Let us now return to the desperate effort at hand—finding and extricating my wife from Cuba. Leaving several messages at taverns for him within hours of our arrival in Havana, Rork got word Flaco was still alive and would meet me that very night. The rendezvous was held in an alley off Desamparados Street, in the seedier part of the waterfront. Rork stood a few feet away, guarding against interruptions, his shotgun casually pointed toward Flaco.
I kept my request simple and vague. “An elegant Spanish woman named Maria Maura is visiting the city. Find out where she is staying and let me know. Tell her name to no one, and do no harm to her. Understand?”
Flaco studied me a moment, then Rork. He nodded. “Yes, yes, I no tell name to nobody. Woman no hurt.” He gestured at me with a filthy hand. “When you need?”
“Tomorrow night.”
He spit, as if the time period was impossible. Then, his ghoulish eyes never leaving mine, he rubbed his forefinger and thumb. “How much you pay?”
“Twenty Morgan dollars.”
His head shook dismissively. “Forty.”
“Flaco, they’re pure silver. You’ll get twenty.”
“I must pay other man. Need thirty.”
“Twenty-two. I have no more.”
“Need twenty-four. No less.”
“Too much, Flaco, but I will agree, this one time. Half now, half after.”
He shrugged. “Yes.”
Rork sauntered over and laid his left arm on Flaco’s shoulder, the uncovered spike inches from his face, the shotgun’s muzzle near his groin. “An’ no talkin’ to police, Flaco. Comprende, muy bien?”
The old man was used to worse threats and didn’t even flinch. In fact, he seemed unimpressed. “I understand you words. No meet here manana. Danger here—Spanish policía. Meet . . . mediodía . . . at Figueras. At . . . extremo del canal.”
The time would be at noon. I knew the location. It was an alley in the slum quarters which led to the end of a drainage canal, near the gas works. The area was full of derelicts and criminals of all descriptions. Flaco’s peers. A dangerous place for even the police.
I had no choice and agreed. I gave him twelve silver dollars, half of which disappeared into his left shoe and the other half into a trouser pocket. The three of us walked out to the street. Flaco turned left and headed for the nice part of the waterfront. We went to the right, back to our lair in the slums.
23
Big Trouble for Woman
Havana, Cuba
Saturday
29 January 1898
The next day Rork and I set up a watch over the alley an hour ahead of time. We paid a ragged little boy twenty centimos to warn us with a whistle if he saw any official-looking strangers from outside the neighborhood coming near. Flaco arrived early, stumbling his way down to the end of the canal and along the steep bank. He sat down on a crate in the shade of a bush and within seconds he was apparently asleep, just another drunk passed out. After fifteen minutes of observing him, we entered the alley, which stank from the contents of the canal.
Flaco’s performance ended as we approached. He stirred, one hand sliding into his pocket, and looked coldly up at us. Rork seized the wrist of Flaco’s hand, then swung his false left forearm around and put that wicked spike right between Flaco’s eyes. I studied the periphery for signs of a trap. None were visible.
“Slowly, Flaco. Pull your hand out o’ that pocket. Very slowly,” Rork demanded.
“No danger. No problem,” Flaco said with an evil smirk, as if he got pleasure from making Rork tense. To show his disdain, he calmly pulled out a cigar and stuck it unlit in his mouth. Rork backed the spike away, but kept it within striking distance.
“What do you have for me, Flaco?” I asked.
“Friend tell me woman lives at convento de monjas—no understand English word for this. Convento near church of San Francisco. Manana, she go with priest son to desayuno with norteamericano sailor mans at Havana boat club at Marianao.” He held up nine fingers. “Nueve morning time. Big show for norteamericano sailor chief. Spanish, Cubanos, norteamericanos—all friends at desayuno. Talk about peace. Yanqui sailor chief go in little boat to club.”
