Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (37 page)

I assured him all was well and inquired about our boilers' pressure.

“Pressure's holding steady under load, sir. I think our repairs will last through the squadron gunnery exercises and the transit to Pensacola. But she really needs a real overhaul in all four
boilers' tubes as soon as you can arrange it.”

I agreed and moved on, inspecting the boiler and engine rooms, coal bunkers, shaft alleys, and steering quadrants. The next arrival was Lt. Commander Warfield, who apologized for not being at the quarterdeck for my return.

“Not a problem at all, Commander. All looks well so far.”

Knowing some of what was to come that evening, I floated an idea. “Say, I've just been up at the crew mess and it reminded me I'm rather hungry. Have you eaten?”

He took the cue, as a good executive officer would. “Not yet, sir. May I have the honor to invite you to the wardroom? We're having fried fish with some vegetables—and our bull ensign's promised, on pain of severe disrepute, nothing less than plum duff and some decent port for dessert.”

I laughed, for the bull ensign—the senior ensign aboard, and in our ship's case, responsible for the wardroom provisions—was the very capable signal officer, Mr. Yeats.

“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, as if it had been a spontaneous thought on his part. “Sounds perfect, and I accept with total confidence in Mr. Yeats's success. Now, would you care to join me for a look at the magazines and ready lockers?”

An hour and a half later, I arrived at the wardroom precisely at the appointed time, one bell in the first dog watch, in my winter blues, for an invitation to the captain to join the wardroom for dinner was a special occasion. Eleven of our thirteen officers, two being on watch, were waiting at the table and stood as I entered. The executive officer being my official host, I thanked him for the kind invitation.

After we sat, he graciously inquired, “Sir, do you have anything of a general nature to say to the wardroom before we begin dinner?”

“I do, indeed, Commander Warfield, and request the stewards not remove themselves, for no privacy is necessary. In fact, I want all in the ship to understand my opinion on the matter.”

Well, that got their attention. All heads swiveled toward me. Even the wardroom cook peeked around the pantry window to hear me.

“Gentlemen, thank you for having me tonight. I know our actions over the last week have been odd, to say the very least. Since we unexpectedly departed Jamaica on the eighth,
Bennington
has steamed over fifteen hundred miles, which in itself is impressive. That we have done this through two major storms, with faltering boilers, and have sustained no major casualties or damage, no long-term loss of efficiency, and no deterioration of discipline, is nothing less than extraordinary. This is entirely due to the leadership of the officers and petty officers of this ship, and of the stalwart men we are privileged to lead.”

Warfield led the predictable round of obligatory applause, which I let linger before going on. “The reason for this long and winding itinerary of ours, from Jamaica to Key West, to Mexico and back to Key West, and then here to Tampa, is complicated, with many nuances. I am regretfully not at liberty to share all of it with you. But I can share this . . .”

I had to do this next part very adroitly. I dare not look at Lt. Lambert too long, lest I betray his role. My words, with the predictable exaggeration, would be known and dissected throughout the ship within minutes.

“We have been on a confidential mission since Jamaica. It is a mission involving life and death, and the prevention of a possible war in this hemisphere. If it is concluded successfully, no one will die, there will be no war, and the average person in our nation will never know what we accomplished.

“Only in failure will the negative consequences be ultimately known. Such is the nature of this rare type of assignment. Each of you here has, along with every man aboard, been an integral part of this mission. I thank you for your skill and your attention to details, even though you did not know the purpose. That is the sign of true professionals.”

I paused, but there was no applause, only pensive expressions as each officer busily attempted to deduce what the hell I was speaking about, and his own role in it.

“Gentlemen, I believe this mission will close later tonight, in quiet and anonymous success. Once it is accomplished, we will weigh anchor and head for Key West. While in transit to the south, we will do continuous gunnery drills, both static and live fire. Our guns, and their effective use, are the paramount reason for this ship and our navy. And come Monday morning,
Bennington
will show the squadron, the navy, the nation, and the world, exactly what it means to be a modern American warship!”

The applause wasn't obligatory, it was heartfelt, for I had touched on the old theme familiar to all sailors: “Our Ship—against all others.”

The assembled gentlemen leaped up and actually cheered, joined by the stewards and a pot-banging cook. Warfield cast me a fleeting appreciative grin.

I waited until the ovation subsided then, with the intent to end my speech with some levity, I gestured to the table. “And now, gentlemen, I suggest we do justice to our chef's considerable exertions. For, as every sea cook in Uncle Sam's Navy will readily tell you, victory in battle begins at the dinner table the night before.”

The wardroom's morale having been thus stoked, dinner was consumed with gusto. The conversation soon centered on a boisterous debate over the various gunnery and engineering characteristics of our competitors in the squadron, accompanied by several of the officers offering their plans for holiday leave. It ended with the traditional Friday evening toast with port: “A willing foe and the sea room to fight him!”

A pleasant evening it was. Just the thing to relieve the disquiet which had been building within me from the anticipation of what was to come, for I knew not what I might find in Ybor City later that night.

The ship's bell struck once in the first watch—eight-thirty
in the evening—as I fell on my bunk for a quick cat nap. It was fully twenty minutes long, but seemed twenty seconds when the alarm clock bell jangled me awake and summoned me back to reality.

And thus it was I left the neat and reassuringly structured world of the real sea-going navy and descended back into the unclean and unpredictable world of espionage ashore.

