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Déjà Vu

20 December 1873

San Juan, Puerto Rico

Spanish West Indies

“More sangria, señor?” asked the waiter.

Lieutenant Peter Wake, United States Navy, nodded and shifted his lanky frame back in the chair, reveling in the warm sea breeze. Seated at a stone patio table at the Café Réal, overlooking the jade-colored waters of San Juan’s bay, he savored the aromas of salt air, white frangipani flowers, and citrus-marinated grouper cooking on coals. Downing the drink in one long swig, he glanced over his shoulder, and immediately the waiter refilled the fruit wine that was enhanced by strong dark rum.

The mold-covered, faded pink buildings of the declining Spanish empire were the same on this visit, but Wake felt a new air about the place. And not just because the ominous annual huracán season was ending. No, a momentous event had occurred just months earlier—slavery had been ended forever. Wake smiled at the thought of it as he drank the sangria, slower now, for he didn’t want to get drunk.

The waiter’s dark face, leathered by time and toil, crinkled into a sly grin. “You are perhaps waiting for a beautiful lady to arrive, señor?” he asked.

Wake laughed and answered with a mock sigh. “No, Jorge. I am expecting only a man. But it would be nice if a beautiful woman were with him.” Wake waved his hand around. “And yes, Jorge, it would complete this scene as a perfect memory for my old age.”

“Sí, señor. A day like today should include a woman. And that memory,” the waiter sighed also, “would make you warm on a cold night when you are old, like me.”

“Yes, you’re right. Please tell me, Jorge, just how did your English get so good?” Wake had wondered that since the waiter first greeted him at the café.

“My original master was a British man in St. Augustine, up in Florida, señor. When the Americans bought it from Spain, he sold me to a Spanish family that was moving to San Juan. Then they sold me to this café owner’s father, who bequeathed me to his son. I was twenty years old when I left Florida all those years ago, but I never forgot my English. My master here used me as a translator with American sailors in the port.”

Wake did the mathematics and realized the man would be about seventy-three. “But now you are free,” he said.

“Yes, señor. God has allowed me to live long enough to be a free man. I still work for my master here at the café, but now I do so willingly.”

“And, of course, now they pay you for working.”

“Oh no, señor. My master has no money to pay me, but he lets me stay in my old room and still lets me eat in the kitchen.” Seeing Wake’s reaction, the waiter shrugged, paternal softness coming into his voice. “Slavery is a state of mind and heart, señor. Money does not matter—my mind and my heart are now free.”

As the waiter went back to the kitchen, Wake remembered the former slaves he had seen in Pensacola after the recent war in his country. The Republicans were trying hard to assimilate them into society as freedmen, but the problems of that lofty endeavor were far more difficult than anything a legal proclamation or the recent Constitutional amendment could overcome. Politics had a way of slowing the best of intentions and Wake wondered how much longer the effort would continue before the Democrats in Congress would grind it to a halt. In addition to all of that, corruption was widespread in the Reconstruction, with a lot of people—except the new black citizens—getting rich off the government. The thought of the whole mess depressed him. A lot of men, some of them his friends, had died in that war. Liberating the slaves was the one tangible outcome he could point to with pride.

“You are looking very pensive, my old friend.”

Wake turned around. Standing there was a slender, handsome man in his late forties, silver hair flowing over his collar. The man moved easily and could pass for a local, for he was wearing a guayabera, the Latino white shirt of the tropics that was so much more comfortable than Wake’s wool coat. His smile was accented by crinkled eyes and one eyebrow cocked high in a mien of mock concern. This was the man who had sent Wake the invitation for lunch.

Jonathan Saunders was a former Confederate blockade runner and wartime foe turned friend. Wake had chased Saunders for two long years in Florida, the Bahamas, Mexico, and Cuba—catching him twice and thinking him surely dead once, but the devious rebel always escaped. Both had developed a grudging respect for the other, and after the war, in January of 1866, Wake had conducted an official naval visit to Saunders’ colony of former Confederates on the west end of Puerto Rico. The two men finally became friends and had stayed such in the years since.

“Just thinking of the old days, Jonathan. It’s good to see you,” replied Wake. They shook hands and he beckoned Saunders to sit. “Been far too long. Now, how in the world did you know I was here? We just pulled in yesterday.”

“Whenever I come to San Juan for business I always check the harbor to see if any American naval vessels are in. If they are, I always ask for you. But lately there haven’t been any, what with the war scare and all. Then this morning I saw the Omaha, asked, and heard you were aboard. It’s been, what, two years? You were just coming home from the Panamanian jungle then.”

“Ah, yes, the Selfridge Survey Expedition. I was damn near dead from the fever when I saw you in seventy-one.”

