by Robin Lloyd
Townsend had hoped she would send him a note. He thought the favor he’d done for Stringfellow might have prompted her to write him. Anything would have been fine, but nothing had arrived. Maybe Stringfellow had just looked at her drawings and nothing else? Maybe the reporter hadn’t told her he had come on board the Gaviota? Townsend considered writing her a letter, but had changed his mind. Part of him said he should stop being a fool. She had rejected him. There was no reason to expect she felt differently now. He was still a blockade runner. He told himself he just wanted to share with her the information Stringfellow had given him about Backhouse. That certainly was true, but deep down he knew, he really wanted to see her again.
A call from Red Beard snapped him out of his moody trance. An all too familiar brigantine was sailing into port. He felt his stomach tighten. Townsend looked out over the shimmering harbor at the USS Leopard slide by with her graceful gray hull and long bowsprit. He could see the stocky figure of Van Cortland on the quarterdeck, and he knew the naval officer had seen him, but he did not look his way. The Leopard rounded up in the center of the harbor next to a fast topsail Union Navy schooner called the Nonpareil that had come over from Key West earlier that day, ostensibly to pick up the mail. Everyone knew these Navy mail boats had another purpose. They were carrying secret dispatches, and they would return to Key West with a packet of intelligence information gathered by the US Consulate about the Confederate activity in Havana. All the spying was not surprising. He remembered what Mrs. Carpenter had said: Even the walls have ears in Havana.
The next day they hired a steam tug to tow the schooner across the bay to Casa Blanca to the shipyard docks. The crew was soon busy recaulking portions of the deck with tar and resin, replacing worn fastenings and applying a coating of pine tar slush and black paint to the stays. Townsend was taking inventory down below. From inside the cabin house, he could hear the banging of the mallet. He looked through the porthole to see Bertrand installing a new shackle to one of the mainsail’s eight-inch-by-four-inch blocks. Out of his sailor’s bag, Olsen was pulling his knife, some twine, and small swaths of canvas to start patching some of the sails. With the loading done at the wharves, they were waiting for a haul out date to repair some splintered planking in the hull. This work could take weeks, but Don Pedro had been pleased there weren’t more problems. The winds at this time of year were fickle and light—it was a good time to take a break from blockade running.
Don Pedro had been insistent that they visit the plantation of Doña Cecilia de Vargas for a few days.
“The last of the sugarcane is being harvested now, and they’ve begun plowing and planting for next year. We’ll go by steamship next week.”
Townsend had nodded in agreement, but had made no mention to Don Pedro of his mother or his interest in finding the place with the strange name of Mambi Joo. His search for his mother’s roots was a personal, private quest—and he didn’t trust the Spaniard. He worried that Emma might try to contact him when he was away. As he watched his crew hard at work, the thought that he might lose the opportunity to see her —to make amends with her—caused him to make an abrupt decision. He knew an unannounced visit wasn’t a good idea, but he was determined. He left Red Beard in charge and told Salazar and Nolo he was going back across the harbor to the Cabarga ship chandlery.
When he arrived at Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house after stopping at his rooming house for a change of clothes, he first made sure he wasn’t followed. He was let in by one of the Irish maids. He was surprised at how friendly and welcoming she was. It seemed like she was expecting him. She did not ask his name and he did not give it. She dashed off and he heard her say, “The gentleman you were expecting ’as arrived, Mrs. Carpenter.” That’s a good omen, Townsend thought, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The rustle of bustling petticoats came from upstairs. He heard Mrs. Carpenter call—Emma, and the faint echo of footsteps of someone coming down the marble stairs. Then Mrs. Carpenter came around the corner. He moved to greet her, but instead of a friendly welcome, she seemed to be frozen in place, her face uncertain, frowning.
“You’re not,” she stammered. “I wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Townsend. We were expecting . . . never mind. Please do come in to the courtyard.”
