40

An Occupational Necessity

Nassau

The Bahamas

Saturday, 8 September 1888

The mail boat captain kindly altered his schedule and sailed directly for Nassau, landing us at the Vendue wharf that Saturday morning. Our first two hours were taken up by colonial officialdom recording the account, the local Anglican church members providing us with clothing and medical attention, and the Methodists giving us our first decent meal in weeks.

A rather officious doctor with one of those English hyphenated names looked in on Cynda, about whom my concern had grown markedly. Thin, sallow, and weakened by voiding, she looked dreadful, and my worry was a recurrence of malaria or yellow fever, aggravated by the conditions of our travel and the stress of her son’s loss. The doctor refused my inquiries after his examination, saying dismissively that it was none of my business, but that I should take better care in the future to have the lady treated as a white woman should be in the tropics. Cynda told me later that my diagnosis was correct, and that bed rest, good food, and decent water would improve her condition.

Robert Mason, my man in Nassau, showed up as Rork and I were enjoying a repast of fried fish and yams in a café near the Victoria Hotel. He had been visiting the other side of the island that morning, but word of our arrival, it seemed, traveled fast on New Providence.

“I’ve been given three brief messages to present to you, Peter,” Mason informed me. “The first came from Leo in Havana in late August: Paloma has disappeared, so has your man Casas.” Leo was our secondary contact in Havana.

“That’s it? Is it disappeared, as in arrested by the Spanish authorities? Or disappeared and somewhere in Cuba? Or disappeared by fleeing from Cuba?”

“Just those words and no more. That was the last communication I had—there’s been nothing more from Leo. I passed it along to ONI by telegraph, with the addendum that you were incommunicado on leave, heading to the southern Bahamas on a private yachting trip.”

“Yes, and now Rork and I are a week late getting back to duty at naval headquarters. I’ll have the Devil to pay for that. What else’ve you got?”

“Well, a few days after I passed along the Cuban message, I got the second message for you. It came in from Commodore Walker in Washington: Find Wake and Rork and advise them to return to headquarters immediately. That was it, nothing more. Of course, I couldn’t find you.”

“I’ll deal with it, Robert. Not your fault.”

“Major Teignholder’s orderly gave me the third message for you this morning. It came in the form of a command, not a request: meet him on his verandah at five. By the way, Teignholder’s been asking questions about me lately.”

“Really?”

“Rather odd inquiries about any connection I may have with the Irish revolutionaries. And Russians.”

“He’s worried about you and Fenian terrorists? That doesn’t add up. Oh, wait. Ah, yep, I’ve got it—the Russians and the Brits have been on the brink of war several times lately over Afghanistan. They’re worried that if that happens, the Russians will support the Fenians in their terror bombing campaign in London. They’ve exploded several there in the past few years. Stupid tactic. It only makes the British people turn against them.”

Mason nodded. “Yes, I think you’ve got it, Peter. The major knows Rork here is Irish-American. And then there was the Frenchman, Roche, asking about Russians in the Bahamas. In his mind, he sees the connection.”

Rork piped up at that point. “Now gents, not all the Clan-na-Gael Fenians’re bad men. But let me tell ye, all true Irish sons despise that un-Christian dynamitin’ fringe, blowin’ up civilians with bombs in London an’ callin’ themselves Fenians. Those bloody bastards’re just like any terrorists anywheres. They’re a cowardly bunch o’ murderers, they are.”

Mason nodded his understanding, unaware of just how close the connections would appear to the British. Mason didn’t know, and I didn’t tell him, that Roche was actually Kovinski, a Russian Okhrana agent. But in the back of my mind I did begin to worry that maybe Major Teignholder’s supposition about the Russians and Fenians might have some validity. The Fenians did have support among the Irish in America; the Russians had agents there. Yes, they could unite and act against the British. It was something for ONI to look at and for me to keep in mind when meeting Teignholder later.

I had one last question for Mason. “Any word of an attack on a cable-laying steamer in northern Haiti? Perhaps captured by bandits, then taken away?”

“No. I just talked to a schooner captain who sailed from Cap Haitien and he never mentioned any such attack. But he did say they have new telegraph connections now through an oceanic cable that was just laid.”

“Any word on a revolution there?”

“It’s in the air, but nothing’s happened yet.”

