by Robin Lloyd
“A damning document.”
“Yes, indeed. Both the journal and an accompanying folder were filled with names. It was quite a surprise. All of these were notes he’d made, intended no doubt to be used in a letter to be sent to the Foreign Office in London.”
“How did the assailants know where to find it?”
“A disgruntled former employee of the British Consulate.”
“You mean Dalrymple, his former clerk? He betrayed Backhouse?”
“Yes. Dalrymple, a useful idiot. He bore a grudge against Backhouse for firing him. He was a gambler and owed a great deal of money to Pancho Marty. Dalrymple couldn’t pay up so instead, as payment, he offered Don Pancho information on Backhouse’s journal. He told them where to find it and how and when to get into the house.”
“But why did they need to kill Backhouse?”
“That was indeed unfortunate. The hired men who broke into the house were under orders to rough him up, and then steal the journal. He was supposed to be beaten. Beaten badly enough so he would want to leave the island for the safety of his family. It was supposed to look like a robbery. Unfortunately Backhouse struggled with his attackers, and the hired man used his knife.”
“So what was your role Don Pedro?”
“Like I said, I was the problem-solver. I was asked to make this awkward situation go away.”
“By whom?”
“Some highly important individuals here in Cuba, men of power and influence.”
“And?”
“I began by reading Backhouse’s journal from beginning to end, and I found something quite unexpected. It seems Mr. Backhouse, principled man that he was, not only had been documenting the illicit money trail of the slave trade, he had also been investigating the extensive English ties to slavery here in Cuba. He even had a rough draft of a letter he was planning on sending back to the Foreign Office to Lord Clarendon himself.”
“What did it say?”
“He wrote how it troubled him to report that British private money was all too evident in Cuba to aid and assist the export of slave-grown sugar. He felt that this should be looked into, as it was squarely in conflict with Britain’s long-held opposition to slavery and slave trading.”
“I see,” Townsend said. “And this was never sent?”
“Apparently not.”
“No doubt, you brought this to the attention of Mr. Crawford.”
“How perceptive of you, Townsend. Yes, I read all of this to the British consul general, and my candor was not appreciated. I pointed out to him that making relations more tense with Spain would not serve England’s interests. He asked what I was proposing. I gently suggested that if England did not cooperate, I might have no recourse but to take Backhouse’s journal to the members of the press. Imagine the headlines, I said. ‘The murdered Backhouse speaks from the grave, condemns England for helping to finance slavery.’ I read him other portions of Backhouse’s draft letter to Lord Clarendon, which I warned him were quite personal.”
“How so?”
“Backhouse wrote that ‘it pained him to report to his Lordship that, in his mind, Mr. Crawford, while diligent in performing such duties as the reporting of sightings of slave ships, may over his many years of service in Havana have become too appeasing to some of the wealthy interests on the island.’ ”
Townsend’s eyes opened wide. “A personal attack on Crawford! How was that received?”
“By then, Crawford lost all control. He called me a Spanish pirate, hijo de puta, son of a whore, and threatened to kick me out of his offices. What do you want, he finally asked, and I told him. Spain wants England to acknowledge that the unfortunate tragic death of Mr. Backhouse is declared the work of thieves, an unsolvable crime. England will promise to withhold any formal protest when the police release the suspects for insufficient evidence. In short, the matter will be closed. So you see, Captain, that’s how the problem was resolved. It was Backhouse’s own words and his diligent research that ironically provided the key to free his murderers.”
“So that was it,” Townsend said. “You used extortion to outwrestle the English. It was a cover-up.”
“I would prefer to say that England and Spain both agreed that there were some mutual interests that needed to be hidden from the glare of the press and the public. Mr. Crawford tried to demand the return of Backhouse’s journal, but I told him that would not be possible. It was safely in private hands. And indeed it was in safe keeping in Don Eugenio’s library until that troublesome Mr. Abbott came along. His appearance upset a goodly number of people. No one imagined that Don Eugenio’s trusted personal servant would betray him.”
