Catedral de San Cristofo
Havana, Cuba
1:45 p.m., Saturday
29 September 1888
I’d had an alternative plan in case the expected boat didn’t materialize. Wearing monks’ cassocks or usual civilian clothes, we would blend in with the crowds and make our way to the ferry dock at Plaza del Luz, ride the ferry across the bay to Regla, then board a train heading east. But that option was negated by our present ludicrous attire, for there was no way we could blend in anywhere in Havana dressed like outrageous jesters.
While I fumbled my six reserve rounds into my revolver, Rork opened a heavy wooden door in the south wall and departed to scout out a route of egress. He returned seconds later and reported a squad of regular soldiers jumping over and around pews in the main sanctuary, heading for the sacristy at the north end of the cathedral, the general area of our small room. Marco said he’d seen more coming from the military headquarters next door when he’d entered the back door. Pots asked where we should run. Mena suggested we just run anywhere, and do it fast.
I grabbed Casas, slung him over my shoulder, and led the way out of our room and through another. That place had a similar door, which opened into another, far more ornate space, with the opposite walls composed of delicately carved balustrades from floor to a height of twenty feet, allowing the occupants to see and share in the services yet be segregated from the public in the main sanctuary. It was, ironically, the private chapel of the Captain-General of Cuba. His coat of arms was emblazoned on a plaque.
Fortunately, an exceedingly embarrassing and perilous confrontation was avoided, for my “friend” Don Sabas and his wife had already departed the cathedral, his rank allowing them to exit before everyone else after the Mass. Thus, we had no impediments to our flight into the western side of the huge sanctuary space, which was empty of people except for the soldiers searching for us. But they were on the other side, heading the other way. Mena scooped up a Cuban—I still didn’t know the other survivors’ names—as did Rork. Pots suddenly became a new man and helped poor Folger along, the lad in great pain from his arm wound but refusing to drop his goodie box.
Our departure wasn’t fast enough, however, to evade attention of that posse of soldiers, who had now reached the area of the altar at the north end of the sanctuary. They spotted our escape and reversed course, firing several rounds. The reports of their rifles were magnified by the acoustics of the place, making it seem as if a regiment had volleyed. Providentially, that must have startled them and they missed their marks, but it did have the effect of spurring us to even greater velocity. With a thought for cementing the false-flag scenario and for sowing further confusion, I took the opportunity to shout out, “Viva los anarquistas! Abajo con el Rey!”
Meanwhile, level-headed as ever, Rork took more definitive action and used Marrón’s pistol to fire a few shots back at our pursuers. That dampened their enthusiasm for the chase and gave us a bit of a lead as I ran full speed ahead for seventy-five feet and found myself near a set of huge oak and mahogany doors in the west wall, which were mercifully still open. There being no time to deliberate what should come next, I relied upon instinct and exited the cathedral, tacking immediately to starboard outside and away from the plaza to the south, where there would be a mass of people. Heading north on San Ignacio Street, my troupe of green-clad, bloodied circus entertainers followed right behind me.
I soon recognized my mistake. We were heading straight into the arms of an infantry battalion massing near the circus to retake the cathedral from whatever villains had caused all this carnage in a house of God. Back to our south, I saw frightened bystanders peeking around the cathedral’s southwest corner. Presumably, they were telling others behind them, out of my view in the plaza, our location.
Not good. Out of geographic options, I turned west onto nearby Tejadillo Street, which runs perpendicular to San Ignacio. A hundred feet or so on the left I spotted a narrow door set into the wall of a building. It was the sort of nondescript door that opens onto an alley behind it. I pushed it open and, sure enough, found a narrow side alley, no wider than six feet and cluttered with debris, heading to the south, parallel to San Ignacio Street.
Everyone’s chest was heaving as we made our way through the alley to, as our luck would have it, a dead end. The pitiable Cubans were reaching the limit of their stamina, even being carried as they were. Everyone else, even Rork, was not doing much better. Pots’ fleeting burst of energy had entirely vanished and he knelt down, muttering his unvarnished opinion of Cuba as he retched in the gutter and clutched his chest.
Rork laid his Cuban down and returned to the alley’s entrance door, shotgun ready, as I tried to remember where exactly we were and how to get away. Boots, hundreds of them, could be heard charging south down San Ignacio Street. Rork called down the alley from the doorway, “There’s a full company of ’em turnin’ into this street!”—meaning Tejadillo.
I quickly appraised our surroundings. There were but a few doors available. I started pulling on knobs. The first two were locked. Mena and Folger started checking, finding none unlocked. I surveyed the walls. The buildings were two and three stories high, without external moldings to climb up. The sound of the soldiers’ boots was thunderous now, reverberating off the cathedral and surrounding buildings.
Rork trotted back to us and reported that the soldiers were about to reach the alley door at any second. My people’s frightened eyes were locked on me, waiting for my decision, but damned if I hadn’t run completely out of ideas.
That was when I heard . . . whistling? Yes, it was the same tune, Dixie, coming from the doorway at the end of the alley, the one I’d just found locked.
Then I heard the voice that went with the tune.
“Well, I see you found it, Commander. Glad to be of help yet again for my brother’s friend. Welcome to number thirty Empedrado Street. Smart to come by way of the alley instead of the front. There’s a bunch of folks out there that’re pretty displeased. Y’all have stirred up quite a storm ’round here.”
Jacques Lafleur held open the door and said, “Y’all want an engraved invitation? Get on in here right quick before those soldiers get in the alleyway.”
Lafleur and I shoved everyone inside, closing the door just as I heard troops burst into the alley. An officer shouted for them to search it carefully.
“Dang! A bit too close for my choosin’, Commander Wake. I swear, y’all’re takin’ years off my life,” said Lafleur, who leaned back against the wall and drew a deep breath. “I need to get everybody outta sight, ’cause those boys are gonna demand to see inside. Follow me.”
Lafleur quickly got us situated in a windowless back room and locked the door behind him, explaining, “I have the only key to this room, but still, y’all need to be very quiet. There’s other folks in the house, Spanish folks, and they might not cotton to having folks hiding out here. By the way, how’d you know about the alley?”
“I didn’t. Just picked the first door to get away from the street,” I replied.
“Lucky guess. And lucky it was me and not somebody else in the house who heard the commotion back here.” Lafleur surveyed our apparel and changed the topic. “It seems I’ll have to be your tailor and haberdasher yet again, Commander. But this time I’ll get you something not so flashy. Didn’t have much to work with back at the circus.”
“Doesn’t have to be fancy, Mr. Lafleur. Just simple street clothes will be fine.”
“That’s what you’ll get.” He grumbled to himself, “Martí really owes me for all this,” then pulled me aside and handed me the key, saying, “Remember, keep your folks quiet and the door locked behind me. I’ll be right back.”