Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (42 page)

He made no reply, but the sly smile returned.

Mine, however, disappeared. “El Gallego, you know this is an easy request to fulfill and the payment is more than fair. But I must tell you this—if I get even an idea something is wrong, my men will kill you. Do you understand my English exactly?”

El Gallego's calculating expression never altered as he quietly replied, “Yes, I understand you and will do the deal. There is a box wagon behind the
taverna
. Let us go now, before your enemies in front become smart enough to come in through the back door.”

El Gallego was a good teamster and backed the box wagon right up to the rear door just as the vigilantes rounded the corner. As we pulled away, they invaded the bar.

Inside, the wagon was partially filled with ladies' goods, but there was enough room for us, and equally important, an opening port in the front wall, which allowed me keep an eye on our less-than-trustworthy driver. I made sure he saw my .44 in the porthole, and off we went, with him driving and me navigating. Behind us, the mob had returned outside, They milled about perplexed, not wanting to take on the notorious El Gallego but clearly wondering about the timing of the wagon's departure.

As we crossed the Lafayette Street bridge en route to Port Tampa, I made a change in itinerary. Once on the west side of the river, I told El Gallego to turn right and enter the drive for the Tampa Bay Hotel.

There was one more important thing for me to do before leaving Tampa.

Tampa, Florida
Saturday morning
17 December 1892

I dashed through the verandah and into the lobby, which was swarming with guests, for the train to Port Tampa and the Plant Line steamer was leaving in twenty minutes from the train siding on the west side of the hotel. Piles of trunks, portmanteaus, and suitcases were everywhere, with harried porters straining to load everything onto carts.

I found her at another doorway to the verandah. She was in my arms in an instant and I felt the strain evaporate away. People stared disapprovingly at this most unseemly behavior, but neither of us cared.

In the carriage park nearby, the three men inside the box wagon emerged to stretch their legs and she saw them. Waving to Rork and Cano, she asked me who the third man was. I told her he was a friend of Martí, who was recovering better from the poisoning. Then I got to the heart of the matter. “Maria, I have
only time to ask you this: please stay in Key West for a week, before going on to your friends in Havana. The squadron will be done with our exercises by Wednesday and I'll have a night off before we head north to Pensacola. I want you to meet my daughter, and I think my son will be in port too, so we can have a nice pre-Christmas dinner together. It's important to me. Will you?”

I loved it when her eyes sparkled. She kissed me again and said, “Of course, my love. I would be delighted to meet Useppa and Sean. I'll stay at the Victoria.”

With what willpower I had left, I pulled away. “Thank you, darling. I'll see you in Key West in a week. But we both have to go now.”

She blew me a kiss. We parted ways, and she became lost in the crowd.

My euphoria ended when I suddenly sensed danger nearby. Stopping to turn around, it wasn't hard to discern the source.

Norton Gardiner, in dress whites again, was five feet away, scowling at me. Beside him, an elderly Negro porter wearily stood at attention carrying two suitcases and valise in one arm and several paper bags in the other. I wondered if there was a train leaving that morning for the north.

Gardiner's tone matched his face. “I can't believe a lady of quality sees anything in an imposter like you, Wake. I thought she was much better than that and preferred the company of gentlemen.”

I immediately felt an overwhelming urge to bludgeon him and end his ability to speak forever, as a service to humanity. Maybe break his legs as well, as a bonus.

Instead, I just stated, “Nice to see you're still consistent in your idiocy, Norton. It makes it so much easier to predict your underachieving behavior. They like sycophants up there, so I imagine an officer like you will do very well during your visit to naval headquarters.”

“Well enough to end
your
career.”

“I don't have time or patience for you anymore, Norton. I hope your train north leaves soon.”

That was when Commander Norton Gardiner, U.S.N., of Beacon Hill, Boston, descendent of the
Mayflower
and scion of wealth and influence, made his big mistake—at ten-thirty-two a.m., on Saturday, the seventeenth day of December, 1892.

“Wake, you pathetic fool, I'm not riding in a cramped stuffy train up north. I'm going by Plant steamer to Key West, then by Ward Line to Philadelphia—
first
class the entire route, I might add. And on the way to Key West, I'll show the Spanish lady what a
true
gentleman is.”

That did it. It was time. Someday, the world would thank me.

“I'm going to hit you now, Norton. Just wanted to give you warning, like a
true
gentleman would . . .”

And like a gentleman, I did as promised. It was an uppercut to the wonderful point at the bottom of the chin that ensures the most damage for the effort.

Of course, I did not use a fist. That is the best way to break one's knuckles. No, I used the heel of my opened hand, which resulted in a very satisfying
thwack
sound, and the equally gratifying sight of Gardiner's head snapping backward farther than it was designed to do. The beautifully laid parquet floor provided yet another blow—to the back of his head—when he landed.

