Café del Mar
Plaza de Luz
Havana, Cuba
2:12 p.m., Friday
28 September 1888
It was a pleasant afternoon for late September, the first we’d had since I’d arrived in Havana on Tuesday. A fresh sea breeze from the north was the instigator of this climatic change. It funneled through the entrance channel to the harbor, between the moldering buildings of the old quarter on the western side and the scrub-covered hills and faded walls of the Morro and Cabañas fortresses sprawled across the other. Flying ramrod straight from half a dozen tall masts, Spain’s crimson and gold flags proclaimed the dignity, if no longer the might, of the empire’s dwindling place in the world.
As we relaxed in the shade of the café overlooking Havana’s harbor, I could see that Consul-General Williams was in an equally good state of mind. From what I could tell from his brief conversation with my new acquaintance, Lafleur, who sat opposite me, the chief diplomat’s day so far had been uniquely positive. His trip the previous day to the sugar mill called Soledad, owned by Bostonian Edwin Atkins, and thence to Santa Clara had been successful. The track had been repaired, and the train had returned him to Havana early that morning.
One of the major concerns of Williams’ position was to look after the considerable New York and New England investment in the Cuban sugar industry. I’d always found it sadly hypocritical that the same Northern men who decried slavery in the South made enormous money from its labor in the Cuban plantations for twenty years after our Civil War, until it was finally ended in 1886. It was more than a monetary investment, however, on the part of the American sugar barons. No fewer than two hundred engineers and managers from New England lived in Cuba, overseeing operations in the mills belonging to the newly formed U.S. Sugar Trust. Their boss, Henry Havermeyer, had serious political influence in the state department. The profits were enormous and reached everywhere; it was money from brokering sugar to Americans that had funded wayward Rogelio’s gambling lifestyle. That money also lobbied for a reduction of tariffs against the importation of Cuban sugar.
Lafleur was delighted to report to his superior that the latest communiqué from Washington contained—wonder of wonders—an approval of some of his ideas on American-Cuban trade, including lowering those tariffs. Williams smiled contentedly but admitted it was Congress that would have the final say on that policy.
Ever the busy aide, Lafleur, having received his directions for the rest of the day, offered a polite hasta luego to us and rose to go about his duties, getting things done from behind the scenes. Interestingly, there were no muted riddles, no nonchalant signals, no winks or nods toward me from the Huguenot Freemason, just the usual courtesy to one more naval officer in transit. Yes, I decided, Lafleur played his game very well, which indicated he had been doing it for a while.
I returned my concentration to the consul-general, who had my respect. I solicited and received his views on the various aspects of the political situation in Cuba. Williams dismissed the anarchists as rabble. He felt Cuban-American relations were exacerbated by American tariffs and Spanish taxes. The future of Cuba he foresaw was unsettled. Violently unsettled.
I asked, “Sir, of the four possible outcomes—continuing the crown colony status under Spain; autonomy for the island but remaining a part of Spain; becoming part of the United States; or full independence—which has the most adherents on the island?”
“Hard to tell, Commander. Many in the U.S. think the whole island is seething for full independence, but that isn’t true. There are a number of Spanish-born peninsulares, Loyalists to the crown who want to retain the status quo. Most are in the sugar areas and are very well organized. They consist of the merchant and planter classes and a lot of the old slaveholders, who are afraid of Cuba’s turning into a disaster like Haiti upon independence from Spain. Thirty thousand of the Loyalists formed special volunteer regiments in the eighteen-seventies and did some ruthless but effective work in combating the independence rebels. They don’t have a numerical majority, but they do have political and military muscle. They hate the rebel insurgents far more than the average conscript soldier sent here from Spain.”
“And the Autonomists?”
“Probably more numerous than the Loyalists, but without the same clout. The pro-American faction, the Annexationists, is relatively small and mainly businessmen centered in Havana and Matanzas.”
Those concise summaries echoed what I knew of the situation. I inquired about those Cubans who’d fought for twenty years already with some success but without real victory. “So what’s your opinion of the pro-independence revolutionaries’ chances, sir? They seem to be sputtering along but not making any decisive progress.”
“The idea of independence will not disappear, Commander, and it has spread across color and class lines. It’s no longer an Oriente-based movement—it’s everywhere on the island. And yes, I agree with most that they are sputtering now, but I think that someday the Cuban independence patriots will win. They have but to consolidate under one leader, one organization. The primary question is not if Cuba becomes independent, but when? The secondary question will then be how the United States treats the winners.”
“And how should we, sir?”
“If the Cuban people vote for annexation, then so be it, let them in—it’s simply a small extension of our continental borders. But I think they won’t, so treat them as an independent nation but a favored friend. Lower the barriers. Keep our trade ties close, as we do with Canada.”
“And what is your opinion of Captain-General González, sir?”
