Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (33 page)

He turned to go, but I stopped him, for I hadn't said all I needed to say.

“There's one more very important thing, Mario, which I need to say. When Useppa's mother and I got married at Key West in 1864, we didn't have her family's support at all. They were committed Confederates and I was a Yankee occupier—and in the view of my navy and of her family, we were both consorting with the enemy. It was so bad I had to move Linda away from Key West to Useppa Island, where our lovely daughter was born.”

Those memories nearly overwhelmed me at that point, and my eyes filled with tears. But I had an important thing to say to
this man, and was determined to say it.

“It is quite apparent you and Useppa love each other, and the fact she has found you to be a good and decent man is all I need to know. So, in addition to my permission, you have my sincere blessings for a long and loving marriage with Useppa.”

Cano shook my hand again. “Thank you, Peter. That means so much to us.”

Rork gently put his hand, the real one, on my shoulder. “Well, done, me friend.”

Tampa, Florida

Friday morning

16 December 1892

Time was still of the essence, for I wanted more than the hope Cano could reach the Pedrosos to ensure Martí's safety. So Rork and I marched down Sixth Avenue to the Ybor City railroad depot and caught the eleven thirty steam street train to Tampa. Our destination was one I knew only vaguely, and the people there I knew not at all. But I was certain if I could impress them with my validity, they would help me in the most effective, and quiet, way possible.

Allow me to present some necessary background. In 1869, at the tender age of sixteen, José Martí was arrested in Havana for daring to question Spain's methods in the occupation of Cuba. Sentenced to hard labor in a remote rock quarry prison, his health quickly deteriorated to the point of near death. After a couple years in the pits, his sentence was changed to exile to Spain. Because of his time in the Spanish rock pits, he would
endure respiratory infections for the rest of his life.

In Madrid, he studied at the university to be a lawyer and tried to begin life again. But the rebel in him was never far below the surface, and he joined an underground fraternity forbidden in Spain by order of the Church and the government, which are intertwined in that country. Moreover, through a special exemption due to his maturity and intellect, he became one of the youngest applicants to ever become a brother in the fraternity.

The fraternity is Freemasonry, and Martí quickly rose to the level of Master Mason. Respected among his Masonic peers, he developed close relationships with them during his travels around the world. Among those who were fighting for Cuba's liberty, many of whom are Freemasons, Martí was highly esteemed.

This association became important to me while on a covert mission inside Cuba against the Spanish in 1888. I was to find and rescue several Cubans imprisoned by Marrón's section of the Orden Público—a nearly impossible task. Martí, a genius in secret communications, used his skills and connections in Cuba to arrange assistance there for me. It was perilous, but ultimately productive. I emerged from the mission with a profound respect for Masonic integrity and strength.

I am not a Mason, but am proud to have been designated by Martí as a “friend of Masonry.” My intention was to use that status to request that the Masons employ their considerable abilities to warn their brother José of his impending doom.

Of course, in the United States we don't forbid Freemasonry. Many of our Founding Fathers, including Washington, were Masons. We value the separation of the Church and the State. Therefore, unlike in Spain and in Cuba, Masonic lodges are not underground and not subject to official or cultural ostracism. The one in Tampa is known as the Hillsborough Lodge, formed in 1850, and it was there we now headed.

Staying on the train past its stop at Henry Plant's sophisticated Polk Street depot, we arrived at the much less
refined Florida, Central and Peninsula depot on Whiting Street at the lower end of Tampa, the industrial area near the mouth of the Hillsborough River.

The faded remains of Fort Brooke, abandoned by the army seven years earlier, spread out under the oak trees just to the south, along the shoreline of Hillsborough Bay. Far out in the bay, well beyond Depot Key
Reina Regente
was still at anchor, waiting for what, I did not know. For the assassin to return from his deed for a quick escape out to sea, perhaps?

My uncertain memory served me correctly and we found the Masonic lodge a mere two hundred feet to the west of the depot. The nondescript two-story frame affair was built forty years earlier, and it showed its age. The front room of the first floor was still a school classroom, and had served as the office of a two-page newspaper many years earlier.

I knew the editor of that paper during the war. Henry Crane was a pro-Union Floridian who moved to Useppa Island as leader of the loyalist refugee community there. He helped the U.S. Navy considerably with his knowledge of the coastal shoals and channels, and later commanded the Union militia unit formed at the island.

The Masonic lodge occupied the second floor. We climbed the outside stairs at the back of the building and knocked on the door.

After a long wait, a small, thin, older man opened the door. He looked up at us, his visage neither welcoming nor rejecting, but simply evaluating. It reminded me of the scrutiny I had often felt when on missions in the Orient.

“You need help?” he said, in a way that could be either a question or a statement.

For some reason, his enigmatic demeanor took me aback for a moment and I stammered an inane preamble to my message. “Well, first off, I am not a Freemason.”

“Of that, I am already aware,” he stated flatly.

My wits recovered and my temper rising, I explained to
him, “Yes, well, I'm Commander Peter Wake, captain of the U.S.S.
Bennington
. I arrived today in Port Tampa to deliver a confidential message of mortal urgency to one of your brethren, José Martí, who will be visiting the city tonight. He designated me a special friend of Freemasonry years ago. I know you have ways to get things done quickly, quietly, and effectively, so I came here. Should I talk to someone in charge or can you convey the message?”