From Flaco’s fractured English-Spanish, I deduced Maria was staying at the nunnery near Francisco’s church, and would go with him to a special breakfast the next morning for Sigsbee and his officers at the Havana Yacht Club. Evidently, Sigsbee and his officers were headed there by ship’s launch and it was a goodwill event. Why Maria? Why her son, Father Francisco?
Flaco wasn’t done, though. “Day before I ask about woman, other man ask friend about same woman.”
“Who?” I asked quickly, worried about the answer.
He didn’t tell me. Instead, sensing my anxiety, the scoundrel said, “Money no for that. Money for find woman. Ten mas Morgans for this.”
Rork hissed an oath, ready to impale the man, but I stopped him with a glance.
“No, Flaco. Five more Morgans—after I meet the woman.”
Flaco nodded his agreement. “You pay after. I trust you. My friend say Orden Publico man ask about woman.” He shook a finger for emphasis. “Orden Publico man no have uniform. Investigador especial man. Big trouble for woman.”
It was the worst news possible. Colonel Marrón was targeting my wife.
24
Love in a Linen Closet
Havana Yacht Club
Marianao suburb
West of Havana, Cuba
Sunday morning
30 January 1898
To enter the Havana Yacht Club through the front doors, one had to be a member or an invitation-bearing guest. I was neither. Courtesy of sordid information gained from Flaco—for another five Morgans—I was a successful trespasser through the back door. Such a feat came by way of extortion, which was exacted by me upon the club gardener, who had a long-term secret love life with the assistant sous-chef de cuisine in the kitchen. Both men desired to keep their affections private and their jobs secure. Havana, after all, is not Paris.
Doors were left unlocked and the word spread among the butler staff that I was a guest who had lost his invitation. A moment later I was portraying myself as a Canadian journalist named Melville Brinson, who had fled a Toronto blizzard two weeks earlier for sunnier climes and a story on Cuban-American friendship in the midst of the Island’s vicious civil war.
None of the staff stopped me or even cast a wondering look. Once inside, I was above their strata and beyond their reproach. Rork remained outside, keeping watch on the gardener to ensure devotion to our bargain.
At nine o’clock the naval party arrived. Its conveyance had not been the Maine’s steam launch, but rather a small private steam yacht owned by a successful Cuban businessman. The group was led by none other than the chief U.S. diplomatic representative to Spanish Cuba, Consul-General Fitzhugh Lee.
Sixty-three-year-old Lee was quite well-known due to a busy life and legendary name. A graduate of West Point in 1856, he was wounded badly while fighting the Comanche under his uncle, Robert E. Lee, then served as cavalry instructor at the academy. He resigned to become a Confederate cavalry officer and rose to the rare rank of major general. Postbellum, Lee echoed his famous uncle in calling for reconciliation. He became a successful Democratic politician, governor of Virginia, confidant of President Cleveland and, in 1896, was appointed by the president to his present post. Fitzhugh Lee was a unique man and a force to be reckoned with.
The naval officers and diplomats were met by various liberal members of the Cuban elite, six American reporters from New York and Chicago, the Chinese consul, a London Times correspondent, and me. Maria, her son, and any Spanish authorities, were conspicuously absent. My worry mounted.
In Washington, I had met Sigsbee several times and Lee twice. But with my two-week shaggy goatee, unkempt long hair, and clear-glass spectacles, as well as my comparatively
shabby suit, hastily unpacked from the sea bag, I presented a far different persona and thus passed unrecognized by them. As added insurance, I stayed at the rear of the crowd and sprinkled my sentences with Canadian-sounding dialect.
As the others fawned over Sigsbee, I asked the Brit correspondent, “Where are the Spanish government people?”
“They’ve already had their grand affair for the captain at the palace in Havana. I thought they did it up rather nicely. Lee set this one up for Captain Sigsbee to meet the other side of the equation: influential Cuban businessmen, along with some pro-independence Spaniards. I do believe there will be a priest and a lady, who are both Spanish as well.”
