by Robin Lloyd
“Thank God,” Townsend breathed out. “You’re here. I don’t think I was followed.”
“Good. Come with me.”
Townsend followed Savage. The large columns and pillars hid them from view of the growing numbers of faithful. Savage walked through a wide opening at the side of the cathedral that led to an oddly shaped courtyard, then through a creaky door. They wound their way up a spiral staircase entirely made of stone masonry mixed with coral rock. Townsend could hear the bells clanging louder than ever, the stairway acting like an echo chamber. They must be in the bell tower. After several turns on the winding stairs, they arrived at a landing and Savage took him to another door. Inside there was a bed, a table, and a couple of chairs. He closed the door so that the ringing wasn’t quite as loud.
“We are safely out of sight here.”
Savage then took him through another door that led to the chorister’s room and the organ loft, and pulled over two chairs.
“These are the bell ringer’s quarters,” he said. “You may wonder why I brought you here. Crowds are helpful distractions when you are trying to avoid being followed, and gatherings of the faithful are useful sanctuaries.”
Townsend turned his attention to a wooden table with a pile of delicate brown wrapper leaves and bundles of loose tobacco. Savage saw the direction of his glance.
“As you can see, the bell ringer is a cigar roller, un torcedor as the Cubans say. An exceptional one, I might add. His name is Manuel Escobar. He makes extra money by rolling cigars, and I have long been one of his regular customers.”
Savage picked up a bundle of cigars that had been left there. They were wrapped in soft, oiled silk and had a distinct odor. Townsend thought the aroma was familiar.
“I come here once a month to collect a dozen of his hand-rolled cigars. That’s how I know this place. I have brought other informants here, and I have sworn Manuel to silence. I pay him quite handsomely so I think he’s quite trustworthy.”
Townsend described the two passengers they’d picked up and what Hendricks had overheard. At first, the acting consul general was not happy to hear about Hendricks even though the young captain assured him the Bahamian sailor was thoroughly trustworthy. Savage grumbled, but as he heard more details of the tense relations on board ship, he reluctantly agreed with Townsend that an accomplice was needed. The diplomat now listened carefully as Townsend described how they had rowed alongside the Spanish-flagged steamship. And then how he had sneaked on board and found the chains and manacles in the cargo hold.
“A slave ship!” gasped Savage, spitting out the hateful words. “Could this be the ship you saw unloading slaves at the beach in Matanzas? Pancho Marty’s ship?”
“Hard to say,” Townsend replied. “It was too dark to see much, but he heard them mention something called La Compañía.”
Savage’s eyes grew large. He moved his hands restlessly through his hair.
“¡La Compañía! Of course! I should have known. It’s Zulueta, Julián Zulueta. He must be behind this.”
Savage, clearly agitated, stood up and began pacing the room, his pale, thin hands clasped behind his back.
“La Compañía, Captain Townsend, is short for the African Expedition Company. It’s a Spanish slave-trading syndicate. The firm owns a large fleet of ships, some say as many as twenty, but no one really knows. Some of these are steamships built at good shipyards in England and then fitted out for the slave trade in Spain. Julián Zulueta holds 50 percent of the shares. And I don’t doubt that Marty and Don Eugenio Hernández could also be involved.”
“So you think Don Pedro is helping sell one of their slave ships to the Confederacy?” Townsend asked.
“That would be my guess. We know Confederate agents are desperate for ships. About six months ago they almost took possession of a Spanish ship called the Noc Doqui, a suspected slaver rumored to be linked to La Compañía, but fortunately, and quite by chance, Admiral Wilkes of the Navy’s West India Squadron captured it along with the Confederates on board. That may have been the first attempt by the Confederacy to buy a ship from Spanish slavers. I fear that Don Pedro has persuaded the African Expedition Company and the Confederacy to try again—letting him act as the merchant in charge of the sale and transfer.”
“Certainly Don Pedro could do that,” Townsend said.