Saunders nodded at the memory. “You did look pretty bad. I was worried about you. It’s amazing, Peter—you managed to avoid yellow fever all those years in Florida, but it nailed you good in Panama.”

“Enough of that story, Jonathan,” said Wake with a visible cringe at the memory of the pain endured while nearly dying from what the Royal Navy called the “black vomit.” It was time to change the subject. “Tell me, how’s your colony at Por Fin doing?”

“Well, the sugar cane’s doing fine. Of course, people’ll always drink rum, so we’re making it through the money panic without too much trouble,” said Saunders, referring to the economic depression caused by the failure of financier Jay Cooke’s Northern Pacific Railroad three months earlier in September. By November, the panic that devastated the United States’ banks had spread worldwide. “We didn’t use slaves anyway, so emancipation hasn’t hurt us like it did some planter folks. As far as socially, the people at Por Fin have settled in with the surrounding towns pretty well, I think. You know, the west coast is a world away from the bureaucrats here in San Juan, so we just don’t have the same problems as many of the immigrants on the island.”

“Then a toast is called for to celebrate continued success in your new life, Jonathan,” offered Wake when his friend’s drink arrived.

“Thank you, my friend—”

Saunders was interrupted by a Southern-accented feminine voice from behind Wake. “Oh my Lord, I do declare! If it isn’t my heroic savior, in the flesh and blood. Peter, my dear, how are you?”

Cynda Denaud Williams swept onto the patio and caressed Wake’s right arm as she leaned over and embraced him, her bosom, mostly exposed by her low-cut dress, only inches from his eyes.

Saunders tried not to laugh as Wake recovered from the shock of seeing the woman he had rescued from enemy territory near the end of the war. At the time he had fallen for her damsel-in-distress portrayal, even briefly starting to fall under her sexual spell until he came to his senses. She was a woman who could make men believe—and do—anything, and Wake couldn’t imagine that she had changed. Even though it had been eight years since he had last seen her in Key West she looked exactly the same—a beautiful blonde with a perfect figure and a honey-dipped voice.

“Ah, hello, Mrs. Williams,” Wake said. “It is truly quite a surprise. I knew you had gone to Por Fin but didn’t expect to see you here in San Juan.”

“Oh, Peter. We know each other far too well for such formalities.” She brushed away a lock of his brown hair and touched the scar on his right temple. “If you call me anything other than Cynda I do declare I shall cry. You don’t want to make me cry, do you, Peter?”

Saunders held up a hand. “It’s my fault, Cynda. I forgot to tell him you were here in San Juan and would be with us for lunch. Now sit down, dear, while I explain. By the way, Peter, Cynda is no longer named Williams.”

Wake wondered whom she had hooked. “Oh?”

Saunders laughed. “Yes. Her divorce came through last year and we married in October. Her last name is Saunders now.”

“Oh . . . well, Jonathan,” stammered Wake, stunned by the news and worried for his friend. “I certainly am surprised yet again. You never mentioned this the last time we met, or in your letters.”

“Yes, well,” Saunders chuckled, “we just became serious this last summer, Peter.”

“Then another toast is in order,” said Wake as the old waiter poured the lady’s wine. “To your life shared together. May it bring health, wealth, and love, and all the time to enjoy them.”

“Oh, Peter, that was so very beautiful. Thank you,” gushed Cynda, clutching both Wake’s and her new husband’s arms as she sat between them. “Now, you simply must tell us how your life has been going for the last few years. Please start with your lovely wife, Linda.”

“Linda’s doing just fine with the children in our house in Pensacola. Sean is growing up fast and learning all kinds of new things, and Useppa is having fun playing the big sister. She’s eight years old now, almost nine, and actually becoming a real help to Linda. Sean is six.”

Saunders asked, “How is little Useppa’s leg doing? Were the doctors able to help her?”

It was a subject that broke Wake’s heart. His little princess had pain in her lower right leg, making her limp and also causing some of the other children to make fun of her.

“We’ve had her to several doctors, but they can’t determine what’s wrong, much less how to correct it. One suggested a heavy brace, but the others said that would make it worse. Linda and I are really worried for her.”

Cynda squeezed his arm with obvious empathy. “Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Cynda. The good news is that Useppa’s young and strong. So there’s still a lot of time for her to get help. Say, how’s your little sister Mary Alice doing?”

“She married a man named Pickett, of the famous family, and lives in Virginia. You heard about those scamps, the Yard Dogs?”

