8

To Windward

January 1874

Breakfast at the hotel dining room on the first morning of 1874 started out as a subdued affair of stifled groans and silent munching of toast. The Americans were the first to arrive, the local guests taking the morning slowly. Davies was in very bad shape and Partington nearly so, each worried about appearing weak in front of his superior and struggling not to show his hangover. Even Wake was feeling worse for wear until he ate the first croissant of his life, allowing the delicate taste to improve his outlook.

Audrey and her father arrived to keep them company, explaining with hilarity the political and social backgrounds of the more notable guests the night before. Both studiously avoided speaking about the Fabers, and Wake wondered why but didn’t ask. After worrying about it all night he’d decided that the previous evening with Catherine Faber was a minor moment in his life. He had only been a little lonely, no one was hurt, and he didn’t violate his marital vows, he told himself. Wake vowed that that kind of episode would never be repeated, even in the unlikely event the two did meet again.

When the Americans stood to leave, Wake felt something ominous that was another first for him. The ground trembled, like a warship’s deck when a broadside went off, but it went on for almost a full minute, shaking the wine glasses into an insane cacophony and bringing forth strange oaths from the Creole chef in the kitchen. Raoul left the table to check for damage.

“Montagne Pelée,” explained Audrey with a shrug. “Getting our attention. She does that frequently. This is a small one.”

Wake had never been in an earthquake. The sheer latent power of it was disconcerting to him. “It does this often?”

“Yes, but the officials say it is nothing. Just a shifting of weight far below the surface.”

“Aren’t they afraid it will erupt, like Vesuvius at Pompeii?”

“No. They say it is no problem. Personally, I think they do not want people to worry. Or perhaps investors to leave. But what do I know?”

Wake looked out the window at the mountain. It appeared close but he knew it was five miles away. He was sure it was distant enough not to cause a problem to St. Pierre, but the rumbling started up again and made him want to get back to the ship. Like most veteran sailors, he felt vaguely unsafe on land.

When Raoul returned, he and Wake shook hands. Then Audrey hugged him and said goodbye. He thanked her for the previous night’s hospitality and wished her good fortune. Both said they hoped to see the other again and both knew they wouldn’t. Then he climbed into the carriage’s front seat with the driver and they were off with a clatter of hooves on the stone pavement, the two recovering younger officers sprawled against the back seat. Wake sat back and took in the sights.

The ride back was by a different route, along the western coast of the island. The road was along the cliffs, at times a dizzying plunge of hundreds of feet, and they traveled through villages hidden within the coves formed by mountain rivers that emptied into the sea. It was even more winding than the interior road and several times Wake thought they would not get through, but the driver knew of detours and took paths off to the side that led them around washouts and downed trees.

They passed the dilapidated fishing village of Le Carbet, famous among the islanders for Colombus’ first landing site on Martinique, and then Belle Fontaine, which Catherine had said was owned by a distant cousin in France who had never even seen his possessions in the West Indies. Finally, they topped the last coastal mountain and saw Fort de France spread out along the shores of its great bay.

By dinner the three officers were back aboard Omaha and Wake was reporting to Gardiner his observations of the politics and economy of the island. He described Audrey and her father to the captain but omitted any reference to Catherine Faber. He wasn’t sure how to describe her and worried that Gardiner would sense some sort of guilt over his behavior with her.

Gardiner listened to the report and thanked Wake for handling the social duties of the ship, saying that it was all far more than he cared to do. With one of his infectious grins he added that he would rely on Wake to do it one last time in Barbados.

***

The trades were blowing a reefed topsail breeze after they rounded Ilet Cabri at the southern end of Martinique, sailing close-hauled to the southeast for Bridgetown at the British crown colony of Barbados. The wild salt air felt clean and pure to Wake—devoid of the complicated scents in the air on land. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him and he stayed on deck long past the end of his watch, gazing at Martinique receding.

In addition to being wrong, his attraction to Catherine was illogical, Wake told himself, after he had unsuccessfully tried to put her out of his memory. In so many ways Audrey was more similar to him, and to Linda. Catherine was from a world completely different from Wake’s—the alien world of the leisurely cultured elite. Maybe, he pondered as the last black smudge of the island sank below the horizon, that’s why I am intrigued.

But even that benign verb bothered him. Was he allowed to be intrigued by a woman? Wake shook his head at the horizon and gripped the stern rail. Martinique had profoundly disturbed him, probing into the weak spots of his soul and finding the wounds. It was a dangerous place for a man with doubts and he didn’t want to go back. But no, that wasn’t true. He did want to go back. He just knew that he shouldn’t.

And where exactly was he headed? With each mile eastward toward Europe, life as he had always known it was fading away too. For the first time since his court-martial almost five years earlier, his professional future was uncertain and his personal one was looking more grim with each day.

***

They let go the hook at Bridgetown two days later, after having to short tack to windward the last fifteen miles against wind and tide. It was a frustrating effort not only because their destination was in sight, but because they had the means to get there directly but were not allowed to use the engine unless an emergency arose. It was one of the stupid things about the navy that upset Wake; however, there was nothing he could do, so he swallowed his irritation and concentrated on the neverending administrative paperwork of the ship.

When the American consul came aboard with mail, including one from Linda, Wake inquired about the Trinidad’s schedule. He was told the passenger steamer would arrive the next day, load for two days, and be on her way on the third. Wake also found out that there would be the usual round of professional and social contacts and functions ashore that would start the next day.

In the privacy of his cabin he ripped the envelope open and read Linda’s letter. Apparently she hadn’t received his letter from Antigua yet, a short one that he finally got written and hoped wasn’t callous. It wasn’t unusual for her not to get his letter—mail normally took almost three weeks to get to Pensacola from the West Indies, and return messages between correspondents took a month and a half. Now he knew that he would not hear from her for quite a while, since transAtlantic private mail to the Mediterranean often took months.

