by Robin Lloyd
Part of his uncertainty came when Savage told him he would have to say nothing about this to his crew. “One thing you will learn in the spy business,” he had said to him, “is never to share sensitive information with anyone—unless you have to.” That seemed like a betrayal to Townsend. He thought of the double life he would have to lead. He would have to sleuth around, lie to keep secrets from the men he now felt a bond with. In the two passages through the blockade they had made, a sturdy web of mutual respect had begun to weave together. To hide something from them—to outright lie to them—seemed wrong to him, and just the thought of it left him unsettled with a gnawing worry that he would regret it.
Townsend had left the men at the Casa Blanca shipyard to oversee the repairs to the Gaviota’s hull. It was a more complicated procedure than they thought. Two new chain plates had to be installed. In addition, a sizable area of planking amidships would have to be pulled out and new planks scarfed in. It was going to take two weeks of work, if not more. As he lay there in the dark, his thoughts turned to Hendricks. He worried about the Bahamian. When he returned to the ship after seeing Savage, he’d seen Don Pedro huddled together with Salazar and Nolo, their dark stares cast in Hendricks’s direction. He had walked up to them and asked if anything was wrong. Don Pedro had pulled him aside and explained that Salazar had some unfriendly things to say about that “worthless Negro.” He thought he might be a spy.
“Who would that be?” Townsend asked, knowing full well who it was.
“The Bahamian,” Don Pedro replied. “Salazar doesn’t trust him.”
“I’m sure there are spies about, but they’re not on my ship,” Townsend had retorted calmly even as he tried to control a telltale twitch in his lower lip. “Hendricks is a veteran sailor. I can assure you he is not a spy.”
Don Pedro had stared at him long and hard without saying anything. “Salazar also informed me that you had a passenger on board, some kind of reporter who was talking about the Backhouse murder?”
Townsend nodded.
“My advice to you is to curb your curiosity, Captain. Here in Cuba some matters like the Backhouse murder are better not discussed. It makes some people uncomfortable.”
Don Pedro had put his arm around his shoulders and thrust his face close to Townsend. It was more of an intrusive gesture than a reassuring one, and Townsend found himself cringing as the man squeezed his shoulders with an iron grip.
“Siempre fiel, Captain Townsend. Always be faithful. That’s what I insist on. We have done well with this first round trip, but we cannot afford to have any rats on the ship. ¿Me comprende? Understood? As the priests say, Semper Fidelis.”
Maybe it was the man’s musky perfumed cologne or being too close to his coal black eyes and his deeply pockmarked face, but Townsend felt a strange sense of repulsion overwhelm him. The ship’s whistle blew, a final wake-up call for the sixty passengers on board. From the top deck of the two-decker steamer, he could see the ship had come to anchor a mile from the pier, providing a wide panorama of Matanzas Bay. The big harbor was filled with the shadowy silhouettes of trading merchant ships, large and small, and several Spanish ships of war. Cool winds swept across the ship, gently rippling the surface of the bay. The dark water in the harbor was alive with fiery phosphorescent stars. He found himself falling into the embrace of these silvery, flickering lights. He listened to the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. His mind drifted to a memory of his mother. He thought of the evening he’d spent with her when she was reading Emerson by the fire. He thought of her words of advice, “It’s important to know yourself, mi hijo, and be comfortable with who you are.”
In the distance he could see the dark shape of the high mountain called Pan de Matanzas, which he had seen from the sea when they had first sailed to Havana. He looked toward the gas-lit docks and the surrounding town. Somewhere near here his father must have met his mother. He took a deep breath of the cool night air, and a sense of calm came over him. He had so little information to go on, but he thought with his mother’s first name, and the old family name, Carbonell, perhaps he could find a relative, or maybe even the place called Mambi Joo. Such a curious phrase, he thought. After several months in Cuba, he knew it wasn’t Spanish. He thought it must be African.