Ybor City, Florida

Friday evening

16 December 1892

Rork and I were in simple civilian coat and tie for the evening's shore excursion. Rork toted our “accoutrements,” since we expected Roldan, et al, might well be after us, in addition to Martí. Our elimination would be a bonus for them, so to speak, to curry favor with their colonel in Havana.

The night air was cold, with air brought down from the far north. The ship's log listed it as forty nine degrees, and the breeze made it seem even lower, especially to my tropically thin blood. We were pleased to note our nameless driver was as punctual as he was peculiar and was driving the same fast rig.

At a little after ten o'clock, we arrived at the corner of Eighth and Twelfth and I asked our Masonic facilitator to let us off there, explaining that we would be thankful to meet him at that very same place later, at one o'clock in the morning. He wished us good luck in his perfunctory manner and drove away down
the side street, headed back for the downtown area of Tampa proper.

“That old sod is a queer bloke, if ever there was one,” opined Rork while shouldering his bag. “Nary a drop o' red blood in his veins.”

“Can't argue that, Rork,” I agreed as we headed north on Twelfth. “But at least he's on our side.”

“We'll see when it's time to get out o' here,” was his grumbled reply.

To confuse Roldan's lookouts, our route was not the direct one from that location to Martí's speaking venue at Ybor's factory. This was intentional, for I wanted to approach my friend's speech from the opposite direction expected from someone coming from Tampa, which lies to the southwest. We would approach from the east.

This goal involved a circuitous march to the north to Eleventh Avenue, thence east to Sixteenth Street, and finally south to Ninth Avenue, where we walked west. And so we walked four times farther to get there.

“The scenic route,” I told an unhappy Rork, whose arthritis was making itself felt. After our jaunt, we spied ahead of us at the intersection of Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street a vast crowd. The mass was abuzz in excited whispered Spanish opinions regarding what they were hearing from the great orator. Entering the crowd, Rork and I put a distance of fifty or sixty feet between us, keeping each other in peripheral vision. This was close enough for mutual reinforcement if needed, but far enough away to not be immediately assumed to be together.

During this entire time, we scanned everywhere and everyone for a sign of surveillance. We particularly were on the lookout for our previous acquaintance with the binoculars and more generally for any man or woman eyeing us closely. We perceived none so far, so I allowed myself the pleasant thought that perhaps our anonymity was preserved.

By the time we arrived to a place where we could hear
our friend speak, ironically at the same alley's entrance where the telescope man had been stationed earlier in the day, it was 10:35 p.m. Around us were people of every age and color; some standing on boxes, perched on wire poles, hanging out windows. This close to the great man himself, there were no conversations in the audience. All were focused on the rhythmic oration emanating from front steps of the factory. His voice was the only sound at the scene.

The imagery was the same as at other Cuban revolutionary gatherings I'd attended, from New York City to Key West. The flags of America and Free Cuba were displayed everywhere, along with posters of Martí, old General Gómez, and the virile “Bronze Titan,” General Antonio Maceo.

Illuminated by the factory's gas lights, Martí was at his best, despite having been at it for over two hours. At his performances before, I had been consistently amazed at his demonstration of endurance, not to mention vocal projection, for the man was of slight stature and his respiratory ailment was well known. He had a lot to say, however, and his passion never diminished. He was a force to be reckoned with, either as friend or foe.

It was while standing amongst this enthralled assembly, their shining faces uplifted toward the factory's front steps in almost religious reverence, that I did finally notice something out of place. Or rather, I should say
someone
.

Maria was across the street, her close position indicating she'd secured it early on. A mere forty feet from Martí, her countenance matched the others around her. But there the similarity ended. She was dressed far too well to blend in with the locals, as if she had a soiree to attend after the speech. In fact, it was the dress I spotted first, a yellow satin affair with white jacket which stood out from the drab multitude. I wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Though surrounded by people, none stood close to Maria, and several women of lesser means were openly inspecting her. Rork saw her too, and glanced at me, then her. I nodded my acknowledgment.

Her presence complicated things considerably, and it angered me.

During our stroll in the hotel's park that afternoon, she had twice said she wanted to “hear the distinguished Martí,” the better to tell her friends in Cuba and Spain about him. Knowing of the physical danger lurking in Ybor, and certain the emotions of the crowd would be heightened against anything or anyone from Spain, I suggested it would be safer for all concerned if she wait until another time and place to meet my Cuban friend, well out of the public eye and minus any inflammatory rhetoric by unthinking hotheads or intentional agitators.

Perhaps a dinner for the three of us when Martí next visited Washington, was my idea. At the time, I thought she saw the merit of my point and had acquiesced. Now I knew otherwise. So, knowing of my disapproval and the reasons for it, why was she there? That question had several potential answers, most of them disturbing.

Martí was nearing the end of his story, invoking with rising voice his vision of a free Cuba's future, where true equality among the islanders was matched by the country's equality among the international community, where the individual rights and freedoms of each man were complemented by their responsibilities to the community and compassion for those fellow human beings in need, and where fear would be surpassed by confidence and pride.

He concluded his sermon with a loud, “
¡Viva La Libertad para nuestro pueblo! ¡Y viva La Cuba Libre!
”

Everyone went wild, echoing the cries with a deafening roar. Rork and I shouted along with the others, as did Maria, waving her folded yellow parasol high in the air, and fairly jumping in her joy. The reverberations continued until a new cry arose. It started as Martí descended the steps and headed to a carriage parked along the street.