloft, “Lookout to the bridge! The
German warship off the starboard beam is weighing anchor!”

“Very well, lookout,” answered Pocket as we all swung our gaze to starboard, looking past
Chicago
. Out in the anchorage,
Gneisenau
's anchor was already weighed and she was gathering speed toward the main channel, a dirty gray plume of smoke belching from her funnel against the pale blue sky.

“Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” I replied, my eyes still on the German ship. “You may commence getting off the wharf and under way on the recommended course.”

Then, to everyone around us, I announced, “Mr. Lambert has the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” chorused the officers and men.

The quartermaster brought over my glass so I could study the foreigner more closely. She had weighed smartly and turned south into the main channel without fuss. Her officers were clustered on the port bridge, watching us just as intently, reflections from the rising sun glinting off their telescope lenses.

Across the wharf, on
Chicago
's port bridge, the admiral was observing us. He waved to me, then pointed toward
Gneisenau
. I nodded back, imagining the questions in his mind were the same as those swirling through mine:
Why her sudden departure? For what destination? Is the assassin onboard her now?

Lambert began his orders. “Stand by your lines! Take in the forward bow spring line, after bow spring line, stern line, and the quarter-after spring line. Hold that starboard quarter-forward spring line.” Pocket echoed the command down to the main deck. I heard Rork pass the order to his men.

Bennington
's starboard side was being held on the wharf by the ebbing current and easterly wind, both of which were pressing against the port side of the ship and presenting Lambert with an interesting challenge. He seemed to be handling it calmly. “Take in the bow line,” he directed the men on the foredeck.

Once that was accomplished, he ordered the helmsman, “Rudder amidships.” Then to the man at the engine telegraph, he
said, “Port engine stop. Astern slow on starboard engine.”

The man acknowledged the order in the neutral tone common to petty officers on the bridge. Slowly, the ship edged against the wind and tide, the quarter-forward spring line stretched taut, vibrating with the tension of holding the ship parallel fifteen feet from the wharf.

Lambert's next command would be the crucial one. If bungled, the ship's starboard forward half would be swept back down on the wharf—right in front of the admiral.

“Stand by on the starboard quarter-forward spring line. All engines half astern.” The rumble faded, then quickly built again, the deck shuddering as both engines increased the shaft revolutions. Their propellers bit into the water, rushing water forward past the bow. A cloud of black smoke erupted from the funnel, to be scattered into wisps by the wind.

Down on the main deck aft, sailors watched as the sole remaining line stretched even more, becoming a thin strand, shaking with the strain.
Bennington
's starboard side moved farther away from the wharf.

Rork cleared the others from the deck around the starboard quarter bitts, for if the line parted, it could whipsaw a man in half. The starboard quarter-forward spring line was figure-eighted three and a half times around the bitt, and Rork himself stood gripping the tail of the line, using his good right hand. I could see the line beginning to smoke as it tightened against the iron horns of the bitt, while Rork focused on the bridge, waiting for the signal to let go.

Gardiner was grumbling beneath his breath, alternating his glare between Lambert and me.

Lambert waited another fifteen long seconds—about five more than I would have—and as I was about to step in and give the order, he coolly said to Pocket, “Let go the starboard quarter-forward spring line,
smartly
.”

Pocket roared the command to the main deck. Rork let go the end of the spring line and stepped away. The ship, no longer
restrained, surged backward into the harbor. The line ran off the bitts and out through the chocks, flying over to the wharf where the naval station's line handlers had already ducked behind cover. The eight of us on the bridge held our breath, waiting to see what would happen forward.

All attention was on the starboard bow, for that was the location of danger and this was the moment of truth. While moving astern,
Bennington
also slid sideways, downcurrent, toward the end of the wharf. Two seconds later the bow cleared the timbers on the wharf's corner with ten feet to spare.

“Good thing we don't have a bowsprit or we would've lost the rig,” Gardiner muttered to Lieutenant Lambert, to my displeasure. It was petty, unworthy of an officer in his position.

“All engines stop. Left full rudder,” said Lambert, ignoring Gardiner's comment.

The helmsman and lee helmsman repeated the order as they executed it. By the time the engine room telegraph lever had been rung to “All Stop” on its dial,
Bennington
was away from the line of wharves and her bow had swung to leeward, pointed down the channel.

When the ship lost her sternway, Lambert continued his orders. “Rudder amidships. All engines ahead slow. Steady on course two-zero-zero. Steer nothing to the left of course two-zero-zero.”

Gneisenau
was well ahead of us in the outer channel, nearing the line of reefs that separated the islands from the Straits of Florida. Then she was gone, Fort Taylor's bulk hiding her from us. In another ten minutes,
Gneisenau
would be in the open ocean and free to settle onto her course. From that I would know her probable destination.

But what was her mission?

