And so the story of the taking of Luna tumbled out; the treachery of Cabarone and the courage of the emissaries and, of course, the gunpowder floating barely three cable lengths away. At this Davies’ eyebrows shot up and Kinis shifted nervously. But there was more, of course, for some two hundred Spanish seamen and officers were locked below decks on Luna, guarded by twenty English sailors, and something must be done with them soon.
Davies’ mind instantly sprang into action. “Captain Kinis, please send a detachment of marines to Luna immediately to secure the ship against any foolishness. I will make arrangements with General Maitland on shore to receive the Spaniards and turn them over to Louverture, for he has relations with Spanish Santo Domingo on the eastern side of the island. They can be his damned problem.”
“There are two Cuban top men among the prisoners,” said Beauty. “One of my men can identify them for you. They’ve volunteered to join Rascal’s crew, Admiral, and Nico will be glad to have them. Pray leave them but be sure to take Capitán Cabarone, who is guarded in his cabin.”
Kinis immediately left to organize the marines, and Davies now asked a very obvious question. “And what of Captain Fallon, Beauty? When can we expect him?”
“He sent me on with the gunpowder and prisoners as quickly as possible while he took off the emissaries and endeavored to make them comfortable. He was particularly worried about the señora, as she looked distressed by the excitement and he wanted Colquist, the surgeon, nearby. She’s pregnant, you see.”
IN THE EVENT, it was early afternoon when Rascal hove into view and dropped anchor just as the last of the Spanish sailors and officers had been taken off Luna and rowed to shore. In short order, Fallon joined Beauty in Davies’ cabin and, after the warmest of greetings from the admiral, Fallon reported on his voyage thus far. He began with the battle against the little wolves, as Aja had called them, and the odd captain in a cleric’s vestments. Davies only smiled knowingly. Then Fallon moved on to his interviews with Cabarone and, most important, the Garóns. Davies was all attention, occasionally rubbing his chin and asking a clarifying question.
“Allow me to familiarize you with the situation in the rest of the Caribbean relative to Cuba,” Davies said after Fallon had finished. “Your mission will involve you in these affairs in a limited aspect, but I know you both well enough to know that you follow events where they may lead. So better to lay it all out as best I can.”
Fallon and Beauty leaned forward in their chairs, all attention now that their “intelligence” mission was to be put in a broader context.
“You know, of course, that Saint-Domingue has been called the Pearl of the Antilles because it has always been the wealthiest of all the colonies. Sugarcane is France’s cash crop, and it puts clothes on the backs of her soldiers and food in the bellies of her sailors. But since the successful slave rebellion in ’91, led by Toussaint Louverture, the sugarcane production on the island has dropped dramatically. The freed slaves are choosing subsistence farming over the hardships of working in the cane fields, even for wages, and France is losing millions of francs annually. It is rumored that Bonaparte, who is growing more powerful than ever in France, may push to re-establish slavery in the colonies!”
“Good God!” exclaimed Fallon, for that would be a dramatic reversal of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité! that could well set off slave rebellions throughout the French colonies in the Caribbean.
“Meanwhile,” Davies continued, “Spain has moved to bolster its own sugarcane production in Cuba and take up the slack left by Saint-Domingue. Consequently, Spain’s importation of Africans into Cuba has grown by the thousands. In some Cuban ports the average price for a strong male is over thirty-five pounds sterling!”
Fallon and Beauty gasped. No wonder the slavers were jammed with kidnapped Africans, and no wonder their ships were being preyed upon. Only gold, silver, or guns would be more valuable cargo.
“I believe the little wolves, as Aja called them, are pirates taking slavers; they are not the only ones, of course, but they are the best organized and likely the most successful because they are voracious,” said Davies. “And the most far ranging. They are commanded by a rogue priest known as the Holy One, a man who defiles his religion. He is Spanish but attacks Spanish slavers, as well as any other, from here to Bermuda and west to Cuba’s doorstep. Wharton brought intelligence from London that Spain was dispatching at least one frigate, maybe two, to bring the situation under control and to protect Spanish slavers and Cuban ports. That’s the commitment Spain has to slavery and sugarcane, by God!”
