Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution (39 page)

"The
French and Spanish may have spilled each other's blood, but we understand each
other.
 
After all Spain lost in America
in the Treaty of Paris, after she just extinguished a rebellion in her colony
in Peru, after Britain crushed the American rebels in Charles Town last month,
do you think any Spaniard, let alone the great family Gálvez, would be quick to
trust and support disorganized, slovenly, and irresponsible rebels?"

Sophie worked
through the conclusions in her head.
 
"You're suggesting that the Gálvez are testing the rebels, seeing
if they're truly capable of following through with a critical task?
 
And if the rebels persevered through extreme
hardship to bring a bribe of emeralds, they'd be considered worthy?"

Jacques nodded
to the horizon.
 
"Worthy of Spain's
alliance,
oui
, and the Gálvez would speak favorably of them to King
Carlos."
 
His eyes narrowed.
 
"But the Gálvez would never send one of
their own flesh and blood to such a meeting —
non
, not with the threat
of
Casa de la Sangre Legítima
.
 
They would send an impersonator."
 
He looked back at her.
 
"In
all I have heard of the contemporary Gálvez, never have I heard mention of a
family member named Alejandro."

"Zounds,"
she whispered.
 
"Lieutenant Fairfax
said as much."

Jacques thumped
her on the back.
 
"Well done."

In the
background, she heard the cry of "
Terra
!" from a sailor on the
mainmast, but she ignored it.
 
Don
Alejandro an impostor.
 
Dazed, she
rubbed her neck.
 
"Would Don Antonio
know?"

"Why
not?"
 
He pressed a finger to his
lips signing silence.

Sophie spotted
Arriaga headed their way.
 
"He
looks chipper.
 
He's all but ignored us
since we left Abaco."

Jacques
grunted.
 
"With certain feminine
exceptions."

"
Bom
dia
, and good news, my passengers!
 
Paulo aloft has spotted Cuba."

Sophie
comprehended the captain's convivial spirits.
 
By noon, he'd be rid of an evil-omened set of passengers.
 
She shifted around to peer forward.
 
No sign yet of the Pearl of the Antilles, as
Columbus had labeled Cuba.

Mathias and
David joined them forward — David's expression glum, Mathias's neutral.
 
Arriaga clapped David on the shoulder and
steered him for the railing.
 
"Chess was never my game, either,
senhor
, but look to port,
and within a quarter hour, you will have forgotten the tournament."

David's
eyebrows rose.
 
"Cuba?"

"
Sim
.
 
With this fine wind, we will arrive in La
Habana by noon."
 
A fist on his
hip, Arriaga stepped back and allowed Mathias room.
 
"I know the city well.
 
I can recommend a decent inn."
 
He eyed Jacques from head to toe.
 
"Or a tailor."

"We
brought a change of clothing."

"Ah,
good."
 
He smiled at Sophie.

She smiled in
exchange.
 
"Except for a black
veil.
 
I've been told women wear them in
New Spain, and I hardly had time before my departure to consult a clothier in
St. Augustine."

"Calle
O'Reilly is filled with tailors."
 
Arriaga switched his gaze to David.
 
"And your destination in La Habana?"

"The
Church of Saint Teresa."

"Ah.
 
La Iglesia y Convento de Santa Teresa de
Jesús is east of Plaza del Cristo, midway along Calle Brasil at
Compostela.
 
You will find it a
beautiful monastery, built by the Carmelites at the beginning of this
century."
 
His study of David grew
shrewd.
 
"But surely you did not
make this voyage just to visit a monastery?"

"We've a
meeting with Don Antonio Hernandez.
 
Do
you know where to find him?"

Surprise
flooded Arriaga's expression before he could conceal it.
 
He moistened his lips with his tongue.
 
"You should have no problems locating
the chief assistant to the royal treasurer.
 
During the day, he works in the house of the Marqués de Arcos, near
Castillo de la Real Fuerza.
 
Any
volanta
driver will know where to find his home, not far from the monastery."

"Thank
you,
capitão
."

"Let me
know if I may be of further assistance."
 
Arriaga inclined his head before bustling off amidships.

When the
captain was out of earshot, David grinned at Sophie.
 
"We dress like rustics, are chased by Spanish assassins, the
redcoats, and the Continentals, and plan to visit the royal treasurer's
assistant in Havana.
 
Arriaga doesn't
know what to make of us."

"Our truth
is stranger than anyone's fiction."

She took the
opportunity then to explain her hunch about Don Alejandro.
 
They based their primary plan of action on
their most logical expectations.
 
If
they saw no sign of the
Annabelle
, the
Zealot
, or the Continental
frigate, Jacques, David, and Sophie would locate Don Antonio and turn over his
nephew's emeralds to him while Mathias booked their passage back on a ship
headed for the Colonies.
 
They'd
rendezvous at the city gates at four to look for decent lodgings.
 
David and Jacques insisted on staying at
least one night to partake of Havana.

They discussed
strategies in case they spotted the
Zealot
or discovered that the
Annabelle
,
the Continentals, or the assassins had preceded them to Havana.
 
Then, because the northern coastline of Cuba
was visible off the forward port side, they packed up their belongings below,
changed clothing, and transferred all the emeralds into Jacques's saddlebags.

Sophie emerged
first back on deck.
 
In her shift,
jacket, and petticoat, she headed forward and shaded herself from the sun with
the parasol.
 
Arriaga met her and
unfolded a delicate black lace veil.
 
"Please, you make use of this,
senhora
."

"Oh, no, I
cannot.
 
It's much too costly, and
besides, your wife will miss it."

Conspiracy
crept into his smile.
 
"My
wife
?"
 
She glanced away, flushing.
 
