Palace of His Excellency
Captain-General Don Sabas Marin y Gonzalez
Plaza de Armas, Havana
10:30 a.m., Tuesday
25 September 1888
After the grandees recovered from their shock, they quickly headed for the entrance and their carriages. The Spanish civil and military leadership curtly bowed to Admiral Luce, then retired up the steps to the captain-general’s offices, I presume to discuss how the Americans had pulled off this latest trick. Boreau, still stunned, was taken off to a room somewhere near the stables by Lieutenant What’s-his-name, the staff translator, whose magnificent show had evaporated in front of him.
Indeed, the ambiance of the place had changed from haughty to funereal in the space of seconds. I was left standing alone by a peacock in the corner of the patio, rather stunned myself and still trying to catch my breath.
Rork and Luce came over to me, satisfaction and worry competing in their expressions. “How are you, Peter?” asked the admiral.
“Tired, sir.”
“What happened there? That was no fencing match—he was out to kill you.”
“It was a trap, sir—set up by an old enemy of mine in the government here, but it failed.”
“Can you still carry out your mission? Does this negate it?”
Hmm. Well, it hadn’t really helped it. Admiral Luce hadn’t been told the exact nature of my mission in Havana. Only Rork knew that. I simply said, “Yes, sir, I can still carry it out.”
To my relief, the admiral, one of the sharpest minds in the navy, didn’t ask for further clarification. Telling an admiral he’s not important enough to be let in on a secret assignment is definitely not good for one’s career. Especially when the admiral knows the enlisted petty officer with you is privy to the entire plan.
Rork diverted the dialogue by producing another handkerchief and wrapping my hand anew. The old one was sopping red, and he tsk-tsked me. “Aye, ye’ve gone an’ opened up the bloody damned thing, Commander. Needs a wee bit o’ sewin’, by the looks o’ it.”
Another tsk-tsk, accompanied by a disapproving shaking of his head—as if my wound was my fault. Well, actually, I suppose it was.
I ignored Rork’s verbal transgression, for by then I was ready for some foul language myself. A palace servant stared at me from the balcony while talking to someone out of my view. Embarrassed by all the attention over my hand, I told my friend, “Oh, stop clucking like an old lady about it, Rork. It’s a small cut.”
“Aye, ’tis smaller than some. An’ wee cuts’re still serious on a hand, what with infection an’ all.” He raised the index finger of his real hand. “Take me word on that subject! But nary’s the worry, sir. Me an’ that ol’ sailmaker’ll get ye sewed up an’ squared away inside o’ three snaps o’ a bishop’s garter.”
Rork glanced warily around us. The few remaining people in the courtyard were giving us distinctly unfriendly looks. “Aye, sir, ’tis time to get under way an’ outta here. Let’s get onboard o’ Richmond. We’ll come back ashore later.”
“Take my carriage straight away, Rork,” ordered Luce. “I’ll board another one later. I want to have a word with the Spanish admiral anyway, if I can find the man. They all seem to have disappeared on me.”
With a less-than-amused tone, he added, “And for God’s sake, Bosun Rork, get Commander Wake to the ship’s surgeon immediately, not the blasted sailmaker.”
I appreciated his kind offer of quick transport, for though the cut was small in comparison to others I’ve had, that ragged gash was beginning to throb considerably.
Rork wasted no time in piping up, “Aye, aye, sir,” and propelled me through the line of guests in the entryway. We rushed toward the fancy carriage reserved for the American admiral.
Ahead of our vehicle was an even more ornate coach, the amount of its gold gilt obviously denoting royal rank. Several sour-faced, mature ladies were boarding. A young gentleman with them, perhaps sixteen years of age and dressed to the hilt, was rattling off in a thick Castilian accent details of a soiree that evening.
Rork jumped up to the driver’s bench of our carriage—only officers ride inside—as a footman opened the door for me. I was about to board when a movement to my right, beyond the royal coach, caught my attention.
It was a figure in a plain black suit at the edge of the park that covered the plaza. Standing there by himself on the empty street, he looked like a merchant’s clerk and harmless enough, but he had a large object clutched in both hands. And he was openly staring at the line of coaches under the portico.
