by Robin Lloyd
Townsend had not expected this. He looked at his grandmother as if she was a stranger. To hide his disgust, he brought the coffee cup up to his face. At that moment the trees began to rustle with a sudden gust of wind. Black clouds darkened the sky. A rain squall was coming.
23
Before dawn the next day, Don Pedro and Townsend mounted two horses from the stable and rode to the coast. It was still dark, but Doña Cecilia had come out to see them off, kissing Townsend warmly on both cheeks. Don Pedro had told him they were going to meet two important investors, wealthy planters on an estate near the coast. The Spaniard had said he would be discussing an important transaction with the two men that might prove profitable. Without meaning to, Townsend found himself slipping into the role Savage wanted him to play.
“What kind of transaction?” he asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Don Pedro replied.
“Something involving cotton and the blockade?”
“Not exactly, but it could prove to be beneficial to our trade with the South. And it might involve you at some point.”
As they rode by the light of a full moon, Townsend’s thoughts sifted through his tangled mix of emotions. He started making excuses for his grandmother. Her support of McKintyre’s brutality was shocking to him, but he told himself these methods of harsh discipline were normal in Cuba. She felt an obligation to keep the family plantation going. It was her heritage, and she was dependent on the overseer to keep things stable. But even as he excused her acceptance of cruelty, another voice inside told him he was kidding himself. He could almost hear his mother caution him . . . be careful where you step, mi hijo. And he wondered if his grandmother’s defense of McKintyre was just a brief glimpse into a much more complicated woman—a much more amoral culture.
As the hazy gray of early morning emerged, they passed through small villages of thatched houses causing the dogs to bark, and some angry guajiros to shake their fists at them. Dawn arrived with a blazing hot white sun revealing that they were now traveling through a coffee farm. They slowed the horses down to an easy pacing gait, what the Cubans called la marcha. As far as the eye could see, Townsend looked out on a rolling carpet of dark green bushes, some of them covered with small white blossoms. When they came upon a stream they stopped to let the horses drink.
Don Pedro took the opportunity to tell Townsend about the man whose plantation house they were going to visit.
“Don Eugenio Hernández is one of our investors with the Gaviota and two other ships that I own. He likes to get a progress report on his investments, and this time he is bringing to the table a highly important man.”
“Who is that?”
“I’ll introduce him to you when we get there. I am glad to see you are showing such an interest, Captain. I believe this trip to Matanzas has done you a world of good. I understand you have had a very educational three days at Mon Bijou. Your grandmother told me she had McKintyre give you a management course on the harvesting of sugarcane.”
Townsend nodded, only vaguely aware that he was scowling. “I suppose you could call it that.”
“Well, you’ll learn more about the sugar trade from Don Eugenio. He took me in when I came here from Spain as a boy without any money, and he made sure I learned the business of being a merchant. He was my patron. He is like an uncle to me.”
“I see.”
“He knew your mother, and is good friends with your grandmother. So you see, he is almost like family to you as well. Unfortunately, he is quite ill now. For me, it is heartbreaking. I don’t like to see good people suffer.”
When they arrived at the plantation house in the late afternoon, they were led along a corridor and were taken into a smoke-filled library with floor to ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound books. Townsend noticed that many of the books were English titles, including complete collections of the works of Charles Dickens, Milton, and Shakespeare. A newspaper on a nearby table was open to the Esclavos section—which Townsend could see was an entire page filled with news of recent sales of slaves on the island. Someone had underlined the prices. One thousand dollars for a healthy field slave. Townsend hadn’t realized slaves were that expensive in Cuba.
At the far end of the library, two men were seated in mahogany plantation chairs with rattan seats. Townsend scrutinized them. The older man’s head was covered with a silk handkerchief. He was dressed gaudily in a blue striped linen suit with a scarlet silk scarf around his waist. Townsend guessed this was Don Eugenio. The other man, with silvery black hair and a sharp aquiline nose, seemed familiar. It was Don Julián Zulueta. Townsend hadn’t seen him since Don Pedro had pointed him out walking along the promenade at the Paseo outside the old walls. He’d called Zulueta one of the wealthiest planters on the island.