So Sokolov’s partners hadn’t done their part—Captain Kingston had taken the mad Russian’s money and sailed away on Condor. Wise move. And Hyppolite hadn’t marched on Port au Prince. Time would tell on that score.

I looked at my pocket watch, which in spite of the punishment of the previous three months continued to function. Then I gave Mason his last directive.

“Please send a cable to Commodore Walker through the usual cipher and cover address. Tell him Rork and I are on our way back, via Key West.”

“Can’t do it now, Peter. The telegraph cable office just closed and won’t open till nine on Monday morning.” He cast a sly look at me. “You’ll be gone by that point—incommunicado once more. Gee, what a shame.”

“Precisely, Robert. I’m not in the mood for Walker’s wrath just yet.”

***

I concentrated my next efforts on finding passage for my people. I wanted everyone out of Nassau and away from the inquisitive British authorities as soon as possible. Mason, good man that he is, arranged it, including some pecuniary assistance from our operational bank account, normally unobtainable on a Saturday afternoon. It does, literally, pay to have friends in important places.

Absalom Bowlegs was the first to leave—as a crewman aboard an island schooner headed for Morgan’s Bluff at Andros. They left with the tide in the early afternoon.

The farewell was tearful. Absalom had become somewhat of a son to all of us. As usual at such times, promises were given to correspond, to visit when in the area, to continue the bond which had formed. Rork gave him an Irish blessing. Cynda became a sobbing mess. Even Kovinski showed emotion, demanding the Absalom visit him in Paris, where he would be shown “the hospitality that only a Russian host can give a mighty Bahamian Seminole warrior!” He then pounded Absalom on the back and pronounced him “a comrade-in-arms, forever!”

By chance, a Ward Line steamer was in from Charleston, bound ultimately for Havana the following morning, via Key West. It was a perfect opportunity for the rest of us to escape. Kovinski could take it to Havana and get a steamer directly to France from there. We Americans could get off in Key West and make our way north. Everyone went aboard that afternoon, comfortably laid out in the first real beds we’d seen since the hotel at Cap Haitien.

At five o’clock, with one more duty in Nassau before I could be on my way to Key West, my weary body trudged up that slope toward the Government House, turned right at Hill Street, and entered Graycliff House. Just as the daily rain began to fall, I met the Brit soldier on his verandah outside the Woodes Rogers room. He had Randall with him, a déjà vu scene, though in daylight this time. Both smiled benevolently, putting me even more on guard.

“Commander Wake, how kind of you to come, especially after the ordeal you’ve been through. Please have a seat, and some decent Jamaica rum I brought back from regimental headquarters in Kingston. A little different from the Barbados Mount Gay you had the last time here, but I think you’ll enjoy it. Many say that Jamaican cane is sweeter.”

Major Teignholder gestured to a bottle on the table. It was a special reserve of Appleton’s Estate rum. He poured me a glass, which I gratefully took—it’d been awhile and it hit me fast. I resolved to be careful lest its effects loosen my judgment.

Randall, who had nodded a hello, now spoke to me with a grudging edge in his words. “You managed to evade me at Great Inagua, Commander. Congratulations. That was deftly done.”

He tossed down a drink and poured another. “You know, I ended up having to remain there a fortnight and actually play the role of visiting vicar—admittedly, not one of my best. They even had me deliver a guest sermon at the church, which turned out badly, I’m afraid, when one of the parishioners asked me a question about Nahum of Elkoshite. Evidently he’s some sort of fellow in the Bible, but I still don’t know what his fame is.”

Neither did I. But I knew Randall’s true occupation. “Well, Captain Randall—our friend Roche, the man you were following, told me you’re not a police inspector, but are actually an officer in military intelligence—I thought we were done with each other at Great Inagua, so I left.”

Randall raised his glass in salute. “So the bugger saw through my bluff. Oh, well, no more clergy roles for me. But say, old man, you didn’t get me my information before you departed. I wanted to know his name and mission and destination. We had an agreement. Remember?”

