Destiny's Captive (4 page)

“Hello, Mama,” he said, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks.

“So glad you're here. How are you?”

Not wanting to cause her worry, he lied, “I'm well. How about you? Haven't changed your mind about marrying Max, have you?”

“Of course not.” She slipped a motherly arm around his waist. “Come outside and sit with me. Your aunts, uncles, and cousins will be arriving tomorrow so this might be my only chance to enjoy you without being interrupted.”

“Where are my brothers?”

“In town but they'll be joining us for dinner.”

He looked forward to seeing them. “Did Drew really get married?”

“Yes and he has a sixteen-month-old son.”

Apparently the confusion on his face was plain, because she laughed lightly. “You go sit. I'll explain in a minute. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Then let me talk with Bonnie and I'll come out and join you.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and he continued out onto the grand stone patio and took a seat at the large table. Sitting there in the silence he felt the tension of the past week slide away. He was home. Surveying the familiar orchards and the mounted ranch hands going about their duties brought back pleasant memories: the riding, the fishing, the games with his brothers, the fights they'd had over everything and nothing, the love of their mother who'd worked herself until her fingers bled to give them a home. The young boy he'd been back then always came alive for a time when he returned home but as always slipped back beneath the darkness that ruled him. He looked up to find his mother watching him silently, concern in her eyes. He'd never revealed any of the ugly details about his shanghai experiences to anyone in his family, but they all, especially Alanza, knew something dire had occurred, because he was not the same person he'd been before. “Yes, Mama?” he asked quietly.

She came forward carrying a tray with glasses of lemonade and a sandwich. “Nothing. I'm just glad to have my youngest near.”

“Your youngest is glad to be near,” he echoed rising to take the tray from her hands.

While he ate she sat silently and stared off into the distance, mining unspoken thoughts.

“So,” he asked, hoping to lighten her mood. “Tell me about Drew.” He knew she wanted to discuss the changes she saw and sensed in him, but as always she was content to let it be, and he loved her all the more for that, because to tell her would plunge her into the darkness as well.

A
fter Noah left her to go up to his room, Alanza remained out on the patio alone and pondered her youngest son. Why he'd changed so much from who he'd once been was a question she'd been wrestling with for ten years now. She guessed it had to do with his being shanghaied, because the day he finally returned home there'd been a bleakness in his once bright eyes. Although he'd talked about the prison camp and some of the terrible things that transpired there, she sensed he'd held back on a lot of the more troubling details, and as far as she knew, he hadn't shared the full truth with Drew or Logan either. Gone was the boy with the ready laugh and open heart; in fact he rarely smiled. Of all her sons, he'd been the most sensitive and the most loving but now seemed to move through his visits home like a ghost. Mothers knew when their children were in pain and he wore his like a shroud. She so wanted to help him deal with whatever was at the heart of it, but he was a grown man and she didn't want to lose him completely by pressuring him to reveal whatever was wrong. Would she ever know the truth? She didn't know but would continue to pray that he'd find healing and peace in whatever form God saw fit to send him, because this new version of her son was breaking her heart.

Later, upstairs in his bedroom, Noah glanced around at the familiar surroundings and again the carefree young boy he'd once been took pleasure in what he viewed: his beloved books, the desk where'd he done his lessons, his well-used easel still standing by the door that led out to his verandah, and in his adjoining sitting room, the Brahms Streicher piano his mother ordered for him all the way from Vienna. He walked over to it and visually lingered over its gleaming wood and ivory keys. It was an 1868 model and with its carved lacelike music stand and artfully shaped legs, it remained as beautiful as the day it arrived. He hadn't played since his last visit home because it was impractical to have such an instrument on a ship. He tapped out a few random notes, observing that it was still in tune and knew instinctively that his mother had engaged someone to come out and see to the tuning in advance of his arrival. Although both his brothers loved books, neither of them were musically inclined or enjoyed putting brush to canvas. Those passions had been reserved for him alone, it seemed, and he derived great pleasure from both endeavors. The young Noah had dreams of being a music teacher or a concert pianist, like his musical idol Beethoven, but—he turned his mind away from those long lost aspirations. Instead, he sat on the bench, flexed his fingers and began to play, first Beethoven and then Brahms before sliding seamlessly into Bach. Soon he moved into hymns, sea shanties, and tunes from operas and bawdy houses. He lost himself so completely in the intricacies of the notes and melodies that when he glanced over at the clock it showed two hours had passed. Allowing himself a small smile, he played a few minutes longer, then got up to prepare himself for dinner.

