Another raised hand, this time swaying slightly. He was warming to his subject and grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“Ah, yes, they did. But we’re heading up to live at Harrsenville, on Matlacha Passage. Once there, we’ll declare our independence from Lee County. We’ll be rebels! Won’t be some pissant new county, either. Nope. We’re forming our own country from the islands in that area. Yes, our own country!”
His companions cheering him on, Kip nodded pleasantly to me. “And because we like you boys, we’ll even let Patricio Island join our country.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you for the honor, my friend. And what, pray tell, will be the name of your new country?”
“The Mangrove Republic! And I will be the prime minister. Charlie here is the minister of culture. Brian is gonna minister to fallen women. We’ll have a lot of those.”
“Aye, me likes the sound o’ that,” offered Rork, gesturing to Stillman for yet another round. Planning a new country is thirsty work. “Any job for an ol’ bosun in this Mangrove Republic o’ yours?”
Kip attempted to bow grandiosely and nearly collapsed. His recovery was nicely done, however, the product of years of practice. “Why, of course, my fine Irish friend. You, sir, will be the minister of rum. One of the most important positions in the government, I might add. And Peter here, of course, will be the minister of war.”
And so the afternoon went on.
***
The Nancy Ann was waiting for us at Pinder’s dock. We rode a broad-reach westerly that brought us to Patricio Island the following Thursday afternoon, where Whidden greeted us at the dock. It was a subdued bunch at dinner at my bungalow, weighted by all we’d seen and done and endured. My friends were as surprised as I at Cynda’s decision and offered clumsy but genuine sympathy. Their sentiments, and the subsequent atmosphere among us, were as if yet one more person had died on our odyssey. I was heartily sick of maudlin moods by then and ready to get back to my naval work.
By Saturday, the fifteenth of September, the four of us—Rork, me, Woodgerd, and Corny—were aboard the train at Punta Gorda, steaming northbound. Woodgerd, the only married man in the crew, would see his wife for the first time in more than six months. Corny would return to the academic world of ethnology and history, soon to be heading west to study an Indian tribe in Minnesota. Rork would report into the senior petty officers quarters at the Washington Navy Yard, then his desk at the Office of Naval Intelligence.
At the stop in Palatka, I inquired about the Methodist conference in nearby Saint Augustine and discovered it had ended early. Useppa was back in Key West, by way of the steamer from Jacksonville. Thus, my opportunity to explain things to her had disappeared. I didn’t see her for sometime after that.
As we continued toward Washington, I went over my plan. My first duty would be to report into Commodore Walker and Admiral Porter and explain the reason Rork and I were late for duty, why and how the Paloma mission had evaporated, what I discovered from Sokolov’s aerial war machine about powered flight, and what I’d learned from Kovinski about Russian secret intelligence operations in Europe and America. As a professional intelligence officer, I should have incorporated all of the aforementioned should into a typed report.
But I didn’t. The chaotic escape from Haiti had occupied my mind until Nassau, followed by my worries about Cynda’s health. My focus then shifted to the romantic notion of betrothing Cynda, of which I was abruptly disabused. Since that afternoon in Key West, I just hadn’t had the concentration to organize the information and apply it to paper.
We would arrive in the capital at seven in the morning on Monday, the seventeenth. By late on Sunday night, as the dark carriage car rolled through the Virginia hill country, Rork quietly nudged me and said, “Oh, thank you, Jesus, that me’s just a wee bosun in a big navy. But you, me friend, yer the officer an’ the responsible one. Peter, have ya any thought in the world o’ how’re ye gonna explain all o’ this mess to the commodore and the admiral?”
“No, Sean. Not a notion. We’re absent without leave, the Paloma mission fell apart and our contacts are no doubt compromised, we’ve killed foreign nationals in a foreign country, I’ve acted without permission as a merchant skipper and have criminal complaints lingering out there somewhere about my conduct therein, and we interacted with European intelligence services without the permission or notification of our superiors. At the minimum, we’ll be cashiered from the service. I’d estimate the maximum to be about thirty years in prison—for me. Don’t worry, you’re the junior rank, so you’ll only get about ten years.”
He shook his head. “I was afraid ye’d say that. Aye, methinks this is one time your silver tongue can’t talk our way out o’ trouble. Ten years, ya say?”
“Ah hell, Sean, you’ll only be sixty-seven when you get out in eighteen-ninety eight—still young enough to bull your way through any bar or squire any girl. But me—I’ll be seventy-nine years old when I get out in nineteen-eighteen. You’ll probably write a book, make lots of money, and forget all about me, you rascal.”
My attempt at humor didn’t work.
42
Naval Discipline
Office of Commodore J.G. Walker
Bureau of Navigation
Second Floor, East Wing
U.S. Naval Headquarters
State, War, and Navy Building
Washington, District of Columbia
Monday, 17 September 1888
The morning started at sunrise when I entered the officer’s elevator to my office on the fourth floor of the east wing of naval headquarters. The central administration of the U.S. Navy is located in the massive French-copied palace just across the park from the president’s mansion, the edifice well known as the State, War, and Navy Building. It is filled with busy people trying to look busier than other people around them, particularly whenever the senior people walk by them. None of them, to my uncertain knowledge, has ever been in the jungles of Haiti, and damn few of them have ever had to make a life-and-death decision in a split second. The place, and most of the people there, bores me.
