Honor Bound

by Robert N. Macomber

  “Did you see a boy with them? Ship’s boy?”

  “Never saw any of the crew.”

  “Did the businessmen say where they were heading from here?”

  “They talked about heading south from here. But not all of them. Three were returning home to New York on the next steamer out of Nassau. Had enough of the tropics, they said. The heat down here was getting to them. Only one of them was heading off with the schooner, to the south. Had a bit of a row about it among them. The three were angry their friend wasn’t joining them and going home. Said he was being a foolish old man, off on a wild goose chase. Called him ‘childish,’ as I recollect. That got his dander up.”

  “Where was this lone fellow headed?”

  “Mayaguana, maybe. No, it was Great Iguana. Or was it Exuma? Oh hell, Peter, I’m not really sure, except it was south of here.” He shook his head. “Someplace with treasure.”

  “Treasure?”

  “Well, rumors of treasure.”

  “Anything strange about them?”

  “No, they were like any other tourists. Except for the time of year. We don’t get tourists in May.”

  “Did they describe their main reason for being in the Bahamas?”

  “Fishing and treasure hunting. They hadn’t found much of the former and none of the latter. Put away a fair amount of spirits that day. Enjoyed the rum and even paid for mine, too. I told them about some of the legends I’ve heard about pirate gold. The man heading south was very interested in those. Oh, I wish I had a greenback for every Yankee that came down here for pirate gold.”

  “Do you know Captain Kingston?”

  “Vaguely. Comes into port maybe three times a year with cargo. Uncommon name for his vessel—Condor. Big bird from South America, I think.”

  “Is he shady?”

  “Not that I know of, but he could be. A lot of the skippers carry stuff on the side, as you know.”

  Yes, I did. Sometimes they did it for Mason and me.

  “Are there any Frenchmen around here, Robert? A Frenchman was in Morgan’s Bluff a couple of weeks ago, asking about Condor. Came from Nassau on the mail boat. Sophisticated, moneyed kind of man. Middle-aged. Pierre somebody. He was asking the locals about the passengers aboard Condor.”

  “Well, yes, there is one fellow in town from France. Paris, I believe. I met him at one of the governor’s social affairs. Don’t remember the name. Slick sort of Frenchy, very polished, upper class. Arrived not long ago—early July—on the packet steamer from London. Has enough money to get immediately known to the society crowd here and invited to the various parties. Of course, there aren’t many in the summer. In fact, I think he’s still around. Not sure where, though. Might be here at the Victoria, actually.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  Mason paused, thinking. “I imagine he’ll be at the Emancipation Day parade tomorrow afternoon, and at the celebration ball tomorrow night at Government House. It’s a full day, and evening, of social events.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Yes. I always go.” He shrugged. “It’s expected.”

  “Can you get me invited to the events the Frenchman will be at?”

  “As a U.S. naval officer? Yes. As Delilah’s schooner captain? No. Schooner skippers don’t frequent those circles.”

  I didn’t have a uniform aboard, but I did bring a suit. A plain suit, but it would have to do. “It’ll have to be something else, Robert. I don’t have a uniform with me and I’m not here in an official capacity. Besides, something tells me it’s better if the Frenchman doesn’t know about my profession, or about us looking for Condor.”

  “Want to be a rich New Yorker?”

  I laughed at that. “No, I can’t pull that off. Just make me out to be an American businessman from somewhere boring, like New Hampshire, looking around the Bahamas for investments. Tell them I heard about Chamberlain’s new endeavor in Andros and I’m thinking of starting one on Grand Bahama Island. And please include Mrs. Saunders in the invitation, if you would. She can be visiting to ascertain if a stay in the Bahamas can help her ailing father. I’ll be her escort.”

  I’d included Cynda in an effort to displace her somewhat maudlin demeanor since our arrival at Nassau with some social stimulation—that, and the fact that I thought her manipulative skills might assist in obtaining information useful to our endeavor.