Townsend’s chest deflated. “I’m sorry to have come unexpectedly. I was hoping to see Emma.”
Mrs. Carpenter didn’t reply at first, giving him a hard look. “Certainly, certainly. Did you have something in particular. . . .”
This was not going well. Townsend always thought Eleanor Carpenter had liked him, but now the older woman was cold and distant.
“I don’t know if your daughter told you, but I brought over from Mobile one of the writers for Frank Leslie’s paper on my ship. A Mr. Stringfellow. He seemed quite keen to look at her sketches, and I was wondering if she—”
“Oh yes, Emma was so pleased,” Mrs. Carpenter said abruptly. “Mr. Stringfellow stayed here for a couple of days, and only yesterday left on the steamship for New York. He took several of her sketches. She was delighted.”
The older woman looked anxiously toward the stairs. Her deeply creased brow revealed her irritation. “I don’t know where my daughter has gone off to. Let me go find her. If you will excuse me.”
Mrs. Carpenter rushed off, calling for Emma in a shrill voice as she went. He could hear Emma’s familiar voice and then a flurry of frantic whispering in the hallways. It sounded like an argument. When Emma finally came into the room, he was transfixed. She was in an elegant yellow and green crinoline dress. She was stunningly beautiful. But instead of a glittering smile, the expression on her face was stiff. No words were spoken between them. He felt the weight of the room’s silence settle on him.
“Miss Carpenter,” he finally began. “I’m afraid I’m interrupting something. I am so sorry.”
She didn’t reply.
“I just wanted to hear how your meeting with Mr. Stringfellow went. Was he excited to see your sketches?”
Emma busied herself at a table where there was a vase of flowers. To Townsend’s consternation, she showed little reaction. It was almost as if she hadn’t heard what he said, until finally she replied.
“I was intending to write you and thank you, but we have been busy around here with so many guests. I am sorry. It was very kind of you to bring him on your ship. Mr. Stringfellow spoke highly of you and your men. I heard your passage through the blockade was quite dramatic. I understand you were chased and fired on by a Union gunship.”
“Yes,” Townsend replied. “Actually several gunships. I guess we were lucky. Did you sell your sketches?”
“Mr. Stringfellow was quite pleased,” she said. “He particularly liked the one of your ship leaving the harbor. It was such a stormy day. Your ship sailed out of port so quickly I was almost unable to do the sketch.”
Townsend held his breath, his heart suddenly beating more rapidly. “I thought I saw you on the rooftop.”
She looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were watching,” she said. He detected the faintest of smiles. “Yes, that was me. It turned out that was the sketch he liked the most. I even gave it a title. I called it, ‘No Safe Harbor’.”
She turned to him and seemed—softer toward him.
“I am glad to have a chance to thank you in person, Captain. And I would like to hear more about your time in Mobile, but I just can’t.”
“I just need a few minutes to tell you something.”
“I am sorry. I just can’t as my mother and I are expecting company.”
“Of course, of course. I understand,” Townsend said. He put his hands in his pockets to hide his awkwardness. “I have more information about the Backhouse murder.” He could see her eyes open wider in interest.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Stringfellow covered the story. He told me some interesting facts about the murder.”
She nodded, but instead of letting him share his news, she began to whisper.
“There is something I need to tell you. I was going to put it in a letter, but now you are here, I suppose I should tell you in person. I know you won’t like it.”
Townsend grimaced and prepared himself for the worst. Her calm, remote gaze only added to his concerns.
“About a week ago I went to see the US vice-consul general, Thomas Savage. He is an old friend of my mother’s, an honorable, decent man. I told him about Abbott.”
“You did what?”
“I know you urged me not to, but I think you are wrong. I have finally done it. It’s the right thing to do.”
Townsend felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. The name of Michael Abbott kept resurfacing in his life like an apple bobbing up in a barrel of water. Just hearing the name again unnerved him.
