Chapter Six

 

MARTIN AND CHARLIE HAD WALKED up and down San Pedro Street along the waterfront a dozen times looking for a house or apartment with the name Velasquez, but to no avail.

Most of the little houses that lined the road were marked with names outside like Ramirez, Martinez, Garcia, Rosado, and so forth, but they’d not seen anything that even looked close to Velasquez. Finally, Charlie said, “This is a waste of time. Why don’t we just ask someone? This might not even be the right street. Maybe it’s not San Pedro, but San . . . Paul or somethin.”

“Fine,” said Martin.

He marched across the street and asked a man who appeared to be a guard occupying a watch house near what looked like some kind of estate. In slow and halting Spanish, with a Carolina accent, he said, “Ah, perdon, señor. Yo necesito hablar . . . ah . . . un hombre. Ah . . . el Capitán Santiago Velasquez de Leon. ¿Ayuda?”

He showed the man the piece of paper with the captain’s name and the street on which he lived, and waited for an answer.

Although Martin’s Spanish left a lot to be desired, Charlie was impressed. It was more exotic words than he could string together in any language.

The guard looked at the paper, then studied the young men. He gave a lengthy response in Spanish that sounded like it ended with a question. Martin didn’t understand much of it, but he did understand something about the captain living nearby.

“What’d he say?” asked Charlie.

Martin barely shook his head, not wanting to appear too obvious, but he responded, “I’m not sure. I think he wants to know how we know the captain.”

“Well, answer him.”

Martin cleared his throat. “Ah . . . El capitán . . . ah . . . es un amigo de . . . ah . . . mi . . . Oh Lord, how do you say ‘boss’? Ah . . . patrón?”

“¿Quien es su patrón, señor?” the guard asked.

“Mi patrón se llama Emmanuel Rogers. Somos de North Carolina en America.”

The guard scratched his head, seemingly unsure of what to do. He made a motion to indicate that he wanted the men to wait while he went to the main house.

Martin stood there, impatiently waiting for the guard to return.

“What were y’all sayin?” asked Charlie.

“I told him who we were lookin for. I think he said the Velasquez house is near here. He wanted to know if we knew the captain. I told him we did—that he was a friend of our boss. Then he wanted to know who our boss was, so I told him. And I told him where we were from.”

“So what’s he gone inside for?” asked Charlie.

Martin shrugged.

They saw the guard start making his way back down the lane towards the gate and open it.

“Ven conmigo,” said the guard, motioning for them to follow him.

Martin gave a friendly slap to Charlie’s shoulder and then ran ahead to follow the guard. They went into a courtyard, then across a terrace, at which point the guard turned them over to a black servant, who worked in the enormous house on the estate. He wore a white blouse and white trousers, as they soon noticed did all of the servants on the property.

“Siganme, por favor,” said the servant.

He started to walk into the house, but Martin and Charlie weren’t following him. He looked back and motioned for them to come along, so they scurried to catch up. They had noticed that the several workers out on the grounds and those who were serving in the house all appeared to be African slaves, although neither Martin nor Charlie had ever seen so many slaves belonging to one family. For that matter they had never seen slaves speaking Spanish. Still, they realized it was entirely logical that they would speak the same language as their masters.

The ornate columns and blue mosaic tiles in the house were impressive. The floors looked like they were made of marble, and the domed ceilings were exquisitely painted. The chandeliers and sconces dripped with crystal, and the furniture was intricately carved and upholstered in plush velvets and patterned silks. The luxury of the place took their breath away. There were no houses like this back home. Not even close. Beaufort’s wealthiest citizens had impressive homes, no doubt, but this could nearly be called a palace.

For a moment Martin and Charlie had nearly forgotten they were there to try to find Captain Velasquez. As enjoyable as it was touring what was clearly one of Havana’s finest homes, they had a friend and shipmate to track down. They were hoping someone would show up soon to tell them where they needed to go.

The servant finally led them into what appeared to be a grand office and library. Martin was stunned when he recognized the man sitting behind the desk as Captain Velásquez himself.

“¡Bienvenidos, chicos!” said the handsome young captain as he stood and walked around his desk to greet them.

“Captain Velasquez!” said Martin. “I never expected to find you here.”

“Why not?” asked the captain, laughing. “This is my house.”

“Well, this place is . . .” Martin looked around the room, unable to find the words to convey his utter shock.

“You did not expect a—how you say?—‘old salt’ to be living in a place like this?”

Martin and Charlie both shook their heads in disbelief.

“To tell you the truth, this house was built by my father’s family, que Dios le bendiga.” He bowed his head and crossed himself. “He is dead now, but my mother is living still, gracias a Dios. My heart is on my ship, La Dama del Caribe, but when I am here in Havana I stay with her so she will not be alone.”

“Well, it’s really . . . extraordinary,” said Martin, looking around the room. “Really. I don’t even know what to say.”

“I thank you,” said the captain. “So tell me: What brings you here today?”

“Right, well, our ship—Emmanuel Rogers’s ship, the Carolina Gypsy—is supposed to leave tomorrow, but one of the members of our crew—he’s Emmanuel’s apprentice—took off on his own this mornin, and we need to find him and make sure he’s back on board by nightfall.”

“What is this having to do with me?” said the captain.

