Captured in the Caribbean

by Sara Whitford

  The sun was going down and the men were ravenous. The crew members all decided to go to the tavern that Jones had learned about from the local man.

  The place was called Taberna El Trobador. The aptly named establishment was known in Havana as the best place to hear popular traveling musicians. On this night the men from the Gypsy were not disappointed. There were, in fact, two musicians performing together—one playing a guitar, and the other clapping a pair of castanets, keeping rhythm while stomping his foot occasionally for emphasis. Carl and Charlie Phillips had heard the fiery style of music before, as had Jones and the others who had been to Havana, but for Adam and Martin it was an entirely new experience.

  They took some tables near the tavern’s entrance—something Captain Phillips had put into practice ages ago. As he said, “Ya never know when all hell will break loose in these kinds of places, so best you stay near the door in case you need to make a quick escape.”

  The furnishings were all made of heavy mahogany, and the architectural details were quite different from what would ordinarily be found in Beaufort. By the light of the lamps that illuminated the place, the plaster walls looked like they were a dark, mossy green. As Adam looked around and took in every inch of the exotic tavern, he observed vibrant objects in nearly every nook and cranny. There were deep-red and gold-colored objects everywhere, such as brass sconces with cranberry-tinted glass on the walls. Behind the stage area where the musicians performed hung a wine-colored tapestry. It wasn’t actually a stage, though, but rather just a cleared area along the building’s northern wall.

  Adam was intoxicated by the atmosphere and could not help but tap his feet in time to the song. Martin, on the other hand, appeared to be taking in the sights—specifically the young Spanish women who seemed like they were right at home in the place, and perhaps even more importantly, who looked adept at making the patrons feel right at home as well.

  Soon, a tall, thin waiter who appeared to be about Adam’s age came to the table to take the order. Captain Phillips responded in Spanish colored with the thick brogue that was typical of the barrier island families on the Carolina coast. The waiter looked like he struggled to understand him, but in the end he nodded and disappeared into the crowd so he could fill the order.

  Charlie asked his older brother, “What’d you tell him?”

  “I reckoned I best keep it simple.” He grinned. “Told him beers all around and whatever he recommends for supper.”

  About that time the mustachioed man from the docks—a fellow of about fiftysomething years of age—came in flanked by two other men who looked about half his age.

  Charlie, who was sitting facing the entrance, kicked Jones under the table and then tipped his head towards the door.

  Jones turned around and waved at the man and his friends as soon as he spotted them. “Hello, mate!” he shouted over the sound of the musicians.

  The man motioned for his companions to go on over to the next table and to have a seat.

  “Have you gentlemen already asked for your drinks?” asked the Spaniard.

  “Aye, indeed we have, sir,” said Jones.

  “I will tell the waiter to put this round on my account.”

  Jones and the rest of the Gypsy crew who were present all cheered and told him thank you.

  He walked around the tables where the crew sat and joined his companions at the table they had chosen nearby. It was closest to where Adam and Martin were seated.

  Adam turned his chair sideways so he could talk to him. “You speak English very well, sir.”

  The man pulled out a chair and took a seat. “Thank you, young man. I suppose one could say it is necessary in my work.”

  Adam noticed he was dressed quite well and wondered about his occupation. “What do you do?”

  The man smiled and appeared as though he might be studying Adam’s face before he answered. “I am—how do you call it?—the high sheriff.”

  Adam unintentionally swallowed hard, which he was sure made him look suspicious. “Oh, really? Of all of Havana?”

  The man nodded.

  “So I reckon that means you’re the law here, huh?”

  The man tipped his head from side to side and gave a little grin. “I do not make the laws, but let us say that it is my job to enforce them.”

  Adam suddenly felt nervous, though he didn’t know why. He hadn’t done anything wrong . . . not personally, anyway. Of course earlier in the day he and the crew had smuggled several hundred pounds of commodities into Mr. Gomez’s warehouse, but that was for Spanish customs to worry about, not the sheriff—at least that’s the way he understood things to work. When it came down to it, there was no reason for him to have any problems with the law.

  He began to wonder if the man might be wanting to keep an eye on him and his shipmates because of some of the trouble Jones said the crew of the Gypsy had gotten into the previous year. He thought it might be wise to change the subject and ask the man about something else.

  “I reckon you must’ve lived here a long time—I mean, you know a lot of people, right?”

  Just then the waiter came and brought drinks to Adam and the men at his table. He looked over at the sheriff and his friends and said, “¿Su orden habitual, señor?”

  The mustachioed man nodded and said something in Spanish, and then the waiter left to fetch more drinks. The sheriff turned his attention back to Adam and said, “I was born here in Havana, so of course I know many people in this place.”

  “Hmph.” Adam thought for a moment. “Maybe you can help me then.”

  “What is it you are needing help about?”

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Alonso Cordova? He was a sailor.”

  “Hmm . . . I do not believe so. As a matter of fact, I do not know anyone here who has the name Cordova now that I am thinking about it.”

