The engine cut and the Union hushed. Smoke from the stack died away and they drifted into a channel. Her wheel stopped rotating but the slosh from inside the drum persisted as a phantom in Roebuck’s ear. Low islands dotted the coast, cypress trees overhanging banks and coastal birds shoveling through mud for a meal.

The Union’s crew relaxed riding the current and dropping anchor at the village harbor known as Port Leon. On a map you could barely find it, but here it was at the bend in Florida’s elbow. Roebuck scratched at mosquito bumps and waited for the launch crew to row him ashore. Waiting didn’t bother him because he was here where he wanted to be.

After some time a midshipman arrived to say, “The gig is ready, Lieutenant Roebuck. Commander Hurley asks that you climb aboard with no delay.” This was the sort of fare-thee-well Roebuck as an officer in the Revenue Marine not the Navy expected. He nodded a serene goodbye and climbed down into the launch.

On shore, he looked for a place to get information. Over his shoulder was a cloth duffel and his left hand gripped his banjo case. The instrument and its songs reminded Roebuck of his freebooting days on the Chesapeake. He and his pals forever looking to turn a dime into a dollar, raiding crab pots and tobacco barns. Those days had taught him about smugglers and others who use waterway to evade the law. He knew their mind, and this helped him when giving chase in his revenue cutter.

Sweat dribbled from his forehead as he walked. A bead grew on the tip of his nose tickling him before it dropped. When another replaced it, he shook his head like a wet dog and laughed. It was very hot yes, but he was here with a new command. Why not laugh?

Roebuck stopped to watch a pair of mules pulling three cars down a rail track. What came down the rail that these people couldn’t get from ships? Maybe the cars were empty, ready to be filled with the world’s bounty.

Roebuck left his bag and banjo with a merchant in the village who penciled a map to the next stop, the St. Marks Customs House. Like the Revenue Marine, customs houses were part of the U.S. Treasury. The orders from Washington that he carried in his pocket told him that the customs agent here was called Abel Van Diemen and that Abel Van Diemen would have information about Roebuck’s new station and most importantly when and where he would find his crew and cutter.

Twenty sweaty minutes later, he found the Customs House. It wasn’t much, meager was the word. Especially compared to the Customs House he was used to in New Orleans. He never tired of walking through the massive oak doors of that big columned beauty nor of walking over the cool marble of its floors. That was a building should be printed as a picture in a book. Why, it probably was many times over. But not this one. It rested on pilings and would be no more than a few rooms arranged off a dog trot, the porch nearly as big as the rest of it, a palmetto in front shorter than he was.

He cut across a weedy patch climbed four wooden steps to the porch and opened the door without knocking. Two men sat on either side of an end table topped by half a bottle of amber liquid and two nearly empty glasses.

The one man looked at Roebuck’s jacket and said, “Revenue Service,” not making it a question and not getting up.

Roebuck felt a little like this required a response. “That’s right,” he said, “Are you Abel Van Diemen?”

“That’s right,” the man said.

The other man smiled.

Van Diemen, fingers manipulating a gold chain, looked at Roebuck with big pupils, a man who didn’t like surprises. He said, “Has something happened?”

“I’m Lieutenant Robert Chase Roebuck. I have been assigned to this station and am reporting.” This sounded moronic and pleading even to himself.

“Well Robert Chase Roebuck,” Van Diemen said. “I am in possession of bad news.”

The other man began to worry the brim of a felt tarpot hat.

Roebuck noticed a cushioned chair across from them. It looked very comfortable.

Van Diemen continued, “There’s not a ship in St. Marks for you to report to and no command.”

Roebuck fished the crinkled paper of his orders from his pocket. “Here sir,” he said, “Dated June 17th, 1845.”

Van Diemen didn’t take it.

Roebuck wanted to be certain the man understood saying, “The cutter Massachusetts is mine and I am to command a new Revenue Marine station here.” Sounding repetitive now in addition to moronic.

“You are expecting a complement to be filled and waiting for you,” Van Diemen said. “Their heads bowed in deference to our revenue marine hero, Bobby Chase.” Van Diemen not wasting any time, using Roebuck’s nickname and reputation to have some fun with him. “And your ship bursting with provisions?”