  Mason stood. “Very well, Peter. If I leave now, I can get to the colonial secretary’s office before they close and obtain official invitations for you and Mrs. Saunders. We’ll meet at the corner of the Anglican cathedral at George and King streets tomorrow, just before noon. A parade at noon starts the day’s events, with the dignitaries viewing the show on King Street. At two p.m. there is a service at the cathedral. At four p.m. there is the presentation of cards up the hill, at Government House. At six comes dinner and at seven-thirty there is the ball. That will end at ten o’clock. You’ll have several hours to gauge and meet the man.”

  “Thank you, and please find out all you can about the Frenchman, and about Captain Kingston. Oh! And by the way, do you know of any Russians around here?”

  “Russians?” Mason looked quizzically at me. “No, Peter. There aren’t any Russians around these parts.”

  The letter came to mind. ‘W’ would be a common initial, but the other wouldn’t. “Know anyone who just arrived here with a surname starting with an ‘O’?”

  “Sound’s Irish. Fella named O’Connally runs an iron shop out on the east end of town. But he’s been here for years.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be it. Never mind.”

  17

  Emancipation Day

  Christ Church Cathedral

  King and George streets

  Nassau, Bahamas

  Wednesday, 1 August 1888

  The center of Nassau transformed overnight. The sleepy languid atmosphere of the prior evening, where no more than two dozen people were on the streets, had become a bustling accumulation of thousands of black residents that filled every thoroughfare. From the deck of our vessel we watched and listened to brass bands, African drums, patois chants, and wildly euphoric dancing. The festive environment gained intensity as the morning progressed—an amazing exhibition of raw, uninhibited, exotic jubilance. It was impossible to hear and see it and not have your spirits lifted.

  At eleven o’clock, all hands from Delilah went ashore for the festivities—after I hired a sober watchman to stay aboard—and elbowed our way up George Street to the cathedral. The day’s breeze on the harbor didn’t circulate in the center of Nassau, and the white-washed buildings created an intense ovenlike effect. Every tree had people bunched in its shade. It was beastly hot.

  The white population was gathered near the entrance, in their resplendent finery in spite of the heat. I got the distinct impression that most of them couldn’t have cared less about the emancipation of their colored fellow islanders. Barely tolerating the noise and seething masses, they attended the event because of societal obligations. My companions and I were regarded with open curiosity by everyone—we were strangers visiting town in August.

  As Mason handed me Cynda’s and my invitations to the events for later on, a trumpet called our attention to the street. The passionately raucous native crowd around us silenced immediately and craned their heads around to peer west, down the street. The parade, commemorating the forty-forth anniversary of emancipation, was about to start. It was led by the troops of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, but you would be hard pressed to know that by their uniforms.

  Mason explained. “Not your typical redcoats, are they? The Second West India Regiment is made up of soldiers recruited in western Africa, mostly from the equatorial Gulf of Guinea, from the Gold Coast to the Congo. They have no affiliation to the people of the places they are stationed—the Bahamas, Antigua, Barbados, and Jamaica.

/>   “Their uniforms are a bit different,” he said with a grin. “The French African Zouave influence is apparent, with the white turban, blue pantaloons, and white leggings. The short red open tunic is the only British effect, along with the Enfield rifles, of course.”

  “They’re huge,” offered Corny.

  “Yes, they are recruited for their intimidating size.”

  “Their headquarters is where?” I asked.

  “Regimental headquarters is in Jamaica. There’s only a company of about eighty men stationed here at Fort Charlotte. They’re from the Third Battalion at Jamaica. Junior officers are billeted at Dunmore House and the senior man is at Graycliff House, next to the governor’s mansion.”

  “And the officers, what of them?” I asked as the company marched past us, arms swinging high in the British tradition. Six young white men in regular army khaki, subalterns and lieutenants, were ranged across the front of the company. In front of the junior officers strode a tall white man in the Zouave uniform, like that of the enlisted men.

