David scowled. "This is madness! How did he escape? Arriaga left him bound and under guard."
"Oui." Jacques shook his finger. "I tell them last night to search him thoroughly. He manages to conceal a blade smaller than the length of my little finger — see here, eh? He uses this blade to weaken his bonds while the attention of the guard wanders. He pretends to fall ill or be in pain. The guard comes close to investigate. Ssssslck." Jacques swept his forefinger across his throat. "Then he takes the guard's cutlass and runs for the deck. A man on deck spots him and sounds the alarm by firing a pistol. Another man tries to stop him. Ssssslck, two blows take off his arm and slice his neck. The assassin also kicks Tomás in the groin. Men converge on him, but even more menacing, Jacques le Coeuvre, warrior for Montcalm, charges him with his tomahawk." The Frenchman gestured out the port light. "Over the side the coward goes, into the water and the night. The captain should have hanged the cur last night."
"Uncle, don't remind Arriaga of your advice. He lost his bounty and two men. I'm sure he'd rather lose us."
Since the Portuguese were using the gig to tow the brig into deeper water, the travelers headed out. Forward on deck, they stood at the rail and squinted into orange sunrise warming their faces. Dawn trimmed the edges of cumulus with gold and rose, and a breeze played with the sails of the foremast and repaired mainmast. After the sailors climbed back aboard and stowed the gig alongside, the island of Great Abaco slipped into shadow behind them, its jungle still mottled with the gloom of early morning.
Sophie shielded her eyes and squinted westward. "Cuba is southwest. Why are we headed east?"
Jacques rested his elbows on the railing. "Perhaps the captain decided to go through the Bahamas, rather than to the west of the islands. Here he comes now. Ask him."
From amidships a somber-faced Arriaga headed their way, a rolled map in his hand. They waited in silence for him, and Sophie resisted squirming at the hollow look in his eyes. "You must be curious about our bearing. I plan to avoid much of the Gulf Stream by sailing through the Bahamas. Let me show you."
He unrolled the map and pointed with the forefinger of his other hand. "After we tack to south and clear Abaco, we head west, passing north of Eluthera. We continue south-southeast along the eastern side of the Andros Islands and round the southernmost of those islands. From there, with continued winds from the southeast, Havana lies almost straight west, and the trip takes but another day or two." He rolled up the map, tucked it beneath his arm, and looked east again.
Mathias pitched his tone low, gentle. "Thank you for updating us, capitão."
Arriaga studied the sunrise, his bearing formal. "I have been captain of the Gloria Maria for six years. Never have I lost a man at sea. At noon today, we will give Juan and Carlos to the Atlantic." He looked at Jacques. "Would that I had listened to you last night, Monsieur."
He walked away, his shoulders back and his head high, yet Sophie nevertheless felt him diminished. She regarded her companions. "Gentlemen, we have a ceremony to attend today at noon."
"Indeed." David's fist braced on the railing. "We certainly do."
Chapter Thirty
THE SWEET SCENT of tobacco carried in the morning breeze. Pipe in hand, Jacques sauntered forward to join Sophie. "My nephew is about to checkmate your brother."
"What's new? After the captain declined playing cards with David, he needed some mountain to climb."
"Chess is definitely not his mountain, but I admire his perseverance. It must be a St. James trait."
"Hah. I've persevered at little but eating and sleeping since Monday." She raised her arms overhead and stretched her ribcage for a few seconds. "Granted, four days of indolence feels delightful after two weeks of hell, but really, I've been quite dormant."
"Not so." Jacques puffed his pipe. "You are preoccupied."
Perplexity wound through her sigh. "I keep thinking about what David said in St. Augustine. Mathias found no sign that El Serpiente had an accomplice the morning he shot Hernandez, but how else could he have shot Hernandez and his horse from opposing directions? Even if he galloped past — bah!" She threw her hands up. "And how coincidental is it that Hernandez sent us to Luciano de Herrera, who sent us to Evans's Inn, where El Serpiente found us?"
"Let us leave the peculiarities of the shooting for a moment, for I admit that puzzles me, too. What does the incident at Evans's Inn suggest about Señor Herrera?"
