“Me? I’m here looking for business endeavors that have potential for investment.” Remembering what the Condor’s passengers told Mason, I added, “And what a coincidence, I’ll be heading south, also. To the southern islands of the Bahamas. Tell me, Mr. Roche, have you seen much of the Bahamas?”
“No, I have only been in Nassau. I will be leaving soon.”
Only Nassau, eh? Hmm. Lie number one. “And where in the Caribbean are you headed?”
The smile again, this time not so friendly. “I do not know, yet, Mr. Wake. It is a decision I will make this week though. There are several possibilities among the French-speaking islands.”
I looked him in the right eye and said, “You could try Kingston, over in Jamaica. I hear there are unique birds there. Condors.”
There was a split-second delay as he weighed my double-entendre before he answered. “You do not appear to me as merely a businessman, Mr. Wake. I observed you during the parade today. You stood like a soldier when the British national flags passed by. Now you speak obliquely, like a diplomat. An unusual combination of behavior.”
The smile again. This time definitely not genuine. “If you will kindly forgive me, Mr. Wake, I must go. I see that there are several ladies present who are in need of some refreshment. We French have a duty to assist whenever we see such a tragedy occur.”
With that he was gone. I was convinced we would meet again.
***
Dinner was predictably boring, with a speech by the governor pontificating about the equality of Her Majesty’s subjects, the rule of law throughout the realm, and the glory of the Empire. The drone was total hogwash to my way of thinking—I’d seen several parts of the British Empire.
Roche sat with some colonial bigwigs near the head table, animated in discussion. Occasionally I saw him glancing over at me. Cynda and Mason and I sat at the end of the farthest table from the speakers. That was fine with me. Like most sailors, pomposity bores me at the very least, and angers me frequently.
The most intriguing part of the entire Emancipation Day events began for me at nine forty-five—fifteen minutes before the formal end of the evening. Mason approached me with none other than Major Rupert Teignholder in tow. He was still in his Zouave uniform, which are colorfully menacing when worn by an African, but ridiculously cartoonish on a Briton. Didn’t he ever look in a mirror? What did the governor think?
After introductions, Mason suggested we retire to the garden for cognac and cigars. At the last minute he veered off, joining Cynda in taking a tour of the mansion with the governor’s wife. The major and I walked out into the night alone.
18
Quid Pro Quo
Government House
Nassau, Bahamas
Wednesday, 1 August 1888
The air was warm and humid, but at least it was in motion. Overhead, the stars carpeted the sky like patterns of diamonds scattered on crepe. Around me, coconut and date palms waved their fronds amid small torches flickering in manicured flower beds. Anchor lights twinkled in the harbor and lanterns glowed in the streets below. To the south, the black settlements showed only a few lamps. The muted strains of the final revelers could barely be heard. The contrast was symbolic and real. The emancipated people were down there, but the governing class was up on the hill.
Here and there in the park around me, gentlemen in the black and white formal dinner dress of the upper class strolled the garden while speaking thoughtfully of politics and trade in low whispers. Trailing clouds of smoke, they puffed along their way, resembling slow locomotives. You could sense that this was the place where decisions were influenced and made—after going through the motions of civility inside.
Teignholder wasted no time.
“I understand you are interested in our French visitor.”
How did he know that? I wondered what Mason had told the soldier about me.
“I am, sir. His behavior appears most intriguing.”
“Oh, really? In what way, Mr. Wake?” Teignholder said it like he knew the answer already.
“His inquiries about Russians in the Bahamas. Aboard a schooner called the Condor that disappeared back in mid-May, somewhere in these islands. A Frenchman asking about Russians aboard a ship that disappeared in the Bahamas? I find that highly unusual, Major.”
Oh, yes, he knew, all right. The Brits and the Russians were currently facing off in Afghanistan, but that wasn’t the only place where tensions were heightened. Eastern Europe was in turmoil, fomented by the Russians, who had also recently taken on the Turks. There had even been a Russian invasion scare in Australia, of all places, a few years before.
If he hadn’t previously known of Roche’s queries about Russians in the Bahamas, Major Teignholder would’ve shown surprise at the news of the possibility of Russians in the Bahamas. But he didn’t react in that way. Instead, he changed the subject—going to the heart of my appearance in his area of responsibility.
“And what exactly is your interest in the disappearance of this ship?”
Dealing with foreign authorities over the years, I’ve learned that there are times to be circumspect and times to be candid. I judged by his manner that Teignholder wanted to help, but that he also wanted honesty.
“Mrs. Saunders—the lady you met tonight—has a son who was a ship’s boy apprentice on that schooner. Fourteen years old. His name is Luke. She believes he is still alive. My friends and I are helping her search for him. We started in Key West, then headed for the Bahamas. We know the Condor was at Morgan’s Bluff, then in Nassau, and subsequently departed for the islands of the southern Bahamas. We don’t know exactly where. That’s our next area to search.”
I paused. Teignholder nodded for me to go on.
“I know that Roche was at Morgan’s Bluff a few weeks ago, inquiring about Condor. He asked the locals if there were Russians aboard. He lied to me tonight when he said he’d only been in Nassau.”