Maria was pro-independence, but was her son? Not from what I knew of him. The Church supported the Spanish government’s policy of denying independence. That was either a mistaken impression on the Brit’s part, or a duplicitous ploy on Father Francisco’s part.
“Really?” I replied. “They must be running late. We’re about to sit down.”
“Ah, well, it is Cuba, after all . . .” said the correspondent, with a shrug.
I heard a commotion at the foyer. The Brit looked at the doorway and sighed. “My goodness, what a lovely lady . . .”
There she was, elegant in a yellow silk dress trimmed in white. All eyes turned her way. Maria’s son was taller than I had thought. He had a gentle smile, and began shaking hands, introducing his mother in English—by her previous married name of Maura.
They entered the dining salon and made their way down the line of gentlemen toward me, stopping at each one for polite conversation. I ducked out the side door and waited until Maria was separated from her son, then asked a waiter to deliver a one-line note to her.
Meet me in the side hallway—the man from Patricio
Her face was clouded by confusion and anger when she rounded the corner into the hallway. As she walked by, I leaned out from a storage closet and pulled her inside, closing the door. A small window provided barely enough light to see as I led her to the back, behind some linen shelves.
Maria still wore the same expression as I kissed her and said, “Shssssh . . . Darling, please don’t say a word. Listen to me first, please.”
Her face hardened and I thought for a moment she was about to slap me, but instead, she waited for me to speak.
“Thank you, my love. I am working inside Cuba, obviously, and people here think I’m a Canadian reporter. It won’t be much longer and then I can come home. I have learned Marrón’s men know you are here and have been targeting you for two days. They probably followed you here and are watching this place now. You must trust no one, not even your sons. I beg you to leave Havana immediately, on the next steamer to Key West. Get out of Cuba, Maria. This isn’t a game. You know what Marrón can and will do, especially here where he has no restraints. I will meet you at home soon. Do you understand?”
“May I have permission to speak now? Or am I a prisoner of the U.S. Navy, or whomever you work for right now?”
“Maria, you are not a prisoner. I had to get you alone.”
She interrupted. “You lied to me about your work, Peter. This is no evaluation of the situation. You are spying inside Cuba, using deceit to fool the one person who loves you dearly. And now, just look at you. I thought you were some sort of sleazy salesman, or worse. Somebody told me the disheveled man was a Canadian journalist. How ridiculous.”
“Maria.”
“I have not finished! Unlike you, I am here openly, with my son, who is a respected and honorable man of God. We came here because I have convinced him freedom for Cuba is both a decent Christian, and a decent Spanish, duty. We are here to show not all Spaniards are the monsters depicted in the Hearst and Pulitzer newspapers.”
“Have you spoken with Juanito, also?”
“Yes, and both my sons have pledged their love for me. They appreciate their mother making the journey to see them, and we have enjoyed our reunion. I will go back to North America when I want to, Peter.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Have Juanito and Francisco changed their minds about our marriage?”
“No, they have not, at all. In fact, Francisco said he could arrange an annulment, so I could return to the Church.” She paused and my heart stopped. “But I promised my love to you and reminded them I would stay true to my husband. However, I have gotten Francisco to see my view on Cuban freedom. Juanito is still against independence.”
Honorable man of God he might be, but I completely distrusted Francisco’s abrupt political conversion. Given the circumstances, I kept my opinion to myself.
“Maria, I’m overjoyed you have had such a wonderful reunion with your sons. But Marrón is a monster. He knows we are married. You will disappear off the street when it suits him. Remember our wedding night in Key West, when they tried to kidnap Mario?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“You will be used for his purposes, most likely blackmail or ransom. Your family’s old connections in Madrid, your son’s church, and the United States of America won’t be able to prevent him. Marrón has the senior government authorities in Cuba under his thumb, and his cronies in Madrid who run the army do what they want. For the five years we’ve been married, we’ve discussed this. And now, the situation in Cuba is worse than ever and damned explosive. Marrón will stop at nothing to keep his position of power. He is fighting for his demented life.”