Townsend got a whiff of a distinctive sweet musky aroma, and he knew Don Pedro had come up behind him on the ship’s deck. The Spaniard greeted a group of men well dressed in their flared Spanish black and tan felt top hats and a colorful assortment of linen suits. They seemed to know Don Pedro and warmly greeted him in Spanish, asking him how the cotton trade was going. They were grousing that Sr. Lincoln with his Emancipation Proclamation and his talk about freeing los negros was causing the plantation slaves in Matanzas to get restless. They were worried. Once again Townsend was struck by how many people seemed to know Don Pedro.
As they prepared to step down the ship’s ladder to the lighter that would take all the passengers ashore, Townsend noticed a group of eye-catching young women kissing each other on both cheeks. The daughters of some of the local sugar aristocracy, he presumed. From the dangling gold earrings to the ruby-encrusted pendants, it would appear they were returning from a shopping excursion in Havana. Some of them were already smoking cigarettes, their eyes glittering behind their fluttering fans. A few of the girls looked his way. He tried to imagine his mother in this covey of flashy, flirtatious young ladies with their smiles, lace, and jewelry, but the image he had of his serious mother with her modest dress and quiet manners did not fit.
“I see some of the fashionable young princesas of Matanzas have you in their sights,” Don Pedro said. “Perhaps they like Yanqui captains. You should go and introduce yourself. Don’t let me get in your way, Don Juan Tenorio.”
Townsend just shook his head. “Not my type,” he said.
“Have a cigar then?” Don Pedro said as he lit one of his personal cigars. “These are made especially of the choicest tobacco.”
Townsend shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Don Pedro asked as he pulled one of the long cigars out of a finely oiled silk wrapping and held it up to his nose appreciatively. “These cigars have been rolled by my own personal roller,” Don Pedro said proudly, “not too loose, and not too tight. Y huelen de maravilla. They have a wonderful aroma.”
Don Pedro lit the big cigar and rolled his eyes in the direction of the young ladies.
“Those princesas of Matanzas seem eager to meet you. Are you sure you would not like an introduction. There’s no better way to improve your Spanish, you know.”
The merchant blew a large cloud of smoke in Townsend’s direction.
“By the way, I had no idea you understood as much Spanish as you do. Are you sure you aren’t hiding something from me? A secret Spanish girlfriend perhaps? Someone you haven’t told me about?”
Townsend enjoyed the brief glimpse of the small port city of Matanzas with its weather-beaten warehouses and the two rivers that emptied into the bay. It looked like a smaller Havana, but with wider streets and bigger shops. There were more signs of American and English merchant houses with names like Churchill and Safford than in Havana, an indication of the foreign involvement in the lucrative sugar trade business. It made him wonder if his father had come here long ago to look for work.
The next day Townsend and Don Pedro left Matanzas before dawn to take advantage of the cooler air. They hired a covered volanta and postilion to take them into the Yumurí Valley to the plantation of Doña Cecilia de Vargas. The winding road followed a river to the foot of some hills that looked out onto a rolling valley of green foliage. The darker green patches farther up on the hillside indicated coffee estates. Townsend noticed how Don Pedro had softened toward him. He felt more like his travel companion than his forced employee.
“Matanzas is crowded with Yankees and John Bulls,” Don Pedro declared, “and English is more commonly spoken here than
French. Not just merchants but planters, plantation overseers, and engineers for the mills. Some of the British banks are also heavily invested here.”
Don Pedro laughed bitterly as he puffed more vigorously on his cigar, sending plumes of smoke into the air.
“The English,” he spat with a sneer and a dismissive snort.
“What about the English?” Townsend asked, surprised by the sudden vindictive tone in Don Pedro’s voice. The Spaniard’s face, which normally was hard to read behind the constant smile, was resolute and determined.
“Hipócritas, hypocrites, that’s what they are. The English are all too fond of expressing their hatred for slavery, but they don’t own up to their complicity.”
Townsend’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t seen this side to Don Pedro’s personality before.
“All my life here in Cuba I have witnessed the arrogance of the high-minded British. With one hand, they send out their anti-slaving gunboats, and with the other they import increasing amounts of our slave-grown sugar. With one hand, they punish Cuba and Spain for bringing in slaves, and with the other hand they give the planters high interest loans so that they can take on more debt and buy more slaves. Nothing but hipócritas.”