Don Pedro took a deep breath, and paused a moment.
“But now it gives me great relief to know that once again the journal has been restored to a safe place in a library where it can gather cobwebs and dust away from enquiring eyes.”
Townsend hated to admit it, but part of him had to admire Don Pedro’s cunning. He took a quick look out the window. They were now in the old city clattering down Oficios Street. They would soon be passing the Plaza de San Francisco and the main landing area.
“You still haven’t answered a most important question,” Townsend said. “Who ordered the attack on Backhouse?”
“I am afraid, my friend, I have told you enough. I can’t give you names. Suffice to say, an important decision like that is not made by one person. You seem to have grasped far more than I realized. You have been busy during your short stay here in Cuba. But there is one thing, Townsend, that I can tell you. Besides Abbott and the slave, we also are holding a young woman involved in this case. Someone you know, I believe.”
Townsend felt a sudden surge of panic. His face became swollen and hot. His breathing quickened.
“Yes, I believe you are well-acquainted with her,” Don Pedro said, his face lighting up. “Salazar and Nolo were supposed to pick her up today. They are taking her to the ship. Perhaps she’s there already. I believe her name is Miss Emma Carpenter.”
Townsend’s heart pounded.
“We would have picked her up earlier, but it took me some time to find out who the mysterious young lady was. It was only after considerable effort that Mr. Abbott divulged her name under visible duress. It appears he was hoping she would help in his escape. I’m afraid you will never see her again. Such a shame. Quite a handsome young woman. My Southern clients have been most accommodating in agreeing to take her with them when the ship leaves this evening.”
Townsend was speechless.
“I don’t know what I would do in your predicament, Townsend. Perhaps if you turn yourself in and give us the whereabouts of your crew, I can find some way to lessen your suffering. We also need to know the other contacts Mr. Abbott had on the island. Abbott did divulge a priest, but it appears he gave us a false name.”
32
Townsend tried to control his rage, but he couldn’t. He grabbed Don Pedro by the throat and shoved the pistol hard into the man’s stomach. The thought of Emma’s predicament was too awful for him to contemplate. As for Abbott and Javier Alfonso, they might not even be alive. It sounded like they’d been brutally tortured, no doubt by Salazar and Nolo.
“Say your prayers, Don Pedro.”
His finger pressed against the trigger. He could feel the man flinch and squirm. He started to squeeze, but just then the postilion cried out.
“Hemos llegado, l’amo, al Muelle de Luz. We have arrived, Master, at the Luz landing. Sooooo. Esperan, esperan.”
The postilion continued to talk reassuringly to the horses as the carriage’s wheels shimmied to a stop. Townsend released his grip on Don Pedro’s throat and let out a deep breath. He realized how close he had come to pulling the trigger.
There was no sign of the scow schooner anywhere, and no sign of any of his crew at the landing. Townsend told a fearful Don Pedro
they were getting out here, and he should order his driver to go back to his warehouse in the Barrio Chino.
“Here?” Don Pedro asked with a slight tone of uncertainty. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to take a boat trip across the harbor to Regla,” Townsend replied. “You and I are going to have a tour of that steamship.”
“I see,” said Don Pedro with a barely disguised hint of satisfaction.
Townsend looked over across the harbor at the deep-water Regla docks where the Mexican-flagged Confederate steamer was tied up. Black clouds of smoke billowed from the ship’s raked-back funnel. The ship was clearly ready to make a quick departure. He gulped as he thought of Emma and the other two captives on board. He tried to imagine the horror and fear they were experiencing, and that helped him focus.
“Are you going to continue to hold me at gunpoint, Captain?”
“You’re my hostage, Don Pedro. If you give out a warning, I’m happy to kill you.”
