Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  “Please hide me,” the man asked, and suddenly collapsed. He was bleeding from a shark bite on his calf. They rowed back to the schooner and took him below into the captain’s cabin. The crew was still sleeping. Hendricks stitched up the wound on the man’s leg, painted it liberally with Lugol’s iodine solution from the ship’s medical kit, and bandaged it tightly. Townsend handed him some dry clothes to put on and a warm blanket. They gave the man a heavy dose of Dover’s Powders for the pain and told him to rest.

  Hendricks pulled Townsend aside and whispered to him.

  “What you gon’ do with this man? He gon’ cause trouble. You know dat?”

  “But he needs help,” Townsend replied.

  Hendricks shook his head. “I tellin’ you he gon’ cause big trouble. We talkin’ about Spanish Cuba. T’ain’ got no justice here, none a’ t’all.” But Townsend simply looked away.

  An hour later, the same Spanish steam sidewheel patrol boat cruised by. Townsend got a closer look at it this time. It wasn’t much bigger than the Laura Ann. Sharp bow, rounded stern with a large cabin house. Two light cannons in the bow and two in the stern. The Spanish flag flying from a stern pole. He could see the Spanish naval officer standing on top of the paddlewheel box searching the waters with his spyglass, a cloud of angry black smoke rising above him. He felt a sudden wave of doubt, bordering on panic, and it increased as the gunboat came closer. The thin-faced captain picked up the ship’s trumpet and asked in Spanish if they had seen anything unusual. He repeated the same question in English. The Spaniard was staring suspiciously at the yawl boat still in the water with the oars all askew, and the rope ladder dangling from the side of the schooner. Townsend’s head swam. He grabbed one of the stays with a tighter grip. For a brief moment, he thought about telling the Spaniard about the swimmer, but it was something about the captain’s unpleasant expression that made him shake his head. He put his hand on his knife as a way to bolster his confidence.

  “Only fish,” Townsend stammered, wondering if he would regret those words. “Nothing unusual.”

  The Spanish captain hesitated. Even in the dim light, it was clear from his posture he didn’t believe or trust Townsend. The Spaniard loudly announced he would be boarding the schooner. Townsend pretended he couldn’t hear what the captain had said. He was glad the shadowy darkness cloaked his unease. The next thing he heard was a command in Spanish to drop the gunship’s launch boat into the water.

  “Prepárense para bajar la lancha. Vamos a abordar la goleta.”

  In a panic, Townsend shouted a reply in English.

  “You are welcome aboard, Captain, but you should know we have a sick man aboard. Some kind of fever. We hope it’s not yellow fever.” Townsend was surprised at how easily the lie had flown out of his mouth. A weighty silence between the boats greeted that announcement. Finally the Spanish captain rescinded his order, and informed Townsend the search could wait until tomorrow morning when the young captain would need to present his ship’s papers to customs immediately upon entering the harbor at sunrise. It was then that Townsend understood that his unexpected guest might be a fugitive from Spanish authorities. He looked up with trepidation at the looming walls of El Morro, and then at the departing patrol boat, which had left behind a faint residue of sooty smoke clinging to the Laura Ann’s mastheads.

  2

  Dawn arrived with a thundering cannon blast from the Morro fortress, signaling the opening of Havana harbor. In the distance, Townsend could hear the clanging of church bells and gunfire. He grabbed his spyglass and scanned the fortress walls and then the rocky plateau east of El Morro. He was looking for a search party or any soldiers gathering, but all he could see were a few cows and goats grazing on the hillsides. The ocean was like glass with not even a whisper of wind. The silhouettes of the tall palm trees that dotted the hillsides were still as statues, providing no hint of an incoming breeze. He had suspended the Stars and Stripes ensign from the end of the jib boom as required, but so far no harbor steam tug had come to offer them assistance.

