Palace of His Excellency
Don Sabas Marin y Gonzalez
Captain-General of Cuba
Plaza de Armas, Havana
10 a.m., Tuesday
25 September 1888
The palace of the Captain-General of Cuba is more than three hundred years old and commands the Plaza de Armas, the government square close by the entrance channel to Havana Bay. Around this plaza stand equally ancient edifices, most of which are occupied in the civil and military administration of the island. The porous coral stone of the palace, faded to a dirty tan or gray, makes it look even older, reminding me of Roman antiquities—moldy, crumbling, evoking past glories and better days long gone by.
The palace is magnificently colonnaded with massive stone pillars across its entire front. Behind the pillars is a high portico, where visitors disembark from vehicles before a small entryway in the center of the palace’s eastern wall. That very morning, a line of fancy lacquered and gilded carriages took the American naval officers from the boat landing to the portico, where we disembarked and were greeted by a great falderal of trumpets, drums, stamped feet, and shouted commands.
The Spanish are the very best in the world at presenting a gracious welcome. In this case, it was accomplished by a platoon of Spanish soldiers on guard duty. Fabulously attired in sixteenth-century uniforms of red and gold blouses and pantaloons, with shining brass breastplates and peaked helmets, they stood like statues in the sweltering, humid air. In addition to their tropically inappropriate uniforms, the soldiers carried heavy broadswords and pikes, the weapons apparently as old as the building. Their formation and drill in our honor were impeccable.
The interior of the building is typical of Spanish palaces—a magnificent courtyard, or garden patio, with elaborately decorated balconies overlooking it from two floors. The center of the garden featured a gleaming white, alabaster statue of Christopher Columbus, backed by graceful palms and a panorama of meticulously tended tropical flowers in every color imaginable. Fountains provided the cooling sound of falling water as peacocks and blue herons strolled among the garden, like beautiful moving pieces of art. Frangipani and jasmine scented the motionless, damp air, and from somewhere on the upper floor came the faint echoes of a gentle guitar melody. I recognized it as classical Andalusian, the Moorish laments coming through clearly.
The whole thing was a fairy-tale scene of graceful, imperial beauty. “A forlorn fantasy of benign feudalism on a global scale, and an obscene justification for slavery,” as one Cuban, dark-skinned friend explained his Spanish overlords’ attitude to me. “After all, they needed slaves to build their pretty palaces.”
I must admit, the Spanish had certainly done it up right that morning. The demonstration of martial skills was to be carried out on a regulation fencing piste, the French word meaning “path.” The piste delineates a seven-meter-long-by-one-meter-wide rectangular strip, within which adversaries must remain. The opponents initially face each other from two meters on either side of the center line, which runs athwart the piste.
If a man retreats along his half of the piste as far back as the one-meter-long warning box near the end, it constitutes a serious setback. If he retreats through the warning box to the final one meter at the end of the piste, it is a sign of cowardice. The entire piste that morning was constructed of wide planks of heavy mahogany, elevated by its thickness to perhaps three inches above the stone floor of the patio.
There were three members of the jury, or judges, to administer the match. Two members of the jury took their places close around the piste, beside and slightly behind their fencer, in order to see the results of the attacks and defenses. The president of the jury took his position in front of the center of the piste. His subordinates would report their observations to him. His decision on whether a point should be awarded would be final.
The staff lieutenant indicated that my foe and I should take our positions. Both of us wore black jackets padded with several layers of tightly woven, heavy material. The right sleeve was padded out to the wrist. A thick, white gauntlet glove protected the right hand. The left arm and hand, usually held behind the fencer, were unprotected. Under the jacket, I wore standard-issue working-dress trousers and a shirt. A leather helmet with meshed metal mask was held under my left armpit, the saber in my right hand, pointing downward.
We stood there, facing each other, but had yet to be formally introduced to the audience. The lieutenant now took care of that detail, doing so first in Spanish. Then he repeated it in English.
“Your Excellency, Don Sabas Marin y Gonzalez, Captain-General of His Majesty’s Most Faithful Isle of Cuba. Your Excellencies, the distinguished Admiral of the West Indies, the Lieutenant-General of all Armies of the Spanish Americas, your Eminence the Archbishop of our Most Catholic Church of Cuba, the Rear Admiral of the North Atlantic Squadron of the U.S. Navy, and our other distinguished guests, fellow officers, and visitors from the United States. I have the distinct honor to introduce our combatants this morning.”
His hand swept around toward me. “Representing the navy of the United States, we have Commander Peter Wake, a veteran of twenty-five years of service, and recipient of the Legion of Honor of France, the Lion of the Atlas of Morocco, the Order of the Sun of Peru, and the Royal Order of Cambodia. Commander Wake is a staff officer, currently assigned as the officer in charge of procedural protocol for the admiral aboard the warship Richmond, flagship of the North Atlantic Squadron.”
Polite applause fluttered.
“And now, representing the honor of the magnificent navy of His Most Catholic Majesty, Alfonso León Fernando Maria Jaime Isidro Pascual Antonio de Borbón y Austria-Lorena, King of Spain and all her dominions across the Ocean Seas, we have Lieutenant Commander Julio Cesar Boreau y Morales, a veteran of fourteen years of service to His Majesty, and the recipient of the Cross of the Order of Military Merit, Second Class. Lieutenant Commander Boreau is currently assigned to the cruiser Reina Regente, the newest of our mighty fleet, as the senior gunnery officer, a position of great martial ardor and responsibility. He also has the considerable merit of being the eighteen-eighty-seven foil fencing champion for both the Mediterranean Squadron and the West Indies Squadron!”
Cheers and thunderous applause reverberated in the patio. Surrounded by faces distinctly unsympathetic toward me, I was beginning to understand what the animal feels at a bullfight or what Christians felt at the Roman Coliseum. I caught sight of Marrón, standing there, arms folded, calmly taking it all in from his perch on the corner staircase. His revenge seemed about to be realized.
At this juncture in the narrative, I would think the reader has grown suspicious of the true nature of my work and exactly why I came to be aboard Richmond in Havana in September of 1888. Well, nothing is ever as it first appears in Havana.
Not even me.