by Robin Lloyd
Townsend was about to ask her what she knew of the letter when a volley of rifle shots and a drum roll broke the peaceful quiet. He leapt out of the chair. His head was filled with the sound of throbbing drums. He could feel his face pounding. He saw the glint of the knife blade and Abbott’s body crumbling forward. His throat tightened. He felt a wave of mortal dread sweep over him.
“Are you all right?” Emma asked. “Just a passing regiment of soldiers. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“I am sorry,” Townsend stammered holding his hand up to his neck. He told himself he must remain calm. This would pass.
“I felt something caught in my throat.” His hands shaking, he poured some water into a glass, and took a long drink. “I will be fine. Will you have some water?” he asked her politely.
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
The water, which had been cooled in a clay jug, soothed his throat. He breathed in deeply. He decided he would not ask Emma anything more about Abbott. Maybe he would be better advised to forget the man. Hendricks had gotten it right. The man was trouble, and this Backhouse story made him uneasy.
Townsend turned to face Emma. The beauty of her face and the curve of her neck somehow calmed him. His gaze lingered. He asked her about her music, and she began telling him a little bit about herself. She had taken violin lessons ever since she was a little girl and had trained for several months with the famous composer Louis Moreau Gottschalk when he was living in Havana.
“I love playing the violin,” she said. “It’s been a companion, always there to comfort me. But my real passion now is sketching.”
“I saw some of your drawings the other day. They’re good. Quite good, in fact.”
“Thank you so much. I want to be an artist,” she exclaimed. “I spent a year in Philadelphia where I stayed with my aunt while I attended the Philadelphia School of Design for Women. The experience forever changed me. I met one of the editors of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper there and he admired my sketching. He was very encouraging.”
Townsend couldn’t stop looking at her broad smile and her beaming face. He could tell that she liked the attention he was giving her.
“I have always wanted to get underway on a ship,” she said. “Tell me about your schooner. How big is she? How many sailors do you have on board?”
Surprised at her interest in ships, Townsend told her a little bit about the Gaviota and how a schooner of her size would normally require five or six in the crew. Then there were the two shipping representatives, which would make it seven or eight men on board.
“Do you have separate cabins?”
“Only the captain and the supercargoes. The sailors are in stacked berths. Not exactly an appropriate place for a lady.”
“Oh,” she replied and then was quiet.
“Well, I would love to see more of your drawings, particularly of ships,” Townsend said.
She smiled and nodded. She took him inside the house over to an easel where she’d been working on a drawing of a blockade runner under sail entering Havana harbor.
“That’s really quite good,” he said as he scrutinized the sketch. “You’ve even drawn in all the proper shrouds and halyards, all the rigging details.”
“That’s high praise from you, Captain. Growing up here you might say I have always been drawn to ships and the sea. I’m an island girl, born and raised in Cuba, una criolla de La Habana.”
Townsend stepped back to admire it from a distance.
“I would like to see this view of the harbor. It’s quite a good vantage point.”
“I’ll show you.”
As they climbed three flights of stairs, he studied her figure. She was slight and dressed in the thinnest of white linen dresses, which seemed to follow her body with every movement. He could almost see through the hoopless dress, her slender shape, her hips, her narrow waist. They surfaced at the rooftop terrace surrounded by a low parapet on which there were gray stone urns. The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon. He took in the rich panorama of flat roofs and church towers everywhere, the massive stone buildings painted in faded colors bleached by the hot sun and rain. He could see the water crashing against El Morro, the walls momentarily gilded with light. It was a beautiful view of the city and the harbor below, the masts of all the ships at the main landing, framed by the tower at the Plaza de San Francisco and the old cathedral. He could see the tiny figures of fashionable Havana parading at the water’s edge on the Cortina de Valdés promenade.