“Why was Condor here in the Bahamas?”
“Pleasure excursion for some New York City businessmen, evidently. I’ve been told they were on a treasure hunting lark. I don’t know of any Russian or French connections, other than Roche’s inquiries.”
Now that I had bared my soul, I waited for some return information from the British army. I got it, with a surprise.
“Commander Wake, I think you’ve happened into something far more complicated than the disappearance of a ship’s boy and his schooner.”
He wagged a finger. “Before you say anything, allow me to explain that I know all about your recent visit to Andros Island, both at Red Bays and at Morgan’s Bluff. Thus, I know of your profession, Commander Wake, and your efforts to find the youngster, and also the criminal complaints issued against you within the Crown Colony.”
The Major let that sink in, then said, “I am responsible for the defense of this colony. That means keeping apprised of what is happening, particularly concerning foreigners, like Roche. And you.”
I held up a hand. “Major, I am not here as a naval officer. I am on official leave and here as a friend of the lady. We’re looking for a lost boy.”
“You are here under some rather strained circumstances, I’m afraid, Commander. The governor knows about you, as does the attorney general and, of course, the chief inspector of the police here. They are not amused, I assure you. It would appear that you are on thin ice, as they say in Canada, in your legal capacity as captain of the Delilah.”
I didn’t like the way this was going. Somehow the topic had shifted, in a decidedly unfriendly tone, from Roche to me. “Listen, I am chartering Delilah once the cargo is discharged, which will be tomorrow. I sent a letter to the owner from Key West, explaining my assumption of command and had the mate co-sign it. Yesterday, I sent off another letter to the owner, giving an update. He’ll not complain. I’m keeping his vessel working and bringing in money.”
&n
bsp; A bell rang out. Major Teignholder turned toward the mansion, then back to me. “I see they are signaling the end of the affair, so we must return inside and say our goodbyes to the governor and Lady Shea. I have more to discuss with you, however. Meet me on the front balcony at Graycliff House, in one hour. Alone.”
He said it not as a social request, but as an order. I was beginning to dislike Major Teignholder. “For further interrogation, Major?”
“No, Commander—for some intelligence about the gentleman who is evidently after the same thing you are, but for different reasons. I’m speaking of the one who currently goes by the name of Monsieur Pierre Jean Roche.”
***
An hour later, at eleven o’clock, I walked up George Street alone, having explained to Cynda and the others aboard Delilah what had transpired and that I would return to the schooner in a while. Rork was upset with that; he has a nose for action, so I made it an order—everyone was to stay aboard.
At Duke Street, I made a right and followed it around the governor’s mansion until it met with Cumberland Street. It was quiet in the town, only the wind in the trees making a sound. No lights shone and I navigated by the dim shine of the stars above. At the intersection of West Hill Street and Cumberland, on the southwest corner, stood Graycliff House.
It was an imposing place. A former private mansion built in the sixteen hundreds by a successful pirate turned leading citizen, it had been an inn since 1844. Other than the Royal Victoria, it was the most exclusive hotel in the town. Like many buildings in Nassau, the outer walls were a sun-faded pink. I walked through the entry port of the surrounding wall and into the front garden.
Graycliff had a military component in its history. During the American revolution, it served as the home for the commander of the American occupation force in Nassau. In 1888, it provided quarters for the senior officer of the regiment’s detachment stationed at Fort Charlotte—Major Rupert Teignholder.
Above me was the second-story balcony, where I saw a small lamp. Ascending the steps to the first floor, I passed lavender bougainvillea illuminated by a lone post lantern. Crossing the wide verandah, I entered the darkened house through open double doors.
As I walked in, the only sound was the floor creaking beneath me. Several public rooms opened off either side of the main hallway, but all were vacant. A voice—not Teignholder’s—called down. “Up here, Wake. Go down the main hall and come up the stairs to the next floor. Meet us on the upper verandah.”
I caught a whiff of cigar, the clink of glasses. Two men were on the second floor porch speaking in low voices. Uneasy, I climbed the stairs slowly and walked down the upper hallway toward a dim glow. Double-doors to the outside were latched open, allowing a clear view of the verandah where Teignholder, now sans the garish costume, was seated at a table with another man. Both were in shirt sleeves with open collars.
Three small glasses and a bottle surrounded the small lamp in the center of the table. The other man was older, gray-haired, and balding. His stern face exhaled smoke from a cigar.
The breeze was stronger on the second-floor verandah, rushing through the palm fronds, which clattered like chattering teeth. I felt the wind brush my face as I emerged onto the verandah and entered the glow of the lamplight. Though the air was warm, that wind felt chilly to me.
Teignholder half rose from his rattan chair. “Commander, this is Inspector Geoff Randall, of the Metropolitan Police Force in London. Inspector, Commander Peter Wake of the American Navy.”
We shook hands all around and I sat in the proffered chair. The drink was Mount Gay, a decent British rum from Barbados that I enjoy. I accepted a glass and asked the soldier, “So this is where you live? Nice billet.”