When his brothers arrived, they greeted him warmly. He'd met Mariah before but not Drew's wife, Billie, so introductions were made. He also met his niece and nephew and the sight of their chubby little faces touched his heart, and again a part of himself envied the couples' happiness. After that, they took their seats at the table. As always, their mother reigned at the head while a contented Max sat at the other end.

They were eating when Logan glanced over and asked, “So, Noah, how's the seafaring business?”

Deciding to go with the truth, he shrugged. “Fine, but it'll be better once I get my ship back.”

Everyone at the table paused and stared his way.

Appearing puzzled, his mother asked, “Is it in dry dock?”

He shook his head and prepared himself for the razzing sure to follow. “No, a pirate woman stole it from me about two weeks ago.”

Drew snorted a laugh. “You let a
girl
take the ship named after your
mama
?”

“Andrew!” his mother scolded.

“Was her name Califia by any chance?” Logan asked amusedly.

A smiling Noah took the ribbing in stride. He'd expected the teasing. “No. I've no idea what her name is, but I'll be heading back to Cuba just as soon as the wedding's over to hunt her down. Sorry, Mama, for not being able to stay longer.”

She was still staring his way with confusion on her face.

“I'll get it back,” he vowed, and he would if he had to track that little pirate git to the bottom of the seven seas.

Max weighed in. “So how did it happen?”

Noah sighed aloud and told the story, adding, “The Spanish navy believes the gang might be rebels. Apparently they might be on the brink of war there again.”

“But why your ship?” Mariah asked.

“I don't know, the woman wouldn't say, but apparently it fit the bill for whatever they were planning.”

“Is it safe to return there?” Billie asked.

“Doesn't matter. I need my ship.”

Drew nodded understandingly. “All humor aside, let me know if I can be of any help. Bigotry may be making it difficult to practice law here, but Cuba can't refuse to let me practice, because I did my studies in Spain.”

“Thanks, Drew.”

After dinner he and his brothers stepped outside to enjoy the cigars he'd brought back for them and some tequila to celebrate his homecoming.

Logan drew on his cigar. “Girl pirates or not, Cubans make the best damn cigars on earth.”

“Agreed,” Noah said exhaling a stream of the fine smoke. “Two years ago, I invested in a tobacco operation in Florida. The owner is a friend. A Cuban exile named Miguel Ventura. Business is booming and we're looking to expand. Would you two like in?”

Drew said, “To give myself access to these, hell yes.”

“Once I get this ship business settled and talk with him, I'll let you know the details.”

Logan raised his shot glass in a toast. “To brothers, tequila, and fine cigars.”

Drew threw in, “And may we make a fortune.”

They tossed back their drinks and set their glasses down. Logan poured more into each and they began to talk of old times: the pranks they'd pulled, the fun they'd had, the contests they'd constantly challenged each other to. “So, you think can beat me at arm wrestling now, baby brother?” He'd been the king growing up.

Before Noah could respond, Drew scoffed, “He let a
girl
steal his damn ship, remember?”

“Shut up, Drew. I may not be able to best Logan but I can mop the floor with your fancy lawyer arse.”

The laughing Logan spit tequila across the table.

“Oh, really?” Drew asked.

“Really.” Noah countered with a mischief in his eyes, and to prove the boast punched Drew in his chest hard enough to rock him in his chair.

Recovering, the grinning Drew stood, tossed back his second shot of tequila and slammed the glass down. “Let's go.”

Smiling, Noah stood to meet the challenge. Mimicking his brother, he tossed back his shot, slammed the glass down and the fight was on.

As they rolled around, knocking over chairs, breaking flowerpots, and trying their best to beat the tar out of each other, Noah was indeed mopping the floor with Drew. When a goading Logan pointed that out, Drew punched Logan in the nose and it turned into a three brothers' free-for-all.

Inside the house, Alanza could hear the ruckus outside, as could everyone else. Holding Tonio, Billie hurried to the dining-room window, which looked out over the patio, and snapped, “If they break those rose canes that I spent all summer reviving I will shoot them.”

