Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  His head throbbed, and he was still woozy. His memory was a blur, filled with the night’s intoxicating music, the swirling masked dancers, the Condesa’s deluge of shiny black hair, and the sweet scent of gardenia. He remembered how drunk he was. He remembered the carriage rocking, her warm breath in his ear. And then it was as if he were falling into a void, only to be awakened and aroused again.

  His reverie was interrupted by the Condesa’s sensual voice.

  “Me encanta el cielo negro-gris, el aire fresco justo antes del amanecer. I love the black gray sky and the cool air just before dawn, don’t you? Even though the sun’s trumpet blast is near, the night still rules.”

  The Condesa inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out into the night air. Her eyes glided his way, giving him a brief sidelong glance before turning her gaze to the ocean.

  “The early dawn is a time for all the night birds to find their homes. Where would you like to be taken, Captain?” she asked in an impersonal tone. “The docks, I presume?”

  “I have a rooming house,” Townsend replied. “Can you take me there?”

  She nodded and he gave her the address on Jesús María Street. Soon the carriage was ambling along the oceanfront road. He looked outside. He could see hardly anything, not even the glint of stars. They were along a stretch of road he had never seen before, facing the north coast. It was a deserted promontory, and the waves tumbled toward the shore, breaking onto the rocks with an explosion of spray. He looked over at the Condesa’s contemplative face. She was cold and distant, as if last night had never happened. With her cascarilla white powder smudged, she looked older than he had thought. Perhaps it was the emerging fan of small wrinkles on the outer corner of her eyes that gave her away. She was still beautiful, but he could see that those intense Spanish eyes had lost some of their youthful luster.

  “I apologize for my behavior last night,” she finally said with a faint smile, one eyebrow arched upwards.

  “No apologies necessary,” Townsend replied.

  “I am not always a demure lady.” She propped up her chin with her hand.

  Her husky voice was subdued, but in her eyes he saw something different, some kind of silent satisfaction, a mischievous glint. They gleamed like black river stones.

  “You were fine,” he replied. “Better than fine. You were good, I mean—”

  “I should have resisted your advances, but I let you have your way with me,” she said with a small smirk as she brushed aside wisps of her hair hanging down her face.

  Townsend raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Even now he could feel how seductive this woman was. He found himself hypnotized by her mysterious indolent stare. Could he have forced himself on her? Had he done something terrible? He knew he’d been drunk, but that was not the way he remembered it. He could still hear the raspy scratching of the gourds on the dance floor, and feel her body molded to his, their faces close together. She had known it was him behind the mask. He was sure of that. She had chosen him as her dancing partner, but he had followed her willingly.

  “The fact is I am a woman who follows her impulses. Comme on dit à Paris, je suis portée sur le sexe. It is not fair is it? Men with a certain appetite are applauded, but women are punished, branded with a label, femmes légères de petite vertu. I sometimes wonder if society will ever look upon both sexes impartially.”

  A troubled crease deepened between her eyes. She looked away in silence. More details of the night came to him. He remembered her unbuttoning his trousers, and helping him undress.

  “I don’t usually allow myself to be pursued by ship captains, no matter how handsome they are, Captain, but Don Pedro knows that I like my evening entertainments and he thought I might enjoy meeting you. It was amusing last night, n’est-ce pas? Notre petite aventure.”

  “What does that mean?” Townsend asked. He didn’t speak a word of French.

  “Our little adventure of the night,” she said. She smiled, this time more coyly. “Don Pedro assured me you were from a respectable, genteel family.”

  Respectable, genteel family. That remark gave Townsend pause. What did Don Pedro know about his life? He doubted the man knew anything about him.

  “What do you know about my family?” he snapped.

  “Nothing,” she replied as she turned away.

  “What does Don Pedro know?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. Don Pedro is a merchant, a trader of many things, and one of the commodities he trades in is information. He gathers secrets even as he keeps his own well hidden.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?” Townsend asked.

