Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (40 page)

Rork nodded his head away from the others and walked toward the side of the house, his gray sea bag showing white in the half-moonlight. He had a grim look when I met him there.

“How the hell did Roldan do it?” he asked, slowly shaking his head in contemplation. “Our friend's request for the coca wine was last minute. It couldn't have been anticipated an' set up ahead o' time.”

I'd been cogitating on that very issue. “The only thing I can come up with is Roldan guessed Martí probably would send for more Vin Mariani because he had none with him, and because he usually has a little every night after dinner, especially when he has a lot of writing work to do.”

“Or one o' these fellows standin' around here is an informant for Roldan and Marrón, an' told 'em Martí'd run out,” he growled as his head swiveled around to scan the area. “An' how is it they ran out o' the stuff in the first place? Or did that bottle just up an' disappear in Ocala? Aye, any damn thing is possible with these tricky Orden Público bastards, sir, an' methinks we best keep a sharp lookout now for ourselves, as well as poor José.”

He was right. “Agreed, Rork. And remember this—these men don't trust
us
, either. To them, we're the interlopers, so let's take care not to give offense or feed their suspicions.”

We returned to where Maria and Cano were speaking in Spanish about Martí's writing. I was surprised and pleased to hear she had read quite a lot of it.

Half an hour later, Cano was summoned to the bedroom. He returned afterward with a detailed report of the state of affairs thus far, which Martí had authorized him to share with us.

Dr. Barbarossa had quickly determined from smelling the Vin Mariani that a large amount of arsenic had been mixed with it. He was in possession of the bottle and would conduct something called a Hahnemann test later at his office to confirm that opinion. Martí had consumed half a small glass before
realizing something was wrong, which the doctor considered a moderate amount and probably survivable, though with a lengthy and painful recuperation period, estimated to be at least five weeks.

The doctor had immediately given his patient a blend of ipecacuanha and opium to induce the regurgitation of the poison, which had produced much of it, but not all. His overall condition was weak, his pressure elevated, his breathing regular. Pain from stomach cramps and severe headache was being addressed with opium.

Cano reported something else—the two men who had delivered the poisoned wine to the house were Cubans, one black and the other white. A covert search by the few in the know had begun, but the two men had fled the area. Since tempers were well past the boiling point, the assassins' lives would be forfeit upon apprehension. Martí had specifically ordered against killing them, but Cano doubted whether the command would be adhered to when the time came.

As far as Roldan and his men were concerned, no one had seen them. A telephone call to Tampa revealed the
Reina Regente
had slipped away in the night, well before the end of Martí's speech. That, of course, was her legal right, the quarantine prohibition only applying to transportation with the shore.

Concerned foremost about the effect on his years of work to unify and strengthen the Cuban cause, Martí had strongly reiterated he did not want word of the poisoning to get out to the public and press. If there were inquiries, the story told would simply be a case of indigestion had inconvenienced the man. Nothing more.

Cano chuckled softly as he explained the cover story was Martí's idea. It was pretty smart, the lawyer concluded, because technically it wasn't really a lie. Martí certainly was inconvenienced by something he'd ingested.

Finally, Cano said that Martí wanted me to come up to his
room for a moment. The doctor had consented, but limited my time to one minute.

Every eye in the house followed me as I reentered and made my way up the stairwell. Their unspoken thoughts showed clearly on their faces: exactly who is this unknown Anglo who suddenly appears the night our leader is poisoned, and then is granted special admittance when we are not? And who are the Spanish woman and Irish giant with him?

Dr. Barbarossa tapped his pocket watch and held up one finger when I arrived in the room. Paulina sat next to her adopted son, caressing his forehead with a damp towel. She rose and gestured for me to sit in her chair. I nodded my submission to the doctor's orders and sat down. The bed was stained and stank of vomit. Martí lay there unclothed, only a light sheet covering him.

He looked worse than before, his normally thin face even more drawn as he grimaced when the spasms erupted within him. He held out a hand and I took it. I did not speak, for he was trying to say something.

He pulled me nearer in desperation. I leaned in until my ear was at his mouth.

“Not . . . your . . . fault . . . Peter. You . . . tried. Thank . . . you.”

I didn't know what to say or do, but he wasn't done. There was something else.

“Disci . . . pline . . . important . . . now.
Evil . . . can . . . not . . . be . . . allowed . . . to . . . win
.”

I felt the doctor's hand on my shoulder as tears filled my eyes. The slightly built man before me was not some bemedaled leader of feared warriors, but he had accomplished more with his pen and his voice than all the triumphant soldiers who had come before him in the fight for Cuban independence. Since his sixteenth year, Martí's lonely life had been lived for one purpose—true freedom for his people, and by extension, for all
the downtrodden of the world.

There was only one thing I knew to say to help alleviate my friend's misery.

“Cuba
will
be free, José. And you and I will be there to see it.”

He squeezed my hand and smiled.

Then he let go.

Ybor City, Florida
Saturday morning
17 December 1892

Rork's snoring penetrated my unconsciousness just as the sun's first ray came through the window. We had gotten the last available room in Cano's Las Nuevitas Hotel at 1:15 in the morning. I laid down a few minutes later, but four and a half hours wasn't enough sleep for me, for the intense emotions of the preceding days—especially what happened six hours earlier—had drained utterly me of any vigor.

Since Wednesday I'd had only a few fitful periods of sleep, snatched here and there, when my mind and body required far more. Laying there in the bed, with sunrise announcing another day and yet more ordeals, I had to admit my limitations, if only to myself. The inevitable process of aging had caught up. That fact was indisputable.

