They weren’t calm now. A Spanish mounted patrol appeared, cautiously trotting down the street with their carbines at the ready. They came not from our pursuers behind us but from the other direction. Obviously, we’d woken the entire city, and both the army and the constabulary had been mobilized.
A file of infantry approached on a side street. I heard another one call out from a block away. The Spanish were combing the waterfront first, then systematically moving up into the city. I intended to be gone by the time they examined our alleyway. We started moving east through the alleys to the brothel.
It took an hour to get there, one very vigilant step at a time.
37
Madam Clara
La Casa de Placeres Celestiales, Santiago de Cuba
Saturday Night after Midnight, 3 July 1898
A GIRL ATTIRED IN an ill-fitting satin dress and thick face paint answered our furtive knocks. The garish cosmetics couldn’t hide her cynical eyes. After coldly calculating our potential for pecuniary gain or physical danger, she flatly asked what we wanted.
In the streets around us, the sounds of soldiers and horses were getting louder. The net was closing in. I nudged Rork to do or say something.
With his kindest voice and most beguiling smile, Rork asked for his old friend Doña Clara, which I thought a rather ostentatious title for the circumstances. His Irish-accented Spanish and ridiculous gallantry worked, however, for without a word in reply the girl opened the door wider. She gestured for us to enter the tiny anteroom, a gloomy space containing four simple chairs along the wall. An even gloomier passageway led off the room. Rork’s description wasn’t holding up well.
Still studying us closely, she closed the door and slid the bolt home, locking the door against the troubles outside. She obviously connected the commotion with us. Motioning curtly for us to remain in place, the girl disappeared down the hallway.
Misgivings mounting by the second, I held my reloaded revolver under my uniform jacket, ready for use. The three of us stood in the center of the room, back to back in a triangle, with Rork watching the hallway, myself the side door, and Law the front door.
Rork broke the silence. “Maybe this wasn’t the best’uv ideas, sir. We’re trapped.”
My mood was less than charitable. “Brilliant assessment of the obvious, Rork. And this place is hardly the elegant palace you remembered.”
“Sorry, sir.”
He actually sounded contrite. I tried to sound confident. “All right, men, if things go badly, we’ll fight our way to the roof and escape over the tops of the buildings.”
“Aye, like Havana in ’88,” said Rork in a lighter mood. He gave Law a roguish look. “Now that was a dicey deal, indeed. Someday over a glass or two I’ll tell ye that story, Mr. Law.”
The girl returned several minutes later and ushered us down the hallway. We followed her past several closed doors, behind one of which was the room where I’d found Rork years earlier. We headed around a corner toward another substantial door like the one in front, which I surmised was the back door to an alley. This part of the brothel was more genteel, with paintings on the walls and carpet on the floor. We ascended some stairs to the second floor, where we approached yet another thick door, behind which I could hear a woman singing opera rather bizarrely off key.
The girl opened the door and led us into a red velvet boudoir decorated in a plush French style. A bad copy of a Persian carpet covered most of the floor. Wallpaper portraying Parisian scenes graced the walls. On one side, two chaise lounges, a sofa, and three leather wingback chairs were grouped around a coffee table holding a decanter of brandy and four glasses. A large four-poster bed with a red satin coverlet and lace-trimmed muslin draperies took up the other side. Two red-shaded lamps beside the bed provided faint light. On one wall was a large print of a Goya nude. Cloyingly sweet perfume scented the air.
On a table near the bed I saw the source of the strange music. It was a relatively new Berliner gramophone, unevenly playing an Italian opera singer’s rendition of the final scene from Tosca. Apparently, the summer humidity was affecting the machine’s efficiency, and thus the lady’s performance. Memories emerged of hearing that same opera performed by my friend Sarah Bernhardt at the Grand Tacon Theater of Havana ten years earlier with the Spanish viceroy at my side.
