Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (43 page)

The encounter started out slowly, the two women gauging each other first through sartorial inspection, then by evaluating social skills and poise, then conversational ability. This was not done with overt maliciousness or even veiled sarcasm, such as men employ.

Quite the contrary, it was done with the greatest observance of the expected public graces, with not a glance or word out of line or sharply tinged. Yet, with my life experience I could see the merciless intuition of the female sex at work, for nothing escaped notice.

The issue seemed to me to be still unsettled when the topic of weddings came up. The month was decided easily. It would be early May—five months hence. Concerning the ceremonies themselves, Maria agreed with me about us having a small ceremony, done by a Methodist circuit pastor, perhaps at Patricio Island. But we both said Useppa and Mario deserved a real church wedding at her church in Key West. The youngsters adamantly insisted on a double wedding in Useppa's church.

The impasse appeared irreconcilable until Maria and Useppa returned to the table from visiting the ladies' necessary room. I noted laughter between them as they approached. Then the two ladies stood before the gentlemen and together announced the double-wedding idea was completely worked out and we should listen carefully.

The ladies would be each other's bridesmaids, with Sean Wake serving as the best man for Mario and Sean Rork as best man for me. The ceremony would be held at six o'clock in the evening of Thursday, May fourth, at the Methodist church on Eaton Street. The reception would be held right there at the Duval Hotel, and yes, there would be libations and music.

After the reception, Maria and I would board the small overnight schooner northbound for Punta Gorda and a honeymoon at Patricio Island. Useppa and Mario would depart by sea in the opposite direction, for their honeymoon in Cuba.

Maria then addressed a topic we had already decided between
us, but might still be sensitive to others. She was Catholic, yes. But she had no qualms about being married in a Methodist church, for we were all Christians, whatever building we were in. She was absolutely sure Jesus would be pleased by our marriage, and He counted more than any mortal clergyman.

When they were finished, my two favorite ladies embraced. The sight of their affection was everything I hoped for. My past and my future were right there in front of me, and long-suppressed emotions welled up in my heart.

Thirty years earlier, Useppa's mother and I met on that very island of Key West, amid the tragedy of war. A year later we were married there. Not in a church, for we were shunned by each other's cultures, but on a deserted beach by a slave cemetery. Linda and I overcame that beginning, in spite of the odds. Now I was about to begin another.

Useppa wasn't the only one who felt content.

Delmonico's
214 Fifth Avenue at 26
^th
Street
Madison Square
New York City
Thursday evening
2 March 1893

Mostly, I've respected President Grover Cleveland. Occasionally I've disliked him.

My vote for his opponents in both elections wasn't due to him being crooked, lazy, incompetent, or personally reprehensible. Quite the contrary, by all accounts and by my own personal observations, having been with him professionally several times in my capacity as a senior ONI officer, the man was straight-arrow honest, hard-working, very intelligent, and genuinely charming.

My differences with him centered on foreign policy and national defense, and his lamentable ignorance about them. That sort of ignorance in a citizen is expected and can be excused. In a
president, it is tragic, for it gets men in uniform killed needlessly. This wasn't an academic observation on my part, and I carried the wounds to prove it. I shouldn't have expected more, really, for Cleveland hadn't traveled overseas and had never served in the military, even when those around him were. In fact, he was one of the few who bought a surrogate to stand in for him when he was drafted during the War Between the States. Twenty years later he was president of the United States and I was honor bound as a naval officer to obey him.

Now he was back from his four-year hiatus from the highest executive office in the land. He had won election to the presidency again, the first former president to do so. And I had to have dinner with him in New York City, two days before his inauguration in Washington.

A week earlier,
Bennington
came alongside at Brooklyn Naval Yard for a much-needed refit after a two-month assignment to the Mediterranean. That same day, I received an engraved invitation to the dinner. To a serving naval officer, it equated to a command. Why did he want
me
? There were plenty of sycophants lined up who wanted an opportunity to curry favor with the incoming commander in chief. It made me nervous.

Because it was a formal affair in March in New York City, I was in dress blues, complete with bangles and baubles, as the saying goes. My fiancée Maria was not with me, but in Spain, visiting her family. I entered Delmonico's first-floor dining room, where the merely rich gathered, and ascended the stairs to the second-floor private salons, where only the truly exclusive relaxed over dinner and drinks and decided matters of state and commerce.

Ironically, it was in the same mahogany-paneled dining room I first met one of Grover Cleveland's political nemeses, young Theodore Roosevelt, on a frigid January evening in 1886. Initially, I thought Roosevelt, then twenty-seven, a stark raving mad politico, but then I recognized that he was merely passionate about his beliefs, albeit eccentric in his demeanor.
Once I knew him, I actually found him to be hilarious, compassionate, and greatly concerned about the country and her people—all of them, including those marginalized by the social elite. Thus, a deep friendship began with that odd fellow who went on to huge challenges and big things. The bond has lasted to this day.

At the door to the private room, I said my hello to Delmonico's famous French chef, Charles Ranhofer, who gushed as if I was a long-lost friend, but in fact didn't know me from Adam. He did the same with those behind me. My first impression on entering the sanctum sanctorum was of being the sole man in uniform at the room, which contained thirty sophisticated gentlemen of commerce and government. My uneasiness mounted.

Deciding some liquid courage was needed about then, I repaired to the busy bar, where everyone knew everyone else except me. While busy trying to impress each other by ordering and sipping bizarre concoctions, they discussed with great gravitas just how they would use the upcoming administration for the benefit of their bailiwicks.

