Let the atheists, the agnostics, and the comrades scoff! Milagros’ name means “miracle.” She is devout and good. Surely the voice of a merciful God must have spoken to her, for it was she and the unquestioning faith of Elio, who preferred to give up life and country rather than renounce his God, who saved us on that day.
Around Elio’s bronzed neck, on a silver chain, hung a St. Christopher’s medal about the size of a quarter. Milagros, her face alight, was pointing to it mutely and from it to a single large fish hook stuck point down in the port rail.
Carlos and Elio were commercial fishermen and casters of nets. Apparently they didn’t understand. I understood instantly. Milagros and I had spent too many hours together on the Margaret-A trolling for game fish and hoping to hook into an elusive sail. I held out my hand to Elio and said, “Give me the medal. I’m going to rig up a troll. We can make a line from one of the strands of the rope that is holding up the sail. We’ll have to put the sail up again to get enough speed for trolling.”
He unfastened the medal reluctantly and handed it to me. Carlos said, “Do you think it is right to desecrate a sacred emblem?”
I turned it over in my hand and read him the front and back. “San Cristobal protegenos—St. Christopher protect us.” And on the other side, “Soy católico. En caso de emergencia, llame un sacerdote—I am a Catholic. In case of emergency, call a priest.”
I said, “It is the will of God. Certainly this is an emergency, and it’s just as certain we can call no priest. The only way we can ask San Cristobal to protect us is to pray.”
We did. I doubt if ever a more fervent prayer ascended to Heaven.
Four hours later we had our manna when a ten-pound skipjack hit on our thirty feet of knotted line and the flashing jumping San Cristobal troll. Carlos fell on him and cut him up. We squeezed the water from the flesh into the children’s swollen mouths, and rationed it out like gold among us.
All of us were too weak to move, but we were still alive when we spotted a light on the evening of the sixth and following day. Way beyond it we could see the shore. Then a charter boat with three men aboard-was bearing down on us. Victoria had lost consciousness. We passed her on board to the charter boat while they made us fast to a towline after giving us food and water.
While we sipped the blessed water slowly, I put my arms around Milagros and held her tight. On board the 38-footer, the skipper had rushed to the ship-to-shorc. We could hear him frantically calling: “May Day! May Day! May Day!” His voice seemed very far away.
Ambulances were waiting when we reached the shore. We awakened the following morning in clean beds in the hospital at Homestead, to learn that the tiny Victoria had died during the night in spite of all their efforts to save her.
Clutching José close to her side, Teresa said, dry eyed, “Grandfather Jorge would prefer her dead to being reared as a Communist infidel. I’d do the same thing over again, for the children in Cuba are dying by inches, little by little, without any love of their God to sustain them. My son, who is left, will at least grow up a Christian, and free.”
And in six days God made Heaven and earth, and this was the beginning of the Seventh Day.
EPILOGUE
Filled with starting our lives anew, I had almost forgotten Leo’s words on the drive from La Cabana to that cove beneath the cliffs on the beach at Jibacoa. Once I had mentioned it to Milagros, but she had been as incredulous as I was that Fidel would ever open the gates to an exodus from Communist Cuba. We had both decided that it was just another ruse on Leo’s part to frighten us into an immediate departure.
Back in Miami, we were both proved wrong almost three weeks to the day. Speaking to a night rally of his CDR spies on Tuesday, September twenty-eight, in Havana’s Revolutionary Square, Fidel announced that all Cubans opposed to his Communist regime could be ferried to the United States by boat, if the US government agreed.
According to the papers, he said, “Now it’s up to the Imperialists, the United States! Let’s see what they do now. We are not going to force people to like our Revolution and our Socialism, nor do we have any reason to do so.” He found out what the Imperialists, the United States, would do quickly enough. It took a few weeks of negotiations, but for any State Department that might be called practically acting right away.
Leo had missed out on only one thing. It was not Matanzas but the little river port of Camarioca, between Matanzas and Vara deron, that had been designated as the exit door. It was jammed with thousands immediately, and as Leo had said it wasn’t so easy to get away. Individuals claimed by relatives in the United States were required before leaving their homes to sign legal documents turning over title to any and all property they owned: homes, farms, ranches, or businesses; their bank accounts in full; their automobiles and all their personal property, including such things as furniture, clothing, other than a few personal items, books, jewelry, and virtually their entire worldly possessions. Worst of all, perhaps, boys and girls of military age, fourteen and over, were forced to stay behind.
Thousands started making a run for it on their own in small boats, through a hail of gunfire from Cuban militiamen. More than three thousand put out in eight-foot seas, caring for nothing, as we had cared for nothing, except to get away.
