16

Nassau

Nassau

New Providence Island

Islands of the Bahamas

Tuesday, 31 July 1888

We gained our freedom from Morgan’s Bluff on the thirtieth day of July. The strong easterlies at last abated and swung to the south southeast point of the compass. An overnight broad reach allowed us to fetch the western point of New Providence Island, where the schooner close-reached along the reef-bound northern coast as the sun rose over the central hills.

Twenty-five very long days after departing Key West for Nassau, we arrived at our destination. Normally that journey—without doldrums, hurricanes, or sinking vessels—would’ve taken four or five days. In the late afternoon our tired crew sailed the schooner between the old lighthouse on Hog Cay and the sprawl of Fort Charlotte on the main island. We anchored Delilah among other vessels in transit off Vendue Wharf, at the foot of George Street, and afterward all aboard sighed with relief. Our repairs to hull and rig had held.

Nassau is a delightful little place, pleasant to the eye and nose. Filled with native island boats and ocean steamers, the water is a luminescent jade green. You can see the bottom thirty feet down. From the harbor front, a whitewashed and pastel-painted town spreads up a gentle slope to the ninety-foot-high ridge dominating the island. Here and there church spires poke up, none higher than the Anglican cathedral’s squared-off tower. A cornucopia of fruit trees fills the gardens, while almond, cork, palm, and mahogany trees give shade along the streets. And everywhere there are flowers: roses, hibiscus, bougainvillea, gardenia, jasmine—each scenting the air.

Above it all stands the white-columned, pink-walled, two-storied governor’s mansion known as Government House, bastion of British imperial authority and justice in the Bahamas. Its solemn position on the highest part of the ridgeline ensures that every day, every person in Nassau is reminded about who is in charge. From our anchorage, we had an impressive view straight up George Street to the statue of Columbus and lawn of the governor’s mansion. The scenery was familiar to me, for I remembered Nassau well from the war, when it was an openly pro-Rebel port, barely civil to visiting U.S. Navy warships.

Preparation for liberty in the town was the happy focus of the crew, who began taking great pains to improve their appearance for the occasion. Their task was to ask around the sailors’ haunts for information on Condor, as they had at Key West. I could not join in that effort, for I had other duties to perform ashore. Accordingly, I took the dinghy in first and reported our appearance to the port captain’s office in Vendue House. Rork went with me and struck out on his chore while I attended to my own.

After an hour of searching in the heat, I located the shipping broker at a nondescript hovel in an alley off the eastern portion of Bay Street. The broker, a Brit too long in the islands, was visibly disconcerted by the peculiar manner in which I was in command of Delilah. I ignored his bad attitude and informed him that the next day we would be ready to offload his consignment. One of those sorts who are devoted to a comfortably lackadaisical routine, he only laughed at me in reply.

I thought that a bit much. Upon my protesting his demeanor, he retorted, “Oh, mind your knickers. I’ll get to your schooner when I find some boys to offload her and the space to store the shipment securely, Captain. And that might take a couple of weeks, so relax. This is the bloody Bahamas, get used to it.”

This development was totally unacceptable. I’d planned on a twenty-four-hour stay in Nassau. “No,” said I. “If it’s not properly unloaded by three p.m. tomorrow, sir—then it will be unloaded across the harbor, onto the beach at Hog Island, by my crew and at your financial peril. We have endured storm, death, and contrary winds and have still delivered the cargo intact to this port. Our responsibilities end tomorrow at three o’clock.”

“Tomorrow is Emancipation Day, Yank,” he retorted smugly. “Nobody, especially the blackies, works on Emancipation Day.”

Damn. I’d forgotten about the biggest holiday in the Bahamas outside of Christmas. It commemorated the freeing of the slaves at midnight on 31 July 1834 and was celebrated annually across the Bahamas on the first day of August. Our stay would be stretched.

“Very well, the day after tomorrow at three p.m. then. Unload it yourself or hope it stays unmolested at Hog Island Beach. Either way, it’s yours at that point. I will so notify the ship’s owner by correspondence that he should expect your payment draft immediately.”

