When Spittle opened his mouth, Pinkerton was already looking at him, as was the clerk, who had furtively indicated to the detective from the United States that his English counterpart was behaving in an abnormal manner.
"Mr. Pinkerton..." began Spittle hoarsely. He turned full around, seeing Pinkerton with glazed eyes, his head still only inches from the confident portrait of George Bidwell. "The Frenchman, sir..." Spittle trailed off.
The noise that Pinkerton made was matched a moment later by Spittle, but both, as the clerk later attested, seemed "very put out," and Mr. Pinkerton's fist, he would have sworn, had cracked the edge of the office desk. Pinkerton actually said something quite different, but history records the words, spoken at a volume remembered to have been penetrating, as "Damn him!"
§
Toward the end of the first week of March, Austin Bidwell, without Elizabeth—who preferred the tranquillity of Havana's civilization—departed by one of Cuba's only railways to San Felipe, from which he and his friends Don Andrez and Don Alvarez, with a wealthy Savannah-born American named Gray, took horses on to the southern seaport town of Cajfo.
It became obvious to Austin, judging from the reactions of the town's inhabitants, that his self-effacing, humorous and loyal friend Don Andrez was treated by all who came under his auspices as a person of great distinction.
The eastern part of Cuba—Santiago and Puerto Principe, together with Pinar del Rio, to the extreme west—was held by rebels who were determined to fight for "Cuba Libre"—to create a national state from Spanish oppression. As Austin and his party passed through the port of La Playa de Batabano, evidence of the insurgents' abilities was disgustingly apparent. It was the other aspect of colonial occupation. Houses had been burned and bodies left to rot; a massacre had been committed in the name of freedom, and it had taken a week for the Spanish authorities to hunt down the terrifying band of rebels who had marched inland, burning houses, killing the landowners and calling upon slaves to join their cause.
At San Marcos, Spanish soldiers had shown no quarter to the enlarged group they eventually surrounded. The desperate fight ended in a government victory and butchery, for which the legions of Spain, in any century, have always been infamous. The ashes of fires kindled to consume the bodies of the slain and mutilated gave pause to Austin and the entire party, and each reflected upon private thoughts thus stimulated. For Austin, the power and ruthlessness of authority had never been more clearly illustrated. His shiver caused Don Andrez to laugh at his dear American friend's concern and reassure him that he would always be protected by the elite amongst Cuba's aristocracy, of whom he— Austin—was now a warmly accepted member.
The twinkle in Don Andrez' eyes stirred Austin's instincts and he smiled his appreciation with a steady look, which Don Andrez held without flinching.
"It is terrible" said Austin.
"It is history, my friend," replied Don Andrez, "which cannot be concealed." His amusement had nothing whatsoever to do with the scene before them. Austin became uncomfortable.
"There are some of us who would prefer that the past retain its mysteries," he said slowly.
Don Andrez, leaning from his horse, clapped Austin about the shoulders and said conspiratorially, "Good feelings between men are bigger than their bad histories, and all of us, my friend, have something"—he paused, indicating the ashes with a gesture, his eyes unwaveringly on Austin—"something we might wish as easily buried."
To Austin, as the private moment held between them, it seemed that Don Andrez read his mind and saw everything. His eyes fell, and Don Andrez roared with laughter, warm and truly reassuring.
"Come, my American friend," he said—then, softly, "with the English suits.''
He turned to the maudlin group surrounding the pyres and pressed his horse into a canter, making off toward the dense tree line ahead.
"You are women," he bellowed, laughing over his shoulder. The party's hearty shouts of rebuttal accompanied them as they did Don Andrez, into the silent tropical forest.
It took the rest of the day before they emerged from the thick vegetation into a balmy Caribbean sunset.
The party came out onto a white sand beach. Their horses pawed, nostrils flared against the sea breeze of evening. Palm trees spread far along the shore; coral reefs lay beyond dashing foam that edged blue water.
