Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (28 page)

The commercial hub of his transportation network was at Port Tampa, and was headquartered inside his roving private railcar, in which he made constant inspection tours. His power wasn't only financial. Henry Plant had considerable political influence from Tallahassee to Washington and New York. He got what he wanted.

Over the previous four years, Plant's people had accomplished an incredible amount at the forgotten mud flat swamp called Little Mangrove Point. It had been turned into a modern deep-water port with two parallel quarter-mile long wharves, complete with warehouses, supply and repair depots, a rail yard, and a rail line out to the end of the southern wharf. More buildings were being erected at a pace unheard of in the sleepy South, for Plant had an old man's urgency to get things accomplished before he died.

There were even two over-the-water hotels, in addition to the commercial structures. Lit up with electric lights, like luxury steamers at anchor, they perched on pilings next to the southernmost of the wharves. Their unique setting made them sought after by veteran travelers wanting a new tourist experience
with which to regale their cocktail companions back in New York City.

The largest was the eighty-five-room Port Tampa Inn. It was a full resort, with a fine-dining restaurant with stunning sunset, boats for fishing and sailing, and a dance hall for moonlight soirees. Its small neighbor was the St. Elmo Inn, equally comfortable for Plant's well-to-do train passengers waiting for his plush steamers to come and take them away to exotic Havana.

As we approached I wondered if one of them was Maria. The timing would be about right. As soon as I was done with warning Martí, I intended to look in at the hotels and see if she was there, waiting for passage to Cuba. The thought of seeing her filled me with anticipation of holding her, breathing in her perfume, tasting her delicious kiss. Norton Gardiner faded from my mind, for I was in a room with Maria, looking out over the bay at sunset . . .

“Sir?” Lieutenant Manning was trying to get my attention. Others were staring, too.

“Sorry, Mr. Manning. My mind was occupied with something else. What did you say?”

“Mooring and anchor details are at their stations, sir. But there's no space for us at the wharf. And no harbor boat to tell us where to anchor.”

“Very well, Mr. Manning, we'll anchor just northwest of the northern wharf. Ready both anchors and stop all engines. We will drift to a spot to windward of the anchor point and then let go the port anchor and let her fall back on the hook.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Both anchors are reported readied and uncatted, donkey engine is powered, and the capstan is ready, sir.”

“Very well. Stop engines.”

For a full minute I gauged the slowing momentum of the ship, the relative bearings of the wharves, the distance to a faintly outlined buoy, and then, when
Bennington
had stopped her forward movement, I gave the order, “Let go the port anchor
and veer half of one cable of chain. Back starboard engine, dead astern slow for ten seconds, then stop all engines.”

Manning repeated the order and passed it along to the respective petty officers to carry out. In seconds, the ship was moving stern-first to the west, away from the wharves, and finally came to a stop six hundred feet from where we had dropped the hook. To the east and the west were shoals, with our ship in the tidal fairway in between.

“Thank you, Mr. Manning. That was well done. Secure the ship, set the anchor watch, keep minimum steam up in two boilers for quick maneuvering if needed, and have the quartermasters log position bearings every ten minutes. This area has a considerable current when it gets running and the tide should turn soon, so I want particular attention to looking out for any dragging. Pass the word for Lieutenant Commander Warfield to see me in my cabin immediately.”

After all that was acknowledged, and with the renewed energy that impending action brings, I added one more order. “And call away my gig, if you would please. I'm going ashore. Commander Gardiner, Bosun Rork, and Dr. Cano will be going with me. Tell Rork to bring along the necessary accoutrements—he'll know what I mean. Please have those three gentlemen notified we will be disembarking in fifteen minutes.”

In my cabin, Warfield got his orders while I changed into a fresh uniform and loaded a small bag with some items that might be needed ashore. They were my personal counterparts to the “accoutrements” Rork would be bringing.

“All right, John, here are your orders. Maintain the ship in a state of readiness to be able to weigh anchor and get under way immediately. Minimal people ashore. When the port officials show up, let them know we'll be here only for the day, at the most for overnight and departing on Saturday morning. We'll need no port services from them other than a hundred tons of coal, and we prefer to go alongside rather than lighter it out in barges. Tell the officers the following: this is an official visit
for me, Gardiner is headed for Washington, Cano is headed for a meeting in Tampa, and Rork is going as my servant. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

Warfield noticed me slipping my six-shot Merwin-Hulbert .44 revolver with the “skull-crusher” grip into a trouser pocket. His face clouded in concern.

“Expecting trouble, sir? Maybe I should send along a few more men.”

“Don't worry, Rork and I'll handle any trouble which might come up. I learned long ago to be prepared, especially when dealing with Colonel Isidro Marrón's thugs.”

Port Tampa, Florida

Before dawn Friday

16 December 1892

The row to the wharf was short, but because of one passenger, quite unpleasant. Norton Gardiner, feeling in high form due to the proximity of his freedom from me, unloaded a constant stream of muttered criticism about the coxswain's handling of the gig, the appearance of Rork's uniform, Cano's drunken stupor in the wardroom, the general lack of discipline in the crew since his departure of executive officer and, finally, the filthy condition of the wharf when we came alongside the ladder descending its giant timbers. Cano, who by this time had had enough of Gardiner's abuse, began a retort until Rork silently shook his head. The Cuban lawyer took the hint and stopped in midsentence.

Though I was disgusted by his conduct, I decided not to
“brace up” Gardiner in front of enlisted men, but rather to do it once we were ashore and out of their sight and hearing. It is contrary to sound naval discipline to have them see an officer being reprimanded in public.

