The sixth of September, the day Dan Horloft died aboard Sokolov’s aerial warship, has become a significant date in my life since 1888. Corny, Woodgerd, Rork, and I, if we are in town, meet on that day for dinner in a private room at the Celestial Club in Washington. We remember Dan, his life’s accomplishments, and how he saved our lives by flying that bizarre machine out of Haiti, even while mortally wounded. I also never fail to thank Corny for his efforts in ending my premature death at the hands of Lieutenant Laurent, the Haitian sorcerer.
And we do not fail to remember our black friend, that noble son of Haiti, Vladimir Yablonowski. When I think of Haiti now, I prefer to think of him, a quiet patriot, aglow with dignity and strength.
Colonel Michael Woodgerd still embarks on “military consultation contracts,” as he prefers to call them these days. The snobbier description has enabled him to raise his fees and hobnob with some of the world’s richest potentates, warlords, and dictators. No more slogging in the mud with common soldiers on hopeless missions for Woodgerd. Now his campaigns are planned and fought in the considerable comfort of foreign parlors and offices, not to mention cocktail parties. My friend, jaded old goat that he is, refuses to admit it, but I think he enjoys the work. In appreciation for my extricating him from Haiti, he presented me with his Martini-Henry rifle from Afghanistan, which is now mounted on the wall at my island bungalow.
Cornelius Rathburn, doctor of ethnology, continues to set off on expeditions for various universities and museums on projects regarding native North and Central American cultures. Recently, he convinced some of his Smithsonian colleagues to come to the southwestern coast of Florida to delve into the history of the pre-Colombian Calusa empire—but that, too, is another tale altogether.
Rork is still Rork. He’ll never change, thank the Lord. He’s older now, with more scars and ailments, but then again, so am I. For some reason, we bonded all those years ago during the war and have stayed together as comrade and friend, two kindred souls who find themselves in the peculiar position of hating war, but being rather good at waging it. I suppose that is fortunate, for as this nineteenth century races toward its conclusion there seems to be no dearth of threats to our country’s peace and tranquility. Global war with Spain is coming. I can feel its inexorable advance and fear that no one, on either side of the Atlantic, can stop it.
And now I must share the most bitter-sweet consequence of that summer. Cynda Saunders returned to her home in Puerto Rico. I subsequently heard nothing, in spite of many letters to her. Knowing the fragile condition of her health upon our parting and anxious for her safety, I asked a friend in San Juan to check with the local authorities at Mayaguez, the nearest city to Cynda’s home. The report back was disconcerting: the lady had sold the plantation and departed the island. Her whereabouts were unknown.
Then, six months later, in June of 1889, a letter arrived at naval headquarters while I was away on assignment. It was sent from Cynda’s younger sister, Mary Alice, whom I hadn’t seen since the war. She was living with husband and family in Peoria, Illinois.
When I finally returned to headquarters sometime later and opened it, I sat at my desk for a long time, distraught and confused. The letter explained so much, but it broke my heart.
Dear Peter,
June 10, 1889
I am sorry to convey sad news to you. My sister Cynda died here in Peoria on April 6, two days after her daughter Patricia was born. The baby showed no signs of congenital infirmity, thank God above.
Cynda knew she was dying and insisted that I promise to carry out her wishes regarding Patricia. When she came here from the West Indies, I knew in my heart she would not survive the birth. She was weak and sickly and it was a difficult pregnancy. The doctor said it was due to her age and the stress of losing her husband and son, but I think she also had a long-standing debility from many years of tropical fevers.
My sister wanted me to wait until Patricia had been adopted to send this letter. Yesterday the adoption was finalized and the little girl is now with a loving family, a new life ahead of her. I do not know who or where they are, but am told that they are keeping her Christian name, which Cynda said was in honor of the island where you live. She told me that she spent a lovely night with you there. Her eyes lit up when she said that, and for a few minutes she became a beautiful young woman again.