“We’ve been lookin all over town for him, but my Spanish isn’t so good, and so far we’ve had no luck. Emmanuel told us if we ran into any troubles here in Havana, that we should come to you—that you’re a friend of his.”

The captain nodded his head in understanding. “I see, but how can I help? I don’t know this boy. I am not knowing where he has gone. Did he tell any of you any pieces of information?”

Charlie spoke up. “Yes. Martin here was supposed to meet him this mornin to go looking for a man, but Martin got there late, and Adam was already gone.”

“Would you stop blamin me?” said Martin. “That’s the second time you—”

The captain interrupted before the boys could start arguing. “Maybe this young man don’t want to go tomorrow on the ship.” He grinned and held out his arms as he motioned around. “Maybe he likes it here in beautiful Havana.”

“You don’t understand,” said Martin. “Emmanuel will kill us if we don’t get this boy back to North Carolina.”

“Not to mention his mother,” said Charlie.

“So this is a young boy?” asked the captain.

“He’s barely eighteen,” said Martin. “He’s Emmanuel’s apprentice, and this was his first trip to the Caribbean. Emmanuel told us if we don’t come back with the boy, we might as well not come back at all.”

The captain shook his head. “Emmanuel Rogers is a friend for a very long time. This boy must mean a great deal to him if he say that to you.”

“Aw, well if you know Emmanuel,” said Martin, “then you know his company is the only family he’s got.”

The captain nodded. “I understand.” He thought for a moment, then said, “All right, I help you, but I need to know what information you have. Havana is much bigger than your little town, so your friend could be anywhere. Let us just hope he has not left the main town.”

“Thank you, Captain Velásquez!” said Martin.

“Yes, thank you,” said Charlie.

“Please, call me Santiago. When we’re on La Dama, call me capitán, but here Santiago is fine.”

“Alright, Santiago,” said Martin. “Well, as we were sayin, I was supposed to meet Adam this mornin at the northeastern gate of the Plaza Vieja. He had been given a name of someone he was lookin for, so maybe he’s found him. Thing is, we don’t know the man, so we wouldn’t know where to check.”

“What is the name of the man?” said Santiago. “I live my whole life here. I know many people, so maybe we can find who this is.”

“The man’s name is Alonso Cordova. His nickname is Poncho.”

Santiago looked pensive. “Alonso Cordova? Hmm . . . And why was this boy looking for this Alonso Cordova? What did he want with him?”

Martin and Charlie looked at each other. They appeared to be trying to decide whether or not to tell him what they knew.

“Listen, boys,” Santiago told them. “I will be happy to offer you my help, but you need to tell me what you know. Otherwise, we may miss something that is important.”

Martin said, “Adam heard from his grandfather—well, he’s like his grandfather—that Poncho Cordova might know something about his father. Apparently, his father left Beaufort before he was born, and this Poncho was a friend of his.”

Santiago wrinkled his brow. “Why would this old man not just tell him the father’s name? Would that not be much easier for him to find information?”

“Of course it would,” said Martin, “except Adam’s mother made Valentine—that’s the old man—promise that he would not tell Adam anything about his father. But she never made him promise not to tell anything about people who might have known his father.”

Santiago chuckled. “I see. Well, that is clever of the old man.”

“So do you know this man? This Alonso Cordova?” asked Martin.

“I knew of him.”

“What does that mean?” asked Charlie.

“Well, if he is the man I am thinking of, he is dead.”

“What?” asked Martin. “Are you sure? When did this happen?”

“Yes, I am sure,” said Santiago. “I think it was about ten years ago.”

“Then where’s Adam?” Charlie wondered aloud.

Martin looked at him, his brain still a little slow from the headache. “Huh?”

“I mean, if he already found out that fellow died, he ought to have gone on back to the Gypsy. He’s been gone hours now.”

“Maybe it’s another Alonso Cordova,” offered Martin. “Is that possible?” He looked at Santiago for some response.

Santiago gave a halting nod. “It is possible, but it is not the most common name. What do you know about this Alonso Cordova—the one this boy looks for?”

“Only that he was a sailor. Valentine said he sailed with Adam’s father and that they were close friends.”

Santiago clicked his tongue and shook his head sorrowfully. “Hmm . . . There are many sailors in Havana, and I suppose it is possible that there could be more than one, but I’m afraid this was probably the same man. The Alonso Cordova that I knew was also a sailor—at least he was at one time.”

“Then you must know some people who knew him,” said Martin. “Maybe Adam has found his family or somethin and gone to see them.”

“You say that you think he went into La Plaza Vieja, looking for this man?”

Martin and Charlie both nodded.

“This is the problem, boys. There are many—how you say it?—bandits who work down in the plaza. They wait for men from out of town to show up looking for help and then they will trick them and rob them, or sometimes even kidnap them for ransom.”

“See!” Martin exclaimed to Charlie. “This is exactly why I was worried. These kinds of things happen! And Adam would just have to be the one that these kinds of things happen to on this trip.”

“You ought not assume the worst, Martin,” Charlie argued. “He might even be back at the Gypsy already.”

“You said that same thing over an hour ago,” countered Martin.

Santiago shook his head, visibly annoyed at Martin and Charlie’s arguing. “Boys, this is not helpful. Let me just get my things, and we will go and look for your friend.”

“Fine,” said Charlie.

“Fine,” Martin agreed.