Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (16 page)

Her eyes lost their mirth, boring into me as she answered, “Yes, he was my late husband's cousin. They grew up together on the island of Majorca.”

I retreated immediately, wanting to return to our amiable start, but I thought I should let her know I could sympathize with her condition. “I am sorry for the loss of your late husband, Señora. It is so very difficult to cope with. I know, for I lost my wife eleven years ago to female cancer.”

The edge to her tone and gaze faded. “And I am sorry for your loss. Guillermo passed on to heaven four years ago. He was my beloved husband for twenty-four years.”

Memories of my family flooded me and I suddenly felt old. “Linda and I had seventeen years together. We have a daughter and a son. Both are grown and on their own. And you?”

“Two sons, who are grown also. The oldest is a Franciscan priest on his first assignment at Havana, and the other has started work in the national government in Madrid.”

Hmm, I had contacts among some priests in Havana. “They must be a great comfort for you. Señora, my curiosity is piqued and I must ask how you learned English so fluently.”

“I studied with a tutor from the British school in Majorca for six years. My father expected me to know French and English in addition to my mother tongue. Five years ago, Guillermo was posted to the embassy here in Washington, so I have had a good opportunity to practice the American version of the English language.”

I was wondering why she stayed in Washington as a widow when she fanned her neck and face and added, “Ah, the summers of Washington . . . does it seem excessively hot in here to you? It seems to be getting even hotter than this afternoon.”

It was indeed beastly hot in the jammed ballroom, and my starched collar was driving me mad. “I agree completely. Perhaps another chilled champagne will help? Once we are thus fortified,
I suggest we then walk out to the balcony, where there might be an evening breeze.”

My technique was admittedly a bit clumsy, and she regarded me dubiously. After several seconds she said, “I agree.”

French Embassy

H Street

Washington, D.C
.

Thursday evening

14 July 1892

There was no breeze on the balcony, but there were dozens of guests also seeking respite from the ovenlike atmosphere inside. We walked to the corner of the balustrade and looked out over the city lights.

She started the conversation with a standard device of ladies at a soiree—ask a man to talk about himself. “Your French Legion of Honor I recognize, Commander, but the others are unknown to me. I think they are not from Europe, and am certain they come with fascinating explanations. And please, call me Maria.”

“Only if you please me by calling me Peter.”

“I shall, Peter. Now, do not be shy and please tell me about your medals, or I shall be forced to start calling you Commander Wake.”

A brief explanation is in order. I have to wear my medals when attending such formal events in Washington, because the diplomats of the countries that awarded them know I have them and expect to see them on me. It is considered a gross national insult to forgo them in public. In my case, however, the true stories behind the medals are confidential. Very confidential. The medals inevitably incite questions, which require me to present a sanitized version of the events, for the real version would probably physically sicken the ladies or politically anger the gentlemen of the cocktail crowd. Most interestingly, I've discovered even the diplomats of the awarding countries are not privy to the real reasons for my medals.

“Maria, your wish is my command. Well, let's see here. The Legion of Honor was for some work in North Africa almost twenty years ago. This is the Order of the Sun, from Peru, and is for some aid I rendered them during a war they had with Chile a decade ago. This Royal Order of Cambodia is from King Norodom for some assistance I provided him nine years ago. The Royal Order of Kalakaua is from the King of Hawaii for helping him a few years ago. Unfortunately, that good man died last year. The Hawaiians are a noble people.”

“You seem to provide a lot of assistance to people, Peter. But your descriptions were too brief. I think you are the most modest man in this building, maybe in Washington. I find that very unusual, and quite charming.”

Clinking her glass with mine, I then preempted any follow up inquiries with a question of my own. “Thank you, Maria. And now I have a question. Why did you stay here in Washington after Guillermo died? Washington can be so duplicitous. It's not my favorite place, and I would think you would be more comfortable back home in Spain.”

“Yes, it would have been the proper thing, the expected thing, for a widow to do. But Madrid is as full of insincere politicians, treacherous aristocrats, and mindless bureaucrats, as Washington. Peter, as ludicrous as it sounds, a six-year-old little
boy is our king, his Austrian mother is the regent in charge of our royal house, our conscript armies are fighting insurgents in every colony, and a brutal prime minister who clings to a faded façade of an empire is in charge of our country.

“The United States, for all its corruption and duplicitousness, is a breath of fresh air compared to Spain right now. I am a proud daughter of Spain, but for now I prefer to live a bit longer in the fresh air of true freedom.”

Her comment emerged slowly at first, but gained intensity as she spoke. This lady was no pretty wallflower decorating the Spanish diplomatic corps; she was a modern, confident woman with very definite opinions.

I decided to explore those opinions. “I hear the Liberals under Sagasta might return to power this fall, so perhaps Spain will see better days. Antonio Maura is one of them, I believe.”

“From your lips to God's ear—we can only hope the Liberals regain power in Madrid. And yes, Antonio would be part of the Liberal administration, probably the Minister for Overseas Colonies. He could bring sanity to our long-festering Cuban trouble. They deserve independence.”

