by Robin Lloyd
“Many of the young ladies in Havana would have given anything to have been chosen by Don Pedro back then. But not your mother.”
Townsend started. He swiveled his head to face his grandmother.
“You never made any mention of this before.”
“Yes, your mother turned him down. Handsome and rich was not good enough for her.”
“My mother and Don Pedro? Don Pedro never told me. He said they were just acquaintances. Were they . . . were they ever a couple?”
“They should have been. I thought it would have been a sensible arranged marriage, what we call un buen matrimonio concertado, but your mother thought differently.”
“Was he the older man you said you had found for my mother?” Townsend asked, stupefied, as he shook his head in wonderment.
“Indeed. I thought it was a good match. He was an older man, a successful merchant, still young and vibrant enough to meet the desires of a young woman. His wealth would have allowed him to offer your mother whatever she wanted. And, of course, he would have been able to help financially with Mon Bijou. I even announced in social circles that they were to be engaged.”
“Engaged!”
“Yes, but your mother already had fallen in love with your father. They were meeting secretly. It was McKintyre who told me what was going on. I confronted your mother. She said she would never marry Don Pedro, and she vowed to marry your father with or without my permission. She accused me of selling her off to pay the plantation’s debt. As you can imagine, I was distraught. I threatened to put her into a convent if she didn’t stop seeing your father. Then I went to Don Pedro and encouraged him to take matters into his own hands.”
Townsend hardly dared to breathe. He could see an angry gleam in her black eyes. The red leather inside the carriage only made her look more intense.
“At the time, I was so mad, I would have been glad if Pedro had locked your mother up in a cell. Those were difficult days then, back in the early 40s. We planters feared there would be a full-scale slave rebellion. It was so frightening. There were rumors that foreigners, English and Americans, were behind this uprising. Many of the American and English engineers working on the plantations were arrested. Don Pedro came to me and said he had a solution to the problem with your mother. I never knew what he intended.”
“What did he do?”
“He went to the authorities to report your father and have him arrested.”
“Arrest my father. For what?”
“For inciting rebellion. McKintyre said he’d overheard him talking to some slaves, encouraging them to run off.”
“Was that true?”
“I never knew.”
“So my father was arrested with your permission,” Townsend said with a hint of derision in his voice.
“I never gave my permission. But yes, your father was arrested, taken to prison and charged with instigating rebellion. I was furious with your mother, and so was Pedro. I’d already let it be known that they were to be engaged. ¡Me dio tanta vergüenza! It was so embarrassing. Your mother demanded that I withdraw Don Pedro’s accusation. I refused. She called me an evil, treacherous woman. She said she hoped the slaves did burn down Mon Bijou. I slapped her across the face. I wished I had not done that, but I did. And then she left. Somehow through some connections she had with the American or English Consulate, she got your father released. And they left together on his ship a few days later. I never saw her again. ¡Ay de mi! Que horror! Your mother and I never spoke again.”
Doña Cecilia choked back a sob. She wiped her eyes with a linen handkerchief. Townsend did not move. He had no comfort to offer her.
“I only wanted to do what I thought best for her,” she added in a thin, remorseful voice, almost like the whisper of a little girl.
“Did you write to tell her that?”
“Yes, I wrote her. Like I told you before, she only wrote me back once. She said she would never forgive me. She never wanted to see or hear from me again. She called me una bruja. ¡Imagínate! Imagine calling your own mother a witch!”
Townsend could hear the anger rising in her voice. He didn’t say anything even as she dabbed her eyes and collected herself. They remained silent through their arrival at the opera house and their journey into a sea of swirling silk, fluttering fans and bobbing top hats. His grandmother’s box was on the second floor balcony. It had comfortable chairs and an open railing, and it offered an ample view of the multi-tiered theater, which held three thousand people. Townsend had never seen anything like this before. His grandmother’s enthusiasm for fashionable Havana soon replaced any lingering dark feelings. She trained her small theater glasses on some of the prominent people. She pointed out the red and yellow satin-draped box for the captain general, and the crowded box for the British consul general and his family.
“Look there is old Papa Crawford with his young wife and their sixteen-year-old daughter. She is his second wife, a delightful person. Her family owns a plantation here. He’s been the British consul general for so long it’s almost like he’s from here. That’s why some of us call him Papa. To some of us, he’s like family.”
His grandmother was increasingly animated as she spotted some of the old established families: the Aldamas, the Alfonsos, the Peñalvers. She was particularly interested in the Countess Fernandina, who was wearing a lilac dress.
“So charming, don’t you think Everett. Designed to show off her graceful shoulders. ¡Ay, Mira! Look over there. Don Julián Zulueta’s box. Such an important man! My word, Pancho Marty is with him, and so is our Don Pedro. And there’s Charles Helm, the Confederate agent. That must be an important meeting of some sort.”
She dropped the glasses from her face, and looked at him.
“I wanted to ask you again, cariño. Are you sure everything is fine between you and Pedro?”
Townsend had no desire to hear the man’s name, but remained civil.
“Everything is fine.”
