Hotel Florida
Obispo Street
Havana, Cuba
10 a. m., Wednesday
26 September 1888
That morning, our second in Havana, was enlivened by two unique visitors, both of whom I had expected. It was ten o’clock when the first arrived.
Mr. Ramon Oscar Williams was a distinguished older gentleman with gentle eyes, white beard and moustache, and thinning hair. The man possessed an air of quiet confidence, along with a huge amount of responsibility. The long-time consul-general for the United States in Cuba, with authority over subordinate consulates in Matanzas and Santiago de Cuba, Williams and I had occasionally met in our official capacities over the years. All visiting or transiting naval officers were required to check in at the consulate—a formality that was usually handled by a junior consular clerk, but sometimes a middle-grade or senior officer would have the opportunity to meet the consul-general himself.
A resident of the island since childhood, Williams had an outstanding reputation as our country’s representative on the Spanish island. He was a diplomat who understood Cuba better than any other American in the State Department, and he wasn’t afraid to clash with the colonial authorities while defending American interests.
Knowing me only as another naval officer passing through, he had never been privy to my work in Cuba for ONI. Our general rule was to keep diplomats at a polite distance, for their sake of deniability as well as for our own flexibility. The two professions have divergent responsibilities and requirements, and ways of viewing a country’s assets and actions.
Although Rork had registered us with the chargé d’affairs at the U.S. consulate on our visit in ’86, Consul-General Williams wasn’t aware of our clandestine mission, the subsequent capture by Marrón and incarceration in the Audiencia, or our escape from the island. In fact, the last time I’d seen him was in ’84, when attending some excruciatingly boring reception at the consulate while passing through the island on my way north.
With concern evident on his face—I was still in bed, continuing my charade—he shook hands with me and said, “Commander Wake, good to see you again. Been years, hasn’t it? I’m very sorry I missed your fencing exhibition yesterday morning, but I was off at Cienfuegos and couldn’t make it. Very sorry for your injuries from the bomb. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, sir. It’s all pretty minor stuff, really.”
Williams paused briefly, then added, “I understand that saber match was quite the show.” He regarded my bandaged left hand. “Very heated, almost personal, according to my friends who were there. The Spanish navy’s embarrassed, to say the least.”
I could just imagine how William’ friends in the Spanish elite would’ve described it. I decided to downplay the whole thing.
“Personal, sir? No, not at all. Certainly not on my part. Just a fencing match that got rather strenuous. The cut to the hand was an accident and my own fault. Let it get in the way.”
It was clear my version didn’t impress him one bit. “Hmm. Well, I also heard that the lunatic who threw the bomb had as his target the captain-general’s young nephew. And apparently, you saved the boy’s life. I must say, you do seem to lead an exciting life, Commander. I think you’re possibly the most exciting man in Havana right now.”
I didn’t want or need that title. “Just coincidence, sir. I happened to be near the young man, so I just kicked the damned thing away from him. Nothing special, believe me.”
That smile again. One of those knowing smiles that says I know something’s going on. “Nothing special, eh? Well, I may believe you on that, Commander. But don’t expect anyone else in Havana to agree with your modesty, particularly His Excellency, Don Sabas. In fact, I believe the captain-general himself should be here at any moment now, to express his personal appreciation for your heroism and your wounds. Do you mind if I remain and watch? This will be very good for our relations with the Spanish authorities in Cuba. We haven’t had much goodwill with them lately.”
Yes, I did mind very much, for I was about to send Rork out on a courier assignment, but what could I say? Consul-generals have a lot of influence in Washington. And I didn’t need the waters stirred up any further in Havana.
“Of course not, sir. Please do stay. And the wounds are very minor cuts and a concussion. Nothing even remotely heroic.”
Minutes later there was a commotion down on the street: shouted commands, the clatter of hooves, jingling of spurs, and squealing of wheels. The Captain-General of Cuba had arrived in all of his splendor. Rork, peering out the doorway of the balcony, whistled softly in amazement and observed, “Ooh, jus’ look at ’em all bowin’ an’ scrapin’, like it was Jesus him ownself who’s pulled in. Like me fellow Gaels, actin’ the fool ta’ curry a wee bit o’ favor with the arrogant English bastards when they’d finally visit their estates in Ireland.”
Williams was clearly displeased at that comment and probably worried what Rork might say in front of the captain-general. I learned long ago to never get Rork started on the subject of the English overlords in Ireland, so I switched subjects and asked Williams, “Do you know anything about a social event that I may be obliged to attend, sir?”
“Obliged to attend? Why, Commander, you’re the guest of honor! It’s tonight at eight o’clock at the palace. Didn’t they tell you?”
“Mr. Acera mentioned something about it yesterday, sir, but I was a bit groggy, and since then I’ve received no confirmation.”
A pandemonium of noise erupted in the passageway, and the door was suddenly flung open by our “servant” guarding the room. Williams shook his head at me and grinned. “I think you’re about to receive a very personal invitation, Commander.”