Rork was already at his desk, looking very busy shuffling papers from one pile to another as the unit’s yeoman clacked away on a typewriter in the corner. The other two officers assigned to the office hadn’t arrived yet. They were on regular hours and wouldn’t appear until eight o’clock. Our tiny office was a back room, set off the main area of the Office of Naval Intelligence.
Lieutenant Rodgers, chief of the main ONI effort and an industrious sort who always worked long hours, passed by and noticed my presence. He looked at me like I was a condemned man. “Welcome back, sir. The commodore’s been waiting for you for two weeks. I think he’s already in his office.”
He was referring, of course, to Commodore John Grimes Walker, the legendary chief of the Bureau of Navigation, the senior bureau of the navy. Rodgers and ONI came under the Bureau of Navigation. My section of ONI, the Special Assignments Section, reported directly to Walker, for our work was of such delicate nature as to be thought above the pay grade of junior officers. That was the official reasoning, at least. I knew it was because Walker wanted to have a personal hand in our espionage operations and had done several himself.
“Yes, I thought he would be,” I replied to Rodgers in as confident a manner as I could muster. Rodgers departed fast, probably to telephone Walker and tell him the long-lost Wake had reappeared at headquarters. I spent five minutes staring out the window and then made my way to Commodore Walker’s office on the second floor, just down the passageway from Admiral Porter’s. Rork winked and made the sign of the cross at me before I left, but I felt none of his humor. It was a long walk.
***
Standing at the straightest attention I’d managed for years, I bellowed out in my quarterdeck voice, “Commander Wake, ONI, SAS, returning from leave and reporting to the commodore, sir.�
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Walker turned from studying the wall chart of the world and greeted me with more than his usual modicum of dry wit, his long forked beard bobbing below those infamously cold eyes.
“Wake, how good of you to finally return. Please, remain standing at attention.”
The commodore sat down at his desk and leaned back in the swivel chair, before continuing in a weary growl. “Now, briefly tell me why the Paloma mission is in disarray just when we need information about the Spanish Navy, and why you are late returning from a private vacation cruise in the West Indies just as this is all occurring.”
“Sir, I don’t know what happened with Paloma or where he is. I heard about his disappearance from Mason in Nassau last week. As for my being delayed—”
“Absent without orders.”
“Yes, sir. Absent without orders. I was not on a vacation cruise, sir. I was on a search for a missing cabin boy, the son of a friend. That search ended up in Haiti. Once there, I happened upon a military operation that has great relevance to our country, and the Europeans as well. It has to do with a new type of aerial war machine—a powered flying warship, even more advanced than the French airships. I attempted to bring it back to the United States, but we crashed and it was destroyed.
“I also became involved in British and Russian secret service operations in the West Indies and have some knowledge of Russian endeavors here in the U.S. That is why I was unavoidably delayed in reporting back in to duty here at headquarters, sir. I’ll be writing a full report on all of it immediately.”
“I will admit that you have my curiosity aroused, Commander. Continue and tell me more.”
That I did, for the next forty minutes, holding back nothing. The commodore punctuated my narrative with sharp questions about the various people I’d become involved with, the political situation in Haiti, and Sokolov’s warship. As I told the story, I realized how far-fetched it appeared, even to me. What must it sound like to Walker? At last I stopped, waiting for his reaction.
“Honor bound to help a beautiful woman, Smithsonian academics, running into Russian and British spies, shipwreck, death and disease, wandering in darkest Haiti, and finding a warship that flies . . .” Walker sighed. “You tire me sometimes, Commander Wake. By gumphries, you tire me, mightily, with your explanations.”
He waved a hand around the room. “Your penchant for independent, some would say incompetent, inventiveness in the field is well known in this part of the building. Your ‘unavoidable delays’ in sending reports—and your unique excuses for the same—have become the stuff of legend around here. I imagine your contemporaries think it humorous, but not so your superiors, Commander.”
He slowly shook his head. “But this time there is a very serious problem arising with your disappearance from naval intelligence duties while gallivanting around the tropics. That makes it your very serious problem . . .”
He paused. I waited—then realized he wanted me to ask the obvious.
“Sir, I presume the problem is: where are Paloma and Casas, and how much do the Spanish know about our espionage mission?”
“Very good, Commander. I see that West Indian sun and rum have not dulled your intellectual powers. Now, what do you propose to do to solve your problem?”
I’d thought about that on the train. I had an idea that would solve two dilemmas—find Paloma, and get Rork and me away from headquarters.
“Sir, I propose that Rork and I will go ashore in Cuba, incognito, and establish contact with another of our contacts in Havana, the secondary one called Leo. Leo was very helpful to us in eighty-six. From there, we’ll backtrack the whereabouts of Casas, then Paloma. Then slip out to Key West and report in by cable. All done quietly.”
He looked dubious. “How long would that take?”