  “The officers are Brits from the regular regiments. They are seconded for two or three years to the West India outfits. The commanding officer here in Nassau is that fellow in front, Major Rupert Teignholder. He is, by all accounts, an odd duck. Prefers to wear the exotic Zouave rig for ceremonial occasions. Solidarity with the troops, I imagine.”

  “These lads have fightin’ experience?” asked Rork.

  Mason nodded. “The men you see here fought last year at Sierra Leon, in west Africa. Accounted themselves well in quite adverse conditions, according to the press. Teignholder led them. This unit’s only been at Nassau for six months.”

  Next came a small military band. Behind it, the line, composed of civilian groups in their best attire, stretched for half a mile. Mason explained the groups represented the major islands in the archipelago, and the “friendly societies” of New Providence. A friendly society was the traditional African tribal association formed for mutual benefit during slave times and carried on into modern society. The most well-known was the Grantstown Friendly Society, which received a substantial cheer from the onlookers.

  Mason leaned close to me and pointed to a distinguished-looking black man marching in the procession. “There’s Mr. David Patton. He runs the Union Livery stables on Bay Street and knows everything that happens on the waterfront. I asked him early this morning about Condor and Captain Kingston. He knows Kingston. Said Kingston acted queerly the last time here. Usually he’s drunk and loud. This time he was quiet and guarded. Patton thought he might be up to something illegal. Smuggling, maybe in or out of the Spanish islands.”

  Smuggling? With tourists aboard? Hmm, well, the more I thought about that, the more it seemed feasible. Businessmen passengers would provide a perfect veneer of respectability. What would he smuggle? Most smugglers in the West Indies carried rum, fancy goods, or people past the customs officials. Perhaps I had completely misunderstood. Possibly Condor’s passengers weren’t businessmen from New York City.

  A tug from Cynda brought me back to the scene around us. Each civic group had solemn-faced elders in front, carrying the Union Jack. They were followed by a younger set, who danced slowly as they played various instruments, most of them African in origin. In contrast to the jubilation of the morning, the procession was more akin to a coronation. Measured, serious, proud.

  Once the parade had ended, we entered the Anglican house of worship, the largest church in the Bahamas. Rork, as is his preference, stayed outside. Christ Church Cathedral’s bells rang two o’clock as we sat down five pews back from the front. Above us was a shadowy dark wooden ceiling—in stark contrast to the white walls and pillars. Stained-glass windows, brightly illuminated by the sun, surrounded us.

  The service was a high mass of the Episcopal Church, a two-hour ritual with which I was familiar, having grown up in that denomination in New England. The impressive pageantry was made seemingly much longer, however, by the overheated condition of the sanctuary, densely jammed with bodies. Mason scanned the assembly but said the Frenchman wasn’t there, suggesting that perhaps the man was Catholic.

  A Reverend Swann presided and preached a sermon on “Providing things honest in the sight of all men.” The meaning of that was lost on me, but then the rising temperature and odor probably interfered with my intellect. Little paper fans flitted like butterflies in the hands of the ladies, who sat there and baked, glistening with perspiration. The gentlemen’s suits formed dark patches, spreading larger as the reverend went on, confirming I was not alone in my misery.

  Mason, like the other upper-society people, was apparently unbothered by it all and sat there as if nothing untoward was occurring. I found their serene behavior extraordinary and was myself sopping wet and rather ill-tempered when we emerged into the glaring sun for the next social obligation of the day.

  ***

  Rork and the others from Delilah were off to their own devices for the rest of the afternoon as Cynda, Mason, and I joined a collection of the privileged on the walk up the hill along the shady side of George Street. We passed through the gates to the governor’s grounds and up the steps to the Columbus statue, then across the lawn to the large portico of Government House where an honor guard of soldiers awaited. The view of the town below was nothing short of beautiful, but brief, as the line of guests continued their pace inside.