Davies was thus reminded of the intelligence agent, likely still below deck in his cabin. “Here, steward!” he called. The steward opened the cabin door immediately, ready as always for just such a summons. “Please give my compliments to Mr. Wharton and, if he is not still indisposed, ask him to join us for dinner.”
When the steward had left, Davies asked Fallon to invite the Garóns to dinner as well. Aja left to fetch the emissaries in the gig and, meanwhile, Davies summoned the cook to lay on something special for dinner. And to open wine, lots of wine, for this was their last night together for a long time.
ELEVEN
JAMES WHARTON was certainly a remarkable looking fellow, tall with a shock of brilliant white hair. The hair was the only thing that gave his age away; his bright blue eyes had the look of a younger man, as did his lean build and erect posture. In fact, Wharton was at least fifty but, with a hat, could have passed for much younger.
After some perfunctory small talk and Davies’ lovely toast to the Garóns’ good health, and their child’s, the steward brought out several fresh fowl that he’d purchased ashore as well as potatoes, a lamb stew, and various cheeses. The meal went well enough, helped by the Garóns’ ability to speak English quite well and, by the time they’d arrived at pudding and port, they had shared their story with the table. Wharton, in particular, had listened raptly.
“And you are a doctor of physic, Señor, I believe?” said Wharton to Doctor Garón. Doctors were several rungs above mere surgeons in skill and medical knowledge, though they often practiced surgery.
“Yes, trained in Spain. My wife is a dressmaker in Havana. Or was,” said Garón.
“If I may be so bold,” Señora Garón asked Wharton, “can you tell us anything of your mission to our country?”
“Yes, of course, Señora,” answered Wharton. “First, let me assure you on one point: Great Britain’s interest in Cuba is to promote independence from Spain, not to occupy the country again. Granted, promoting Cuba’s independence is in Great Britain’s self-interest, for it would weaken one of our enemies. And, in truth, the Admiralty feels that an independent Cuba could also be a valuable trading partner. But my mission is to find a group or an individual we might support in a quest for independence. Nothing more.”
There was a noticeable pause at the table, and Fallon looked at Señora Garón closely, trying to judge whether she believed Wharton. The señora looked at Wharton a long moment before replying.
“Thank you, Mr. Wharton,” she said quietly. “I appreciate your candor and directness. Self-interest can be tolerated when it’s in the open. In fact, it would seem our interests might be aligned. We want to see a free and independent Cuba as well. But our visit to Spain has convinced us that diplomacy will do little to make independence a reality. We are amateurs at this and, as we have no army and no weapons, I fear we have no chance.”
That logic was certainly hard to argue with, and no one tried. The steward swept the dishes away silently, and more port was poured. Fallon had listened to the exchange between Señora Garón and Wharton and was simultaneously trying to nurture an idea into something comprehensible.
“A question, if I may, Doctor and Señora Garón,” he began tentatively. “And I do not mean to be impolite or impolitic in asking it, but it may have some bearing on our conversation. Do you have a position, moral or political, on Cuban slavery?”
Doctor Garón, who ha
d been silent for some time, burst forth animatedly. “It is abominable, sir! I have been called upon to attempt to save the lives of many slaves, slaves who have been tortured and used wretchedly by their owners, so I know firsthand the cruelty of this curse on humankind. Hundreds come to Cuba daily from Africa, but hundreds must surely die daily as well.”
“Slavery is a thief that steals dreams,” said Señora Garón softly. “I can think of nothing else to say.”
“There is nothing else to say, Señora,” said Fallon in barely a whisper. And then he looked around the table as he spoke. “There may be an army in Cuba that we are not considering. An army that thirsts for liberation as badly as any Cuban alive. To date, I believe the slave rebellion on Saint-Domingue is the only successful such uprising in the Caribbean. No doubt there are many reasons for that success, but surely one would be a passionate and determined leader in Toussaint Louverture. Could such a person be in Cuba now? For surely word of the Saint-Domingue success has spread among the slaves there and may be inspiration for the minor rebellions we have heard of.”
