Harbor of Spies Page 7

  As Townsend stepped off the boat onto the docks, he was quite aware of his two minders. He made no effort to hide his resentment toward these men with their ominous scowls. The idea that he was forced to become a hired captain to run the Union blockade increasingly grated against him, shortening his temper. He swore silently that he would try to escape Don Pedro’s clutches as soon as he could.

  As an experiment, he walked away from the docks toward the bodegas and taverns without checking with them first. The two Spaniards caught up with him and held onto him as if they were placing him under arrest.

  “¿A dónde va?” Salazar asked, first in Spanish and then in English. “Where are you going? You know the rules.”

  Salazar tightened his grip on Townsend’s left arm even as Nolo placed himself squarely in front of Townsend to block his path.

  “Do you want to go back to prison, Yanqui?” Nolo added with a sneer as he put his face close to Townsend’s. “¿Quiere volver a la cárcel?”

  The young captain pushed them both away and cursed at them. Nolo grabbed him with an iron-fisted grip, and Townsend wrenched free. Before it turned into a fight, Don Pedro, dressed in his formal dark business suit, seemed to emerge from nowhere, and began to smooth things over. As usual he was smoking his signature full-length cigar.

  “Cálmense, muchachos, he said to the two Spaniards. “Yo me encargo de Townsend. I will take care of this.” After calming down Salazar and Nolo, he explained to Townsend again how he had assigned the two men to the Laura Ann just for his personal safety, and naturally the protection of the ship.

  “As you know, Havana has a knife-prone waterfront,” Don Pedro said with barely hidden malice.

  Townsend tried to tell him about the survey of the ship, but the sound of cannons being fired from El Morro caused the Spaniard to rush off to see what was happening. Two Confederate-owned schooners flying the Stars and Bars Rebel flag were just entering the harbor, having run the blockade. They were out of the Sabine River area in east Texas. The schooners were so heavily loaded they looked like floating piles of cotton under sail. A Spanish navy screw-propeller frigate fired off one of its cannons to show its sympathy and support for the incoming ships, which set off copycat gun salutes booming out from the walls of El Morro. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

  Townsend had seen enough to know that the Spanish claim of neutrality was somewhat of a charade. From reading the conservative newspaper Diario de la Marina, he knew the Spanish sympathies lay solidly with the South. He had heard relations between the Spanish and American governments were still tense ever since a month earlier when the Spanish authorities allowed the Confederate sloop-of-war, the Florida, to run into Havana harbor. Not only was the gunship allowed to recoal and resupply, but then the commanding officer, Lieutenant John Maffitt, was permitted to exchange intelligence with Confederate representative Charles Helm. Forty-eight hours later after leaving Havana, the Confederate gunship destroyed seven US flagged merchant ships off the coast of Cuba and the Bahamas. Tensions had grown worse when three days later a Spanish navy gunboat fired two shots from its deck guns at a small US mail steamer leaving Havana for Key West. The stated offense was that the US Army mail tug handed off some intelligence information to an American war steamer within Spanish territorial waters. Many in Cuba thought the US Navy might retaliate, but nothing had happened. The latest news in the Havana newspapers was adding fuel to the fears of another flashpoint between Spain and the United States. The Rebel gunboat CSS Alabama had burned and sunk three American merchant ships off the coast of Haiti, and rumors were already circulating that this screw sloop-of-war might soon come into Havana Bay to recoal.

  As soon as the two cotton-laden schooners tied up, a small army of Negro stevedores stood ready to begin work. Townsend could see the overseers, whips in hand, moving out of the shade under the arcade, and the merchants from the M.A. Herrera house that managed many of the Confederate shipments checking their inventories. The unloading and loading of the newly arrived blockade runners would soon begin. To ensure order, Spanish soldiers and police clustered along the edge of the quay, conspicuous in companies and squads near the San Francisco Plaza.

  Amid grim threats and menacing shouts from the overseers, the shirtless Negro stevedores trundled down the gangways, pushing their bulky cotton-laden drays, sweat running down their backs and faces, their arm muscles bulging. Each bale of cotton weighed from four hundred to five hundred pounds, or twenty arrobas, the Spanish unit of measurement. What was it that Don Pedro had called the dockworkers who killed at night? Ñañigos. He repeated that word silently to himself, and remembered what his new employer had told him after he’d asked him about Michael Abbott.

