Monteblanco’s own ambassador, who would certainly not approve of his conversation, was standing close by the young diplomat, engrossed in an evaluation of Caribbean sipping rums with the Portuguese charge d’affaires and the Dutch trade attaché. Curiously enough, no one at the French embassy soiree was talking about the worsening relations between France and Germany. It was as if an unpleasant subject such as a possible war mustn’t hamper a nice evening among friends.
Accepting another glass of champagne offered by a passing steward, Monteblanco watched across the room as Borie, pulled away from his French host, frowned while being advised of something by Admiral Porter. The admiral was making his point by pounding his fist down into his other hand, then nodding toward the Spanish ambassador by the large doorway.
Monteblanco had not expected Porter to be at the French embassy’s gathering but was pleased that it was the great admiral himself who was obviously passing along the information. It would lend tremendous credibility to a message that had a strong element of threat in it.
A veteran of ten years in the foreign ministry and two years in Washington, and a man so devoted to his work that he had had no time for a wife or family, Monteblanco had learned early in his career how to get an idea to another nation’s leaders without the signature of his own country. One only had to understand who had influence with whom and what their particular fears were, then tailor the message to the person and the fears. It was a technique characterized by some people as underhanded, but within the profession it was known with a shrug as la langue diplomatique—the diplomatic language of civilized countries used around the world for hundreds of years.
His father would disapprove of his action as less than honorable, of course, but his father and mother were dead, killed by a merciless pirate just a month and a half earlier. Though he inherited his title, Don Pablo Monteblanco decided that his father’s quaint ways of honor were useless in the modern world and that a little deception was in order in this situation. After all, he reasoned, this was about removing a disease that was consuming his country’s part of the world. No, he admitted as his jaw tightened, in reality it was about more than that. It was personal vengeance for his father and mother. As he glanced over again at the American admiral, Monteblanco decided that his action was not only effective, it was appropriate, since the man who had killed his parents and spread the disease of terror was none other than a former United States naval officer.
“Congratulations. You have made them very angry, no?”
Monteblanco was startled by the sultry whisper in his ear from behind. He turned to find the demure young wife of the elderly Spanish ambassador smiling at him. Her husband was old enough to be Monteblanco’s grandfather, but the woman he was standing in front of was young enough to be his sister.
“Who is angry, Señora Palma?”
“Now, Pablo, you know who. The one you wanted to make angry. I have been observing you observe the norteamericanos tonight. I believe that you are pleased that they are angry. It is very intriguing.”
“I do not know what you are speaking of, madam. The United States of Venezuela does not indulge in such things, and we have the greatest of friendship with our hemispheric brethren in the United States of America.”
She studied his eyes as he spoke, then shook her head slowly. “And what of your brethren in your mother country of Spain? How does your little Machiavellian deception tonight affect them, Pablo?”
He realized she had overheard him and understood the import of his words earlier. Her present coy manner belied her intellectual grasp of his idea. Somehow she had gotten close enough to hear him tell the American naval officer that the piracy committed by a renegade former American naval officer along the Caribbean coasts of Central and South America had enraged the governments there. He advised the officer that the American mercenary pirate had disrupted the commercial trade in the area to the point where the Europeans, particularly Spain, were considering military action since the United States was evidently unable to take care of the problem created by one of their countrymen. And it had become obvious that the United States was equally unable to enforce the much-touted Monroe Doctrine.
The countries in that region depended on the Europeans for financial and commercial support—without it their economies would fall apart—and he told the naval officer they would endorse such an action by the Europeans, although no ambassador would publicly or even privately venture to say so. After the French flaunted the Monroe Doctrine without American resistance in a blatant invasion of Mexico six years earlier, and the Spanish in Santo Domingo from 1861 to 1865, Monteblanco had continued, confidence in the hemispheric leadership of the United States had rapidly diminished. The doctrine was seen as a charmingly idealistic historical dream that was, in reality, quite useless.
He had ended his conversation with the naval officer by suggesting that an immediate decisive action by the United States Navy would accomplish several things. It would remove the piracy problem; remove the stain upon the honor of the U.S. and her navy; remove the opportunity for the Europeans to once again engage in military operations in the Caribbean; and it would bolster the confidence of the Latin American republics in the word of the United States, weaning them away from their European partners, particularly Spain.
But, of course, if the United States did not feel itself strong enough to do that, well then . . .
The naval officer had listened intently, nodding in agreement and promising to pass the information along to his superiors—quietly, and with the source remaining anonymous, of course.
Now Monteblanco examined the woman in front of him as he spoke. “Well, what does your husband say to that information, Señora Palma?”
“He does not know, Pablo.”
“You seem to continually surprise me, Señora. Why is it that you have not passed it along to him?”
Her smile was more of a leer. It was unnerving. “Because I like secrets, Pablo. And I especially like having a secret with you.”
