by Robin Lloyd
“E. J. Townsend, American ship captain of the schooner Laura Ann,” Townsend replied warily.
“E. J.?” he inquired. “That seems so formal. What is your first name?”
“Everett,” he replied.
“I see,” said the man smiling broadly. “I like that name. You have a touch of the Southern in your manner, but your accent also has a tinge of the sharp clip of a Boston Yankee.”
“My father is from New England.”
“I see. From your manner of speaking, you seem like a well-educated young man. Where are you from?”
Townsend was reluctant at first to say. He was confused. He felt tired and weak from exhaustion and hunger. He was sore from sleeping the last eight nights on nothing but the stone floor. He felt his head spinning, and he thought he might pass out.
“Havre de Grace, Maryland,” he finally mumbled.
The man looked at him in a long and penetrating, almost intimate way, as if he suddenly recognized him.
“Then you are a Southern boy. That is good to hear. Captain Townsend, let me get to the point. I have come here after speaking with the agents at Morales & Co. They have informed me of your dilemma and I believe I can help you immeasurably.”
Townsend sat up with a start. These were the first kind words he’d heard from a Spaniard. Still he was wary. The man was pleasant enough, but there was something veiled about him, something hidden.
“You see, I deal with the transaction of all business related to shipping. I specialize with foreigners who have troubles here in Cuba.” The man took a puff on his cigar and watched the smoke rise above his head.
“As you may know, the island of Cuba is a province of Spain. A most faithful colony, I might add. As we say, siempre fiel a España, always faithful to Spain. The man in charge is appointed by Her Majesty, Queen Isabella II, and ultimately only answers to the Crown. His rule is absolute here on the island. The current captain general is his Excellency, Don Domingo Dulce, who only recently arrived here to assume his duties. I have been to see his Illustrious Excellency about your predicament, and he has explained to me the seriousness of your situation.”
Townsend raised his eyebrows in response to the Spaniard’s sharper tone of voice.
“As you know, you are charged with helping a prisoner escape. Make no mistake, Captain, that is a serious charge.”
Townsend nodded, his lower lip quivering.
“The government has already taken possession of your ship, and they have deported your crew as undesirable foreigners.”
“My crew has been deported?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“I see,” Townsend replied soberly. “But I was not deported. That does not sound promising.”
“Believe me, Captain, it is not. Under Spanish law, you will be required to appear before a military tribunal soon.”
There was a heavy silence. The Spaniard paused as if to add weight to what he had to say.
“You could be sentenced to death.”
Townsend gulped. So they were going to execute him after all. Townsend looked at the man with a glazed stare and wiped his moist brow with the back of his hand.
“I have not even been allowed to speak to anyone since I was brought here,” Townsend blurted out angrily. “All I want to do is get out of here.”
He noticed that the Spaniard never stopped smiling even as he studiously puffed on his cigar.
“I believe that is exactly what I can do for you. I can get those charges dropped.”
As if on cue, a guard showed up with a plate of food, far more appetizing than what Townsend had been fed. The tangy aroma of fried fish floated into the room like a fresh sea breeze filling a limp, windless sail. Townsend breathed in deeply, the rich smells so tantalizing and tempting. He had not eaten for days, and what he had eaten he had thrown up. Townsend took the plate with the cooked fish and garlic, rice, and plantains and began wolfing it down as if it were his last meal.
“Let me explain, Captain, what I have in mind. It is a business proposition, a serious proposal. First, let me say that I greatly admire your schooner. I spotted her when you sailed into the harbor and was impressed with the way you avoided that Confederate steamer.”
Townsend nodded cautiously, but didn’t respond.
“Before I say more about what I have in mind for you, I should mention that I have already acquired your schooner from the Spanish government. The Laura Ann is now a Spanish-flagged vessel under my firm’s name.”
Townsend put the plate down. The Spaniard flicked his ashes into a metal bowl.