Taking a moment to sniff the liquor before pouring it, I found it to be a Spanish Jerez of a lesser grade, but serviceable given our straits. I offered Rork a glass, which he gratefully accepted. Law demurred. I poured myself three fingers’ worth while surveying the room more closely. It had no other window or door, either obvious or hidden. That was good for privacy—but meant no alternative escape route.
The girl departed, closing the door with a soft thud. Law glanced nervously around the lavish den of iniquity, and I wondered if it was the first he’d ever seen. By his hesitancy to touch anything I decided it was. Having no such qualms and realizing there was nothing more to do, I reclined on the sofa and sipped my brandy, waiting for what might come through the door.
Moments later, the lady herself entered the room just as the recording wound down in a sick wail and stopped. A theatrically ominous entrée if ever there was one. I stood politely and took in her appearance, which was formidable.
Clad in a yellow satin dress that molded her ample form a bit too tightly, Clara looked much older than I remembered her. Her upswept black hair, which appeared to be the result of badly applied bootblack, and the thick layers of powder and rouge on her face could not disguise her age, which I gauged to actually be about forty-five. She might have been treated to the worst life has to offer, but she displayed total self-assurance, her eyes flashing as she studied each of us. I instantly knew Clara would be difficult to coerce or cajole and was capable of any treachery.
I also noted she showed no recognition of Rork, which appeared to deflate my friend a bit. She did, however, recognize American naval rank insignia. Ignoring Rork and Law, who were closer to her, she glided over to where I stood. Holding out her gloved hand to be kissed, she introduced herself to me in rough but serviceable English. “Good evening, Captain. I am Mrs. Clara Aguila. Welcome to La Casa de Placeres Celestiales.”
The House of Celestial Pleasures? That’s a bit pretentious for this dump, I thought. However, I kept my opinion to myself. My preference is always to start out being nice, so I bowed and took the hand in mine, pecking her wrist.
“It is an honor to meet you, Señora Aguila, and to see your magnificent establishment of love, which is especially needed in this lamentable time of war.”
“Yes, war is always to be lamented,” she replied graciously. “It interferes with pleasure—and business. To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Captain?”
I poured the lady a hefty slug of her own brandy, presented it to her with a flourish, and extended my arm in Rork’s direction. “We arrive here as a result of the recommendation of my esteemed colleague. He still has pleasant memories of visiting your emporium twelve years ago.”
Rork stepped forward and reminded her of the circumstances of their last encounter. Clara listened carefully, a slight smile crossing her wrinkled face.
“Ah, yes. I remember now. Your happiness was stopped by this man,” she said, giving me a frown before returning her interest to Rork. She reached up and caressed his cheek. “But I remember you still pay me, though, like a gentleman. A very handsome gentleman.”
Rork threw me an arch glance before returning his attention to Clara.
“Thank you, madam,” he said, turning up his charm to its full effect. “Does me a world o’ good to know you remember me as fondly as I remember you. ’Twas shapin’ up to be a lovely night back then, an’ a shame me naval duty interrupted. But better late than never, I say, so I’ve come back for a visit tonight, an’ brought two o’ me boyos along too.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at Law, leaning forward to better show him her feminine charms, which had seen better days. “And such a nice
boy, this one,” she said breathlessly. “Very nice boy.”
The lieutenant blushed and took a step back, stammering something. Clara went back to caressing Rork and broached the question I knew would be second uppermost in her mind. “I do not see American sailors since last year, before the war. So sad. Why are you boys here now?”
Rork waved away any worries. “Oh, Clara, me dear, it seems we’re in a wee spot o’ bother with the local lads. Nothin’ bad, but we’re needin’ a place to rest for a bit. Just ’til things pipe down a bit outside, you know.”
She continued caressing him. “No problema, mi amigo. Mi casa es su casa. Three boys, how many hours? How much rum? How many girls?”
It was already midnight. Behind Clara’s back I mouthed “six hours” to Rork.