“Just yesterday I asked him what he thought of you. I was expecting to hear a glowing report. But instead Pedro said he was sad to report that he may have misjudged your potential.”
“Really. I’m surprised,” Townsend said even as he felt a slight chill travel down his spine. He hated the man, but he knew he needed to maintain his trust.
“He said you were too much like your mother.”
“In what way?”
“I asked him, but he simply shrugged, and said to me, ‘así son las cosas. That’s the way it is.’ I was surprised. Perhaps he feels you are too hot headed. Your mother certainly was. I just thought I’d ask again. Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
She looked over at him with an expression of caring concern, but in her eyes he saw something else, that same steely iciness he’d seen before.
“I would be careful, cariño. Ten cuidado. Pedro is a complicated man. I have a great deal of affection for him. He has been helpful to me over the years, but I am wise enough to understand his motives. It’s no secret he would like to own my Mon Bijou.”
Just then the crowd started to applaud wildly. About two dozen white pigeons with red and blue streamers tied to their feet were released into the air. To Townsend they looked like tropical forest birds being freed from captivity. The huge curtain lifted, and a soprano’s voice pierced the enormous theater. At the interlude after the first act, Doña Cecilia applauded enthusiastically and took her grandson’s arm.
“As you can see, Havana’s beau monde love the opera. It puts them in ecstasy. Are you enjoying it?”
Townsend nodded even though he hadn’t cared much for the performance. To him, all this display of emotion was somewhat of a mystery. He liked the music, but he couldn’t understand anything.
Doña Cecilia took out her blue and pink fan and snapped it open in one fluid movement like a butterfly opening its wings. “Everett, you a
re still so young,” she began. “Have you thought about what you might do when this American war is over?”
“Not much,” he replied.
“Will you go back to Maryland?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Know that you have a home here, cariño. Mon Bijou could be your home. I would love to convince you to stay. You are my grandson, and you know Mon Bijou will one day be yours.”
Townsend’s eyes grew wide. The idea of running a Cuban sugar plantation was repellent enough, but the possibility that he might one day be the owner of a Cuban sugar plantation—a sugar baron, was not something he could even consider. He was speechless.
“You don’t have to tell me now, but just think about it,” she said with her soft voice and the faintest of smiles.
“I don’t think I am the right person for that job,” Townsend finally stammered. “I would like to stay involved in what I know—ships and the sea.”
Townsend could tell from her furrowed brow and pursed lips that she was not pleased at what he had just said.
“Well, I hope you will think about it.”
She looked straight ahead toward the stage. Her hands began to finger her pearls like a woman praying with her rosary beads. He thought he saw her eyes begin to tear up.
29
July 21, 1863
Days later, Townsend was still pondering his grandmother’s offer. It wasn’t just a job. She was asking him to come live with her, to be her heir. The idea of inheriting a Cuban sugar plantation and owning four hundred slaves was repugnant to him. Now that he’d been given a glimpse of slavery, he wanted nothing to do with it. But strangely, he hadn’t stopped thinking about what she’d said. He thought of the naval career he’d hoped for, but would never have. The plantation would give him a comfortable life. His grandmother was his family. Other than his father and a few unknown relatives in New England, he had no one else. At the opera house, he had sensed her loneliness, the quiet anguish in her voice, the worry in her eyes. It was hard not to feel sorry for her.
But then he shook his head in wonderment at his poor judgment. How could he possibly be tempted? He wondered what Emma would say. Would she be swayed by the enticement of wealth? No. He thought of Julio beating the puppy under the watchful eye of McKintyre. His grandmother had approved this act of cruelty. His mind turned to his mother, and he suddenly realized why she left Cuba. It wasn’t just the rift with his grandmother. Yes, she’d felt betrayed by her own mother. She was bitter and angry, but the reason she left the island was more complicated. She fled and never returned because she knew her own sense of human decency was at risk. She left to save herself. She had seen what Mon Bijou had done to her mother, and she didn’t want that to happen to her. If she stayed, her principles would have slowly eroded. She would have become just like her mother, who in the name of preserving her family heritage, had been willing to look the other way all too often and embrace brutality.
The blast of a ship’s steam whistle interrupted his thoughts, and Townsend walked out of the cabin house to look at the latest arrival to the harbor. He brought his telescope to his eye to get a better view of the three-masted ship steaming into port, its tall funnel amidships belching out black smoke. She was flying a Mexican flag off her mizzen mast. The ship looked quite familiar. He scanned the dozens of sailors scurrying around the deck, tying down halyards and coiling deck lines, until he spotted two familiar figures wearing slouch hats, the same two Southerners who had traveled with them on the passage along the Texas coast from the Brazos River to Matamoros. The ship was now close enough that Townsend could plainly see their features, the tension and determined looks in their faces.
As the ship steamed by, he focused on her stern. She now had a name painted on her transom, María Guadalupe out of Vera Cruz, Mexico.
Townsend called out to Hendricks down below in the main cabin.
“Looks like the phantom ship from Matamoros has arrived,” he cried out. “She’s flying a Mexican flag now. And she’s got a name. María Guadalupe.”
Hendricks came out on deck and stared at the passing ship. He held his hand over his eyes to block the sun’s glare.