  “What happened to the Englishman I was with?” Townsend had asked. “Do you know?”

  Don Pedro had almost seemed not to hear the question. He paused for a moment before answering.

  “It was the ñañigos who probably attacked you.”

  “Who are they?” Townsend had asked.

  “Slaves, negros, dockworkers mostly. Ñañigos wear the devil costumes of the Abakua. It’s a secret society that goes back to the Calabaris in Africa. You and your friend, that Englishman, were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  For a moment, Townsend had thought he would argue with the Spaniard—at least two of the attackers that night were white. Instead he had stayed quiet. Don Pedro looked away but abruptly turned back to Townsend.

  “Concerning that Englishman,” Don Pedro said, his tone suddenly more aggressive. “I would hope you will forget that man ever existed. He was trying to interfere in Spanish affairs. In Cuba, you must be careful who you help, my friend. Foreigners are welcome here, but they must respect our laws. Just a bit of advice.”

  It was early in the afternoon when Townsend again spied the slender figure of Don Pedro walking in the hot sun alongside a well-dressed gentleman with a top hat and a sparkling white linen suit. The two crossed the landing over to where Townsend was standing near the boat, weaving between a stacked labyrinth of crates and kegs. Townsend winced as a passing donkey cart lost one of its wheels and overturned directly in front of the two men, causing several hogsheads of semi-refined melado sugar and molasses to break apart. Don Pedro cursed the black driver and the two men gingerly walked around the mess.

  A Spanish merchant began beating the driver with a cane, and a white overseer walked toward the accident with a team of black workers in front of him. A squadron of police was not far behind. Despite all the hubbub, Townsend’s gaze was drawn to the broken hogsheads. Mounds of different types of sugar poured out onto the stone, all different shades, from light to brown and finally from the bottom of the barrels came a deep molasses black. The different shades and colors reminded Townsend of the patchwork of humanity that surrounded him in Cuba—the races mixed and mingled, but remained separate and unequal. Moments later, Don Pedro broke his reverie and with great fanfare introduced him to “my good friend, The Honorable Charles Helm, the Confederacy’s representative and special agent in Cuba.”

  Townsend quickly assessed the Confederate representative. He looked to be a man in his mid to late forties. He had no hair on his face except for a curious, lonely tuft of curly, dark brown hair tucked neatly under his chin like a clump of moss. Dignified and well dressed, he had the look of a man accustomed to the world of cigars and politics.

  Don Pedro gestured toward the Laura Ann. “This schooner is my latest acquisition and Townsend here, is its capable captain. As a gentleman from Kentucky, Colonel Helm, I know you would appreciate that Captain Townsend is a true son of the Chesapeake.”

  Townsend blanched but said nothing. Helm smiled and reached out to shake Townsend’s hand.

  “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said with a cavalier Southern drawl. Again Townsend said nothing but took the man’s hand. Helm looked over the schooner, taking out a small pad to jot d
own some notes. Don Pedro explained to Townsend that the colonel was a decorated war veteran in the campaign against Mexico. Just two years ago, Helm had finished a three-year stint as consul general for the United States in Havana during the Buchanan Administration, so he was a well-known figure in Cuba, and highly respected by the Spanish government.

  Helm beamed at Don Pedro, and gave him a look of steadfast determination.

  “On that political note, Don Pedro, I want you to know I have had an audience with the newly appointed captain general of the island, His Illustrious Excellency, Don Domingo Dulce, whom I know you hold in great esteem. He has told me the palace doors are open to me at all times as the representative of the Southern States. He agrees we would all be beggared if we give up slavery. The institution is for our convenience and our interest. So I am hopeful that Spain will soon see fit to recognize the Confederate States of America as a separate nation.”

  “That is gratifying to hear, Colonel Helm,” replied the Spaniard with his stony black, poker eyes.

  Helm gestured toward the boat.

