During the overnight voyage, the fellows from Washington, neither of whom had been to Key West, eagerly drank in all the stories Rork could tell. And may I here state that he has more than a few about that port—so many stories and so great their embellishment, that by the time we arrived at the island, the lads were more than ready for some entertainment ashore.
Once we secured ourselves at the dock, Rork led his party off to the local purveyors of pleasure to ascertain if any of them had intelligence regarding the missing boy and his ship. That worked out fine with me, for I had other things to do. Chief among them was to contact my acquaintances—a different social strata than those my crew was bound for—and see what they knew about our chief quarry, Captain Frederick Kingston, of the schooner Condor. I wanted to know about him, the vessel, the charterers, the crew, the destination, and if anyone had seen or heard of a cabin boy named Luke.
Leaving Cynda aboard Nancy Ann, where she wanted to nap after a sleepless night, I started out on my investigation. It began forty feet away, with Mr. Theodore Pinder, who owned the store and dock at the foot of William Street, where we moored the boat. Pinder was a long-standing Key Wester and knew much of the trade between the port and the islands of the Bahamas. He also supplied many of the vessels operating from Key West.
I informed him of the circumstances of Luke’s disappearance and saw a spark of empathy. Pinder stated that he did, indeed, know of Kingston and the Condor. Kingston occasionally came into port, ordinarily carrying bulk cargo from the West Indies or from Charleston. The schooner anchored out, being too large for the dock, so Pinder hadn’t actually seen her, but he got the impression she was a well-found vessel by the attention the captain paid to supplies. Kingston used him to provision the schooner most recently in late April. The provisions consisted of fruits, rum, vegetables, canned meats and butter, cognac and wines.
Pinder recalled it all immediately because the order was so unusual—much more expensive fare than the usual stuff most vessels purchased. Pinder said Kingston told him some rich Northerners were coming to Key West by steamer to charter his schooner. That once aboard, they were headed for the Bahamas on a pleasure excursion. Kingston told the store owner that he’d altered the cargo hold to provide additional accommodations aboard, as plush as could be done locally. The merchant couldn’t recall anything else.
I was about to take my leave when Pinder’s hand went up. “Wait! I just remembered that a letter came for him. I hold letters for ship captains all the time. I was holding it for his return. Should still have it somewhere.”
Rummaging through several pigeon holes filled with mail he pulled out a small envelope. “Hmm, no return address, but it’s stamped in Nassau,” he said while handing it to me. “Take a look for yourself, Peter.”
Scratchy, smeared handwriting—no woman wrote it. Cheap note paper that folded up into an envelope. It was addressed to “Kingston, schooner Condor, care of Pinder’s Provisions and Supply, Key West.” Stamps from Nassau on May fifth and the post office at Key West on May twelfth.
I nodded to Pinder. “I’ll take it for you and deliver it when I find him.”
“Well . . . I don’t know about that sort of thing, Peter. Ship captains trust me to hold their mail for them.”
“You’re doing better than holding it for them—you’re delivering it to Captain Kingston, through me. I promise you, he won’t complain.”
Thirty seconds after leaving the store I dashed around a corner on Caroline Street and carefully pried open the envelope, not a demanding task since the shoddy glue was barely holding anyway. The note within was simple, but confusing.
K
The O is heading to Nassau. Be careful, but continue.
W
That was it. No sender, no addressee. Same handwriting as the outside of the envelope. Who or what was O? And why would this O be a problem for Kingston. What kind of problem? A creditor? Jealous husband? Cheated business partner? And who was W? What was his connection to Kingston?
I stuffed the envelope in a pocket and made my way toward Duval Street to see a friend who usually knew what was going on in Key West, and even more importantly, who was doing it. Charles Merrill had owned the best hotel in town, the Russell House, before the fire of ’86 destroyed it. Merrill was well ensconced in Key West’s society circles. I found him at the Curry place on Front Street and asked if he had heard of any Northerners in town in late April who chartered a schooner named Condor. He did recall something of that sort, but had no details. He would ask around his friends and get with me.
