Matanzas, Cuba
8:33 p.m., Saturday
29 September 1888
After Rork and Folger finished their work, we all waited in the cane bushes for the next train to come by. Lightning flashed in the sky over Regla, the storm expanding eastward toward us, which I found hopeful. It would provide more cover for our escape’s next phase.
This was the first unhurried moment to speak with Casas. I asked him how he’d been caught. Chewing on a sugarcane stalk to gain strength, his voice was stronger, more like that of the man I’d known before. “At my home in July, Peter. I do not know how they knew of my activities, but they said I was engaged in treason. The interrogator asked me about ‘Aficionados.’ It was not an accusation against me but a question about the word, put in such a general way that I knew he had heard the name but did not know anything else about us. I think it is important he never said ‘Aficionados de Ron.’”
That was disturbing. “Casas, only four men in Cuba knew the name of our group.”
“Which means one of us is a traitor, a double spy, working for the Spanish.”
Yes, one of them was a spy—Rogelio—but I didn’t tell Casas that. Casas, like the others, did not know the others’ names. But he was the only Aficionado who knew of my blackmailing Paloma for information, though he didn’t know what I was blackmailing him about.
“What happened with Paloma?” I asked.
“He came to the dungeon a couple weeks after me. They treated him far worse. He was dying when you arrived and they shot him.”
“Do you know why they arrested him?”
The effort of speaking and thinking was taking its toll on Casas. His breathing became labored, and his words slowed down. “I think corruption originally. Heard rumors . . . about a contract he had with a foreigner . . . about something at . . . the naval yard. He was held in the upper cells at first . . . with the common criminals. But then, in late August . . . they put him . . . down . . . lower cells . . . with us.”
Casas slumped over, and I put my arm around him. “We’ll talk later, my friend. Get some rest now. We’ll all need strength tonight.”
He teared up. “You came . . .”
“Of course, I did, my friend. You are one of my men.”
He leaned back against a stump and closed his eyes. Sitting in the mud among the cane stalks, bodies around us in various poses of physical collapse, I recalled Commodore Walker giving me my orders in his office at naval headquarters in Washington—so far away, geographically and culturally, from Cuba. Could anyone in Washington really understand this place?
I wanted to go to sleep myself but dared not. We had a long way to go to get out of Cuba, and I had a lot of thinking to do. What contract got Paloma arrested? Who was the foreigner he had it with? And how much did the Spanish really know about Paloma, or the Aficionados de Ron, or about my other contacts in Cuba, including the one I was about to see?
The timetable in the Havana newspaper had indicated a train would pass through Campo Florido around 7:30. I added on another thirty minutes, since Cuban trains were notoriously tardy. I should have added an hour, for that was when the ten freight cars and two passenger carriages finally came into view, pulled by a belching locomotive that slowed to a crawl on the bend. Just then a gust of cool wind leveled the cane stalks, and it started to rain.
I lifted Casas in my arms. Rork took the other Cuban, whose name I discovered to be Andrés and whose anti-government crime was that of being a polemicist and correspondent with the Cuban rebel leaders in New York, José Martí and Estrada Palma. Mena took Folger and Marco took Pots, and we all managed to roughly jump, shove, or stumble aboard the next-to-last freight car, an empty cattle carrier, as it inched along the curve. I cautioned everyone not to sit or lie on the filth-covered deck, since we already were generating enough stench from our exertions and would soon be walking through a city.
We shivered in the rain and wind as the train picked up speed again. Swaying like a boat along the tracks, the rail carriage rushed over narrow streams and through vast cane fields. Here and there were small plots of corn and yucca next to a thatched bohio hut. Occasionally we’d slow for a bend or a rise, but the route was generally level, the track bed solid, and we were able to maintain a good ten knots of speed. There were brief stops at San Miguel, Bainoa, Cieba Mocha, and Benavides, but providentially, no cattle were loaded and our car garnered no attention.
Rork, who I could tell was troubled about something beyond our current local situation, finally nudged me after brooding for some time in the corner.
“What about me ol’ friend Leo? By now, Marrón’s goons’ve linked him with the jesters he let into the cathedral. An’ what o’ Lafleur? Why didn’t he come with the lion wagon to see us off?” He lowered his voice for the next question. “One way o’ another, methinks we’re compromised . . .”
I’d been dwelling on those same conundrums while waiting for the train. Every obstacle we’d encountered so far had opened up a potential for the enemy to know our getaway plan.
“Yes . . . it’s a real possibility, Rork. Leo couldn’t take much interrogation—who could in that dungeon? But at least he’s got powerful Jesuit friends, namely Benito Viñes, so maybe that’ll help him. As far as Lafleur goes, hell if I know for sure, but my gut tells me he’s honest. He had several chances to turn us in but didn’t.” I added the only positive note I could come up with: “If he got arrested, he’s tougher than most, plus he’s an American, which might make them go lighter on him. And at the very least, neither Lafleur nor Leo knew where we were heading.”