“What makes this speculation a distinct possibility is that I received intelligence not too long ago from one of the old established American merchants in town. Charles Tyng. I’m sure you’ve seen the sign for his company right next to Cabarga’s chandlery. He’s a reformed and now retired shipper of slave cargoes. He hears the scuttlebutt. He tells me that La Compañía is buying new ships. At least four—fast steamships built in England, all intended for the slave trade that can carry as many as two thousand Africans on board each ship. Perhaps the firm is selling some of the older ships. Tell me more about this vessel.”
Townsend described it—two-masted screw-propeller steamship, six hundred tons, about two hundred feet long with one funnel, wooden hull. He couldn’t tell what kind of engine it had.
“That certainly would make a good gunship. You say they are planning to sail it to Havana?”
“That’s what Hendricks thought he heard them say.”
“No doubt to recoal. They’d be safe here, particularly if they’re masquerading as a merchant trading ship, flying a Mexican flag. Havana is a safe haven for these rebels.” He paused thoughtfully, then began to pace again.
“Unfortunately we can expect that within days of the ship leaving Havana Bay, the Confederates will have the vessel fitted with English-made Blakely deck cannons in the Bahamas, and then be ready to raise the Confederate flag. Go to thunder—we’ll have another CSS Alabama on our hands. We have work to do, Captain. I will need advance notice about the ship’s arrival so I can alert Admiral Bailey in Key West. I will also need to know the ship’s new name as soon as you find out.”
Savage stopped his pacing and looked at Townsend, who had furrowed his brow.
“I am sorry. I have not asked how all your sleuthing has gone. I hope nobody suspects anything?”
Townsend stayed quiet for a moment. The bells weren’t ringing anymore. All he could hear was the organ. He pursed his lips and acknowledged that the two supercargoes on board might be a problem. “They’ve accused Hendricks and me of being spies. They have no proof, but still . . .”
“Sounds like trouble. What about Don Pedro? What does he think?” Savage asked.
“I don’t know. He is apparently in Matanzas now, but is expected back shortly.”
“You will have to reassure him how valuable and how loyal you are,” Savage said. “Perhaps spread a rumor about his two representatives. Maybe they were swindling him—taking money under the table from those two Confederates?”
Savage paused and Townsend let that thought sink in.
“Part of being a successful agent, Townsend, is knowing how to tell a convincing lie. You must be willing to put your scruples aside, particularly when dealing with the unscrupulous.”
“What about the crew? I should tell them what I’m doing.”
“I urge you not to do that. Only reveal your secrets when you have no choice, or when you can get something more valuable in return. You will learn, my friend.”
Savage smiled at him and patted him on the back.
“I should add that I spoke with Miss Emma Carpenter when you were away. I think everything has been smoothed over. Do describe those two agents to her, no doubt members of the Confederate Secret Service. Sooner or later they may be coming here, and they might show up at her mother’s boarding house. Lodging is not easy to find now in Havana. I understand Mrs. Bremer’s Hotel Cubano is overflowing with Confederates, some of whom are here to discuss future arms deliveries with Helm and Mr. Crawford.”
At that point, they were interrupted by a swar
thy man with black curly hair and a beard who walked through the door.
“Ay, perdóname Señor,” said the Cuban who appeared surprised to see them.
“Ah Manuel, que bueno que estás aquí,” Savage said as he rose to greet him. Without introducing Townsend, he thanked the Cuban for the cigars, saying they were just leaving. Townsend noticed that Manuel, who graciously took the money Savage handed him with a deferential nod, was now staring at him with a long, piercing look—as if scrutinizing his face.
“I will show you a different way out of here,” Savage said. “We will go up on the cathedral roof, crossing over to the other tower. If anyone has been following us, they will be expecting us to come out the front door.”
As they walked across the rooftop of the cathedral, Townsend noticed grass and vines growing in the chinks of the old stone and coral rock masonry. He wondered how that was possible. Then he saw the pigeons on the belfry roof—they must be the carriers of the seeds. The old church had secret hideaways even for the birds.