She pointed to a telescope mounted on a support, and he realized this was her studio. He bent down to look through the glass. His eyes followed a newly arrived square-rigger as it drifted gracefully toward the southern end of the city and crossed the paths of some of the harbor ferries. From this high point he could now see the extensive shoaly area empty of larger ships, which extended off the eastern section of the Regla docks. There were four or five of these shallow areas scattered around Havana Bay, but none of them seemed to pose any risk to the scores of small sailboats crisscrossing the bay like white seagulls circling over the surface of the water.
Townsend stepped away from the telescope. The air was mild, and he breathed in deeply. The sky was now a faded red. He turned to look at her face lit up by the softer light. He could see that her deep-set, cinnamon brown eyes had tiny flecks of green. With her glossy brown hair and dark eyebrows, she was Spanish-looking, but American as well. To Townsend, she seemed refreshingly genuine. Like the palm fronds rustling back and forth in the wind, she was a free spirit. A risk taker who did not seem to worry what others thought. She clearly was someone who spoke her mind.
Emma returned his stare.
“The editors of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper wrote me they have a writer in Mobile now doing a story about blockade runners,” Emma said as she brushed a strand of her hair back in place. “They would like to look at my illustrations of Havana harbor.”
“That’s wonderful,” he replied. “But I wouldn’t advise going to Mobile now. The only ships going in are the blockade runners. That would be dangerous.”
She looked disappointed but said nothing. She pointed to the pale full moon slowly rising. She smiled at him coquettishly.
“Did you know, Mr. Townsend, that moonlight on this island is considered dangerous? Some Cubans don’t dare to venture out in moonlight without covering their heads. It’s just a superstition. I guess they are afraid something bad will happen to them.”
He touched his bare head. He had left his hat on the veranda.
“Does that mean we’re both in danger?” he asked jokingly as he looked at her and then up at the moon.
Before she could answer, they could hear Mrs. Carpenter calling. “Emma, where are you? I need you.”
“I’ll be right there, Mother,” Emma replied.
“Some of our guests want to hear you play a Mozart sonata.”
Emma smiled at Townsend as she turned toward the stairs.
10
The Gaviota had been launched that afternoon, and she was tied up at the shipyard’s wharf at Regla ready to be rigged. The last five days of feverish painting on the ship’s hull had been difficult for Townsend. Like many things in Havana, the work was of good quality but it was slow. Don Pedro wanted to be ready to sail as soon as the Confederacy’s shipment of weapons came in from Liverpool. Helm had received word that the shipment had left England for Bermuda, and once offloaded there it would be on its way to Havana. In addition to the Confederate cargo, they would fill the ship with boots, hats, hosiery, all of which sold in Mobile for three to four times what they cost in Havana. Molasses cost twenty cents a gallon in Havana. It was an unbelievable seven dollars per gallon in Mobile. Coffee was also going for three times the price it was selling for in Havana. Townsend was getting an idea of the profits Don Pedro was contemplating, and that was before he even
loaded up the ship with cotton for the return trip.
The postilion’s whip cracked in the air with a sudden snap, and the two gray horses began pulling the open-bodied carriage forward. The gaudily dressed postilion with his silver-trimmed light blue jacket and top hat cracked the whip again, and the horses began to pick up their high-stepping gait, prancing even faster. Townsend was surprised at how gentle and easy the motion of the volanta was despite the awkward appearance of the huge cumbersome wheels. It had rained the night before and the streets in Old Havana were filled with mud holes and flooded with pestilent standing water.
As they passed the tobacco factory of La Honradez on Sol Street, Don Pedro handed him a top hat and a long coat to put on, and said he was going to take him to see the finer sections of the city where it was important to dress in formal attire.
“I think you’ve earned it,” he told him. “I am afraid our streets are in need of repair. When it rains in Havana, we live in the midst of mud and filth, but in the volanta we should be quite dry.”
