41

Bridges

Jefferson Hotel, Duval Street

Key West, Florida

Tuesday, 11 September 1888

My daughter Useppa was nowhere to be found when we arrived at Key West. It will be recalled that two months prior she had angrily departed my boat at Pinder’s dock after observing her father in a somewhat delicate, and religiously immoral, situation with Cynda.

On the steamer from Nassau to Key West, I thought about that last confrontation and decided that I should try again to explain my behavior to Useppa, in an effort to return harmony to my paternal relationship. Upon inquiring at the Frederick Douglass School on Thomas Street, where she worked, I was informed that she was presently in Saint Augustine at a conference of Methodist missionaries. Ironically, Useppa was at the same church where I and Cynda reunited.

Useppa wasn’t returning to Key West for another week. Well, that presented no problem, thought I. Saint Augustine was but a short deviation from my rail route north to Washington.

Meanwhile, my weary friends settled into the Jefferson Hotel, a three-story inn on Duval Street just down from Front Street. After my longtime favorite, the Russell House, had been consumed in the 1886 fire, the Jefferson became my lodging when on the island. Woodgerd, Kovinski, Corny, and Cynda obtained nice individual rooms on the front of the second story. Rork and I shared one in the back on the third floor, a cramped little place with two cot-like beds that reminded me of accommodations aboard ship, except for the exorbitant price.

Cynda’s health was still a concern for me. The improvement in lifestyle had not produced a concurrent change for the better in her appearance. Quiet and withdrawn, she was still thin and pale, subject to frequent bouts of indigestion, and consistently fatigued. There are many diseases endemic to the tropics and I feared she had contracted one of the more vicious, like bone-break or dengue; or perhaps she had become infected with consumption, which is spread widely in the West Indies.

Disregarding my worry, she suggested that her general malaise and debilitation was no doubt a product of the recent good food and drink, which was at odds with the stuff she’d ingested during our time in Haiti. Cynda said her body merely needed to balance itself and assured me she would be her usual gay self in a week or two.

Kovinski was set to re-embark aboard the Ward Line steamer early the next day, Wednesday, the twelfth of September, and head to Havana. The six of us were to dine together in the evening, but we were at leisure during the day, so I determined to assist Cynda’s recovery by arranging some exercise and special medicine. She hesitatingly acquiesced and retired to her room to set about her feminine preparations.

Accordingly, we set off in the late morning, before the sun had reached its broiling zenith, to stroll along the lanes to Alicia Carey’s Ice Cream Parlour on Rawson Street. As we ambulated along, I was heartened to see my little plan working. The lady seemed invigorated by the activity, her eyes lighting up for the first time since that awful last night in Haiti. Chatting away about the flowers we passed along our route, she was the Cynda I’d become entranced by, the woman who had penetrated the barriers of my heart. A taste of ice cream would be the perfect prelude for the serious conversation I wanted to have with her, for I had done a lot of contemplation of late. Her future and mine were at a nexus of space and time, and a decision needed to be made.

She chose lime. I chose chocolate. We sat under the awning by a tamarind tree, where a ghost of a breeze brought the earthy tropical scents of salt flats and periwinkle flowers. Cynda held my hand and smiled. The time had come for me to press my case.

“Cynda, I think we need to talk about us, and our future. I know that Patricio Island is a bit difficult in the summer, what with the bugs and storms, but it’s a very nice place in the late fall, winter, and spring. And there are some things that can be done to make it even more pleasant, of course.”

“I thought it was very charming,” she said gently, flashing that demure look at me, making my heart skip.

I took a breath and started again. “Yes, well, as I was saying, dear, my island home is rudimentary compared to what you’ve been used to at the plantation in Puerto Rico, but I have plans to add to its conveniences. Things that a lady would need, to be comfortable there. You see, I have a little money saved up and . . .”

She stopped me with a caress of my cheek. “Peter, if you are about to ask me to marry you, please wait until I have my say. All right?”

That took the wind from my sails. She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Peter, my darling, I know that you love me. You’ve proven that beyond any doubt, proven it more than any man ever has or ever could. And I think you know that I have a love for you, a love that will never end. Our tender moments, in the midst of the troubles and tragedies of these past months, have been the most loving I’ve ever known.”

She stopped. I supplied the word that came next. “But?”

“Yes, there is a ‘but’ in this. Peter, we are not youngsters anymore, madly romantic and naïve. We have lived through too much life to think that love conquers all. We know better.”

“But we do love each other, and I can take care of you, Cynda. I can give you what you need—”

“Stop. No, you can’t. I was married to a seaman, Peter, remember? Jonathan was a good man who loved me and left the sea to make me happy. But in the end, he withered in a life for which he wasn’t made, a life ashore as a farmer. I was miserable, knowing that I was responsible for that, but unable to change it. I’ll not live that way again, forcing a man to be something he’s not, and I’ll not live a life of waiting at home for a man who has to roam to seas. It’s not your fault. I love you for who, and what, you are. But not enough to marry you and change who I am, or make you change.”

I couldn’t believe she had reduced our relationship, and our future, to those terms. I tried to get her to see my point from a different view.

