Near Campo Florido, Cuba
5:24 p.m., Saturday
29 September 1888
It was an excruciating and nerve-racking journey. Rork and I ended up hidden among various crates atop the cage at the forward end. The lion, whose name I learned was Ferdinand, was directly beneath us and covered in flies of various colors and sizes. Occasionally he became interested enough in his new companions to stand up and sniff our bottoms, which rested upon the top of the iron cage. That sensation was manifestly unpleasant, causing immense anxiety to Rork and me, who dared not move or speak at any moment, lest we excite the damned brute into more aggressive curiosity.
Mena and Marco were up front, on either side of a noticeably pungent Culebra, who possessed her own contingent of flies. My men sat beside her not by choice but by my order, because I wanted their linguistic skills up front. It was almost humorous, for the two of them looked as afraid of the woman between them as Rork and I were of the lion.
Our poor Cubans—we were down to just Casas and one other—were also carefully hidden atop a box at the after end of the cage and covered by a pile of hay and bundles. Pots and Folger were below, among the underslung cargo boxes. They had the worst of it, lying supine on planks suspended between the forward and after axle ties and frame reaches, being periodically splattered with mud and sometimes perilously close to being drowned when crossing deep puddles. I’d kept close watch on Folger’s arm, fearful of infection, but none had set in yet. Though he was in pain, Folger did have limited use of that limb, which was most fortunate for him and for us. He was to have a crucial role very soon.
When we’d first climbed aboard, I explained to Culebra where to drive us—around the south side of Havana Bay to the Calzada Jesus del Monte, the road that connected Havana to Guanabacoa, a town a short distance inland. That meant driving around the fortress at Antares and certainly through several roadblocks set up to catch the anarchist cathedral attackers.
The first blockade was only a few blocks away on Monserrate Street, as fate would have it, near house number five. Traffic was backed up, and it took several fretful minutes for us to get up to the policemen manning the post. Culebra and Ferdinand proved an intimidating pair. She uttered a secret command—it sounded to me like comida, which means food—and the lion obliged by literally rising to the occasion, issuing forth a deep growl, and swiping his paw at one of the constables, who had the audacity to peer into the cage for fugitives.
Mena belatedly warned of the danger: “Ooh . . . Ten cuidado con el león, por favor, señor.” “The policeman didn’t appreciate that small bit of humor and glared up at Culebra and her companions on the box seat. They returned a deadpan stare. The sergeant, seeing the line of vehicles and hearing their drivers’ shouted complaints, avoided any further escalation when he told Culebra to take her pet and move on.
The second checkpoint was at the outskirts of the city, near Guanabacoa, this one manned by Guardia Civil militia troops under the command of an older lieutenant, who promptly asked Mena for an “honorario facilitacion”—a “facilitation fee,” otherwise known as a bribe—to travel further on the road. Mena refused. He had no money; none of us did anymore. The lieutenant threatened them with arrest, with one of his men lazily pointing a rifle toward Culebra.
At that point, our dear lady decided to take command of the situation by explaining in very graphic, rapid-fire Spanish that she and her friends didn’t have any money for a bribe to a pig; the little boy’s rusty, old rifle didn’t have enough bullets to stop her when she got really angry; and if that happened, she would take the rifle away and use it to beat the lieutenant’s face into mush for her lion to eat, because Ferdinand liked to eat rotted pig meat.
There was stunned silence for a full thirty seconds, during which Rork and I had our shotguns surreptitiously aimed at the now-nervous squad of soldiers and their astonished lieutenant, waiting for one of them to look like he was about to open fire.
Then—thank you, Lord—the lieutenant, having sized up his female adversary, put his hands on his hips and laughed. It was a nervous little chuckle, soon added to by his minions. It ended with him wishing good luck to Mena and Marco, adding that he hoped they would survive the journey with their nightmare of a woman friend.
After that, he waved us through. A hundred yards down the road, we all let out a collective sigh, except for Culebra, whose foul expression and aroma never changed the whole time I was with her.
Three and a half hours after beginning our zoological escape from the city, we were on the pitted road paralleling the railroad track of the Havana Bay Line, which ran from Regla to Matanzas. I remembered the locale from a train trip from Matanzas to Havana seven years earlier. It was the best location I could recollect for what we needed to do.
At my command, Culebra stopped the wagon a mile and a half past the crude rail station at the village of Campo Florido, fifteen arduous miles east of our starting point in Havana. We disembarked, our muscles paralytic and protesting. Our two Cuban companions were still alive, the older one just barely, with Casas’ face a mask of grim determination. To the west, near Havana, a ridge of blue-black clouds was spreading and rising ominously across the horizon, blotting out the sun.
I peremptorily announced to Culebra we were taking the coil of rope from the back of the wagon, that it was included in the original price with Lafleur. Contrary to my expectation, she offered no argument as Rork removed the line. Seconds later, Culebra and Ferdinand, pulled by those four sorry-looking mules, left us and headed back down the road. The woman’s farewell was the same as her introduction, without any pleasantry or break in that stolid mien. Conveniently for us, it was also without any questions. What she thought of us and might do or say against us, I could not fathom, but seeing that uncaring face, I worried she might seek to double her money with information to our pursuers.
A hundred yards ahead of us, just around a tight bend, lay a simple, wood-framed shack with a palm thatch roof. Used as a cargo depot by the nearby sugar plantation, it fronted a siding next to the main rail line. The plantation’s large cane shed was visible half a mile to the north, above the vast sea of green sugarcane that covered the surrounding terrain. Along the other side of the main track rose a row of pine telegraph poles, stretching east toward Matanzas and west toward Havana.