Townsend looked over at Don Pedro puffing on his cigar. He was taken aback at how chipper the Spanish merchant was today. Normally he was stiff and tense, rigid like a ship’s anchor line. But in the carriage he seemed almost like a friendly uncle, more casual and relaxed and less secretive. Don Pedro joked with him about spending too much time eating and drinking at those roach-infested bodegas, and asked him lightheartedly what harbor vermin he was associating with. He wanted to know all about the work on the schooner, and how Townsend was faring pulling together a crew. Townsend told him he still needed to find a couple more sailors.
They passed a guagua, one of Havana’s omnibus wagons that provided public transportation for up to a dozen people. Some of the passengers waved at them as they went by. Townsend waved back. Soon they were approaching the main gate of Old Havana, and the thirty-foot-high mustard yellow walls that surrounded the old city. Don Pedro, smiling as usual, told him that the massive five-foot-thick walls with their medieval-looking bastions, watchtowers, and gates would be demolished this year to accommodate the growing city. He had come to Cuba just in time, Don Pedro said. “In another year, these two-hundred-year-old walls will have disappeared along with all the history they have witnessed. Havana is rapidly growing into a modern city to rival the great European cities.”
A soldier was on guard as the carriage passed through the heavy Monserrate gateway and ambled across the small bridge over the moat into a vista of wide boulevards and gardens. It was five o’clock, and the quiet siesta hours of the afternoon were over. The hot, tropical sun was quickly going down, giving way to the cool evening sea breezes. The relatively new city outside the walls, extramuros, as the Cubans called it, was coming alive with prancing horses and glittering carriages. Soon they were on the Paseo de Isabel II. This wide boulevard with its tree-lined promenade was filled with men in top hats and women in fine evening dress with parasols. Don Pedro pointed to a small stocky military man on horseback with a hawk-like nose and a prominent black moustache. He was wearing a tassled cocked hat and dressed in a gaudy military uniform with high black leather boots.
“That is His Excellency, Captain General Domingo Dulce,” he said with pride. Watching the Spanish military man nod to some of the well-dressed passers-by with an air of nonchalance seemed to Townsend like being transported back to medieval times when the king stood on a platform, acknowledging the knights and ladies of his court.
It was an island of sharp contrasts—the beauty and the cruelty he had seen, the wealth and the poverty so visible throughout the city. The richly decorated carriages glided by, pulled by high-stepping horses snorting and prancing along the wide double road. The young women perched on seats between two enormous wheels looked like princesses, dressed in the finest brightly colored silks and cotton, their black hair done up in elaborate dangling curls and ribbons.
They were so different from Emma. It had been days since he had seen her. She was never far from his mind. He would close his eyes and find himself back on the terrace roof with the sunset light playing on the rooftops and the cooling sea breeze fanning their cheeks. It was a magical moment. He wondered if she had felt the same way. Perhaps he felt the connection because they both were half Spanish, half American, but then he had no reason to believe the attraction was mutual. She had seemed more interested in her sketching and reaching Mobile than anything else. He knew he should probably forget her. He would soon be far away at sea.
Townsend gazed at broad avenues of tall palm trees, marble statues, and fountains. He wondered if his mother had come here when she was a young girl. He found it hard to imagine his staid, practical mother in this formal Old World display of wealth and class. He supposed his mother’s life here would remain another unsolved Cuban mystery.
Don Pedro waved his hands around at the scenery. He pointed out some of the fine homes and mansions of the wealthy planters near the Campo Marte, the military parade ground, calling them the city’s monuments to sugar.
“Mira quien viene, look who’s coming in our direction. My good friends.”
He had the postilion pull up alongside an entourage of ladies and young men who were walking behind two older, fastidiously dressed men. With their white pants, colorful vests, dark, long coats, and black top hats, the two men had the look of powerbrokers. The small parade of parasols and bobbing hats behind them paused as the two men walked up to the carriage, twirling their canes.
Don Pedro tipped his hat to the two men, and greeted them formally, exchanging pleasantries. Townsend was struck that Don Pedro made no effort to introduce him. It was as if he were invisible.
