15

Goodbyes and Hellos

The Straits of Gibraltar were far narrower than Wake had always imagined, though the mountains on both sides being illuminated by the sun setting out over the Atlantic Ocean made the distance tricky to estimate. Looking like a section of the moon dropped down to earth, pocked gray cliffs—the famed Pillars of Hercules—rose up thousands of feet on the African side, like a wall barring passage into Morocco. The Spanish side was lower, more gentle, with high mountains further back from the coast, appearing as if the Iberian Peninsula had bowed down and invited the Moorish invasion a thousand years earlier. He looked for the famed Rock, but couldn’t see it. Allen explained that it wasn’t at the narrowest part of the straits, a mere ten miles wide or so, but actually around the inside corner on the Spanish side.

For hours they steamed east, approaching, then going through, the strait. They passed ship after ship coming out of the Mediterranean, most under sail but several steaming also. As the sun disappeared in a blaze of molten copper, they steamed past Cape Marroquí on the north and Cape Malabata on the south.

Long after Allen, Carmena, and Manuel left the cold windy deck, Wake stayed, bundled up and scrutinizing everything with a ship’s telescope. Like most of the passengers who were making their first transit of the strait, he stood for hours wanting to memorize the sight, knowing that years later he would be asked about it when sitting in front of a warm fire on a cold night. Finally, well after passing the narrows, as blackness was enveloping the scene, he saw Gibraltar itself well off to port, a tall black shadow against the lights of the Spanish town of San Roque.

Allen had come back on deck and pointed out the sights to Wake—the jagged peak, the gentle lights in the town of Gibraltar, the fleet resting at the anchorage, and Cape Europa jutting out. He had been there as a young subaltern and knew every tunnel and fort. Allen told Wake that of all the honors they were authorized, the Royal Marine Light Infantry only carried one battle honor streamer on their regimental flag, the one for winning the 1704 battle that secured the Rock’s possession for the Royal Navy and Great Britain. Since that time several attempts had been made to wrest the fortress away. All had failed. Allen said it was the most heavily fortified piece of British territory in the entire world. A legendary place for British sailors, it was also one of the few where British tars could have liberty ashore—captains knew there was nowhere for them to run.

That depressing thought brought Wake’s mind back to the mail he had received on Trinidad while ashore in Spain—an un-perfumed envelope from Pensacola. It was given to him after the ship left the port and he had read it alone in the cabin while Allen was out.

Pensacola, Florida

December 28th, 1873

Dear Peter,

I received your letter and Christmas presents today. Thank you very much for the lovely dress and robe from Puerto Rico. Even if I do say so myself (there is no one else here to tell me), they look very nice on me. Sean is enthralled with his wooden boat and he is playing with it as I write this. Useppa loved wearing her beautiful little dress to church last Sunday, especially since her Daddy wrote that it was made for a princess.

I see you aren’t coming home in June, but instead are heading to the Mediterranean for two years. I think you know what I think of that. Another naval wife told me just this week that officers who have served over five years can resign their commission at any time—that they’re not bound by any further commitment to the navy. So it appears that you don’t have to go to the European Squadron—you have chosen to go. Your children and your wife need you. If you need them, you should resign and be a husband and a father.

You can still be a sailor and love the sea on a merchant ship, but on your terms, not some politician’s in Washington. Peter, the navy has used you and never appreciated your efforts and loyalty and sacrifice. You are just another cog in their mechanical beast of burden. When they are through with you, you’ll be left high and dry on the beach, like so many others.

I do not understand why you choose them over us. What is this hold they have over you? I pray you will come to your senses.

Your loving wife,

Linda

He didn’t know what to do. In so many ways she was right, absolutely right. But in one way she was wrong. He was a naval officer and didn’t want to be a merchant marine seaman. He didn’t want to carry cargo endlessly or, God forbid, be a fisherman. As a naval officer he was part of something more important, more useful. The navy had presented him with pain and frustration, but it had also enabled him to face challenges and have victories that few men ever knew. And he relished that. To pretend to be anything else would be a fraud. Wake decided to wait before he answered the letter. He needed time to think.

Allen knew about the letter and sensed his friend’s quiet depression, but in the manner of warriors neither had spoken of it. It was something that would end badly either way, Allen thought, and silently wished Wake the strength to get through it.

The bright spot of the voyage from Cadiz had been that Carmena and Manuel—alias Mr. and Mrs. Sean and Useppa Rork, Irish-Hispanic vintners from Jerez—had managed to pull off the “accidentally stranded aboard” excuse to the purser and first mate. They paid for a first-class cabin—luxurious compared to Wake and Allen’s second-class cabin—and passage all the way to Genoa, and were now being treated as important guests. It appeared that their escape was proceeding well, but they still stayed in their cabin most of the day, worried that someone might recognize them. They had no plans beyond Genoa, but Wake had faith that somehow they would be able to make their way in the world and overcome what might come.