Alanza watched her sons rolling and punching and destroying the beauty of her patio and began spouting an angry stream of Spanish. Stalking to the gun cabinet in her study, she returned with her shotgun. As she primed it and started for the door, Max chuckled.

Watching the destruction, Mariah said to her daughter, “Papa's about to get a whipping.” Little Maria's eyes went round and she stared up at her mother. “
Abuela
's going to get him.”

Tonio, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life. Viewing the commotion, he laughed and clapped excitedly. In response to his obvious joy, Billie looked to the heavens and pleaded, “Lord, let me have a quiet little girl this time.”

The next sound heard was the thunderous repercussion of the shotgun.

Outside all three sons froze.

“Get up, you idiots!” Alanza snapped in Spanish.

Trying to hide their grins, they stood before her as they'd done all their lives. Each had at least one black eye and a split lip. The seams of their suit coats had burst, and the rest of them was covered with dust and soil from the destroyed clay flowerpots. Blood trickled from their nostrils.

“Are you trying to ruin my wedding?” she yelled. “You're going to walk me down the aisle looking like you've been wrestling with bears!”

They dropped their heads in another effort to hide their now widening grins.

“If you so much as smile, I swear the padre will be handling three funerals, too!”

“Sorry, Mama,” Noah and Drew said in unison.

Logan added, “Sorry, Lanza.”

“No you're not! Go get cleaned up. May you live to have children as loco as you are!”

She stormed away, still muttering in Spanish. Once she was out of sight, they fell to the ground with howls of laughter.

Lying there in the silence afterwards, Noah said, “God, that felt good. Been wanting to punch something all week.” This was the most fun in recent memory.

“Glad we could help,” Drew said around the handkerchief he held against his nose.

Noah swung his head to his older brother. “Thanks Logan.”

“Always here to help.”

They helped each other up and stumbled inside to go clean themselves up.

P
ilar loved the city of Santiago. Its crowded, twisted streets were narrow and steep, and from different points one could view the tree-covered mountains and the beautiful blue waters of the bay that emptied into the Caribbean. Most of the buildings were of stone and constructed by Spain. The grander places with their expansive gated courtyards and ironwork verandahs housed the city's wealthy, but she and her sister Doneta were walking the cramped, crowded streets of the poor, which were lined with women selling fruits and vegetables; men offering to black shoes; old Vodoun women from Haiti peddling potions guaranteed to bring death to your enemies, make a person fall in love, and everything in between. Small children ran through the crowds, garnering stern warnings from local elders, and laundry hung in windows open to the breeze. The air was thick with the mouthwatering smells of braziers cooking yams, fish, sheep, and goat, and the people they passed spoke French and Spanish, and because many from the Far East had been brought to the island as slaves, Chinese could be heard as well.

She and Doneta were ostensibly on their way to sell the eggs they'd gathered from their hens that morning, and although it was just past dawn the streets were as filled as if it were noon.

“Have you ever wanted to live elsewhere, Pilar?”

Somewhere in the distance came the sound of drumming and the syncopated rhythms put a lift in her spirit and step. “Not really. Why?”

“Thinking about the stories Mama used to tell about all the beautiful places she visited growing up. It would be nice to see at least one of those places before I die.”

Born in Seville, their mother, Desa, was the daughter of a high-ranking Spanish diplomat. She'd been disowned for marrying their father. “I suppose.”

“I'm twenty-three years old, Pilar, and the only place I've ever seen is—here. Is it wrong to want to be elsewhere with maybe a good husband and live in a nice house with nice things?”

“No, 'Neta. There's nothing wrong with that.”