Cogitating on what I’d learned so far, I realized that if Kingston had altered the vessel’s interior into habitation fit for wealthy gentlemen, he’d probably used a shore carpenter, so I went to one with which I was acquainted. He was a man who knew a lot about what happened in the colored communities of Key West, among whom a high percentage were black Bahamian.
Charles DuPont was an interesting character, a black man whose family had been on the island for years. A carpenter, he was campaigning that year, against all odds, for the office of Monroe County Sheriff. I found him on Petronia Street in the Bahamian quarter of town, south of Jackson Square, working on a church.
DuPont greeted me cordially. We were not close friends, but the description of my reasons for imposing upon him moved the man. My premonition was correct. He readily explained that yes, he did do some work on a schooner named Condor a few months earlier, knocking out the after bulkhead of the aftermost hold so that there was a connection with it and the existing accommodation spaces. He then had put in some bunks, shelves, and lockers within the cargo hold, making it as smart as he could. Kingston insisted on quality finish carpentry, followed by varnish work, for which he paid in Spanish gold dollars from Puerto Rico.
DuPont remembered a boy of that description, and seven other crewmen, none of whom appeared to be doing much work. He thought it quite a large complement for a sixty-foot schooner, and upon registering his curiosity with Kingston, was told that three of the crew men were actually stewards. DuPont told me they didn’t look or act like any ships’ stewards he’d ever seen. Several of them hesitated when things were to be done aboard, more like landsmen.
I asked him about Kingston, what sort of man was he?
He rubbed his chin, searching for the right word. “Adaptable, Peter. Too adaptable, for my comfort. He’d do anything that would bring him money, including cutting up his cargo hold. Don’t see that often.”
“Anything else about him that seemed odd?”
“Well, one other thing seemed mighty queer to me. I saw a book lying out in his cabin. Only book there. Can’t forget that title and author: History of the Lives and Bloody Exploits of the Most Noted Pirates; Their Trials and Executions. Written by ‘Anonymous.’ Now why would anyone like Kingston have a thing like that? Didn’t impress me as the literary sort.”
Why, indeed. “Did you see any weaponry?”
“Nothing large or out in the open. I’ve got to be going now, good luck on your search, Peter.”
I thanked DuPont and bade him farewell, all the time wondering if my sense of suspicion was getting the best of me. Perhaps I was making more of all this than was warranted. Walking out of the black quarter I decided that I wasn’t. There was something beyond merely unusual about Kingston and Condor. The signs were worrying.
***
In midafternoon, I was heading back to our boat when Merrill happened upon me.
“Peter!” he called out. “I’ve some news for you.”
We stopped in the shade and he explained. “I was able to find some things for you. A group of four Northern businessmen arrived on the Plant Line steamer Olivette on Saturday, April twenty-eighth, from Tampa. They didn’t stay in any of the nice hotels. They also didn’t depart within the next three weeks aboard any Morgan or Plant steamer. And lastly, they haven’t been seen since, so they might very well
be the tourists that went aboard that schooner you’re looking for.”
He didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask, how he learned the information, but I surmised he’d somehow gotten a look at the steamer passenger manifests. “Excellent work, Charles. Thank you, sir. You wouldn’t happen to have the names, by any chance?”
Merrill beamed. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He pulled out a slip of paper. “Jason Hobart Vanderburgh, age sixty-two. G. Arthur Geldring, age fifty-nine. Julius Exeter, age fifty-six. And Monroe Archmont, age sixty-eight. All from New York City.”
“My friend, you’ve been a great help. Another piece of this puzzle is potentially solved. Thank you. I’ll let you know how this turns out.”
“You’re quite welcome, Peter. I hope you find the boy and the others. One more thing. There’s no clearance record for the Condor leaving port. Unusual, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is. She should’ve cleared with customs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Unless Kingston didn’t want the authorities to know his destination. You said earlier you thought it somewhere in the Bahamas. Do you know where?”