And that made him wonder about how he would solve the major dilemma of his own life.

***

The first port after Cadiz was Palma de Mallorca, in the Spanish Balearic Islands. Warships from several nations, including Great Britain, were anchored out as the steamer came alongside the pier to offload and pick up cargo and passengers.

“What do you think, should I pay my respects to them? You can come along,” offered Allen, looking at the Royal Navy sloop.

“I suppose you should, but I’m just not in the mood to go through the naval routine right now,” answered Wake, thinking of Linda.

“Yes, of course, my friend. We can do that later. Let’s go ashore for a walk and a drink.”

He went ashore in plainclothes with the Brit—who had been there several times—Allen promising to show the American the giant Cathedral de Mallorca on the harbor front and suggesting that they perhaps get a bite to eat at one of the many tavernas. “No escapades here, Peter,” promised Allen.

“Gonna have to be none, Lieutenant Allen,” answered Wake as they walked along the seaside promenade. “I used up all my good luck back in Sevilla and Cadiz.”

Inside the cathedral, in reply to their question, a priest explained to them that the war raging on the Spanish mainland had not extended to the islands out in the Mediterranean, that the inhabitants of the city were not taking sides so far. “We are different people out here. Simpler, more traditional,” he said. “Less liberal and involved in politics.”

Wake wondered if that meant the Church’s view of the conflict, and therefore the Carlists’, was dominant locally, but he decided not to press the issue. The priest, a native Mallorcan, went on to explain with pride about the cathedral—that the golden sandstone structure’s construction was begun six hundred years earlier out of gratitude by a Spanish sailor-king who had just survived a near-death experience. Hearing the tale, the two officers exchanged chagrined looks.

“Well, I certainly understand that completely,” said Allen as they walked out into the sunlight. “Just might start a little chapel of my own back in Teignmouth when, and if, I return.”

“I wouldn’t bother, it’d probably crack open and fall down. . . .” quipped Wake.

“Quite humorous, old boy. Another example of your famed Yankee humor, I suppose—” Allen stopped in mid-sentence and touched Wake’s arm.

“Say, don’t look now, Peter, and keep walking. Is it my imagination, or is that army officer regarding us rather seriously? When you get a chance, see if you can nonchalantly glance back,” asked Allen as they passed by the Spanish army’s ancient arsenal and barracks across the street from the cathedral. An officer in full dress uniform, from the corner of his eye Wake guessed him to be the officer of the guard, was standing in front of the massive doors at the gate and watching them.

“Oh, Lord, I hope not,” Wake whispered. “Keep on walking and let’s go around this corner and duck into a taverna. See if we can spot if someone follows us.”

They moved up the Calle Palau, turned the corner and entered the Plaza Major in the center of the city, which was filled with hundreds of people walking in various directions. Wake scanned the buildings, looking for a taverna to enter. There were none facing the plaza, only government and church offices. He crossed over to the right edge of the plaza, with Allen following a few paces behind. At Calle Santa Clara they made another right and ducked into a doorway. Wake heard the ringing echo of hobnailed boots coming into the street from the plaza.

“¡Señor! ¿Un pasaje, por favor?” Wake quickly called out to the driver of an empty carriage going by toward the plaza they had just left.

The driver stopped and waved them over, then took off once they were seated. Wake had no idea of where to tell the man to drive, so he gestured toward the plaza. As the carriage clattered along the stone street Wake and Allen saw the Spanish officer striding toward them, having just turned the corner himself. He was middle-aged, a captain or major, and his eyes were looking far ahead, straining to examine the people walking away. He wasn’t eyeing the carriage coming toward him.

The naval officers gazed off to their right, hiding their faces as they rode by. Wake’s mind was reeling. Why was that officer after them? Had the Carlists in Sevilla discovered their prey was on the Trinidad? Had their description been given out to all ports on her route? But no shout came and the carriage continued past.

Moments later the driver stopped in the middle of the busy plaza, wondering where his fares wanted to go. “¿A dónde, señores?”

“To a pub, by God!” blurted Allen. “I don’t know about you, Peter, but I could damn well use a strong drink to steady my nerves!”

“Un pub. Sí señores,” said the driver with a shrug. Wake decided that was a good idea—lay low for a while and get some other local knowledge of the situation in Mallorca. Besides, he admitted inwardly, a stiff tot of rum sounded good. He let out the breath he’d been holding. Then he heard the boots again.

“¡Pare el coche! Stop!”

Both officers spun around in the seat, hearts sinking when they saw the Spaniard running toward them. The driver pulled in his reins with a jerk, glowering at the two foreigners in his carriage who had somehow gotten him involved with the military. The army officer slowed his approached. Wake saw that he didn’t pull out his sidearm, then saw the man smile.

