by Robin Lloyd
Townsend felt a cold chill run down his spine as he recognized the familiar figure of the man he’d met with Savage in the belfry tower of the cathedral. This couldn’t be a coincidence. The dry taste of fear and panic exploded in his mouth even as his mind quickly began to assess his situation. Manuel must have informed on him. He knew he should run. Don Pedro must know everything about his spying for Savage. His face felt flushed. He couldn’t think clearly. He was trapped.
The crowd was once again yelling out their bets as people came back and took their seats in the stands. He heard someone shout to “clear the pit.” Another cockfight would soon begin. Townsend took off his linen coat and folded it over his left arm as Manuel got closer. With his left hand he felt for the Colt pistol, his thumb strategically placed over the hammer. He could feel Don Pedro’s eyes on him as he introduced his ship captain to Manuel.
“Captain, I want you to meet my good friend Manuel Escobar, one of Cuba’s finest cigar rollers. He’s bringing me some of my specialty cigars.”
Townsend nodded and shook hands with the Cuban even as he pretended not to recognize him. Manuel, his stare both piercing and solemn, also revealed no overt sign of recognition, but Townsend thought he detected a subtle signal between him and Don Pedro. It was something in the way the man’s eyes blinked. He was certain he had been discovered. The cigar roller, he thought to himself. Who would have imagined that this simple-looking Cuban, who had been so deferential to Savage, was actually a double agent. He saw Don Pedro momentarily glower as he turned from Manuel back to Townsend, the Spaniard’s fake, lazy smile almost immediately returning.
“You already know Manuel, I believe?” he asked Townsend with an insouciant tone of voice that was at odds with the Spaniard’s menacing stare.
“No, I don’t believe I do,” Townsend replied.
“Oh, I see. I just thought the way you were looking at each other. I thought you might have recognized each other. I guess I was mistaken.”
Don Pedro was already beckoning to someone else across the pit. Townsend could see the man coming toward him. Just the man’s aggressive posture told Townsend he had to act quickly. He grabbed Don Pedro by the arm.
“I need to talk with you now,” he whispered in his ear. “It’s urgent.”
“What about?” Don Pedro asked, clearly taken by surprise.
“It’s about Manuel,” Townsend said with mock seriousness. His imploring eyes implied he had sensitive information to tell Don Pedro. “There’s something you should know about him. It’s important.”
Don Pedro seemed reluctant at first but then, still somewhat uncertain, walked with Townsend away from the pit. Townsend kept his right hand firmly on the handle of the Colt pistol. He brought the long barrel, hidden in the coat pocket, closer to Don Pedro.
“What is it you want to tell me?” Don Pedro asked. “Some problem with Manuel?”
“Yes,” replied Townsend. He shoved the gun into Don Pedro’s waist, causing the Spaniard to gasp audibly.
Townsend whispered to him. “Yes, it’s a pistol, a Colt pistol, .36 caliber. At this range it should blow your insides apart. Tell Manuel, your two-headed snake, he can go away now. And whoever the other monkey is, you can tell him you were mistaken. Everything is fine. You do not need him anymore.”
Don Pedro waved them both away. He was practically spitting as he hissed at Townsend.
“You disappoint me.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Don Pedro,” Townsend replied in a hushed whisper. For some reason, with the gun in his hand he felt calm. Any fear had disappeared. He had a score to settle with this man. He wanted revenge.
“We’re going to walk out of the cockpit fighting arena together, slowly and calmly, and then get into your carriage. I want no protest, no cry for help. I hope you understand I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
“Where will we be going?” Don Pedro asked, his ever-present, condescending smile returning.
“To the docks,” Townsend replied. “I will tell you where.”
31
Like a dutiful priest holding a bible under his vestments, Townsend held the hidden Colt pistol with the hammer half cocked under his crumpled linen coat. He walked alongside Don Pedro, keeping the barrel of the gun aimed directly at the man’s midsection. They passed a long line of private carriages, and clusters of volantas for hire. Don Pedro walked with his head erect, looking straight ahead, his face guarded and secretive.