“Yes, my room is here, in the front. Best room in the house, called the Woodes Rogers Room, after the famous pirate-turned-governor of the Bahamas. He was rather successful in both careers, capturing a fair amount of Spanish gold in the Pacific and later converting the other remaining pirates here into good citizens. Sometimes through inducement, sometimes through coercion. Rumor has it he stayed in the same room I do, one hundred-sixty-years ago.”
The major chuckled. “A pirate turned governor. Ironic, isn’t it? Ah, but then again, people in these islands aren’t always what they seem to be, or what they used to be. Still true now, just as then.”
Randall nodded grimly at the soldier’s remark, then poured more rum in his glass. Once that was done, he looked up at me with pity in his eyes, like he felt sad for me.
“Are you talking about Captain Kingston and the Condor, Major?” I asked.
He nodded. “I am. And I think you come under that category also, which is why I wanted to talk to you here, away from the crowd. I get the impression that you are used to . . . shall we say . . . amorphous situations. It takes a certain aptitude to function well in such conditions. I think you have that ability. You can adjust to a changing state of affairs.”
What the hell did that mean? And why was Randall, a senior policeman from London, present at our little talk? “You’ve lost me completely, Major. Maybe I’m not as adjustable as you think.”
Teignholder chuckled. “Oh, you’ll understand soon enough. The inspector and I believe you can be of assistance to us. In return, we can be of assistance to you.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but we’re leaving tomorrow, after the cargo is offloaded. Heading south to search for the Condor, or her wreck. I can’t see how I can help you.”
Teignholder drained his glass and held it out for Randall to refill, then turned to me. “You are taking the Frenchman with you, together with his two associates. Along the way, you will ascertain his true name and background, the real motive for coming here, any contacts he has in the colony, who the Russians are that he is looking for, and exactly where he is heading next. You will also take along the inspector here.”
Well, this had certainly become interesting. The Frenchman must have really excited the Brits. Or more probably, scared them.
I looked at the policeman. “I presume you followed him all the way from England. Why?”
“He’s an odd sort. A bit shady in his manner, but we don’t know why. Don’t really know anything about him, so I was sent along to find out.”
That reasoning sounded very anemic. He was definitely holding something back. The Brits wouldn’t send a senior man on a long-shot surveillance like that. And I still couldn’t fathom why they thought I would go along with their request, one that sounded an awful lot like a command.
“And why would I do any of this?”
Teignholder sighed. “Because, quite regrettably, if you don’t, a communiqué from Delilah’s owner, back home in Britain, will be delivered from its temporary delayed-in-transit status to the proper colonial authorities. Specifically, to the Honorable O.D. Malcolm, Her Majesty’s Attorney General for the Crown Colony. I believe you met him earlier this evening. The communiqué says that you are not authorized to command or charter Delilah, and it further requests that the vessel be seized and held for the owner’s agent, who will be designated once the vessel is found. The message is a forwarded telegram that came in today on the steamer from Jacksonville. I happen to have it in my pocket, as a matter of fact.”
The major chuckled again, an evil little grunt. “Naturally, once the authorities receive that message, several events will be set into motion. First, Delilah will be seized. Second, you will be arrested—charged with the five outstanding criminal complaints filed by your former cook. Third, your president—I believe his name is Grover Cleveland—will receive a formal protest about you from the foreign secretary of Great Britain. The protest will be about an American naval officer engaged in maritime commerce within this Crown Colony, a position wholly unauthorized by the colonial office. Some of the more uncharitable blokes at Government House might even see it as an infringement of our territory and our national honor.”
&nb
sp; Teignholder paused for a sip while Randall coughed slightly, a studied nonchalance that sparked an aggressive urge within me. The major continued. “Fourth, I’m afraid the press lads on Fleet Street in London will learn of this entire affair. Somehow they always seem to find out about these things. Coming, as it does, close upon some inopportune posturing by the American government with regard to the violation of fishing rights in Canadian waters last year, my impression is that it will provide some excellent fodder for a reciprocal spate of patriotic posturing by British politicians. After all, it would appear that the Americans are arrogantly dismissive of our imperial waters, no matter where they are, Canada or the Bahamas. And, of course, there are always those who might think you a spy.
“Oh, I know all that is inaccurate, of course.” Teignholder shrugged. “But really, what can one do? The press are like mad dogs once they sink their teeth into a story. Can’t tell how bizarre it will get. Patriotic zeal, and all that. Quite annoying for Her Majesty’s ministers, and even more embarrassing for the Yanks, I should think. Probably will end up being called ‘The Wake Affair.’ Not very good for one’s career, even in your American version of a navy.”
I sat there, seething. The whole damned thing was trumped up. “Blackmail is against the law, Major Teignholder, and rather low behavior for an officer of the British Army.”
“Quite right, my new American friend. But this isn’t blackmail. Oh, no. It is simply the bureaucratic wheels of justice slowly grinding their way incessantly toward a conclusion. Might take a year to clear you. Well, at the very least a year, I should say. Witnesses, statements, hearings, sworn testimony, that sort of thing. Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?”
The policeman was right on cue, shaking his head sadly: “Oh, yes, Major. It does seem to take an inordinate amount of time, especially out here in the colonies. Dealing with transport between islands and tracking down witnesses and all that.”
Honor Bound Page 14