Emma looked at him with a forthright stare. By now, he knew her well enough to recognize her fixed determination.
“Mr. Savage was working at the US Consulate when Mr. Backhouse was here. I thought he should know, and I thought he would understand my concern. I believe he intends to file a missing person’s report with the Spanish government. I mentioned your name and your involvement with Abbott.”
“Why would you do that?” Townsend hissed. “It’s been months now.”
Townsend tried to compute what this would mean for him. The Spanish police had imprisoned him because of his ties with the Englishman. He was lucky to be alive. For all he knew it was some kind of assassin hired by the police who had knifed Abbott and clubbed him unconscious.
“You realize involving the American consul general might complicate my life,” he said with a hint of anger. “I’m the captain of a schooner running the blockade. I’m the enemy as far as he’s concerned.”
Emma’s eyes didn’t waver.
“I know the risks, but it is a question of right and wrong. I felt someone in a position of authority needed to know about Abbott’s disappearance.”
Townsend put his hands up to his head.
“Mr. Savage has requested you come by the Consulate to see him.”
“Does the American consul general know that I helped Abbott escape from El Morro?”
She nodded. “And he knows you are a blockade runner. I felt it was best to tell him everything.”
Townsend hadn’t thought she was capable of such cold indifference. He was about to say so when a tense Mrs. Carpenter came bustling into the room.
“Emma, your guest will be here shortly. Mr. Townsend, I am sorry to chase you off. I would invite you to stay longer, but I am afraid it would be most inappropriate.”
Townsend apologized again for coming unannounced and was about to show himself out when the same Irish maid came rushing in, delivering a quick curtsy before she spoke.
“Excuse me, Madam. I don’t mean ter interrupt. Another gentleman caller is ’ere for Miss Emma.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “I will be right there.”
“I will show myself out,” Townsend said. “I will use the other door.”
Mrs. Carpenter nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Townsend.”
“Goodbye, Miss Carpenter,” he said, bowing slightly. “When could we talk more about this?”
Emma shook her head. His eyes lingered on her a moment, searching for some sign, but she was looking anxiously toward the front door where her guest was.
Townsend could hear Mrs. Carpenter talking to someone in an ingratiating voice.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said. “Do come in and I will introduce you to my Emma. You can tell us all about the dangers and the hardships on blockade duty. Emma, our guest is here! Hurry, dear. You don’t want to keep Lieutenant Van Cortland waiting.”
Townsend felt his heart race out of control even as his stomach seemed to get jammed in his throat. Blood rushed to his temples. Van Cortland there in the boarding house, paying his respects to Emma and her mother. How could that be? He could hear voices and footsteps coming toward the courtyard, and he stepped back into the shadows. Van Cortland’s haughty voice echoed through the hallway.
“When my mother discovered I was likely to be stationed in these distant waters for the duration of the war, she immediately began to inquire after the American families found in Havana. Of course, she was told about Emma Carpenter, who had impressed so many of the ladies in Philadelphia during her recent stay there.”
“I am so pleased,” replied Mrs. Carpenter.
“The pleasure is mine. Thank you for your gracious invitation. I wrote my mother to let her know about it and I’ll write her again as soon as I leave to thank her for the introduction.”
Townsend stayed out of sight behind one of the pillars and watched as Van Cortland was ushered into the garden courtyard. Tea was brought to the table. Mrs. Carpenter seemed to like the young Navy officer with the blonde hair and the blue eyes. She was smiling and flirtatious, mentioning the names of high society figures in Philadelphia and New York. Townsend stood frozen in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe. He felt like a ship’s lead being hurled overboard, plunging to the bottom of the ocean, deeper and deeper. His head swirled with bitterness and resentment. When he heard Mrs. Carpenter say how she longed to tread on the decks of a US Navy warship, he clenched his teeth.