Senior petty officers, however, have their own ways to deal with such personalities. I knew something was up when Rork, displaying the very picture of subservience itself, quietly motioned to the bowman that he would handle the sailor's duties instead when we got close to the wharf. This alerted me, for Rork seldom interfered with a boat crew's work, and only when an unsafe situation was unfolding. This was not in that category.

The precedence is the senior officer gets in last and gets out first. Thus, I was the first out when we arrived at the wharf. As I ascended the ladder in the dim light, I caught only a brief glimpse of what happened when the next senior officer, Commander Gardiner, stood up in the boat to disembark.

Rork said to Gardiner, “Ooh, take care, sir. That gunwale's slippery.”

He then surreptitiously pushed the gunwale down just as Gardiner, who had ignored the warning with an indignant harrumph, was stepping up to it. The commander's foot missed its intended placement and he stepped right overboard into the slimy black water. Cano laughed out loud.

But my bosun friend wasn't done, for at the same time Gardiner was falling overboard, with a decidedly un-naval shriek, Rork had taken possession of the commander's two personal bags and was handing them up to a bystander on the wharf above him. Alas, in all the commotion when Gardiner went over, the bystander apparently lost his grip, dropping the bags in the water. They landed right next to their owner and began to sink, rescued only by Rork employing a boat hook to spear right through them and drag them back, directly across the flailing form of
Bennington
's former executive officer.

Commander Gardiner uttered an unprintable oath—one which I am quite sure he did
not
learn in the cultured salons of
Boston—while he grasped the nearest steady object. It turned out to be a wharf timber covered with sharp barnacles, for the boat had somehow drifted away from his reach. The ensuing cuts led to more impolite language, ending with an order to, “Get me out of here, you damned scoundrel!”

Rork looked up at me standing above him on the wharf. With a commendably straight face, he reported, “Sir, Commander Gardiner an' his baggage is gone overboard. Baggage's recovered, sir, but methinks the commander's in a bit o' trouble. Should the lads jump in an' save him?”

At this moment in the action, the bystander, a wrinkled old man reeking of rum, chimed in with a belch, “That officer down there's not much of a seaman, is he?” Someone in the boat crew chuckled and was shushed by the coxswain.

“No, Rork,” I called down, “one man in the water is enough for the night. Just bring the boat over and pull Commander Gardiner out. Then help him get up the ladder.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” came the chorus from the boat as all hands relished the rare opportunity to lay a finger on an officer. Manhandled roughly back over the gunwale and draped over a thwart, Gardiner was then put over Rork's shoulder and carried up the ladder to the deck of the wharf like a sack of potatoes.

Gardiner and his bags collapsed in a soggy heap at my feet. His sea trunk, which had not gone for swim, was hauled up by rope and put next to him.

“Yes, siree,” said the drunk bystander to no one in particular. “I've seen little girls do better than that at gettin' off a boat.”

Cano, in contrast, climbed up quite easily while carrying his own valise and bag. He smiled down at Gardiner while walking past him.

“Commander Gardiner had been saved, sir!” Rork announced without a trace of sarcasm or satisfaction.

It was all done quite neatly, and completely unattributable. The Goat Locker had gained retribution for the crew against Gardiner. Early in his career, a young officer learns to never be on
the wrong side of the Goat Locker—a lesson obviously lost on Gardiner.

“Well done, Rork.”

I let that comment float for several seconds, then said, “Now, kindly go see about getting the four of us passage on the railway to Tampa.”

Rork lost no time in heading off on his mission. Gardiner spent the time changing into a clean dry uniform from his trunk, after ordering the drunk to, “Go away and die somewhere else.” Cano sat on a bollard and waited for what came next.

I succumbed to the temptation born of my daydreams and headed over to the two hotels at the wharf to see if Maria was at one of them. The first visited was the St. Elmo, the smaller of the two.

The drowsy night clerk, roused at half past three in the morning by a naval officer searching for a woman lodger, looked askance at my inquiry and immediately said no lady of that name or description was at either hotel, and he was familiar with the guest registry of both. His tone wasn't respectful of the lady or of me, but I judged it not worth contesting and subsequently returned to Gardiner near the boat ladder. And besides, it made sense Maria might be at the more elegant Tampa Bay Hotel anyway.

When I returned, Gardiner was once again presentable and feeling like an officer and gentleman, now he was decked out in perfectly tailored dress whites.

“Will you be getting a room at the hotels here on the wharf?” I pleasantly asked, hoping I could sow the idea in his mind. That way Rork and I would be rid of him early. “They have some rooms available.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “No, of course not. Those places are for the common tourists. I require more appropriate accommodations, so I'll stay in my family's usual third-floor corner suite downtown at the Tampa Bay Hotel.”

“Well, my goodness, you mean the big fancy hotel in
downtown Tampa? You've actually stayed there? I thought it opened just last year.”

Norton Gardiner, oblivious to my veiled acerbity, was thrilled to show off for a lesser being than he, even though it was only me.

“Yes, it did open last year, at the beginning of the season. I've been there twice, in fact, including a special invitation to the grand opening, which Mr. Plant orchestrated magnificently in proper style—as one would expect from a gentleman of his status. My parents and I were quite impressed with the quality of the décor, the cuisine, and the servants.” He looked at me and wrinkled his nose. “But then someone like you can't even understand what I'm talking about, can you?”

No, I couldn't. And I didn't want to.