Something called a Manhattan Cocktail sounded good to me, for it had bourbon, but the head barman sagely shook his head. He was an older Hungarian immigrant, sporting a large moustache and a dry wit. Delmonico Rum Punch was the only thing for me, he suggested, no doubt because of my profession. Explaining it was a secret house specialty, but he knew by my eyes I could be trusted me with such crucial matters of culture, he proceeded to divulge the recipe as he blended the ingredients.

I recall the deliciously deadly brew to this day: two parts St. Croix rum, one part Jamaican rum, three parts pure water, a large lump of sugar, a gill of lemon juice, and a wedge of pineapple, delivered to the restaurant by special iced hold in a fast ship from the Caribbean. I will fully admit it did wonders for my outlook on the evening.

Dinner was announced shortly afterward and all us
swells headed to find our places. The reader can picture my astonishment when I discovered—after fruitlessly wandering at the far ends of the U-shaped table—my lowly name near the head of the left perpendicular, to the right of and only six places from the president-elect himself.

One look at the menu made me heartily wish Maria had been there to help me navigate through the cuisine, for it was even more ornate than my sole previous experience there. That dinner had been of all-American fare, this one was pure French. But alas, like that other gathering, no ladies were present at this one.

Though my tablemates did not deign to converse directly with me, I can report that I maintained my dignity throughout the various courses outlined in the menu, which I kept to show Maria: the Potages, Hors d'oeuvre, Poisson, Relevé, Entrée, Rôt, Froid, and finally, the Entremets de Douceur.

At nine o'clock, I noted gratefully it was time for the
Pièce de Résistance
and an end to the entire farce. Ranhofer himself escorted the dessert to the table, presenting it with Gallic flourishes to the man of honor. “Peach Pudding à la Cleveland!” he proclaimed, describing it as twenty of the finest hand-chosen Georgia peaches fileted into strips, then macerated in powdered sugar and topped with a Madeira sauce.

All in all, the evening was quite the show of decadence. Whoever paid the bill got set back a lot of money. But it was money wasted on me, for I can honestly say, from the beginning course to the “Peaches Cleveland,” it all tasted terrible.

As this miserable evening concluded, I finally learned why I was attending. President-elect Cleveland nodded to me and gestured to an alcove. I met him there.

He was even bigger now than he had been when last in the presidency, which meant he had become unhealthily enormous. I wondered how bad his ailments were, and how long this bloated fifty-five-year-old politician would live.

“Good of you to come, Commander Wake,” he said. “It's
been a while, and I hope all is well with you.”

“I am well, sir. Thank you for the invitation to the dinner.”

His face went deadpan. “Yes, well, sorry about the dinner, Wake. I didn't like it either. You what my favorite is? Pickled herring, Swiss cheese, and a chop—with a cold lager or two—over at Louis's place. I can't stand this French stuff.”

The president-elect cast an expectant look at me. His culinary preference sounded pretty bad to me too. I wasn't sure what to say, so I gave the standard naval response in these scenarios. “Yes, sir. What is it I can do for you, sir?”

Cleveland belly laughed at my discomfort and deferential change of topic.

“I
like
you, Wake. By God, you're man who can get smack dab into trouble, and then get right back out!”

His face abruptly lost its mirth. In a low voice, he said, “Now to the reason you're here. I want your opinion on the Hawaiian issue.”

Ah, so that was it. Cleveland was remembering my 1889 mission to stop a war between Germany and America in the Pacific—which
he
sent me on to save his legacy for another run in four years. Did he also remember the toll in Samoa, to me and hundreds of others?

Hawaii was an adjunct part of the mission then, but was now a hot topic in the national press and political circles. Everyone wanted to know what the new president would do about the place that was about to become our first colony.

Perhaps the rum punch helped, but I suffered no lack of words or passion on the matter. “Rescind the recognition of the rebel government and the U.S. protectorate over the islands, sir. It was against American law, against Hawaiian law, and our navy responded to fraudulent calls for assistance. The white planter and banker elite who staged that coup against Queen Liliuokalani in Honolulu three months ago don't have any support among the real Hawaiians. And why do we need colonies anywhere? They're just a drain of money and manpower
and breed resentment toward us by the natives, which only gets worse with time.”

I was about to give a recitation of the costs in blood and treasure of maintaining far-flung colonies to the British, French, Spanish, and Dutch empires but, remembering who he was and who I was, I paused to let the president-elect speak.

“My thoughts exactly, Wake. I remembered you knew the Hawaiian royals and situation there, and I wanted your thoughts. I'm thinking of sending Jim Blount from Congress on a fact-finding mission over there to get to the bottom of it and report back to me.”

Cleveland lightened the tone. “Now, as for you and the navy, I have some big plans. Hilary Herbert is going to be secretary of the navy and keep the modernizing of our fleet going in the right direction. From all those years in the House Naval Affairs Committee, he knows his stuff, and I think he'll be able to help greatly.”

Blount was a Georgia congressman and Herbert was an Alabama congressman—both could be powerful allies or adversaries to a president. I didn't trust either one, but then again, I didn't trust anyone who worked within a block of the Capitol Mall.

“Yes, sir,” I said, still wondering why the hell I was there. It surely wasn't for my opinion on Hawaii.

Cleveland's aide came over and whispered something to him. He wasn't pleased, but nodded and waved the man away. “Humph! I've got to go, Wake. Some important people want to start telling me what to do. Well, anyway, I want let you know I'll be asking Herbert to send you to Washington on April third. I have something for you that has been far too long in coming. By the way, it's important to me that none must know what we just discussed. See you in April.”