“The man is a relatively honest and decent administrator and an honorable man. He has to walk carefully among the various factions here, particularly the Loyalists, who some people consider vigilantes. I don’t envy his position, Commander.”
“Hmm. An unstable situation, indeed. Is he in complete control of the colonial government and its armed forces?”
Williams’ eyes narrowed for a moment—I’d asked a question few did—then tented his hands in a pensive posture before answering carefully. “Most of it but probably not all. Some of the army and police commanders are known to be . . .” he paused, regarding me closely, knowing what he said would be repeated to my superiors in Washington. “. . . zealots . . . when it comes to dealing with those Cubans who favor independence. Most of those commanders are members of Cánovas’ conservative movement in Spain, and many have ties to Rear Admiral Beranger of the Spanish navy, neither of whom has any love for those they consider weak for tolerating Cuban dissent.”
“I’ve heard of a man named Marrón who might fall into that category, sir. You know him?”
“Met him but don’t know him well. Secret police official who stays out of the public scene. How do you know him?”
“I don’t, sir. Just heard he was important. I wonder if he’s one of the colonial government’s vigilante types.”
“I do believe he is, Commander. But few foreign people know about him.”
Williams was openly staring at me by this point, so I changed the subject.
“Say, have you heard of a man named Martí, a Cuban writer up in New York?”
“The newspaperman and poet who got exiled from Cuba at sixteen? Yes. He’s a young philosopher who writes about his hopes for Cuba’s independent destiny. Widely read in Latin America. Also does some consular work in New York for some of the South American countries.”
“A thorn in the Spanish side?”
“Not at this time, but I keep hearing about him and think he might be the one to unify the Cubans in New York. Maybe elsewhere. And how do you know of that young man?”
“Heard someone speak of him while in New York awhile back.”
I maintained the attitude of a naval officer listening to a diplomatic superior but could see my queries had ignited some curiosity. Williams, being a skilled veteran of the art of the tête-à-tête, gradually steered the course of our conversation until it centered upon my visit and the subsequent public events.
My opinion of the city, of the culture, of the Spanish navy, and of the Cuban people were all asked and answered in a positive light. Adroitly maneuvering the inquiries closer to his objective, he asked about my work as staff protocol officer for Admiral Luce’s squadron and the professional assignments of my career.
Well, that was getting into dangerous waters—after all, the man knew far more about protocol than I did—so I recited my customary boring explanation of staff work at naval headquarters in Washington. Experience has taught me that if you provide a monotone depiction of writing paperwork, bookkeeping, and analyzing reports in a windowless back room, within seconds your questioner’s eyes will begin to glaze over in abject tedium or sometimes dulled pity. In my meager defense, I will say it’s not total perjury, since there are times when I have to do those things, but thankfully it’s not my main function or I would end up at the District of Columbia’s asylum for the insane. My ploy did the trick, however, and in what seemed desperation to stay awake, Williams changed tack.
“No, sir,” I replied to his inquiry of whether I would stay until October tenth, the twentieth anniversary of the declaration of independence by the Cuban revolutionists. “I would imagine the Spanish will have their hands more than full on that day and agree it would make an interesting show to be around for, but I’ll be leaving aboard the Sunday steamer for the States. I’ll disembark at Charleston, then book separate passage to Panama, where I can meet up with Admiral Luce and the squadron. Got to get back to my work.”
“And until Sunday?”
“As you know from our dinner the other night, I’ll watch the Saint Michael feast day procession and attend the cathedral Mass tomorrow. In the afternoon, I’m visiting the south coast by train.”
“Really? Where?”
“The parks at Batabanó, then dinner at a famous restaurant—I can’t remember the name right now—and perhaps return that evening, or maybe spend the night and return the next morning in time to catch the steamer in the mid-afternoon.” I paused just long enough to make it significant, and added, “This afternoon I’m touring the sights of the city with a certain lovely lady.”
“Ah, yes. Doña Belleza, I believe. A woman of beauty and intellect and a recent addition to the social circles of Havana. I understand her husband died a few years ago. Was a peninsulare sugar planter from somewhere out in the Oriente province, at the eastern end of the island. Word is out that you two have been seen talking closely and sharing no little amount of gaiety. The perception is the two of you are quite an item.”
“Really, sir? Me?” I replied innocently. “We’ve only met at a couple of social functions.”
“Havana is a nest of intrigue, Commander. Society vipers’ gossip has long been elevated to the level of predatory slander here. Lafleur, who, it seems, has spies in every boudoir and salon of the city, tells me the matrons of Havana have been cackling about your behavior since your arrival. Half of them are proud of Belleza for ensnaring you, and the other half are jealous. My wife appears to be one of the latter. All of them expect a detailed report from Belleza about you—the mild-mannered yanqui who became a tiger and vanquished his foe in combat, only to save the life of a potential future duke of Spain an hour later. Do you know what some of Havana’s more romantically inclined females call you?”