“Who were they?” Townsend asked after Don Pedro had signaled the postilion to move on.
“Venerables caballeros de Habana. Two of our city’s leading citizens, both extremely wealthy and well-respected gentlemen,” Don Pedro replied. “Don Francisco Marty y Torréns, and Don Julián Zulueta. They have done much for the island’s economy. They both pioneered bringing Chinese field workers to Cuba. Between the two of them they own at least six or seven sugar plantations on the island. Don Julián may have the most African slaves of any other single plantation owner on the island. Some fifteen hundred slaves, I’ve heard. The older man, Don Francisco, friends call him Don Pancho, is an institution on the island. He owns the pescadería, the fish market down by the wharves. He also built our Teatro Tacón, one of the finest opera houses in all of the world. There look, you can see it over there. We are just passing it.”
Townsend followed Don Pedro’s extended arm. He could see the stately opera house just a short distance away with its high-peaked roof and grand arcades. It was guarded by mounted gendarmes dressed all in white. Several dozen carriages and volantas were clustered around a nearby busy cafe called the Louvre and one of the top hotels in the city, Hotel Telégrafo. Fine hotels, restaurants, casinos, and an opera house, Townsend mused. This was a far more elegant Havana than he had seen before.
Soon they were on the Paseo del Prado heading north. A dusky twilight dropped over them like a gauzy mantilla of Spanish lace. Don Pedro saluted the shadowy silhouettes of passers-by with a gracious wave of the hand and a nod of the head. He turned his attention to two eye-catching young women in a carriage dressed in light, open-necked dresses with fluted ruffles. Their wavy black hair was decorated with flowers, their faces powdered chalky white with something called cascarilla, a Cuban custom.
“Do you see how they hang the skirts of their silk dresses over the side of the volanta? It’s like the birds with their feathers. They’re signaling us,” Don Pedro said with a wink.
As their carriage crossed the other volanta’s path, Don Pedro leaned forward and said “adiós, guapas,” drawing out the words in a suggestive way that was clearly a practiced and familiar ritual for him. He gave them a lazy, predatory smile as he looked them up and down appreciatively. He wasn’t even subtle. Townsend imagined how offended America
n women would be if they were approached this way by a leering stranger, but he noticed as they passed by that these young Cuban ladies were smiling and giggling behind their rapidly fluttering fans.
The fading light sparked the lighting of gas lamps all along the boulevard. A larger Victoria carriage with two elegantly dressed women passed by and then stopped. Don Pedro got out of the volanta to speak to the two women privately. It seemed like they had expected to meet him as they showed no surprise. One was an older dignified woman, dressed in a long flowing light blue dress of linen and silk, and a half-dozen strands of pearls. Next to her was a stunning, much younger woman. Townsend couldn’t say what her age was, certainly older than he was, but that was part of her attraction. Their postilion servant on top of the horse was dressed garishly in a green coat and a pink vest.
Both women were looking at Townsend with interest. The older lady in particular seemed to be focused on him, her gaze lingering with a certain probing intensity. Maybe it was his imagination, but were they talking about him? Don Pedro walked back to the volanta.
“The two ladies find you pleasing to the eye, Captain. They asked me to introduce them to the tall, well-built and handsome young man with the curly black hair. I believe they are referring to you,” he said with a laugh. “I have told them you are my newest ship captain, a well-learned and skillful seaman, who will soon run the blockade. Come, let me introduce you.”
Townsend walked over with Don Pedro and was presented to Doña Cecilia de Vargas and the Comtesse Angélica Fernández de Buisson, or the Condesa as she liked to be called. The older woman in particular seemed to examine him closely with a haughty droop of her eyes. A strange, almost invasive look, he thought, that made him uncomfortable. He looked away. She spoke with a disarmingly thin voice, a slight Spanish accent, but otherwise perfect English.
