“Beauty, we’ll go in as an American schooner on a private cruise,” he said. “If we’re asked, I will be an American investor looking at plantations, and Aja will pose as my servant. I don’t expect to be ashore long—just to get Wharton on his way and have a glass of Cuban rum. You never know what you’ll hear in a waterfront bar!”
RASCAL, AN AMERICAN SCHOONER to all appearances, glided into the Bay of Matanzas on a faint and dying breeze, the Stars and Stripes hanging at her gaff. It was just sunset, with enough light for Barclay to confirm the coral heads in the center of the bay and keep them to the right of the ship, on starboard. Fallon and Beauty watched the fort carefully for any signs of activity but saw none. Still, they held their breath until they were safely past the guns. Beauty anchored in ten fathoms of water within an easy row to the beach, and Fallon called for his gig. In very little time the boat slid up onto the beach, and he and Wharton shook hands with a promise to meet again at that very spot in one month’s time. Fallon felt close to Wharton, a new friend who had told him perhaps the biggest secret of his secretive life. Wharton clasped his shoulder and then the intelligence agent disappeared into the warm blackness of the night.
Fallon and Aja walked up the beach toward the sound of laughter. The few cafés open along the waterfront of the town were busy with customers; there were lanterns and candles glowing inside, beckoning all to enter. Fallon stepped into the first one and hoped for a chatty barkeep. In fact, the barkeep, who glanced at him expectantly, was a woman—a woman with short hair. Women who ran shops or other businesses were commonplace in the Caribbean, because their men were often away at sea. Or dead from war. Fallon knew it was true on Bermuda, as well.
The café was a rustic affair, with candles burning along the bar and on each of the few tables. The floor was wooden and worn smooth by the sand tracked in or from dancing. Or both. Fallon had always heard that Cubans loved music. It was not a large space, but the wall boards were freshly painted white and the place was clean. Flowers on the ends of the bar showed a woman’s touch.
He ordered rum for himself, but nothing for Aja, who chose to wait by the door, such as it was, it being merely a large opening at the front of the small building, with rough wooden posts holding up the roof. After the barkeep had brought his rum and exchanged some general pleasantries, Fallon stated his interest in investing in plantations as his reason for being in Cuba.
“Tell me, Señora,” he asked, “were you here when the hurricane struck in ’96? I would not think hurricanes and sugarcane would get along!” Fallon, being the American with more money than sense.
“Sí, Señor,” she replied, “it was very bad here but the cane had been cut early that year and most of it was in the mills.”
“We heard a rumor in Charleston,” Fallon continued, getting well into his persona now, “that there was a big battle in the Straits near here during the worst of the storm. Something about a Spanish treasure fleet?” He was trying to make conversation, of course, but also curious about what she knew.
“Sí, sí, we heard the same,” said the woman. “I think it was true because a British warship came here after the hurricane with holes in its sails and sides! I think from the battle!”
“Really!” said Fallon. “A British warship, you say? What happened then?”
“Why, we helped them, Señor,” said the woman matter-of-factly. “The men of the town brought their tools and the things the admiral needed to fix his ship.”
“An admiral, you say! A British admiral was here in Matanzas!” exclaimed Fallon, hearing Davies’ story in his mind. “What did the Spanish authorities do when you helped an enemy ship?”
“The Spanish army wasn’t as strong then, Señor. And even now there is no garrison of soldiers at the fort anymore. It is too expensive for the government. Now the fort is used as the treasury and the slave market and to keep political prisoners locked up. It’s protected by guardias who live inside.”
“The treasury, you say?” asked Fallon as casually as he could, his heart jumping.
“Sí, Señor. The taxes for Spain. The money is under lock and key in the fort.” And with that she smiled and moved down the bar.
Fallon watched her walk away to help another customer and considered how to proceed. He shifted all thoughts of the treasury from his mind for the moment, for it would not do to be too inquisitive. He was merely an American investor looking at plantations in Matanzas—that was going to attract enough attention as it was without his appearing too interested in the fort’s treasury.