When Townsend arrived back at the docks, Salazar, Nolo, and Don Pedro were clustered together in deep conversation. It was clearly not casual banter as Salazar and Nolo were gesturing wildly with their hands. As Townsend approached, all of them stopped talking and stared in his direction. For a moment he thought they knew about his secret meeting with Savage, but then Don Pedro smiled.
“Where have you been, Captain? I’ve been looking for you all morning. Salazar has just been telling me about how flawlessly this trip went.”
Townsend could tell from the grim faces of Salazar and Nolo that this was far from what they had been talking about. Salazar’s pale blue eyes flashed contempt, and Nolo’s scowl left little to the imagination.
Don Pedro put his arm around his shoulders, and Townsend tensed at the first whiff of the man’s sweet musky scent. It seemed to envelop him like a ripe fisherman’s net.
“It’s time for our almuerzo, and I thought I would take you to a small French place just outside the old walls called Les Tuilleries at the corner of Consulado and San Rafael. It has excellent camarónes al ajillo, shrimp with garlic. And then I’ll show you my new warehouse in Chinatown where I’m storing some British-supplied arms and ammunition waiting to be shipped. I want to familiarize you with more of our operations. I have told Salazar you have tremendous potential.”
Don Pedro hailed his driver and soon they were headed out of the old city, leaving through the Muralla Gates. As the volanta rumbled by the sentries, Don Pedro mentioned the news he had read in the Diario de la Marina that officials in Madrid had ordered the leveling of Havana’s old walls. Work was to commence immediately. The old city and the new city would soon become one.
“It will be a new era,” Don Pedro said proudly. “You will soon see Havana being referred to as the Paris of the New World.”
Don Pedro offered him a cigar and then casually asked how the trip went. Townsend quickly replied that all had gone well except for an incident in Matamoros when their yawl boat had been stolen by some thieves. Don Pedro lifted his bushy eyebrows in feigned surprise, but Townsend could tell he had caught him off guard and so he continued. He lowered his voice, “There is something else I think you should know.”
“And what might that be,” responded the Spaniard with a suspicious tone in his voice.
Townsend told him how one night when they were underway he had sent Hendricks below in the sail locker because they needed to change headsails. While he was below he had overheard something there, something important. Don Pedro gave him a lingering stare. Townsend could tell he had the Spaniard’s full attention.
“Those two passengers we took on board up the Brazos River were having a discussion with Salazar and Nolo. Hendricks couldn’t help but hear one of them in the cabin offering to pay Salazar and Nolo a sizable bonus if they could arrange discreetly for extra weapons to be loaded on the ship at no charge when it came into Havana.”
Don Pedro’s face froze. Townsend could tell he hadn’t been expecting this.
“I’m just passing it on. Thought you should know.”
“That negrito sailor of yours seems to be skilled at listening to other people’s conversations,” Don Pedro said, his voice hostile. “What else did he hear?”
“Just that Salazar wanted to be paid in gold. One of them said he would arrange for that to happen.”
“That’s a far different story from the one I just heard,” Don Pedro said. “Salazar told me the negrito was spying. He thinks he’s an informant for the American government.”
“Bah! I think Salazar hates Negroes just like he hates foreigners,” Townsend replied. He checked himself so he didn’t lose his temper. “Maybe you should take a closer look at Salazar. He may be telling you this cock and bull story about spies as part of his con game. All I know is, Hendricks went down in the sail locker to get a sail at my request, and he came right back up as soon as he got it ready. Couldn’t have been more than five to ten minutes. He told me what he’d heard.”
Don Pedro studied his face.
“It’s not just the Negro, you know,” he said in a drawn out, deliberate way. “Salazar doesn’t trust you either, or for that matter the rest of your crew. He said he had a rather unpleasant confrontation with you.”