Pilar didn't hold her sister's dreams against her, because who wouldn't want to get away from the poverty that was their reality? But because she knew it was only a dream, she didn't long for it. Instead, she longed for changes in their world so that her younger cousins might attend school and learn to excel at something besides thievery. Hoping they could get an education was one of the many reasons she supported General Maceo and the rebels in their quest to gain independence from Spain. As it stood now, only the children of the wealthy were allowed to study formally. People like her family and her neighbors, no matter their color, weren't offered the opportunity because of their station in life. And times were changing. With the growing presence of the soldiers in cities like Havana and Santiago, it was more difficult to make a living outside the law. The wealthy had begun hiring armed men to keep their homes safe, thus making it nearly impossible to slip in under darkness and slip out again with valuables that might help put food on the table for a few days. Doneta was an outstanding artist and in times past, her forgeries of the Old Masters sold to gullible art collectors brought in enough gold to keep their farm afloat for months, but the paintings took time and couldn't be rushed, so in the meantime other avenues had to be pursued to fill the coffers. With the passing away of their father's old fences and smugglers, those avenues were just about dry. Not to mention the Banderas name was now well known to the police. The secrecy that had shrouded their activities for decades was shattered last month when their cousin Juan, the adolescent son of one of her late uncles, was apprehended while trying to steal a prized statue from one of the city's museums, of all places. Having exhibited more bravado than brains his entire life, he'd done no planning beforehand, as far as Pilar knew, and as a result had been sentenced to ten years in a prison outside of Havana, leaving behind his three sisters and heartbroken mother, Ria. Now, everywhere they went, they were watched. Like now. There was a policeman about a half block behind them. He seemed to be just ambling through the streets, but at the last corner, Pilar stopped and looked back. When he met her eyes, he hastily glanced away and crossed the street. He trailed them still. “We're being followed.”

“I know,” her sister replied. “Maybe we should go over and ask him if he wants to buy our eggs.”

Frustrated, they kept walking, but his looming presence was a real problem. Going to the market had been a cover for the true reason they'd come into town. Pilar and Tomas had split the gold cuff links taken from Noah Yates and it had been her plan to slip into the home of an old friend of the family who specialized in buying purloined items and leave again with their value in coin, but with the policeman dogging their steps, that was now impossible. One did not bring the police to a friend's door. Her mother needed the money, had been counting on it really in order to pay the ever-increasing taxes the crown kept imposing, but now? She sighed angrily.

They finally reached the small open-air market owned by Carlos Mendez, a widower in his late forties. The policeman followed. “This is all Juan's fault,” Pilar snapped and her sister agreed. If her cousin hadn't already been in custody, she'd sail him out into the bay and drop him into deep water for the problems he'd brought down on their heads. The money they'd get for the eggs would be a pittance compared to what they might have received in exchange for the cuff links, but there was nothing they could do about it now, so they led the man on their heels past the penned-in chickens and pigs; the open crates of mangoes, red bananas, and coconuts; and the burlap sacks of yams to the back of the market, where Mendez sat at the rickety table that doubled as his office. His six children could be seen stacking vegetables and opening crates and standing guard to make sure the goods weren't stolen by the gangs of orphans who roamed the streets.

“Good morning, Pilar and Doneta.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mendez. We have eggs for you.”

The policeman sidled closer, as if he were contemplating buying some of the candy for sale but they were certain he was attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation. They ignored him.

Mendez took the basket of eggs, and after adding theirs to the ones he had for sale, he returned the empty basket and Pilar placed the few pesos he handed her into the pocket of her skirt. “Thank you, Mr. Mendez.”

“You're welcome. Give my regards to your lovely mother.”

“We will.”

As they walked back out to the street, the policeman, now standing over a basket of oranges, pretended disinterest. Pilar almost stopped to ask if he wanted them to wait until he was done looking at the fruit, but decided provoking him was not a good idea. Instead she and her sister walked back the way they'd come. He followed them all the way to the stable where they'd left their wagon, then watched and waited until they drove off before he turned away and headed back to the city's center. Pilar held the reins and shook her head with disgust.

S
cattering chickens and a few pigs, Pilar steered the wagon onto their property and pulled the reins to a halt next to the listing wooden barn. Their farm was just outside the city. It originally belonged to their pirate grandfather Benito and his wife, Anitra, who began her life as a slave in Jamaica and lived there until she was stolen away by him during a raid. His ancestors were originally from the Mandingo tribe—tall, strong, and reddish in skin tone, while she was of the Ganga, short and freckled like most of her people. Both Pilar and Doneta had a light dusting of the spots on their upper cheeks, as had their father, Javier.

Their mother, Desa, was seated on the porch. At their approach, she stood and smiled. “How is the city?”

“We couldn't sell the cuff links because we were followed by the police,” Pilar said as she climbed the two broken steps. Like the barn and the house, the porch was a weathered silver. There were numerous slats missing but enough remained to support the old settee and a few chairs so one could sit outside and enjoy the mountain breezes. She handed her mother the few pesos from the eggs. “I'm sorry, Mama.”

