Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (45 page)

A musical prelude announced Useppa's arrival at the narthex of the church and I hurried to meet her there. I had been repeatedly reminding myself not to fall apart with sentiment in this emotionally charged moment, but to do my ancient and solemn duty. Then I saw her and nearly lost my composure.

Useppa was an absolute vision, truly the prettiest girl in the world.

Gowned in simple white satin with tiny pink wildflowers in her auburn hair, her grace made the ensemble look elegant. Taking her arm and putting my hand over hers, I led my beloved daughter down the aisle to her husband and her future life. The limp of her left leg, crippled since youth, wasn't even noticeable as we serenely strolled by the smiling faces.

Next in the procession came Maria, lovely in light blue satin, escorted by my tense son Sean, trying not to march in his whites. I had last seen my bride-to-be in February, when
Bennington
put in at Málaga, Spain, and then only for an evening. The three months since were an eternity.

The pastor, a large young fellow with a boyish face and easy smile, did a good job of it, making the invocations of prayers, the pledging of vows, and exchange of rings a joyous affair, as opposed to the menacing lectures so many clerics feel compelled to use. My proper naval stoicism was maintained right up until the moment when I gave my daughter away.

That's when my heart, filled with memories and joy, nearly overcame me. With faltering voice, I made the proper reply and stepped away to stand at parade rest on the side, next to Rork, who was sniffling too.

He put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Oh boyo, our wee little girl's grown up just fine. Aye, Peter, dear Linda would be right proud o' her.”

I'd been thinking the same thing, and tears of love flowed down my cheeks.

Other than my blubbering, all went well. My son Sean was Mario's best man and had the ring ready, as did Useppa's dear friend Christine on the other side, and the deed was done without mishap or mayhem. When the pastor pronounced them husband and wife, Mario didn't hold back on the kiss, good man that he is, which gave the crowd a jolly laugh. Then the pastor introduced the beaming couple to the attendees as “Dr. and Mrs. Cano,” and the applause was absolutely, wonderfully, thunderous.

Once the ovation faded to an end, it was time for Maria and me to tie the knot. We took the center spots, Rork beside me and Useppa beside Maria. The pastor read the words and asked the questions, and throughout it all I could see Maria was experiencing what I was—a kaleidoscope of past memories and future dreams.

We quietly made our replies and exchanged rings. Looking into each other's life-worn eyes as we made our vows, we both knew exactly what they meant. And we also knew there were two people in heaven who were with us in spirit and wanted us to be happy and at peace.

Then I took Maria into my arms and gave a proper demonstration of how a veteran naval officer kisses his bride. Our married introduction to the guests resulted in an approbation nearly equaling that for the youngsters, which made Maria blush with pride as she clung to my arm.

When the clapping slowed to a stop, Rork's booming voice
filled the sanctuary. “Ladies an' gents! Everyone is now invited to refreshments an' music over at the Duval Hotel. All hands, dismissed!”

The party was quite a shindig. A Cuban duo played love ballads, Rork's brother denizens of the Goat Locker served as barmen, and Useppa's girlfriends served at a seafood and fruit buffet. I was pleased to see the teetotalers studiously ignoring the drinkers, and the drinkers kindly refraining from doing anything too boisterous.

Everyone danced, drank, and sang, even the Methodists—well, most of them. Martí, accompanied by Mario's mother, got up and showed his dancing skills with the classical Cuban
contradanza
, several of the Key Westers played songs with the band, and the hours went by in a flash.

Finally, it came time for the newlyweds to leave and catch their respective ships. With much hoopla and many good wishes the two couples departed under a tunnel of crossed swords, including the admiral's and my son's, and made our way north on Duval Street the three blocks to the steamer wharf. The evening was perfect for a romantic stroll under the moon, with jasmine and gardenia scenting the warm breezes, and honeymoons ahead of us. Ensign Wake bid us a touching goodbye and made his way to the officers' landing, several wharves away. I was so proud of him.

At Tift's Wharf, the
Olivette
was beginning to board for her run to Havana. Useppa and Mario's baggage was already piled on the wharf with the other passengers' belongings, courtesy of her friend the pastor. All that remained was for them to embark. Maria and I would embark on the schooner to Punta Gorda in an hour. Rork, who was still at the party, probably with Annie, was heading for our island also and would meet us aboard.

As we were embracing each other in farewell, my eye caught something that shocked me out of my euphoria. It was Roldan's surveillance man from Ybor City. He was on the main deck at the railing, nodding to an accomplice forward along the deck,
who then swung his gaze our way. Then I saw two men in the line of passengers on the wharf eyeing us generally, but focusing on Mario. A chill went through me as I realized I'd seen one of them hours earlier—at our wedding.

“Mario,” I said quietly as I grasped his wrist, “do not react openly, but Roldan's men are aboard the steamer and all around us. They're watching us, particularly you.”

Both ladies heard me and stopped their conversation in midsentence. Mario was stunned as well, and asked, “Why us, why now?”

“I don't know and it doesn't matter. Do not get on that ship. You'll come to Patricio Island with us. Leave your baggage here, we can go to the Plant Line office and have it delivered to our steamer. Understand?”

He was still stunned. “They are just watching. Really, what could they do to us on a U.S. ship, Peter?”

He wasn't in the know about Drake, or many others Colonel Isidro Marrón's henchmen had killed in the United States.

“Mario, they can and will kill you, like they tried with Martí. Why? Because you are a friend of Martí and it would disrupt his organization. At the very least, you and your wife are kidnapping or blackmail targets. You and your wife are not safe on that ship or in Key West right now, and certainly not in Cuba. Stay at Patricio Island for a while and we can gauge the situation then.”