Don Pedro immediately embraced Don Eugenio, and then formally shook the hands of Zulueta. As glasses of claret were passed around by one of the slaves, Don Pedro addressed the two men, respectfully calling them “distinguished gentlemen.”
“Distinguidos caballeros, allow me to introduce Doña Cecilia Carbonell de Vargas’s American grandson from Maryland, Everett Townsend. He is one of my blockade-running ship captains.” Townsend found himself bowing to the seated men who both were carefully scrutinizing him.
“What do you think about this American war, young man?” Don Julián asked. “I will tell you, most of us here in Cuba of our class, particularly those of us who are Spanish born, would like to see a new Confederate States of America. We have much in common with the American South. We intend to hold onto slavery. So what do you think? Will we have two Americas?”
Townsend stared at the man’s deep-set black eyes. He knew how he was expected to respond, but instead he remained noncommittal.
“It would be presumptuous for me to say, Señor Zulueta. I am just a ship captain, and have no inside knowledge from the battlefield. I think the war could still go either way.”
“But the South will gain its independence, will it not? Tell me, which side would you put your money on? North or South?”
“If I were a betting man, I would venture to say the Union will probably prevail because of the South’s weak economy which is far too dependent on cotton.”
Zulueta’s bushy black eyebrows arched upwards in a gesture of surprise. “I see. That is a grim prognostication indeed, Captain. Not quite the answer I was expecting.”
“Un brindis por los Confederados,” cried out Don Pedro as if to underline the fact that he didn’t agree with Townsend’s tepid response. He raised his glass to make a toast and Townsend found himself drinking Spanish claret to the shouts of, “Long live the Confederacy, long live Spain, and long live the ever-faithful island of Cuba.”
“¡Vivan los Confederados! ¡Viva España! ¡Viva Cuba Siempre Fiel!”
When Don Pedro and Zulueta began conversing about the cotton trade, Don Eugenio turned to Townsend, who was scanning the titles of books in the library.
“I am a great admirer of England’s bards. My passion is the translation of some of Spain’s classics from the Siglo de Oro into English.” He pointed to an older black man standing in the corner. “Thanks to Javier Alfonso here, I can keep up with my work. He is my personal attendant, a slave who has been with me for over twenty years. He knows where all my books are. Unfortunately, he is not getting any younger. Working in the fields all those years took its toll.”
Javier Alfonso appeared to be about sixty years old and had specks of gray hair and a creased forehead. He had a proud, dignified manner about him. His face remained impassive with no expression, but Townsend thought he detected wisdom and sadness in his piercing eyes.
“Javier, bring us some cigars.”
“Sí, l’amo,” the slave replied. “Yes master, right away.” Townsend jumped at the unexpected sound of English coming from the black man.
“He speaks and writes perfect Englis
h. Javier, bring the Fígaro Regalías Británicas that Don Pedro and Don Julián like so much.”
As the old slave walked away, Don Eugenio gestured for Townsend to take a seat. Townsend studied the man more closely. He had on white stockings with shiny patent leather shoes decorated with silver buckles. His nose and ears were slightly flushed. His eyes were weepy, and strangely red. Townsend wondered what his affliction was.
“Many of my domestic slaves speak English,” Don Eugenio said proudly. “I brought them over from Jamaica and the Bahamas many years ago after England freed their slaves in the 30s. It was easy then. The English had given them their liberty, but most of the wretches didn’t know what that meant. We just took them or bought them from some of the white slave traders, and landed them right near here at one of the coastal plantations. They were freemen, but I like to think we saved them from a life as beggars and vagabonds. Javier Alfonso has been here in Cuba almost twenty-five years. We got him when he was still a relatively young man. We think he came from a Baptist mission. He may have received his education there.”