The evening hadn't ended according to plan, except that our Masonic friend did arrive promptly at 1 a.m. as promised.
He immediately sensed the atmospheric change in our behavior and became wary but, honoring Martí's wishes, I did not share the terrible information with his fraternity brother. Rather, I hurriedly requested that he deliver Maria back to the Tampa Bay Hotel. I did not tell him why Rork and I would stay in Ybor.

We needed to be close to the action. This decision was not made lightly, for it meant
Bennington
would be getting under way for Key West much later, with a much tighter chance of making it on time for the gunnery qualifications. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to make the gamble, and the potential costs weighed heavily on my mind.

Besides transporting Maria, the Mason was given two messages to deliver. The first was to be taken to the wharf at Port Tampa and hence by
Bennington
's boat out to the ship.

Lt. Commander Warfield
,

1 a.m., Saturday, 17 December 1892

Everyone safe but problems have arisen. Need to stay ashore at Las Nuevitas Hotel in Ybor City tonight. Will return to ship midafternoon. Cable explanation to Key West is being sent when office opens later in morn
.

Wake

The other was a cable to Admiral Walker. It took me a moment to compose, having to do so in plain language because I had no code book with me to hide my highly sensitive information.

XX—DELAYD HERE—X—RIVAL SEMI SUCCESSFUL—X—FRND STILL HERE—X—SPN CZR GONE—X—SITREP LATER—XX

After the Mason departed to take Maria to her hotel and deliver the messages, Rork, Cano, and I walked south a block to the Nuevitas Hotel.

By the time I was fully awake Saturday morning, the sun had ascended high enough to fully flood the room with light. Sleeping late was an indulgence I could ill afford. There were things to be done. So, with a grunt and a groan, I made myself get out of the bed. Standing by the window, I called over to Rork's bed with a time-honored salty phrase I thought might infiltrate his enviable dormancy. “Shake a leg, you slimy old son of a gun. Time for all hands to get under way.”

It worked. He grumbled something uncomplimentary, rolled out of bed as if it was a hammock, and even before waking completely, began installing his left-hand appliance right away. This was a three-part operation, starting with the leather stump cover, then the marlinspike, then the India-rubber false hand. Rork normally didn't sleep with his false apparatus on, his arm stump needing a rest from the strain of carrying the thing. Reattaching it was the initial task of his day, before anything else, including realizing where in the world he was.

I once asked him why he did this. His answer was a lamentable illustration of his lifestyle. “Ooh, well, 'tis simple, really. You see, boyo, when wakin' in a strange bed, me mind just never knows if the first person in me sight'll be a happy lady or her irate husband.”

We cleaned up, stopped by Cano's room to get him, and all went down for breakfast. The events of the night before made the meal a quiet one, for each of us was weighed down by the enormity of what had happened to our friend Martí. But I had another issue to discuss, one far more uplifting.

My intention had been to tell Rork of my secret engagement to Maria when we were traveling from the hotel back to the ship the previous afternoon but, as the reader can fully understand by this point in my chronicle, more important things intervened and dominated our time. The present moment, however tardy, I judged to be the right time to tell both men. Through Mario Cano, my daughter Useppa would also be notified. Of course, she and my son Sean would receive detailed letters from me later.

My friends' reaction was far better than I expected, especially considering previous discussion between Rork and me. With Irish drama, he pledged his undying friendship to Maria, then gaily declared, “An' now she'll be me sister!”

Cano suggested we have a double wedding for the couples, saying he was certain it was what Useppa would want.

Rork wasn't done, though. He launched into planning the wedding celebration, which he decided should be on Patricio Island, and paid particular attention to the libation and musical components. Useppa would be aghast at his proposals, but her fiancé was amused. “Capital idea, Rork. What about accommodations on your island? Useppa says it's small.”

Before Rork went any further and had wedding guests living in tents at Patricio, I nipped the whole fantasy in the bud. You had to do that with him, or before you knew it, things would be out of control and take on a life on their own, usually costing me money and annoyance.

“No double wedding, Mario. It should be
her
special day and Useppa deserves a proper wedding at the Methodist church in Key West, shared with no other couple. And no big party for Maria and me, Rork. Our wedding will be a small affair, at a location of her choice, with you as my best man—without a lot of hoopla or a big party. We're too old for that sort of thing.”

It dampened their enthusiasm, and after a brief discussion recapping the Martí situation, we adjourned to walk the short distance to the Pedrosos' home.

There was still a crowd around the house. A man passed our way coming from the house and I inquired about the latest news. Contrary to the policy of keeping the poisoning confidential, he confirmed to us Martí was still expected to live.

As we passed the alleyway near the theater, the same backstreet we had sped along on the fire engine, I spotted a distraught, average-looking fellow also heading for the house. Tears streamed down his reddened contorted face and his gait was hesitant. A continuous mumbling came from him. I assumed
he was a Martí devotee who had heard the news and come to offer help.

With such a countenance on his part and assumption on my part, one can well imagine my surprise when we all got closer to the house and one of the hangers-on pointed to the fellow and shouted, “
¡El asesino! El hombre blanco que entregó el vino venenoso. ¡Captúralo!
”

My Spanish was good enough to understand the meaning:
The assassin! The white one who delivered the poison wine. Capture him!

Someone else yelled, “
¡Matarlo ahora!
” I knew the phrase from when it was used against me in Peru a decade earlier:
Kill him now!