  Barefoot, Townsend crept silently to the door of his cabin, listening for any sounds of the crew stirring. He had told Hendricks to say nothing of their nighttime visitor to the crew. It was still quiet. From outside his cabin, he whispered, “Are you there?” As he opened the door slowly, it occurred to him he didn’t even know the man’s name. The stranger was on the bed where he’d left him, sound asleep. He’d given him some of old Captain Evans’s clothes. The shirt and pants were too big for the man, but at least they were dry.

  The early morning sunlight streamed through the porthole, allowing Townsend to take measure of his guest. The man’s face was swollen. His body was lean and bony. He had bruises all over his wrists and ankles. Townsend guessed he was a man in his late forties with early streaks of gray in his unkempt dark hair and beard. With his pale complexion, he looked English, maybe Welsh. Townsend shook him, but the body was limp. He shook him again for what seemed like a solid minute. At last the man opened his blue eyes, and sat up bolt upright.

  “Where am I? Who are you?” he stammered, clearly disoriented. He was shivering like a leaf. “You’re not Spanish.”

  “I am the captain of the American schooner, Laura Ann. Captain Everett Townsend. You’re in my cabin.”

  The man nodded, and allowed himself to relax in a slump.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. For a moment there, I didn’t know where I was.”

  “Who are you?” Townsend asked, lowering his voice to a softer whisper. “Speak softly, I don’t want the crew to know you’re here.”

  “The name is Abbott,” he whispered hoarsely. “Michael Abbott, I am from England.” He paused. “I should be cautious about what I say.”

  “Go on,” Townsend urged.

  The man looked at the young captain suspiciously and after a few moments said, “Let me just say I am here doing an investigation, a private investigation.” His voice was now calm and resolute. “A matter of injustice. A most sordid matter. I’d rather not say more.”

  Townsend’s eyes narrowed. This was no time for evasiveness.

  “You asked me in the boat when we rescued you to hide you. Hide you from what?”

  Townsend realized that Hendricks was likely right. The man would be trouble. He wanted to be rid of him, the sooner the better. Perhaps he should just turn him over to the Spanish and be done with it. But then he remembered that he had already lied to that Spanish captain. He could feel the tension building in his forehead.

  “Look here Mister, what in hell’s name is this all about? I have no need to put myself and my ship at risk.”

  “Please Captain. You must trust me.”

  Michael Abbott stared into the sunlight streaming through the porthole. He was sitting quietly on the bed, his bare feet held close together. Captain Evans’s shirt hung loosely on him like bed sheets on a clothesline, making his face seem even more haggard than the night before. He spoke in a whisper, but his voice became surprisingly steady.

  “I was locked up for the past two weeks in an underground dungeon. The Spanish authorities said I would remain there until I stood trial before a military tribunal. I am innocent. Please trust me. My only crime is to have spoken my mind. They accused me of conspiracy against the Spanish government.”

  Townsend fidgeted with the handle of his sea knife. He was having a hard time controlling his growing agitation. The man nodded with a somber look on his face.

  “I need your help— ”

  Townsend cut him off. “What exactly did they do to you?”

  “I was questioned harshly. To put it more plainly, I was tortured. They wanted me to confess that I was an English spy. Crikey, for the sake of all things decent, I implore you, Captain. Consider what hell I have been through. They would have killed me.”

  Townsend flinched, and began shaking his head from side to side as it dawned on him jus
t how much trouble this man might be.

  “How did you escape?”

  “Last night I pretended to be dead. The guards swore and kicked me. Then left to fetch the doctor. They left the cell door open. I suppose they thought a dead man couldn’t escape.”

  Above him, Townsend heard the shuffling footsteps of someone washing the deck and the sides of the cabin house. He knew he should go. It was time for him to make an appearance, but he wanted to hear the rest of Abbott’s story. If the wind picked up, the other sailors would alert him. He heard more water being sloshed around above their heads. Through the porthole, he could see a mop and hear a sailor’s voice. Abbott looked alarmed.

  “Can they hear us through the porthole?”

  Townsend quickly closed it.

  “Finish your story.”

