Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (36 page)

When I didn't comment, for I was assessing the news that my old adversary Boreau was in Tampa, Gardiner got plucky again. “And let me tell you something, Wake, if you still think the Spanish are in the least bit involved in some murder plot, you are letting your animosity make you delusional. These are naval
gentlemen
and they don't think and act like you. I don't think our naval leaders understand just how out of touch with
reality you are, but I can assure you, they will. Far more than an embarrassment to our country, you are a danger.”

“When is the Spanish ship leaving Tampa?”

“You haven't heard anything I've said, have you?”

“When are they leaving?”

“You are hopeless—”

His opinion of me was cut short when I grabbed his lapel with my left hand and got close to his little piggy eyes. I repeated my question very slowly. “When are they
leaving?
”

“Later tonight sometime. They're going out to the ship now and invited me to see her.”

“You aren't going to be able to do that, Norton. You are not returning to the verandah at all. They will be given your regrets, with the explanation you were called away on an urgent matter and will be unable to join them. You will go to your room and stay there for the evening. Tomorrow, you can do whatever the hell you want. Understood?”

“Yes . . .” he said shakily.

“Good. I hope you do, Norton. I want you to live.”

And with that said and done, I left Gardiner in the office and rejoined my companions, pausing only to flag down the same waiter and give him the new message for those distinguished naval gentlemen on the verandah.

As we walked out to the carriage, the Mason went off to the carriage park to bring back our transport. I took the private moment to share the latest news with Rork, who showed his surprise, “So Boreau got promoted? An' now the bloody bastard's here. Roldan an' Boreau, the hounds o' hell've gathered in Tampa, sir. Methinks they'll fancy killin' you too, you know.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “That would make Colonel Marrón happy, would it?”

“Gonna add this Boreau business to the cable to the admiral?”

“No. It'd just get him more nervous than he already is. This is just another complication, that's all.”

“A bloody big complication, if ya ask me, sir. Ooh, me bones're achin' somethin' fierce, an' especially me right foot. An' as you know, that's not a good sign.”

I was a bit too preoccupied right about then to converse about his legendary prognostic ailments, so I to placate the old boy I muttered, “Put it on the list of bad signs, Rork.”

“How're we gonna stop Boreau and that friggin' ship o' his? Got no ideas in me noggin. Do you, sir?”

I didn't have a clue what to do. “Don't worry, I'll come up with something, Rork.”

He grinned. “Aye, you always do, sir. Sometimes those ideas o' yours're a wee touch harebrained,” he said while shaking his head in wonder, “but damned if they don't usually work out fine. No disrespect intended, o' course, sir.”

I laughed. “Harebrained? I prefer
unconventional
, Rork. It sounds far more professional, especially when explaining our actions later on.”

When it arrived at the driveway, the carriage wasn't what I expected. It was a lightweight and speedy phaeton with a pair of big roans. The accommodation was a single, crowded bench seat, and our unnamed benefactor was the driver. By this time, it didn't surprise me to find he wasn't a timid one, either. The large wheels proved efficient on the still-wet sandy road southwest to Port Tampa as he pushed the roans without let up and we covered the route through pine woods and swamps in forty-five minutes.

By the time we arrived, the sky to the west was cast in an ominous yellow hue as the lowering sun filtered through the clouds racing down from the north. Looking at the scene, another of those harebrained schemes hatched in my head. This one had very little chance of working out, but it was all I could come up with.

After exiting the phaeton, I quietly asked Rork, “Say, did that youngest Spanish officer, the one talking with the reporter, seem a little under the weather to you?”

He stopped and looked at me. I stared back at him.

It took a while before he got my meaning. “Ooh, aye, sir. Now you mention it, methinks the bugger did seem a bit sickly.”

“Hmm, that makes two of us who got the same impression, Rork.” I tsk-tsk'd in anxious contemplation. “Sickness can be so contagious in the confines of a ship. Can't let it get out of hand and get ashore, can we? And can't let anyone from shore go aboard the ship.”

“Nay, indeed, sir. Especially not with those Cuban fevers. Got to nip this sort o' thing in the bud straightaway.”

“Total quarantine on that ship is called for, isn't it, Rork?”

“Aye, sir. Regretful but necessary. 'Tis a good thing we spotted that sickly lad.”

U.S.S. Bennington

Port Tampa, Florida

Friday afternoon

16 December 1892

I briefed Warfield on what had happened ashore. He shook his head in wonder when I described Gardiner's breakfast show, laughed at how we dealt with Roldan's thug, and nodded reluctantly when I passed on Martí's request for a meeting that night and our revised plan for departure at two a.m. He said the departure time would still give us time to reach Key West for qualifications, if we had no major mechanical problems.

Needless to say, I omitted mentioning Maria as well as my last tête-à-tête with Gardiner. When I was done, Warfield had a list of things to go over. Most were routine notifications of his decisions and actions. The executive officer of a warship has charge of the daily operation, but the commanding officer is
responsible for everything that happens. And I always insisted on knowing everything happening in the ship.