I didn’t wait for further reply from the haughty little functionary and left him sitting there at his table, slack-jawed and dumbfounded as I strode out. Such is the way to deal with bureaucrats of the world—though it is difficult to resist shooting them as they smirk.

***

While I was busy finding and correcting the recalcitrant shipper, Rork had been on a quieter type of assignment: make contact with our man in Nassau, the one who had assisted in getting Paloma to Saint Augustine. We would meet later for a drink and conversation, Rork reported. I thought perhaps our contact might be able to shed some light on the peculiar information we were gathering along our path. Particularly this ‘O’ and ‘W’ business out of Nassau.

Rork agreed, for the man was in a position that enabled him to know things, and to also get things done. Our occupation requires that we assemble a network of such men and women in various ports around the world.

Robert Mason, an importer, property broker, and semi-retired insurance man from Columbus, Ohio, was our man in Nassau. He knew my profession and helped me out of nationalistic pride, along with a nominal fee. A former U.S. Navy volunteer officer during the war, he’d moved to Nassau for his health in 1880. Mason had been my contact in the Bahamas for five years and was rather successful in providing subtle routes in and out of nearby Cuba for Rork and me, and some of our friends. In addition to knowing how to get things done, Mason also had that rarest of abilities—knowing how to keep his mouth shut.

Rork, Mason, and I met at the old blockade-runner lair of the Royal Victoria Hotel, just east of Government House on Hill Street. The Victoria is a four-story ornate lodge that caters to winter tourism at Nassau, including the most elite of the elite of London and New York. The barroom was open for the local trade but empty of patrons, the tourist months being long over.

It was glaringly hot outside and stuffy inside, with an ambience of neglected importance, like a theater diva backstage caught without her rouge and powders. In wintertime the place was different. Victoria’s bar would be filled with the buzzing chatter of New York City’s well-dressed industrial barons, escaping the arctic air up north with rum punches and gin flips in the comparatively sultry air of Nassau’s finest hotel.

During the Civil War, millions in British pounds sterling, Spanish gold, and Confederate cotton were exchanged during genteel haggling in that very bar. Blockade running made Nassau rich. Tourism in recent years had had a similar effect upon the place, but nowadays, the barons discussed bank transfers regarding railroads, iron, and coal.

An afternoon thunderstorm was kicking up some wind outside, and a merciful gust came through the verandah doors as I signaled for another round from the lethargic barman. I’d already explained to Mason our current off-duty mission during the first round. We’d also covered some items regarding Paloma. Mason had an ongoing role to play in that situation: he facilitated communications with one of my operatives in Havana.

I turned to the subject at hand and asked Mason if he knew of a Captain Kingston and a schooner named the Condor.

“Yes, I remember that name of the ship. She was in awhile ago for supplies. Must’ve been the middle of May, I think. Ran into some of her passengers ashore. Right here, as a matter of fact, in this bar. I was here with one of the colonial office men, discussing American tariffs. Only other people here were Condor’s passengers. We got to talking with them. They were business fellows down from New York City. Playing tourist in the islands, as I recall. Spent two or three nights here in the hotel while their boat was being provisioned. Left the hotel afterward.”

“Did you see a boy with them? Ship’s boy?”

“Never saw any of the crew.”

“Did the businessmen say where they were heading from here?”

“They talked about heading south from here. But not all of them. Three were returning home to New York on the next steamer out of Nassau. Had enough of the tropics, they said. The heat down here was getting to them. Only one of them was heading off with the schooner, to the south. Had a bit of a row about it among them. The three were angry their friend wasn’t joining them and going home. Said he was being a foolish old man, off on a wild goose chase. Called him ‘childish,’ as I recollect. That got his dander up.”

“Where was this lone fellow headed?”

“Mayaguana, maybe. No, it was Great Iguana. Or was it Exuma? Oh hell, Peter, I’m not really sure, except it was south of here.” He shook his head. “Someplace with treasure.”

“Treasure?”

“Well, rumors of treasure.”

“Anything strange about them?”

