Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  “I am Thomas Savage, vice-consul general. I should explain that I am currently serving as the acting consul general.”

  The young captain found himself in an office, surrounded by walls of bookcases with leather-bound books, and two large windows where a brass telescope had been strategically mounted on a table-top tripod. There were a few mahogany chairs with caned seats and backs next to a red leather-topped campaign desk, which gave an elegant polish to the room.

  “Please sit down, Captain Townsend.” He pointed to the windows and the telescope. “As you can see this is my watchtower. Havana is at a strategic crossroads for the American war. Among my tasks here are to listen, watch, and monitor this harbor. From here, I know what ships are coming and going. Each day there are more blockade runners flying the British and Spanish flags, and each day new ones arrive, faster and bigger. I have even seen your schooner, Captain. She is aptly named, Gaviota. She sails just like a seagull. I watched you come in with a full load of cotton last week. It looked to be about two hundred bales.”

  “Two hundred and twenty-five,” Townsend said as he gulped, wondering where this conversation was going.

  “I understand you were chased by our Navy.”

  Townsend nodded. “Yes, we were hit by a cannon ball, a glancing blow.”

  “So I was informed. That was probably the USS Sagamore,” the vice-consul general said. “She is patrolling the waters off Cuba now.”

  Townsend thought of telling the diplomat that the US gunship had pursued them within Spanish territorial waters, but he thought better of it. A young Cuban brought the coffee, and Savage spoke to him in perfect Spanish with no trace of an accent. Townsend studied the American diplomat more closely. For some reason, he reminded him of his father, something about his mannerisms. He was direct and straightforward.

  “Desea azúcar?” Savage asked in clear Castilian Spanish.

  “Sí, una cucharada, por favor,” Townsend replied without thinking what language he was speaking. “One spoonful, please.”

  “I see you speak Spanish.”

  “Un poco,” Townsend replied, his face reddening. The man was adept at extracting information. A spoonful of sugar had caught him out.

  “Captain, let me get right to the point,” Savage said as he slowly stirred the sugar into his cup. “I had a pleasant visit the other day from the daughter of one of my wife’s close friends. The young woman’s name is Emma Lozada, but I believe she goes by her mother’s family name of Carpenter. You do know her, I presume?”

  “Yes, I do,” Townsend replied, even as he squirmed in his chair.

  “My wife, María Dolores and I have known her mother Eleanor for many years. We have observed Emma grow up to be a delightful young lady. She mentioned that you have a story to tell.”

  Townsend could feel the diplomat’s eyes on his face, an earnest, penetrating gaze. For some reason, the man’s quiet manner disarmed him. Perhaps it was his reassuring smile that made Townsend less guarded. Whatever it was, instead of becoming defensive, the young captain told his story with ease. He related how he came to Havana, the rescue of Michael Abbott from the sharks off El Morro, the knifing and what he presumed was the murder of Abbott. Then he described being put in prison, the contract with Don Pedro. He found himself unable to stop talking. He even told Savage what happened to him at the Naval Academy. When he had finished, Townsend breathed out a long deep sigh. He felt vulnerable and exposed, but strangely relieved. It was like he had been speaking to his father.

  “That’s quite an extraordinary story, young man,” Savage said as he got up from his chair to walk around the office. He paused a moment, as he fixed Townsend with an intense gaze.

  “As the top American diplomat here in Cuba, I am particularly interested in the fact that you attended the Naval Academy. That speaks to your intelligence and your ambitions. I also am drawn to the fact that your mother is Cuban. That explains your interest in Cuba and your knowledge of Spanish. That is a huge benefit. But before I ask you any other personal questions, I would like to know more about this Englishman, Michael Abbott. Emma Carpenter seemed quite concerned. She said he came here to investigate new information about the murder of the English diplomat George Backhouse.”

  “Yes, that’s what Abbott told her. He was sent here by Mrs. Backhouse.”