Townsend was going to leave, but he couldn’t pull himself away. It was Van Cortland’s attitude that most disgusted him. He was nodding formally to Mrs. Carpenter even as he devoured Emma from the tresses of her hair to the heels of her shoes. He watched from the shadowy sidelines as Van Cortland’s gaze roamed from Emma’s shapely shoulders to her fine figure. He wanted to charge in and hit the man. The familiar rage built inside him. His breathing quickened. His face pounded. His neck was taut. But somehow he restrained himself. He knew he would only hurt his chances with Emma if he did that. He looked at Emma’s face, calm and pale, revealing little. She was polite and smiled demurely at Van Cortland.
“Tell us some stories about the blockade,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “Have you captured some of the Rebels yourself? Any exciting chases at sea?”
“I am pleased to say that the noose around these Rebel boats with their British and Spanish allies is tightening,” Van Cortland said with a surly smile. “Traitors, that’s what they are. And they are men of few scruples.”
“Pray tell us more. Continue with your story, please,” said Mrs. Carpenter as she rested her hand underneath her chin. “No need to worry. You can speak with confidence here. All the servants have been given the afternoon off except Mary, and she is quite trustworthy.”
“We spotted one of those profiteering traitors off the Florida coast. He was flying the Spanish flag, and we knew immediately he was a runner from Havana. After a good chase we had our guns on him and his men and he surrendered. He was our prize. But the man had no honor. A wind came up and he fled, capsizing our boat launch. We fired on him and hopefully some lead bullets found their way home. But make no mistake about it, they are scoundrels.”
“Who was it?” asked Emma. “Was he well known?”
“A man I am ashamed to say I knew before the war,” he grunted. “He was at the Naval Academy with me. His brother was a Rebel, and so was he. He was kicked out of the Academy before he could do any damage.”
Townsend saw that the Irish maid had spotted him. He panicked, thinking that she would call Mrs. Carpenter, but instead she smiled at him as if she recognized a kindred spirit. He nodded to her, and quietly slipped out the door just as he heard Mrs. Carpenter tell her daughter to play one of Mozart’s sonatas for their heroic guest.
19
May 13, 1863
It was a wet, windy, squally afternoon three days later when Townsend arrived at the US Consulate adjacent to the central wharf area. Sheets of water flowed down the sides of the street, rushing toward Havana Bay in streams, carrying
with it the debris, refuse, and sewage of the city. The summer rainy season had come early.
Townsend had taken even stricter precautions than usual to make sure he wasn’t followed, taking a wide detour through Old Havana, walking north from his rooming house to Lamparilla Street, and then losing himself in the crowds on Mercaderes before reaching Obispo Street. He thought for a moment he’d seen Salazar, but when a sudden squall unleashed buckets of water, he had ducked into a shop and came out through the back door using a newly purchased, steel-ribbed umbrella to hide his face. He hoped the rain and the umbrella had kept anyone from identifying him.
He looked up at the shiny brass sign on the colossal front door that read “United States Consul General, #1 Calle Obispo,” and he felt a hot shiver of apprehension. The heavy raindrops were pelting the rooftops so loudly he couldn’t even hear the clattering of the wheels from a passing horse and carriage. He had procrastinated about coming because he knew he would be perceived as a Rebel sympathizer, an enemy of the Federal government. He girded himself for a hostile interview. Just that thought made him want to turn around and walk away. But what choice did he really have? Emma had told the consul general all about him. For better or worse, Townsend knew he needed to give his account of what had happened to Michael Abbott, and what had happened to him. He needed to tell the truth.
Inside the Consulate, the ceilings were over twenty feet high with open rafters. There were about five or six people in the larger office, clerks and translators as well as deputies. The attendant at the desk took his name and told him to take a seat. Townsend had only been waiting for about ten minutes when a large door opened and a well-dressed man in a white linen suit and a small black tie walked over to him. He had a thin face, and curly black hair and a bookish, priestly smile.
“Good morning. You are Captain Townsend, I presume?”
Townsend nodded a reply.
