Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  Townsend brought the telescope to his eye and trained it on the Gaviota’s decks. The light from the intense flames lit up the ship’s decks like a lighthouse tower. Part of him grieved for his old ship, but another part of him wanted the schooner to burn. He saw four men rush out of the main cabin house, which had now caught fire, and hurl themselves into the water. Again he thought he saw the familiar silhouette of Salazar. Soon the burning hull of the Gaviota was locked together in a fiery dance of flames with three other ships. “Heigh-ho,” Townsend whispered quietly to himself. It was hard for him to fathom the reality of the chaos he and Hendricks had caused, an inferno of burning cotton and wood in the middle of Havana harbor.

  The Bahamian sailor didn’t say anything through all of this. By the time they reached the others aboard the Vírgen Gorda, there was mass confusion throughout the harbor. The fires had spread to even more wooden ships. Sailors all around the harbor were ringing fire bells and blowing their ships’ whistles. Spanish naval ships from all over the bay were rushing over to try to put out the fires and rescue dozens of sailors who had jumped into the water. Townsend and Hendricks clambered aboard the schooner, and set the empty harbor boat adrift into the darkness. They waited there in the safety of the shoals for several hours, watching the drama unfold. At the first sign of the mauve sky of early dawn, Townsend gave the signal to begin rowing.

  “Head for the channel,” Townsend whispered in a hoarse voice. “Stay close to the eastern shore. We want to be the first vessel out of the harbor.”

  Slowly and quietly the men rowed the scow schooner along the shoreline, passing through the anchored ships off Casa Blanca and then rowing close to the looming walls of the Cabaña fortress. They rowed for what seemed like an eternity to get out of the harbor entrance, and then Townsend looked up to the sheer, gloomy black walls of El Morro castle. They were so close they could smell the cooking from the fortress’s kitchen. There was an appetizing aroma of fried fish and garlic that caused Look-Out to cry out with a loud meow.

  Suddenly a voice cried out.

  “¿Quién vive?”

  Townsend froze as he felt a wave of panic sweep over him. It was the sentry guard calling out who goes there. He must have heard the cat. Without thinking, Townsend cried out that he was Ortiz, the fisherman, and he had brought along his cat for good luck. He spoke quickly, blurring his words together, trying to sound like a Cuban.

  “¿A dónde se dirige?”

  The guard wanted to know where he was going.

  “A Cayo de Sal a pescar.” Townsend replied that he was headed for the Salt Cay Banks to fish.

  “Tenga cuidado. Be careful,” the guard said. “There are Yankee spies in the harbor committing sabotage. They may be lurking outside the harbor as well. Have you seen any sign of them?”

  “Ni uno.”

  Not a one, Townsend replied, and the guard wished him a safe journey. Townsend pulled his palm leaf hat farther over his face and let out a shuddering sigh. It had been a close call. They were lucky the guard let them leave before dawn. Somehow the sentry didn’t detect that he was a foreigner. Six months in Cuba had left its mark. Townsend marveled that he could now imitate the way a Cuban fisherman talked.

  As the schooner pulled out of the protective harbor, they raised their sails and headed out into the choppy Gulf waters. Soon they were sailing on a northeasterly course, allowing the Gulf Stream to propel them forward. At the first sight of sunrise, they heard the distant thunder of cannons from El Morro behind them, signaling that the harbor was now officially open.

  Later that morning, Townsend went into the cabin house and found Emma sitting on one of the bunks with her carpet bag open and a pen in her hand. She was clearly about to write something down on paper. He looked at her with an enquiring expression and she explained she was writing a letter.

  “A letter to whom?” he asked. It would still be another ten hours before they arrived in Key West. The scow schooner was incredibly slow.

  “To Grace Backhouse,” she replied. “I can’t stop thinking of her. I thought I should write because I’m sure she will remember me.”

  “Oh,” he replied in surprise. “How difficult. Yes, you should write the letter. What are you going to say?”