Pensacola, Florida

December 18th, 1873

Dear Peter,

Here is a short note to say hello which I’ll put on the steamer southbound. The children are well and Useppa’s pain is appearing to diminish, but it’s too early to tell if it is permanent. The latest gossip from Pensacola is a rumor that the navy is going to shut down the yard here due to budgetary constraints, but there’s nothing official from the yard commandant. That’s caused some panic among the store owners. By the way, the new navy yard commandant is Alexander Semmes, an old wartime colleague of yours, I think. He told me he knew you when you had Rosalie back in sixty-three—that seems like ages ago. He is a cousin to that famous Confederate commander of the Alabama, Raphael Semmes, who works in Mobile as a lawyer. Both are in good health and see each other. Alexander asks about you.

Peter, I can’t wait until you come home. We need to talk about our marriage and your work. I understand your love of the sea and have come to admire that in you. You can still have that on a merchant ship, dear—without the negativity of the navy.

I love and miss you more than you’ll ever know and count the days until we can hold each other and be a real family again.

Linda

His hands were shaking when he finished reading. Folding the letter carefully back into the envelope he put it into the desk drawer devoted to her letters. They were his sole treasure—a chronologically arranged connection to his family. He took in a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to slow his pounding heart and calm down.

A knock on his door disturbed his swirling thoughts.

“Officer of the deck present his respects, sir! He reports that the chandler’s barge is alongside and they need your signature on the provision manifest.”

Wake sighed—there was no real privacy aboard a warship. No place to hide, especially for the executive officer. “Pass along my compliments to the officer of the deck. I’ll be there directly.”

***

The reception was held at Farley Hill Plantation on the other side of the island. It wasn’t specifically in honor of the U.S. Navy’s visit, but the Americans were invited to send two officers to an annual ball given each January by the plantation owner, a titled Englishman who for some obscure reason found himself in one of the more remote stretches of the empire. Attendance necessitated an overnight stay, so when Wake picked Laporte to be the other officer he gave him a short lecture on deportment, all the while thinking about his own behavior in Martinique.

“Remember, John, you represent the navy and your country. Do not drink too much and do not let your tales go beyond your good sense. I picked you because in a few days you’ll be the executive officer and I want to be confident you can handle the social duties of the ship since the captain doesn’t want that chore.”

“Yes, sir. Don’t worry a bit about me, sir.”

Wake and Laporte reported to the Royal Navy’s small pier a quarter mile up the river that ran through the heart of Bridgetown. The British navy had no regular station at Bridgetown, maintaining a supply depot only. The petty officer explained that Commander Laylock, the officer-in-charge, was already at the plantation along with the governor and awaiting their arrival. He then showed them to a government carriage reminiscent of the one at Antigua, making Wake wonder if rickety wagons were characteristic of the English islands in the Caribbean.

The ride to Farley Hill showed an island that was completely unlike Martinique. A recent drought had combined with a depression in sugar prices in ’73 to devastate the economy of Barbados, and the villages along the west coast showed it. The black islanders were in a subsistence mode, fishing or farming small tracts, and the white islanders they passed were disheveled and sullen-looking. Black Rock, Holetown, and Sandy Lane had no modern equipment in sight and Laporte said the sights reminded him of parts of Georgia after the war.

At noon they ascended the last hill and arrived at their destination, which the driver reported the height of as precisely seven hundred forty-three feet, and the location to be exactly in the center of the northern part of the island, between the east and west coasts. Wake disembarked in front of the great mansion and stood for a moment taking in the sight. Incongruously, it was a giant manor house in the English Georgian style, set in a forest of pines with a magnificent view of the Atlantic ocean smashing ashore on the distant east coast, far below them. Not a palm was in view—they could’ve been in England.

Laporte broke Wake’s reverie. “Sir, they’re coming out.”

Wake turned to see porters and an older Royal Navy officer with the epaulets of a commander approaching. He straightened up to attention and said, “Good afternoon, sir. We are Lieutenant Peter Wake and Lieutenant John Laporte, of the United States Navy, here for the gala. Thank you for the very kind invitation.”

“I am Commander Clive Laylock, RN, station officer-in-charge. Welcome to Barbados, Lieutenants. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you when you came ashore, but I trust that Petty Officer Edmonds did that duty well. Please, gentlemen, come this way. The porters will get your things.” Laylock started toward the massive doors but stopped and gave Wake a curious look.

“Did you say your name is Wake, Lieutenant?”

“Ah, yes, sir. Peter Wake.”

“Oh my . . . Were you the Yankee chap who was caught taking the stroll at English Harbour Naval Yard up at Antigua a few weeks ago?”

Wake was astounded. How did he know that? “I was attending a dinner there, Commander. A Marine on guard duty thought I was trespassing, but he was wrong. A minor misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Laylock kept up his stare. “Yes, well, Lieutenant, I’m afraid your reputation precedes you. Of course, we have nothing around here for you to trespass upon so I’m sure they’ll be no misunderstandings at all.”

Wake didn’t like the tone. “Thank you, sir. By the way, the misunderstanding at Antigua was rectified by my captain and the governor.”

Laylock raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes, I heard about that too. Quite the story. Come on in and relax gentlemen.”

As they entered the main hall Wake saw Laporte grinning at him. “Yes, Mr. Laporte? Something funny?”

“Oh no, sir,” Laporte replied, losing the grin. “Just trying to concentrate on being on my very best behavior, sir. Representing my navy and country, and all that, sir.”

Wake caught the humor but was in no mood for it.