  Adam was visibly disappointed.

  “You are looking for this man? Is he someone you know?”

  “No, not exactly. But I heard he lives here and that he might know about someone that I am looking for.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded. “I understand. I only wish I could be of more help to you.”

  “That’s alright,” said Adam. “I’ll try to ask around some in town tomorrow. My friend here has promised to come with me.” He elbowed Martin to indicate who he was talking about, but when he turned to look at his friend, he noticed Martin was whispering in the ear of a young woman who had just pulled up a chair right next to him. Adam rolled his eyes.

  The mustachioed man said something to the girl in Spanish, to which she responded.

  The man told Adam, “She really likes your friend.”

  “All the girls do. Back home folks lock up their daughters when they see Martin coming down the street.” He laughed.

  The man grinned. “Your friend is enjoying some of our local hospitality. This is good. You should have a nice time here so you will go back to your home with many pleasant memories.”

  Adam looked over at Martin and the Spanish girl, then shook his head and chuckled. “No, sir. I have a girl back home. I reckon I’ll have a nice time here, but not quite like my friend.”

  The man laughed. “I suppose your home is very far away from here, yes?”

  Adam nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re here all the way from Beaufort, North Carolina.”

  “Ah! Well, you see, that is very far! It is not necessary that your señorita knows everything you do while you are away.”

  “Perhaps,” Adam shrugged, “but all the same my heart belongs to her.”

  “Ay, ay, ay! To be young and so innocent! You should know that you do not need to involve your heart to have a good time. It is only a bit of fun and diversion.” The man laughed loudly, but when Adam failed to laugh along, he said, “Nevertheless, I suppose it is virtuous that you are a faithful man.”

  Adam wrinkled his brow. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Back in Beaufort you’d never he
ar a man of power and means bragging about infidelity right out in public. Adam didn’t know if it was the culture of a busy port city that made the man that way, or if it was just a Spanish characteristic. He suspected a little of both. He had heard it said that people of Mediterranean descent tended to be hot-blooded. Then again a lot of folks back home would’ve said that Martin was hot-blooded, but as much of a womanizer as he was, even he wouldn’t carry on a serious relationship with one woman while having another on the side. That’s precisely why at twenty-six, Martin Smith still hadn’t even considered settling down with one woman yet. He knew he couldn’t commit to just one girl, so he never did.

  At that point things became a little awkward between Adam and the sheriff, so Adam directed his attention back towards listening to the musicians, and the man turned his focus to Jones, who had come around from his table and taken a seat at the table with the sheriff. Soon the two of them were engaged in an animated conversation, much to Adam’s relief. He wasn’t sure how to converse with the man without possibly offending him, and considering he held such a position of authority, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Within a few minutes the waiter and a couple of assistants from the kitchen came out to deliver the food that had been ordered—the special that the captain had mentioned. The crew members were surprised to be served roasted pork that was remarkably similar to their pit-cooked barbecue pork back home. This must’ve been the dish that Emmanuel had told Adam about. He had once explained to his apprentice that the North Carolina way of cooking barbecue pork had been brought to the American colonies from the Caribbean. Of course Adam hadn’t seen a recipe for either method, but from what he could tell, the main difference seemed to be that the Cuban pork tasted like some sort of citrus juice was being used in place of the vinegar that was added to the pork back home. There were no vegetables—something that would’ve always been served with supper at the Topsail Tavern. Instead, they were presented with a dish that Adam learned was called Moros y Cristianos. It was apparently just a fancy name for black beans and rice. Everything was put on the table in large platters so that the men might serve themselves. There were some condiments served alongside that Adam did not recognize, but he was eager to try them all the same.

  After the meal was done, Adam elbowed Martin. “Hey you—are you going to stay here much longer?”

  Martin raised his eyebrows at him, then turned his attention back to the Spanish girl, who at this point was sitting on his lap. He leaned over and whispered something to her. She whispered something back.

  Adam wondered what they could possibly be saying, given Martin’s limited command of the Spanish language. When the girl kissed Martin on the cheek and began to twine her fingers in his sandy curls, Adam knew it was unlikely he’d see his friend again that night.

  “Listen,” he told him, “I’m going back to the Gypsy. I’ll see you in the morning at eight, and we can go to the plaza and start asking around.”

  Martin nodded and answered Adam while keeping his eyes on the girl. “That sounds like a real good plan.”

  Adam and the captain—the only two who weren’t being entertained by local women—decided to head back to the ship.

  Chapter Three

  ADAM SMOOTHED HIS DARK, WAVY hair back from out of his face and fastened it with a cord in a short ponytail. The choppy wind blowing across the deck of the Gypsy at his back made him glad they weren’t at sea that day. He’d been leaning on the ship’s rail on and off for nearly an hour on the lookout for his friend when he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. This is ridiculous, he thought as he closed his watch and shoved it back in his pocket.

  Martin still hadn’t shown up, and it was nearly nine o’clock already. He had agreed the previous evening to meet Adam at eight, and then they would go to the Plaza Vieja, the old market square near the wharf, to ask around about Alonso Cordova.