  “I know what to write about Michael Abbott and Javier Alfonso,” she said with a determined look. “I will try to be as faithful and true to the facts as I can, but what should I write about her husband? We don’t have the journal. It will most likely never be found again. Whatever Abbott had uncovered will never be known. What can I write that might console her?”

  She looked up at him helplessly. Much to his own surprise, Townsend found himself speaking with a certain clarity, summoning an inner voice he didn’t know he had. It was as if he was speaking for Michael Abbott, the words spilling forth as naturally and unexpectedly as water gushing out from a freshly dug well.

  “Tell her she was right. Those responsible were in the slave trade, just as she’d heard. It was a conspiracy of powerful Spanish slave traders acting in collusion with some of the island’s most wealthy sugar barons, all leading citizens on the island. Those who ordered the attack on her husband most likely are tied to the Spanish slave-trading syndicate called La Compañía.”

  Townsend paused to let Emma write all this down.

  “Tell her, she should know her husband documented some inconvenient facts on the island of Cuba. Compromising information that neither the Spanish nor the English wanted revealed. It was decided by both governments that it would be better to stop any investigation of the murder. Tell her there is little information to offer her solace, except for the fact that many of those in Cuba who want to end slavery still remember her husband as a principled man, whom they hold in great respect. To them, he is not a forgotten soldier in Britain’s fight to end the slave trade.”

  “There’s a steamer coming toward us, Captain,” Higgins called out. “Could be a gunship. She’s steaming southwest by west.”

  Townsend quickly went out on deck and looked through the telescope. He could see the thread of black smoke on the far distant horizon to the north. He thought he could just barely make out the Marquesas buoy. He looked up at the masthead where the Stars and Stripes ensign was now fluttering. His eyes lingered there as he absorbed the fact that once again he was sailing under the American flag. He was already thinking about what to write his father. He had much to tell him. He hoped he could make amends.

  Townsend turned to walk back to the scow’s stern rail, scanning the horizon in the direction of Cuba. Earlier he thought he could still make out a faint line of shadowy mountains, but now he couldn’t see anything except the whitecaps and bright blue sea of the Gulf Stream. The island had disappeared. He thought of his grandmother, her anguish and her loneliness. He knew he might write her, but he doubted they would ever see each other again. Their lives might be linked, but they would remain separate. Townsend looked down at the water. He thought he could see the faint outline of coral heads. Shallow water ahead. He gave a quick nod to Hendricks, but the Bahamian had already seen the shoal ahead and taken the precaution of raising the centerboard.

  Townsend stood there gazing at the greenish-blue water as he thought about the cruelty of fate. Saving Abbott from the sharks that night now seemed like another lifetime. Yet it was only six months ago. It was like an illusion, some part of a shadowy dream. He and Emma had been so hopeful. It was as if Abbott had a guardian angel. Twice the Englishman had cheated death and had sidestepped a violent end. Yet despite these moments of hope, the end result had been the same. In hindsight, it all seemed so pointless.

  A strand of brown, curly hair suddenly brushed against his cheek, and he smelled the familiar sweet scent of lavender behind him.

  “How many more hours?” Emma asked.

  “Not too long,” Townsend replied with a smile. “Should make Key West by nightfall, maybe sooner if that
Navy ship steaming our way gives us an escort.”

  A warm hand with gentle fingertips touched his, and he responded by loosely pressing his fingers over hers.

  “What will you do in Key West?” she asked.

  “Try to join the Navy in some capacity, I suppose. Savage’s letter might help. This war shows no signs of ending so maybe the Navy will have some use for me. We shall see. And you?”

  “My sister, Elizabeth, will be glad to see me. She knew I wanted to do some illustrations of the blockading ships stationed at Key West. She will be expecting me. Just not quite this soon.”

  “And your mother? Will she be all right?”