"That he's a triple agent for the rebels, the Spaniards, and the Rightful Blood." Jacques smiled in agreement. "Gods, what lies he lives. And this Don Alejandro de Gálvez character." She flushed. "I've a certain fancy running through my bones about him, but it cannot be correct —"
"Non, non, trust your instincts. Tell me what you feel."
She hesitated. "Don Alejandro is an impersonator." She burst into laughter. "Absurd, isn't it?"
Jacques growled. "Why is it absurd?"
"The Gálvez wouldn't send anyone except a family member to so important a meeting because sending an impostor indicates they're playing games with the rebel couriers. That's hardly a display of trust from them."
The Frenchman dripped contempt into his voice. "Trust? Your thinking is as closed as that of a pig in Parliament."
"Then you believe Don Alejandro is an impersonator and the Gálvez are toying with the rebels? Spaniards! I cannot abide with such sneakiness. The idea makes no sense."
Jacques smoked his pipe with fury, and his eyes hardened. "Britons — fools! Ironic that they will not trust an honest native, but if a dishonest man extends what they consider civility to them, they will give him their very entrails.
"The French and Spanish may have spilled each other's blood, but we understand each other. After all Spain lost in America in the Treaty of Paris, after she just extinguished a rebellion in her colony in Peru, after Britain crushed the American rebels in Charles Town last month, do you think any Spaniard, let alone the great family Gálvez, would be quick to trust and support disorganized, slovenly, and irresponsible rebels?"
Sophie worked through the conclusions in her head. "You're suggesting that the Gálvez are testing the rebels, seeing if they're truly capable of following through with a critical task? And if the rebels persevered through extreme hardship to bring a bribe of emeralds, they'd be considered worthy?"
Jacques nodded to the horizon. "Worthy of Spain's alliance, oui, and the Gálvez would speak favorably of them to King Carlos." His eyes narrowed. "But the Gálvez would never send one of their own flesh and blood to such a meeting — non, not with the threat of Casa de la Sangre Legítima. They would send an impersonator." He looked back at her. "In all I have heard of the contemporary Gálvez, never have I heard mention of a family member named Alejandro."
"Zounds," she whispered. "Lieutenant Fairfax said as much."
Jacques thumped her on the back. "Well done."
In the background, she heard the cry of "Terra!" from a sailor on the mainmast, but she ignored it. Don Alejandro an impostor. Dazed, she rubbed her neck. "Would Don Antonio know?"
"Why not?" He pressed a finger to his lips signing silence.
Sophie spotted Arriaga headed their way. "He looks chipper. He's all but ignored us since we left Abaco."
Jacques grunted. "With certain feminine exceptions."
"Bom dia, and good news, my passengers! Paulo aloft has spotted Cuba."
Sophie comprehended the captain's convivial spirits. By noon, he'd be rid of an evil-omened set of passengers. She shifted around to peer forward. No sign yet of the Pearl of the Antilles, as Columbus had labeled Cuba.
Mathias and David joined them forward — David's expression glum, Mathias's neutral. Arriaga clapped David on the shoulder and steered him for the railing. "Chess was never my game, either, senhor, but look to port, and within a quarter hour, you will have forgotten the tournament."
David's eyebrows rose. "Cuba?"
"Sim. With this fine wind, we will arrive in La Habana by noon." A fist on his hip, Arriaga ste
pped back and allowed Mathias room. "I know the city well. I can recommend a decent inn." He eyed Jacques from head to toe. "Or a tailor."
"We brought a change of clothing."
"Ah, good." He smiled at Sophie.
She smiled in exchange. "Except for a black veil. I've been told women wear them in New Spain, and I hardly had time before my departure to consult a clothier in St. Augustine."
"Calle O'Reilly is filled with tailors." Arriaga switched his gaze to David. "And your destination in La Habana?"
"The Church of Saint Teresa."
"Ah. La Iglesia y Convento de Santa Teresa de Jesús is east of Plaza del Cristo, midway along Calle Brasil at Compostela. You will find it a beautiful monastery, built by the Carmelites at the beginning of this century." His study of David grew shrewd. "But surely you did not make this voyage just to visit a monastery?"
"We've a meeting with Don Antonio Hernandez. Do you know where to find him?"