U.S.S. Bennington

Key West Naval Station

Sunday morning

11 December 1892

Over on
Chicago
's bridge, a grinning Admiral Walker waved to us. I recognized
Chicago
's captain pointing out something on the wharf to another officer. Beside them, a signalman was pulling out code flags from the locker, preparing to hoist a message.

Suddenly, Rork's voice boomed out from the port side of the main deck below the bridge, “Sorry we missed ye, me dear! Next time for sure!”

Leaning over the rail, I followed his line of sight. Standing at the head of the naval wharf was my daughter Useppa, her hand fluttering a blue scarf in farewell, auburn hair waving around her face in the breeze. I felt my heart stop, for she looked just like her mother did at that age.

A man, dark haired and thin, stood close to her. Very close
to her. Probably a pastor, I decided. But no, he was standing too close for that. And then they were gone from my sight as we moved away and
Chicago
's superstructure blocked the view.

Hopes and worries flooded my mind. My heart always considered Useppa a little girl, but my brain reminded me she was twenty-seven now and alone in the world—a spinster. My son Sean was a naval officer, two years out from the naval academy and recently passed the examination for ensign. He was well started on his career, but what would happen to my daughter?

The lee helmsman reported to Lieutenant Lambert the shaft revolutions from the engine room. I forced myself back into the present moment.

“Well done, Mr. Lambert,” I said.

The trace of a smile crossed his face for a second. “Thank you, sir.”

“My only suggestion is to let go the quarter-forward spring a couple seconds earlier. It almost parted.”

His stoic mien returned. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Message from the admiral, sir,” interrupted the duty signalman. “It reads: ‘Well done. Good luck.'”

I'll need it
, I thought, as I noted Gardiner's expression turning sour.

As we passed Fort Taylor and altered course to due south, down the outer channel, I saw the German warship's course. It wasn't the correct one for Tampico, which would have been due west. The German was heading southwest.

Yucatán.

Pocket reported from the port bridge wing, “Mr. Lambert, the pilot boat's approaching to pass us, close on port bow. She's returning from picking up the harbor pilot on
Gneisenau
.”

I noticed the ensign pronounced the name correctly and wondered if he could speak the language. Then I thought of something—U.S. Navy vessels didn't use a pilot at Key West, but foreign warships were required to use one, and many times their
bridge officers imparted subtle bits of information to the pilot.

“Mr. Lambert, have the pilot boat hailed to come alongside,” I said. “I want to speak with the pilot in my cabin. And please send word to my steward to bring some breakfast for two to the cabin.”

We were well past the reefs when the pilot, an old grizzled salt if ever there was one, entered my quarters and introduced himself. “Captain Rolle, sir, senior harbor pilot. You wanted to see me, Captain?”

The Rolle family was originally from the Abaco Islands of the northern Bahamas. They had been in Key West for generations as schooner captains and wreckers. Captain Rolle still had a faint trace of a British accent.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Rolle, I'm Commander Wake, captain of
Bennington
. Please sit down and share my breakfast. I wanted to ask you about the shoaling by Whitehead Spit. Is it getting worse?”

He was wary. This sort of invitation, especially in the outer channel, was unusual from a U.S. navy captain. The sunburned skin around his eyes crinkled in appreciation, as if I'd made a joke.

“Well, thank you, Captain Wake. Don't mind if I do take a bite, this looks good. Aye, sir, the shoal has been getting worse ever since the storm in June, but you knew that.” His gaze narrowed. “You've been in and out of here many times since then.”

“Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure. Say, I think I saw you on the German ship up ahead. What's she like?”

Rolle never stopped chewing the fried eggs in his mouth as he replied, “Well-handled and in excellent condition. Curious thing, though, they asked the very same thing about this ship.”

“Did they really? Anything else curious about them?”

A gulp of coffee was followed by, “Nothing, except for the fellow our pilot boat brought out to them. Older European man, maybe German, maybe Russian, I don't know. Said he missed the last launch out to the anchorage before the ship weighed, so he asked if the pilot boat could take him when they went out to get me.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Guess he was in trouble for missing ship's movement, wasn't he? Probably was passed out in a trollop's bed when the sun came up. Did they put him under disciplinary arrest?”

“No, I think not. Officers weren't upset with him a bit. He's not in the navy, I can tell you that.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

Rolle shook his head. “This fellow was dressed like a store clerk, and sober as a Baptist. Very quiet. No color in his skin. No sway to his walk. Uncomfortable on the boat out, my crew tells me, and when I saw him board the ship he looked out of place. Oh yes, he's a landsman if ever I saw one, through and through. Acted untouchable, like a passenger. Carried a valise and case.”

“Did you hear a name?”

“Never got introduced to him. Neither did the pilot boat crew. You surely seem interested in him, Captain. Who was he?”

Captain Rolle was no fool, and knew something was afoot, so I was semi-candid with him. “I have no idea. We don't get German warships at Key West often. I was just wondering why they are here. And why they left so suddenly.”