This customs agent was turning out to be a very uncordial man. But when faced with the fact, it came as no surprise. If Van Diemen did not want the Revenue Marine nearby, he would not be the first or last man in his position to feel that way. Most of these agents wanted to be left to their own devices. Roebuck said, “Sir, I was told…”

“You have already explained what you were told,” Van Diemen said. “But I am sorry to inform you that I myself watched as the Massachusetts was broken up for timber two weeks ago. I am surprised you did not know.”

Had the information passed Roebuck as he traveled on the Union? “Broken up?” he said not sure why all of a sudden he needed everything repeated.

Van Diemen turned to his friend with the tarpot hat. “The Mandarins in our Treasury Department are zealots, Captain Roux. The idea,” he said with a mournful shake, “that we need a revenue cutter here in this village.”

Captain Roux said, “I am told how smugglers overrun Mobile Bay.”

“Indeed they do, sir,” Van Diemen said. “A fact which does not seem to move the Revenue Marine.”

These two were laying it on thick, Roebuck sensing how Van Diemen was probably more than a mere bystander in the events he now reported. He said, “Why was my cutter broken apart?”

“She arrived taking on water uncontrollably. The Lieutenant in charge Mr. Gosling deemed her unfit for service. And I have word that there will be no revenue marine station here until there is a ship. And that the Treasury Department in its frugal wisdom has no plans to acquire or construct any ship besides those already in commission.”

Roebuck was stunned. He wanted to ask if the Treasury Department knew how much he had been counting on this. And as for Gosling, Roebuck knew him. A Revenue Marine officer who had been put to court martial twice in connection with the black markets of Charleston and acquitted, dubiously as the story went.

“Where is Gosling, now?” Roebuck said.

“The port of Wilmington in North Carolina. His new station.” Van Diemen motioned to his companion who rose to his feet. “Captain Roux, as you have heard this is Lieutenant Roebuck.”

Roux’s smile was impressive. Roebuck’s wanted to match it tooth for tooth but restrained himself. “Captain,” he said nodding slowly.

Roux said, “It is a pleasure, Lieutenant.” He spoke in charmingly accented French.

Van Diemen said, “Captain Roux pilots the Hilaire.”

Roebuck said, “Her cargo?”

“Sugar,” Roux said. `

“Captain Roux is now loading his ship with cotton,” Van Diemen said.

Roebuck said, “Come down by that rail?”

They both smiled and nodded.

Cotton of course was the explanation he had earlier sought in his mind.

Roebuck turned again to Roux, “You’re headed North from here?”

Roux said, “You have surmised it, Lieutenant. My destination is Newport.”

The Frenchman sat down again and the two of them stared up at Roebuck. No one spoke.

“If you need a bunk,” Van Diemen finally said, “Madame Galdos has a boarding house half a mile toward town. It is one of the few respectable lodgings we have.”

Roebuck was being dismissed. He left them and stood stunned in the middle of the road if you could the red clay dirt-way a road. Gone was his station in New Orleans and his command of the lightning fast USRC Louisiana because he believed he would master another ship here in St. Marks. Now all he mastered was broken timber.

#

The Galdos place was marked by a shingle hanging in front:

Good Beds

This House is strictly First Class

For single men only, by permission of Mrs. J.S. Galdos, Proprietress

Next to it hung another that said the same thing in Spanish.

It was the first house he’d seen in St. Marks with a fence that separated yard from road. A path lined by flowers led to the door. He knocked. A woman in a pressed black dress, buttoned up high, no hoops in her skirt answered. Her shoes were flat, a widow.

“Señora Galdos?” he said.

“Who else?” she said, squinting.

He introduced himself in Spanish and she replied, “I have rules, Lieutenant. They are good and fair.”

Good and fair for who, he wondered.

She said, “You are Catholic?”

This question normally put him on his guard. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She sort of nodded not looking convinced and said, “Supper is served at four. Breakfast at six. You must make your own bed, because I am His servant, not yours. The front door is bolted at eight each night. If you arrive at 8:01 you will be obliged find another bed.”

Roebuck said, “There are other beds?”

“There is a rum palace closer to the harbor, but it is no place for a man with a good name. I cannot recommend it.”

“Could you just name it,” he said.

“Posey’s Inn,” she said, “The province of two-bit harlots.”