She stepped back, tilting her head back defiantly. “Yes, Marrón is a monster and capable of anything. But he would not dare to hurt me or my sons. My affiliations in Spain are strong enough to prevent that.”
“Your family and friends won’t even know he has you, Maria. You will disappear, your body dumped in a hole. There is no good ending to this. That’s how he works.”
I was angry now and could no longer keep it out of my tone. “Look, there is no time to waste with pointless discussions—this is life and death. You won’t help your sons or me by getting killed. Listen carefully . . . when you return to the convent after this event, get to the passenger office at the Plant Line steamer dock and get a ticket for tomorrow’s passage to Key West and Tampa. Do not tell anyone what you’re doing. Your life and our future depends on it.”
Maria’s defiance was visibly wilting. She knew I was right, but she still shook her head angrily. “I will not lie to my son, Peter.”
“There’s no need to lie to anyone, just don’t tell them. Write them a letter from Key West. Your sons would never hurt or betray you—intentionally. Unintentionally, however, by conversation or behavior, they will allow others to surmise your departure. Then Marrón will strike. You must tell no one.”
She closed her eyes and took a breath, a sad surrender of a proud lady. “Very well, Peter. I will do as you say. Is Sean here also?”
“Yes, Rork’s outside right now. When you return to the gathering, treat me like a stranger. I am a Canadian reporter, Melville Brinson, from Toronto. No prolonged eye contact, no touching, no whispers.”
“How long will you stay like this inside Cuba?”
“Maybe another week. I want us both to get home, dear, where we will be safe.” I held her tightly. “I love you, Maria.”
“You are making me cry, Peter. I know you love me. I have always known, even before you did. Now I must go to the ladies’ necessary room, to repair my appearance. I must not look tearful at such a happy event.”
Maria straightened her dress and ran a hand through her hair. When she next spoke, it was with confidence, spiced with a dash of dry wit. “Now, Mr. Brinson, is it not? Please be kind enough to tell your acquaintance Peter Wake his wife loves and misses him intensely. She will arrange quite a romantic reunion when he returns home from his journey in the tropics.”
I opened the door and made sure no one was in the hallway. As we emerged, I told her, “I will make sure he understands your sentiments and invita
tion, ma’am. I can assure you he’s dreaming of nothing but that moment. I regret to say I must part company now. I am here to interview this American naval captain named Sigsbee for my Canadian readers, eh?”
Maria headed for the ladies’ room. I went back to the breakfast. Sigsbee glanced up at my entry and smiled politely at me, clearly oblivious that in a few minutes he would be giving a Canadian in Cuba a confidential coded message from the Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Navy.
25
Rooseveltian Humor
Havana Yacht Club
Marianao suburb
West of Havana, Cuba
Sunday morning
30 January 1898
After toasts and speeches, the affair ended with applause. It was time to make my move. Sigsbee headed to the door, surrounded by his Cuban admirers, politely trying to disengage from them so he could board the carriage for the train taking the naval officers back to Havana.
According to the contingency plan Roosevelt and I had hatched in my office in Washington, if things got bad and I had to make contact with an American warship commander visiting Havana, I was to utter a phrase to him which would signify I was not whom I appeared to be but, in fact, a brother officer. Likewise, ship captains likely to be sent to Havana were alerted to recognize the phrase’s speaker was in actuality Captain Peter Wake, U.S.N. They were then to give me Roosevelt’s message and to receive my own, to be sent onward to Roosevelt.
I came alongside Sigsbee as we headed for the door, nudging him with my shoulder.
“Say, have you had an opportunity to see the famous Cuban boa constrictor on your visit, Captain Sigsbee?” I asked, using the phrase which was yet another example of Rooseveltian humor. When telling me the phrase, Theodore also asked me to get him a specimen for his collection, “preferably embalmed in an action pose,” as long as I “happened to be down there in Cuba.”
An Honorable War Page 12