The train came over a small hill, and I saw the city ahead. Behind it was the lead-gray expanse of Matanzas Bay, and on the horizon, below the clouded sky, was the black line of the Straits of Florida.
“Least we’re near the sea now,” Rork said.
The sun had sunk by the time the train trundled down into Matanzas, slowing to a stop at the central depot on Sebastian Street where it met the Calzada de Tirry, one of the main thoroughfares with a bridge across the San Juan River into the city’s three-hundred-year-old original quarter. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast with bulging clouds, meaning more squalls in the offing.
Nonetheless, it was a festival Saturday night. The streets were coming alive with cheerful sounds of the rumba, the Cuban style of music from the docks of Havana and Matanzas with unmistakable African tribal rhythms. The sweet scents of roasting lechon asado pork came over us, driving my starved body mad for food, but I dared not even mention it, lest I afflict the others. Instead, I ordered everyone to disembark quickly.
My weary band of fugitives lowered themselves gingerly out of the car and hobbled away from the station yard. In the past I stayed at the Ensor House, a modest but pleasant hotel run by an American exile in Matanzas. Those sunny days were the past, however, for now my status had changed from visitor to escapee.
Holding on to each other carefully, we traversed in furtive fashion the four blocks to a dilapidated section of buildings on the south bank of the river, near the Tirry Bridge. There I had them sit in the dark of a half-filled cane warehouse, the rats scurrying away as they lay back on the bundles. Pulling him aside, I told Rork to keep the men there until my return, for I had to see a man for several items we needed to make good the watery phase of our escape.
Eugenio Galardo, a gentleman of the old school, was the owner of a hardware store on Del Rio Street, just across and up the river. A longtime friend of the independence revolutionary movement, he spoke fluent English because of his business and was one of several people in various locales around Cuba whom I retained annually for a small stipend. These relationships were maintained should I need assistance. Eugenio had last provided me important help in ’85, arranging passage out of Matanzas aboard a local fishing boat for some people possessing critical information for me.
Eugenio was at his counter, straightening a display of hammers. As I entered, I realized my appearance was less than reassuring. It had been a very long day. I felt and looked like a haggard old bum, just in from the fields.
Luckily, he was no stranger to adversity and took my unannounced visit and disheveled state in stride. “A great surprise, Peter, but it is good to see you again.” He looked me up and down. “I presume you are not staying at Ensor House on this visit.”
“No, not this time,” I replied. “And I need some immediate help.”
A swift glance around was then followed by, “What can I do?”
“I need a revolutionary flag—a big one—and six machetes, like the ones used by guajiro cane cutters.”
With no more response than a bemused look on his face, he beckoned me to follow him into the back storeroom, where he obtained six new, razor-sharp machetes, each with a hook at the tip for slinging the severed cane stalks. From inside a crate at the bottom of a stack of boxes, he pulled out a flag. He unfolded it reverently and held it up. I’d seen it many times before in the years since the fight against Spanish occupation had begun in 1868: a single white star inside a red triangle, trailed by stripes of white and blue.
These flags are hidden all over Cuba, waiting for the day when they can be displayed without fear of imprisonment or death—the day the island is a free, independent nation. When he handed it to me, my eye caught something I’d not noticed before in my few dealings with him. Eugenio’s ring had an odd symbol: stone workers’ tools, a compass atop a square, embossed in gold over a dark background.
A refinement to my plan came to me.
“Interesting ring. Are you a Freemason, Eugenio?” I asked.
The hand disappeared in his pocket, emerging seconds later without the ring. “Yes, I am, but I am getting old and forgot I had that ring on in public. A stupid mistake. I can be arrested by the government just for being a member.”
“Why wear it at all?”
“It is worn only at private meetings. I always take it off when I leave, but tonight I forgot. I’m glad you saw it and said something, Peter. Someone else might have seen it and reported me. There are Spanish informants on every street.”
“Then I’m glad I asked. So how long have you been a Freemason?”
“For thirty years. There are many of us all over Cuba, but especially in Havana and Matanzas. Why do you ask about it?”
“It seems I’m running into a lot of Freemasons these days who believe strongly in a sovereign Cuba.”
He nodded sagely and held up the red triangle part of the flag. “Peter, Freemasonry is not about Cuba or political views; it is about the moral fiber of a man and how he lives his life. But you are correct: There are many of my brother Masons in the movement. In fact, this national independence flag contains symbols that might also seem familiar, for it was designed by a Cuban Freemason patriot, Narciso Lopéz, back in eighteen-fifty.”
Intrigued, I pried, “What do the symbols mean?”
“The three blue stripes stand for the three years of apprenticeship in Freemasonry. The five stripes stand for the five years of work in the second level of Freemasonry. The five stripes, plus the triangle and the star, stand for the seven years of work to go from the second level to that of Master Mason. The red triangle symbolizes the Masonic tools, and the three sides stand for equality, fraternity, and liberty.”