  “And he went to see the British consul general here in Havana and was turned away?”

  “That’s what Emma said.”

  Savage shook his head in disbelief.

  “Such a sad story, the Backhouse murder. So sudden. So shocking, and so unexplained. I was a deputy in the US Consulate in the 50s so I am quite aware of it. I respected Judge Backhouse a great deal because, like me, he had a special loathing for the institution of slavery and the trafficking of human flesh. We shared a mutual abhorrence for what we saw happening here in that regard. His position as the British judge on the Mixed Commission for the Suppression of the Slave Trade put him on the front lines of England’s effort to stop slave trafficking to Cuba. But even with his good intentions, sadly he did not accomplish much.”

  “I have heard he made many enemies here,” Townsend said.

  “That would be a fair statement. Backhouse did not realize how much his principled crusade against slave trafficking was perceived here as a threat. I should know. My own efforts in detecting and putting a stop to the shameful number of American ships prostituting our flag for the purpose of slave trading created considerable hostility and anger toward me over the years.”

  “I didn’t realize . . . ”

  “You have to understand, Captain, slavery is the backbone of the Cuban economy. Without it, the plantations fail and so does the economy. Here in Cuba, the Spanish and the Cuban planters live in fear of slave uprisings, and ever since Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation in January they are increasingly worried about what our war means for them. There’s a background here you should know. It goes back to some slave rebellions in the early 1840s.”

  “That’s when my parents were both here.”

  “Then they lived through a painful period. It was frightening. Talking slave drums tore through the night throughout the Cuban countryside.” Savage took a history book in Spanish from a shelf.

  “You won’t find many of the worst details mentioned in Spanish history books so I will tell you about it as someone who lived through it. It was brutal. Slave revolts broke out in several plantations. Sugar estates were torched. Planters were wounded and killed. It was a time of fear, and all this led to a harsh government crackdown. They called it La Escalera, the ladder. Do you know why it was called that?”

  Townsend shook his head.

  “Many Negroes—both free and slave—were arrested by the government, stripped naked, tortured, tied to a ladder with their heads pointing downward, and then whipped until they confessed or died.”

  Townsend was horrified.

  “I mention this dark period in Cuban history because many of the planters blamed the British consul general, David Turnbull, an activist with the most extreme abolitionist beliefs. The planters and the Spanish government thought he incited the rebellion. They blamed England. And when ten years later George Backhouse came here and signaled that he would champion many of the same causes as Turnbull, he touched a raw nerve.”

  “I see,” Townsend said. “That explains why he had many enemies.”

  “Indeed so. He was working hard not only to bring known slave traders to justice, but also to document freed Africans who were enslaved here in Cuba against their will. He was trying to gain their freedom.”

  “How many are being illegally held?”

  “Probably thousands. The Africans on board captured slave ships off the coast of Cuba are not routinely returned to Africa. Instead they are issued what the Spanish government calls a certificate of freedom here on the island and then forced to sign seven-year work c
ontracts in which they receive practically no pay. The unlucky ones become field laborers. Even the planters in the British West Indies are involved although that illegal commerce is shrouded in mystery. They sell their black contract laborers to sugar plantations and slave traders in Cuba in what becomes a lifetime of slavery.”

  Townsend grimaced.

  “Ironically, these workers are called emancipados, the freed ones, but they might as well be called the condemned ones. It’s shameful. A shocking scandal.”

  An awkward silence settled over the room as both men sipped their coffee. Savage offered him a cigar. He had several brands, but Savage pointed to the Partagas and suggested he try them for their strong and intense flavor. With the cigar in his fingers, Townsend struck a Lucifer match, and then slowly twirled the cigar in the flames before puffing on it.

  “I see you have been taught how to light a cigar properly, estilo cubano, in the Cuban style. What do you think of the flavor?”