Don Pedro didn’t reply, and stepped out of the carriage with Townsend close behind. They both watched the driver and the carriage clatter away on the cobblestones, headed toward the old wall and the Barrio Chino. Townsend pushed Don Pedro forward with one hand even as he fought off a wave of panic. He looked around at the shabby fleet of harbor boats and fishing boats at the Luz landing, and headed for the ones with less blistered paint. Sweat was pouring down his back. His shirt was soaked. He knew what he was contemplating was sheer folly. It was not so much a plan as it was the lack of one. A rescue might be feasible if his crew had shown up, but he saw no sign of the scow schooner anywhere. He was alone. In the back of his mind he wondered if the other sailors had just decided to take the boat and leave without him. He shook his head to try to banish that thought.
As they approached the last harbor boat, Don Pedro seemed to recover his composure and he asked Townsend what he thought he could accomplish.
“For your grandmother’s sake, why don’t you give yourself up? You need to think what you can do to save yourself.”
Townsend wanted to pull the trigger and be done with this man, but he kept that violent impulse in check. He knew that he alone offered the only thin strand of hope left for Emma. He needed to keep a cool head. He ignored Don Pedro as the man continued talking.
“If the police capture you, they will no doubt imprison you in El Morro, torture you, and then kill you. If the Confederates seize you, they will accuse you of being a Yankee spy, and probably hang you from the yards while at sea. It’s useless, Townsend. It’s over.”
Townsend glared at Don Pedro with a hateful stare. With his folded coat still covering the pistol, the young captain kept the barrel tightly pressed into Don Pedro’s lower back, right where his kidneys were. He approached one of the boatmen he thought he recognized, and hired the man to take them over to Regla as quickly as possible. They both stepped into the boat and they were about to leave the docks when Townsend heard his name being called out in Spanish. Someone wanted him to wait.
“¡Espere, Capitán. Espere!”
A chill went down his spine, his body tensing up. His hand clutched the pistol more tightly. He was about to order the boatman to cast off and row away, but then he saw a shirtless, barefoot Negro boy running toward him. It was Rafi, the homeless street urchin who had given him Emma’s message before. He was waving his arms. Townsend told the boatman to wait.
“¿Qué pasa, Rafi? What is it?” Townsend asked as soon as the boy arrived, breathless and winded.
Rafi hesitated, looking with suspicion at Don Pedro before speaking.
“La señorita Carpenter . . .”
“What about her?” Townsend asked.
“Venga, es urgente. You must come. It’s urgent.”
“You’ve seen her. ¿La has visto?”
The boy nodded.
“¿Dónde está? Where is she?”
Rafi explained she was just a block away in a covered carriage under a tree alongside the Alameda de Paula. She wanted to meet him there. Townsend felt a rush of emotions sweep over him like a freshening breeze rippling across the water. It was as if some miracle had just occurred. She was alive, and she wasn’t a prisoner.
“I can’t believe it,” he blurted out. “Is she all right?”
He glanced over at Don Pedro whose face was glowering. He was not pleased to be foiled.
“Venga conmigo, Capitán. Come with me. I will take you.”
Townsend told him to run ahead and tell her that he was on his way. As Rafi ran off, Townsend scanned the landing area for any signs of police. He paid off the boatman, and negotiated the purchase of the man’s wide-brimmed palm hat and some rope. He and Don Pedro walked quickly down the road adjacent to the Alameda de Paula. Townsend’s mouth was twitching with anger. Don Pedro had played him for a fool. He had used the lure of a captive Emma as a way to get him to the ship. It had been a trap Townsend had narrowly avoided.
“Your lies fall out of your mouth like dung balls from a donkey’s ass, Don Pedro. I don’t know what bit of hell was waiting for me on that ship, but I’m pleased I have disrupted your plans.”
Don Pedro kept his reptilian gaze forward and refused to look at Townsend. When they reached the carriage, Townsend could see the shadowy form of Emma inside. His heart quickened. He scanned the area. The postilion was nowhere to be seen. No one else was around except a scattering of parked volantas for hire at the other end of the harborside promenade. When Emma spotted him, she smiled and raised her hand. She was about to get out of the carriage, but he signaled her to wait, turning and nodding his head toward Don Pedro. She had never met the Spaniard, but she knew who he was.