Three former soldiers who had formed a minstrel troupe in Key West, the Yard Dogs had been friends of Wake during the war. They had been playing during the infamous tavern brawl of 1864, which was inadvertently started by Wake while defending the honor of his squadron. He escaped, seriously hurt, and was nursed overnight by a prostitute—he couldn’t remember her name—but the Yard Dogs had ended up in the Key West jail. It was a fact they later used to get rum out of him. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see them in Key West when I was there lately. What’s happened?”

“Run out of Key West for a while by the Monroe County sheriff.” Cynda shook her head. “Those boys got into one bar fight too many at Schooner’s Wharf. Now they’re reduced to playing at fish camps along the Gulf coast. More their style, if you ask me.”

Wake laughed. “Kip was always a good one at rousing the crowd, no doubt on it. Of course, Charlie and Brian were no slouches either. They’ll be back once the sheriff calms down.”

“So how’s the naval career going?” interrupted Saunders. He was an old seaman and always interested in naval matters. “I hear the American navy’s going downhill fast. Is that true?”

“The navy? Well, it’s surely not what it was during the war, or even doing well compared to the Latin American navies now.”

Saunders sighed. “Peter, I’ve got to let you know that the Spanish leadership around here is joking about the American navy. They’re upset that Madrid backed down last month and are saying the yanquis don’t have the strength anymore to push them around. Heard some ugly stuff coming from them. Guess they thought I’d be sympathetic, so they were very candid.”

“Well, they’re right about our fleet,” Wake admitted. “But you know, that mess in Cuba at Santiago last month where the Spanish government shot our merchant seamen got the attention of some of the leadership in Congress when they found out how ill prepared we are. The president sent Admiral Porter down to Key West for a while, gathering up ships from the Med and the local squadron for a battle fleet, but fortunately the Spanish did back down.

“I was with the fleet at Key West and I admit I was scared when I saw what we had to work with, Jonathan, but I really think we would’ve won in the end. I’m just damned glad we didn’t have to try. The sailors didn’t want a war—it was the politicians. Nobody’s gloating though because it was a damned close-run thing. Hell, this is the first official visit to San Juan since it all got defused. But everybody here’s been nice so far.”

“They’re trying to smooth it over, but I’m telling you—be careful with ’em,” Saunders said. “So, will Congress make you stronger now?”

“Word is that Washington’s going to fund some new ships for us, but that’ll take years.” Wake shook his head. “Congress screams for us to do something to protect Americans around the world but hasn’t funded us even the fuel budget we need. Been that way since sixty-seven. Maybe it’ll change now. Time will tell.”

Saunders leaned forward. “What about you? Any word on promotion?”

“Been a regularly commissioned lieutenant now for eight years, but it’s hard to tell, Jonathan. I’m executive officer of Omaha and think that at the end of this ship assignment, in June next year, I may have a chance at promotion and/or command.”

“So how’s Omaha? What’s she doing? Any chance for glory?” Saunders asked.

“She’s assigned to the West Indies and a pretty good sailor. Her engine’s in good shape, but of course we’re prohibited from using it except for entering and leaving harbor. She’s got coal bunkers for only about a hundred fifty tons, which limits her anyway. We’ve been busy at the Spanish islands since September, so now we’ll sail around the other islands, show the flag, help the diplomats and merchants, keep the peace, that sort of thing. Glory part’s over now. Just routine patrol.”

“How about Sean Rork, that wild Irish bosun of yours?”

Wake laughed. “Ah, old Sean! Last I knew, he’s still aboard Alaska. They were here for a while during the war scare, but are in New York for repairs right now. Saw him in October. He told me he damn near didn’t survive the sinking of Oneida at Yokohama when that Brit steamer ran her down and fled the scene a couple of years ago. Wrote that he used up every one of his Gaelic oaths, but still lived through it. Floated on a plank and got picked up later.”

“And the old gunner’s mate? I forgot his name.”

“Durling. He’s ashore at Newport at the new torpedo station there. They took some of the gunners and made them specialize in the new torpedoes they’re working on, figuring that they already knew more about explosives than anyone else. But I hear he’s not happy—misses his beloved guns!”

“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt all this talk of guns and death, but why don’t we order lunch and talk of something more tranquil?” said Cynda. “It’s far too pretty a day to talk about the navy.”

Exactly what Linda would’ve said, thought Wake. Linda had gotten to the point where she despised the navy and its cloud on their marriage, causing an unspoken rift to grow between them. He put that out of his mind and smiled. “I bow to your wisdom, ma’am. Let us talk of the future and of peaceful things, Jonathan.”

“Quite right, Peter,” agreed Saunders. “The war is over. Thank God. Let’s talk about making money from rum!”

“I do believe I’ll drink to that!” said Wake. He downed the sangria and signaled for more.