Condition of the engine and steam plant was my primary concern, and the report was neutral—there were no problems, but an overhaul was well past due and problems could be expected. Fuel was somewhat in good shape, a collier barge having come alongside and added to the bunkers. No injuries or equipment failures were reported. No signals or cables, no problems with the Port Tampa harbormaster, no spats with locals involving the crew working parties ashore, and no major discipline violations.

“Could
Reina Regente
really be here only to take a Brit reporter to Cuba, sir?”

“No, too many coincidences. But I'll give them credit—it's a damned good cover story.”

“I would think their man already went ashore on the first boat you saw. Damned clever fellows, aren't they? We can't touch them or even hinder them.”

“Yes, you're right, but only if we wait for good luck to arrive on its own, John. I don't have enough patience for that, though. I like to make my own luck.”

“Aye, sir, it's the American Navy way. You sound like you're cooking up something.”

“I was too late to figure out a way to stop their people from going ashore earlier, but I do have an idea on how to shut Boreau and his ship out of this equation from this point onward.”

“How's that, sir?”

Remembering what Gardiner had said to me in our last encounter, I pleasantly said, “Well, it not entirely within the realm of accepted propriety.”

Warfield's brow darkened as I continued and I carefully gauged his reaction, for it would be an indicator of what I could expect ashore during the execution of my plan.

“I believe there may possibly be sickness in
Reina Regente
. One of the Spanish officers we saw appeared seriously ill. Given
Florida's recent yellow fever outbreaks, I think the proper authorities might want to investigate.”

He wasn't impressed. “It's rather late in the season for yellow fever, sir.”

“Not in Cuba. The season runs later down there, and it's been an exceptionally hot, wet season in the West Indies, just like it was four years ago in eighty-eight.”

I invoked the year hundreds died along the coasts of Florida from yellow fever. Since then, no chances were taken by authorities, especially with ships coming from Cuba or Haiti, where the disease was seasonally rampant.

“I dunno, sir. They just came from a U.S. port, where the quarantine doctor examined the ship upon entry into the country.”

He didn't add that we had not cleared the quarantine doctor in Key West upon returning from Mexico—a flagrant breach of regulations. I'd had other priorities at the time.

“Well, I've had the damned thing and know Yellow Jack doesn't usually show until around six days into it. Which would be right about now for the
Reina Regente
, since they left Cuba earlier this week. Always better to be safe than sorry, John.”

He still looked dubious. “So you'll notify the port's quarantine doctor tomorrow? That'll be too late, sir. The Spanish won't be deterred and the assassin will get away.”

“I can't notify the port doctor. It would appear contrived, given the animosity between our two navies. No, I think I'll suggest that another local doctor do it—colleague to colleague, so to speak. It'll carry more weight.”

“That might work, sir. But when could you find a local doctor?”

“Right now. Please have my gig called away. I'm going ashore to the St. Elmo Hotel. I need to use their telephone.”

U.S.S. Bennington

Port Tampa, Florida

Friday evening

16 December 1892

My task didn't take long to conclude and, still unsure if the plan would be successful, I made my way back to the ship, but not to my cabin.

Instead, I busied myself with some of the leadership duties incumbent upon the captain of a United States warship. During the tumult of the previous week, I had been remiss in attending to them.

It was already dark below decks. Walking forward on the berth deck to where one of the two smoking lamps hung near the passage to the senior petty officer's “Goat Locker,” I found two bosun's mates igniting their pipes and yarning about grog shops in Cartagena with the master-at-arms.

Greatly startled to see their captain suddenly appear, they all instantly straightened and stood mute, waiting for me to pass
from their domain and become somebody else's problem. But it was not to be. From my younger days, I knew a thing or two on their subject myself. So, rather than continue my stroll and end their nervousness, I surprised them with my opinion on Cartagena's watering holes.

This resulted in a polite but gradually spirited debate on prices, quality, and quantity of the concoctions served in the taverns of that most notorious of Cartagena's districts, the sadly misnamed Getsemani. In the end, I freely surrendered to their wisdom on the matter, and left the compartment knowing my story would be around the ship in minutes.

Next, I visited the crew galley, where I could tell the cooks had already gotten word of my lower deck perambulation, for all cursing and commotion had vanished. The crew was lined up for dinner and I broke in among them to sample some of the food, a weekly ritual of mine. The current fare was creamed fish chowder, boiled cabbage, bean soup, and brown bread, doused with a cup of steaming navy coffee. It wasn't bad and I said so, which spurred looks among the cooking crew ranging from smugness to relief, depending on their seniority.

Next on my itinerary was a descent into the bowels of the ship, the hellish dominion of the Black Gang, so called for their skin hopelessly impregnated by soot and grease. The senior artificer greeted me on my entry into the after engine room. He was not on duty, explaining with remarkable skill in prevarication that he made a habit of daily off-watch inspection tours, just to make sure things were efficient and safe.

Seconds after the petty officer had finished trying to impress me, Lt. Angles dropped down the ladder with a thud, still buttoning his coat and appearing quite worried.