In the distance, small islets were topped by more palms which lazily swayed in the moving air; glowing colors on the horizon were a background to magenta-and-gold clouds which, with Promethean skill, became substance and form to the imaginings of all the party, who, now hushed—still as Medusa's victims—sought to catch last rays of warmth before the sun finally dipped beneath an ocean as azure as was, high above these men, the sky's zenith.
Suddenly, as in the tropics it will, the sun was gone and twilight shrouded them all. Don Andrez took out his pocket watch, declared the hour and indicated with a laugh to the still mesmerized men that in twenty minutes they would be at the great mansion whose oil lamps could now be seen farther up the coast. There they would rest.
The party moved off along the darkening beach, their talk and laughter quickly lost across a great expanse of ocean to their left and into the dark tropical forest on their right. Horses' hoofprints, dogs' paws and slaves' bare feet in the sand marked the trail until at first purple shadows, then sea foam, brought higher onto the shore with a night wind, searched for, found, obscured, then obliterated the only evidence that man had passed by.
§
On the north shore of Cuba, in the harbor of Havana, a ship that had just beaten the sunset gun was already unloading cargo and with it New York papers, containing newly cabled headlines from Great Britain as a result of the discovery in London that Frederick Albert Warren was the name of a man wanted by the Bank of England throughout the world.
§
Several days later, on an open-decked ship, the group from Havana, with twenty black slaves, four turtles, hunting dogs, fighting cocks and a large snake that had the run of the vessel, set out into the Gulf of Matamano, on a sea that was so clear, over a white sand bottom that was so brilliant, it appeared to Austin Bidwell that they were flying. This impression was further confirmed by the hot sun and numerous tots of port which, despite the midmorning hour, were served to all from casks broached by colored slaves.
Those who were not required to work the passage of the ship lay on deck and peered down at the teeming marine life with a wonder akin to that of childhood. A fine sea breeze filled sails set by an excellent captain, and rushed the vessel through the water at a great rate. The seventy miles to the pier of San Jose" was interrupted only once (flocks of sea birds had risen excitedly on their arrival), when the ship lay to for an hour at the uninhabited islet of Cayos de Tana, where turtle eggs were sought and found.
In the twilight of a glorious day, Don Andrez' ship ran slowly alongside the small town's jetty, and the group disembarked on the Isle of Pines, to a wonderful welcome; shouts, cheers, songs and gunshots went up into the soft evening air from almost one hundred gaudily clad slaves.
Their uninhibited joy was perhaps aided by rum, liberally distributed—a gift of the caretakers who ran Don Andrez' local plantations; also fact was that the only day "free" for slaves was Sunday. Nonetheless—as Austin observed without cynicism—there was as much natural as stimulated excitement amongst the assembly in celebration that their master, the island's Caesar, had returned with his friends.
§
The two weeks Austin remained on that island were perhaps the best of his life; yet still, a small part of his mind prompted unwanted memories of Europe, England; more exactly, the Bank in Threadneedle Street and specifically, created images of Colonel Francis, Fenwick, George, Mac and Edwin Noyes. Only these thoughts, which came especially during long morning swims within the safety of enclosing reefs and occasionally to disturb a night's sleep, sullied an otherwise idyllic situation: shark fishing far out on the ocean by day; tipping turtles on the moonlit sa
nd in the evening; the never-ending spectacular battles between fighting cocks at the village pits; hunting game in the jungle; by night carousing over exquisite dinners, prepared and served in the huge Spanish-style dining room, as if for ambassadors in a palace.
Cigars, brandy and eventual sleep came often, for all the group engaged in animated, then philosophic, conversation, lying in woven-grass hammocks swinging gently beneath the roof of a long patio that fronted onto the southern ocean. Watching phosphorescent waves rippling and breaking on the beach under the light of a full moon, listening to distant childlike songs of the colored slaves (allowed their freedom of the estate, for which their loyalty and love were now obvious),
Austin felt almost totally at ease. Almost.
