The trade winds outside were picking up for the day, making the palm fronds swish and the surf line rumble, but inside that room it was deathly quiet as I spoke.
“Commissioner, those are the rantings of an incompetent seaman masquerading as a cook, who was more fond of drink than work and who constantly shirked his duty and degraded the efficiency of the crew by derogatory rumor mongering. When he provoked the altercation between us, I controlled my temper and mitigated my efforts at self-defense, allowing him to escape his just rewards with only the most superficial mementos of the occasion. I’m beginning to reevaluate that decision.”
Ceruti nodded noncommittally. “Yes, well, you understand, Captain Wake, that I must take such charges seriously.”
“I do, sir.”
“And investigate them thoroughly.”
“I do, sir.”
He cleared his throat, then spoke slowly. “And I am sure you will appreciate that an investigation of this magnitude will consume . . . more than the usual amount of time . . . in order for me to ascertain whether the matter should be judged here, or remanded to the Queen’s Court in Nassau.”
There was something in his tone that told me to stay silent. I nodded respectfully.
“Therefore,” he continued, “I must advise you that for the aforementioned reasons this case may linger in litigation for some while. Even after you have departed this port.”
Ceruti laid the document down and gazed at us. Rork’s boot nudged mine under the table, but I already understood the point of the statement. The commissioner, a former ship’s master, agreed with my view of the issue, but had to follow form for appearance’s sake. In the meantime, we were being allowed to leave—or escape, to use a more accurate term.
“I strongly disagree with Blackstone’s version and intend to lodge a civil suit for defamation of my character should he persist, sir. In the interim, I and my crew stand ready to assist you in any manner.”
“Very good, Captain Wake.”
“Sir, if I may? I have some questions about a schooner that passed through here in May—Condor is her name The boy seaman on her is the son of the lady aboard Delilah. Condor and her people are missing and presumed dead. We are searching for them, for the lady is convinced her son is alive. Do you have any information about that schooner, sir?”
He rubbed his chin while thinking. “Condor, you say? Yes, I remember hearing of her. Nothing of a specific nature. Only that she was here at Andros, anchored where you are, and something of a yacht, I believe. No cargo, only passengers. I wasn’t here at the time, but upon my return I was told that her passengers secured the services of local men to act as guides on an exploration for Morgan’s treasure. The inevitable happened and they left for Nassau empty-handed.”
“Nassau? What about the captain, crew, or passengers? Any news of them, sir?”
“No. They didn’t have any reason to come to this office’s attention, Captain Wake. Most of our visitors don’t.”
A not so veiled reference to me.
He went on. “And I fear that your continued presence at this place will only make your situation, and my official position, more uncomfortable, if you understand my meaning.”
Rork’s boot again. He was getting on my nerves with the boot nudging. I replied to Ceruti, “Understood very well, sir. There doesn’t appear to be a reason to delay our departure then. We are anxious to find young Luke, so we’ll be under way tomorrow for Nassau, if the wind serves.”
“An excellent decision, Captain Wake. But I think it won’t. This easterly wind usually holds for a few days.”
“Then as soon as it does, sir.”
Bode was quiet until this point, when he mused aloud, “Amazing, is it not, Commissioner? The few yachting parties who visit us don’t typically excite this much attention around here. They come, they go, and nobody cares—except this one aboard Condor. It surely has received some rather . . . diverse . . . interest lately.”
Ceruti shot him a severe look, which raised my curiosity. Had someone else inquired about Condor? I turned to the commissioner’s friend. “Mr. Bode, you have me at a disadvantage, sir. What interest are you speaking of?”
Ceruti pursed his lips as Bode answered. “Oh, some French fellow was here a week ago, asking the same questions. Came over on the mail boat from Nassau. It’s well after the tourist season at Nassau, so naturally I thought he was an investor, here about Chamberlain’s planned sisal plantation. That’s beginning to attract some notice. Then I worried that he was a new sponge concern’s envoy, but it turned out I was wrong on both accounts. He wasn’t here for trade purposes at all, but to ask about some silly tourists chasing down hidden gold a couple of months ago. The commissioner wasn’t here at the time, but I was, so the Frenchman came to me.”
