Chapter Three

 

ADAM SMOOTHED HIS DARK, WAVY hair back from out of his face and fastened it with a cord in a short ponytail. The choppy wind blowing across the deck of the Gypsy at his back made him glad they weren’t at sea that day. He’d been leaning on the ship’s rail on and off for nearly an hour on the lookout for his friend when he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. This is ridiculous, he thought as he closed his watch and shoved it back in his pocket.

Martin still hadn’t shown up, and it was nearly nine o’clock already. He had agreed the previous evening to meet Adam at eight, and then they would go to the Plaza Vieja, the old market square near the wharf, to ask around about Alonso Cordova.

Adam didn’t have to think too hard about where his friend was. Martin always struggled with punctuality where women were concerned. Forget about this! I’m not waiting all day for him to fasten his britches and meet me here.

Adam had known better than to expect him to return to the sloop the previous night, but he expected his friend would at least come dragging in shortly after sunup. The fact that it was now nearly nine o’clock and he was apparently still with his señorita meant there was no telling when he’d turn up again. It could be anytime before nightfall, when Captain Phillips would do a check to make sure all of the men were back on board so that he could be sure they’d all be ready to work at sunup the next day.

He decided he would head to the Plaza Vieja himself. He told Jones where he was going and asked if he would like to tag along.

“Wish I could, mate,” he said, “but the cap’n is sending me and Canady out to try and track down some line so we can replace that frayed headstay.”

“Well, I reckon I should be back in a few hours. I don’t know how much success I’ll have looking for that Cordova man, since I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Ah, well, good luck, mate,” said Jones. “If Smith gets back before I leave, I’ll tell him where he can find you.”

Adam nodded and took off for the plaza.

He didn’t have to walk very far to get there. The place was only about two blocks west of the docks. As soon as he came through the northeastern entrance, Adam found it to be a pleasant assault on his senses. Vendors with stalls set up in this market square in the heart of downtown Havana offered the same sort of things that would have been sold in any city market in America, but with a decidedly Cuban flavor. The colorful wares and exotic produce marked a departure from the merchandise to which Adam had grown accustomed back in Beaufort. Noisy vendors walked around with baskets on their heads full of freshly baked breads and pastries, while others hawked peanuts or fritters.

The pungent but appetizing aromas wafting out of one of the local cafés, which Adam remembered were called fondas, stimulated his taste buds and finally enticed him to spend some of his hard-earned money on foods he did not know how to name. He enjoyed eating at one of the tables on the patio in front of the place while he stayed on the lookout, just in case Martin turned up.

After his belly was full, he went to check the northeastern gate one last time for his friend.

Where is he? Adam was frustrated. He hadn’t wanted to go on this mission alone, but now it looked like he would have to. After all, the Gypsy was scheduled to leave port to start on the return trip to Beaufort in less than twenty-four hours. And since they were all to be back on board by nightfall, he now had only a handful of hours to accomplish his task.

What was already a long shot now seemed to be nearing impossible. In a city as busy as Havana, where they didn’t generally speak English, Adam wondered how he was ever going to find the only person who might be able to tell him something about his father. At least Martin knew a little bit of Spanish, unlike Adam, who only knew how to say things like hola, gracias, no hablo español, and adios.

Before he had left Beaufort, Valentine Hodges, proprietor of the Topsail Tavern and Adam’s surrogate grandfather (by virtue of having raised his mother, Mary, since she was a young girl), had told him when he got to Havana to try to find a man called Alonso Cordova, also known as Poncho. As much as Valentine would’ve liked to, he didn’t have any more information that he could share with the boy. He had promised Mary when Adam was born that he would never tell him who his father was, and he intended to keep that promise.

However, Mary had never thought to issue such a prohibition about him telling Adam the name of the man who had been his father’s best friend and shipmate when the young captain had spent time in Beaufort all those years ago, so that’s exactly what Valentine did.

Adam had mentioned the name to the waiter at the fonda, but he shrugged and shook his head. He was fairly certain that meant the waiter didn’t know anyone by that name, but it also could have meant he simply didn’t understand what he was saying. Adam decided a better course of action would be to try to find someone who could speak both English and Spanish.

He started by asking a vendor at one of the stalls selling produce. “Excuse me, señor. Do you speak English?”

The old man wrinkled his eyebrows and gave Adam a confused look.

Adam opted for the one-word approach. “English? ¿Inglés?”

The man shook his head and walked away. Adam assumed it was because the vendor had figured out he wasn’t a customer.