Señor Acera was first through the door, announcing loudly: “Attention, everyone! His Excellency, the Captain-General of His Majesty’s Most Faithful Isle of Cuba, Don Sabas Marín Gonzalez, has arrived!”
Appointed by the king, Don Sabas Marín Gonzalez had been in charge of Cuba for fourteen months. During that time, he had struggled to subdue the growing independence movement that had endured off and on for twenty years. He also tried to deal with the general discontent of the Cuban intellectual and business classes, the emancipation and assimilation of the black slaves, the large segment of mill owners who wanted annexation to the United States, the growing paranoia of the Spanish elite, and the never-ending animosities between Spain and the American colossus to the north.
Somewhere in his mid-fifties, he was the son of a famous colonel of the Royal Artillery and had already built an impressive career since joining the army at an early age. While fighting the Cuban insurgents during the initial years of the insurrection in the late sixties, Don Sabas had been awarded the illustrious Cruz de San Fernando medal. In 1882, he was appointed as governor of the province of Santa Clara. There he distinguished himself by tackling government corruption—a rare endeavor by Spanish administrators—and by marrying Matilde León y Gregario, a native-born lady of the city of Trinidad. Matilde was the beautiful daughter of another famous Spanish soldier, Colonel Carlos de León y Navarrete, who was the colonial official in charge of the island’s postal service and roads.
As Acera deftly backed out of the way, Gonzalez, wearing a less formal uniform than he wore at the palace for the fencing exhibition, strode into the room, trailed by Doctor Cobre and a dozen staff officers. He greeted Williams warmly, nodded to Rork, and turned to me, his face radiating pleasure. I made a show of bravely trying to raise my wounded body in bed, but his hand went up quickly.
“No, no, please remain at rest in the bed. I ask you to forgive me my bad English, Commander Peter Wake. I do not wish to disturb you, but I came here in person to express in your language my thank you for your demonstration of skill and honor at the fencing match, and for your brilliant heroism . . . in defense of my . . .” He looked at Acera, who murmured something to him. “My . . . nephew . . . and his family from that fanatic who attacked us yesterday. I wish that your wounds will heal rapidly. You have the appreciation of myself and my family and the crown and people of Spain.”
With clicked heels, he then bowed to me and held out his hand. The man had a firm grip, without the arrogant show of strength some insecure European military men feel obliged to show when shaking hands with an American.
Realizing I was expected to reply to his kind words with some of my own, I glanced at Consul-General Williams for a hint of what to say. His eyes were positively alight with joy at this turn of events, his mind no doubt composing a triumphant telegraphic report to the state department in Washington. Beyond that, he uttered no comment but instead watched me like the rest of the audience in the room.
Rork, standing behind him, back in the far corner, was no help either. He wore the steady gaze of a veteran petty officer in the presence of senior officers. Then his face broke its mask and he winked at me, with a nod to go ahead.
Summoning up my Spanish, I spoke with as much flair as one can while in bed, surrounded by a be-medaled crowd of military swells staring down at you expectantly.
“Su Excelencia, fue mi gran honor que participar a la exhibicion ayer. Señor Boreau fue un advesario muy capacitado, y mi victoria fue solomente porque un momento de buen suerte. Mis acciónes con el lunatico fueran solomente instinto y mis heridas son pequeño. Gracias para la hospitalidad muy bien y las palabras muy agradable. Soy solomente un marinero del mar, no soy un héroe.”
My attempt at modesty yielded the hoped-for reaction from both Don Sabas and Williams. The captain-general beamed with happiness and spun around to face his staff, saying in Spanish, “Here is a true gentleman and officer of the highest class. Take note and remember this moment.” To Williams, he said in English, “My friend, your country has a very good man in Commander Wake. I wish that all of your compatriots were like him.”
Acera gently cleared his throat, an apparent signal to the captain-general, for that worthy now held out a hand, in which Acera promptly put a gold-embossed envelope. With another click of his heels, Don Sabas smiled and handed me the envelope, saying, “Usually this is sent by a senior messenger, but today, Commander, you will receive it by the most senior messenger in all of Cuba—me. Please accept this invitation to be the guest of honor at a small private dinner in my personal apartments at the palace, to be followed by a musical soiree with some of my closest friends in this city. I wish to show them how the military gentlemen of our two great nations can be friends and allies. Of course, this event would have been held last night, after the exhibition of yesterday morning. But the attack at the palace, and your gallant wounds, forced us to postpone it until tonight.”
His brow tightened with anxiety as he continued. “Doctor Cobre assures me that you will be able to participate in the dinner and will be able to, at the very least, watch the dancing afterward, but I have been warned not to impose too much upon you or allow you to strain yourself. Will you please make me happy and accept my invitation?”
It was exceedingly well done on his part—I got the impression he actually meant every word. I did a slight bow of my head as graciously as I could and replied, “Por supuesto, Su Excelencia. Es mi honor y placer que aceptar su invitacion. Muchas gracias.”
And so it was that Rork and I ended up in Havana as the official guests of the Spanish crown’s captain-general, and finally back on course with my original plan to complete our mission in Cuba.