“And the star?”
“Officially it stands for unity, though, as with many other things, there are secondary meanings that are known only to my brothers in the Craft.”
Meanings I would not be privy to, which I understood without complaint. Still, I’d learned quite a lot in the previous two minutes. Though I was the naval intelligence expert about Cuba, Eugenio’s explanation reminded me how much more I needed to learn, especially about Cuban Freemasonry.
“Very illuminating, my friend. No wonder the Spanish government hates this flag and your brotherhood so much. You Masons are a huge threat to them, aren’t you?”
“Of course. Like this flag, we stand for everything the government seeks to destroy. It is an old struggle, though, for the very first fight for the independence of Cuba was begun back in eighteen-oh-nine by Ramón de la Luz, a well-respected Freemason and lawyer. Why do you ask?”
I took a deep breath. “There was some trouble today in Havana, and a Freemason friend helped get me and my friends out of sight. We need to exit the island tonight, but obviously we can’t go openly as passengers. My Masonic friend in Havana gave me this message in case I was in need of any more help while in Cuba.”
I handed him Lafleur’s mosaic design with the coded message and paused, remembering what Lafleur had told me about Masonic honor—that a Mason would not knowingly commit a crime, much less a serious one. I treaded carefully. “Eugenio, I actually need more than just the flag and the machetes, but I don’t want you to violate your Masonic principles.” He scrutinized Lafleur’s hieroglyphic Pigpen cipher, then looked up at me.
“Do not worry, Peter—I will never violate them. For three years, I have taken your money in exchange for my minor assistance in arranging travel for those who need it. But I will never cross the line that Freemasonry teaches is wrong. Tell me, what more do you need?”
“Four medium-size and one tall-size Orden Publico uniforms, with one of the medium-size uniforms having the insignia for a captain.”
Never taking his eyes off mine, he calmly asked, “When?”
“Within the hour.”
The obvious deduction that I was planning something very dangerous and very illegal showed on his face as he cleared his throat and glanced at the Pigpen message again. “Ah, ha . . . so you are not going to pose as farm workers and escape on a fishing boat? I was about to warn you not to try that either, for they are stopping all boats on the coast, looking for anarchists trying to escape. Even the fishing boats anchored out in the bay are under close watch.”
He noticed my reaction when he mentioned anarchists. “Yes, Peter, the news has traveled from Havana about an attack by anarchists at the cathedral. You now appear here in Matanzas on this night, after such a long absence, and say you were involved in some trouble in Havana. But I am pleased to inform you I hear there is substantial police and military activity to the west of Havana, around Mariel. Perhaps a distraction from the culprits’ real escape route, I think. It is all a curious coincidence, is it not?”
The Spanish were out in force and were searching at Mariel? Excellent—Rogelio’s sacrificial role was working. I wondered how my Batabanó ruse with Belleza was unfolding. “Yes, amazing coincidence, Eugenio. But just so you know, the violence in Havana was during a rescue of innocent Cubans from Spanish torture cells, not an attack on the Church.”
“I see. That would anger some in the Spanish government even more.”
“It did. So, the uniforms? They’ll enable me to talk our way aboard a vessel without shooting.”
His fingers drummed on the shelf he was leaning against. I could see the dilemma being worked out in his mind. Then he announced, “I happen to know the man who supplies the Orden Publico with their uniforms, but the cost of obtaining them from him will not be cheap. Unfortunately, I cannot handle this myself, for I have important obligations this evening. However, my man Segundo will deliver them to you in about an hour. He is a bozal I freed many years ago when I bought him, one of my first acts as a Freemason.”
A bozal was a slave in Cuba who was born in Africa. There weren’t many former slaves like that still around in Cuba. Many continued to work for their former masters, or in this case, their emancipators.
“Thank you, my friend. We will be at the old ruined building at Carlos and Comercio Streets, on the river’s south bank. Telegraph me the cost later, and I will refund you through our regular payment scheme. It should reach you in December, as usual.”
Eugenio put the flag and the machetes in a bundle. “Good luck, Peter, and please try to make your exit without bloodshed. Violence will lead to attention, and certain ones of us in the movement cannot have any attention from the authorities, especially right now. It is a . . . delicate . . . time.”
I revised my estimate of my man on retainer in Matanzas. Not only was he a high-ranking Mason, he was more elevated in the rebel operation than I’d previously thought. My sudden appearance was interfering with both.
“I do not want Segundo involved any further than the delivery. Should you need me in an emergency, my wife and I will be at the concert by José White y Lafitte at the Sauto Theater at the Plaza de Colón.”
I thanked him and was about to leave when he grasped my arm and said, “The Spanish are extremely alert, Peter, so please remember the meaning of this city’s name.”
I acknowledged the warning with a grim nod. Matanzas was the Spanish word for slaughter.