Cynda wrote out a letter to her daughter, which I delivered to the court to give to the parents. It is to be opened the day after Patricia turns twenty-one, and explains who her mother and father were, and the reason she was given up for adoption. That will be in 1910, a long time from now. If God wills my existence here to continue, I’ll be an old lady of sixty-one. Maybe Patricia will find me and let me know how her life unfolded.
Cynda told me to make sure you know that she loved you, Peter, and that she hoped Patricia would someday find a man to marry who is just like her father.
With affection and respect from your old friend,
Mary Alice
That was how I learned that Cynda, the second love of my life, had departed from this world. I had a little daughter, who would be estranged from me until the impossibly advanced year of 1910, well into the next century, when I would be seventy-one years old, if even alive.
Emotions flooded me. At first I was angry at myself, for not insisting more forcefully that Cynda marry me. Other sentiments rose within me: anger at my career, for dominating my life; anger at Cynda, for selfishly assuming I could not take care of my daughter and not even telling me of her pregnancy; and profound desolation at my double loss.
I’ve remained silent for eight years. Useppa and I regained our familial love, but I’ve never explained my actions and the consequences of that summer to her until now. Useppa and her brother Sean never knew they had a sister, for the story of how everything came about was too painful, too complicated, to describe.
But Rork’s appraisal of the account was right. The summer of 1888 did have important consequences. We saved untold numbers of people from a terrible death from Sokolov’s invention. Vital intelligence on secret terror clans was uncovered. Significant scientific advancements were learned. Valuable professional relationships were begun.
And for me? I learned that love is that most unexplainable emotion of the human condition, that it will occur when you least expect it, and that even the merest fragment of time spent in true affection is worth taking the chance.
***
Rork just looked at the revised ending of this account and smiled. Then he gazed out over the bay, where the sky was a fantasy of color and texture. Sunsets at Patricio Island make up for the heat and bugs and lack of modern conveniences so common up north.
Still facing the sunset, Rork quietly spoke to me.
“Peter, we got into this thing ’cause ye were feelin’ honor bound to Cynda. With all we went through—an’ the pain still in yer heart—do ye ever wish ye’d nipped out o’ the church afore she arrived, that an’ none o’ this had ever happened?”
“No, Sean—though I could’ve done without experiencing that death by voudou poison.”
Rork grimaced. “Aye, that was a bit too close.”
He came over and shook my hand, his eyes serious. “But ye an’ the dear lady got to know true love together. That’s more’n most get. More’n the likes o’ me.”
Whidden began laying out the plates and cutlery on the porch table, fussing to get them right, then disappeared inside, soon to emerge with a steaming dinner. It was a perfect scene, but I couldn’t shake an empty feeling. Patricio was a bachelor island again. It felt wrong—coarse, devoid of gentleness.
The sky was more vivid now, the sun a dark red boiling mass, the clouds shimmering iridescent gold. Soon it would be night. Rork sounded the conch shell three times, and from the islands around us were heard answering calls.
I gave the traditional naval toast for Thursday evening: “A bloody w
ar and a quick promotion!” The lads echoed it and began digging into the fish. I didn’t. There was something more on my mind that needed to be said.
Rork saw my expression and nudged Whidden, stopping him in mid-bite as I raised my glass of Matusalem northward, toward Illinois.
“Gentlemen, a toast to the future of a little baby named Patricia. May she know true love in her heart during her lifetime. And may God grant us the chance to meet her someday. . . .”
Miss Useppa Wake
Assistant Headmistress
Frederick Douglass School
Key West, Florida
26 March 1896
My dearest daughter Useppa,
Admittedly, it’s been far too long in coming, but this chronicle is my attempt to clarify what happened that summer of 1888.
Please understand that I make no apologies for my private conduct then. I do not pretend to be perfect, unlike some of the more arrogant hypocrites I see in Christian society. And after all has been said and done, I still savor the gentle affection I found with Cynda during that ordeal. Great joy is in my heart by the wonderful result of our love, your little sister Patricia. I earnestly hope that you, and your brother Sean, will embrace her fully when the time comes.