  “I believe he was sent away to school in New Orleans, and then to New York. That’s why he speaks English so well. He came here from Spain as a boy. I’ve heard it said that he had an important benefactor, a sugar planter in Matanzas who helped him get started as a commission merchant.”

  Townsend sat up at attention. His mother had grown up in Matanzas. It was the first time he had heard any mention of it, the place his mother was from. His chest ached at the thought of her. The carriage had reached the north gate into the old city. Off to one side he could see the shadowy figures of the destitute crouched up against the walls.

  The Condesa lit another cigarette. Her manner had softened, and she continued to tell him more about the Spaniard.

  “Don Pedro is well connected here in Havana. He travels in many circles, and because of his business has many connections abroad. I used to see him more often, but we both are a little like stray cats. He has a reputation in town as a búho licencioso, a night owl who likes to spread his wings. We both enjoy our independence. I find I still have an attraction to him, but I don’t quite know why.”

  “What other reputations does he have?”

  “I would be misguided if I said much more. He told me you had the misfortune of falling into the wrong hands when you arrived here, and that he saved you. Is that right?”

  She smiled as she puffed on her cigarette.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Townsend replied.

  “You should be pleased. I think Don Pedro sees you as a promising young man with great potential. I believe he hopes you will decide your future lies here in Cuba. Above all, he values faithfulness. Siempre fiel, he often says. Or as they say in France about loyalty to the Emperor, toujours fidèle.”

  She paused thoughtfully. “Unfortunately our evening together must remain a secret.”

  Townsend was startled to hear her speak so plainly. The Condesa looked out the window and continued talking as if she was talking to herself. She began telling him about Paris. She was sent there as a young woman and traveled in lofty circles. She became good friends with the French Empress Eugenie, who was Spanish and a distant relative, and through her had met the French emperor.

  “For a short time, I became one of the emperor’s petites distractions. But this must be boring to you.”

  “Not at all. On the contrary,” Townsend replied. He was intrigued. Havana was a place filled with secrets and surprises, and this woman had plenty of both.

  “I felt badly about betraying my friend, of course, but I had fallen under the spell of her husband, the emperor. When he tired of me as he did of so many of his mistresses, I married the count, but after one year we both realized that we would live largely separate lives. The emperor and I would see each other now and again. When he heard I was returning to Cuba, he asked me to keep an eye on his political interests and the war between the North and the South. I suppose I am unofficially the French agent here in Havana, behind the scenes, of course. The emperor is quite keen on creating an alliance with the Confederate states, but he does not want a war with the North. The French armies have taken Vera Cruz and they are marching towards Mexico City. Soon the Emperor will control Mexico, but that’s not all he wants. He would like to reclaim La Louisiane for France, everyth
ing from northern Florida to Texas.”

  She laughed at his wide-eyed reaction.

  “Some of the crème de la crème here might unkindly call me a spy. Others whisper worse things, but I am no different than most who keep their eyes and ears open. Havana is a city where spies and emissaries rub shoulders, and the delicate game of gaining secrets is frequently played to the sensual rhythm of una danza criolla.”

  She laughed again and held up her finger to her mouth.

  “Remember, all this is only for your ears. I would ask you to say nothing of our little affair, even to Don Pedro. He may suspect something, but he doesn’t know what went on between us in the privacy of my carriage.”

  A chorus of roosters were crowing when Townsend alighted from the carriage outside his rooming house just before first light. The postilion driver opened the door and let him out. He stopped to look at him. The man had seen this before, the flirtation, the conquest, and the farewell, all in the darkness of night. Townsend remembered him now. He was the well-dressed Negro he had seen at the masked dance with the silver laced green jacket and pink vest whispering to Don Pedro. Townsend’s throbbing head ached even more than before. The Condesa had told him he could add her to his many conquests, another notch on his belt. He knew it was just the reverse. He was the one who had been conquered, not her, and it was her belt that must be heavily notched. It was clear to him that she’d had her dalliance and now it was over. He felt a certain unease under his skin, a sense of being violated. He looked back once to see if she would wave, but the carriage was already moving away. He remembered what Don Pedro had said about her, la cazadora, the huntress.