  Townsend coughed as he felt the smoke burn the inside of his mouth, but he bravely smiled and nodded appreciatively. Savage stood up, puffing on his cigar. His face appeared more morose and thoughtful as he blew out a thick cloud of smoke toward the beamed ceiling.

  “Captain Townsend, whatever dirt there was about the unsolved Backhouse murder has long ago been swept under the carpet. The Spanish authorities don’t want to talk about it. Nor does the English consul general. We will almost certainly never know what happened to Mr. Backhouse. As for Mr. Abbott, who knows? I am sorry to tell you there are dozens of cases like his here in Havana where people just disappear. Frankly I am somewhat surprised I hadn’t heard something about this man before. As you may have observed already, this city is really a small town. Rumors and gossip, particularly about foreigners, tend to travel like fast-moving blackwater through the streets of Havana.”

  Townsend was confused. “Will you file a report with the Spanish government?”

  “I had considered it, but now that I hear your story I don’t think so. Given what you have told me, I am afraid there is not likely to be a great deal of assistance or interest about Mr. Abbott’s disappearance from the Spanish government. It would appear they want no one talking about it.”

  “Nothing could be done to try to find out what happened to Abbott?”

  “I have asked some of my informants in Old Havana to make some inquiries about anyone who might fit Mr. Abbott’s description, but I am not hopeful. That is all I am prepared to do.”

  The two men smoked their cigars, neither speaking. Another sudden squall had moved across the harbor. Havana Bay was gray and stormy, dotted with angry whitecaps and covered with wispy black smoke from several departing steamers. Townsend could see the black smoke from the British-flagged, Confederate-owned steamship Alice hanging over the masts in the harbor. The big ship with its large sidewheel paddleboxes was picking up speed for its latest run to Mobile.

  Savage walked over to the window and spoke with his back to Townsend, his body a silhouette against the gray light.

  “We live in dangerous times, Captain Townsend. Our country is being torn apart by civil war. Our relations with France and England could result in hostilities at any time. The French appear to be close to capturing the Mexican capital. We have had reports that the Emperor Napoleon III may be interested in acquiring Texas. The British, in the meantime, are doing everything in their power to make sure the United States is caught up in a costly war. They would like to divide our nation in two. Mr. Crawford of the British Consulate is handing out free sextants and chronometers to any blockade-running captain sailing under the British flag. It seems there is no end to British treachery.”

  Savage shook his head sadly as he walked back toward Townsend, his eyes flashing determination.

  “You might say, Captain, the New World is on fire and the Old World is busy fanning the flames. To be honest, this war of ours could still go either way. But sadly, more bloodshed is likely to be the state of affairs for some time. To win this war we will need to close off the South’s supply lines. We have doubled the number of ships on blockade duty here in the Gulf in a little more than a year. We have blockaded every major port from Florida to Texas—Galveston, Matagorda, Mobile, Sabine Pass, Suwanee River. Scores of ships have been captured. But we need more information from Havana’s docks on what the enemy is planning. Do you know what our Navy fears the most?”

  Townsend shook his head.

  “More Confederate warships. Here in the Gulf we know the Confederates are well on the way to building two large gunships up the Apalachicola River in northern Florida, and we have blockaded that river port. But their Secret Service agents have been seen here in Havana searching for more ships to seize, or to buy.”

  Savage vigorously puffed on his cigar, blowing out clouds of smoke as he gestured at the rain-swept harbor.

  “Let me be more specific with you, Captain. You are uniquely positioned to help the Union cause.”

  Townsend didn’t say anything. He was too stunned by the man’s words. Savage walked over and sat across from Townsend.

  “Your value to us is that you are in good standing with Don Pedro Alvarado Cardona, the man you work for, and we need more information about his business dealings. We know Don Pedro is working closely not just with Helm, but with other Confederate agents.”

  Townsend found his voice. “You want me to spy for you?”

  “Spy is not a word I would choose, but yes, I would like to use you as my eyes and ears.”