“Look here, now, each of us has had heartbreak in our lives, Cynda. Our bond goes back to the war, has returned with this journey and became stronger. There are better days ahead. Right now we’re at a bridge. I’m lonely, I love you, I need you, and I want to cross this next bridge with you beside me, and live those better days. Please don’t make me beg, Cynda, because I will.”

Cynda’s voice quivered with emotion as she held both my hands in hers, those gorgeous eyes locked on mine. “You want me to cross a bridge now, for better days ahead? Peter, listen to me. It would not work out well. We are too deeply set in our own ways, and to try to change them would kill our souls. I will not do that to you, and I don’t want you to do that to me.”

“I don’t understand why you are suddenly talking like this.”

I saw her eyes lose their softness. She withdrew her hands. Her tone hardened. “Then understand this, Peter. You are right—we are at a bridge. There are some bridges you cross, and some bridges you burn. I’m one of the ones you burn.”

I reached for her, but she was already standing.

“I’m not heading north with you to your island, or anywhere else with you. I’m not going to the dinner tonight. I’ve written notes of appreciation to everyone for what they did for me. In the morning I’ll be on the Ward Line steamer for Havana. From there, I’ll return to Puerto Rico. Do not follow me.”

Stunned at her change, I sat there utterly incapacitated as she leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I love you, Peter Wake, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything you, and the others, did for me. Know that, and know it well for the rest of your life, Peter. Live that life the way you should, as a man of the sea, a servant of your country.”

Cynda backed away a step, her final words emerging as a command.

“I am returning to my room at the hotel now—alone. Please allow me my privacy and dignity.”

And with that, Cynda Saunders walked out of my life.

Fifteen minutes later, by an obviously over-optimistic prearrangement on my part, Rork showed up to celebrate the announcement of my engagement with Cynda. Right away he knew something was wrong and said, “An’ where’s the lovely lady? Did she melt away like that ice cream all over your hand, me friend?”

I looked down and noticed he was right. “I’m an idiot, Sean.”

He seated himself in her place. “Aye, well, we’ve known that for a long time, now haven’t we? But methinks there’s something afoot, an’ yer plans’re asunder.”

“She said no and walked away.”

He sighed. “All right then, stow yer oars an’ tell me what happened, me ol’ friend.”

***

One incident provided a moment of comedy in Key West. Actually, it turned into far longer than a moment. As is a tradition with sailors, my melancholia at the ice cream shop produced a desire for rum, which Rork suggested we quench at E.H. Stillman’s saloon, at Duval and Front streets.

Entering the place we found some old friends, none other than that band of troublemaking troubadours known as the Yard Dogs. Former Union soldiers who stayed on in Florida, they play their music at taverns from Tampa to Key West, and occasionally while residing in various jails. For over twenty years they’d been friends and drinking comrades.

The three of them sat at the bar, nursing beers, but they brightened when Rork roared out upon our entering, “Well, methinks the day’s gettin’ better, Peter—’tis me ol’ friends Kip, Brian, an’ Charlie, an’ they’re lookin’ in a rum-drinkin’ mood if ever there was one. A round for all these idlers an’ ne’er-do-wells, Mr. Stillman, for liberty ashore has just begun!”

Now, when Rork orders a round for all hands, one would think he’s paying for it. But one would be wrong. Rork never pays for it. He expects me to pay for it. And not the cheap swill either. Oh, no, he expects the good stuff.

Since Vicente Ybor introduced me to it back in eighty-six, we’ve been partial to Matusalem rum from Cuba. It’s some of the very best sipping rum around, so naturally, he ordered that.

Years ago, Rork explained his theory of payment within taverns to me: “Aye, now listen carefully. Yer the officer, Peter Wake, commissioned by the high an’ mighty Congress o’ the United States, an’ yer expected to provision yer men with the very best, so they can do their very best, for our sainted country. Me knows this a serious naval duty, an’ a matter o’ great pride for an officer. An’ I’ll not dissuade ye from yer duty, nor will I diminish yer pride—no sir, not one little bit. So let’s mind the good liquor, an’ cast off that rotgut lot.”

The rum arrived. When asked why the boys had downcast looks, Stillman the publican, told Rork and me, “Kip just found out his campaign for Monroe County sheriff has sunk. He’s not on the ballot—couldn’t qualify because he didn’t get the required signatures from real voters. All he had was twenty-two former jailhouse prisoners who can’t even vote.”

“Yep,” said Kip, the nominal leader of the trio. “And I found that out after I had the posters made up.” He pointed to the wall, where a crude likeness had been drawn on a sheet of packing paper. Below his face was written VOTE FOR CHANGE. “Got three of them up around town.”

“In the finest bar establishments,” added Brian, the rhumba box player.

“Damned shame,” said Charlie, the accordion man. “I was gonna be the chief deputy.”

I raised my glass in salute to them. “Shame indeed, men. Here’s to a short political career, but a long life.”

They tossed the sipping rum down their throats, slammed the glasses, and ordered another round. It was going to be an expensive afternoon.