At that point, the old slave had come back with a polished mahogany cigar box. He opened it, and Don Eugenio picked out one and gestured to Townsend to do the same.
“Javier Alfonso here has long forgotten his former life in Jamaica, haven’t you?”
“Sí l’amo. Yes, Master.”
“And you are well-fed and well cared for, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master.”
“There, you see. He’s far better off here in Cuba than in Jamaica. And the fact is English-speaking domestic slaves are in great demand here on the island, particularly among the English and Americans who have bought plantations. Speaking for myself, owning English slaves, es un toque de distinción, as we say in Spanish. It gives me a touch of class, just like my library. My collection of finely bound English books is well known here in Matanzas. But so is my collection of slaves.”
He laughed heartily, and took another sip of the claret.
“I have a saying about my house slaves—speak English, obey Spanish. Some of the foreign planters near here come to me when they need a well-mannered slave who speaks English. We Spaniards admire the English for their refined aristocratic traditions, their wit, and their art. Constable and Turner are some of my favorites. It’s the British government with its abolitionist sentiments that we have our difficulties with. There can be no high civilization in Cuba without slavery.”
Townsend nodded, trying to keep his face blank to avoid revealing his true feelings. Don Eugenio moved his hand to his swollen face with an apologetic look. “I am sure Don Pedro told you I am not well.”
Townsend nodded sympathetically, not sure what to say. He could see to one side of the silk turban on the man’s head that there was a lesion that looked like a blister.
“I am afflicted with what they call Lazarino. Leprosy. The early stages.”
Townsend flinched, his eyes widening. His face must have revealed what he was thinking because Don Eugenio immediately told him not to worry.
“No se preocupe, joven. My doctor, who is Scottish and who worked in India as a young man with the English missionaries there, is familiar with the affliction. He says what I have may not even be contagious. He is treating me with a medicinal oil extracted from the seeds of a tree found only in India.”
Townsend stammered his sympathies.
“No one knows where this curse comes from. Some say it is hereditary, but some think it might be an African disease brought here by the slaves. Fortunately, my doctor tells me there is hope for recovery. And as you can see, despite some of my discomforts, I still manage to stay in the mix of commerce.”
Don Pedro chimed in.
“Speaking of commerce, Don Eugenio, we have much to discuss with Don Julián about the steamship that will be arriving off the coast shortly.”
“Of course,” Don Eugenio replied.
“Should be dropping off its cargo later tonight not far from here,” Don Julián replied as he puffed on his cigar. “That’s what Don Pancho has informed me.”
“When and where will the ship be ready to be inspected?” Don Pedro asked. “Is it in good condition? As you know, that is important information.”
“I think those details are best to be discussed in private.”
“Naturally,” Don Pedro said as he glanced over at Townsend. “I’m sure the Captain won’t mind stepping outside into the courtyard to get some fresh air.”
Townsend was ushered out into a darkened room with heavy-beamed open rafters, the furniture rich and heavy, dark wood. He made a move to eavesdrop at the door, but then he heard footsteps on the marble floors, and he quickly left to go out to the open courtyard. Outside, his eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness. The air was pungent with the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. Some of the Cuban fireflies called cocuyos were dodging and weaving around the trees and bushes. Unlike the captive ones he’d seen in the lantern at his grandmother’s, these cocuyos were free. Townsend strangely felt at one with them as he followed the swirl of flying lights cutting through the darkness in the courtyard.
An hour later Townsend found himself back in the saddle, galloping into the night along with Don Pedro and several other unknown horsemen through a grove of coconut trees. The soft thud of the horses’ hooves told him the path they were on had suddenly turned into sand. He could smell the rotten odor of mangrove mud, and he could hear the faint roar of breakers coming ashore. There were voices in the distance. They dismounted by a beach cottage under the canopy of a giant banyan tree where a large bonfire was blazing and crackling away. There must have been two hundred people there, many of them dressed in formal clothes and top hats as if they had just come from a dinner party. He looked out toward the sea and he could see the silhouette of a three-masted steamship. It had steam up, and was clearly ready to make a quick departure. A small flotilla of rowing boats was coming ashore.