He lingered a few moments more, looking around the café, and then left a peso on the bar to pay for his rum and turned to leave when, from seemingly out of nowhere, a woman stood beside him. A beautiful woman with short hair herself, bold and confident in her bearing, her dark eyes alive with interest. She looked at Fallon a moment, as if to size up an adversary. Or a friend. Her entire face seemed to be thinking.
“I am Paloma Campos, Señor,” she said in English. “I understand from my sister that you are looking at plantations in Matanzas.”
“Nicholas Fallon, Señora,” said Fallon, “and may I say your English is very good. If you prefer we can speak in Spanish, however.”
“No, I prefer English, so I can practice,” said Paloma. “I learned it when the British took Cuba.”
Fallon searched her eyes for bitterness at the thought of British occupation, and he thought he saw it momentarily. But best to press on, he decided.
“I am looking to invest in a plantation,” he said. “My schooner sailed in tonight from Charleston. I was just speaking with the barkeep, if that is your sister, Señora.”
“Please call me Paloma. Yes, this is my sister’s cafe. So, I know everything.” She laughed and put her hand to her mouth and rolled her eyes. Then she grew serious. “Of course, there are many foreign plantation owners in Cuba. We have many French planters who came from Saint-Domingue, for instance, when France abolished slavery. And to the east I believe there are American planters, as well. But you must know that Spain charges taxes on our sugar, Señor. Spain needs money to fight her wars.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Fallon. “Your sister said the taxes were kept in the treasury in the fort. But tell me, are Spain’s taxes so high that ownership would not be worth it to me?”
“I don’t know, Señor. But there may be a better reason not to buy a plantation in Cuba.”
“And what is that, if I may ask?”
“Meet me here tomorrow morning, Señor Fallon,” Paloma said. “I will bring horses and I will show you.”
Now Fallon was trapped. He had played at being an intelligence agent of a sort and was already in over his head. Hell and damn, he thought.
But, “I’d like nothing more” was what came out of his mouth.
FIFTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING began with clouds moving in from the west and a subdued light over the little harbor. Fallon had arisen early, in part due to nervousness and in part to sort through his clothing to find something that would approximate the riding attire of an American investor, whatever that might be. His choices were necessarily limited, but he pulled together the best he had and examined himself by the weak light that came in through the stern windows. Well, he thought critically, a man with no options is a man with no problems. He shrugged his shoulders and called for breakfast.
In truth, he did not feel convincing as an American investor and doubted he could pull off the game. By his second cup of coffee he concluded he was on a fool’s errand, one that he had set out for himself. Why? Partly, he had been trapped into it by Paloma’s invitation and his dim-witted response. But partly, he admitted silently, it was hubris. For a moment, he had seen himself aiding Wharton in some way, perhaps playing a part in the great events of the day. It was a romantic and totally unrealistic notion, and he cursed himself for it. He was a privateer, he chided himself, and nothing more.
On time, Fallon and Aja were rowed to shore in the gig and found their way
to the café they had visited the night before. In the dim daylight, the place looked a little lonely and forlorn, but standing in front was Paloma Campos in riding attire, holding three horses by the reins. Soon they were all mounted and riding east, across gently rolling hills and plains that were covered in sugarcane as far as the eye could see. Aja had likely never sat a horse before and bumped along, thankful they were not galloping. His eyes seemed to miss nothing of the landscape, but if he had thoughts or apprehensions about the day he kept them to himself.
“The cane here grows twelve to sixteen months before it is harvested,” Paloma said to Fallon as they rode, with the sun just making its appearance and shining in their eyes. “It can grow to be ten feet high and is very tough. No doubt we will see some of it being harvested today.” A pause. “It is brutal work, if you’ve never seen it.”
Fallon knew very little about sugarcane, which Señora Campos was no doubt coming to figure out already.
“Tell me more,” he said with genuine interest. “I am not a planter, of course, just a businessman.”