“It makes me sad, you know.”
“What makes you sad?” Townsend snapped back.
“Your betrayal,” Don Pedro replied. “I trusted you, Townsend. I saw great potential in you. I refused to believe Salazar when he said you were a spy. He said he suspected your whole crew was contaminated. I should have known he was right.”
Townsend said nothing. He looked over at Don Pedro’s sallow, pockmarked face which now had a deep crease between his eyebrows.
“I knew something strange was going on when you were spotted first at the cathedral and then buying lottery tickets,” the Spaniard continued. “I see you are surprised. Yes, I had several men following you. Even before you returned from Matamoros, I suspected something, but I must admit I never thought you might be spying for the Americans, not until Manuel came forward, and told me where the US acting consul general, Mr. Savage, was getting his intelligence from.”
Townsend was silent. He knew all too well what this meant. Townsend spotted Don Pedro’s postilion. He shoved the gun’s barrel into Don Pedro’s side as a reminder that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
“Tell your servant we are going to the docks. I will tell you where to stop when we get closer.”
The Spaniard’s face remained impassive, but the stiffness of his neck and his rigid jaw conveyed his sentiments.
“Al muelle,” Don Pedro said to the postilion who was standing next to the lead horse.
“Sí l’amo,” the man replied. “Vamos al muelle.”
Don Pedro looked smugly at Townsend as the postilion closed the door of the covered carriage. Townsend instructed Don Pedro to tell the driver to take the longer coastal route along the Calzada de San Lázaro. They were headed for the docks by the ferry landing where Townsend hoped he would find his crew on board the scow schooner. He calculated it would take them twenty minutes. Townsend could see the postilion crack his whip high in the air, and he fell back on his seat as the carriage suddenly lurched forward.
Townsend glared at Don Pedro. “Now tell me where you are holding Abbott and Javier Alfonso.”
Don Pedro, who was gazing out at groves of palm trees off to the left, paused for a few seconds before he answered.
“By now they should both be on board the ship.”
“What ship?”
“You surprise me, Townsend. The María Guadalupe, of course. I’m sure you’ve noticed the big ship in the harbor getting resupplied with coal and cargo. Well-guarded too, I might add. From Manuel’s description of your conversation with Mr. Savage, I gather you know quite a bit about this ship, and my dealings with our Southern clients. You see it was a relief to me that our hospitable Confederate friends were kind enough to offer us a safe house in one of their cabins on board. It has made it considerably easier for Salazar and Nolo to question these two abolitionist saboteurs, and naturally it offers a convenient method of disposal.”
“You son of a bitch!” Townsend cried out. “¡Hijo de puta!”
Don Pedro sneered at Townsend.
“I’m glad to see you are improving your Spanish, Townsend. In fact, let me just say that your accent has improved. You could be Cuban. But perhaps you are right, disposal is too crude a word. I’m sure there are better words to express myself, but as you can imagine, the Spanish authorities want this man Abbott to be dealt with in the most inconspicuous way. He escaped once, as you well know. The authorities don’t want to risk that ha
ppening again.”
Townsend gripped the pistol handle tighter, and lightly touched the metal trigger with his finger. He’d never killed a man before, but as he looked at Don Pedro he knew he was capable of it. He thought about how little this man had revealed about himself. He was like a sphinx, the near-constant smile, his studied silences and his leering glances. He was sickeningly adept at manipulating others. He was as malevolent as he was repugnant.
“Who are you? You and your two vile thugs. Why are you so involved with this case?”
“I am simply a patriotic Spaniard, siempre fiel, forever faithful, who wants to serve his country on the island of Cuba. Is that something difficult for you to understand, Captain Townsend? Faithfulness, and loyalty.”