“Them two Confederates, deh on board?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Bes’ to stay far away then,” the Bahamian said with a shake of his head. “I ain’ goin’ near that slavin’ ship.”
Townsend didn’t reply. His first thought was sending a message to Savage about the ship’s arrival, but he was also mindful that he had promised to meet Bertrand shortly at the Toro del Mar. The New Orleans sailor had sent him an alarming note, writing it was urgent, and that he had important information for the whole crew. Given Bertrand’s reputation as a petticoat chaser, he and Hendricks assumed that it had something to do with the mulata he’d continued seeing, despite repeated warnings. But in this harbor of spies, you never knew.
Soon the small launch carrying the Spanish customs and health inspectors made its way to the newly arrived ship. The sun had sunk lower on the horizon, and the church bells were already chiming for evening mass. Townsend went below to his cabin to get his coat and then he and Hendricks hailed a passing harbor boat, taking care to climb down on the side away from the Mexican ship, just in case someone on board had spotted them. Once ashore, they ducked in and out of stores to make sure they weren’t being tailed, and then circled back to the street corner near the Alameda de Paula promenade where the lottery ticket salesman was standing. Townsend told Hendricks to wait across the street and look for anyone suspicious.
By now, Townsend was quite familiar with this little man, his contact person, and called him by his nickname, Guti, short for Gutiérrez. Townsend walked up to him and handed him a note hidden under a pile of coins. All he’d written was, “Phantom ship has arrived. María Guadalupe. Flying the Mexican flag. Confederate agents on board.” Townsend looked around to see if anyone was watching, but he saw no one, just some passing volantas and carriages and some street vendors. The lottery vendor’s impassive face never flinched or revealed anything as he handed him the ticket in return.
“El cocuyo trae buena suerte,” he said. The firefly brings good luck. Townsend nodded. Gutiérrez immediately turned away and began crying out to passers-by to come buy the winning number, the lucky number.
“¡Lotería! ¡Lotería! ¡Número 21534. Número de la suerte!”
With the sky darkening, Townsend and Hendricks made their way through the gas-lit streets on the south side of the old city until they got to the familiar sign of Toro del Mar. Townsend had grown accustomed to this drunken oasis where foreign sailors drowned their sorrows. He looked in vain for any sign of Bertrand or the other three crewmembers, but he didn’t see them. He sensed rather than saw the bar women sizing him up. The women at the Toro del Mar were famous for their skills at pickpocketing. He stood next to a table where some rough-looking Confederate veterans were talking in hushed voices. He told Hendricks to stay close to him and if anyone gave him any trouble, to say nothing. He would take care of the rest.
Townsend was still getting used to the darkness when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Bertrand, and the sailor beckoned him over to a dark corner table in a small room away from the music where his mulata girlfriend, Gabriela Ramírez, was seated. Townsend nodded politely to her as she acknowledged him with a blink of her eyes. He couldn’t help admiring the striking good looks of this woman, with her mahogany skin, high cheekbones, and full, sensual lips.
Bertrand’s expression was unusually serious, his face taut and strained.
“What’s so urgent, Bertrand? Why are you so frazzled?”
“I believe we have trouble, mon ami.”
“Where are the others?” Townsend asked.
“Coming soon,” Bertrand whispered. “Toute suite. I wanted you to hear what Gabriela has to say. She will not stay long. It is better you have arrived first
, Capitaine. Tant mieux. We have problems.”
Townsend stared at Bertrand with a puzzling frown and then turned to look at the woman.
“Well then, let’s talk.”
“Gabriela is the mistress for Captain Reinaldo Gómez, who now reports directly to the captain general about all matters related to security and shipping in Havana port. She hears many things. Gabriela, tell him what you’ve heard. Díle al capitán lo que me contaste.”
Gabriela’s eyes nervously darted around the room for several seconds before she began speaking in a hushed voice.
“Todos ustedes están en peligro, Capitán. You and your men are all in danger.”
“How do you know this?” Townsend asked, speaking in Spanish
“I heard Gómez talk with Captain Vásquez of the Guardia Civil. You are being watched. Not just at the docks, but in the streets as well.”
“I’m accustomed to that treatment here in Havana,” Townsend replied nonchalantly.
“No, it’s more than the usual dock informants,” she said emphatically. “Now you have policemen out of uniform watching you and your men. It’s a special branch of police. These are dangerous people.”
“Why would the government care about any of us?”
“They believe you and your men are all spies. Yankee spies working for Mr. Lincoln, and you are trying to gather information harmful to Spanish interests, secret information about the Spanish government’s links to the South. They suspect the American government wants to find a reason to declare war against Spain and invade Cuba. The Spanish have always feared an American invasion of Cuba.”
“What nonsense,” sputtered Townsend. “Puras tonterías. Pure twaddle.”
“They are worried about a ship called María Guadalupe. There is something secretive about it. It’s coming to Havana soon.”
“It’s already here in the harbor,” Townsend said. He looked over at Hendricks. The Bahamian couldn’t understand Spanish, but he recognized the name of the ship and his face now revealed his concern.