“No, they were like any other tourists. Except for the time of year. We don’t get tourists in May.”

“Did they describe their main reason for being in the Bahamas?”

“Fishing and treasure hunting. They hadn’t found much of the former and none of the latter. Put away a fair amount of spirits that day. Enjoyed the rum and even paid for mine, too. I told them about some of the legends I’ve heard about pirate gold. The man heading south was very interested in those. Oh, I wish I had a greenback for every Yankee that came down here for pirate gold.”

“Do you know Captain Kingston?”

“Vaguely. Comes into port maybe three times a year with cargo. Uncommon name for his vessel—Condor. Big bird from South America, I think.”

“Is he shady?”

“Not that I know of, but he could be. A lot of the skippers carry stuff on the side, as you know.”

Yes, I did. Sometimes they did it for Mason and me.

“Are there any Frenchmen around here, Robert? A Frenchman was in Morgan’s Bluff a couple of weeks ago, asking about Condor. Came from Nassau on the mail boat. Sophisticated, moneyed kind of man. Middle-aged. Pierre somebody. He was asking the locals about the passengers aboard Condor.”

“Well, yes, there is one fellow in town from France. Paris, I believe. I met him at one of the governor’s social affairs. Don’t remember the name. Slick sort of Frenchy, very polished, upper class. Arrived not long ago—early July—on the packet steamer from London. Has enough money to get immediately known to the society crowd here and invited to the various parties. Of course, there aren’t many in the summer. In fact, I think he’s still around. Not sure where, though. Might be here at the Victoria, actually.”

“I want to meet him.”

Mason paused, thinking. “I imagine he’ll be at the Emancipation Day parade tomorrow afternoon, and at the celebration ball tomorrow night at Government House. It’s a full day, and evening, of social events.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes. I always go.” He shrugged. “It’s expected.”

“Can you get me invited to the events the Frenchman will be at?”

“As a U.S. naval officer? Yes. As Delilah’s schooner captain? No. Schooner skippers don’t frequent those circles.”

I didn’t have a uniform aboard, but I did bring a suit. A plain suit, but it would have to do. “It’ll have to be something else, Robert. I don’t have a uniform with me and I’m not here in an official capacity. Besides, something tells me it’s better if the Frenchman doesn’t know about my profession, or about us looking for Condor.”

“Want to be a rich New Yorker?”

I laughed at that. “No, I can’t pull that off. Just make me out to be an American businessman from somewhere boring, like New Hampshire, looking around the Bahamas for investments. Tell them I heard about Chamberlain’s new endeavor in Andros and I’m thinking of starting one on Grand Bahama Island. And please include Mrs. Saunders in the invitation, if you would. She can be visiting to ascertain if a stay in the Bahamas can help her ailing father. I’ll be her escort.”

I’d included Cynda in an effort to displace her somewhat maudlin demeanor since our arrival at Nassau with some social stimulation—that, and the fact that I thought her manipulative skills might assist in obtaining information useful to our endeavor.

Mason stood. “Very well, Peter. If I leave now, I can get to the colonial secretary’s office before they close and obtain official invitations for you and Mrs. Saunders. We’ll meet at the corner of the Anglican cathedral at George and King streets tomorrow, just before noon. A parade at noon starts the day’s events, with the dignitaries viewing the show on King Street. At two p.m. there is a service at the cathedral. At four p.m. there is the presentation of cards up the hill, at Government House. At six comes dinner and at seven-thirty there is the ball. That will end at ten o’clock. You’ll have several hours to gauge and meet the man.”

“Thank you, and please find out all you can about the Frenchman, and about Captain Kingston. Oh! And by the way, do you know of any Russians around here?”

“Russians?” Mason looked quizzically at me. “No, Peter. There aren’t any Russians around these parts.”

The letter came to mind. ‘W’ would be a common initial, but the other wouldn’t. “Know anyone who just arrived here with a surname starting with an ‘O’?”

“Sound’s Irish. Fella named O’Connally runs an iron shop out on the east end of town. But he’s been here for years.”

“No, that wouldn’t be it. Never mind.”