“You are very perceptive, Captain Fallon,” said Wharton, his blue eyes twinkling. “Indeed, a massive slave rebellion would be capital! But we must remember that Spain maintains something of an army in Cuba, however ragtag it might be, and however short of gunpowder it might now be, thanks to you, sir! The army would be called upon to put down any slave rebellion that might be seen as threatening. Still, it is an interesting thought.”
Davies rose to retrieve a chart from his desk and unrolled it upon the table, anchoring the corners with port glasses. “Perhaps, as you imply, Captain Fallon, freedom is contagious; see on the chart how Saint-Domingue reaches her arm out to Cuba, as if to lead the way. A successful slave rebellion in Cuba could be the first step in independence from Spain.”
“Why do you say that, Admiral?” asked Señora Garón, alert for anything that would open the door to independence.
“I only have the example of Saint-Domingue, Señora,” answered Davies. “I believe Louverture must be at least considering declaring Saint-Domingue’s independence from France, for he is certainly acting independently.”
Here Wharton chimed in. “And I have it on good authority that Louverture intends to sign trade treaties with both the United States and Great Britain.” He said this confidentially, even conspiratorially, and all at the table felt a whiff of intrigue.
Fallon was astounded. If a French colony openly traded with England, it would make France apoplectic! And it was doubtful the French government would stand for it. Louverture would have to be very careful how he played his cards, or he would wake up one morning to find a French squadron leveling its guns at his little island.
Fallon looked around the cabin and saw the Garóns deep in thought; well, much had happened to them in a very short period of time. And their eyes had been opened to the nefarious ways of secret agents and revolutionary ideas and strategies. No doubt they were at a loss as to what would become of their country. Or themselves.
“Tell me, Doctor and Señora Garón,” Fallon offered, “assuming it is not safe to go home to Havana, at least at the moment, where do you want to go? I can attempt to land you anywhere you desire.”
“That is very kind of you, Captain Fallon,” said Doctor Garón. “My wife and I have been discussing whether it is safe for us anywhere in Cuba at this time. With the baby coming, we cannot take a chance. Admiral Davies, may we presume to accompany you to Antigua? It might be best for us to be out of Cuba until the birth of our child.”
Davies, of course, readily agreed, even offering to help Doctor Garón secure a position at the naval hospital at English Harbor. Suffice it to say, the Garóns were overwhelmed at this unexpected kindness.
“And tell me, Mr. Wharton,” Fallon said, “where would you like to be landed in Cuba?”
“I have been talking to Admiral Davies, and, while I had intended to land in Santiago, I should prefer instead to be set ashore in Matanzas and make my way to Havana and back, to be picked up in one month, if convenient.” Fallon responded that it would be quite convenient, and the dinner party began to break up.
The Garóns were to shift their things to the flagship in the morning, as the little fleet intended to sail for Antigua with the British soldiers before noon. That settled, Davies called for Fallon’s gig to take his dinner party back to Rascal.
As they were rowed across the harbor, Fallon looked at the sad-eyed and erstwhile diplomats whose only crime was loyalty to Cuba. And for that they might never go home. He looked beyond the Garóns to Luna, her outline visible against the sky, and considered the store of gunpowder in her holds. Suddenly, there was the familiar tingle on his arm, the hair getting up, anticipating the idea that was just now forming in his mind. It might be possible. Might.
Fallon’s plan was to act against the Spanish, first and foremost, more or less within the context of his mission for Davies. But perhaps the plan might also help the Garóns return to Cuba after their baby was born, without fear of arrest.
But to do that, he would have to kill them first.
TWELVE
AT DAWN the next morning, Beauty and Fallon came aboard Avenger to say good-bye to Davies—and to present the idea Fallon had been mulling all night. They were shown to the great cabin, where the admiral and Kinis were reviewing their own plans to get underway. The last of the British soldiers on Saint-Domingue had all been taken off and were aboard the three British ships in the harbor.
Fallon laid out his idea to strike a blow for Great Britain and to help the Garóns in the bargain. It was a typical Fallon plan, long on daring and surprise but short on details. Well, at sea you never knew. Davies listened to the idea with a mix of respect and amusement. Respect, because it really was a very good idea to show Spain that Britain’s reach extended to Havana. Amusement, because Fallon cared so little for profit that he was willing to sacrifice a perfectly good and valuable prize to do it.