Townsend shoved Don Pedro forward with a jab of the gun. The Spaniard paused before he moved to take the step up into the carriage. He stumbled and fell, reaching for his ankle as if he’d hurt himself. Townsend leaned down to help him up, but then in one sudden fluid motion Don Pedro pulled out a small hidden knife from a leather sheath strapped to his lower leg, whirling around as he placed the double-edged blade against Emma’s throat.
“¡No me jodas, Townsend!” the Spaniard hissed. “Don’t play games with me. I will cut her throat. Now drop your gun.”
Don Pedro pulled Emma to the opposite end of the carriage away from Townsend.
“Shoot him, Everett! Shoot him!” Emma screamed as she struggled to get free.
Don Pedro jerked her head back with a wrenching motion.
“One slice and she will bleed out, Townsend.”
The Spaniard pressed the blade of the knife against Emma’s throat causing her to gasp, her eyes filling with terror. Townsend held the pistol firmly, still hidden under his coat. His face was pounding. He blinked in hesitation. He realized how powerless he was.
“Drop the pistol, Townsend,” Don Pedro repeated with a satisfied sneer. He pointed with his free hand at the carriage seat. “Put it right here beside me, and then step away.”
Townsend was about to comply when he spotted Rafi out of the corner of his eye on the other side of the carriage. The boy was signaling with his hands that he would open the carriage door. He was pointing at Don Pedro whose back was leaning up against the door. Townsend needed to think quickly.
“Do it now,” Don Pedro ordered. “I will cut her.”
Townsend saw a trickle of blood travel down Emma’s neck. Without thinking, he shouted out in Spanish so Rafi could hear him.
“Don’t harm her, Don Pedro! Before I do as you wish and give myself up, you should know one thing.”
“What is that?”
“My men are looking for me right now at this very place.”
“¡Pura mierda! That’s bullshit,” the irate Spaniard exclaimed.
“Over here, Red Beard,” Townsend suddenly shouted, beckoning with his head as he looked over at Rafi. “I’m over here, Bertrand.”
Someh
ow the boy recognized his cue. He yanked open the door of the carriage, causing Don Pedro to fall back and twirl around to see who the unknown intruder was. Townsend reached inside the carriage, knocking the knife from the man’s hands even as he pulled Emma outside to safety. Snarling and cursing, Don Pedro turned and hurled himself at Townsend, reaching for his throat and hauling him back inside the carriage.
The Spaniard grabbed the fallen knife off the floor and wildly swung it upwards toward Townsend’s torso. Townsend brushed it aside, using his coat as a shield, but Don Pedro leapt up and thrust the sharp knife again. This time it stuck something solid. Townsend grunted and fell backwards. Don Pedro threw his weight forward and drove the blade into his target as far as he could. But Townsend recovered quickly. The blade had found its mark in the thick navigation book inside his coat.
Don Pedro pulled the blade out and drew the knife back over his head to strike again. Townsend slammed the heavy handle of the Colt pistol into his jaw. Before Don Pedro could react, Townsend hit him again, hard on the top of his head, not once but twice, causing the Spaniard to fall backwards onto the carriage seat. Townsend hardly knew what he was doing. He struck him again. He had lost control. He might have continued beating the unconscious man with his pistol if it weren’t for Emma. She pulled him out of the carriage.
Townsend backed away, breathing heavily. He put his hands over his face. Emma reached out to comfort him, He hugged her, letting her embrace calm his rushing blood. Once he caught his breath, he took the rope, tying up Don Pedro’s wrists behind his back, and then tightly binding his ankles. He tore some pages from the navigation book, rolled them up, and stuffed the large ball of paper into Don Pedro’s mouth. He then blindfolded the unconscious man by tying his bandana tightly over his eyes.
Some pedestrians had stopped and were looking in their direction. Townsend pulled Rafi aside and whispered something to him. The boy darted off, and Townsend started crying out. “¡Ladrón!¡Ladrón! Thief! ¡Deténganlo! Stop him!” The attention of all the passers-by was soon directed away from Townsend and Emma toward the disappearing boy.