  Not anticipating any of this sort of thing back at Patricio Island, I naturally had no carte visite for official presentation to the governor’s staff. This breech of protocol was glossed over by the fact that Cynda and I did have invitations. Engraved ones, I might add; Mason did have good connections. Of course, other than Mason, I knew not a soul among the locals assembled for the annual audience with the man who ruled Her Majesty’s Crown Colony of the Bahamas—one Sir Ambrose Shea.

  According to Mason, Shea was a seventy-three-year-old career politician and administrator who had done good work in his native Newfoundland. Knighted in 1883, he was given the Bahamian governorship in October of 1887 by the queen.

  Sir Ambrose had the respect and admiration of the islanders, both black and white, and was a courtly specimen of the old school of British etiquette. Meeting me in the receiving line, he barely shook my hand and paused long enough to say, “Welcome,” before turning to the next person. He was noticeably more cordial to Cynda, ahead of me, but then again, what man isn’t? Shea may have been old, but he certainly was not dead.

  Mason explained later that like most Canadians from the Atlantic coast, Shea was more than a bit negatively influenced by the fishing dispute of the previous year. It had erupted into rather bellicose talk between the United States and Great Britain, protector of Canada. I had some inside knowledge of that sad affair, as ONI had been given the task of ascertaining Canadian defenses during the crisis. My commanding officer, Commodore Walker, led a personal covert reconnaissance of the Royal Navy base at Halifax. Not one of our prouder national moments, in my opinion.

  But I have regrettably digressed and must now return to the tête-à-tête that ensued within the elegant confines of the ballroom, where the governor’s guests had settled after enduring the receiving line. Cynda and I met various personages, including the attorney general, the chief justice, the postmaster, and the chief inspector of police. Smiling and saying inane things to people who couldn’t care less—especially in a hot room while wearing a stifling collar, tie, and coat—is my idea of slow torture.

  Cynda, however, was made of sterner stuff. With admirable prowess, she targeted her wiles on the chief inspector, asking him about summer tourists in the islands.

  I began moving toward the table of chilled fruit juices, hoping to discover a small supply of rum and invigorate the day, when Mason deftly steered me away. With a sly grin, he walked me to the far end of the room and introduced me to Pierre Jean Roche.

  The Frenchman.

  Roche was tall, thin, a
nd handsome, in his late thirties to early forties, with long dark wavy hair. Below prominent cheekbones and a strong nose, he had one of those pointed goatees and a moustache that was perfectly trimmed. His smile seemed genuine. His handshake indicated resolve. Mason spoke to him in French, and I noted that Roche’s reply was in the classical form, devoid of slang or contraction. Upper-class, refined. A graduate of one of the polytechnic institutes, I guessed. Possibly with some military experience, gauging by his stature. He was dressed in a simple but well-tailored satin dinner suit. Pierre Jean Roche was the epitome of a European gentleman, a modern Frenchman of the Third Republic.

  But it was his eyes that one’s attention was immediately drawn toward. They were narrow, almost oval, and absolutely black, like drops of shiny onyx—beautiful and frightening at the same time. Roche had the habit, probably cultivated over time, of turning them on you and not blinking. Intense. Waiting for your reaction. And most alarmingly, I could not discern any emotion in them.

  Mason departed, hailing a friend and discreetly leaving Roche and me in the corner alone. I decided to forgo insulting the man with my mangled French and spoke English.

  “Good to meet you, sir. I’ve heard you are the only Frenchman in Nassau. I regret to say my French is not fit for public intercourse, much less for this august soirée, and so I must beg your pardon and speak English.”

  He smiled slightly. “And I must ask for your forgiveness about the state of my English. It should be better, but I fear it is lacking substance.”

  “What brings you to Nassau, sir?”

  The eyes surveyed me for a moment. “Tourist, seeking the tropics. I am here with some friends, but only temporarily. We are en route to the south, to the Caribbean proper. And why are you here, sir?”

  I glanced over and saw Cynda engaged in conversation with a clergyman. I continued with Roche, very aware that he was evaluating me. This would require, as the French would say, a certain finesse.