In any event, I think you’ve found this story to be more than moderately interesting, as it demonstrates what your father does for a living, even when he’s not supposed to be doing it. Such is the call of my uncommon profession.
I am further gladdened by the fact that unknown numbers of future lives were saved by my professional efforts. And lastly, I pray that Sean sees no similar challenge in his private life or naval career, but I fear he may. Many have. Perhaps after reading this story, he’ll be better prepared for whatever decision he makes.
Your loving father,
Peter Wake
Captain, U.S.N.
Special Assignments Section/Office of Naval Intelligence
Bureau of Navigation/Department of the Navy
Washington, D.C.
Chapter Endnotes
Chapter One—The Preparation
—The St. Francis Inn, with the corner room on the second floor, still exists. It’s my favorite place to stay in St. Augustine. (visit: www.stfrancisinn.com
—Wake’s mission in 1886 in Havana is described in The Darkest Shade of Honor. For more about Wake and Rork’s time in 1883 French Indo-China, read The Honored Dead.
—ONI also used George Eastman’s new Kodak camera in its assessment of potential naval stations along the California coast in the late 1880s.
—There were periodic war scares with Spain over Cuba from the early 1870s onward. Until the late 1880s, the Spanish Navy was considered more powerful than the U.S. Navy.
Chapter Three—God’s Will
—Wake’s perilous exploits inside the Alcázar of Sevilla, Spain, in 1874 are described in An Affair of Honor.
—The Methodist church is still at that location, is now named Grace United Methodist Episcopal Church, and is very much worth a visit for the unique architecture and friendly members.
—The magnificent Ponce de Leon Hotel building still exists and is now Flagler College.
Chapter Four—Dèjá Vu
—For more about Cynda Denaud Saunders’ relationship with Wake in the Civil War, read Honorable Mention. They met again at the beginning of An Affair of Honor, shortly after Cynda married Jonathan Saunders at Puerto Rico in 1873. For the story of Saunders’ years as a foe of Wake during the Civil War, read At the Edge of Honor and Point of Honor.
Chapter Five—The Entourage
—For a while in the 1890s, the St. Augustine Transfer Company was the largest cab and short haul company in the nation. The Colee family owned and operated it until 1996.
—The Smithsonian Institution was the U.S.’s national museum at this time. I’ve found Clay MacCauley’s 1884 ethnological report to be a fascinating look at Seminole life. Powell was famous for his work in documenting Native American culture in the U.S. Goode was equally famous in his field. His study of the fisheries in SW Florida illuminated the islanders’ way of life. Cushing became well-known in Florida for his work in 1895–96 on the pre-Columbian Calusa civilization along the SW Florida coast.
—Wake’s train trip in 1888 generally followed the same route as US Hwy 17 does today.
Chapter Six--Insomnia
—Albert Gilchrist was an interesting man. Born in 1858, he attended West Point but did not graduate, became a civil engineer, served in the Florida Legislature for many years, was a brigadier general of the state militia, fought in the Spanish-American War, and became governor of Florida from 1909 to 1913. He died in 1926.
Chapter Seven—Lightning Strikes
—Patricio Island is part of the Pine Island National Wildlife Refuge, which was established by Peter Wake’s friend President Theodore Roosevelt in 1908. The wildlife refuge covers 17 islands and their adjacent waters in Pine Island Sound and Charlotte Harbor. The island is officially closed to the public.
Chapter Eight—In Flagrante Delicto
—Pinder’s Store was located just south of the present-day Schooner’s Wharf, which is on land reclaimed from the harbor in the 1900s.
—Charles DuPont won the election and became sheriff of Monroe County from 1888 to 1893. He was a most remarkable man and by all accounts a good sheriff. DuPont Lane is named after him.
—The Frederick Douglass School stood for many years on the southeast corner of Thomas and Fleming streets.
Chapter Nine—A Motley Crew, Indeed
—“Key West Billy” was documented in MacCauley’s report on the Seminoles and appears to be quite an interesting person. He and Wake will meet again.