“Hmm, well let me see,” he said. “I think six hours or so, me dear. That would be about ’til sunrise. A wee bit o’ rum, you say? What a brilliant idea! A bottle o’ Matusalem would do nicely if there’s one about. Or whatever you have. And as for the girls …” Rork swung his attention to me, his right eyebrow raised hopefully.
Some things never changed with him—or with me. A roomful of trollops was the last thing we needed right then. I shook my head no, receiving disdain in return.
He told her, “Ooh, well now, Clara, it seems we won’t be needin’ any companionship tonight.”
“No love tonight?” she cooed. Her left hand went south on him while her right traced his mouth. Rork looked close to capitulation.
“No,” I announced.
Clara ignored me, but Rork came to his senses and added, “No, dearie, not in the cards—no love for the lonely tonight. We’re just needin’ a quiet place to rest.”
To spare Rork further distress, I gently pulled Clara’s hands off him and turned her around to face me. Her expression soured, for Rork was her ally. I was her adversary.
“There’s another thing, Señora. I need some good information about neutral ships in the bay. I will pay well for it, of course.”
That got her attention.
38
Haggling
La Casa de Placeres Celestiales, Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Early Sunday Morning, 3 July 1898
I COULD SEE CLARA’S MIND calculating. Though I was an adversary, I was also plainly in charge of the money, of which there was evidently more than she had originally estimated. Her decision took only seconds.
“Yes, I have information on boats. Fishermen and sailors come here. They tell me much about them.”
“Good. Now, as to the ships—”
She wagged a finger at me. “No, you pay me first. This is dangerous business. You are enemy of Spanish, so the price goes up. Seventy Mexican gold pesos for the room. Good room, my best. Fifty gold pesos more for the information. Good information, all true. Everything stay secret, no one know. But you pay first.”
Her price was more than the brothel would make in a week off the Spanish army and navy, but it didn’t surprise me. She knew we were desperate. The demand for Mexican coinage didn’t surprise me either. Gold would be valuable no matter who won the war. I’d packed some in the seabag for that very reason.
Haggling is an art form in tropical cultures. I kept my expression deadpan, focusing on those emotionless eyes of hers. “One hundred twenty pesos is too much. Ninety-five gold Mexican pesos total for room and information. Forty now, fifty-five when we leave,” I countered.
“One hundred ten, Captain. Sixty now, fifty later,” she snarled.
“One hundred. Forty now and sixty later. Last offer before we walk out, Clara. I’m tired of this. Agreed or not?”
Rork brought his revolver into plain sight and made for the door. Law followed him. I put my brandy down, shook my head in disgust, and turned away from her.
Behind me, I heard, “Agreed, Captain. Where is the money?”
I turned around, saying, “One thing more before I give you the up-front money, Clara. It’s important. You will keep our presence here a secret. There will be no other customers inside this place tonight. None. Do not even answer the door. If I see any other man I will kill him. Also, we will use another room, one with a window, and you will stay in that room with us all night.”
I quashed the knowing sneer forming on her face with, “No, you will not be there to pleasure us. You will be a hostage and the first to die if the Spanish come in here. I will kill you myself. Understand me, Clara?”
She stood there appraising my resolve, then said, “Yes, I understand, Captain.”
I handed over four Mexican ten-dollar pieces from my pocket. She slipped them into a hidden skirt pocket, then led us to a back room on the same floor with a window overlooking the alley below. Unlike the previous room, this one was roughly furnished, with only a bed and two chairs. I leaned out the window. Six feet below was the mildewed canvas roof of an old landau parked at the back door. Perfect for our purposes.
There was no horse hitched to it, and I asked Clara where it was kept. She guardedly explained the horse was in the livery barn across the alley, where her driver lived. Then she quickly inserted, “Fifty extra gold pesos to use carriage ten minutes, one-way trip inside the city.”
“No. I will pay you forty extra, and only once we get where we are going—if we are still alive. You will be with us in the carriage. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she muttered.
“Good. Now close the place.”
