Carrera and Cordoba streets
St. Augustine, Florida
Sunday, 1 July 1888
The next day was when my post-mission leave was to begin. I’d kept the plan simple and flexible.
After Paloma had headed north to New York, and Jefferson and Singer had departed for Washington, Rork and I would be officially on annual leave for two months and free to enjoy life for a while. On that Monday, some friends of mine were due into St. Augustine on the train from Washington, and all hands would then board the weekly passenger train later that day and head south down the peninsula. It would take all day to reach Punta Gorda, then the next day get to Patricio Island, a little tropical refuge to which Rork and I escape when freed from our naval duties. It is on the lower Gulf coast of Florida, a locale made famous in recent years by Northern sporting fishermen’s fascination with one of our aquatic species.
The object of their interest is the tarpon fish, a bony six-foot-long predatory creature no one actually eats, but which gives a tremendous fight in its efforts to stay alive. It is quite active in those waters in June and July, rolling and jumping among the islands in an ecstasy of eating other fish. My Washington friends wanted to try their hand at this activity and I had invited them down. Unlike Rork, I am not a fisherman, but can row and sail a small boat as well as any, and would act as guide.
Now we had a day to rest before their arrival, but I was unable to do so. I was consumed by worries over how the Havana mission would evolve, and disgust over how it had already developed into using such a repugnant informer. There was nothing more for me to do at the moment, except wait until the next step in the mission, which was planned for early October, three months away. Until then we would not contact Paloma.
Since it was a Sunday morning, Rork, seeing my state of mind, insisted I go to services at a church for some quiet contemplation, or perhaps some inspiration, regarding my work. Or maybe he just wanted some time away from my glum behavior. In any event, my old friend understands my ridiculous idiosyncrasies better than anyone and knew I would further descend into melancholia without an infusion of positive morale.
“Peter, methinks ye’re needin’ to reprovision that heretical soul o’ yours,” he said. “So get thee to a church.”
Well, that made sense to me, and so I decided to follow his advice. A professed and sincere Christian, I am not the dogmatically pious sort, but do draw solace from my faith. Of course, Rork, being Irish Catholic, does not step so much as a toe inside a Protestant church, so my attendance would be a solo affair. Should the truth be told, Rork rarely steps into a Catholic church anymore, but in a noble effort to provide leadership by example, he announced that he would go to the Roman Church’s cathedral in the town while I went to my denomination’s sanctuary, the Methodist church.
We would meet afterward, he announced, for a “wee dram o’ rum,” sweetening the idea by graciously offering to buy, a rare event. I reminded him that Saint John’s County, in which we were located, was as dry as a bone on Sundays, so his kind offer would be unfortunately impossible to fulfill. He countered with a sad shrug, as only an Irishman can do, and that sly smile that the ladies adore. He really is incorrigible. And so, the rarity of Rork actually buying me a drink was maintained.
It was sweltering under the sun as we walked up Saint George Street to the central plaza, a treeless commons over which brooded the ancient Spanish cathedral. Along with the surrounding area, it had suffered through a serious fire the year before, but was well on the way to recovery with a magnificent new tower. I bid him farewell and made my way another two and a half blocks up to the new Methodist place on Carrera Street. Opened on New Year’s Day of 1888, it looked as Catholic as the cathedral, a very unusual architecture for heretical Protestants. I later found out why.
It seems that Henry Flagler, the wealthy railroad man, spent the incredible sum of eighty-five thousand dollars building the extraordinary church for the town’s Methodist population in the notable span of less than a year. He insisted its design match that of his newly finished resort, the Ponce de Leon Hotel, which sprawled across several blocks two hundred feet to the south.
The Ponce de Leon is a replica of the palaces of Andalusian Spain. It immediately reminded me of the Alcazar in Sevilla, a place I unfortunately associate to this day with my near death—but that is another story. I will digress enough, however, to explain the reason for the rich man’s munificence. Flagler is not a Methodist and did not do all this from the kindness of his heart toward the teachings of John Wesley.