From Monteblanco’s mind emerged the memory that the Spanish ambassador’s wife was from Santander in Cantabria, in the far north of Spain, an area well known to be independent minded, if not rebellious, from the central government in Madrid. That she could be duplicitous to her husband and her country did not surprise him. Her eyes were saying far more than her words, however. He knew he was on dangerous ground.
“Then, Señora Palma, I think we should have a toast to our secret. The problem will be solved, but I assure you that Spain will not be hurt.”
“What a pity, Pablo. Spain should receive what it is due. Overdue . . .” She put her hand on his arm, and lowered her voice even further. “Do you always get your way, Don Pablo Monteblanco?”
“Well, Señora—”
Her hand slid inside the cuff of his sleeve, caressing his forearm and instantly arousing him.
“Call me Carmena. After all, Pablo, since we are close enough already to be sharing a deep secret, I think we are close enough to use first names. I wonder what else we may share?”
He knew he shouldn’t succumb to such an obvious invitation by a married woman. Especially this married woman, who, rumor had it, had used a similar ploy of pleasure to gain herself a rich husband. He knew he shouldn’t expose his country to potential embarrassment.
But Don Pablo Monteblanco, man of the world, also knew that sometimes men were weaker than women.
6
Requested and Expected
After Wake returned home from the commandant’s talk, he read the newspaper while having breakfast with his children, enjoying the morning with almost an hour still to relax before going to his office. A mischievous giggle caused him to look up.
“Useppa, put your little brother down. Now.”
“Down on the deck, Daddy?”
Wake laughed and said, “Yes, dear. Right down on the
deck. He’s still very little and we don’t want to drop him, do we?”
“Oh Daddy, I know that. I need a . . . a . . . bock . . . an’ a tackwul, don’t I, Daddy?”
“Very good, sweetheart! A block and tackle, yes. Then you could sway him right on up to the weather deck of the table there.”
Linda came into the room, a concerned look on her face. “Peter, don’t do that. Now she’ll try to make a block and tackle to lift him up.”
Wake’s face brightened. “Do you think so, really?”
“It’s not funny, Peter. Sean could get hurt.”
“Yes, well, of course you’re right, dear.” He leaned down to his daughter. “Honey, you aren’t big enough to do that just yet. But someday you will be and you can lift up your brother and help Mommy even more.” He glanced over at his wife with a grin as a knock came at the front door.
It was a messenger from the office with an envelope for him. A moment later he was sitting in a chair in their tiny parlor, his wife looking over his shoulder, as he broke the red seal and opened the deep blue envelope. Inside was a standard cover letter explaining that the enclosed orders were for Lieutenant Peter Wake, U.S.N., Pensacola Naval Yard. He pulled out the next sheet and read it through.
Lt. Peter Wake,
Dockage & Cordage Officer
Naval Yard, Pensacola, Florida
Lt. P. Wake is hereby requested and expected, pursuant to this order, to join U.S.S. Canton, for duty assignment. You are to proceed by ship to Key West Naval Station and arrive there by no later than the 20th day of April, 1869. At that Station you will join said U.S.S. Canton in the capacity of Executive Officer with a tour of duty of two years, commencing as of the 20th day of April, 1869. At the end of said tour you will await further orders from the office of the Secretary of the Navy.
Should no naval vessel be available for transport to Key West within the expected time, allowance for commercial travel will be made, with voucher for expenses to be submitted via Pensacola N.Y. to Naval Headquarters, Office of the Fourth Controller, Washington.
Separation, on leave status, from immediate duties at Pensacola, until departure for Key West is authorized with pay at the leave rate, subject to concurrence by present commanding officer.
Acknowledgement of these orders is expected by telegraph or letter as soon as practical, with concurrence of present commanding officer.
Sent this 27th day of March, 1869
J.S. Crowley, As’t to Chief
Bureau of Navigation
U.S. Navy
Washington
The third sheet was the concurrence of Commodore Redthorn, Commandant of Pensacola Naval Yard, with the orders and leave authorization, effective one week hence. It wasn’t a command assignment, but it was obvious that Redthorn had done all he could to help Wake, and that made him just as proud.
Linda leaned down and put her arms around his chest, touching him but not holding him. There was an edge to her voice. “Well, that’s it then, Peter, isn’t it?”
He tried not to sound excited. “Yes, dear. I go on leave in a week, then we have a week together. No work. Just us.”
“And then you go to sea for two years.”
“Two years in the Home Squadron—with every chance that I’ll be able to visit Pensacola several times by ship or on temporary leave by rail, Linda. If I was assigned to the Pacific or Mediterranean, it would be very different. This will be sea duty close by.”
Linda came around the chair and sat on his lap, her lips pursed as she said, “Sea duty close by? What area does that squadron work?”
Wake knew that she wasn’t fooled by his sugarcoated description. She probably already knew the squadron’s area of operations, from the other wives if no one else.