“Two days to write the full report on the aerial warship and European spy operations, then a week to get down to Key West, charter a Cuban fishing smack and get dropped off on the coast by Cojímar or Matanzas. Probably another week to get in touch with Leo, find wherever Casas is hiding, and determine what happened to Paloma. Then get a fishing boat to Key West. Should be done by October fifteenth, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. And it’s not good enough. Not by a long shot.”
“Sir?”
“We don’t have that kind of time. The report about Haiti and all that can wait. You and Rork are rejoining the United States Navy, Commander. You both will be on the train to Norfolk when it leaves at ten o’clock this morning. There, you’ll report aboard Richmond as supernumerary flag aide to Rear Admiral Luce. Protocol officer.
“That position will enable you to get ashore for longer periods of time. Rork will be your assistant. Richmond will weigh anchor immediately upon your arrival and make her way to Havana at best speed. You should be there in four days. Once there you will be posted ashore as an attaché at the consulate, get in contact with Leo and find out what happened.
“Once you discover the answers, Richmond will take you back to Key West for a secure telegraph in cipher to me. I expect it by October first. Here are your orders, endorsed by Admiral Porter. Rear Admiral Luce has been briefed and is expecting his orders.”
He took two dark blue sealed envelopes from his desk and handed them to me—one for Luce and one for me.
“And do not think I’ve forgotten your violations of several regulations and the laws of various countries. I will make a decision regarding you and them after your return from Havana.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, for reasons you do not—and cannot—know, time is of the essence, Commander. You will enter Havana overtly as a United States naval officer, then get the answers covertly through Leo. Understood?”
Working in uniform at Havana, a place where the Spanish intelligence knew and hated me, would make my job much more complicated. Working under Rear Admiral Luce, a man who did not suffer fools gladly, made it even tougher. I didn’t like it, not one bit, but I fully comprehended that Commodore Walker wasn’t offering me a choice.
Naval discipline took over. “Understood, sir.”
“I hope you do. You know Luce and have worked for him before, so stay on the admiral’s good side.”
Rear Admiral Luce, until recently the head of the Naval War College, was another legend in the navy.
“Aye, aye, sir.” I executed an about-face and got to the doorway before he stopped me.
“And Wake . . .”
“Sir?”
“My credibility is on the line with my superiors, all of whom vastly outrank you. So toe the line and don’t make a hash up of this one.”
43
Postcript
Patricio Island
Southwest Coast of Florida
Thursday, 26 March 1896
Eight years later, I find myself sitting here at the table on the verandah of my home on Patricio Island. The scene around me is tranquil, with not a malevolent sight or sound—such a contrast to that summer of 1888.
In the late afternoon light, a fishing smack, Cuban by her lines, is sailing by Mondongo Island, toward Boca Grande Passage. Pelicans glide by above me. A porpoise undulates across the bay. Inside, Whidden is whistling the tune “Loreena” while cooking up some grouper in a sauce of honey and orange juice, accompanied by squash and yams with herbs from our garden. I can smell the rosemary and sage. Proud of his all-day job caulking the dinghy, Rork just trudged up the hill to the verandah for our sunset drink.
This morning I finished typing out the last chapter of this narrative on my thirteen-year-old navy-issued Remington, which has definitely seen better days but, like an old naval officer, still does its duty. At long last, the story of my journey into Haiti and back, with its myriad influences and experiences, is completed. Reliving those times, and those innermost emotions, has exhausted me, bringing joy and fear, laughter and sadness. I was glad
to be done with it.
Earlier today, I asked Rork to peruse the story’s ending. Following several minutes of furrowed brow, various grunts, and an elongated “ah, hmm,” he pronounced the thing not done.
“Methinks the reader’ll be needin’ to know the consequences o’ this whole bloody ordeal, Peter.”
“Consequences?” I asked warily.
“Me friend, fer every decision in life an’ war, there’s a result. An’ the results o’ that journey’re still with us, boyo. Some’re good, some’re bad, an’ some we just haven’t figured out yet. Aye, an’ the most important result for you is yet to come—an’ you know what that is.”
Reluctantly, I admitted that Rork was right. Yes, the personal side to the story had to be finished, even though to do so brings sorrow.
The account had ended with us ordered to Havana aboard Richmond to ascertain what happened with Paloma and Casas. That story begins another narrative, emerging from very intense memories, which will be written someday. It is too much, however, to relate in this limited space. So allow me instead to add this postscript to the tale of that summer of 1888.
I am very happy to report that Absalom Bowlegs is now a husband and father, and through his personal industriousness has become master and owner of an inter-island schooner out of Congo Town, on the east coast of Andros Island. I receive a Christmas note every year from him.
Major Kovinski, with whom I maintain a frequent professional correspondence, continues his secret work against the revolu-tionary Russian émigrés from his base in Paris. I’ve become aware, through other means, of several of his operatives in the United States—all of whom, the reader will not be surprised, are beautiful women.
My report on the journey was completed in December of 1888. It still remains in the confidential section of the vault in the Navy Library. Neither the navy, nor the army, acted upon my recommendations regarding aerial warships. However, recent events in Brazil and Europe have rekindled discussion on that subject, so perhaps my observations will be revisited.
Honor Bound Page 33