Surprise flooded Arriaga's expression before he could conceal it. He moistened his lips with his tongue. "You should have no problems locating the chief assistant to the royal treasurer. During the day, he works in the house of the Marqués de Arcos, near Castillo de la Real Fuerza. Any volanta driver will know where to find his home, not far from the monastery."
"Thank you, capitão."
"Let me know if I may be of further assistance." Arriaga inclined his head before bustling off amidships.
When the captain was out of earshot, David grinned at Sophie. "We dress like rustics, are chased by Spanish assassins, the redcoats, and the Continentals, and plan to visit the royal treasurer's assistant in Havana. Arriaga doesn't know what to make of us."
"Our truth is stranger than anyone's fiction."
She took the opportunity then to explain her hunch about Don Alejandro. They based their primary plan of action on their most logical expectations. If they saw no sign of the Annabelle, the Zealot, or the Continental frigate, Jacques, David, and Sophie would locate Don Antonio and turn over his nephew's emeralds to him while Mathias booked their passage back on a ship headed for the Colonies. They'd rendezvous at the city gates at four to look for decent lodgings. David and Jacques insisted on staying at least one night to partake of Havana.
They discussed strategies in case they spotted the Zealot or discovered that the Annabelle, the Continentals, or the assassins had preceded them to Havana. Then, because the northern coastline of Cuba was visible off the forward port side, they packed up their belongings below, changed clothing, and transferred all the emeralds into Jacques's saddlebags.
Sophie emerged first back on deck. In her shift, jacket, and petticoat, she headed forward and shaded herself from the sun with the parasol. Arriaga met her and unfolded a delicate black lace veil. "Please, you make use of this, senhora."
"Oh, no, I cannot. It's much too costly, and besides, your wife will miss it."
Conspiracy crept into his smile. "My wife?" She glanced away, flushing. The Mediterranean bred sorcerers for charm. "It is worn thus." He draped lace over her head, down her back, and across her torso, avoiding snagging it on the parasol. Appraisal swelled in his eyes when he finished. "Sublime and exquisite."
"Thank you." From the veil arose the scent of cedar and a fainter, exotic essence like that from Ceylonese floral gardens. The veil most certainly hadn't belonged to a sea captain's wife.
He fondled lace near her throat, his expression sober. "Spaniards have ever been too senseless to suspect lovely ladies of espionage."
"Espionage?" Her laugh didn't sound at all convincing.
"I know nothing, senhora." He lifted her free hand to his lips and, with impeccable timing, released her, bowed, and left ahead of Mathias's arrival.
Mathias took in her appearance. "Lovely." He leaned forward, brushed her lips with his, and paraphrased the second cipher: "The woman in the black veil awaits you in the Church of Saint Teresa."
She fingered the veil. "A parting gift from Arriaga."
"Beware the serpent." His eyes twinkled, and he stroked the veil. "And do inform me if the good captain tries to fit you with more intimate apparel."
During the final hour of the voyage, Cuba swelled from a smudge on the horizon into a formidable land of mountains, jungle, rolling hills, and white beaches. Sunlight sparkled on wavelets, fair-weather cumulus dotted the azure sky, and a southeastern breeze held steady, speeding them onward. In the end, the Gloria Maria sailed past fishing and merchant ships and a Spanish warship before rounding the headland where Castillo de los Tres Reyes de Morro squatted on guard. After saluting the fort with cannon and swivel gun, the brig slid into a channel, entrance to Bahía de la Habana.
Off the starboard sat Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta, guardian at the city walls. Sophie had heard that each night, when the city gates closed, the Spaniards pulled a heavy chain up across the channel between the two castillos, thus sealing the entrance to the harbor. She imagined enemy ships sunk in crossfire between the two castillos. The city walls, made of rock from the surrounding hills, were five feet thick and thirty feet high and still bore scars from British cannon bombardment in 1762.
As the brig sailed farther into the harbor, Sophie stared in amazement, for an enormous fortress loomed on the cliff to port less than half a mile east of Castillo de Morro: Castillo de San Carlos de la Cabaña, built following the British invasion during the Old French War. All the castillos represented Spain's most powerful defense complex in the New World. Erected to guard treasures plundered from the Aztecs and Incas, they made the Castillo de San Marcos and the walls of St. Augustine look like a child's model.