I motioned for Rork and Folger to follow me while the others rested out of sight in the shade of a nearby royal palm grove.
“You still have the pocket set?” I asked my young scientist.
“Yes, sir. Right here.” With his good right arm, he pulled out of his battered box of tricks a six-inch-long redwood case, lifted the top off it, and showed me the sounder and strap key set inside. It looked ridiculously simple, like a toy, but I knew it would do the trick.
“Very well. I’ll use it since you’ve got a bad wing.”
“Oh, no, sir!” he protested. “I can do it. Just need a little help up the pole, that’s all.”
Rork offered his opinion. “The lad can read a fist better’n ye. An’ that’s important, sir. Besides, getting’ him aloft’ll be easier than findin’ a Guinness in Killarny.”
I didn’t like it, but Rork had a good point. We needed someone who could mimic the telegraph operator’s “fist,” or personal sending style, at the Matanzas end of the line. I chose a telegraph pole that was partially hidden by a laurel tree and pointed toward it.
“All right, Folger, you win. Rork’ll help you up that pole. I want you to tap into the line. Listen to the traffic for fifteen minutes to study the operator’s fist at Matanzas and get the form of the messages. Then cut the line to Matanzas and tap into the line going west, toward Havana. Once you’ve done that, send this message as if it came from the Matanzas operator. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I pulled out a torn piece of Hotel Florida stationery and wrote the following communiqué:
A: CUARTEL GUARDIA CIVIL HABANA DE: ESTACION MATANZAS
—URGENTE—DE UN CONFIDENTE CONFIDENCIAL EN JIBACOA—ASESINOS ANARCISTAS DE LA CATEDRAL VAN A MARIEL PARA BARCO A CAYO HUESO EN DOMINGO—ESE ES TODO NUESTRA INFORMACION
POR TENIENTE BASLIDA
The English translation was:
TO: HAVANA CIVIL GUARD HEADQUARTERS FROM: MATANZAS STATION
—URGENT—FROM A CONFIDENTIAL INFORMANT IN JIBACOA—ANARCHIST MURDERERS FROM THE CATHEDRAL ARE GOING TO MARIEL FOR BOAT TO KEY WEST ON SUNDAY—THAT IS ALL OUR INFORMATION
PER LIEUTENANT BASLIDA
The lieutenant’s moniker was a tiny bit of poetic justice on my part that I just couldn’t resist. It was the name of the crooked Civil Guard lieutenant who’d tried to force us into a bribe.
The reader of this account will recall that Mariel is the port west of Havana to which I sent Rogelio to find the Greek-Cuban fishing captain named Teodorios Piruni. Of course, the reader may understandably question why I would give the Spanish such valuable information. The short answer is that Rogelio was a traitor to his people and to me. His only remaining value was as an unwitting diversion for Spanish searchers. Piruni was a fictitious person. There was no boat waiting for Rogelio at Mariel.
Belleza was also fulfilling a diversionary role that day, riding toward the south by rail to Batabanó. When I failed to show at the central Havana rail station or on the train itself, I guessed she would continue in the hope I’d come on a later train and she could finger me to her Orden Publico bosses for a hefty reward. I guessed that her offer to provide me future intelligence—and, I expected, other more intimate things—was patently false, a desperate ruse to gain time after I’d seen through her society guise.
Meanwhile, things were proceeding well. Rork went up the pole first, using his spike as a climbing pike. Once at the top, he used Culebras rope to rig a rudimentary bosun’s chair and hauled Folger aloft, lashing him to the crosstree so he could do his work securely. They dropped a length of thin wire, which I then lashed to the railroad track as an earth grounding line. Folger attached another wire to the telegraph cable, which was, in the common manner, uninsulated. He leaned close to the sounder in his pocket set, listening for transmissions.
The cool north wind was but a memory. Cuba’s normal summer weather had returned, as the line of thunderstorms to the west proved. In the dank heat of the stagnant, late-afternoon air, far from any cooling sea breeze, the rest of us waited, swatted bugs, and soaked our borrowed clothes with sweat. It was a struggle not to agitate the others by repeatedly consulting my watch, for time was not on our side.
At last, Folger called down to me. “Problem, sir.”
“What is it?”
“The line’s hot and working. All the message traffic is coming out of Havana. It’s in European Morse code. My Spanish is basic, but from what I can tell it’s mostly alerts about the attackers at the cathedral today with only general descriptions. Calling them anarchists. And no mention of anything at the Audiencia.”
That made sense. The Spanish controlled public information in Cuba tightly. They wouldn’t want the Cuban people to know about the rescue of Cuban prisoners at the notorious Audiencia, lest others get similar ideas.
“Nothing from the operator at Matanzas, not even an acknowledgment?”
“Only things out of Matanzas are short acknowledgments of the Havana traffic, but not enough for me to get the sender’s style. No long messages. My impression is Havana told all stations on the circuit to hold off on nonemergency traffic.”
I’d been counting on Folger being able to listen to the Matanzas operator and impersonate his rhythm of sending. It was critical. If a veteran telegraphist in Havana recognized Folger wasn’t the usual operator, my notion to use scientific deception to lead the enemy west would actually end up pointing them east, right toward the place where we were headed.
“Send the message anyway. Do it slowly, as if a junior, inexperienced man was called in to the office to send it.”