Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (10 page)

“So was I, Captain. So was I,” agreed the pilot as he gulped down the last of the coffee. “Never learned why they got under way all of a sudden this morn. They were supposed to stay for three days.”

I ended on a relaxed note. “Yeah, well, there's probably nothing to it. They needed a liberty port for the men and Key West is convenient and safe. The fellow who came out to the ship is probably just some German merchant who missed his packet
steamer, saw the opportunity, and hitched a ride. Warships get those requests on distant stations all the time. I know we do.”

“Maybe,” said Rolle.

I could tell he didn't believe it any more than I did.

Yucatán Channel

Monday afternoon

12 December 1892

We lost sight of
Gneisenau
while off Cuba that first evening, shortly after sunset. I expected as much. Though we were faster under steam alone, she was larger and faster downwind under sail and engine.

In order to escape the eastbound main current of the Gulf Stream and its progenitor, the northbound Yucatán Current,
Bennington
steamed close along the northwest coast of Cuba to use the westbound countercurrent—but not too close. We were careful to maintain at least four miles of distance offshore, a mile beyond the Spanish territorial limit. Each hourly position fix was double-checked by both officers on watch. Our vigilance in this regard was reinforced by a steam cutter from
La Guardia Costera
that paralleled us inshore as long as we were within sight of the island.

No one on board
Bennington
except Rork knew why I was
so adamant about our exacting course. The others were not privy, and hopefully would never be privy, to the fact Rork and I were considered personae non gratae by the Spanish authorities, following a rather violent end to our last ONI mission there four years earlier. In fact, there might even be warrants for murder waiting for us there.

Once we left the Cuban coast at Cabo de San Antonio and headed southwest across the Yucatán Channel, the seas built to gigantic proportions, every bit of twenty feet high. This was the product of a thirty-knot northwesterly wind, which arrived later that day. Blowing across the Gulf of Mexico, it collided with the strong current coming up from the Caribbean to the south. Fortunately, we had no thick cloud cover shutting down visibility completely, only scattered squalls bringing even greater winds and rain.

Unfortunately, however, there was no pattern or slope to the seas as we headed south-southwest—with the wind but against the current. The waves rose suddenly straight up like wet gray sea monsters. Occasionally a rogue wave would outdo the rest, a predator rearing up to tower over us before falling down on our foredeck and washing its way aft, submerging everything. The sea forced itself through any aperture, no matter how tiny, to send a jet of water into the gun deck, crew berthing, galley, and mess spaces. Within an hour, everything in those areas was soaked and water sloshed fore and aft along all the decks below.

Ten minutes of steam-driven bilge pumps per hour became fifteen, then twenty, and I worried about the engine and, most especially, about the condition of our four boilers. The strain on
Bennington
's mechanical apparatus was mounting, and the hourly reports by the chief engineer were getting more pessimistic. His men in the gyrating engine and boiler rooms were doing their best to keep everything functioning, but each hour added to the toll on the components.

It was impossible to sleep, eat, or work without holding on for dear life with at least one hand at all times—a condition that
soon tires the strongest of men. This was aggravated by the speed necessitated by our orders. Under reefed fore and main sails, and with the shaft turning for ten knots, the motion of the ship was increased to the discomfort of all in her as she smashed into another watery ridge every sixty seconds. And when our stern was lifted out of the water by the roll of the waves, the entire hull shuddered with the cavitation of the propeller in the air.

None of this was appreciated by the men, half of whom had not a minute of liberty in Key West. Those who did get a taste of that first ale had their freedom ashore cut short when
Bennington
suddenly shifted to the coal dock. They were even more upset about what they viewed as a theft of their personal free time.

For the initial day of the voyage, the men were busy cleaning the ship, just as they had after our departure from Kingston. I studied them intently to ascertain signs of disaffection beyond the usual complaining over lost liberty. On the next morning, Norton Gardiner was going over division reports with me when he alluded to seeing and hearing some serious disgruntlement among the men. When I pulled him aside and pressed for specifics, he backed away from his insinuation, saying it was just an impression.

On the second day, I had just finished my luncheon—alone in my cabin, as is usual for a captain—when Gardiner arrived in a troubled state, saying the ship needed to slow down, for the crew's endurance was near the end.

I thought it odd, for the sea conditions, while rough and miserable, were nothing beyond that which veteran sailors know on many occasions in their time at sea. The ship was still sound, without any major damage or malfunctions, and ready for anything which might be required. None of the crew had been injured beyond some contusions and minor lacerations.

I decided to start out even tempered, for I remembered from my own experiences that executive officers have a lot of pressure upon them. “Don't worry, Norton, the men can handle it. We all can. This is a warship, after all, not a yacht. Besides, in another
couple of hours we'll be out of the main current and these seas from the opposing wind and current will diminish.”

That logic failed to impress him. His next comment crossed a crucial line.