No, it was more than that. Glaring is a better description. There was clear hostility in his face. Suddenly he began sprinting across the intervening street, shouting in a Cuban accent, “Abajo con los gusanos reales!” (“Down with the royal worms!”) Calling someone a “worm” in Cuba is a serious insult. Two costumed soldiers farther down the street, armed with three-hundred-year-old pikes, began heading his way.
The man in black had more than insults for the royals, though, for he suddenly hurled the large object, which I now saw was a satchel, toward the young nobleman by the royal carriage. The boy stopped and watched as the satchel flew in a shallow arc right at him.
Having divested himself of his burden, the intruder now produced a revolver from his pocket and screamed, “Muerte a los tiranos!” (“Death to tyrants!”) He raised it in the boy’s direction. The soldiers were running flat out now but were still too far away. The pistol clicked—a misfire—but the Cuban kept it aimed and was trying again. The satchel had landed at the boy’s feet, hissing and smoking ominously.
It was one of those tableau moments, frozen in time. Rork yelled, “Bomb!” An officer in the entryway shouted an order to his men, one of the women in the coach screamed, and everyone else just stood there.
Why and how I did what came next, I cannot explain. Instinct, probably.
It took me three strides—and perhaps half as many seconds—to reach the boy and shove him back into the crowd at the palace’s entry. I then kicked the satchel as I would a ball, launching it in a trajectory away from the carriage and confines of the portico, toward the open street.
By this point, the bomber had arrived at my location and did not take kindly to my interruption of his work. He switched targets from the boy to me but failed to notice that I had targeted him. My right hand moved faster than his trigger finger, executing a passable sweeping parry from below. It knocked that weapon out of his hand. Captain Hutton would have been proud to see my adaptation of his lesson on singled-handed defense against an armed adversary.
There was no time for self-congratulation, though, for several things occurred simultaneously: The royal youngster sprawled on the floor behind a massive potted plant by the enormous mahogany palace door, felling several people in line; one of the arriving soldiers slammed his pike into the bomber’s stomach; and Rork used his navy-issued Colt to shoot the bomber in the face from fifteen yards range, which I thought an impressive shot.
And out on the street, the bomb detonated.
The thing had been packed with small nails. The makeshift grapeshot blasted out in all directions, lacerating everything in its path. Four other costumed soldiers, running across the street from the park to reinforce their comrades, were flung sideways, their bodies contorting in unnatural poses as they collapsed on the street. The nails thudded into the street side of the carriages lined up for the passengers. Horses shrieked from their wounds and bolted with the vehicles. Several windows along the front wall of the palace disintegrated. A dozen people were wounded.
The concussion was thunderous in the portico. I was thrown sideways, my head impacting that decorative stone planter the royal youngster was behind. Several nails penetrated my left arm and leg, but thankfully I escaped the fate of those soldiers on the street. It could have been worse. The bomb was homemade and not of military-grade explosive, or there would’ve been more dead and maimed.
After firing his shot, Rork jumped down to assist me. Thus, he was behind the bulk of our carriage when the bomb went off. Untouched, he ran over and knelt beside me, running his hand over my head and looking quite anxious while speaking to me. I could see his lips moving, but heard only a constant ringing. “What?” I asked.
His lips moved again. I tried to stand but lost my sense of balance and keeled forward face-first toward the floor. Rork caught my right arm in mid-fall and gently lowered me to the ground. Every time I tried to lift my head, my vision swam in circles and nausea rebelled in my stomach.
Beside me the boy was shouting frantically, but it just sounded like muffled babbling to me. Women with blood-stained gowns stared at each other before bursting into shrieking hysteria. Two officers were dragging a wounded comrade away to the interior of the palace while modern-clad soldiers with real armaments started arriving from the nearby fortress, their faces tense as they formed a protective perimeter, waiting for another attack.
I grew angry at Rork’s mumbling and yelled, “What is it you’re saying?”
He pointed to my sleeve and trouser, where little blotches of blood were blossoming, then pointed at my head, saying something. Curiously, I had no pain—yet.
“They’re just minor, Rork. Now why the hell don’t you speak up?”
Admiral Luce, who had been safe inside the palace, rushed over. He also said something unintelligible to me, gesturing for me to stay on the ground. All sound was overwhelmed by that damned, high-pitched noise buzzing inside my skull. I made another attempt to stand, but it was my last. Head wound, probably a concussion and maybe blown-out ear drums, I realized as I went down again. Then all went dark.