“He's right, Mario,” said Useppa. “Listen to him.”

“All right, then we go with you. How do you propose getting away from here undetected?”

“Disguise and diversion,” I answered. “Everyone follow my lead.”

I was the only one on the wharf in navy whites, which were even more prominent in the moonlight, so I ducked down and removed my coat, replacing it with a long black jacket lying conveniently on a passenger's nearby portmanteau. My trousers were still snow white, but it was better than nothing.

Mario smoked cigars, so I asked him for a match. Once that
was in hand, I directed the three of them to slowly move toward the edge of the milling crowd.

I headed to the opposite side. Hidden by one of the support beams of the elevated coal tramway from Tift's coal depot, I searched for something easily combustible and found it. Extracting a ream of Plant Line stationery from a supply crate to be loaded aboard, I took it to the far side of the wharf and lit it. The wind was from the southeast, so I wasn't worried--any tray embers would carry out over the water. Before long, a small but visible pillar of flame and smoke grew and I waited for it to garner attention and alarm.

It didn't take long, for after the great fire of 1886, Key West was very alert for the first sign of trouble. Shouts were followed by alarm bells. Soon the attention of everyone on the wharf and the ship was on that spot. Men began running to help. Within a minute, the clanging of the approaching fire brigade could be heard in the distance.

Meanwhile, the four of us sauntered off into the shadows by Phibrick's ice house. While the others waited, I switched coats again and entered the Plant Line office. There, puffed up in my bemedaled uniform, I informed the manager a family emergency had forced a change in travel plans for the Canos. Their fare was to be refunded and their baggage taken to Lowe's dock immediately. My imperious manner and a five-dollar coin convinced him to accede.

Back in the shadows again, I made my third costume change, back to the black coat, and soon we were traversing the back alleys to Lowe's schooner dock at the end of Greene Street. I saw no sign of anyone stalking us, and concluded our ruse to elude the Orden Público had worked.

We went right onboard the
Josee
and waited at the transom as her hold was filled and main deck piled with cargo. None of my companions spoke, each lost in contemplation of the sudden change from happiness to terror. Guilt filled me now, for this was all because of my espionage work, which had reached its tentacles even into this special day of joy.

The crew got ready to warp her out from the dock and there was still no Rork, or the baggage. Various scenarios went through my mind but kept returning to one: to wreak revenge on me, the Orden Público had gotten him, either kidnapped or killed.

In a thick Dutch accent, the captain, a no-nonsense sort, notified us the schooner was leaving in ten minutes, with or without the lost bosun and baggage, for the tide waited for no man. Five minutes before the deadline, the baggage arrived and was stowed on deck. Then the deadline came, and as the lines were being cast off and my fear was reaching panic, Rork staggered aboard, said hello, and passed out on the foredeck.

We sailed right past the still-loading
Olivette
and steered north, into the Gulf of Mexico, each couple huddled quietly under the stars.

Patricio Island, Florida

5 to 12 May 1893

We arrived the next afternoon, bone tired. Old Tom Moore greeted us at the dock. He had the place in better shape than Whidden ever had, a validation of my decision to employ him as the new caretaker. After the previous night's hardship, the sunny ambiance of the islands helped to alleviate our worries as everyone trudged up the hill to the two bungalows at the top.

Mario and Useppa were in Rork's bungalow and he was staying in the caretaker's cottage at the north end of the island. Maria and I were finally alone in my—now
our
—bungalow. I was greatly relieved to see her enchanted by the island and our home, and knew then my other, greater fears about melding our lives were unfounded.

Our true wedding night was that first night at Patricio Island. It was as if there was a touch of Divine help to overcome the traumatic stress of the evening before. A cool easterly breeze
sailed through the gumbo limbo trees around the bungalow, the moon streamed through the window to bathe the bedroom with a magical silvered light, and the scent of gardenias and jasmine perfumed the air. It was a perfect scene for romance.

Maria's poignant question, “When will this madness end, so we can live in peace?” had but one true answer, even in that idyllic setting.

“It ends when they think we aren't a threat anymore.”

Recognition of this stark fact would be too much for most men or women to cope with, and I was thankful it did not demoralize her. To the contrary, it seemed to steel Maria's determination not to let others, no matter who or where, ruin our love. And once resolved, we were free to get on with life.

The next week at Patricio Island, so long a place devoid of feminine sounds and sights, was the most delightful since Rork and I brought the place ten years earlier. Days were filled with fishing action in the bay, relaxing sails among mangrove islets, and glorious sea bathing on the Gulf beaches of Lacosta Island. Evenings were spent on the verandah, eating freshly caught seafood, telling outrageous sea stories, listening to Old Tom singing his gospel songs, Rork sounding the conch shell at sunset, drinking Cuban rum and French wine, and gazing up at the glittering stars until the amber moonrise over Pine Island captured our gaze.

It was a time of love and laughter, for the cares of the world outside of the islands seemed unable to penetrate our refuge. Gradually shyness faded and contentment reigned as idiosyncrasies only learned by marriage were accepted and embraced.

On the final morning of our joint honeymoon on the island, the youngsters told everyone at breakfast they had an important announcement. The sun glinted off his spectacles as Mario cleared his throat and stood to emphasize his point. “We were discussing our rather unique situation last night. After weighing all factors, we are not going to Cuba. I have decided to become
an American citizen, and to practice law here in Florida. As a bridge between the two cultures, I believe I can do good work for the Cuban exiles here, and also for the cause of freedom back on the island. Tampa is a growing city, so that is where we will live and raise our family.”