“Enough of your bunkum, Don Pedro,” Townsend said as he shoved the gun’s barrel into the man’s stomach. “No more of your worthless bullshit. What have you done? Who are you working with?”
“I suppose it is fair to describe me as someone certain people call whenever sensitive issues must be tended to in a more discreet manner.” Don Pedro’s cat-like smile returned. “I deal with matters that others would rather not be associated with.”
“So you are some kind of enforcer, like those rancheadores in the country with their dogs, paid to run down runaway slaves. You do the dirty work even the police don’t want to do.”
“That’s a crude description. I would put it differently. I prefer to think of myself as a problem solver for the government and the planters. My unique skills have given me many useful connections in places of influence and power. Open doors, my friend. To do well in business you must not only have important friends in high places, but they must owe you favors.”
“Is that how you put my father in jail under false charges, all those years ago? You called your connections in high places to jail an innocent man?”
Don Pedro’s left eyebrow cocked upward.
“My, my,” exclaimed Don Pedro. “You are un gallo de pelea bravo, a feisty fighting rooster, aren’t you? I didn’t know how much you were aware of your family’s shared history with me. I suppose your grandmother has been confiding in you.”
“I know what you did, and I know why you did it,” Townsend growled. “You wanted to get rid of my father so you could take over Mon Bijou. My poor mother was just a means to an end, wasn’t she? You have lied to me from the beginning. Nothing that comes out of your mouth is the truth.”
Don Pedro tensed up, his voice now bristling with hostility. “You have learned some of the serpentine ways of doing business in Cuba, I see. I may have taught you more than I realized. Yes, it’s much easier to become rich by marrying into a fortune than by working for it. I thought Mon Bijou would be mine long ago. As I am sure your grandmother must have told you, I was engaged to be married to your mother. We were una pareja comprometida. Sadly fate went in another direction. Your mother ran away and eloped with your father, and with that went my chances to own the plantation. My dream of owning a sugar estate was lost, but then in a wonderful twist of fate so many years later you fell right into my hands. It was as if it was meant to be. I could hardly believe my good fortune.”
The familiar, ever-present smile now returned to Don Pedro’s face.
“When I learned from the captain general the name of the ship captain they were holding for further questioning, I was quite astonished. It was relatively easy to persuade him to release you. The authorities were concerned that Abbott might have accomplices. The captain general wanted you watched in case Abbott or any of his informants on the island tried to contact you. The police weren’t sure whether Abbott was dead or not.”
Don Pedro pursed his lips. “But I have to admit there were other more personal reasons I wanted you freed from prison.”
“Which were?”
“For one thing, I knew your grandmother would be forever grateful to me. She would be in my debt. I also realized you would be useful to me as a ship captain. You could make me some money. But do you know what my biggest incentive was?”
The Spaniard paused, his mouth contorting into a twisted grin. “My biggest reason was revenge. I wanted to have you in my power. Your mother hurt me terribly, you see, and I have not forgotten that embarrassment. Fate, it seems, intended for the two of us to be intertwined, at least for a short while. So for all these months I have entertained our business partnership. I must say it has been profitable having you work for me, but now our arrangement must come to an end. You might as well put the gun down, Captain. It’s useless.”
Townsend stared long and hard at Don Pedro. “Why do you say that?”
“Because if you shoot me, the sound of the gun will bring police.”
“Why should I care? You want me dead whatever happens. I might as well take you with me. If I kill you first, you won’t have the satisfaction of knowing what happened to me.”
A brooding silence hung over the two men like a dead calm settling in over a sailboat. The windows were open and the hot, dust-laden air filled Townsend’s lungs. The heat was making his hands sweat, and he could feel his wet palm slip over the pistol’s grip. Don Pedro’s arrogance only served to stiffen his resolve.
“When does the ship leave harbor?”