It was true that Davies was employing Fallon and his crew—paying them handsomely—to transport Wharton to Matanzas and back. And Havana was no great way past Matanzas. But Davies also knew it was Fallon’s particular joy to beard the enemy, and he was only acting in character.
By noon most of the gunpowder had been transferred from Luna to Avenger, leaving ten barrels aboard the Spanish brig. Kinis and Davies waved to Rascal while leaving the harbor, and slowly the three stout Royal Navy ships sailed west, eventually to tack south and then east for English Harbor. The Garóns stood near the foremast on Avenger, bound for a new life.
Soon after the navy ships had sailed, Luna and Rascal were both off to the northwest. It was a sparkling day, the sun high and warm, and there was a humble breeze from the east. Fallon stood at the taffrail on Luna with James Wharton, who had asked to be conveyed to Cuba on the brig because of its less lively motion.
“Tell me, sir,” asked Fallon, “how does one become an intelligence agent, if that is what you are called?”
“Well, I have been called many things,” laughed Wharton in response, his blue eyes twinkling. “The service is simply something I fell into by chance. I knew someone who, it turned out, was an agent for the British government, and he more or less recruited me. I think he saw an unremarkable face that could come and go without being remembered!”
Now it was Fallon’s turn to laugh. He liked this man, his unassuming way, his quiet intelligence.
“I would think, rather, he saw a keen mind that was clever in the extreme,” said Fallon. “But tell me something of yourself; that is, if you’re allowed to.”
“Certainly,” replied Wharton without a trace of hesitation, as if eager to reveal things he could confide in someone who could become a friend as a result. “I was born in London, actually, but my mother was unwed, at least at the time. And I was put in an orphanage. I only found out about all this much later, of course. I vaguely remember being unhappy there, was never adopted, and I ran off before I was ten. I lived on the streets
, begging and stealing food and doing what I had to do to keep my little tummy full. I was in and out of trouble with the man on the beat from time to time as well.”
“It sounds like a recipe for becoming a clever intelligence man, I must say.”
“Yes, I suppose it does. My fortunes turned when a very kind woman caught me pinching her purse. Rather than turn me in, she took me in. She gave me dinner and a good talking to and made me promise to give up my street ways. She, in turn, would take care of me and send me to school. I didn’t have to think long about that, I can tell you. It was winter in London and snowing outside and she had a very warm house!”
“A warm heart, as well, I collect.”
“Yes, a warm heart,” replied Wharton, with a distant look in his eyes. “Anyway, I lived in her house and went to school like a normal boy for once in my life. I did chores for her, house cleaning and the like, and at night we would read together until I could read on my own.”
“Is she still alive, then?”
“No, no, she passed away before I turned eighteen. Consumption. It nearly killed me, and I was very prepared to go back to living by my wits when a magistrate said I now owned the house, everything in it, and a small annuity to keep the wolf from the door. I had no idea, of course, no idea at all. But she had always treated me as her own, like a mum.”
There was a silence between them now, Fallon not knowing what to say. Wharton’s childhood had been so different from his own, and yet here they were, placed by fate on the stern of the same ship.
“A few months later,” Wharton continued, “the magistrate brought by some documents to sign to clean up things. He’d gone to the trouble to go through her private papers and found a letter that she’d left for me before she died. You can imagine I was heartbroken to hold it in my hands, for she really had been my savior. I read the letter, which told of her own childhood, growing up poor like me, but pretty enough that the lads took notice. She’d become pregnant by one of them, who promptly ran off on her. She panicked, and when the baby came she gave the child up for adoption and ran off herself. She met a man in Ireland, someone kind, and they married. In a few years, he moved them to London for his job. Something to do with textiles, I believe. When he died he left her well off and there it would have ended except I came along and tried to lift her purse. She said she knew immediately who I was, the way a mother bear knows her cub, but was too humiliated because of what she’d done to ever tell me. So, she took me in instead and treated me as if I were her own—which, of course, I was.”
The Black Ring Page 6