“No, sir. Had no idea anyone was saying anything about me.”
“El Conquistador Suave. The Suave Conqueror. I presume I don’t have to explain the nature of the impending conquest to which they refer. Rather an unusual nom de combat for an American naval staff officer visiting a foreign country, don’t you think, Commander? Especially a place as tense as this . . .”
El Conquistador Suave, eh? Well, that was a bit more than I’d set out for, but, still, it was essentially what I wanted: gossip spreading about Belleza and me, clever observations and sage opinions that I had fallen under her spell—or she under mine—with mutual infatuation. If it had reached Williams, it was all over town. Excellent. Let them spread the word that I was an idiot in love or in lust. Just another gringo fool, with no time for anything else than Doña Belleza, the beautiful, lonely widow.
What did Marrón think when he heard it, I wondered? Whether Belleza was in his employ or not, if he believed I was preoccupied by her, he might underestimate me, thereby lowering his guard a little. My fictitious obsession with Belleza was one more tiny chink in his armor. The chinks would add up eventually. And with a bit of luck, Marrón’s misunderstanding of the situation would be just enough for me, the matador, to sidestep him, the charging bull, and accomplish what I’d come to do. To be sure, it was a convoluted route to that goal, but those are often the pathways of my work.
Espionage is a poker match in which both sides use disinformation, decoys, feints, and false appearances. In this contest, relative overt strength means little in the end. Intimate knowledge of your enemy’s psyche means everything, enabling you to turn his own strengths against him. The strategies employed include making the opponent spread out his resources, inducing him to lower his estimate of your abilities, leading him in false directions, frustrating his morale with failure after failure, and disrupting his communications, all of which discredits his authority. In the end, if you have done these things cleverly enough so he doesn’t realize he’s being duped, the enemy will inevitably make that one crucial mistake in judgment, allowing you the victory, though your nominal strength is far less than his.
Having informed me of my new nickname, my lunch companion sat there regarding me with lips pressed and eyes hardened. I was getting the very distinct impression that the U.S. consul-general for Cuba was not amused by all this tittle-tattle about my being a conquistador, quiet or not. No, Williams’ apparently lighthearted narration had a sharp edge to it, a very nicely veiled warning that I had better straighten up my image.
It was time to continue my performance as the staffer suddenly in an unwanted spotlight, one who hastens to retreat before a superior’s displeasure. “Conquistador? Not sure I follow that. I have done nothing improper, no matter what the gossipmongers say. Why . . . well, I’m just flabbergasted by this,” I stuttered in ostensible embarrassment, before blurting out my ultimate defense, “Sir, I’m a Methodist!”
Williams sipped his coffee and slowly lifted his patrician head to look at me. He was a man who had seen and heard it all over the years—including a lot of denials from Anglo gentlemen tourists who had immensely enjoyed discovering the delights of the ladies of Spain, then were caught with the consequences. He removed the gloves in his next comment.
“Yes, of course, you are, Commander Wake. However, a man with your length of naval experience can see how these things can get out of hand. You are more than a naval officer and gentleman here. You are the most visible, uniformed representative of the United States of America in Havana today. The protocol officer of your squadron. Your reputation is synonymous with our country’s reputation. And it is being sullied.”
Timing on these things can be delicate, but I judged it the right moment to get upset. I huffed and pursed my lips, glaring at him. “What exactly are you saying, sir? That I am sullying America’s reputation?”
William’s tone leveled. “Yes, I am, Commander. And yes, you are. And I want you to stop this flirting and drooling immediately. Good Lord, a man of your age acting like this? You are making a fool of yourself, carrying on with this woman like some young ensign. And you’re making my life and job far more difficult, because some of these local gentlemen are jealous of your attentions to one of their women. It’s not easy dealing with the Spanish authorities, who distrust our every statement and action and think us crass barbarians. Your behavior is undermining all the goodwill we gained by your gallantry at the palace on Tuesday.”
Drooling? Where did he hear that? The rumor mill must have been in high gear, manufacturing what it wasn’t given, like some cheap French novelist. God knows what would have been said if I had actually done something in public with Belleza.
Very well, now would come my surrender, the chastised sailor repenting. “Well, I suppose I did get a bit carried away by it all. It’s just that she’s beautiful and charming, so very different from our American ladies, and I want to spend time in her company. Thank you for the cautionary advice, sir. It is well taken,” I said as contritely as I could muster.
The consul-general exhaled a visible sigh of relief. Another of his problems solved. National dignity and diplomatic equilibrium had been restored in Havana. Levity returned to the table as he raised his coffee cup.
“Commander, I’m glad that is behind us. I knew a word to the wise would be sufficient. Now, I propose a toast. To our country and our navy.”
Thus, I deceived both the Spanish captain-general and the American consul-general, leaving them blissfully ignorant in their impression that Peter Wake was not doing anything he shouldn’t while in Havana.