“Quite soon. Just after dusk I believe. As you know from experience, that’s the best time to avoid the Union blockaders. They’re loading the last of the cargo now. The new crewmembers are already on board, all loyal Confederates. Soon that steamer will leave the harbor and disappear. The Captain of the Port has been instructed to record nothing about this ship. The arrival and the departure of the María Guadalupe from Havana Bay will be an illusion, a shadow, nothing but a dream.”
Don Pedro cocked his head to one side to get a better look at Townsend’s face. “If you are thinking of trying something foolish, my friend, I would advise you to forget about Mr. Abbott and the English slave, and worry about your own safety. You do realize there is no way for you or your men to escape from this island. The harbor police, the Guardia Civil. They’re all looking for you and your men now.”
They were on the north shore road, clattering along the boulevard that looked out at the blue-green Gulf Stream. He was trying to decide what his next move would be.
“Tell your man to take us to the landing just beyond the ferry docks at the Muelle de Luz. We have another ten minutes before we arrive. Why don’t you tell me about your involvement with the murder of George Backhouse? Did you kill him?”
Don Pedro smirked and then laughed.
“What makes you think I had anything to do with the Backhouse murder?”
“If not you, who was it then? Was it slave traders? Zulueta? He certainly had a motive, revenge against the English for forcing the Spanish authorities here to put him in jail.”
Don Pedro glowered at Townsend, but said nothing. Townsend pressed on like a prosecutor summarizing his case.
“Or was it your good friend, the fishmonger-slaver, Pancho Marty? He also had motive, didn’t he? He was angered by Backhouse’s interference in his slaving ventures and his investigation of the emancipados? Perhaps it was Don Eugenio Hernández, your patron? Or should I call him your father, as I hear you are his bastard son. Maybe he was worried that Backhouse would try to free his English slaves? Which one of your business associates was it? Perhaps it was all of them. A grand conspiracy by the shareholders of La Compañía.”
“You are quite the Grand Inquisitor and prosecutor aren’t you, Townsend,” Don Pedro sneered. “I see you have formed some strong opinions. That is quite an indictment of the island of Cuba, and an insult to the highly respected individuals you just mentioned—not to mention an affront to me personally.”
“Which one was it, Don Pedro? No matter who it was, the trail leads back to you. That much I am sure of.”
The Spaniard paused to look out the window as the carriage glided by the massive walls of La Punta fo
rtress and entered the old city gates.
“Even if I did know something, I have nothing to gain in telling you, Townsend. You’re not even English. What do you care about Backhouse, that gusano sinvergüenza, meddling, shameless worm that he was. George Backhouse has been forgotten by his own government and his countrymen. He is nothing anymore. I repeat. He is nothing. His death is ancient history, one of Havana’s many unsolved murders. So I ask, why are you so curious?”
Townsend ignored Don Pedro’s question. “Was it his journal? Is that what Abbott took from Don Eugenio’s library?”
“How perceptive of you, Townsend. You have good instincts. Yes, the book the Englishman took from Don Eugenio was indeed the journal. After it was taken from the Backhouse residence that night eight years ago, it was put in Don Eugenio’s library by me for safekeeping. I gave it to him as a gift, un obsequio, a kind of trophy. And now that you have guessed the importance of the journal, I suppose I might as well tell you the rest as you’ll never leave this island alive. It’s a wonderful story filled with irony. You see, Backhouse’s own notes in his journal helped gain the freedom of his murderers.”
Townsend stared at the Spaniard with a puzzled look.
“Let me explain,” Don Pedro replied, his face now revealing a certain pride and satisfaction. “Backhouse’s journal contained the names of plantations and planters who were holding freed slaves. Also some of the English-speaking slaves, many of whom had been kidnapped. Some of the owners were the wealthiest patriarchs on the island. Not only that, but he had compiled a complete record of the level of corruption from the captain general down. This was quite a complete record, local officials, mayors of all the coastal towns, priests, Spanish navy captains, governors of the various provinces, all paid to look the other way. All of this would have been very embarrassing to Spain as well as to some very important and wealthy people here.”