“No. I was hoping someone here would know. I suppose we’ll start with the Bimini Islands. Also check at Nassau.”
Merrill headed off, calling over his shoulder, “Well, I wish you good luck, Peter. Oh, and please say hello to Useppa for me. I haven’t had occasion to see her lately. I fear I’ve missed church services due to work the last two Sundays.”
He referred to my daughter, the assistant headmistress at the Frederick Douglass School in Key West. Useppa became a Methodist missionary in Key West, working with the island’s black children, when only twenty years old. By the time of the great fire in ’86, she was a teacher at the island’s black school and working with both the white Methodist church and the black African Methodist Episcopal church.
Now, after a hiatus following the death of her fiancé in that fire, a traumatic event aggravated by its Cuban revolutionary connection, she was back teaching at the school in Key West again. She loved the island where her mother had been born and raised and had later married me during the war. The place was part of her heart, and she couldn’t stay away.
From Pinder’s store, I’d sent a note to the school, letting her know I was briefly on the island and wanted to invite her to dinner that evening. I hadn’t seen her in five months and was looking forward to introducing her to Cynda and my other friends. We would meet at Curry’s establishment on Front Street, at seven o’clock. A return confirmation note was requested.
Armed with my new knowledge about Condor and Kingston, I made my way back to Pinder’s dock to give Cynda the good news that we finally had some solid information to use in formulating our plans. Walking down Fleming Street, close upon Duval, I passed the scene where the great fire had started—and I nearly died—two years earlier. That memory brought to mind the more suspicious side of my character and I began to mentally assess the current situation.
Questions arose about Kingston and his unusual crew. The O connection in Nassau. The piracy book. Those New York businessmen. And why had Condor departed quietly, bypassing the authorities, if she was only on a pleasure excursion? The questions had no answers yet and only led to more questions.
Were they really businessmen? Was O another businessman from New York? A rival of the passengers aboard Condor? How did the New Yorkers come to charter Kingston? Or even know of him? It was done in advance—Kingston altered his vessel before they arrived. Why did they choose Condor? There were real yachts available that were far more comfortable. Why would the captain carve up his ship like that, an expensive undertaking, for a single voyage? A seven-man crew? Why a crew that large? Most importantly, where did they go, and what was their purpose? Fishing? Sightseeing? Leisurely voyaging? Or perhaps an extended business meeting, a company retreat of sorts?
As I went by the tavern at Southard and Duval, a familiar shout interrupted my cogitation. It was Corny, well oiled by that time, calling me into the barroom. The lads were canvassing the island, pub by pub, and so far reported no luck, but declared that perseverance was their virtue. Even Dan Horloft, the stoic mariner and engineer from Maine, was smiling—a significant indicator of their level of intoxication.
Rork, who was marginally less under the influence than his shipmates but carried it better, told me they’d meet us at Curry’s for dinner at seven, three and one half hours away. He also advised me that he had a potential witness he was tracking down. Hopefully, by dinner he’d have something to report. I reminded my dear friend of Useppa’s serious aversion to alcohol and those under its sway. I further suggested that everyone slow down their rate of consumption considerably, so I’d be spared one of my daughter’s frequent lectures on the evils of rum.
Useppa—like every other female who’d met the Gaelic rascal—adored Sean Rork and, of course, wouldn’t dream of lecturing him. Oh, no, it would be I who’d be the object of her ire and recipient of her wisdom. Rork laughed and said that yes, he’d see that the boys would, “behave as gentlemen most certainly should at a proper dinner, an’ nary a drop more than a final pint o’ liquor should pass our lips between now an’ then.”
I was less than convinced, but what could I do at that point? Onward I proceeded to Nancy Ann and my opportunity to give Cynda notice of some positive progress in our search for answers.