Kip stood uncertainly—I think they’d been there quite awhile—and raised his finger to emphasize his next statement.

“Thanks for the drinks today, Peter. But you should know that my political career is far from over. Nope, it’s just refined.”

“Refined?” I asked.

“Yes, refined. I’ve discovered I can’t win fame through democracy, so we’re gonna have a revolution, like the Cubans here in Key West. By God, we’re gonna secede!”

“From what?”

“Lee County.”

“Kip, you’re a bit late. Fort Myers and Lee County already seceded from Monroe County last year.”

Another raised hand, this time swaying slightly. He was warming to his subject and grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

“Ah, yes, they did. But we’re heading up to live at Harrsenville, on Matlacha Passage. Once there, we’ll declare our independence from Lee County. We’ll be rebels! Won’t be some pissant new county, either. Nope. We’re forming our own country from the islands in that area. Yes, our own country!”

His companions cheering him on, Kip nodded pleasantly to me. “And because we like you boys, we’ll even let Patricio Island join our country.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you for the honor, my friend. And what, pray tell, will be the name of your new country?”

“The Mangrove Republic! And I will be the prime minister. Charlie here is the minister of culture. Brian is gonna minister to fallen women. We’ll have a lot of those.”

“Aye, me likes the sound o’ that,” offered Rork, gesturing to Stillman for yet another round. Planning a new country is thirsty work. “Any job for an ol’ bosun in this Mangrove Republic o’ yours?”

Kip attempted to bow grandiosely and nearly collapsed. His recovery was nicely done, however, the product of years of practice. “Why, of course, my fine Irish friend. You, sir, will be the minister of rum. One of the most important positions in the government, I might add. And Peter here, of course, will be the minister of war.”

And so the afternoon went on.

***

The Nancy Ann was waiting for us at Pinder’s dock. We rode a broad-reach westerly that brought us to Patricio Island the following Thursday afternoon, where Whidden greeted us at the dock. It was a subdued bunch at dinner at my bungalow, weighted by all we’d seen and done and endured. My friends were as surprised as I at Cynda’s decision and offered clumsy but genuine sympathy. Their sentiments, and the subsequent atmosphere among us, were as if yet one more person had died on our odyssey. I was heartily sick of maudlin moods by then and ready to get back to my naval work.

By Saturday, the fifteenth of September, the four of us—Rork, me, Woodgerd, and Corny—were aboard the train at Punta Gorda, steaming northbound. Woodgerd, the only married man in the crew, would see his wife for the first time in more than six months. Corny would return to the academic world of ethnology and history, soon to be heading west to study an Indian tribe in Minnesota. Rork would report into the senior petty officers quarters at the Washington Navy Yard, then his desk at the Office of Naval Intelligence.

At the stop in Palatka, I inquired about the Methodist conference in nearby Saint Augustine and discovered it had ended early. Useppa was back in Key West, by way of the steamer from Jacksonville. Thus, my opportunity to explain things to her had disappeared. I didn’t see her for sometime after that.

As we continued toward Washington, I went over my plan. My first duty would be to report into Commodore Walker and Admiral Porter and explain the reason Rork and I were late for duty, why and how the Paloma mission had evaporated, what I discovered from Sokolov’s aerial war machine about powered flight, and what I’d learned from Kovinski about Russian secret intelligence operations in Europe and America. As a professional intelligence officer, I should have incorporated all of the aforementioned should into a typed report.

But I didn’t. The chaotic escape from Haiti had occupied my mind until Nassau, followed by my worries about Cynda’s health. My focus then shifted to the romantic notion of betrothing Cynda, of which I was abruptly disabused. Since that afternoon in Key West, I just hadn’t had the concentration to organize the information and apply it to paper.

We would arrive in the capital at seven in the morning on Monday, the seventeenth. By late on Sunday night, as the dark carriage car rolled through the Virginia hill country, Rork quietly nudged me and said, “Oh, thank you, Jesus, that me’s just a wee bosun in a big navy. But you, me friend, yer the officer an’ the responsible one. Peter, have ya any thought in the world o’ how’re ye gonna explain all o’ this mess to the commodore and the admiral?”

“No, Sean. Not a notion. We’re absent without leave, the Paloma mission fell apart and our contacts are no doubt compromised, we’ve killed foreign nationals in a foreign country, I’ve acted without permission as a merchant skipper and have criminal complaints lingering out there somewhere about my conduct therein, and we interacted with European intelligence services without the permission or notification of our superiors. At the minimum, we’ll be cashiered from the service. I’d estimate the maximum to be about thirty years in prison—for me. Don’t worry, you’re the junior rank, so you’ll only get about ten years.”

He shook his head. “I was afraid ye’d say that. Aye, methinks this is one time your silver tongue can’t talk our way out o’ trouble. Ten years, ya say?”

“Ah hell, Sean, you’ll only be sixty-seven when you get out in eighteen-ninety eight—still young enough to bull your way through any bar or squire any girl. But me—I’ll be seventy-nine years old when I get out in nineteen-eighteen. You’ll probably write a book, make lots of money, and forget all about me, you rascal.”

My attempt at humor didn’t work.