“That's disappointing. Tell me about this policeman.”

So they did.

She sighed with disgust. “This is all Juan's fault. Had he been half as smart as he thought he was he wouldn't be jailed. My poor Ria. She's going to have to go into Santiago and look for work now that Juan can no longer help out.”

Pilar was certain the thought of having to hire herself out as a maid or washwoman had likely sent her proud aunt to her bed. Ria was among the best document forgers in Cuba. During slavery, because Santiago held one of the island's largest population of free blacks and free mulattos, escaped slaves flocked to the city's narrow streets and alleys in droves. Their need for forged freedom papers and notes of passage made for a steady income. Now, with slavery on the wane, the demand for her skills had waned as well, and with her son Juan now breaking rocks, the money he'd once made working on the docks would be sorely missed. As Pilar had mused earlier—times were changing. What hadn't changed was her commitment to the rebels, and with that in mind, she needed to prepare the
Alanza
for another run to Santo Domingo for guns.

“I received a letter from my brother in Florida today.”

Pilar and Doneta's faces showed surprise. As far as Pilar knew, her mother hadn't received a correspondence from her family in decades. Her Castilian parents pronounced her dead after she ran off on her wedding day to become the wife of Javier Banderas, and one didn't commune with the dead.

“He's invited us to the
rumba
he's having for his birthday in a few weeks. And,” she added, “he says he's anxious to renew his ties to me as his sister.”

“Is he dying?” Pilar asked.

Doneta snorted.

Her mother laughed, “Not that I know of. No.”

“Then why now, after so many years?”

Desa shrugged. “I'm his only sister. With both our parents passed on, maybe he's lonely. I don't know.”

Doneta asked, “Are you going?”

“Yes. We're all going.”

Pilar stilled.

As if anticipating Pilar's arguments, she stated, “I know you have obligations you deem more important, Pilar, but this is family.”

“Mama—”

“Pilar, your father and uncles gave their lives to Cuba, but nothing was more important to them than
familia.
I doubt Antonio Maceo will storm Havana anytime soon.”

Pilar studied her and sensed she was holding something back. “There's more, isn't there?”

“Yes. It is my hope that you two will find husbands while we're there.”

Doneta's eyes widened with delight.

Pilar's narrowed with suspicion. “I don't want a husband.”

“I understand, Pilar, but it is time you started considering it.”

“Mama, I'm twenty-five years old. No man will want me as a wife. All I wish is to do is help Cuba become a better place.”

“Who's to say a husband won't want that, too?”

“I doubt he'll want a wife who smuggles guns.”

Her mother smiled indulgently. “True, but you are so much more. Your heart, your great mind, compassion, and dedication are as much a part of you as your fervor for Cuba. A man will value that.”

“No, Mama.”

“Pilar, I have never put a bridle on you. When you were seven years old and wanted to ride your horse into the mountains alone, I let you go—even though my Javier and I argued about it for days afterwards. When he died, my heart was broken and the very last thing I wanted was for you to go off and fight with the Mambis, too, but again I let you go and prayed for your safe return every day. Do I want you smuggling guns? No. Do I worry each and every moment that you're away?” She laid her hand tenderly against Pilar's cheek. “Again, yes.”

There was a seriousness in her mother's eyes that made Pilar gently cover the hand with her own.

“The
three
of us will be going to the
rumba
.”

Pilar knew that her mother's mind was made up, and she'd broach no more argument, so after sighing softly in defeat, she leaned over and placed a kiss on her mother's golden cheek. “Yes, Mama.”

“Good.”

“Tomas and I are taking the ship out tonight. We'll be back in the morning.”

“That's fine. When you return we'll make our plans to leave in a few days.”

Pilar nodded and went to make her preparations.

A
fter initially hiding the
Alanza
behind the waterfall, she and Tomas made the trek back a few days later to retrieve it, and under a moonless sky sailed it to the Santiago docks and into the small shipyard of a man allied with the rebels. He had the hull painted black and added new sails dyed a deep indigo. The altered schooner now bore little resemble to Yates's
Alanza,
so Pilar rechristened it th
e Sirena
.