“Look, Captain, this whole thing is ridiculous. We're punishing our men and our ship for what? Who cares if the Germans want to parley with some tribal peasants and kill off one of their
bandido
leaders? In fact, who cares if they make niceties with the Mexican government and get a naval station? If they want to get involved with those uncivilized scum, that's their problem. The wardroom is sick of this kind of thing, going from one banana republic upheaval to the next. These Latin Americans are worthless and always will be.”

“Really?” I said, curious about what would come out of his mouth next.

“Yes, sir. What we should be doing is cementing our friendship with the European powers in the Caribbean, not trying to thwart them. Modern civilized countries are our natural allies—not a bunch of uneducated, un-Christian, mongrel thugs who dress up in generals' uniforms and call themselves, ‘President of the Republic,' or some other such nonsense.” He blew out a breath in exasperation. “This is just one more of the admiral's half-cocked notions.”

The foundation for Norton Gardiner's resentment toward me and the admiral was understandable enough. He had been executive officer under the previous captain, and had thought—no, he had been absolutely convinced—he would be given the command when it became available. In fact, he had assured the wardroom officers it was a certainty. His seniority in grade was also two numbers ahead of mine, though he was five years younger and had three years less time in the service than me. This was due to his early promotion to commander, courtesy of his political connections.

Norton Gardiner was everything I was not—academy graduate, independently wealthy, sophisticated bon vivant and
raconteur, and the scion of a politically influential family in Boston who was allied with the senior senator from the state. Most of his limited sea duty had been in Europe, where the navy cruised along the coasts to show the flag and attend cocktail parties. Very little of my naval career had been in that elegant part of the world. The majority of his time in the navy had been on staff assignments at headquarters, or at naval yards, or teaching at the academy. He had been in
Bennington
from her commissioning, however, and thus was a “plank owner,” with the attendant pride of ownership. He considered her
his
ship.

But Norton Gardiner didn't realize his grand prophecy. An uncultured newcomer arrived to take command, while the true gentleman who actually deserved the honor had suffered a gross humiliation in front of his subordinates. It was as mystifying as it was humiliating to Gardiner.

There were two attributes I had that he did not. The first was that I had actually commanded a ship against the enemy in war. The second was a solid record of accomplishing dangerous missions, most of them clandestine and completely unknown to both the public and the majority of the naval officer corps.

Gardiner's disappointment had worsened over the months since I'd taken command, occasionally emerging in unguarded comments and facial expressions. I allowed those to go without rebuke, for I hoped his attitude would improve. He was no longer bothering to disguise his feelings, though, and now he had gone too far. It was time to stop it cold.

I waited all of twenty seconds before replying, the entire time looking into Gardiner's smug face, trying to gauge whether he was just stupid or actually Machiavellian. Was this a plan to goad me into overreacting with theatrics, or to entice me into agreeing with his assessment of the admiral's orders in a moment of camaraderie? It was impossible for me to determine by studying that cold countenance, a situation I found even more disconcerting.

Taking out my pocket watch, I informed him, “Commander
Gardiner, you have just committed insubordination. I will give you ten seconds to recant your statement and make amends.”

The cold expression vanished. His eyes flared with rage. “What! Are you serious?”

“You now have five seconds.”

His demeanor abruptly dissolved. “Wait! Sir, please wait. Captain, I meant no disrespect to you or the admiral. I just thought we were airing personal opinions, sir. I've been in the navy for over twenty years, sir, and have never uttered a single word that was insubordinate.”

“After serving four months with you, I find that hard to believe, Commander Gardiner. And I further find your reply was not a sincere apology or amendment of your original statement. Leave this cabin at once and attend to your duties,
without
the negative attitude toward your superior officers and their decisions. I will decide your fate later.”

He leaned across my desk and began to plead. “Captain, really, I—”

“Get out of this cabin and do your job, Commander Gardiner, while you still have one.”

I sat there for some time afterward, assessing the state of affairs and my options. I could have Gardiner restricted to his quarters and transferred immediately upon return, but it would cause turmoil in the ship. No, it hadn't gotten that bad. Besides, we were going into harm's way and I needed every officer and man to be focused. Memories of a similar predicament came to mind.

Back in 1869, I was the executive officer of a ship commanded by a man who was eccentric in the extreme. His behavior changed into outright lunacy and forced me one night to make a decision, the one which no naval officer wants to
even contemplate. I relieved the captain from command and continued with our mission. Subsequently, I was court-martialed for it, surviving the proceedings with honor and career intact, but enduring rumors and innuendos of mutiny have followed me ever since.

Now the scenario was the opposite—I was the captain. And the problem man was the one officer aboard on whom I had to completely rely and trust. The admiral expected me to go ashore and meet Dzul, but dare I leave the ship in Gardiner's hands?

As I considered the issue,
Bennington
abruptly hit a particularly large sea, stopping her as if she'd hit a granite reef. All loose items lying about in my cabin were flung up into the air and against the forward bulkhead. I and my chair were capsized to the deck, where I managed to land squarely on my bad right shoulder. To top off the day quite nicely, above me the preventer chains of the lantern parted, allowing it to smash into the deck overhead and shatter the glass, which then showered down around me. Little shards embedded into my hair and clothing.