Paloma looked at Fallon with curiosity, and he squirmed in his saddle under her gaze.
“Planters organize slaves into gangs, Señor,” Paloma continued. “The hardest work goes to the strongest gang—the planting, manuring, and cane-cutting. The weaker gang handles the less physically demanding work, such as loading the cane or working in the mill doing menial jobs. The days are long during harvest; no slave works less than twenty hours.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Fallon before he could stop it.
“The leaves of the cane are like tiny knives,” Paloma continued, as they turned the horses through a bend in the road. “A thousand cuts on the legs fill with dirt and perspiration and it is like fire. And then there are ants that live in the roots of the cane that bite your feet.”
Fallon wondered if Aja, riding behind, could hear what the señora was saying. That could well describe his life if his slave ship had reached the market and he’d been sold to a plantation owner. Unable to resist, he turned around in his saddle to see the young man’s eyes wide with, what? Interest or fear?
They came over a low rise and before them were burned fields on either side of the road. Paloma pulled her horse up, and Fallon and Aja followed suit. “This is what I wanted to show you, Señor Fallon. Runaway slaves set fire to this plantation last week. It is the way they rebel against their lives. When they are caught they will be severely punished. Their owner will probably amputate an arm and brand them as runaways.”
“Jesus! Does that happen often?” Fallon asked with an involuntary wince. On Bermuda, runaway slaves were rare because the sea surrounded the island. There was literally nowhere to run.
“This is not uncommon in the country around Matanzas, where there are many plantations,” answered Paloma. “Cuba was not so cruel like this before thousands of slaves were brought to grow the sugarcane. There are so many more slaves to control, and the planters believe examples must be made.”
Fallon looked over the blackened fields, wondering if this was the time to probe further about the chances of rebellion. Instead, he lost confidence and stayed quiet.
A sadness seemed to come across Paloma’s beautiful face. Fallon saw it and felt she had perhaps sought a sympathetic ear, and he had been found deaf. Without a word, Paloma urged her horse forward, and Fallon and Aja followed.
They rode for perhaps a half hour more and then turned down a long lane, at the end of which was a large white house and a very large sugar mill, along with a few barns and sheds. On all sides were fields of sugarcane, and there were slaves in the fields harvesting it with machetes. The newly emerged sun glistened off their blades.
As Fallon and the others rode down the lane, he saw several buildings off to the side of the mill behind a hedge.
“What are those buildings, Paloma?” he asked, trying to reengage her in conversation.
“The white house to the rear is the overseer’s house, and no doubt those are his dogs you hear barking in the pen next to it. The low buildings you see, the ones without windows, are where the slaves sleep, Señor,” she answered, nodding to the barracoons and barely hiding her disgust. “They have only the one small opening in the door for ventilation and light. At night, the slaves are locked inside and sleep on dirt, or straw if the overseer feels generous. And see the smallest barracoon, there behind the others? That is where they put the strongest men and healthiest women and force them to couple. They are trying to breed the best slaves for the fields so they will not have to buy all the time. The average slave working the cane lives only three years, you see.”
Fallon was still trying to absorb what life in a barracoon must be like and wondering what Aja must be thinking. He wanted to turn in his saddle again but Paloma cut into his thoughts.
“I believe this plantation is for sale,” she said without emotion. “The owner is an old man named Serles. I don’t know where he is from, but he speaks English and Spanish well. I think I see him in the yard with his overseer now.”
Indeed, a short, fat, old man in a white shirt was talking to a much larger man with a bald head who was tying a slave to a whipping post in the yard. The slave was obedient, yet stoic.
All three riders dismounted and Aja took the horses’ reins, all the while keeping a wary eye on Serles’s overseer, who was just then taking a long whip out of a burlap bag. After brief introductions, Fallon expressed a casual interest in finding a plantation investment, maybe a full purchase. He tried to appear nonchalant, interested but not overly so.
