Dungeon of the Audiencia
Havana, Cuba
12:32 p.m., Saturday
29 September 1888
Twenty feet in, the burrow became horizontally serpentine and vertically undulating, the meandering evidently caused by natural water erosion between more solid rock formations. To continue my navigation, I tried to estimate distance and course but quickly lost my sense of direction.
Behind Folger, I could hear grunting from my men as they dragged the swaddled Cubans, who had gone quiet, not even groaning. I waited for the shotgun blast that would signal Rork’s last ditch defense, but it didn’t come. Had he gotten them all inside before the Spanish got there? Would the Spanish know to check that opening? Or would they continue along the main passage, wherever that led?
The only positive factor—and the one thing to which I attached all my hope—was that I still felt the air moving. Could it really be getting stronger, or was desperation altering my senses?
My hand touched something long and slimy that slithered quickly away to my rear. For a moment I panicked, cutting my knees open in a struggle to get away from it. I willed myself to calm down, put one hand in front of the other, and keep crawling.
The burrow was getting narrower and the climb steeper, until I estimated it at almost forty-five degrees. My forehead was bleeding from a collision with the rock, the blood running into my eyes, warm and thick, then into my mouth, tasting sweet and metallic. I wiped it away with a grimy hand as I climbed up the slime. The thought of infection for my gashed left hand entered my mind.
“Folger, how’re you doing back there?” I asked, hungry for human sound, a connection.
“I hate this,” came the young voice back. I could hear the struggle in his tone to stay composed.
No morale-building, “hurrah” speeches from me. Not now. We were well past that stage. He deserved the truth.
“Yeah. So do I, son.”
What seemed an hour later—but was most likely only five minutes—I sensed something different about our surroundings. Pots’ lamp had gone out by then, but my awareness had grown more acute in the pitch-black darkness. The burrow was getting flatter and wider, and more air was moving. Another fifteen feet on, I discovered why when I fell out into a large passageway, landing painfully on my hands and knees, especially that damned left hand and arm. Instinctively, I swore an oath that would impress even Rork, irate at myself for failing to bring a decent lantern and for getting hurt yet again.
Folger had one match remaining and lit it when he emerged from the burrow. It briefly illuminated a regular walking tunnel, a respite for our cramped muscles and bleeding skin. The question then became, Which way to go?
I examined the flame of the match before it died out. No luck there. It went straight up without a flicker. The others started to arrive, shoving the Cubans out of the hole and into our arms. Laying them down and unwrapping them, Folger and I tried to get them to stand. Four, including Casas, were able to, but one didn’t. I got on the floor and felt around his neck for a pulse. Nothing. Such a sad end. The man, name unknown, had died silently before he’d been able to see the sun again, incongruously bound in a monk’s cassock and shoved along like cargo by foreigners. We removed the body from the cassock and put it back in the hole.
Mena suddenly said, “Quiet! I hear somebody.”
Then we all heard it—Spanish voices. They were searching this tunnel too. I’d been wondering which way to go. That settled it. I started off walking away from the voices, hands out in front of me in the blackness, feeling along the wall. I prayed there was no hole or pit ahead to fall into.
The Cubans began crying out in pain again, every movement agonizing, utterly unable to keep up the pace. I called a halt. It would be faster to just pick them up and carry their slight frames.
“We carry the Cubans. I’ll take Casas. I want Rork in front with me and unencumbered.”
Mena, Folger, and Pots each picked up a Cuban. Casas was like a child in my arms—he might have weighed eighty pounds. But he was still almost too much for my aching arms and back. None of us were gentle with them. We just weren’t strong enough.
Pots wasn’t doing well. He put down his Cuban and wheezed, “Need a rest. How much farther, do you reckon?”
“Not much farther, so pick him up and keep going, Leonard.”
“I don’t think I can carry him anymore.”
Rork’s voice was ominous in the void. “Just stop yer bloody bellyachin’ an’ do it, Pots. Them bastards’re getting’ closer an’ I don’t fancy endin’ up back there where these poor buggers were.”
Grunting and cursing, Pots picked his man up again.
I said, “When we get to a doorway, Rork and I will lead the way through it and force our way out of here. Follow us.”
We rounded another bend and saw the faintest loom of light, a barely perceptible leaden shade of black, far ahead.
“I feel the air moving,” said Folger. “There’s air moving against us.”
The sea breeze, I wondered, somehow funneled down into the tunnels?
Now I could see better, and yes, there was definitely gray murk ahead, as opposed to the black void we’d been in. At the same time I heard an odd voice up ahead, the tone modulating up and down, like music. No, it wasn’t words, it was a sound, like a flute. The Spanish were up there, knowing we were coming and waiting for us. Taunting us?
In the weak glimmer of light, Rork and I exchanged glances. This would be it. We would emerge from the tunnels but not meekly. A little farther, I’d put down Casas, then we’d charge out of the tunnel and blast whoever and whatever was waiting for us.
I heard the sounds again and whispered to the others, “Silence!”
Another curve to the right was coming up. The light was strong now, and I saw a shadow move across the left wall. Holding up my hand for the column to halt, I put Casas down, unslung the Spencer, and took in a deep breath.
“Ready, Rork?”
His grin showed white against the dark background.
“Aye, sir. As ready fer it as a Dublin tart on Friday night!”
God bless him! My friend looked so ridiculous saying something like that in his monk’s cassock that I couldn’t help but laugh.
To the rest, I said, “This is it. Rork and I go first. Cubans will have to walk. You all have pistols now, so remember that ahead of us every man is a target. Don’t waste ammunition. Each target gets one shot. Follow me!”
There was nothing more to say. Rork and I started running, I in front with Spencer leveled and ready to explode lead into the first man I saw.
We made it around the curve and saw the doorway forty feet ahead. A figure stood in it, silhouetted black against the white glare of sunlight. I couldn’t tell if he was facing toward or away from us. I raised the barrel and held the butt to my shoulder, slowing to a fast, steady march as the figure turned.
I heard the odd sound again, now recognizing that it was whistling. The man was whistling a tune that didn’t sound Spanish. It was familiar but I couldn’t quite place it.
No matter—he was in our way and going to die. I focused on the target, eliminating everything else from my mind except the center of that form in the light at the end of the tunnel. The man didn’t move. His mistake. I felt my right index finger beginning to press the trigger.
“No!” shouted Rork, reaching out for my weapon.