The sloop had her sun awnings set up fore and aft and all hatches open for the air. The shadows and openings created a pleasant draft through the cabin, making it fully ten degrees cooler than shore. Cynda was seated at the tiny table in the cabin’s main salon, reading a pocket book of poetry she’d brought along. I slid down the ladder in my zeal, kissed her cheek, and immediately gave her the latest intelligence gained.
She expressed her joy at my progress by embracing me, the first physical affection since the night of the storm in my bungalow. Before I knew it, and without any planned effort, I found myself on the adjacent bunk, entwined with her body and entranced by those captivating blue eyes. A natural progression ensued, soft caresses making time fade away until I lost all sense of place, except the overwhelming urge to please this woman who had brought long-dormant needs and abilities back to life for me.
Afterward, secure in the knowledge that our companions were well ensconced far away ashore, we lay there basking in the glow of complete repose, both of us depleted of energy and recovering our breath. Holding her beside me on the gently swaying vessel, I felt as carefree as I’d ever been and lay there savoring the sensation for a long time. There was no bed cover and none was needed in that tropic climate. Besides, we had privacy and several hours until we were expected for dinner. The rest of the sleepy afternoon was ours to laze away. Within minutes, we were deep in slumber, oblivious to the world. Our bliss ended abruptly, however, with an indignant shriek from the companionway.
“Daddy . . . Good Lord! What in the world are you doing!”
Useppa, my darling daughter and staunch defender of Christian morals, stood on the ladder a mere five feet away. Her father and a strange woman lay tangled before her, both as au natural as the day they were born. It was not my best paternal moment.
While we hastily gathered up our clothes, Useppa stormed up the ladder and waited on deck. Cynda was perplexed, I embarrassed, and my daughter madder than I’ve ever seen her. When the lady and I had assumed an appearance of better propriety, we ascended the ladder to confront our ethical superior.
I feel it incumbent upon me to explain at this juncture that Linda and I had always attempted to instill in our children a sense of social and religious responsibility, for both their sakes and for the country. We wanted them to have a foundation on which to build good character, thus they were taught Christian values and behavior, with Linda and me serving as the primary examples. Hence, perhaps, the level of shock to my daughter’s sensibilities.
Then, to compound the issue, I made th
e tactical error to treat the episode with humor, in an attempt to defuse it, so to speak. In my defense, I must say that this situation was never covered in Useppa’s upbringing or my own anticipation. I had no earthly idea what to say, so unsurprisingly, I chose the wrong thing to say.
“Useppa, you seem to have me at a unique disadvantage, but may I have the honor to introduce you to Mrs. Cynda Saunders. Cynda, this is my daughter Useppa.”
More blood drained from Useppa’s face.
“A married woman! Oh, Daddy, how could you? And you’re being so facetious about it. I just don’t know what to say.”
I immediately realized I shouldn’t have used either the humor or Cynda’s marital title. It was time to retreat. “No, no, dear. She’s just a widow. And a friend.”
Well, that didn’t help at all, and only got me a cocked eyebrow from Mrs. Saunders. This wasn’t going well, so I decided upon a strong counterattack. Two could play at etiquette.
“And just why didn’t you announce your presence from the dock and request permission to come on board? I raised you to show proper manners on a vessel!”
“I did,” she said, leveling those green eyes at me. “But evidently you were too tired out to hear me.”
Touché.
“Well, I’m sorry you blundered into this, dear. Cynda and I are very close—”
“I noticed that, Daddy. And I am trying very hard not to judge you harshly because of your behavior, but I do not want to hear anymore. I will leave you now to your . . .” She stammered a moment then blurted out, “your friend.”
With that said, Useppa stomped off the sloop and down the dock, leaving me far behind in the scruples department. It was ridiculous but definitely not comical, being chastised by my daughter over ethics. This was so much worse than her diatribes against me drinking rum. I felt like some perverted lecherous cad.
Honor Bound Page 7