“You are English navy man, yes?” the officer asked.

Allen bristled and sat at attention. “Navy? Most certainly not, sir! I am one of the Royal Marines of her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria. Lieutenant Peter Sharpe Allen, at your service, sir.”

Wake felt like shaking his head in amazement how his friend could be offended at this particular moment. The Spanish officer didn’t understand the subtlety and continued.

“Señor Allen, yes? I have a mensaje . . . a message . . . for you from your ship. They say you are to go to your ship.”

“My ship? I’m not aboard a Royal Navy ship here. I’m in transit.” Allen looked at Wake as the Spaniard held up his hands.

“I find you and give the message, señor. Go to . . . your . . . ship. There,” he pointed twice at the harbor. “Thank you.” With that said the officer left, shaking his head. Wake heard the man muttering in Spanish about the things he was sometimes tasked to do by the idiotas above him in rank. In the back of the carriage the two friends looked at each other and burst out laughing, confusing the driver.

“Good Lord, I thought it was over there for a second,” Wake declared. “I think I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”

“Me too. Now I suppose I’ll have to go out to the ship and see what’s what,” said Allen. “They’ve probably changed my orders and want me assigned to that ship, but right now I still want that drink. Driver, on to el pub!”

“Good idea, Pete. I really need a drink about now, too. Besides, it might be our last together,” added Wake as the jarring carriage accelerated over the uneven pavement.

Moments later Allen exclaimed, “My God, Peter, look at that! He found one,” as they rounded a corner down by the waterfront and stopped suddenly.

The driver turned around in his seat, beaming as he held his hand out toward O’Brien’s Irish Pub. “¡Señores, el pub!”

Wake laughed. “Oh, boy. I can tell that this is gonna be a hell of a goodbye, Peter Sharpe Allen. A hell of a goodbye.”

***

When Wake said goodbye to Allen at the pierhead several hours later, he asked him the question that had been on his mind since Barbados. “Pete, did they assign you to spy on me because of what happened at Antigua?”

The British Marine’s face tightened. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, Peter. But, having said that, I don’t think Great Britain has anything to worry about with you. And quite inexplicably, despite my reticence about fraternizing with you colonials, you’ve actually become my friend.”

Allen changed the serious mood by breaking into a grin and clasped Wake’s hand. “I’ll see you somewhere in the Med, Peter Wake. And by the way, Yank, unlike the last few, next drink’s on you!”

***

The British frigate left an hour after Allen reported aboard. That evening a bumboatman delivered a note to Wake aboard the Trinidad, which he read prior to dinner.

Lt. Peter Wake, USN

In transit aboard RMS Trinidad

2nd February 1874

Peter,

They did change my orders. Aboard Immortalitie now, heading immediately for Malta and Vice Admiral Drummond’s flagship, HMS Lord Warden. I guess they can’t do without me anymore! The Flying Squadron is combining with the Med Squadron for evolutions in western Med. Should be interesting, but pretty dull compared to our adventure in Spain. Maybe see you in Genoa.

Your friend,

Peter Sharpe Allen, Lieutenant, RMLI

***

The next morning Wake made his official visit to the American consulate. The consul handed Wake a dark blue envelope, the kind that came from the Navy Department. Wake had a fleeting hope that it was a rescindment of his orders, but that was dashed when he read it.

It was a routine change in orders, copies of which were sent to all ports on his route. He was not to go to Villefranche in France to meet the squadron, since they had been recalled again to the West Indies, due to tensions there with the Spanish. Instead he was to disembark at Genoa and wait there for the European Squadron to eventually return. Accommodations were authorized and the consulate at Genoa would have funds for him upon his reporting in. At the bottom he saw there was a postscript ordering him not to go ashore at any Spanish port due to the bilateral tensions and the Spanish civil war.

“Wish I’d gotten this at Cadiz,” he muttered to himself.

The consul looked at him. “What was that?”

“Orders to stay at Genoa and wait for the fleet. And I’m not to go ashore at a Spanish port. Civil war going on and tensions over Cuba.”

“Yes, the squadron is off demonstrating to the Spanish at Cuba how tough we are. The Brits are doing the same around here. Suppose you saw their frigate in the harbor?”

“Yes, had a friend report aboard her.”

“Oh, you know Fisher? I met him at a reception two nights ago. Just came in from England and went aboard her. Some sort of torpedo expert. Everybody calls him Jackie. Up and comer in the Royal Navy they say. Interesting fella to talk with.”

Wake turned around and faced the consul. “Who?”

“Commander John Fisher. Wasn’t that your friend? I heard he went aboard the frigate just before they weighed anchor.”

“No. My friend was a Royal Marine.”

The consul saw the pensive look on Wake’s face and didn’t ask anything further. It was obvious the naval officer was bothered by something he had said.