  “I walked out of the cell in a daze. I saw what they call the carreta de muertos, the deadmen’s cart, a large wooden box with two handles at each end. There were already three bodies in it under a dirty piece of canvas. I jumped in beside the dead men and threw the canvas cloth over me. I heard voices. I prayed it wasn’t the guards. They would have sounded the alarm as soon as they saw the empty cell. The voices came close and the cart was lifted up, carried up some steps. The three corpses were already stiffening, and the smell and the cold flesh made me sick. I started to gag, but fortunately the men were talking and laughing. We were in a damp passageway, and then I felt a cool sea breeze. They grabbed my feet and arms. I had to remember to stay limp. I opened my eyes slightly and caught a glimpse of the top of a wall. Next thing I knew I was flying through the air. I imagined falling on the rocks. I thought this was the end, and I braced myself for the pain.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment, and then shook his head back and forth.

  “Don’t turn me over to those animals. I beg you, Captain! It would mean a death warrant.”

  “How far did you fall?” Townsend asked.

  “Must have been forty to fifty feet. So dark I couldn’t see. I hit the water with my feet. I swam underwater away from the land. I came up for air. That’s when I saw the light at the front of your boat and I set out to reach you. It was my only hope. I thought the worst that could happen is that I would be turned away.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was one of the Irish sailors, a strongly built man by the name of O’Toole from Cork, who had red whiskers all around his face. Townsend met him at the door to block his view inside.

  “Breeze up, Cap’n. Might be enoof wind to raise the sails.”

  “I will be there shortly,” Townsend replied, and then shut the door. He turned to Abbott. “Get cleaned up. I’ll think of something.”

  Townsend watched the man quickly shave and wash his face at the washbasin. He mentally conjured up the ship as he tried to think of all potential hiding places. Since Captain Evans’s death, he had become familiar with the man’s cabin. It was not large, but it was bigger than his old cabin on the other side of the schooner. There was an elevated bed with drawers underneath, a chair, a small area for books, and a full-length closet for oilskins. In the back of that closet there was a hidden compartment used for storage of storm headsails and staysails. The young captain opened the door to the crawl space and signaled to Abbott where he could hide.

  Townsend left the Englishman in a dark, airless space leaning up against the interior planking, his arms folded, his knees touching his head. Their eyes met briefly, and Townsend whispered to him, “The crew won’t come in here. But what happens when we get into the harbor is another matter. We must get you on shore secretly. Once ashore you’ll be on your own.”

  Townsend decided he had no time to judge the merits of what he was doing. Abbott’s story had frightened and troubled him, but he was inclined to help the fugitive. He surfaced on deck. The sun was rising. Townsend could feel the blast of heat on his face. In the distance, he could see Havana’s towers and domes rising above the city of ships in the harbor. A faint breeze was sliding off the hills, slow and easy from the east.

  “Winds making up, let’s get along,” Townsend cried. The men hauled up first the mainsail and then the foresail and then began raising the anchor.

  With a faint, light easterly breeze still holding, the Laura Ann sailed through the narrow mile-long entrance into Havana harbor without any need to signal for assistance from a steam tug. The young captain stood at the helm, steering with one hand, his eyes darting back and forth as the schooner glided by the thick-walled Morro fortress looming above on the port side with its signal staffs and gun ports. Directly opposite only a few hundred yards away, another smaller fort armed with heavy gun fortifications clung to the rocky outcroppings that lined the shore. All Townsend’s senses were on full alert. He’d heard El Morro was protected by a battery of high-caliber cannons, each named after one of the twelve apostles. Even as he monitored the schooner’s progress, part of him was absent. His inner thoughts remained on the unseen man crouched directly below him in the dark storage area below deck.

  As the schooner sailed by the cannons, Townsend took a look through the telescope at the protected bay that widened out ahead of them. It was some three miles wide, surrounded by hills on all sides. Ahead of him to the east, three-masted merchant ships, flying flags from a half-dozen countries, were anchored off a wharf lined with warehouses. To his right, the twin towers of the city’s ancient cathedral rose over a patchwork of brightly colored houses. Spread out before him in the early morning light was the centuries-old city of Havana crowned with the glimmering tips of church spires and belfries. For that brief moment as Townsend caught his first sight of Old Havana he forgot about his troubles, but then that moment was gone.