  Adam didn’t have to think too hard about where his friend was. Martin always struggled with punctuality where women were concerned. Forget about this! I’m not waiting all day for him to fasten his britches and meet me here.

  Adam had known better than to expect him to return to the sloop the previous night, but he expected his friend would at least come dragging in shortly after sunup. The fact that it was now nearly nine o’clock and he was apparently still with his señorita meant there was no telling when he’d turn up again. It could be anytime before nightfall, when Captain Phillips would do a check to make sure all of the men were back on board so that he could be sure they’d all be ready to work at sunup the next day.

  He decided he would head to the Plaza Vieja himself. He told Jones where he was going and asked if he would like to tag along.

  “Wish I could, mate,” he said, “but the cap’n is sending me and Canady out to try and track down some line so we can replace that frayed headstay.”

  “Well, I reckon I should be back in a few hours. I don’t know how much success I’ll have looking for that Cordova man, since I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Ah, well, good luck, mate,” said Jones. “If Smith gets back before I leave, I’ll tell him where he can find you.”

  Adam nodded and took off for the plaza.

  He didn’t have to walk very far to get there. The place was only about two blocks west of the docks. As soon as he came through the northeastern entrance, Adam found it to be a pleasant assault on his senses. Vendors with stalls set up in this market square in the heart of downtown Havana offered the same sort of things that would have been sold in any city market in America, but with a decidedly Cuban flavor. The colorful wares and exotic produce marked a departure from the merchandise to which Adam had grown accustomed back in Beaufort. Noisy vendors walked around with baskets on their heads full of freshly baked breads and pastries, while others hawked peanuts or fritters.

  The pungent but appetizing aromas wafting out of one of the local cafés, which Adam remembered were called fondas, stimulated his taste buds and finally enticed him to spend some of his hard-earned money on foods he did not know how to name. He enjoyed eating at one of the tables on the patio in front of the place while he stayed on the lookout, just in case Martin turned up.

  After his belly was full, he went to check the northeastern gate one last time for his friend.

  Where is he? Adam was frustrated. He hadn’t wanted to go on this mission alone, but now it looked like he would have to. After all, the Gypsy was scheduled to leave port to start on the return trip to Beaufort in less than twenty-four hours. And since they were all to be back on board by nightfall, he now had only a handful of hours to accomplish his task.

  What was already a long shot now seemed to be nearing impossible. In a city as busy as Havana, where they didn’t generally speak English, Adam wondered how he was ever going to find the only person who might be able to tell him something about his father. At least Martin knew a little bit of Spanish, unlike Adam, who only knew how to say things like hola, gracias, no hablo español, and adios.

  Before he had left Beaufort, Valentine Hodges, proprietor of the Topsail Tavern and Adam’s surrogate grandfather (by virtue of having raised his mother, Mary, since she was a young girl), had told him when he got to Havana to try to find a man called Alonso Cordova, also known as Poncho. As much as Valentine would’ve liked to, he didn’t have any more information that he could share with the boy. He had promised Mary when Adam was born that he would never tell him who his father was, and he intended to keep that promise.

  However, Mary had never thought to issue such a prohibition about him telling Adam the name of the man who had been his father’s best friend and shipmate when the young captain had spent time in Beaufort all those years ago, so that’s exactly what Valentine did.

  Adam had mentioned the name to the waiter at the fonda, but he shrugged and shook his head. He was fairly certain that meant the waiter didn’t know anyone by that name, but it also could have meant he simply didn’t understand
what he was saying. Adam decided a better course of action would be to try to find someone who could speak both English and Spanish.

  He started by asking a vendor at one of the stalls selling produce. “Excuse me, señor. Do you speak English?”

  The old man wrinkled his eyebrows and gave Adam a confused look.

  Adam opted for the one-word approach. “English? ¿Inglés?”

  The man shook his head and walked away. Adam assumed it was because the vendor had figured out he wasn’t a customer.

  Adam looked around and spotted a crowd of men milling around in front of the entrance to what looked like it could be an inn. He wondered if he might find an interpreter there. As he got closer to where the men were standing outside talking, he realized they weren’t speaking Spanish or English. In fact, he had no idea what language they were speaking. He’d never heard it before. Nevertheless, he knew Havana was a busy port, so they could be sailors from anywhere. If they were able to communicate with the staff well enough to rent rooms in that establishment, maybe there would be someone inside who could help him.

  He went in and spoke to a man standing behind a counter there. “Excuse me, but I’m looking for someone who speaks English.”

  The man shrugged and shook his head.

  Dejected, Adam left the building and began approaching anyone who was working in the plaza to see if they were able to speak English.

  As he went around the marketplace hoping to find someone who might be able to help him, a man began following him at some distance. He was a Spaniard of average height—just slightly shorter than Adam—and had a stocky build. He had very curly black hair, which he kept pulled back in a ponytail, and a stubbly face.