Adam looked around and spotted a crowd of men milling around in front of the entrance to what looked like it could be an inn. He wondered if he might find an interpreter there. As he got closer to where the men were standing outside talking, he realized they weren’t speaking Spanish or English. In fact, he had no idea what language they were speaking. He’d never heard it before. Nevertheless, he knew Havana was a busy port, so they could be sailors from anywhere. If they were able to communicate with the staff well enough to rent rooms in that establishment, maybe there would be someone inside who could help him.

He went in and spoke to a man standing behind a counter there. “Excuse me, but I’m looking for someone who speaks English.”

The man shrugged and shook his head.

Dejected, Adam left the building and began approaching anyone who was working in the plaza to see if they were able to speak English.

As he went around the marketplace hoping to find someone who might be able to help him, a man began following him at some distance. He was a Spaniard of average height—just slightly shorter than Adam—and had a stocky build. He had very curly black hair, which he kept pulled back in a ponytail, and a stubbly face.

He made his way over to Adam and introduced himself. “¡Hola, amigo! It seems you . . . ah . . . needing help.”

Adam’s eyes grew wide. “You speak English! And Spanish! Oh, thank God! I’ve been trying to find someone who can help me.”

“Yes, I speaking English and Espanish,” said the man. “For what you needing help?”

“I’m trying to find a man who lives here in Havana—at least he did many years ago. He was a sailor.”

“Ay, hombre . . . there are many sailors living in Havana, señor. How do you call him?”

Adam wrinkled his brow. “How do I—?”

“His name. How do you calling his name?”

“Oh, well, his name is Alonso Cordova.”

The man stood there and appeared to be thinking about whether or not the name was familiar to him. Finally, he spoke. “I knowing a man called Alonso, and I know a familia called Cordova, but I not knowing a man called Alonso Cordova.”

Adam sighed. “Hmm. Well, do you think anybody in that family might know him? I mean, could they be related?”

“Wait a minute . . . Dejame pensar un momento . . .” The man scratched at his stubbly cheeks as he thought for a moment. “You say Alonso, yes?”

Adam wasn’t sure what he had said, but he heard the word “Alonso” in there, so he nodded, then said, “Yes, Alonso Cordova.”

“You not knowing if he might be having other name, like Poncho, yes?”

Adam’s face lit up. “Poncho! Yes, Poncho! His nickname was Poncho! Do you know him?”

The man smiled. “Ah, I not knowing him myself, but I knowing who he is. He is a . . .” He searched for the word. “How you saying the word primo? . . . Cousin? Yes? Yes, he is a cousin of this family Cordova that I telling you about.”

Adam smiled broadly. “Can you take me to him? Or at least to this family?”

The man hemmed and hawed.

“I’ll pay you!”

The man raised his eyebrows. Adam could tell his offer interested him.

“Listen, I have to find this man before nightfall. If they get our ship’s repairs done in time, we’ll be leaving at sunup. I have to find this man and talk to him so I can be back before curfew.”

“What you wanting with this man?”

Adam wasn’t about to tell this stranger he was looking for his father. He figured the man might be reluctant to get involved in something of that nature. Instead, he told him, “My grandfather said he knew him. Said I should look for him, since I’ll be in Havana.”

The man smiled. “I understand. I can take you to the house of the familia Cordova, but they living outside of this town. It is about an hour walking. But I thinking they can tell you where you finding this Poncho that you seek.”

“An hour?” Adam took out his pocket watch to check the time, then thought for a moment. “Could we hire someone to take us? Like a carriage?”

“Claro, but it costing you more.”

Adam gave the man two coins. “How about if I pay you these now? You get us a driver and help me talk to this Cordova family. If we can find Poncho, I’ll pay you five more of these when you bring me back here tonight. If we don’t find Poncho, I’ll pay you two more. Does that sound fair?”

“This is fine,” said the man. “I knowing a man with a horse who can taking us.”

Adam was relieved but anxious. As he followed his newly hired interpreter, it occurred to him that they hadn’t been properly introduced. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“I am called Hector. ¿Y Usted? How you calling yourself?”

“My name is Adam. Adam Fletcher.”

They crossed over to the southwestern entrance of the plaza and exited. As soon as they were outside, the man approached a fellow feeding his horse out by the hitching posts. He had a small, simple cart—the kind that a farmer would use to bring his produce to the market.

“¡Oye, hombre!” said Hector.

“¿Cómo estás, amigo?” said the fellow feeding his horse. He was a very tall, thin man with long, greasy, salt and pepper hair and green eyes.

The two men began to speak rapidly in Spanish. Adam didn’t understand any of it except for the words “Cordova,” “Adam Fletcher,” and dinero. He figured even if he couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying, Hector must be explaining what the situation was.

The tall man’s green eyes grew large, and then he laughed and nodded. Hector told Adam they had struck a deal on the price and would take him directly to see the Cordova family.

Soon they were on their way.