“But Mr. Maura only favors autonomy within the empire, not full independence. The Cubans will still fight for independence and thousands will die in the war.”

Her answer came in the form of an accusation. “And many in this country
want
the Cubans to fight Spain.”

“Some, yes.”

Her eyes grew darker, as cold as her tone. “And
some
want the United States to annex Cuba.”

I had crossed the line into politics, a colossal blunder, and wanted to return to more pleasant topics, but not before I set the record straight.

“Yes, Maria, but many do not want to annex Cuba, or anywhere else. I am one of those. I also think it is time for Cuba to be a free independent nation. I hope they don't have to fight for it, that Spain graciously grants them independence without
further bloodshed, and thereafter maintains a close relationship based on goodwill.”

“Then you are in the minority, from what I see and hear in this city.”

Before I could reply, or even think how to reply, a tall gentleman in the sash and medal of a Spanish civil order marched toward us. His rapid Spanish to Maria was in the Andalusian style—something about the
chargé
and his wife asking for her. After delivering his message, he cast me a disdainful glance.

Her mood altered by my impertinent queries, the lady introduced me to the interloper in a perfunctory manner. A perfunctory reply was grunted in my direction as he took her arm and escorted her toward the ballroom.

As she left, I heard, “We must continue this conversation about my country sometime, Commander Wake. I find it disturbing, but educational.”

With that less-than-sterling appraisal of my skills as a raconteur, she disappeared from view. I was left standing there charged with electricity at the thought of seeing this mesmerizing woman again. The next time, I vowed, politics would not be part of the conversation.

Key West Naval Station

Wednesday evening

14 December 1892

Unlike the earlier voyage,
Bennington
's transit from Cozumel Island to Key West was downwind, downcurrent, and fast. With time running out and a life—and possibly a war—hanging in the balance, it was a welcome development. Upon entering Man-o-War Anchorage at Key West, I was pleased to see two of our squadron,
Essex
and
Atlanta
, had already arrived for the annual gunnery rendezvous, with the guard boat officer saying the others would be arriving in the next several days. Another pleasant sign. Then we rounded
Essex
, and what I saw was most certainly not.

Gneisenau
wasn't at Havana.

Instead, she was right there in front of us, the officers on her bridge staring and pointing at our arrival. Anchored close nearby her was the large Spanish cruiser
Reina Regente
. I was well acquainted with that formidable ship, having been chased by her
while in a stolen Spanish patrol boat in Cuba four years earlier. To add even more spice to the trouble brewing, Lieutenant Lambert reported that
Chicago
had German and Spanish captains' gigs alongside her.

Obviously old Blau was smarter than he appeared and, though he could only have been in Key West for a few hours ahead of us, had wasted no time. Presumably
Reina Regente
was already visiting the port. The wily German was innovative, increasing the international repercussions by using the Spanish captain as his witness while complaining to Rear Admiral Walker about my stealing his collier in Mexico. A quick glance at my executive officer showed him standing there watching the scene like the proverbial cat who ate the canary, for his nemesis—me—would soon depart the ship in disgrace, once the leadership in Washington discovered what I'd done. He was probably planning his promotion party.

With a bit of luck, the admiral could cook up some placating story that somewhat matched the one I gave Blau. Walker would have to improvise, of course, and that was something admirals hate to have to do. By their age and rank, many are no longer nimble of foot or thought. Walker was a notable exception to the rule, so I had hope.

In any event, I needed to get over there to
Chicago
as soon as possible and salvage what I could of the Blau situation, in addition to briefing Walker on the Martí factor. This meant yet another unconventional decision for
Bennington
's inhabitants to question.

“Commander Gardiner, we're not anchoring. I'll take us alongside the naval wharf, across from
Chicago
.” I waved aside his look of protest. “Yes, I know the station commandant assigned us to anchor out, but I need to see the admiral immediately. Signal the station we're coming in and we need to top off our bunkers immediately.”

This was, of course, a gross breach of naval protocol, but it was
my
gross breach of naval protocol. Another charge in
the current list against me. Gardiner answered with the most enthusiastic “Aye, aye, sir!” I'd heard from him since I first came aboard.

As we approached the wharf, Gardiner was positively cheery as he declared in a voice loud enough to be heard down on the main deck, “Looks like the wharf crew isn't ready yet, Captain. Ah, but wait, I see the flagship's sent some men over to help. Good thing, too, we'll need all the help we can get with this strong flood current running. And damned if this southwest wind isn't making it even worse.”

Unfortunately, though his glee was perturbing, his assessment was entirely correct. The strong wind and current would send us away from the wharf.
Chicago
's deck watch sent men running to the bollards on the opposite side of the wharf to help handle lines, and flagship's bridge was crowded with officers watching the show. In my ship, the officers and petty officer on the bridge were studiously not watching my reaction to the executive officer's comment.