There was no reason to play coy, or withhold all that I knew from these men. I handed over my part of the bargain, but only what they needed to know. “Yes, we did. But I didn’t find out the information until after Great Inagua. So here it is: Roche’s real name is Major Pyotr Kovinski, of the Russian Okhrana, based in Paris. He was searching for a Russian émigré in Haiti who had formed a group and was plotting a revolutionary attack against the Russian imperial government. The schooner Condor was thought by Kovinski to be part of that, which is why he was in the Bahamas asking about her. The subject Kovinski was searching for was named Sergei Alexandrovich Sokolov. He and his group have ceased to exist as a problem for anyone.”

“Ceased to exist? So they’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“A Russian with the Okhrana, eh? Hmm . . . And the subject’s name was Sokolov,” said Randall as he glanced with surprise at Teignholder, then turned back toward me.

“I hear by the rumors in town that you made it to Haiti, where Delilah wrecked. I presume you were there when this Sokolov and his gang ceased to exist as a problem?”

“Yes, I was. It was a Russian problem, not an American or British problem.”

“And Condor?”

“Disappeared. Her captain—Kingston’s his name—is on the run. I think he’s probably in the other end of the Caribbean, with a new name and paint for his ship.”

“And I hear that the boy you were searching for is dead.”

“Yes. Died in Haiti. The mother is distraught and heading home to grieve. Some of my other passengers died as well. Very sad. Everyone is going home.”

“Our sincerest condolences, Commander. My superiors will be relieved, however, that Kovinski, alias Roche, isn’t up to something against us. Is there anything else about these people that we need to know, especially the Russian, Sokolov? No unusual acquaintances or alliances or logistics?”

In intelligence work one sometimes gives nothing, frequently gives a little, but never gives everything. Knowledge is strength. Strength gets more knowledge. The Brits had just gotten all they would from me. The extent of Sokolov’s efforts, and of Kovinski’s counter-efforts, weren’t part of the equation. If our cousins across the ocean were to be made privy, that would be a decision for my superiors, no doubt in a quid pro quo of their own. I’ve found that it is always useful to be able to present one’s own commander with that type of leverage.

“Not that I can think of right now, Captain Randall. Kovinski isn’t interested in Britain or America. Or Fenians, if that’s what you are concerned about. He’s headed back to Paris. The Russians have more than enough to occupy them there with the émigré revolutionary groups.”

I turned to the major. “And now, gentlemen, I believe a quid pro quo is in order, as a result of our earlier agreement on this very spot. I did my part in taking the Russian on board my vessel and getting you the answers you sought. I presume both the complaint of the Delilah’s cook, and the negative telegram from the Delilah’s owner to the Bahamian government, have been unfortunately lost—am I correct?”

Major Teignholder shook his head and sighed. “Commander Wake, I told you the colonial mail system is frightfully inefficient. I’m afraid no one knows what you are talking about. What complaint? What telegram?”

“Very good, gentlemen. I’ll be leaving for Key West on the first steamer, with my fellow Americans. Oh, one more thing, I really hope those messages are never found, for if they are, an unfortunate result would be the exposure of how British army military intelligence failed to identify Russian spies roaming the Crown Colony of the Bahamas and hobnobbing with the Her Majesty’s governor, even when the queen’s vaunted army intelligence agents followed them all the way from London. That would be red meat for the press boys of Fleet Street, wouldn’t it? Especially given the domestic political climate in parliament . . .”

I let that simmer for a moment, then added the crucial component.

“And for my peace of mind, I think that a report should be issued by you, as commander of Her Majesty’s forces in this colony, to the Colonial Office, regarding a confidential informant’s report you received that detailed the unfortunate sinking of a schooner named Delilah, with all hands aboard lost, south of the island of Great Inagua. That way, the owner of said vessel will be pleased to accept the insurance money for his loss and have no living target for legal suit.

“Ah, yes, and one last thing—really, this is the last—a certified copy of that report should be in my hands aboard the Ward Line steamer no later than eight o’clock in the morning, for we steam at nine.”

Teignholder’s brow furrowed. “Why, Commander Wake, I do believe that you don’t trust us. That sounds frightfully like bloody blackmail.”

I smiled. “Trust you? Not a bit, Major.”

I could hear him exhale quietly. “Cover your tracks well, don’t you, Commander?”

“One has to try, Major. An occupational necessity.”

It was time to change the tone, which had become rather tense.

“Now, gentlemen, why don’t we soldier on to more pleasant topics, shall we? How about another glass of that Jamaican rum? You’re quite right in your assessment—it is sweeter than Barbados rum.”