Don Pedro pulled him along. “Come, let me introduce you to one of Cuba’s most distinguished men of commerce. Don Pancho is a highly respected figure in Havana’s social circles. I pointed him out to you at the Paseo. Remember he was walking with Don Julián.”
Before he knew it, Townsend was shaking hands with a tall older man in his seventies who was introduced as Don Francisco Marty y Torréns.
“Don Pancho, this is the grandson of Doña Cecilia Carbonell de Vargas.” Don Pedro said in Spanish. “He is now one of my ship captains. He is completely trustworthy.”
“Encantado,” Marty replied in a friendly, easygoing but formal way. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Es un placer conocerle.”
Townsend took a quick measure of the man with his receding hairline and large nose. He noticed the medal he was wearing just below the left jacket collar. Unlike most Spaniards, he was clean-shaven. Like the others, he was finely dressed with white pants, an ivory white silk shirt, and a formal dark coat.
“What can you tell us about this latest shipment?” Don Pedro asked in a respectful tone of voice.
“It should go smoothly, Don Pedro,” the older Spaniard replied with a faint smile and an authoritarian air. “With the normal gratuities to the local officials, I have paid fifty dollars per slave to the governor and lieutenant governor here in Matanzas, a princely sum, but they have promised to avert their eyes. So we should have no problems.”
“And the steamship is in good condition?” asked Don Pedro.
“Yes, it made the passage with no serious problems. I understand from Don Julián and Don Eugenio that you have an interest in it?”
Don Pedro nodded.
“Me alegro. I’m glad to hear that. You can see, the bozales are coming in now. A boatload of Congos from Cabinda Bay. One thousand dollars a head. We have a cargo of only nine hundred Africans unfortunately. They had to throw three hundred dead bodies overboard due to sickness and disease. Certa
inly a loss, but then again that number isn’t bad for thirty days at sea. Please excuse me.”
Townsend watched him walk away to speak to a group of men by the fire. He couldn’t believe how casually the man had spoken about the loss of three hundred people. Clearly the slaves were just another cargo to be handled, the same as sugar, tobacco, and molasses.
“Don Pancho is one of the older generation,” Don Pedro said. “He and other Spanish merchants like Manuel Pastor, Pedro Martínez, and Antonio Parejo are legendary slave traders. They have been in the coal trade, running Africans to Cuba for decades. But Don Pancho, he’s a master. He even provides bozales for the plantation holdings owned by Spain’s Queen Mother. He’s been decorated by the Crown many times.”
Townsend heard the creaking of the oars as the rowing boats edged closer, and the soft wail of human beings. He stood in the shadows and watched in horror as the gaunt black figures of men in chains were hauled out of the boats and hurled onto shore. With their handlers cursing and striking them, the slaves were dragged toward the bonfire where the men could see them more clearly—emaciated corpses barely able to walk, their arms and legs shackled together.
At that moment, Townsend knew he would take Savage up on his offer, and become a spy for the Federal government. He knew why. Like a sailor lost at sea, he needed a lighthouse to guide him. He thought of the cocuyos he had seen at Don Eugenio’s courtyard. It would have been pitch dark if not for those creatures. He needed to follow his own convictions. They were all anyone had at a time like this. To his astonishment, Townsend suddenly breathed easier. He had made a choice, he knew, that would change his life, not necessarily for the better. But at least he might feel more comfortable in his own skin.
In the flickering light of the fire, the planters inspected the new arrivals. The Africans were now standing in groups of eight to ten. They were being fed some kind of corn mush out of a bucket as if they were pigs or goats.