“We can talk,” said Serles in English, his wrinkled face showing a small smile. “But I got to punish Young David first, you see. Boss here says he’s been malingering. Thinks too much and works too little, he says.”
“Young David?” Fallon asked absently, watching Aja watch Boss, who was shaking out the curls of the whip.
“On the slaver’s manifest, he was listed as Young, David—they give ’em names when they buy ’em on Gorée, you know. And Boss here can’t read so good and just called him Young David. Kind of stuck with him.”
Boss turned his back to Young David and began to slowly walk away, the whip trailing behind him. The slave’s eyes followed the whip, which looked like a black snake uncurling. Fallon looked at the slave closely. He was a large man, perhaps in his late twenties, well-muscled, with a jagged scar on his cheek. A small L had been burned into his shoulder. And encircling his left breast, burned into the skin, was a large black ring.
“Is that your brand, Mr. Serles?” Fallon asked.
Serles followed Fallon’s gaze. “Ah, the black ring. Like a manacle, it is,” he said with obvious pride. “To remind ’em they can’t escape. Thought of it myself, if I must say. Never lost a slave either.” And then: “Boss, show Young David what happens when you break rules.”
The first lash came with a snap that made Fallon, Paloma, and Aja jump. Young David winced with the pain, and a welt appeared across his neck and chest that slowly began to weep blood.
“We can go up to the house soon,” Serles said. “This is going to get boring. Boss likes to take it slow, give ’em something to think about between lashes. He’ll be at it for most of an hour. And then we rub a little pepper in the cuts to finish the job. Young David won’t be forgetting the pepper anytime soon.”
Paloma inadvertently let out a gasp and covered her mouth and, for a moment, Fallon thought she would be sick. He wondered about Aja as well, but the boy was staring hard at Young David, who was staring back, their eyes locked in wordless communication.
Snap! The whip laid another bloody stripe across Young David’s chest.
“Ahem,” Fallon croaked, clearing his throat. “Mr. Serles, I must come back when we can talk further. For now, I am getting the lay of the land, so to speak, and I fear I have another appointment. Thank you for your time. It has been … valuable indeed.”
Serles tried to object, but Fallon mounted his horse quickly, as did Paloma and Aja.
In very little time they were well along the lane and then down the road without looking back.
SIXTEEN
THEY RODE BACK along a river they had not seen before; Paloma said it was a shorter distance to town. For a long time, they rode without speaking; what they had seen on the plantation had deeply affected them all. After a while, Paloma stopped and dismounted to water her horse, and Fallon did the same. They handed their reins to Aja, and Fallon asked her to walk to a copse of trees nearby.
“Paloma,” Fallon began, “I fear this has been a trying morning for you. I did not expect—that is, I had no way of knowing …”
“Do not think to apologize,” she replied firmly. “I saw your reaction to the lash. It is inhuman, no? Slavery is a living death, Señor. I had hoped when you saw the burned fields that you would be so concerned with losing money that you would abandon your idea. It is I who must apologize for trying to change your mind. I led you here under false pretenses.”
Fallon looked at her closely and could not tell her another lie.
“I fear I have not been honest with you, either, Paloma. I am not a businessman at all, but a simple sea captain acting on behalf of Great Britain against the Spanish government. I was hoping to find sentiment in Cuba for a rebellion that Great Britain could support. Perhaps a slave rebellion such as that on Saint-Domingue. I’m afraid I have used you badly. Please forgive me.”
Señora Campos took a moment to absorb Fallon’s admission. The day was growing cloudy again and there was the smell of a shower in the air. She looked at the sky and then toward Aja with the horses. She didn’t appear angry, exactly.
“Why did you choose Matanzas?” she asked.
And then Fallon told her about Admiral Davies and Avenger and his story about the rebellious Matanzas women with their short hair. He made no mention of Wharton, fearing to compromise the man. Fallon watched her face in the telling, and unless he was very much mistaken her eyes grew moist.
The Black Ring Page 8