The commissioner’s tone was dismissive. “Bode, really, we don’t need this sort of thing.”
His friend wasn’t daunted. “Oh, don’t worry, Number One. This tourist stuff isn’t going to affect the sisal enterprise and you know it. Chamberlain will still bring his money here.”
“Who?” I asked, totally confused now.
Ceruti answered. “Joseph Chamberlain, of Her Majesty’s foreign office, a diplomacy fellow back home in England. He is setting up a large sisal plantation here, which everyone over the age of three knows about. The island could use the investment. It will bring employment, since the sponging has been off lately. But we do not need foreign inquiries into unexplained disappearances of tourists. Bad image for us. I worry that investors might be deterred.”
I returned my attention to Bode. “What did the Frenchman ask?”
“He mainly wanted to know if there were any Russians on Condor. Kept asking about that in various ways. Russians? At Andros Island? Can you imagine? Well, there weren’t any that we knew about. Just a typical mongrel crew from around the various islands and a Yankee captain. Plus, some New York City swells, out for a lark. Pretty innocent, actually.”
Innocent? I wondered. “Where was the Frenchman from, sir? Why was he asking about Russians?”
“I don’t know where he was from. France, I suppose. Passed himself off as a potential charterer, checking out the schooner—what type of skipper, crew, clientele, that sort of thing. But mainly he was interested in the Russian thing. Seemed quite odd. Not your usual charter client at all. Left the next day on the mail boat.”
Odd, indeed. Was the ‘O’ in the letter to Kingston from Nassau referring to the Frenchman? Or did ‘O’ refer to this Russian connection? Or perhaps W, the sender of the letter, was the Frenchman?
“What was his name? His description?”
“Let me see . . . It was one of those long French names that they garble while saying. You know how they are. No, I cannot recall it. But wait! I do remember his first name—it was Pierre. Maybe forty years old, moneyed, smooth talker. Fluent in English. Trim moustache and thin goatee, long hair. Debonair sort of Frenchman. I think he mentioned something about Paris, now that I think of it.”
“And he headed back to Nassau? When was this?”
He grinned, knowing he was intriguing me and aggravating Ceruti. “About the time you arrived at Red Bays. Curious, ain’t it?”
Ceruti wasn’t done, though. He stood, the signal for us to exit, and issued his parting shot. “Much ado about nothing. We have no information about your missing ship and crew, sir. I wish you fair weather for your voyage. And by the way, what is your regular profession, Mr. Wake? You don’t seem the typical schooner master.”
He knew. I could tell by his eyes, which had grown colder. Blackstone probably told him. “I’m a U.S. naval officer, on leave.”
Ceruti spoke deliberately, savoring each word. “Really? Well, I do hope you aren’t receiving any remuneration for your services as master of Delilah. We don’t allow foreign naval officers to operate on a private or a governmental basis within t
he colony without Crown permission. Especially when out of uniform. Gives a bad impression, you know. Makes government people nervous.”
Touché. He was calling me a spy.
“I’m certainly not doing this for pay, sir. I am on holiday, helping the lady find her son. I am not operating in my professional capacity.”
“I see,” said the commissioner.
Rork coughed and moved his chair back, preparing to stand.
I stood first and said, “Thank you for the conversation, gentlemen. We won’t be a bother to you anymore.”
***
Absalom joined us for the walk back to Morgan’s Bluff. As Rork and I discussed the intelligence we’d just obtained, the islander, clearly disturbed, asked, “Captain, excuse me, sir. Did the cook make a charge on you?”
“Yes, he did, Absalom. Several, in fact.”
“I knew it. I should have left him tied up that night, but I let him go. He promised he would just go home to Abaco. I believed him. I am sorry, sir.”
“I understand, Absalom. Don’t worry about it. We can handle the likes of him.”