As his final night on the Isle of Pines passed through the late evening into the early morning of the following day, stories from dinner mixed in Austin's mind with anxieties for the morrow; he had decided to sail back to Cajio, to meet, at a rendezvous, his servant from Havana, whom he had instructed before leaving to carry with him pistols and a rifle, as an excuse to bring all the American papers of the past weeks.
The world outside the Isle of Pines would have news for Austin, he felt sure, and he wanted to know just how much of a furor he had caused, and to what extent he was involved, albeit with an alias. He had plans to construct, and they all depended on news. Before his eyes closed on a last, dream-filled sleep, he remembered Cayos de Tana and the turtle eggs, unearthed from the sand, found, heaven knew how, by the colored boys; then images of the poor turtles staked out in a shallow pond near the island house came into his mind, their soulful eyes staring up at his—prisoners, to be devoured at will. As it was custom, Austin was unable to complain, but he had been sickened by the helplessness of these magnificent creatures from another age, out of a tropic sea.
"Man's homage to his own stomach," he had said after dinner, "will destroy us all, eventually." His remark prompted a humorous but cautionary story from Don An-drez' manager, Senor Mondago. As Austin looked across at the tropical forest fringing the long curve of bay, Mondago's story took on a significance to him. He looked above the delicately swaying palm trees and stared into darkness beyond, where hills and valleys concealed the raw, harsh existence of thick jungle.
"A missionary," Senor Mondago had related to his expectant audience, "who arrived on an island much like this in the South Seas inquired of the 'boss cannibal gentleman' where his predecessor might be sojourning. He was promptly informed," continued Mondago, with mock seriousness, "that he had 'gone into the interior.' " The group laughed loud and long, Austin included, then; but later, thinking of a strange shore, seeing the dark forest, he felt a chill in his bones and blood, despite the warmth of friends, their hospitality and the luxuries that accompanied civilization.
Austin had been suddenly flooded with disturbing premonitions. For a moment humor was replaced, and he knew the fear of that missionary in the story. The apprehension that stirred in his mind was never more strong and, as events proved, never more justified.
These thoughts had been dispelled by Don Andrez, who had then mentioned that although it was not the season, the local inhabitants predicted a hurricane. About such things, he'd said, he was skeptical, but the old man concerned had been brought to him and was adamant, in which case, he had decided, with his whole plantation at stake and, he continued with laughter, his friends' well-being to watch over, it was a warning that "might well brook some consideration."
All at the table had observed Don Andrez* seriousness a moment; all agreed he was right. They had then risen from their dinner and with much humor repaired to the long patio.
§
A resolute, trustworthy and devoted servant is rare; Austin was lucky. As his ship nosed toward the little bay of Cajio, he could see the man he had instructed in Havana waiting for him, then, catching sight of his master, wave enthusiastically. It was almost sunset when Austin set foot again on the mainland of Cuba.
A letter from Elizabeth told him that all was well at home and became, toward the end, a loving plea that Austin return as soon as he was able. His feelings toward his lady in Havana were as hers, and suddenly he longed to be with her. The New York papers confirmed to Austin the direction in which he must travel.
At Don Andrez's hacienda near the beach, by the light from an oil lamp, in the twilight of a tropical island, Austin Bidwell began to read with amazement of the storm brewing in Europe over the Great Bank of England Fraud, of Edwin Noyes's untimely arrest and his incarceration and of the world-wide hunt for the mysterious F. A. Warren.
Then, worst of all, the paper stated, in two editions, that the Pinkertons, who were working on the case in "exclusivity," had discovered the true name to this obviously
"false alias," Warren. No details would be released at this date, it went on, as it was felt the culprit might well be "utilizing" his real name, and therefore be unknowing of the imminent arrest "now expected." "Our reporter has been reliably informed, by an English detective, working on the more trivial details of the case, that the first two letters of the alphabet might well be identical to those of the villain's initials."
Mr. "A.B." put down this latest edition and momentarily felt the unfamiliar sensation of total panic, as if the whole world knew the mystery and were looking at him alone. Then Austin's mind began to dissect the information, coldly. Now he knew plans must be made—and quickly.