  The thought of trying to be a blockade runner and a Union spy gave Townsend considerable pause.

  “I don’t know if I can help. I have no desire to be a spy.”

  “Why not? There are many others willing to do the job. Havana is a harbor of spies. Everyone from the sailors to dockworkers, bar women to boatmen, postilions to street peddlers. They’re all informing on somebody. Consider what’s at stake, Captain. There are some here and in the United States who believe if the South is victorious, and they form a new Republic, there will no doubt be greater interest in forming the Golden Circle.”

  “The Golden Circle?” Townsend asked.

  “A mad, wild-eyed dream of some of the firebrands in the South. They want to form an alliance of slave states extending from South America to Central America and Mexico to as far north as the Mason-Dixon Line. Cuba would be the centerpiece of this swath of hell. God help us if that happens. A victory of the South will breathe new life into that vile serpent of slavery. It is time for you to take a stand, Captain, for what you believe in.”

  Townsend said nothing for a moment. Finally, he asked, “But why me? How do you know what I believe in?”

  “The truth is, Miss Carpenter suggested it. She mentioned you were quite conflicted about blockade running and that you were opposed to slavery. Perhaps I should say, she thought you would like to take a principled stance.”

  Townsend’s head was spinning. He had thought Emma was done with him, and had forced him to go to the Consulate out of spite, only to punish him. Now he allowed himself to think that maybe he was wrong.

  “Captain, you have been here several months. You speak Spanish. Have you not heard the Negroes running in the streets with their chants, ‘Avanza, Lincoln, avanza. Forward, Lincoln, forward?’ I can assure you the Negro population here in Cuba is watching the war in America closely, and with good reason. They realize slavery’s days are numbered. Our fight is not just to quell a rebellion and preserve the United States, but to end the institution once and for all. Liberation of the slaves will come to this island someday, but right now we’re fighting for that same cause in our country.”

  Townsend gulped. “Suppose I agreed?”

  “As I said, we would like you to watch Don Pedro closely, make yourself more useful than ever so he trusts you. Become one of his closest men. We want to know with whom he meets, and ultimately who might be providing ships t
o the Southerners. We know he is a close financial advisor to some powerful, influential people here. The point is he can connect Confederate agents with the wealthy sugar barons of Cuba, and that is a worry. It boils down to observe, take note, and then report what you learn.”

  Townsend realized he was about to make a decision that would mean stepping out of one dangerous life and into an even more perilous one.

  “I will, of course, have to get full approval from Secretary Seward in Washington,” Savage told him, “as well as to speak with the naval attaché from Key West. But those are formalities. You can expect that we will pay you three hundred dollars a month, which is what I am accustomed to paying some of my other informants. Needless to say, we would insist that you not tell anyone about our arrangement.”

  20

  Townsend woke to the noise of the clanging and banging of the passenger steamer as it let out steam in the lower harbor of Matanzas. He heard the splash of the anchor, the rattling of the anchor chain rumbling through the hawse pipe. It was three in the morning. The sixty-mile trip on board the night steamer from Havana had taken less time than he thought, slightly less than six hours. All night long he had struggled to sleep on the cane-bottomed berth, but the throbbing rhythm of the screw propeller and the pulsating tremors of the old steamship had kept him awake.

  He had spent the night thinking about Savage’s proposal. He had almost said yes to the vice-consul general’s offer in person, but at the last moment a sense of caution had told him to wait. The thought of being a spy was troubling. He kept thinking about the time in the bar when he and Red Beard had been accosted by that Confederate rabble rouser. It would be difficult living behind a mask, playing a role. Still, Savage’s words about staying true to himself and supporting the Union cause had touched a nerve. Emma had said the same thing. He should stand up for his own convictions. Just the thought of Emma made him realize what an emotional muddle he was in. His feelings toward her were a tangle of knots. He’d told Savage he would contact him when he got back from this trip to the countryside. He just needed some time to think about it.