“Everyone else is gone right now. You can give it to me.”

He saw my reaction. With a tinge of humor lightening his expression for the first time, he said, “Don't worry, Commander. We know how to keep a secret.”

I had written down the message on the way to the Masonic Lodge. It was in plain language, for I wanted the Masons to understand the import and trusted them not to abuse the confidentiality.

To José Martí, from Peter Wake

Noon, Friday, 16 December 1892

Dear José
,

I have good information Marrón's men, under Roldan, will try to poison you with arsenic tonight. Roldan is in Ybor now and knows I am here to warn you. Be careful of everyone and everything. I will be in my ship at Port Tampa until late this afternoon, when I have to get under way for Key West
.

Peter

I gave it to the man. He studied it carefully, showing no reaction.

“Brother Martí is in Ocala at this moment and will be given this within the hour. If he has a reply, where should I send it?”

Within the hour? I found that interesting. Ocala was a hundred miles away. He wasn't at a hotel, for he seldom stayed at one, preferring private homes. Assuming they could claim priority traffic over everything else and telegraph him, they would have to know to which house to deliver the cablegram. Did Martí keep in constant contact with Masons where ever he went?

“I'll be at the Tampa Bay Hotel until three p.m. Then I'll head over to my ship at Port Tampa. We'll get under way at five.”

“Very well,” he said. “Is there anything else, Commander?”

“No. The message is everything. Thank you.”

“Thank you for alerting us to the peril of a brother.” He paused, then said, “We will meet again, of that I am sure, Commander.”

We shook hands. His grip was surprisingly strong and his glare more intense than ever. The entire episode produced an eerie feeling in me. If it had been anyone other than a Mason, I would have been alarmed.

As Rork and I walked away from the building, I gave Rork the plans for the rest of the day.

“Now we'll walk up to the telegraph office on Polk to see if there are any replies from the admiral and to report the assignment done. After that, it's off to the Tampa Bay Hotel by one o'clock, where I'll spend a little time with Maria and you can nose around the scullery maids and find out what Gardiner is doing.”

I didn't really expect Rork to obtain any usable intelligence from the hotel servants, but thought it sounded better than what I knew his actual intent with the scullery maids would be.

Rork was distracted, however, looking around and not listening as I continued with our program for the day. “We'll leave the hotel no later than three, engaging a hackney to take us back to Port Tampa. Weigh anchor by five, and we should clear Egmont Key by seven thirty, bound for Key West and the squadron. That means we'll arrive by tomorrow night, have time to get the ship squared away, with some time ashore for a few of the men. We'll make the gunnery exercises on Monday. Questions?”

“Nary a question, but do have a wee suggestion, sir,” he said with a boyish glint in his eye. “There's a fine establishment just down Franklin Street from that telegraph office.”

I knew exactly where he was headed with the comment. “No
time for that, Rork.”

“Well, now, you now we've had a bit o' stress here this morn, sir. An' we ain't young lads anymore, are we? Ooh, nay. The fact o' the matter is that at our age, if ye let this sort o' stress an' such build up, why, it can kill you just as much as a bullet.” His rubber hand went up for emphasis. “An' that, sir, is a known scientific fact. Read it in a quality newspaper from New York.”

“No, Rork.”

Rork displayed a suitably furrowed brow and sad expression. There is nothing sadder in the world than a forlorn Irishman. Or more aggravating, for he wasn't done.

“An' in addition, sir, there's a wee point o' honor involved too. Aye, methinks quite clearly you promised us a pint back there in Ybor afore we had to deal with Roldan's thugs. Well, o' course, it goes without sayin' that promisin' one o' Uncle Sam's bluejackets a pint o' suds, 'tis a solemn vow for a commissioned officer an' gentleman such as your ownself. Aye, a solemn vow an' a matter o' honor, sir.”

There were times when I felt like I was the old coot's father.

“Good Lord, Rork, you sound like some old rummy jack tar whining for his tot,” I countered.

Without embarrassment, he replied, “Well, sir, 'tis the honor o' the thing.”

“I'll think about it,” I temporized, and began walking north on Ashley Street.

Upon arrival at the cable office, we found a different clerk, equally as dim-witted as the previous, staring at his keyboard. After much rummaging around in pigeon-hole files, he informed me there were no cables for me.

I kept mine to the admiral concise:

XX—HAD CONFRTN W ORD PBLCO HERE—X—NO DAMAG—X—WRNG SENT TO TARG—X—DONE HERE—X—LVG TONITE—X—ARVG KW SAT NITE—XX

There was no electric or steam car to the Tampa Bay Hotel right then, so we walked out and down Franklin Street, en route to the bridge over the river. The day had turned cool, such a change from Jamaica a mere week earlier. Strolling at a more relaxed pace now, I dreamed of my imminent warm embrace with Maria. I could tell Rork was dreaming of embracing a cool beer.

Coming to Lafayette Street, I turned west toward the bridge, but found myself alone, for Rork had stopped and presented his poor-me face again. Then he gestured south down Franklin Street and said, “Oh, we've come so close me nose can whiff it. Just a wee bit further, sir, an' all will be right with the world.”