Well, as can be imagined, the crowd rapidly thinned out in Gardiner's vicinity, with the attendant female screams and male harrumphs. My target lay there, trying to figure out what happened, as a stain spread on his starched white trousers.

As an alternative to placing my boot on his right knee cap and completing my fantasy, I took the moral high road and merely walked away.

The porter, stalwart man that he was, never moved a
muscle during all this, but maintained custody of Commander Gardiner's baggage unharmed. While exiting the scene, though, I was pleased to see the old fellow flash me a wink and a grin.

Interestingly, not a person in the hotel tried to stop my egress. Evidently Norton Gardiner had worked his magic on everyone there too.

Back in the wagon, Rork gave me a quizzical look.

“Trouble, sir?”

“Not in the least, Rork. Merely doing my bit for humanity.”

He knew something was up, but he also knew not to ask any further. I decided the tale was one best told someday at Patricio Island, over some decent rum at sunset.

With no further hindrances, we arrived at Port Tampa's boat landing at long last. I was glad to see my coxswain there to greet us, and even gladder to hear the welcome news that the gig was ready to shove off, the ship had steam up, and all was ready to weigh anchor.

Turning to our driver, I pulled my pocket inside-out and handed over two ten-dollar pieces and two one-dollar coins. El Gallego examined them swiftly, put them in his pocket, and climbed back up to the driver's seat.

“By the way, señor, precisely how much did I win in the
bolita
last night?” I asked.

He called over his shoulder with that wicked laugh of his, “Fifty dollars, señor. You were a very lucky sailor last night, and I am a very lucky wagon driver today!”

“Luck o' the Irish. Never fails . . .” muttered Rork.

Half an hour later, Cano and “Pablo,” as I decided to call him—after the Biblical story of Saul's redemptive transformation into Paul—were in a junior officers' cabin. What Pablo's future would hold was beyond my prognosticative abilities, but I was sure of Mario Cano's future, and proud to have him as my son-in-law.

The work of a ship trumps everything else, and so it was
then. Rork was on the foredeck with his men handling the anchor chain as it clanked up from the mud, and I was on
Bennington
's bridge with Warfield. Ahead of us beckoned the clean air of the sea.

It felt good to be home.

Hotel Duval dining room
Key West, Florida
Wednesday evening
21 December 1892

My son, Ensign Sean Wake, Naval Academy Class of 1890, had been recently assigned as assistant navigator to the U.S.S.
Yantic
, an ancient, small, fourth-rate cruiser, really a gunboat, commanded by a good man, Lt. Commander Samuel Belden.
Yantic
was part of the squadron, cruising off Puerto Rico and the Danish Virgins on hydrographic duties, when she returned to Key West for the gunnery qualifications.

Overall, the squadron scored averagely, with
Bennington
and
Essex
a bit higher.
Atlanta
, whose main guns were having problems, scored a bit lower. The admiral was not pleased, for he wanted the highest scores in the fleet. Still, he granted captains permission to give liberty ashore to those in the crew deserving such.

Yantic
's captain included my son Sean in the liberty ashore,
but I did not include his namesake for liberty from
Bennington
. Rork fully understood. He had been ashore far too much and needed to repair his rapport among the petty officers. For myself, I only allowed two hours.

And so it was my children and I met for dinner for the first time in many years, with the added pleasure of our future spouses. Sitting at the head of the table in my whites—Maria loved to see me in them—I memorized the scene.

Maria, in a light blue dress that brought out her eyes, was to my right. Beside her, in his whites, was Sean. To my left was Useppa in a gay pink number, with Mario beside her in a gray suit.

Both young men got along well, as if, as the old saying goes, they were brothers of different mothers. Sean's laughing camaraderie with Mario built over the evening, but his captivation by Maria's charm was instantaneous. He listened with rapt attention as she told the story of her family's history, of her marriage and her son's life in Spain. Her story of her widowhood garnered his sympathetic nod, and Maria's humorous account of my ineptness during our first encounter got him laughing out loud.

That left the toughest nut to crack—Useppa. What would she think of me marrying a well-to-do woman of the world, who was also Roman Catholic, of Jewish heritage?

What gave me hope for a positive reaction was something I'd recognized when seeing Useppa in Key West the night I met Mario. It was a subtle change in demeanor and tone, visible in her eyes also. With all that was swirling in my mind at the time, I couldn't put my finger on it. Now, however, I realized what it was, for I shared the sentiment. It was, in fact, profoundly simple: Useppa was finally
content
. And with that peace in her heart—something sadly elusive since her mother died of cancer eleven years earlier, and her first fiancé had been killed five years after that—came enough confidence to be tolerant of her father's foibles, and his new fiancée's dissimilarity from her mother Linda.