And how did St. Augustine compare to Havana? Sophie peered again at the city walls, this time through masts and spars of ships lining the harbor. Even thirty feet high, the walls couldn't block her view of bell towers from dozens of iglesias, roofs of nobles' palacios, and a multitude of royal palm trees. Havana must rival Boston and Philadelphia in population. In comparison, St. Augustine looked like Alton.
Even from without the city, she felt the way Havana beckoned to them with dark-lashed eyes and lush lips, despite the meter imposed on Spaniards' lives by the Catholic Church. And she imagined that Havana, gateway to both sanctity and sin, groaned with ghosts of enslaved aboriginals and Negroes who had been extinguished beneath the rapacity of the Spaniards. Fascination rippled through her at the thought of setting foot in such a city, and she saw her own wonder reflected on the faces of David and Mathias. Jacques's expression was one of recognition and satisfaction.
The harbor tangle of merchant and fishing vessels diademed by screeching seagulls included three Spanish warships in desperate need of cleaning and structural repairs, and two French warships in better condition — but no Continental frigate. Neither did the travelers spot the Annabelle — although they might have missed a sloop in all the congestion. The Zealot wouldn't have risked venturing into Havana's nautical traffic. Sophie experimented with breathing easier, but instinct nagged her not to relax.
Arriaga awaited them when they debarked, humidity and searing sun not fazing him in the slightest. He shook hands with the three men and dropped a wistful kiss on Sophie's hand. When she folded the parasol and tried to return it, he insisted that she keep it.
David sidled up to her and pointed to the parasol after they walked away from the brig. "Something else to remember dear old Miguel by."
She smiled and reopened the parasol. A thoughtful something it was, too.
Chapter Thirty-One
LOCKED IN COMBAT over a dead fish, a cat, rat, and seagull created a flurry of activity without equal among the humans on the wharf. In Havana's heat and humidity, mañana was the motto for sailors; tomorrow I'll paint, make the repair, unload cargo.
Outside warehouses near the city gates, whores solicited sailors. Sophie's nose quivered, detecting stenches far less savory than seawater, fish, and tar. A cacophony of church bells erupted from within city walls, pealing the noon hour.
While a white-co
ated gate guard roved a sleepy glance over them, Jacques spun a fictional account of their business. Waved through the gates by the guard's yawning partner, the trio carried their gear into a world dappled yellow-green. Bougainvillea proliferated everywhere, as did almond, Poinciana, and royal palm trees, filtering the harsh sunlight, capering it off baroque exteriors of buildings and their stained-glass ventrales of blue, red, and yellow. Birds fluttered among branches and bell towers.
Sophie took a deep breath and coughed, her taste buds violated by the stenches of mildew, excrement, and putrefaction. David grimaced, fanned his face, and guided her around a dog carcass. But Jacques grinned with familiarity. "Ah, Havana, she smells like Paris!"
"Look out!" David yanked the enraptured Frenchman from the avenida to avoid his being trampled by a volanta racing over the cobblestones. The lightweight carriage of a Spanish noble, steered by a liveried Negro on horseback, clattered north. "They drive worse here than in New York. Watch where you walk."
Sophie stepped away from goat turds. "An excellent idea."
Two more volantas zoomed past before a volanta for hire rolled to a stop before them. The driver, a Spaniard, tipped his hat. "Buenas tardes, señores y señora. ¿A donde van?"
David nodded. "Estamos buscando a Don Antonio Hernandez." Over her shoulder, Sophie glimpsed Arriaga striding for the gates and waving off the approach of several whores.
"Ah, sí, señor." The driver dismounted and reached for their gear. "No problema, no problema. Vamos primero a la casa del Marqués de Arcos."
"Un momento." Jacques elbowed David aside with a growl for the driver. "¿Cuánto?"
David backed away next to Sophie. "Let Uncle Jacques haggle a rate for us on the king's pence." Arriaga entered the city. "Capitão, would you care to share the fare for a volanta?" In the background, discussion heated between Jacques and the driver.
Interest raised Arriaga's eyebrows. "You are headed for La Iglesia de la Santa Teresa, then?"
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 24