On Saturday, November sixth, an agreement was reached between Cuba and the United States, through the Swiss Embassy. Emigrants were to be flown to the US at the rate of three or four thousand a month. These flights were to leave the Veradero airport starting on December first.
We were discussing it after Thanksgiving dinner at Luis Martínez’ home. Milagros and I, Carlos and Ana, Elio, Teresa and José were the guests, all with much to be thankful for. The doorbell rang, and Luis admitted Albert Clooney, the white-haired Friend of Cuba with offices in the Ainsley Building. He had just dropped by to bring us some news, but he joined us in a coffee and cordial. He didn’t have long to stay.
Luis swiftly explained what we had been talking about and said, “You always have your pulse tuned into things, Albert. What’s Fidel gotten out of all this?”
Clooney sipped his cordial and thoughtfully lit a cigarette. “Well, for whatever my opinion is worth, I look at it this way: As the days go on Fidel is strengthening his position in Cuba, as well as Cuba itself and its economy.”
“Strengthening it?” Luis’ forehead wrinkled. “In what way?”
“Two ways,” Clooney said decisively. “He’s not only deporting all the Cubans he doesn’t want there anyway, but his imports of badly needed goods and machinery are increasing. He’s getting continuing financial help from Russia and Red China. More every day.”
“You mean the US embargo against Cuba is a failure?”
Clooney nodded. “I’ve been talking to one of my most reliable sources of information, Soledad Harrington, who arrived from there on the Kerritack this morning. Her husband’s a Canadian, by the way. At any rate, she keeps good track of his fleet of ships, and it seems that business is very good. France is selling him three-hundred Berliot trucks, and twenty-two diesel locomotives. England is selling him twenty locomotives. During the next six months, Spain has agreed to deliver to Cuba twenty-four 13,000-ton vessels, and a hundred and fifty buses. Now, as for Harrington’s native land—”
“Canada?”
“Yes, Canada, Luis. She’s the worst offender of them all. Canada has already supplied him with ten thousand breeding cattle, millions of eggs, agricultural equipment, chemical fertilizers, and replacement parts for US machinery.”
He finished his cordial and sipped his coffee. “I’ll add a little something on my own. Canada is also supplying Fidel with paper for his various publications, and according to Free Cuba News she’s holding the back door wide open for the admission of Cuban-trained subversives to the USA. The same source tells us that Canada now has a Cuban-supported National Liberation Front, which maintains liaison with Havana.”
‘“¡Dios! Is there any answer?” Luis asked him.
Cl
ooney stood up, put out his cigarette, and pushed back his chair. “Well, so far we’ve succeeded in persuading all Latin American nations but Mexico to break off trade and diplomatic relations. Now, we’d better get to work on our Western allies or it won’t be long before Latin America will want to come in on this lucrative trade. Funny thing about the world, Luis. Everybody wants to get in on the act—so long as they get their pay.”
We all stood up. Luis said, “Was that what you came here to tell us, Albert?”
Clooney said, “No. I’ll admit I’ve been stalling. It’s a piece of news that Soledad gave me, that even Fidel himself won’t announce. It doesn’t make it look too good to admit to the world that he had to shoot the head of his Secret Police.”
“Father?” Milagros whispered, and took my arm.
“Comandante de Ejército Ernesto García. He’d saved his daughter from many slips, but she didn’t know it. He made just one himself in thirty years and it cost him his life. Without any reason, or any excuse, or any cover, he calmly signed his own death warrant by trading on his rank, and getting the one thing he loved best in the world out of the women’s prison at Guanajay. Then, on top of that he saved her husband and arranged the escape of both of them from out of the country.”
Nobody spoke.
He turned at the door, looked back at me, and smiled his slow smile. “Pórtate bien, chico. Be a good boy. Remember, he was only fictional as Luis told you. It’s going to be a tough spot to fill, but we always do it. Maybe I should have gotten him an office in the Ainsley Building, instead of helping him to get back to Cuba so quickly to save you both. After all, he was the oldest living member of the CIA.”
About the Author
Baynard Kendrick (1894–1977) was one of the founders of the Mystery Writers of America, later named a Grand Master by the organization. After returning from military service in World War I, Kendrick wrote for pulp magazines such as Black Mask and Dime Detective Magazine under various pseudonyms before creating the Duncan Maclain character for which he is now known. The blind detective appeared in twelve novels, several short stories, and three films.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1966 by Baynard Kendrick
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6569-6
This edition published in 2021 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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