“I see I have your full attention now. Let me get right to the point then. I have two schooners already and with yours I have a fleet of three. All are centerboard schooners and can easily cross the shallow bars of most rivers along the Gulf Coast. Less danger of running aground, as you know.”
Townsend wasn’t sure what this had to do with him.
“As a captain working for me, you will have wealth and adventure, a chance to smuggle valuable cargoes of cotton and war materials in and out of the South.”
Townsend spat indignantly. “You have taken my boat and now you want me to do what? Run through the Union blockade?”
“Exactly right, Captain. I want you to take my cargoes through the blockade into Texas, Florida, or Alabama. I need a competent captain.”
“There are plenty of good captains in this city. Ask one of them.”
“I’m afraid I’ve made my choice. I want you for many reasons, chief among them your experience. I spoke with the sailors on your crew before they were deported, and they had only good things to say about your seamanship. It appears you are an excellent navigator, not as common a skill as you might imagine.”
“That may be true, but I am no smuggler,” Townsend said emphatically. Pressure began building on his forehead, and he knew he would have to restrain himself.
“I would think a young man like you would find it an enjoyable occupation. It is not as perilous as it may sound. The fact is the Union Navy doesn’t have enough gunships, particularly here in the Gulf of Mexico. Far too few ships to adequately patrol the shoreline from Florida to the Rio Grande, far too many harbors, inlets, and passages.”
“Go find somebody else. I have no interest. I won’t run the Union blockade. I have no desire to sail for the Rebel cause.”
“Indeed.”
The man’s smile was ever present. The merchant paused as he relit his cigar, all the while glaring at Townsend.
“I’m afraid, Captain, what you want to do is not important. I may be your only choice to save yourself.”
Townsend felt the walls closing in on him. Sr. Alvarado Cardona kept smiling. Only the slight twitch of the moustache revealed the man’s true feelings.
“I will pay you an acceptable rate of six hundred dollars round trip. You will find that is competitive with other schooner captains here.”
Townsend could see he was dealing with a man of business, but every word made him feel sick inside.
“The profit from the cargo of course is mine initially, but as captain, you will get a percentage profit from the cargo of cotton on the return trip. I will pay you seven dollars per bale of cotton you bring to Havana, a very generous gesture on my part. Again you will find my offer is more than fair.”
The merchant took several appreciative puffs on his cigar. He cocked his head at the two guards who were still there with their guns and the shackles. Townsend caught that look, and even though he felt his anger rise, he told himself to calm down.
“And if I don’t agree to your terms?”
“Well, naturally I don’t know what a military tribunal might decide about your case, but as I said earlier, you might never leave this place.”
“Why would you trust me?”
“In your case, it is my hope, necessity will lead t
o trust.”
“But I could just sail away.”
“I hope that eventually you will see what a promising business opportunity I am offering.” He paused and pulled something out of his coat pocket.
“Here is our contract. I took the liberty of writing it up. It only requires your signature. Should you fail to comply and attempt to run off, it clearly explains that the Spanish navy will pursue you and should you flee to the United States, the Spanish captain general will request your extradition as someone guilty of crimes against Spain, and Cuba. If you sign it now, you are free to walk out with me.”
Townsend took the contract in hand. He wanted to tear it up and then stuff it into this arrogant Spaniard’s mouth, but he forced himself to stiffen his back, and look directly at the man in front of him.
“All charges dropped and I will be released right now?”
“Yes.”
Townsend picked up the pen, his fingers trembling. He had no idea who the man was or why he had so much power. He felt his self-respect slipping away. He thought of his dead brother. His father would have two Rebel sons now. He forced himself to sign the document. The two men shook hands. Townsend noted the firm handshake and the man’s lingering stare even as he felt helplessly ensnarled in a situation he was powerless to change. He was close enough to notice that the man had an odd, musky sweet smell, and as he looked more closely at his slicked-back hair he guessed the strong scent came from his hair oil.