  He climbed up the wooden stairs to his room with its bare whitewashed walls. He opened the only window that looked out to the harbor to let in a cooling sea breeze, and threw himself down on the straw-filled mattress. The screeching cries and whistles of the early morning street peddlers now filled his room along with the clattering volantas carrying merchants to work, and the barking dogs. A lottery vendor directly under the window called out, “¡Lotería!¡¡Lotería!” The morning milkman with his cow and its muzzled calf, beat on his bucket and shouted out, “¡Leche!¡Leche!” The man’s parrot squawked and then echoed the same refrain. Townsend leaned his head out the window and shouted in Spanish at the man below to shut up and go away.

  He slammed the heavy wooden shutters closed and put a pillow over his head. This strange city was corrupting him with its dishonest ways, the sleazy glamour, the women. A sereno cried out the hour. A donkey brayed. The city’s church bells clanged from all directions, calling people to morning mass. Today was the last day of Carnival, and it seemed like the Catholic priests were summoning the sinners early. Townsend quietly cursed the city. His head throbbed. He thought of Emma. He kicked himself. The woman whom he had first been dancing with. He knew it was her.

  12

  March 9, 1863

  Townsend spent the next few weeks working on the boat at a wooden wharf across the harbor in Casa Blanca, a small fishing village on the eastern edge of Havana Bay. It was a hot, windless place that stank of fish and sewage from the nearby La Cabaña barracks, but the repair work helped him forget his troubles. The town was a sordid place of storehouses, ship-repairing establishments, and working wharves filled with boats of all shapes and sizes. All day long he could hear the banging and sawing of ship carpenters. In the distance, the constant sound of marching and drilling mingled with sporadic cannon fire reminded him that the heavily fortified La Cabaña fortress was nearby. Despite its many drawbacks, Casa Blanca was a place where large shipping supplies of all kinds could be found in storehouses—wooden spars, canvas sails, sheet copper, large iron bolts—and Townsend found it practical to be there. Halyards for seven sails had to be run up the mast and tied down to sets of wooden pins on the bulwark rails. With the two topmast spars in place, the ship would have more than five thousand square feet of sail.

  Townsend, Red Beard, and Bertrand lived on board the Gaviota along with a new crewmember, whom they had found recently at the Toro del Mar. His name was Nils Olsen. He was a bony, garfish of a man with light blue eyes, smudgy from the sun, and thinning silver blond hair tied back in a ponytail. He was a little old, in his fifties, but Townsend had picked him because he had been the cook on board a Danish government mail and passenger schooner that ran between the islands of St. Thomas and Santa Cruz. He spoke English well, but with a slight lilt.

  Red Beard had started calling him a Dutchman or just “Dutch” because of his strange accent. This didn’t sit well with Olsen. He said he was from the Danish island of St. Thomas and didn’t even speak Dutch. He explained he came north to Cuba to make some money running the blockade because even in Copenhagen’s island colonies to the south, the effects of the American war were visible. Townsend had to admit the rough old fellow, stubborn and argumentative as he was, did have some of the characteristics of what sailors called a “rusty guts” Dutchman. He could see from his bulbous red nose and bloodshot eyes that Olsen liked his rum, but there was something about his rough-hewn hatchet face that made Townsend believe the man knew his way around boats.