Chapter Eleven—Brown’s Cut
—Brown’s Cut is between Brown’s and Beach cays, about a mile south of Ocean Cay, an abandoned mining islet. In the 1880s the cut had nine feet of water, but it has shoaled in today.
Chapter Thirteen—A Most Interesting Time
—The course taken by the Delilah in 1888 could be duplicated today, but use caution. Only try it in good light when you can use your eyeball navigation skills to read the bottom. I have sailed the Banks and it can be dangerous in bad weather, especially close to Andros Island.
—The village of Red Bays still exists, as do the descendants of those brave Seminoles who crossed the ocean to reach freedom. It was only reached by road twenty years ago. I suggest reading Dr. Rosalyn Howard’s Black Seminoles in the Bahamas and Reverend Bertram A. Newton…Preacher, Teacher and Friend for excellent accounts of these very interesting people.
Chapter Fourteen—Of Buccaneers and Monsters
—Morgan’s Bluff still exists, but the legendary treasure has never been found.
—Stories are told to this day on Andros Island of the Chickchannies (sometimes called Chickcharnies) and the Bosee-Amasee. Obeah is still practiced in some of the islands of the Bahamas.
Chapter Sixteen—Nassau
—The Royal Victoria Hotel was an icon of Nassau in the 1800s. Grover Cleveland’s family were investors in the hotel, and his brother Fredrick was the manager until his death by shipwreck in 1872.
Chapter Seventeen—Emancipation Day
—This celebration is still observed. The Vendue building is now a museum. The cathedral exists generally as it did in 1888, as does the Government House.
—I urge my readers to lodge while in Nassau at my favorite place, the 260-year-old Graycliff Hotel (www.graycliff.com). And yes, that is the American way to spell “gray,” a sign of the times. Stay in the beautiful Woodes Rogers Room. Ask to see the wine cellar, which the U.S. Navy used as a brig when occupying Nassau during the Revolutionary War.
Chapter Eighteen—Quid Pro Quo
—“Perfidious Albion” is the English translation of the old derogatory French term from 1793
“Perfide Albion” about the British betrayal of the French Revolution. It was used into the turn of the twentieth century, most notably by Mussolini in 1935. Albion was the Greek name for Britain.
Chapter Twenty—Great Inagua
—Records show that Mr. McGregor had a distinguished career as a colonial administrator. His descendants are well regarded in the Bahamas.
—It is known that Admiral Popham was an acquaintance of Christophe and met with the king near the end of his reign, just before the admiral returned to England, where he died. Did Popham hide the king’s treasure? Very unlikely, but the legends of King Henri Christophe’s treasure still surface in the southern Bahamas. It has never been found, but the place is still known as Christophe’s Lagoon.
Chapter Twenty-Two—Navigating the Haitian Sea
—This body of water is no longer known as the Haitian Sea, but I possess an 1860 chart on which it is thus named.
—The smoke from the charcoal fires can still be seen when sailing by Haiti. Much of the forest in certain areas has been cut down to make the charcoal—a huge environmental and erosion problem for the country.
Chapter Twenty-Three—Mother of the Twins
—While researching this project, I made my way along the path below the cliffs of Pointe Picolet and saw the cave known as Gròt Manman Jimos yo. It is an eerie spot, full of voudou paraphernalia even today.
—Salomon’s lighthouse is still there. And frequently still dark.
—Loa, like Agwé and Kalfu, are still revered and feared, and very much a part of life for many in Haiti.
Chapter Twenty-Four—Chanm Mouri Nan
—I have seen the Chanm Mouri Nan. One brave man from my expeditionary party descended partly into the cavern, and quickly came back out. No dead body was there that day, but it’s a very ominous place.
Chapter Twenty-Five—Sólda Rouge
—Forts Picolet, St. Joseph, and Maydi still exist, and the cannon and mortars are still there. Evening voudou ceremonies are still performed at Fort Picolet each week in the ruins of the former commander’s quarters.
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