Rork cut in. “Aye, lad. Not to worry ’bout that devil. At least he’s the devil we know. There’s other things stewin’ now.” He shook his head pensively. “Methinks we’re into somethin’ far worse with that boy on board Condor. Froggie Frenchmen involved? Rooskies? I don’t fathom that a bit. Oy, an’ now me blasted foot’s actin’ up, sir—an’ you know what that means.”
I did, indeed. Rork’s superstitions weren’t limited to bizarre fables from local tales. His right foot was a weather vane for impending strife. And as idiotic as it sounds to our modern nineteenth-century minds, whenever my friend’s foot acted up, we unfailingly would soon find ourselves immersed in trouble. Perilous trouble. It had happened on four continents.
I hate it when Rork says his foot hurts.
16
Nassau
Nassau
New Providence Island
Islands of the Bahamas
Tuesday, 31 July 1888
We gained our freedom from Morgan’s Bluff on the thirtieth day of July. The strong easterlies at last abated and swung to the south southeast point of the compass. An overnight broad reach allowed us to fetch the western point of New Providence Island, where the schooner close-reached along the reef-bound northern coast as the sun rose over the central hills.
Twenty-five very long days after departing Key West for Nassau, we arrived at our destination. Normally that journey—without doldrums, hurricanes, or sinking vessels—would’ve taken four or five days. In the late afternoon our tired crew sailed the schooner between the old lighthouse on Hog Cay and the sprawl of Fort Charlotte on the main island. We anchored Delilah among other vessels in transit off Vendue Wharf, at the foot of George Street, and afterward all aboard sighed with relief. Our repairs to hull and rig had held.
Nassau is a delightful little place, pleasant to the eye and nose. Filled with native island boats and ocean steamers, the water is a luminescent jade green. You can see the bottom thirty feet down. From the harbor front, a whitewashed and pastel-painted town spreads up a gentle slope to the ninety-foot-high ridge dominating the island. Here and there church spires poke up, none higher than the Anglican cathedral’s squared-off tower. A cornucopia of fruit trees fills the gardens, while almond, cork, palm, and mahogany trees give shade along the streets. And everywhere there are flowers: roses, hibiscus, bougainvillea, gardenia, jasmine—each scenting the air.
Above it all stands the white-columned, pink-walled, two-storied governor’s mansion known as Government House, bastion of British imperial authority and justice in the Bahamas. Its solemn position on the highest part of the ridgeline ensures that every day, every person in Nassau is reminded about who is in charge. From our anchorage, we had an impressive view straight up George Street to the statue of Columbus and lawn of the governor’s mansion. The scenery was familiar to me, for I remembered Nassau well from the war, when it was an openly pro-Rebel port, barely civil to visiting U.S. Navy warships.
Preparation for liberty in the town was the happy focus of the crew, who began taking great pains to improve their appearance for the occasion. Their task was to ask around the sailors’ haunts for information on Condor, as they had at Key West. I could not join in that effort, for I had other duties to perform ashore. Accordingly, I took the dinghy in first and reported our appearance to the port captain’s office in Vendue House. Rork went with me and struck out on his chore while I attended to my own.
After an hour of searching in the heat, I located the shipping broker at a nondescript hovel in an alley off the eastern portion of Bay Street. The broker, a Brit too long in the islands, was visibly disconcerted by the peculiar manner in which I was in command of Delilah. I ignored his bad attitude and informed him that the next day we would be ready to offload his consignment. One of those sorts who are devoted to a comfortably lackadaisical routine, he only laughed at me in reply.
I thought that a bit much. Upon my protesting his demeanor, he retorted, “Oh, mind your knickers. I’ll get to your schooner when I find some boys to offload her and the space to store the shipment securely, Captain. And that might take a couple of weeks, so relax. This is the bloody Bahamas, get used to it.”
This development was totally unacceptable. I’d planned on a twenty-four-hour stay in Nassau. “No,” said I. “If it’s not properly unloaded by three p.m. tomorrow, sir—then it will be unloaded across the harbor, onto the beach at Hog Island, by my crew and at your financial peril. We have endured storm, death, and contrary winds and have still delivered the cargo intact to this port. Our responsibilities end tomorrow at three o’clock.”