  “Watch yourself, Cap’n!” Hendricks cried out.

  Townsend shielded his face from the unrelenting glare of the sun. For a moment, he was disoriented, blinded and immobilized by the light. The bow of a dark gray ship emerged from behind several anchored vessels.

  “Oly mother av Jesus, we are gonna be hit,” cried out one of the Irish sailors.

  Townsend faltered at the sight of a two-masted paddlewheel steamer churning toward them. Hendricks motioned for him to tack, and the young captain snapped out of his paralysis.

  “Ready About, Hard Alee!” Townsend called out, spinning the wheel sharply to port.

  He gestured to Hendricks at the bow and without a word spoken, the Bahamian back winded the staysail, helping the schooner to change direction. A faint steady breeze now filled the sails, and the Laura Ann crept forward even as the steamer’s paddlewheel box clunked and thumped directly off the schooner’s stern. The angry faces of the men on board glared at Townsend. He started to yell at them to slow down, but then he saw the Confederate Naval Jack on the stern flagpole.

  Blockade runners, he hissed to himself. He remembered Captain Evans telling him that Havana was now filled with ships running the Union blockade into the Gulf of Mexico. He’d called it a rebels’ nest, and had tried to convince Townsend that it would be a good business. Spanish Cuba, he’d said, was now a major depot of war contraband. All around him Townsend heard a chorus of ships’ whistles and cheering as the Confederate steamer chugged its way out of the harbor, its funnel belching out black clouds of smoke and coal ash. He could see Confederate blockade runners had plenty of supporters in Havana.

  Townsend turned the spokes of the wheel to starboard as the schooner gradually rounded up into the wind, the sails fluttering lazily in the light breeze. They were about four hundred yards off the central wharf area. Some fifty sailing ships with different flags were tied together at the docks to form a thick forest of spars and rigging along a mile-long landing. Within moments they were surrounded by a flotilla of small awning-covered rowboats, with shirtless boatmen of all colors and shades wearing straw hats selling bananas, pineapples, and coconuts.

  One of the Irish sailors threw the lead line and called out,
“There be t’airty five feet ov water, Cap’n.”

  Townsend called for the anchor to be dropped. He heard the rush of the hemp cable coming out of the hawse holes and the splash as the big anchor plunged into the murky water.

  It was then he heard Hendricks’s warning.

  “A Spanish longboat comin’ from one of dem warships, Cap’n. An’ they got plenty men with guns.”

  He turned to look at a long rowing boat with six oarsmen, all Spanish navy sailors with their flat-brimmed straw hats marked with the name of the ship, blue shirts, and white duck pants. There were several officials seated in the stern next to a fluttering red and yellow Spanish flag. A thin man in a dark blue navy coat with a sword at his belt stood erect like a flagpole. Townsend lifted the telescope to his eye. As he suspected, it was the captain from last night.

  “Put out the rope ladder,” Townsend told one of the sailors. “We are being boarded, and I suspect they have more in mind than checking our papers.”

  The Spanish navy captain came up the rope ladder first, followed by several armed soldiers from the Guardia Civil with their heavy black boots. The thin navy captain, one hand resting on his sword, introduced himself as Captain Reinaldo Gómez of the harbor patrol gunboat. He was much shorter than Townsend had thought. He spoke in Spanish, and after introducing the health official and one of his military companions, Captain Alfredo Vásquez of the Guardia Civil, Captain Gómez switched to English. He was curt and to the point.

  “I am here, Captain, to ascertain if your ship should be quarantined. Where is the sick sailor?” he asked with brusque formality. “The health officer will examine him now.”

  Townsend looked down at the upturned face of the small Spanish captain. He had suspected this would happen, and he had already prepared an answer.

  “As good fortune would have it, Captain Gómez,” Townsend said with poker eyes, “the sailor miraculously recovered this morning. We gave him a strong dose of lobelia and Dover’s powder last night. Must have been nothing more than ague. No reason for any concern now.”