by Robin Lloyd
Townsend’s body stiffened in alarm, and without thinking he grabbed the pistol off the table, cocked the hammer, and rushed up the stairs. He got there in time to see two dark figures pulling themselves up on board the schooner, knives in their hands. At the sight of the glint of the metal blades, something shifted inside of him. For that brief desperate second, he was transported back in time to the street on the night when he and Abbott were attacked. He was hearing the loud rhythmic drums, and he was looking at a knife plunging into Abbott’s body. He felt a wild rage sweep through him, and he told himself, no, never again.
Townsend raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger just as both intruders climbed onto the deck. The gun went off with a loud roar, and Townsend was surrounded by a plume of smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder. One of the men cursed and fell backwards, holding his shoulder. Townsend swung the barrel of the gun, his thumb on the hammer, and aimed it at the second figure.
“¡Quítense de ahí!” Townsend yelled and then repeated the warning in English. “Get the hell off the boat!” He shook the long barrel at the man as he stood above his squirming colleague, who was screaming in pain. Townsend warned the intruder he would shoot again. He told him to drop the knife and leave the boat with his wounded friend or he would fire again. The one man let the knife fall onto the deck with a clatter as he raised his hands. With the candlelight from the cabin shining through the portholes, Townsend could see the man was white. The man he’d shot was a mulato. They were both dressed simply like so many of the dockworkers.
“Who sent you?” he cried out to the shadowy figures, then repeating the question in Spanish.
The intruders didn’t answer. He could only hear a faint groan from the wounded man.
“Who are you?” he asked.
No answer. Before he could react, the two men turned and jumped over the side into their small launch boat. Townsend was thinking about firing another shot to scare them when he noticed the floating body, face down in the water. It was the boatman, Junípero Díaz. The man was either unconscious or dead, as there was no movement. Townsend quickly grabbed the long-poled boat hook that was attached to the schooner’s ratlines, and climbed down into the small boat. He leaned over the gunwales and reached out with the pole as far as he could. After several failed attempts, he finally secured the hook into the man’s belt and began pulling him in. Suddenly something struck the pole, wrenching it out of his hands. He heard a splash in the water. He wheeled around, thinking that his two assailants had returned. His eyes strained in the gloom to see what the noise was. And then without warning, the water around the man’s body exploded into a blinding whirlpool of thrashing, splashing, and shaking.
Townsend threw himself back into the center of the rowboat. He could see the black fins as they carved their deadly pattern through the shimmering water, the man’s inert body tossed by each lunge. Townsend knew there was nothing he could do. The floating body was surrounded by at least a half-dozen sharks drawn by the smell of blood. They were in a feeding frenzy, and he knew more were probably on their way.
He jumped back on board the Gaviota to gather his things. He felt sickened by what he’d seen, and he vomited over the side. He knew he had to hurry. The sound of the gunshot might have drawn the attention of the harbor police. He went below and threw on his linen coat, placing the fourteen-inch-long pistol in one of the interior pockets. He still felt physically sick, and thought he might have to vomit again. He tried to make himself focus. He went to the ship’s small library shelf and grabbed the biggest book he could find. It was The Atlantic Navigator, Captain Evans’s favorite book, a sea captain’s guide to the wind and currents of the Atlantic. He felt a pang of guilt as he placed the book in the other side pocket along with the telescope. Now both sides of his coat looked the same.
He tried to think of what else he needed to bring. He was listing the personal items of the crew to himself when he heard some rustling and scratching coming from behind the stove. He grabbed the pistol and pointed it in the direction of the noise.
“Come out from behind there,” he yelled.
Just then he heard a meow. He saw a raised shadowy tail that quivered a greeting.
“Holy Cow, the cat!” Townsend exclaimed. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”
When Townsend climbed back on deck to survey the harbor, there was nothing to be seen of the body of Junípero Díaz, just the smooth, slightly ruffled surface of the black water. Like vultures, the sharks of Havana Bay had efficiently done their job, leaving no trace of the body or any crime. Townsend carefully threw his duffel into the bungo boat and then clambered over the side, holding Look-Out with one hand. He’d put the cat’s halter on and attached the leash so she couldn’t escape. Townsend decided to head for the Muelle de Luz landing where he’d told the crew to meet him. After drifting into a small pier crowded with tied-up harbor boats and fishing boats, he waited there for a couple of hours, hidden in the dark under the awning of the boat. He would stay there until the sun rose. It gave him time to reflect on what had just happened, and to plan what to do next. He looked at the knives the two men had been carrying. They were long Spanish knives made in Sevilla, similar to Bowie knives, about nine inches long with the notable characteristic that for several inches, the blade cut was double-edged. Who were these intruders, he wondered—thieves, or hired assassins? Most likely, he thought, they were some kind of non-uniformed agents of the police.
Townsend dropped both of the knives into his duffel bag along with the charts, the nautical almanac, the sight reduction tables, the sextant, and the chronometer. At dawn, when the first boatman showed up, he gave him some money and told him to drop his sailor’s bag off in Casa Blanca. When he showed him the cat, the man thought he was crazy, but Townsend was able to persuade him with another sixteenth-ounce gold coin, and by throwing the cat into the duffel. Townsend described the vessel and its name, and told him to look for a man named Bertrand. He assured him he spoke Spanish so there would be no problems.