Townsend was again surprised at Don Pedro’s single-minded vehemence. The Spaniard’s teeth were clenched tightly as he continued to puff vigorously on his cigar and lecture the young captain as if he were his student.
“I would say Mother England’s fight against slave trafficking is a rather muddy canvas, wouldn’t you? Rather like one of those swirling seascapes by that English painter, Turner. You never know quite what you’re looking at, do you? Not when it comes to the English.”
Don Pedro fell silent. His eyes which often had a melancholy droop to them, glared with animosity. Townsend simply nodded.
The road into the interior was a mushy mountain riverbed littered with loose stones, causing the volanta to lurch from side to side. They shared the rough road with heavily laden sugar carts pulled by three yokes of oxen and men on horseback. The small Cuban horses carefully climbed over the rocks like goats, their hooves thudding and thumping. Even with all the jolts, Townsend found the views captivating. It was all open country, scattered with tall palm trees, leafy mangoes, and small farms with thatched roofs. The surrounding hills were covered by a dark green canopy of tropical hardwoods with the occasional ceiba trees that shot up above the forest like looming giants among dwarfs.
When the sun was high up in the sky, and the dusty air was like a furnace, they stopped for a quick meal at a small thatched roof country cottage with dirt floors. The walls were made of brushwood and dried river mud. They sat down at a rough-hewn wooden table next to some sweaty farmers whose leathery faces and thick calloused hands spoke to their country ways. They were served boiled meat, yucca, roasted plantains, and a yellow cornmeal mush. This was a different Cuba than the one Townsend had seen in Havana. He didn’t mind the food, but Don Pedro only picked at it, calling it comida de los bozales, slave food.
After a brief rest and a cigar, they were on their way again. Don Pedro told him they were not far. The volanta bounced along on the rough dirt road, but despite the jostling Townsend did not find the ride too uncomfortable. The air was ripe and thick with the smell of dirt, but there was also a fragrant odor of boiling sugarcane juice in the wind. Soon they could see the tall, whitewashed chimneys of sugar houses and red-tiled roofs stretched out to the horizon. They passed long straight avenues of royal palms that led to more towering chimneys of sugar estates. Scattered around these clusters of white and yellow buildings were the dark green patches of banana trees, and the lighter green of waving coconut palms.
Don Pedro breathed in deeply. “What you smell is the pungent aroma of money.” He opened his arms wide to the land around them. “You are looking at what makes this island thrive, Townsend. This is where fortunes are made. What you see all around you tells the story of Cuba.”
Don Pedro seemed intent on telling him about the area, the heart of Cuba’s sugar economy where there were scores of sugar plantations, many over five thousand acres, each with hundreds of slaves. He explained that the harvest and grinding season for the cane was almost over, and planting had already begun in some fields.
The heat was oppressive, and Townsend tried to imagine what it would be like to be out there with the sun baking down on him, searing his skin like a skewered pig over an open fire. In the distance, he could see the glistening backs of the slaves bent over in the broad plains of sugarcane, cutting the last of the year’s harvest. An overseer on horseback wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat cracked a fifteen-foot whip dangling from his right hand. The natural beauty of the land with the cane fields shimmering in the sun stood in sharp contrast to the harsh reality in those fields.
Don Pedro stroked his slicked, well-oiled hair with both hands. He seemed to know what Townsend was thinking.
“None of this would be possible, of course, if it were not for the slaves. The land is important, so is steam machinery, but to make the profits you still need free labor, and to grow and thrive the planters need a greater supply of slaves. Así es la realidad. That’s the way it is, my young friend.”
21
The volanta continued to lurch and heave along the rutted dirt road. To Townsend, the sprawling flat terrain seemed vast and the journey unending. It was a windless day. The mid-afternoon sun was punishing, causing him to sweat profusely. He was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink. He could feel a headache coming on. He looked for any sign of coconut trees, but there were none to be found. After several minutes of silence, Townsend asked if they were getting close. Don Pedro smiled and nodded.