The Methodists had been worshipping in a simple little wooden affair across King Street from the Ponce de Leon’s majestic entryway. Some called the structure crude, saying it marred the view for the rather swanky hotel guests who had paid a lot of money to travel to an American version of the Costa del Sol.
Flagler offered to buy the church, but the Methodists had insufficient funds to buy new land in town and build another, so they declined—something he was not used to hearing. Needing that land for an expansion of his properties, he now made the Methodists an offer it was impossible to decline or even ignore. If they would vacate the property he wanted, he would build them a beautiful new church, downtown, that was big enough for the natural expansion of their congregation and ornate enough to be the envy of every flock everywhere. That offer was accepted.
The day I attended, Reverend Charles McLean, a man with a naturally easy smile, preached a sermon from the carved flying pulpit jutting out from a front corner of the sanctuary’s altar space, high above the worshippers. Fanning ourselves in the heat, we heard a message centering on the twenty-third Psalm and the trials and tribulations of mortal life. McLean added a local touch with admonishments to remain steady in the face of yellow fever being reported in Jacksonville, a mere forty miles up the coast. The subject resonated heavily in my heart, for that dreaded curse of a disease had touched my life many times. The good reverend did not dwell on abject fear of that menace, however.
Instead, he concentrated on the ability of Christians to remain calm in the face of adversity, using the strength of their faith and hope to make it through the dark times and emerge in the light of grace. His words imprinted themselves in my memory.
“You do not get immunity from disease or evildoers as a Christian, for disease and evil are all around us and we have to deal with them. Storms and disease and suffering are constant. Human nature is flawed and there are those around us whose behavior is destructive. We cannot ignore all these adversities, we must face them,” he intoned, eerily speaking directly to my personal condition. “But fear not, for you have the certainty that no matter what you face here, you will see a better day, a day where there is no more evil to mar your eternal life. Jesus already took care of that for each of us, a long time ago. So, my beloved, carry on in life and work, and look not to the left or to the right at those dangers and depressions that assail us, but do what you know to be the will of God.”
After the service, my soul “reprovisioned” as Rork put it, I joined the end of the line of people greeting the pastor at the doorway, in order to offer my own heartfelt congratulations on a job well done. Yes, I’d had to deal with the Palomas of the world, but I just may have saved the lives of many men, Spanish, Cuban, and American, by preventing a miscalculation into war. And yes, life was good and getting better. In the morning, I would meet my friends at the train station and be en route to the island. Two months of leave, away from the personalities and politics of Washington—some of which was almost as disgusting as dealing with Paloma. It would be bliss. I might even try my hand at this tarpon fishing phenomenon.
Last to speak to him, I met McLean just inside the shadow of the heavy mahogany doors. He thrust out a hand and a cheerful greeting.
“Hello, sir. I’m Charles McLean. I believe we haven’t had the pleasure of your company in our church before. Hopefully, you can come again, Mr. . . . ?”
> “Wake, Peter Wake. I don’t live here, Pastor. I’m just passing through on my way south, down to my home in the islands by Fort Myers.”
“A long journey. Very nice to meet you, Peter. A good namesake, that,” he said with a chuckle. “I presume you’re named after the saint. Sorry you can’t attend more often, but you’re always welcome here whenever you are in town.”
His infectious sincerity got me to regretting there was no church near my island, and that the church I did attend when in Washington did not have a man like this in command.
“Thank you. I enjoyed your message, Pastor. It picked up my spirits, which have been a bit low lately due to some work stress.” I suddenly realized I sounded like some whining simpleton and immediately bucked up my attitude. “But that’s in the past, for I’m on leave now—my first in two years—and I’m looking forward to a couple of months of relaxation.”