She called out for a different girl to come to the room. I caught a whiff of sweet earthiness from the girl that brought to mind the opium addicts I’d seen in Indo-China. Clara told her the place was shut down for the night in the rapid-fire patois of the Oriente countryside. All the brothel’s girls were to stay in their rooms until dawn, when they would be paid for their silence. The girl merely nodded her acknowledgment with vacant eyes and padded out of the room. She worried me, for opium addicts live by no loyalty to anything but their dope. She might sneak out of the brothel seeking a reward for information leading to our capture.
With that possibility weighing on my mind, I set up our defenses. Rork was given a chair facing the door, which we left slightly open so he could see and hear any intruder in the hall. He sat down with his shotgun leveled at the doorway and his Navy Colt ready in his belt. Law was positioned at the window where he could survey the alley, his recovered Navy Colt in his right hand. I stretched out on the left side of the bed, my revolver in my right hand and my Spencer shotgun in my left. Both were pointed at Clara, who was on the right side of the bed, sitting upright with her back against the wall, watching her gringo acquaintances’ every move. She wasn’t fazed in the least by our sudden display of weaponry. I assumed that, like many of her ilk, she probably had a pistol herself concealed somewhere within her dress.
I turned and faced her. It was time to plan the next segment of our escape. “Now, Clara, tell me about any French, British, German, or Dutch ships anchored in the bay.”
She seemed happy to tell me how little my money had bought. “Foreign boats all gone for many days. Only one still here. German ship, anchor by Cayo Ratones. Captain in trouble because of cargo.”
I knew of only one German cargo ship in Cuba. “What is the ship’s name?”
“Her name is Norden.”
Rork and I knew that ship—and her captain, Bendel. He was the sort who could be persuaded to ignore rules in return for a good fee. Rork perked up at the news. “Interestin’ twist, ain’t it? That ol’ kraut eater could still be o’ use.”
It was an interesting twist indeed.
How could we get on board, convince Bendel to take us out to the American warships, and steam out of Santiago before daybreak? The Spanish probably wouldn’t stop a neutral German ship departing the harbor.
We weren’t the only ones thinking along those lines. Clara quietly asked, “You boys leave on German ship?”
“No. That would be impossible,” I said with as much fake regret as I could muster. “Bad idea. Better for us to walk back
to our lines east of the city at dawn. Much safer. Don’t you agree, Clara?”
She thought about that for a while, then said, “Yes, yes, Captain. Much safer walk to yanqui lines. Not far. I take you in carriage halfway there. Only a few pesos more.”
In the weak lamplight I saw her thin lips curl into a smile and knew she thought she had me. She would double her money by getting mine first and then selling us to the Spanish for even more.
Which was exactly what I wanted her to think. It’s always better if the enemy thinks they are winning. It dulls their awareness of traps.
39
A Dish Best Served Cold
La Casa de Placeres Celestiales, Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Sunday, 3 a.m., 3 July 1898
TIMING IS EVERYTHING in life and war. I had no intention of waiting six hours to make our move. That was a simple ruse de guerre employed for the confusion of any foe who might have gained word of our professed intentions. Anything that disrupts the enemy’s timing is to your own advantage.
I’d whispered my plan to Rork and Law earlier so they would be ready when the moment came to move. During the night I slept lightly, periodically checking my pocket watch. When it showed three in the morning I roused my companions. Rork and Law popped up from their chairs.
Clara wasn’t as cooperative. When I touched her shoulder and said we were leaving, she sat up and in one smooth motion pulled a derringer from a pocket hidden in the side of her dress. Before I knew it, the damned thing was in my face.
Her eyes glistened with rage as she hissed, “You try to trick me!”
“No, Clara,” I said calmly, diverting her attention by raising my left hand in submission while surreptitiously easing my right hand into a ready position by my waist. Rork and Law, pistols in hand, froze in midstride, watching from across the room as I continued in my soothing monotone. “I am an officer and a gentleman, Clara,” I said. “I make it a point of honor never to lie to a lady. You have my word you will get your money.”
Honoring the Enemy Page 24