  “I’m going to write her as soon as we get to Key West. Tell her to come and visit. Close the boarding house for a short while.”

  At that moment, Townsend spotted a pod of dolphins off the ship’s bow, leaping and surfing and then darting ahead of the scow schooner as if they were showing them the way. Townsend allowed himself to feel like one of them. He thought of that quotation from Emerson. “Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air’s salubrity.”

  Emma whispered in his ear. “You know I have spent a lot of time over these past months trying to decipher who Everett Townsend is, the real one, I mean.”

  Townsend turned to look at her. “And what did you find out?”

  “It’s been difficult. Finding the real one, I mean. Everett Townsend is an elusive character.”

  “I see. Somewhat of a sphinx, is he? That does sound challenging. I suppose you will give him a tepid review?”

  “No, not really. It turns out he has some truly positive attributes. I believe I understand who he is now. He’s like the bottom of a ship. Quite the mystery. You have to scrape the wood to find out the condition of the hull. Fortunately for him, underneath all the sea moss and barnacles, the original planking seems in good shape. Just needs a fresh coat of paint.”

  Townsend looked over at her with a beaming smile. He felt her fingers press more tightly over his. The two of them stood side by side, gazing to the south toward the island they’d left behind.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my wife Tamara for her tolerance in listening to my daily musings and mutterings. She was always willing to patiently listen, and to read the first rough drafts, chapter by chapter. As any author can attest, early feedback from a discerning reader is perhaps the most important help you can receive. Special thanks are due to my editor, Alexandra Shelley, who from the beginning of this project kept me on the right compass course with her constructive criticism. Her early advice to keep the story focused on Havana proved to be wise. When it came time to clear out the brush and deadwood, I want to thank Julie Miesionczek for her well-honed editorial skills.

  On the research end, I have many people to thank. I’ll start with Tom Hambright, the senior librarian at the Monroe County Public Library in Key West. He introduced me to some unpublished journals from that time period as well as the published naval records from the Civil War. On matters related to the US Navy, I would like to thank James Cheevers, the senior curator at the US Naval Academy Museum, and the Civil War naval historian and author, Robert M. Browning Jr.

  Regarding Cuban history, I would like to express special gratitude to Dr. Luis Martínez-Fernández, a Latin American historian and author specializing in nineteenth-century Cuba at the University of Central Florida. He helped me with many of the details about the Backhouse murder, and kindly read parts of the manuscript, offering valuable historical insight. I would also like to thank historian and author Dr. Louis A. Pérez Jr. at the University of North Carolina, and Sylvia Crane, a family friend, who sparked my imagination with her story she had heard from her grandmother in Cuba about an ancestor’s escape from El Morro prison.

  On the maritime side of things, I want to extend my utmost appreciation to Captain Ray Williamson, who owns three traditional wooden schooners in Maine, all part of the state’s historic windjammer fleet. He was kind enough to take me out sailing for several days on the Grace Bailey, a restored cargo schooner originally built in 1882 which now carries tourists instead of lumber. For information about the Dry Tortugas, Kelly Clark of the National Park there helped me with historic details about Fort Jefferson. She also provided old sea charts of the Dry Tortugas. Don and Cheryl Barr, the authors of Yacht Pilot’s Cruising Guide To Cuba, offered their expertise on the Gulf Stream. Veteran Caribbean navigator and maritime expert Donald M. Street Jr. kindly read one of the final drafts of the manuscript with his nuanced eye for nautical detail and history. Susan Fels, the author of Before the Wind: The Memoir of an American Sea Captain was also extremely generous with her time, offering informed suggestions and welcome editorial polishing. Finally I would like to thank Gail Lelyveld, who spent many days in the Manuscript Room of the Library of Congress gathering documents on my behalf, Elizabeth Brake at Duke University who helped with access to Grace Backhouse’s letters, and Stacey Warner of Warner Graphics who worked on the presentation of the various images. Also thanks to Luis Carrasco and Debbie Davidson who helped clean up my untidy use of French and Spanish.