  Even with his new crew to keep him company, Townsend’s thoughts kept returning to Emma. It had been more than ten days since the masquerade dance. He thought of dancing with her. Memories of their brief dance together haunted him. How light she had felt, her steps and rhythm so perfectly timed to the music. The dance had been so short. If only he had turned the Condesa down when she lured him outside. He had been a fool, a drunken, lusty fool. Now he was suffering the consequences. He had walked by Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house several times and had almost walked into the lobby, but each time he couldn’t summon the courage. He hoped Mrs. Carpenter would send him an invitation, but none came. He consoled himself by thinking that she was probably busy with guests, and had forced Emma to work. But he knew that was probably not the case. He knew his decision to go off with the Condesa had dashed any hopes of winning over Emma’s affections.

  At dusk, he told the other three they could finish staining the decks with turpentine and linseed oil tomorrow. He would meet them later at a favorite hangout for blockade runners in the old city called Las Ninfas de Oro, the Golden Nymphs. Once the others had gone, he sat down in his cabin to write a letter to Emma. He wanted to beg her forgiveness and ask her to give him another chance. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. That he was drunk that night of the masquerade dance, that he could not explain the reasons for his actions. Instead, he told her about the new crewmembers and the work being done to rig the boat. How he wished he could come and see her but he was very busy. That they would be leaving as soon as the cargo came in from Bermuda. He thought about admitting to her that he was going to run the blockade, but then decided against it. He signed it “respectfully,” even though for a slight moment he thought about writing “fondly.”

  After the ritual sunset symphony of cannon blasts and church bells had subsided, he left the ship. He looked around to see if one of his bodyguard shadows was watching him, but he saw no sign of Nolo or Salazar. As he sailed across the harbor on a hired boat, he heard the cannon blasts from El Morro and saw the Navy steam corvette the USS Huntsville steam into port. She was a wooden screw-propelled steamer, a three-master with a stubby-nosed bow built by the renowned Westervelt yard in New York. As a well-known fixture of the US Navy’s East Gulf Squadron in Key West, the USS Huntsville was rumored to be assigned to patrol the coast of Cuba westward and to the north of the Tortugas islands—the exact route most of the Havana-based blockade runners took on their way to the Texas ports. He knew he might be seeing something of this ship.

  Townsend took out his glass and scanned her decks. She had at least one sixty-four-pounder smoothbore gun and two thirty-two-pounders. He knew that these weapons would be devastating because they could skip shells and shots across the water over long distances. She dropped anchor next to a small two-mast
ed Navy brig flying the Stars and Stripes. He could just barely make out her name on her transom, the USS Leopard. He watched as the blue-uniformed Navy sailors with their flat-topped hats jumped into longboats bound for the wharf area adjacent to the main docks. They were singing a sea chantey he recognized as they were rowed ashore.

  “Oh, we’re rollin’ down to Cuba to load up sugar, boys!

  Haul away, boys, haul away!”

  Townsend knew there might be trouble ashore from this group. Neither the Spanish nor the Confederates had any love for Yankee sailors. There were several blockade-running steamers in port—the harbor was filled with Confederates. Word was that two battalions of Spanish infantry were to be dispatched soon to Santo Domingo to help quell a full-scale revolt against Spanish rule, so Spanish navy sailors were also on edge.

  As he dropped off the letter outside Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house, he stopped to watch the house. There was no glimpse of Emma, but then he saw her familiar profile pass by a window. He waved at her enthusiastically. She nodded back. He took it as an invitation, scooped up the letter, and stepped inside the boarding house.

  Townsend looked around to see if her mother or any of the maids were there, but it appeared they were alone. She met him at the door. Instead of a warm smile there was now a frosty formality.

  “Good evening, Captain Townsend. I saw you pass by the window,” she said as she gave him a sharp, stony look, her eyes narrowed. “How can I help you?”

  “Uh, I wrote you a letter,” he stammered. “In fact, here it is. I want to apologize—”

  “No need for apologies, Captain Townsend.” Her voice dipped with indifference.

  “I mean about the dance. That was you in the cat mask, wasn’t it? I was drunk, you see, I—”

  “No need for explanations Captain. You are certainly a free man to do as you please.”