“I see you are eager to get there. You have a young man’s impatience. What do you know about Doña Cecilia de Vargas?”
“Nothing,” replied Townsend. “Actually I am not certain why she invited me. I assumed it was her friendship with you.”
“I think she was quite taken by you,” Don Pedro said. “That’s what she told me after she saw you at the Paseo. When was that? Two months ago, wasn’t it? She is quite eager to see you. Do you wish you had not come?”
“No, I wanted to see the countryside. That’s why I accepted.”
“I see.” Don Pedro paused for a moment, and lit another cigar. “Well, Doña Cecilia is a formidable lady of some pedigree here. Her husband Rafael Espinoza Vargas died many years ago of yellow fever, leaving her to run the plantation on her own. She is very proud of her family heritage. On one side, her family is Spanish with more than one hundred years of history on the island. She’s a Quintana, not one of the oldest family names here whose ancestors were given grants of land by the Spanish Crown, but a rich aristocratic family nonetheless. On the other side of her family tree, she is French. Her mother married a French plantation owner whose family fled Saint-Domingue to come to Cuba after the slave insurrection there. So you could say that her family is well rooted in Cuban soil, but from an admirable European pedigree.”
Townsend was only partially paying attention. The heat had exhausted him so that he was in a dazed state. But Don Pedro’s next words would capture his full attention.
“There is something I must confess to you, Captain. It is something I should have told you before, but I never found the right moment.” The Spaniard paused his incessant puffing, revealing his ever-ready smile. He almost looked guilty. “All these months we have known each other, I’m afraid I have not been completely honest with you, Captain. We all harbor unexpected secrets from time to time, don’t we? I have one secret that I have kept from you.”
Townsend felt a sudden uneasiness. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s no easy way for me to say this,” Don Pedro replied with an uncharacteristic blush on his face. “You see, I’m not quite the stranger you think I am. I knew your mother.”
Townsend almost leapt to his feet
in the covered carriage. The blood rushed to his head. “What the hell!” he cried out, not making any effort to hide his surprise and confusion. “What is this, some kind of game? How could you know my mother?”
“It’s not a game, I can assure you. I knew Esperanza long ago when she lived here. Before you were born.”
The sudden mention of his mother’s name, Esperanza, felt like a slap in the face.
Townsend wondered if he could be dreaming. He stared at Don Pedro with eyes wide open. “I don’t understand. Is this some kind of cruel joke? You knew all this time who I was? Ever since I was in prison?” stammered Townsend.
“Finding you here in Cuba was a shock and a surprise. When I came to the prison three months ago I couldn’t believe it at first. I merely needed a new captain for my latest ship. I never dreamed the man in the prison cell would be Esperanza’s son. Then I heard your name and began speaking to you. And I realized it was you.”
“Why didn’t you say something before? Keeping that from me . . . it isn’t right.”
Don Pedro shook his head. “I know . . . I know, I’ve had to bite my lips these many months, but I felt my silence has been for your own good. I didn’t think it would be wise to tell you. I wasn’t certain I could trust you, you see. I thought you might run off, first in Havana, then in Mobile. To be honest, I had hoped you would confide in me. It would have been easier that way. That’s why I kept complimenting you on your Spanish. I hoped you would tell me about your mother, and how you learned your Spanish from her. But you didn’t, and I came to realize you are a very cautious, secretive young man. But that’s the past. Now we need to look to the future.”
Townsend glared at the Spaniard with accusatory eyes.
“Perhaps I should ask—who exactly are you?”
“I am a close friend and business associate of your mother’s family. I suppose you could say I was like an older cousin to her. I even knew your father. Of course, none of us who knew your mother have seen her since she left Cuba in 1843. But we did get news of her from time to time from a Spanish merchant living in Baltimore, a man by the name of Joaquín Nuñez. He befriended your parents, I believe? He was the one who wrote to me that your mother had died and your younger brother had been killed in the war.”