  Author’s Note

  The seeds for this novel started with my desire to write about the role of sailing ships during the American Civil War. A little known fact is that during the early years of the Civil War, a large portion of the blockade running in the Gulf of Mexico was carried out by shallow-draft sailing schooners that could navigate the treacherous rivers, bayous, and inlets that define the coast there. An inspiration for me was the entertaining memoir by the Scottish blockade runner, William Watson. Watson wrote about his adventures as the captain of a schooner running through the Federal blockade fleet into various ports in the Gulf of Mexico. His book, The Civil War Adventures of a Blockade Runner, is an excellent firsthand look at the men who ran the Union blockade under sail, their passages through the blockade sometimes under cannon fire, and the business syndicates that were behind them.

  An important primary historical source for me were the official records of the US Navy’s Gulf Blockading Squadrons, which contain hundreds of pages of highly descriptive dispatches written by all the Navy’s captains from the beginning to the end of the Civil War. I soon realized in doing my Civil War–era research that my story was largely going to be set in Havana, the supply depot for blockade-running ships in the Gulf of Mexico. As a former Latin American correspondent for NBC News, I knew Havana fairly well. I had traveled to Cuba on assignment on many occasions in the 1980s and early 90s to report on political developments there. I had gone to many parts of the island, usually under the watchful eye of government agents, but occasionally I could slip away unnoticed from the government minders. As a result, I got to know some of the historic areas of Old Havana relatively well. But all these years later as I did my research for this book, I quickly realized my familiarity with contemporary Havana was not going to help me too much. Today’s Havana is a far cry from the city as it was in the nineteenth century.

  The city in 1863 was flush with wealth and opulence from the export of sugar. It was still defined by the trappings, customs, and architecture of old Spain, but the island’s elite had lofty ambitions for Havana to be known as the Paris of the tropics. This was the era when steamships and square-riggers were anchored side by side. Havana was a bustling harbor with plenty of swagger, filled with vessels of all kinds. It was a crucial shipping crossroads, and as a result, it became a strategic diplomatic watchtower for England, France, and Spain. Extremely helpful in providing details about Havana at that time was a little known traveler’s handbook to Havana published immediately after the Civil War entitled The Stranger in the Tropics, by C. D. Tyng. Details on commercial operations and protocol in Havana Bay came from a document published in 1858 by Charles Tyng & Company, commission merchants and underwriters in Havana.

  My visualization of the city was inspired by studyin
g the old maps of Havana and reading many published and unpublished journals from visitors to Cuba during the mid-nineteenth century. These journals were not only descriptive, but in one case helped me develop an important strand of the plot. A traveler’s journal written in 1861 by a Mrs. William Nye Davis from Boston described visiting a sugar plantation in Matanzas where she found that strangely all the slaves spoke English. Like her, I wondered how that was possible. The answer is shrouded in mystery, but certainly there are numerous accounts of English-speaking Negroes taken to Cuba by force from the Bahamas and Jamaica after the slaves were freed from those islands in 1834. Once in Cuba, they were enslaved, their identities frequently changed by Cuban plantation owners, and their life stories forever lost.

  From my research, it became clear how important a political and economic role the various consuls general played in Cuba. There was still no underwater telegraph to Cuba, so all correspondence to and from the island was by letter. To get a firsthand sense of the concerns of the Federal government, I read all the original handwritten letters of the acting US consul general in Havana, Thomas Savage, which are in the Library of Congress. Savage was diligent in reporting a list of blockade runners, and frequently specified what ships were in port. These details allowed me to describe known blockade runners such as the Alice and the Cuba. His letters mention specifics about how much he paid an undercover informant on a Confederate ship. He also reported the fascinating detail that Cuban slaves could be heard in the streets of Havana chanting pro-Lincoln slogans.