  “I am most pleased to see, Don Pedro, that you are now acquiring sailing ships. By my calculations, most of the two hundred ships that ran through the blockade here in the Gulf last year, either from Nassau or Havana, were schooners just like the Laura Ann. They say the entire coast of Texas is so full of blockade runners now it looks like squirrels runnin’ up an oak tree.”

  Don Pedro chuckled, and turned toward Townsend.

  “You should know, Captain Townsend, that Colonel Helm lists every cotton ship that comes into Havana. He records the date, cargo, name of the ship and he knows every ship carrying arms and ammunition across the Gulf of Mexico into Confederate ports.”

  Helm nodded his appreciation and closed up his notebook.

  “When will your vessel be ready for sea?”

  “We will be running the blockade shortly to Mobile,” Don Pedro replied. “No doubt some patching and painting will be necessary. What’s your survey indicate, Captain? How soon will we be ready to go to sea?”

  Townsend lifted his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

  “I’m afraid the ship is in worse shape than I had imagined,” Townsend replied. “Some rotten wood in the planking midsection needs to be replaced.”

  The Spaniard frowned at this unexpected news, but then quickly restored his ever-present smile, and vigorously began puffing on his cigar.

  “That’s not a problem. No hay problema. My friends at the shipyard will give us prompt attention, I can assure you, Colonel. This schooner will soon look like new. We will be glad to take whatever supplies are needed for the cause, with the regular reduced freight charges naturally.”

  “Excellent. Excellent,” said Helm with a smile. “I am preparing to speak with our British suppliers again. The British consul general in Havana, Mr. Crawford, as you know, has been our warm, ardent friend from the beginning of the war. It is vital we get the next shipment through as one of our schooners was just captured by the enemy off the coast of Texas. Five tons of much-needed gunpowder were seized.”

  “What cargo will we be carrying into Mobile?” Don Pedro asked.

  “Four hundred British Enfield rifles with bayonets, another three hundred Belgian rifles, five hundred cavalry swords, fifty boxes of ammunition and gunpowder, and naturally some items greatly esteemed by our military officers—two dozen boxes of brandies and wines that as per usual should be labeled as medicine. Discretion in such matters is important, as I am sure you can appreciate.”

  The Confederate agent laughed, and then stroked the tuft of hair hanging under his chin.

  “Speaking of discretion, I am sure I don’t need to ask, but I presume, when you leave here you will be notifying port authorities that your destination is a neutral port like Belize or Matamoros, Mexico?” Helm winked at the two of them. “For the purpose of keeping up appearances, we do want to respect Spain’s claim of neutrality here. Just a formality, you understand.”

  “But of course, Colonel Helm. Como siempre. As always.”

  “Good. Excellent. That’s why I like Don Pedro,” Helm said to Townsend with a smile and a nudge. “I have known him a long time, and I believe he could talk a cat out of a tree.”

  Helm laughed at his own joke. Townsend politely smiled.

  “You can, of course, expect to receive the most favorable, cordial reception in Mobile from our Confederate officers. They will provide you with as much cotton as your schooner can hold. How does that bit of fair dealin’ sit with you, Don Pedro?”

  Townsend could see the Spaniard was pleased. The Confederate portion of the cargo was large, but it was far from filling up the hold of the schooner. He would still be able to make a valuable profit by shipping food items like coffee and tea, which the blockade had cut off and made extremely costly. And for the return voyage, the promise of a ready supply of cheap cotton was clearly what the Spaniard had hoped to hear.

  Don Pedro pulled out of his coat pocket a bundle of long cigars and handed them to Helm. The Confederate agent thanked him for the gift, and looked from Don Pedro to Townsend with zealous, forthright eyes. He said he was headed to inspect the latest batch of cotton that had just arrived on the docks from Texas. As he walked away, Don Pedro smiled, an even broader grin than usual.

  “You called him Colonel,” Townsend remarked. “Is Helm a military man in the Confederate army?”

  “No, that’s just a symbolic title. A bit of puffery, you might say. Pura paja. Pura apariencia. Others call him Major Helm. I have no idea what his military rank is. I like the sound of Colonel, and he’s never corrected me.”