The Mediterranean bred sorcerers for
charm.
 
"It is worn
thus."
 
He draped lace over her
head, down her back, and across her torso, avoiding snagging it on the
parasol.
 
Appraisal swelled in his eyes
when he finished.
 
"Sublime and
exquisite."

"Thank
you."
 
From the veil arose the
scent of cedar and a fainter, exotic essence like that from Ceylonese floral
gardens.
 
The veil most certainly hadn't
belonged to a sea captain's
wife
.

He fondled lace
near her throat, his expression sober.
 
"Spaniards have ever been too senseless to suspect lovely ladies of
espionage."

"
Espionage
?"
 
Her laugh didn't sound at all convincing.

"I know
nothing,
senhora
."
 
He
lifted her free hand to his lips and, with impeccable timing, released her,
bowed, and left ahead of Mathias's arrival.

Mathias took in
her appearance.
 
"Lovely."
 
He leaned
forward, brushed her lips with his, and paraphrased the second cipher:
"The woman in the black veil awaits you in the Church of Saint
Teresa."

She fingered
the veil.
 
"A parting gift from
Arriaga."

"Beware
the serpent."
 
His eyes twinkled,
and he stroked the veil.
 
"And do
inform me if the good captain tries to fit you with more intimate
apparel."

During the
final hour of the voyage, Cuba swelled from a smudge on the horizon into a
formidable land of mountains, jungle, rolling hills, and white beaches.
 
Sunlight sparkled on wavelets, fair-weather
cumulus dotted the azure sky, and a southeastern breeze held steady, speeding
them onward.
 
In the end, the
Gloria
Maria
sailed past fishing and merchant ships and a Spanish warship before
rounding the headland where Castillo de los Tres Reyes de Morro squatted on
guard.
 
After saluting the fort with
cannon and swivel gun, the brig slid into a channel, entrance to Bahía de la
Habana.

Off the
starboard sat Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta, guardian at the city
walls.
 
Sophie had heard that each
night, when the city gates closed, the Spaniards pulled a heavy chain up across
the channel between the two
castillos
, thus sealing the entrance to the
harbor.
 
She imagined enemy ships sunk
in crossfire between the two
castillos
.
 
The city walls, made of rock from the surrounding hills, were five feet
thick and thirty feet high and still bore scars from British cannon bombardment
in 1762.

As the brig
sailed farther into the harbor, Sophie stared in amazement, for an enormous
fortress loomed on the cliff to port less than half a mile east of Castillo de
Morro: Castillo de San Carlos de la Cabaña, built following the British
invasion during the Old French War.
 
All
the
castillos
represented Spain's most powerful defense complex in the
New World.
 
Erected to guard treasures
plundered from the Aztecs and Incas, they made the Castillo de San Marcos and
the walls of St. Augustine look like a child's model.

And how did St.
Augustine compare to Havana?
 
Sophie
peered again at the city walls, this time through masts and spars of ships
lining the harbor.
 
Even thirty feet
high, the walls couldn't block her view of bell towers from dozens of
iglesias
,
roofs of nobles'
palacios
, and a multitude of royal palm trees.
 
Havana must rival Boston and Philadelphia in
population.
 
In comparison, St.
Augustine looked like Alton.

Even from
without the city, she felt the way Havana beckoned to them with dark-lashed
eyes and lush lips, despite the meter imposed on Spaniards' lives by the
Catholic Church.
 
And she imagined that
Havana, gateway to both sanctity and sin, groaned with ghosts of enslaved
aboriginals and Negroes who had been extinguished beneath the rapacity of the
Spaniards. Fascination rippled through her at the thought of setting foot in
such a city, and she saw her own wonder reflected on the faces of David and
Mathias.
 
Jacques's expression was one
of recognition and satisfaction.

The harbor tangle
of merchant and fishing vessels diademed by screeching seagulls included three
Spanish warships in desperate need of cleaning and structural repairs, and two
French warships in better condition — but no Continental frigate.
 
Neither did the travelers spot the
Annabelle
— although they might have missed a sloop in all the congestion.
 
The
Zealot
wouldn't have risked
venturing into Havana's nautical traffic.
 
Sophie experimented with breathing easier, but instinct nagged her not
to relax.

Arriaga awaited
them when they debarked, humidity and searing sun not fazing him in the
slightest.
 
He shook hands with the
three men and dropped a wistful kiss on Sophie's hand.
 
When she folded the parasol and tried to
return it, he insisted that she keep it.

David sidled up
to her and pointed to the parasol after they walked away from the brig.
 
"Something else to remember dear old
Miguel by."

She smiled and
reopened the parasol.
 
A thoughtful
something it was, too.

Chapter Thirty-One

LOCKED IN
COMBAT over a dead fish, a cat, rat, and seagull created a flurry of activity
without equal among the humans on the wharf.
 
In Havana's heat and humidity,
mañana
was the motto for sailors;
tomorrow
I'll paint, make the repair, unload cargo.

Outside
warehouses near the city gates, whores solicited sailors.
 
Sophie's nose quivered, detecting stenches
far less savory than seawater, fish, and tar.
 
A cacophony of church bells erupted from within city walls, pealing the
noon hour.

While a
white-coated gate guard roved a sleepy glance over them, Jacques spun a
fictional account of their business.
 
Waved through the gates by the guard's yawning partner, the trio carried
their gear into a world dappled yellow-green.
 
Bougainvillea proliferated everywhere, as did almond, Poinciana, and
royal palm trees, filtering the harsh sunlight, capering it off baroque
exteriors of buildings and their stained-glass
ventrales
of blue, red,
and yellow.
 
Birds fluttered among
branches and bell towers.