Roebuck had an idea of what two-bits bought in New Orleans along the waterfront where the famine girls set up shop. A breeze stirred at his back and he wondered what 2-bits bought here. He said goodbye to Doña Galdos and returned to the merchant to gather his luggage.

Although small, Port Leon was busy. There were four ships at anchor and the village was active. Van Diemen had done well to land himself here amidst so much commerce and the wealth to be captured in duties.

The largest of the four ships was Roux’s Hilaire. She had the remnant of a mizzenmast stepped immediately behind her main mast, a configuration he didn’t often see at anchor. She was wider than most brigs although the same length, cargo the reason for the extra girth. Most shipwrights Roebuck knew and many seafaring men would call her a snow, a version of the brigantine admired by slavers. Yes a snow is what Roebuck would call her.

The Hilaire’s crew was looking at him, his uniform attracting their attention. That was something. He took her measure slowly then turned back toward the village, a picture forming in his mind. The Hilaire making the middle passage full of contraband.

#

He took an upstairs room at Posey’s Inn with a window, which he hoped might disperse some of the July heat. He changed into a civilian blouse, britches, and a straw hat before descending to the tavern. The kitchen was serving shrimp stew and half loaf of bread. He added an ale and looked around.

While it appeared to be true that Roebuck’s ship had been broken up, he was still an officer in the Revenue Marine until he heard otherwise. The tavern would be a place to swap stories as drinking men do and gather information that might be useful on the water.

The bar had a shine that comes night after night year after year from men leaning the elbows of their shirts or the backs of their waistcoats against it. Roebuck added a little of his own polish picking out an open space and leaning on it.

Sunlight filled the room. A long mirror opposite him offered a view of the straw hat on his head. He’d acquired it on a whim at Cisette’s Emporium, captivated by the New Orleans splendor of its red grosgrain trim. Certainly not the sort of hat a revenue officer would wear. He was disguised.

In an hour fishermen arrived in search of refreshment. They stayed for no more than a drink or two, no doubt limited by their early mornings. A tide of sailors came and went without interruption guided to the place it seemed by celestial hands, probably in search of something more than refreshment, on shore to blow off steam after a long voyage or to gird themselves before one. Roebuck drank and talked learning plenty and hoping what he was bound to forget wasn’t the important part.

As he chatted with a man who’d shipped out of Norfolk, a group of whores entered the room in a tidy line, resembling somewhat the infantry. The last of them was a round, very round, red-faced woman. She stomped one foot and the others stopped cold for a second before squaring up to the bar, a maneuver intended to fetch cheers from onlookers, which it did.

A very small dark-haired sailor rose from a table and began walking the line. It wasn’t long before he stopped and smiled up at the round woman. She twirled impressively, Roebuck noting a thin spot in the back of her golden wig where a patch of brownish hair peaked through. Job-related wear he supposed. She grabbed the sailor by the hand and pulled him out the door toward someplace where they could consummate whatever it was that had united them.

Another girl came in and limped her way along the bar. She wasn’t a foot-dragger like he’d seen among palsied beggars in New Orleans more like she had broken a bone or maybe twisted up her joint. He turned to the barkeep and ordered a rum. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder, the girl with the limp was looking straight at him. She was lovely.

“Buenos noches, Marinero,” she said.

Roebuck was getting used how conversations here started in Spanish as often as they did English. He said, “Hola Guapa.”

She leaned against the bar then shifted most of her weight against him telling him in Spanish to buy her whatever he was drinking.

He ordered a rum in English and she said, “You are American.”

He said, “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” She delivered the words in a way that suggested otherwise yet she was game to keep the English going. Before long Roebuck and Rose as she called herself were in the street walking toward what he knew would be a bed. They passed a porch lit by a sputtering lantern where a negro stood dressed in a narrow frock coat, a shiny beaver top hat upon his head.

“Marse!” he said, “Lookee here,” nudging out a young woman or possibly a girl. “I have something fresh for you. That one,” pointing at Rose, “she humps like she walks, ooof.” He said it as if shaking off a bad memory.

Rose said, “Angel, I know what make you happy.” Her grip strengthened and they continued on until reaching a long rough building assembled from mud and log. Inside were canvas bunks lined up and tethered to posts that reached up to nothing. No roof.

By the sound of it half the bunks were occupado. He said to her, “Let’s see the harbor instead,” interested in another look at the Hilaire.