“The east coast, Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean, and South America down to the Equator. But most of the time is on the east coast, Gulf, and Caribbean. Easy duty. No war, just patrolling.”
Linda breathed sharply. “That’s right, isn’t it. The war is over and you’ll just be sailing around. How is it they say it? Showing the flag?”
“Exactly. No danger. Just routine peacetime patrolling.”
Linda took his head in both hands, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “I think we should put the children to bed early tonight, don’t you?”
7
Den of Power
April, 1869
Even before the meeting started, Adolph E. Borie, Secretary of the Navy of the United States, was not in a good mood. Porter had ruined his evening at the French party that night and President Grant had ruined his morning an hour ago. Grant had not been impressed with the urgency of the problem in the Caribbean. He told Borie that he had too many other important things to worry about. The president then told him to handle it, since “it was a pirate boat problem” and he was “in charge of the damn navy boats.”
And so, for the first time since he had come to Washington seven weeks earlier from Philadelphia and taken this political appointment, Borie was faced with a serious decision. His special naval aide was no help and Porter, the admiral in charge of the fleet, was no help. In fact, he was nowhere to be found today. Borie had asked for advice from staff after his return from the White House and was told there were not enough ships in the Caribbean area to immediately eliminate the piracy problem caused by a former American naval officer running amok. It would take a squadron, a real squadron of ten ships or so, to efficiently wipe out the problem quickly and permanently. He was told that the best they could do was to send a couple of vessels down there to patrol and hope they came across some of the renegades—but for now there was only one ship available for rapid response.
And then there was the added burden that had arrived that very morning. The Venezuelan embassy had requested passage for one of their diplomats to go south to his homeland. He was the son of an important Venezuelan killed by the renegade American, and Secretary of State Seward had already assured him that the United States would be honored to offer passage aboard a warship—without even asking Borie!
All of which was the reason for this quick meeting. And it had to be quick, because Borie had a political gathering of the party faithful, and some unfaithful, at four o’clock and wanted to get this mess assigned to someone before then.
***
Lieutenant Commander Parker Terrington, newly appointed commanding officer of the USS Canton, waited in the outer office on the Navy Department’s fourth floor nervously tapping his shoe on the wood flooring. Rear Admiral Carter, chief of Admiral Porter’s staff, had ordered Terrington to meet him at the office of the secretary at three p.m. sharp. Terrington, whose ship was moored at the Washington Navy Yard, got there at two-thirty out of anxiety.
Anxiety had filled Terrington’s life recently. The nervous days of waiting for a command had given over to the frustrating time of trying to fit out a new ship with ridiculously meager funds for equipment, training, provisions, and ammunition. Canton had enough men, but she did not have enough of nearly everything else. Terrington had graduated from Annapolis in 1861, commanded a monitor with the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron later in the war, and been the executive officer of a ship in the Mediterranean Squadron in 1868. He got his latest promotion and this command through the political influence of his home congressman and knew exactly what was needed to get a ship ready for service. He knew all the procedures by heart—if only he had been given the things he needed.
But his ship wasn’t ready for service, and Lt. Commander Terrington had not been able to overcome the bureaucracy’s inability to support his ship. He knew that other captains had somehow gotten their ships ready, but they had done it in a manner that wasn’t in the regulation books, and therefore was completely foreign to Terrington. He consequently feared that the ship’s shortcomings would become known, and she would be taken away from him. And now
he had been summoned to the highest authority in the navy. His head was aching with every pounding beat of his heart and he wished he had some of his medicine to take, just to calm down a little.
The secretary’s civilian clerk, another political appointee from Philadelphia, had no information for him and didn’t even deign to meet his eyes. The naval aide, a commander, just gave him a shrug and said “good luck” while passing through the room on his way out somewhere.
Finally, at two fifty-five, Admiral Carter came in, nodded grimly to Terrington, and told the clerk to announce their presence. A moment later they were both standing in front of the civilian head of the navy.
Borie did not invite either man to take a chair, but the admiral sat in one anyway, leaving Terrington standing in a position of semi-attention. When Carter spoke first it did nothing to quiet Terrington’s nerves.
“Mr. Secretary, this is Commander Terrington, captain of the Canton. She is here in the District, was headed down to the West Indies anyway, and is ready to get under way. Correct, Commander?”
Terrington tried not to wince as he said, “Yes, sir.”
Borie glanced at the naval officer standing three feet in front of him, nodded and asked, “Has he been briefed?”
The smugness was barely perceptible as Carter replied, “No, sir. He has not. I knew you would want to do that personally, given the delicate nature of this assignment.”
Borie leaned back in his chair. Over his years as a businessman, and later as a prominent member of the Republican Party, he had learned that leaning back and appearing pensive gave a distinguished impression and could gain a delay of fifteen to twenty seconds. That was particularly handy when a delay was needed to size up the man across from you. It did nothing to alleviate his concern—the man standing there looked like a scared rabbit.
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 4