“My congratulations, Captain Townsend,” said the Spaniard, shaking his hand. “I know we will have an excellent relationship. By the way, please call me Don Pedro from now on. Most everyone does.”
The guards escorted him out of the prison. They gave him back his old clothes, still crumpled and stained with Michael Abbott’s blood. The sight of the now brown stains brought back the horror of that night, and he shuddered as he tried to forget the sight of the knife, the drums echoing in his head. He felt vulnerable, like a mouse cornered by a cat. Now he was to be a blockade runner, a hired man working for a Spanish merchant from Havana on the Rebel supply line. It seemed surreal. He and his new employer walked out into the open courtyard outside the yellow limestone prison building in the midst of a military ceremony. Townsend felt the warmth of the hot sun on his face and he took a deep breath of sea air. Off to his right he caught a glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico and a small fortress, but the sound of trumpets brought his attention back to the prison yard.
There were hundreds of soldiers in formation lining the perimeter, all dressed in their narrow striped blue and white jackets, flashy red cockades, and carrying their Belgian-made rifles. It looked like an entire infantry regiment in addition to some cavalry with their blue linen uniforms and palm leaf hats. He could hear the roll of military drums as several robed priests carrying a crucifix walked slowly toward an elevated platform where a chained man in a white shroud and wearing a white cap was seated. On the platform behind the seated man was a large black man wearing a hood over his head. Townsend didn’t need to be told what he was looking at.
“What good fortune,” the Spaniard exclaimed. “You will see the garrote in action before you leave the prison.”
He pointed to the large hooded man.
“I should tell you the story of the city’s executioner. Some years ago he was a slave, sentenced to death for killing a man. In return for his life and his freedom, he agreed to take on this job and become the state’s executioner. I am told he finds it to be a suitable arrangement.”
A suitable arrangement indeed, Townsend thought. His contract with Don Pedro sounded much the same. He watched as the priests finished crossing themselves, and then there was a drum roll. Suddenly the convicted man in the chair cried out, “¡Viva Cuba Libre! ¡Muerte a los Peninsulares!” It was a cry for an independent Cuba and death to the Spaniards. Townsend watched in horror as the executioner stepped up quickly to the chair and began twisting and turning a lever, tightening the iron collar around the prisoner’s neck. The man’s neck was thrust forward, his body twisted and writhed for what seemed like an eternity. He tried to shout again, but no sound came out. The spinal cord snapped and the prisoner’s head fell to the side. There was a moment of silence and then the trumpets sounded, announcing the news to the city that another death row inmate had been eliminated.
Townsend looked over at the stiff profile of Don Pedro, whose chin was slightly raised as he scanned the line of infantry that now stood at attention.
“A quick death for a filthy Creole traitor,” Don Pedro said with conviction in his voice.
“What was his crime?” Townsend asked somberly.
“I believe he tried to help a Negro escape from the island.”
Townsend knew from the man’s cry there was more to it than that, but he said nothing. He felt an unease inside his skin, a sense that he was no longer quite the person he thought he was. As they walked toward the thick outer walls of the prison, Townsend could hear the noises from the open street. The prison guard at the arched entrance door looked at him suspiciously, but at a signal from Don Pedro the man motioned them on. As Townsend passed the guard, he uttered a silent prayer that the officer would not call him back and tell him there was a mistake and he must return.
6
February 12, 1863
Townsend had gotten used to the pungent smells on the docks, an odd mixture of dried fish, human sweat, and tobacco smoke. He had been living aboard the Laura Ann tied up at the wharf since his release. He rubbed his stubbly chin and combed his curly hair with the fingers of his right hand. He had cleaned himself up as soon as he got out of prison, but now his beard was growing in again. He knew he needed a shave, but he didn’t much care. It had felt strange at first, returning to the schooner, empty of all the crew. He’d heard the Spanish police had deported them to Key West on the regular mail boat that came into Havana. None of the Irish sailors meant that much to him, but he would have liked to say goodbye to Clyde Hendricks. He had asked Don Pedro if he had any information about him, and the Spaniard had just shrugged off the question.
