The sloop of war Kansas was cleared for action. Her guns, fully armed, were run out, and her marines were already on deck in full battle gear. Commander John Sherburne had ordered the guns loaded with canister—proven mankillers. If possible, he was determined to save the schooner. She was a valuable prize and would add much needed revenue to a navy that a parsimonious Congress kept chronically short of funds.
“We’ll find her tonight, Mr. Wilson,” Sherburne said. “I can feel it in my water, as they say.”
“Indeed, sir,” Lieutenant Wilson agreed.
“Your marines ready to go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Champing at the bit, eh?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And you, Mr. Wilson? Are you ready to lead your first landing party?”
Wilson smiled. “Yes, I am, sir.”
“Good man. I want a tot of rum for each marine before they disembark. Get them in the fighting spirit, eh?”
“They’re in the fighting spirit already.”
“Well, the rum will give them an edge.”
Seeing the lieutenant’s young, round face was troubled, his captain said, “Well, out with it, man.”
“Sir, we need to coal at the earliest opportunity,” Wilson said hurriedly. “I fear this . . . ah . . . expedition will dangerously deplete our existing supply.”
“Slow as she goes, Mr. Wilson. We’ll burn but little coal.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Wilson said, but he didn’t seem convinced.
“See to the gun crews, Mr. Wilson, and tell them to stay alert. We’ll get under way at dusk.”
The Kansas was a glutton for coal all right, and even at a slow speed she’d burn a bunker-load on their trip up the coast. Wilson was right. They had a crisis on their hands and a captain who allowed his ship to run out of fuel could kiss his naval career good-bye.
After the lieutenant left, Sherburne stared at the column of dark gray smoke rising from his ship’s funnel and felt a twinge of worry. Was his gut feeling correct? Was the slaver still in the gulf? She had to be. She . . . just . . . had to be.
But hoping didn’t make it so, and the captain’s worry grew.
The afternoon light faded with agonizing slowness and a couple able seamen came on the bridge to man the searchlights.
“Show me those damned Arabs, lads,” Sherburne said. “Keep your eyes peeled.”
The older of the two knuckled his forehead in the Royal Navy style and said in a broad Scottish accent, “Aye, aye, Cap’n. If the damned rogues are anywhere to be found, we’ll light ’em up for ye, depend on it.”
If they are anywhere to be found. Yes, there was the rub. Sherburne felt the worry twinge again. He could be taking his ship on a wild goose chase with his career at stake. He found the flask in his pocket and was about to take a swig when he noticed the sailors watching him. He passed the flask to the gray-haired sailor. “A tot of rum with you.”
The man knuckled his forehead again and said, “Thank ye, Cap’n.” After he’d taken a throat-bobbing swig, the seaman passed the flask to his companion.
To his chagrin, when Sherburne got it back the flask was considerably lighter. He took a drink, and then looked up to a flaming sky, banded with dark blue and jade. A single sentinel star hung to the north, a bright lantern lighting the way for the fleeing day.
It would be full dark soon. Sherburne nodded to himself. It was finally time to get his ship under way.
Thank God.