Then he sat down to write a note to Savage. He tore a blank page out of The Atlantic Navigator and began writing.
Hon. Vice Consul General, Thomas Savage
United States Consulate, Havana
Sir:
I regret to inform you of some unfortunate developments. I have reason to believe that the Spanish authorities wish to arrest and imprison myself and my crew. It is therefore too dangerous for any of us to remain here. We must flee the island. We hope to be leaving the Muelle de Luz landing near the ferry docks before dusk. We will be sailing on board the Spanish-flagged scow schooner Vírgen Gorda, which is a known fishing vessel I have purchased. We hope to sail to Key West. Any assistance you might provide through your regular mail dispatches to Admiral Bailey would greatly be appreciated. Be advised that the Mexican ship I mentioned in my previous note has kept steam up, and by all appearances may be ready to depart soon.
I am, Vice Consul General,
Very respectfully,
Captain Everett Townsend
The early morning sun was already blazing hot when Townsend left the docks at the Muelle de Luz to walk into the city. It was 7:00 a.m. The streets were beginning to fill up with volantas carrying well-dressed merchants to work. Black-robed priests appeared at every corner, walking briskly toward the chimes and peals of the many church bells that called them to prayers. The cries of street vendors selling milk and bread competed with the firing of cannons from El Morro castle in what by now had become a familiar early morning symphony. Townsend had thought earlier about returning to his rooming house in San Isidro to grab some clothes, but after the sudden attack he knew it would be too dangerous. If the police were sending men with knives to the boat, they would be doing the same outside his room.
The young captain headed to the opposite corner of the Alameda de Paula where the lottery vendor Gutiérrez usually stood. He walked down Oficios Street and then
turned toward the harbor at Acosta Street. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the diminutive figure of the lottery salesman and heard his high-pitched cry, ¡Lotería! Lotería! With his hat pulled down over his forehead, Townsend walked briskly toward the little man, bending down to hand him the neatly folded letter underneath a pile of coins. Gutiérrez looked up at him strangely, not recognizing him at first, but then when Townsend whispered “un mensaje del cocuyo,” a message from el cocuyo, he quickly acknowledged the young captain and gave him a lottery ticket.
Townsend locked eyes with the little man and told him he hoped he had the lucky number and would win the lottery this time because his needs were urgent. He emphasized the last word, and Gutiérrez nodded that he understood. Townsend then headed across town to Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house. He desperately needed to see Emma, not only to tell her what had happened but also to say goodbye. He wanted to see her face to face, and reassure her that he was not just another sailor. He was dependable. He would miss her so. And he knew she could pass on a more detailed message to Savage on why he and his crew couldn’t stay in Havana any longer. He’d been discovered. It was too risky. Townsend kept looking behind him. He thought he heard footsteps, but he saw nothing.
Several blocks later, he heard the rapid clatter of hooves and the squeal of carriage wheels on the cobblestones. He wheeled around, his hand already reaching for the gun. Before he could do anything, he heard his name being called out. A silvery-black-haired gentleman dressed in a white suit poked his head out of the carriage window. It was Don Pedro.
“What good fortune to find you, Captain Townsend. I have been looking all over the city for you. I just came from your rooming house where it’s clear you didn’t sleep last night.”
Townsend’s first instinct was to run, but Don Pedro’s warm greeting seemed disarmingly friendly.
“I’ve been making the rounds of the taverns,” Townsend replied.
“I can tell,” the Spaniard said and offered him a cigar. “From the look of your crumpled shirt, you slept in it.”
Don Pedro said he was going to see una pelea de gallos, a special cockfight that had been organized by the captain general. He insisted that Townsend should join him to see this most Cuban of sporting events.
“It should be quite a spectacle. Please join me. Get in the carriage. Otherwise we’ll be late.”
Townsend did not see that he had much choice. He decided he would play along. Maybe he could bluff his way through this encounter. He was not certain what information Don Pedro could have on him. He hoped it was still just suspicions.
As the carriage made its way through the gates of the old wall, Don Pedro revealed nothing about his state of mind. He was strangely silent. He smoked his cigar quietly as the wheels clattered along the Calzada de San Rafael into the working class community of San Lázaro. They were headed for the Campo de Peñalver in the outskirts of the city where the main cockfight arena was located. Finally the Spaniard talked about the probable next trip to northern Florida where Helm had said arms and ammunition were sorely needed. They would be sailing to a little known harbor in Deadman’s Bay just to the north of the Suwanee River that was not likely to be patrolled by the Navy. The harbor entrance would be staked or buoyed. Only small, shallow draft ships could get in there.
Townsend nodded, knowing full well by the determined look on the man’s face that this was not the only matter he wanted to discuss. Townsend sensed something purposeful in the Spaniard’s hooded gaze. After a long silence, Don Pedro told him there had been some important developments since they had last spoken. Townsend feared the worst, and his hand slowly reached into his coat pocket to find his gun.