He was fortunate to be alone, because he was unable to speak for several hours. He lay on his bed, as the twilight turned to darkness outside, watching insects endlessly circling the oil lamp on the bedside table. The wind in the palms of this remote place slowly picked up, until rustling in the vegetation had become a steady noise, as if it were the murmurings of a great crowd beyond huge doors that Austin was steadily approaching at the end of a long corridor.
Although Austin trusted Edwin completely and believed, as some of the papers wrote, that he would eventually be released, he felt the time had come to leave Cuba add create a new identity. The night passed in an anguish of dissolving nightmares. The enormity of what he had done was now inescapable. As wind in the darkness outside plucked at trees and roared at buildings, Austin, sleeping fitfully, walked always nearer to the huge doors beyond which lay all his fears. The unseen crowds became louder and raucous. Although indecipherable, their conversations were, harsh and aggressive. At the moment he was about to enter—even as he seized the doorknob in the shape of a lion rampant with blood dripping from bared teeth—he awoke. The wind was only a whisper, and dawn had broken.
Without the presence of Don Andrez to inspire action in naturally lethargic natives, Austin's return to Havana became a slow, frustrating journey. It took three days before he arrived at his villa outside the city.
Elizabeth looked into Austin's eyes after their long kiss of greeting, and eventually she said, slowly and softly, "You should have told me before." Austin was unable to speak; if Elizabeth somehow knew, where could he begin?
"We are to leave?" Elizabeth went on. "Where?"
"To Mexico," said Austin finally. "I must change my name; only then will I be free and beyond ..." He was about to say "justice" but stopped himself, knowing that Elizabeth, despite her feelings for him, would not let the issue pass uncontested. "... the reach of English law," he finished.
"When?" Elizabeth asked simply.
"Perhaps a week," said Austin; "not more."
"But our friends..." Elizabeth began. "I have arranged a dinner party here for Thursday..." She stopped.
Austin's gaze was kind but firm.
"If the steamer leaves as usual, we sail to Vera Cruz on the fourth."
"But that is the following day!" exclaimed Elizabeth.
"Then it will be a farewell dinner," answered Austin harshly. "Spare a thought, if you can, for Mac and George—for them it may already be too late."
Elizabeth dropped her eyes before his formidable gaze.
"I will explain everything—later," sa
id Austin. "You have time enough to pack."
Elizabeth paused and saw the worry and strain in her man's face; she smiled warmly and said softly,' 'We..."
Austin kissed her with a passion he had thought long lost.
§
On the night of April 1, a Tuesday, the French ship Thuringia was something less than two hundred miles from New York Harbor, her dining room full, one table, reserved for Mr. George MacDonald, now occupied by the gentleman and two guests.
Mac had made several acquaintances on his voyage, but none (apart from the Captain perhaps, whose wit and anti-British sentiments appealed greatly to Mac's intellect) were more agreeable company than his two dinner companions. Four empty wine bottles on the table had created an ambiance Mac found most convivial. It certainly enlivened his guests, both ladies, who giggled as Mac waved at the Captain, across the room.
He returned Mac's salutation and indicated that he would join his passenger shortly.
"French!" Mac exclaimed, "and not used to wine?" He leaned toward one of the ladies with a mischievous grin. "An impossibility, I would have said." He reached out for the chilled bottle of champagne in the bucket beside him. The ladies appeared to like the dessert course, a delicious gateau, baked by a chef who must have also been a master pastry cook.
"Too cloistered a life you must have led," said Mac as he poured champagne for the ladies, pink-cheeked and happy as they had not been for some time.
"A last supper aboard the good ship ..." Mac forgot the name.
"Thuringia," said the Captain, who now stood at the table.
Mac indicated to the Captain a vacant fourth chair.
"I came to inform you that owing to the head winds we have encountered, should they continue into the morning, there remains somewhat less than twenty-four hours before our arrival in the Americas." He bowed to the ladies, who nodded bashfully.
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