  Don Pedro held his cigar up as he continued to look in the direction the Confederate agent had gone.

  “Just think of the profits, my young friend. One bale of cotton purchased in the South is worth eight times that price by the time it reaches England. They say Helm is sitting on a treasure chest of four thousand bales of cotton here on the Havana docks, right now. That is all part of an emergency Confederate fund to pay for all these weapons, cargo we will soon be carrying into the South. It appears this American war is what we call here in Cuba, una espléndida bonanza, an excellent opportunity. The clink of gold is as sweet a sound here as it was in the days of Spain’s glory years in the Siglo de Oro. Only now the gold is cotton.”

  Alone on the ship, Townsend sat down at the small desk in his cabin. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began thinking about what he should write. He wasn’t sure how to express himself, but he knew he should let his father know where he was. With some hesitation, he began writing.

  Dear Father,

  I am writing to tell you that I have arrived safely in Havana where I have been given employment . . .

  Townsend abruptly stopped and put the pen down. “Hang it all!” He crumpled up the paper into a tight ball, and threw it against the wall. “What in tarnation is the use of writing,” he said to the empty cabin. He banged his fist on the table. After what had happened, he was probably as good as dead to his father. His once-promising career as an officer in the Navy and his ambitions were over. Perhaps for now it was better not to write. If his father were to learn what he was doing, it would only worsen the situation. He sighed. His life had been turned upside down. He felt the stubbly black hair on his cheeks, scratched his dirty scalp. He knew he looked no better than many of the rum-soaked sailors that wandered the docks. A wave of melancholy fell over him. He felt alone and lost.

  But he was out of prison—it was a start. Townsend shook off those dark thoughts, and began writing up the list of the ship’s needs. Before leaving, Don Pedro had told him to draw up a complete inventory of items needed for the boat to present to the Cabarga’s ship chandlery several blocks away at #7 Obispo Street. With that in mind, Townsend inspected the ship’s deck for caulking needs as well as the condition of the ratlines, fastenings, and the rigging. He made a note o
f every halyard and sheet that was in need of repairs. As he finished surveying the sails in the sail locker, he stopped to look at a small shelf where Captain Evans had kept his collection of maritime books. The Atlantic Navigator was a favorite of the captain’s. He’d seen him reading that book before they left New York. He leafed through the large volume. Then he picked up Maury’s study of the wind and currents of the North Atlantic, and finally Blunt’s updated edition of American Coast Pilot.

  In each of these maritime books, the old sailor had written his name on the inside of the front cover. Townsend noticed there was also a stack of navigational charts of the Gulf of Mexico done by the US Coast Survey. Some of the charts had rhumb lines drawn in with pencil of possible blockade-running routes from Havana to several Southern Gulf ports, from Galveston to Mobile to St. Mark’s, Florida. How ironic and tragic, Townsend thought. It would be he, not Captain Evans, who would be running through the Union blockade. He would be the one following the rhumb lines, the footsteps of another man’s dreams. He felt a twinge of sadness for the old sailor.

  Townsend tried to assuage his own troubled conscience by telling himself that fate alone decides when the time has come. Man is powerless to stop the unseen hand of destiny. Life is nothing but a puff of wind, gone before you know it. He whispered to himself the Spanish word to live, vivir. He savored the vowels, and then spoke out loud the Spanish word to survive, sobrevivir. How curious, he thought. The word sobre meant “on top of.” If you separated the word into two words, sobre vivir, it could be interpreted to mean “to be on top of life.” He allowed his troubled mind to wander further. To be on top of life was to overcome one’s miseries, the sadness, the fears and the loss. Perhaps life is nothing more than each person’s story of confronting these many challenges. Perhaps the only value and meaning in life is the struggle to survive. Sobre vivir, he whispered to himself.

  Townsend felt the load of Captain Evans’s sudden death descend on him. He thought of the loss of his mother and his brother. That too was a heavy weight to bear. He looked again at those pencil lines on the charts, and he shook away his melancholy. He took a deep breath and stood up straight. Life was also about hopes and dreams, he told himself, even if they never become reality. He gave a quick look at some of the routes the old captain had drawn and put them aside where he could readily find them.