Outside the ship’s cabin, Townsend could hear the rhythmic work songs of the slaves and the wheeling of crates on stone. He walked up the schooner’s companionway out onto the raised quarterdeck, and looked out at Havana’s main docking area where all the trading schooners and three-masted tallships came to load and unload cargo. He scanned the landing, or muelle de caballería, as it was called. He was looking for any sign of Don Pedro. The Spaniard had asked for a full report on the condition of the ship’s hull. Townsend had spent most of the morning inspecting the schooner’s musty cargo hold area. The scurrying of small feet and the squeaking in the darker corners had told him there were plenty of rats that no doubt had boarded the schooner before they left New York. But rodents were not his major concern. He’d spent several hours poking his knife into a particularly wet area in the midsection of the ship’s hull where he’d found large areas of rotting wood. Many of the planks were so soft and punky he could put his finger through them. The schooner would have to be hauled out of the water onto a railway for some major repairs. He knew he needed to let Don Pedro know as soon as possible.
Not too far away, Townsend could see the two men assigned by Don Pedro to be his watchdogs. They were leaning on some hogsheads of molasses, glaring at him as if he were a newly acquired dog. They hadn’t let him out of their sight ever since he got out of prison. Don Pedro had introduced them as his “business associates.” Any problem you might have, he told him, they can help you. Townsend particularly disliked the smaller of the two men. Arturo Salazar was short and thin with a narrow face and a scraggily beard. He was dressed in a rumpled, tan linen suit and a matching flat-brimmed hat. His eyes were a cold light blue like the Gulf Stream, unusual for a Spaniard. Don Pedro said he was from La Coruña in northern Spain where some Galicians have light-colored eyes. The other man, Manuel Rodríguez, went by the nickname Nolo.
He was a powerful, thick-set, darker-skinned Spaniard with a sloped-back forehead, and a hawk-like nose. Don Pedro said he had been brought to Cuba from Spain as an orphan from the interior of Cataluña. Both men spoke some English, and it was clear from the familiar way that some of the police and other officials greeted them that they were well-known figures on the docks.
Townsend averted his gaze from his two watchdogs as he continued to scan the crowded wharf. The frenzy of the day’s buying and selling was well underway. The main landing was a swirling mix of disheveled sailors, shirtless slaves, donkey carts, and stacks of everything from lumber and bricks to wooden kegs filled with incoming turpentine and outgoing rum. Off to one side, squads of soldiers and police stood ready to quell any disturbance. Underneath the shady arcade of the warehouse buildings, well-dressed merchants haggled with each other, but there was no sign of Don Pedro. Amid all the activity, Townsend couldn’t help but notice that the quays were piled high with cotton bales. The warehouses were crammed full of wooden crates awaiting export to Texas, Alabama, and Florida, everything from British-made Confederate uniforms, ammunition, and guns, to medicine. It was no exaggeration to say Havana had become a huge foreign supply depot for the Confederacy.
The aroma of garlic wafted over the ship’s decks, signaling Townsend it was time to eat. He’d become a frequent customer at some of the cheap taverns in the back alleys near the docks that specialized in plates of fried fish, yucca, and ajiaco stew. He’d grown to like swilling down his meals with dark rum or red wine and a cup of café fuerte or a pot of hot chocolate afterward, all for less than a sixteenth-ounce gold coin. By now, Townsend had become familiar with the currency in Cuba. The Spanish doubloon, or onza as it was often called, was worth seventeen dollars, the other smaller coins just fractions of that amount. There was no problem changing American coins. It was easy to go to one of the many Cambio de Moneda, currency exchange shops scattered around the city and get his half doubloons changed into silver reales and pesetas or American dollars.