“Tomorrow is Emancipation Day, Yank,” he retorted smugly. “Nobody, especially the blackies, works on Emancipation Day.”
Damn. I’d forgotten about the biggest holiday in the Bahamas outside of Christmas. It commemorated the freeing of the slaves at midnight on 31 July 1834 and was celebrated annually across the Bahamas on the first day of August. Our stay would be stretched.
“Very well, the day after tomorrow at three p.m. then. Unload it yourself or hope it stays unmolested at Hog Island Beach. Either way, it’s yours at that point. I will so notify the ship’s owner by correspondence that he should expect your payment draft immediately.”
I didn’t wait for further reply from the haughty little functionary and left him sitting there at his table, slack-jawed and dumbfounded as I strode out. Such is the way to deal with bureaucrats of the world—though it is difficult to resist shooting them as they smirk.
***
While I was busy finding and correcting the recalcitrant shipper, Rork had been on a quieter type of assignment: make contact with our man in Nassau, the one who had assisted in getting Paloma to Saint Augustine. We would meet later for a drink and conversation, Rork reported. I thought perhaps our contact might be able to shed some light on the peculiar information we were gathering along our path. Particularly this ‘O’ and ‘W’ business out of Nassau.
Rork agreed, for the man was in a position that enabled him to know things, and to also get things done. Our occupation requires that we assemble a network of such men and women in various ports around the world.
Robert Mason, an importer, property broker, and semi-retired insurance man from Columbus, Ohio, was our man in Nassau. He knew my profession and helped me out of nationalistic pride, along with a nominal fee. A former U.S. Navy volunteer officer during the war, he’d moved to Nassau for his health in 1880. Mason had been my contact in the Bahamas for five years and was rather successful in providing subtle routes in and out of nearby Cuba for Rork and me, and some of our friends. In addition to knowing how to get things done, Mason also had that rarest of abilities—knowing how to keep his mouth shut.
Rork, Mason, and I met at the old blockade-runner lair of the Royal Victoria Hotel, just east of G
overnment House on Hill Street. The Victoria is a four-story ornate lodge that caters to winter tourism at Nassau, including the most elite of the elite of London and New York. The barroom was open for the local trade but empty of patrons, the tourist months being long over.
It was glaringly hot outside and stuffy inside, with an ambience of neglected importance, like a theater diva backstage caught without her rouge and powders. In wintertime the place was different. Victoria’s bar would be filled with the buzzing chatter of New York City’s well-dressed industrial barons, escaping the arctic air up north with rum punches and gin flips in the comparatively sultry air of Nassau’s finest hotel.
During the Civil War, millions in British pounds sterling, Spanish gold, and Confederate cotton were exchanged during genteel haggling in that very bar. Blockade running made Nassau rich. Tourism in recent years had had a similar effect upon the place, but nowadays, the barons discussed bank transfers regarding railroads, iron, and coal.
An afternoon thunderstorm was kicking up some wind outside, and a merciful gust came through the verandah doors as I signaled for another round from the lethargic barman. I’d already explained to Mason our current off-duty mission during the first round. We’d also covered some items regarding Paloma. Mason had an ongoing role to play in that situation: he facilitated communications with one of my operatives in Havana.
I turned to the subject at hand and asked Mason if he knew of a Captain Kingston and a schooner named the Condor.
“Yes, I remember that name of the ship. She was in awhile ago for supplies. Must’ve been the middle of May, I think. Ran into some of her passengers ashore. Right here, as a matter of fact, in this bar. I was here with one of the colonial office men, discussing American tariffs. Only other people here were Condor’s passengers. We got to talking with them. They were business fellows down from New York City. Playing tourist in the islands, as I recall. Spent two or three nights here in the hotel while their boat was being provisioned. Left the hotel afterward.”
Honor Bound Page 12