“We caught him,” Don Pedro said. “The Englishman. The same man who you helped to escape from El Morro, the English spy.”
“Michael Abbott?”
“Yes, ese hijo de puta. That same son of a bitch! He was in disguise, pretending to be an interested investor in Cuban sugar plantations. He came to Don Eugenio’s estate, calling himself Rupert Bascombe, asking a lot of questions about English-speaking slaves. At first Don Eugenio was intrigued, because as you know he prides himself on his slaves, but this Englishman began asking about the Backhouse case. That’s when Don Eugenio grew concerned.”
“Why didn’t he confront the man?” Townsend asked.
“The Englishman ran off, and took Don Eugenio’s personal house servant with him. You may remember him, Javier Alfonso.”
“Yes, the servant in the library, who spoke English.”
Don Pedro nodded.
“Yes, that traitor. For Don Eugenio, Javier Alfonso’s disloyalty was a bitter blow. They took a valuable book from his library. Don Eugenio set the dogs after them, and they caught them just before they were about to board a train for Havana.”
“Are you certain this man is Michael Abbott?”
“Quite certain. It took a little effort, but he confessed. It seems he is a detective who is linked in with the London Anti-Slavery Society. He was sent here to find out more about the Backhouse case. The authorities are most interested in discovering who his associates are on the island.”
Townsend feigned indifference.
“Any ideas?” Don Pedro asked.
“About what?” Townsend asked, his lower lip twitching slightly.
“Who his contacts are on the island?”
Townsend shook his head.
There was a heavy silence in the carriage as they rumbled along the Calzada de Belascoaín Boulevard at the outer edge of Havana.
“I’m truly surprised about that Englishman,” Townsend finally said as he turned toward Don Pedro. “I never thought he could have survived. I saw him get knifed in the stomach.”
Don Pedro remained silent.
“Where are they being held?”
“A safe place,” Don Pedro replied tersely, “a place where they can be discreetly interrogated without any possibility of escape. We will soon find out who Abbott’s associates are on the island, all of them.”
Townsend said nothing at first, finally breaking the silence after a few moments.
“What do you think will happen to them?”
Don Pedro at first didn’t answer, but then he mumbled a reply.
“Sólo lo que se merecen. Only what they deserve.”
After a half an hour drive, they arrived at a circular two-storied framed building at the Campo de Peñalver on the far outskirts of Havana. Townsend could hear the raucous shouting and cheering from inside. With the audible roar of the crowds, Don Pedro seemed to become more animated, and quickly got out of the covered carriage. The Spaniard began telling him about the finer points of cockfighting and how in Cuba the custom was to either put detachable spurs on the birds or to sharpen the natural spurs, all to make the fight deadlier and quicker. Inside the building, Townsend came face to face with an enclosed ring filled with sawdust where two men held fighting roosters in their bloody hands. One of the birds, a small one, was already blinded by an injury to its eye from the first round, and the handler was wiping the blood from its head, and then squirting some rum into its eyes.
Townsend looked up in the stands at hundreds of leering faces, people of all skin colors, black, white, yellow, and brown. This was clearly one of the few places where the races on the island were allowed to come together. He wondered if this would ever be the Cuba of the future, a place where people of every shade of color had the same rights, the same opportunities. Somehow he doubted that vision would be possible in the rigid structure of Spanish rule. As if he could read his mind, Don Pedro pointed to the mix of Chinese and Negroes in the crowds.
“Look around my friend. Cuba is an island of opportunity. The ones you see here are the lucky ones who have bought their freedom or completed their work term. Now trying their luck with los gallos. These lucky ones dream of winning here and earning enough to go home. They ma
y not know it, but they will never leave this island. Lady luck has a fickle hand.”
Don Pedro and Townsend took their seats on worn wooden benches. The men in the stands were shouting and making their bets. “Four to two on the blind one,” someone yelled out in Spanish. The crowd roared its approval as the roosters were freed and went at each other again with a fury, clawing, nipping, flapping, and dodging.
The air was ripe with the smell of sweat, unwashed bodies and the vinegary odor of dirt and urine. There in the midst of the confusion, the shouting, the wagering, and the bloodlust of the crowd, Don Pedro explained why he liked the sport, because the winning birds won by stealth and speed.
“You see it has nothing to do with strength or size. It’s about tactics and strategy. The small bird frequently prevails. It’s like our schooners, isn’t it, Captain? We run through the blockade against the big ships. They have the guns, but we still outsmart them.”
The crowd roared as the two birds flew at each other in a violent flurry of feathers, lashing at each other with their spurs. The screams and shouts continued until one bird was dead. The owner of the triumphant fighting cock proudly held up the winner into the air to the cheers of the onlookers. The small, blind one had unexpectedly prevailed. Townsend looked forlornly at the crumpled heap of bloody feathers in the center of the circle. Such a cruel sport.
The fighting seemed to calm Don Pedro. He was quiet and melancholy, concentrating on the pit and smoking his cigar. Then his head jerked up at the sight of someone in the crowd, and he beckoned to the man. “Ah, Manuel. Por fin has aparecido. Ven aquí. It’s Manuel,” Don Pedro said with a smile. “My personal cigar roller.”