“On my back or my feet Angel it’s the same,” she said rubbing two fingers against her thumb.

He paid her a half dollar.

“More,” she said.

“My pockets are empty.”

She stuck out her hand and smiled so he fished around and found a penny.

“Next time,” she said, “bring more.”

At the harbor, the Hilaire rested at close anchor. The land breeze had petered out replaced by one that built from the sea. This breeze smelt of vinegar. There were Captains of stinking ships who scoured their decks with vinegar. Roebuck wasn’t sure whether that was to clean the planks or mask the smell soaked into them.

Rose looped her arm in his and they walked, a limping lady and her gentleman. Sniffing the air she said, “What a funny smell.”

“Vinegar,” he said.

“Why I smell this, Angel?” she said.

Roebuck shrugged. Something about how Rose put the question suggested she was ahead of the answer. The promenade continued until they reached the waterfront where another smell met them.

Rose backed up and said, “Que bestial.”

Bobbing gently in the moonlight the Hilaire set an attractive profile at odds with the cloying smell coming from her decks.

She pulled at Roebuck’s arm and said, “Let’s go back Angel. “

“Wait,” he said nose upturned. It was urine, a very stubborn smell. Planks of softer wood larch or pine absorbed it. Vinegar may help but only time did the job of ridding those planks of that odor.

On patrol Roebuck had learned the difference between a prudent slaver and a careless one. Prudent slavers deployed necessary tubs throughout their cargo. It made a difference. Yet they could not keep the cargo from pissing on the deck. Their way to demonstrate against the hell of it.

Had the Hilaire picked up Angolas or Loangos along the Guinea coast? Perhaps Roux had sold them in Recife, or maybe he’d hauled them as far as Havana, the price per head increasing in proportion to the distance travelled. Roux had said the Hilaire was a sugar trader. You can’t separate sugar from slaves.

Had Roux found a way to smuggle them all the way to the United States and into this new state of Florida, admitted just three months earlier 1845 to the Union? Naval ships and revenue cutters on patrol would make the attempt risky. But Roux flew a French jack and American admirals preferred that their officers avoid offending the pride of France and inviting the intimidations of her Navy. Why wouldn’t Roux take advantage?

Rose tugged his shirt sleeve, pulling him off balance. She had a carpenter’s wrists. “Come on Angel,” she said, “I no like it here.”

Roebuck sniffed the breeze once more. Urine sure enough and not a sea of vinegar could hide it.

#

The morning was nearly over when Roebuck awoke reluctantly. A wiser path would have been to desist last night from the last of the rums. Snake bit, basin water too warm to help, he left his uniform draped over the chair back as he dressed. He wanted to avoid the sort of attention it had attracted from the Hilaire’s crew yesterday. Today he would be in shirt sleeves and Cisette’s straw hat again.

Downstairs, he finished a slow breakfast and was tempted to return to bed for a nap. Against this was a niggling feeling about how he really needed to make his confession. It was overdue. Last night he had noted a little stone church on the way to the waterfront, so off he went to find it.

His mother Josephina was a Spaniard by birth and raised Catholic. She would be very pleased to see him making this journey. His father Martin was also Catholic but only in name baptized as a condition of his marriage. Martin attended mass once a year, skipping Christmas in favor of Easter, manifesting a preference Roebuck believed for the redemption in the risen Christ over the miracle of the born one.

Roebuck’s own Catholicism was something he did not talk about in the Revenue Marine. There were men in that service who complained about the growth of what they called a Papish influence. These were men lacking the imagination to consider that one of their comrades might be among those so dangerously influenced. Roebuck said nothing, but wanted to tell them how little there was to fear, given the Episcopalian readiness to build steeples higher than anything else in town matching a preference among parishioners in this country for objective measures when choosing a faith. Moreover, he knew it was just a matter of time before Florida got on the Methodist circuit and that there wasn’t a Pope known to history could resist such a force as that.

He turned a corner and a turned another. There he encountered a line of penitents wrapping themselves around the little stone church’s grounds and into the street, as if the place had grown a tail. A hot breeze raised swirls of red dust. The idea of breathing in particles of clay until it was his turn to confess sins most men he knew would pay to hear was a non-sense. So he returned to Posey’s, a tavern being the second most likely place to find a priest if you truly needed one.