Why I babbled on, I have no idea. But I did and thus opened a door I usually keep closed. The pastor inquired what type of work would preclude me from rest for such an extended length of time. Tired of the layers of falsities in my life, I decided to be straightforward. After all, there was no need to be guarded with a preacher.
“I suppose the best explanation is to introduce my self properly, Reverend. Commander Peter Wake, United States Navy.”
He gave me a slight bow of respect.
“Well, well . . . a navy man. How very interesting! Say, while I have you here, please tell me something, Peter. What do you think of the efficacy of the naval chaplains? Many years ago, I had a friend who applied to that position of service and was refused admittance. Before passing onward to the afterlife recently, he confided to me that the failure to go to sea as a bearer of the word of the Lord was his greatest regret. I think he would have made a good chaplain. But what is your opinion of them? Do they make a difference? Do the sailors care?”
I’ll profess here that I have not been a staunch supporter of most of the chaplains I have known, but must heartily admit that some of them have displayed the right sort of character needed to minister to men of war. Those particular clergymen have earned my respect and that of the sailors, who are a very tough breed to impress. So, since I had the time and he had the interest, I passed along some sea stories of parsons at sea, both good and bad, but concentrating on the good. As I progressed, he asked insightful questions and I answered frankly. We were getting along splendidly and he invited me to a luncheon with his visiting bishop that was to take place in an hour. I accepted, asking if Rork could join us after he did his duty as a Catholic, which was readily granted.
I shared another of my recollections. It was of a chaplain in a boat full of sailors going on liberty ashore in Key West. While standing up in the boat and stridently exhorting against the sin the lads were about to face, the preacher managed to fall overboard. The sailors kept on rowing for shore, later explaining with straight faces that after his fiery exhortation they honestly figured the cleric could walk to shore on top of the water. McLean’s laugh was genuine.
“Yes, I’ve known the same type,” he said, about to close the church’s door.
Outside, the summer sky was filled with a blinding glare so intense that I didn’t see the figure rapidly approaching us. In fact, it was the voice that I first noticed.
It was a voice from my past, so unique, with such vivid memories, that I instantly recognized it.
4
Déjà Vu
Grace Methodist Episcopal Church
Carrera and Cordoba streets
St. Augustine, Florida
Sunday, 1 July 1888
Please wait! Can’t you leave the church open a little bit longer?”
I’d first heard that dulcet drawl twenty-four years before, on the middle Gulf coast of Florida during the war, when I’d rescued her family and liberated her slaves. I’d last heard it fifteen years earlier, in ’73, at San Juan, on the Spanish island of Puerto Rico. That was when I discovered she’d married one of my former enemies in the war, a man who’d subsequently become a dear friend of mine.
The lady was Cynthia Denaud Saunders. Cynda was the childhood nickname that she still went by. She paused demurely in front of McLean, who was instantaneously captivated by her charm—clergymen are, after all, only male. Seeing his reaction, I smiled. Cynda didn’t even have to try, she just naturally had that effect. I’d seen it happen to other men before. It’d happened to me once. But this time it was different. Still strikingly beautiful, at what I calculated to be forty-three years of age, with a figure that was impossible to ignore, she was dressed differently than I’d ever seen her.
Cynda was clad in somber black bombazine silk from neck to toe. Even her wavy blond hair was gathered up in black mesh. She was obviously in mourning and had a look of despondency in her face—so much so that she did not register my presence, much less my identity.
For my part, I stood there in dumb shock while Reverend McLean recovered enough to reply. “Why yes, of course, madam. The church is always available to those in need. Can I be of assistance to you in some way, madam?”
She was about to cry. I’d seen her do that, too, but this time it looked real.
“Oh, pardon me, sir. My name is Saunders. Cynda Saunders. I wanted to pray, sir. Pray for the soul of my husband and the life of my son.”
Motioning for me to wait, McLean led her to the front pew and withdrew to the rear of the sanctuary to allow her privacy. I didn’t wait and instead headed for Cynda. In the corner, the minister, ignorant of my intentions, looked askance at me as I sat down beside her.