There was a touch of menace in Don Pedro’s voice. Townsend’s breathing quickened as he focused on Don Pedro’s crow-like eyes.
“I hate to say this, Captain, but even I have started to have some of my own suspicions,” the Spaniard continued.
Townsend felt a bead of sweat crawl down his spine. His lower lip began to twitch slightly. He straightened his back, and thought of his strict midshipman training. He needed to control himself. He would show no fear.
“Given what Salazar and Nolo may be doing behind your back, Don Pedro, I am not surprised they would lie. Salazar is a man who will stop at nothing. He has resentments, and clearly bears a grudge against me. This spy business is just pure twaddle.”
Don Pedro looked deep into his eyes, and then after a prolonged pause restored his constant smile.
“You’re right, Captain. I am sorry for doubting you. I can’t say the same about that overly inquisitive Negro of yours or your crew, but I was wrong to question you. Salazar and Nolo are close, longstanding associates of mine whom I have long relied on, so I am surprised at what you tell me. But then Jesus Christ was surprised by Judas’s betrayal, wasn’t he? The key word for me is trust, Captain, as you know. That’s what I value the most. Remember, siempre fiel, always faithful.”
Don Pedro smiled, but his face was tense. He took Townsend’s hand and squeezed it, bringing his nose close to Townsend’s face.
“I need to know, Captain,” he whispered. “Can I trust you?”
“How can you ask that?” Townsend replied with a straight, deadpan face. “I have made four successful trips through the blockade for you, Don Pedro. Isn’t that proof enough?” He discovered to his surprise that he was beginning to enjoy lying to Don Pedro. “I think I have earned your confidence.”
“Of course. Of course,” Don Pedro replied. “Yes, you have done your job well. Now tell me what you do know about that ship you saw in Matamoros. It’s important you not mention anything about it to anyone.”
“Truth be told, Don Pedro, nothing. Salazar kept me and everyone else in the dark. He didn’t even say who his passengers were. But from the looks of those two Southerners, it was not hard to discern they were keen as beavers to get aboard that steamship.”
“You know nothing about that ship?”
“Nothing,” Townsend lied. “Please enlighten me?”
“I’m afraid there is little I can tell you, Townsend. Suffice to say, we are helping those two Southern gentlemen acquire that ship. The discussions are still underway.”
“I see,” said Townsend. “Will I be seeing those two men again?”
“You might,” replied Don Pedro. “They should be coming here to Havana shortly to finalize matters. If all goes well, we may do more business with them.”
Townsend tried to keep his lips from twitching, but Don Pedro didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly the Spaniard called on the driver to pull off to the side.
“There is something else I need to talk to you about, Townsend. Un asunto grave y delicado. A serious and delicate matter.”
Now it was Townsend’s turn to be taken by surprise, and he faced Don Pedro with a quizzical look.
“When I was in Matanzas I heard rumors about a suspicious Englishman nosing around some of the plantations, asking a lot of questions. What was unusual is that he carried no written introduction as is customary.”
Townsend felt a shiver of disquiet run through him.
“This Englishman says he’s an investor and wants to buy land here in Cuba, but some people think he is a little too curious. He may not be who he says he is,” Don Pedro added as his eyes once again probed Townsend’s face. “He may be an imposter. It is a matter of some concern.”
“What has that got to do with me?” Townsend asked.
“I wondered about that Englishman you helped all those months ago. The fugitive you helped escape. What was his name?”
“Michael Abbott.” Townsend felt his stomach tighten.
“Yes, Abbott, that’s it. What else can you tell me about him? How badly was he injured?”
“He’s dead, as far as I know,” Townsend said defensively. “Stabbed. I was hit on the head. I never saw what happened to him. From the blood on the ground I assumed he must have died. I thought you told me I was supposed to forget that man.”
“Yes, you’re right. I did. But this Englishman is making people nervous. He’s asking questions. Too many questions about some sensitive issues from the past.”