“Cynda, it’s Peter Wake. Is something wrong?”
She turned and noticed me for the first time, her expression transforming from abject distress to joyful surprise. Raising her hands in supplication to the altar, she let out a shriek.
“Thank you, God!”
Well, to say the least, that disconcerted me.
“Cynda, what’s happened?”
Another shriek to heaven. “Thank you, God, for sending my protector!”
This was becoming bizarre. McLean rapidly made his way toward us as I tried again to ascertain her problem, which I was beginning to suspect had a mental component.
“Cynda, please tell me what has happened.”
Her eyes glistened as she spoke. “It’s ordained in heaven. The Lord sent you here to help me, Peter. My husband Jonathan is dead and my son Luke is missing at sea. You can’t help Jonathan, but you can find Luke. They say he is dead and gone, but you will find him, Peter. I know that. You will find him and save him!”
It was too much to assimilate quickly. Jonathan had been a blockade-runner during the war. He had settled with other former Confederates in western Puerto Rico after the South’s surrender. A foe I’d tried to kill during the war, he saved my life from a rabid ex-rebel when I went to assess the ex-Confederate settlement for the U.S. government. We became friends, last seeing each other in San Juan for lunch, years later. That was when I found out Cynda had married him. I hadn’t even realized she’d known him.
“Please calm down, Cynda. What happened to Jonathan?”
“He died at the beginning of the year. Inspecting the sugar cane fields, he just fell down, dead, Peter. They say his heart failed.”
I’d always thought of Jonathan Saunders as a fit and strong man. But then I remembered that he was nine years older than I. The tropics can make a man old beyond his years.
“And you have a son?”
“Yes. Luke. He’s fourteen and the joy of my life, Peter. We have to find him!”
The minister sat down on her other side, listening as she continued her tale.
“Luke wanted to go to sea like his father. Why this strange urge in certain men, I just don’t know. But he kept badgering Jonathan the last couple of years. His father tried to humor him, Peter, and said he could go to sea for a mont
h when he turned fourteen. Just to get a taste—but only for a month, as a cabin boy or steward, or something like that. Of course, Luke remembered his father’s words, and when he turned fourteen in March he turned those same words against me, demanding I honor his father’s promise. Oh, Peter, by then Jonathan wasn’t there anymore. I was weak and I gave in to Luke. I let him go to sea.”
The tears overwhelmed her. I held her hand, trying to steady her nerves.
“How do you know your son’s missing at sea?”
Through wracking sobs she said, “It’s been months since he left on the schooner in April and not a word. I wrote the owner in Philadelphia and his reply said the schooner was reported missing somewhere in the Bahamas, presumed lost in a storm. He wrote that he’d not pay a cent to me for my son’s life. What a wretched thing to tell a mother . . .
“Peter, I never even asked for that type of thing from the horrid man. He thought I wanted money. I only want my son. Then the owner stopped answering my letters.”
“How did Luke get a berth aboard that schooner?”
She was regaining her poise now, trying to help me understand. “Jonathan knew the captain, Frederick Kingston, for years. He’d hauled our molasses and sugar many times. Jonathan and the captain placated Luke with the notion he could sail aboard when he got older. In March, Kingston delivered some supplies to us and told me he had a rich charter party he was to take on a pleasure cruise to the Bahamas. He would take them aboard in Key West.”
She sighed. “Luke wanted to go so badly. Somehow, I thought that a pleasure cruise would be safer for Luke. That he would be exposed to some quality people and after a month, he’d come home to our place in Puerto Rico with some good sea stories. Get it out of his system, I thought. Then he could continue with a normal life.”
Cynda shook her head. “It was those stories he’d heard as a boy. His father, as you well know, told some wild tales from his years at sea. Luke wanted to experience that.”
Honor Bound Page 3