43

Postcript

Patricio Island

Southwest Coast of Florida

Thursday, 26 March 1896

Eight years later, I find myself sitting here at the table on the verandah of my home on Patricio Island. The scene around me is tranquil, with not a malevolent sight or sound—such a contrast to that summer of 1888.

In the late afternoon light, a fishing smack, Cuban by her lines, is sailing by Mondongo Island, toward Boca Grande Passage. Pelicans glide by above me. A porpoise undulates across the bay. Inside, Whidden is whistling the tune “Loreena” while cooking up some grouper in a sauce of honey and orange juice, accompanied by squash and yams with herbs from our garden. I can smell the rosemary and sage. Proud of his all-day job caulking the dinghy, Rork just trudged up the hill to the verandah for our sunset drink.

This morning I finished typing out the last chapter of this narrative on my thirteen-year-old navy-issued Remington, which has definitely seen better days but, like an old naval officer, still does its duty. At long last, the story of my journey into Haiti and back, with its myriad influences and experiences, is completed. Reliving those times, and those innermost emotions, has exhausted me, bringing joy and fear, laughter and sadness. I was glad to be done with it.

Earlier today, I asked Rork to peruse the story’s ending. Following several minutes of furrowed brow, various grunts, and an elongated “ah, hmm,” he pronounced the thing not done.

“Methinks the reader’ll be needin’ to know the consequences o’ this whole bloody ordeal, Peter.”

“Consequences?” I asked warily.

“Me friend, fer every decision in life an’ war, there’s a result. An’ the results o’ that journey’re still with us, boyo. Some’re good, some’re bad, an’ some we just haven’t figured out yet. Aye, an’ the most important result for you is yet to come—an’ you know what that is.”

Reluctantly, I admitted that Rork was right. Yes, the personal side to the story had to be finished, even though to do so brings sorrow.

The account had ended with us ordered to Havana aboard Richmond to ascertain what happened with Paloma and Casas. That story begins another narrative, emerging from very intense memories, which will be written someday. It is too much, however, to relate in this limited space. So allow me instead to add this postscript to the tale of that summer of 1888.

I am very happy to report that Absalom Bowlegs is now a husband and father, and through his personal industriousness has become master and owner of an inter-island schooner out of Congo Town, on the east coast of Andros Island. I receive a Christmas note every year from him.

Major Kovinski, with whom I maintain a frequent professional correspondence, continues his secret work against the revolu-tionary Russian émigrés from his base in Paris. I’ve become aware, through other means, of several of his operatives in the United States—all of whom, the reader will not be surprised, are beautiful women.

My report on the journey was completed in December of 1888. It still remains in the confidential section of the vault in the Navy Library. Neither the navy, nor the army, acted upon my recommendations regarding aerial warships. However, recent events in Brazil and Europe have rekindled discussion on that subject, so perhaps my observations will be revisited.

The sixth of September, the day Dan Horloft died aboard Sokolov’s aerial warship, has become a significant date in my life since 1888. Corny, Woodgerd, Rork, and I, if we are in town, meet on that day for dinner in a private room at the Celestial Club in Washington. We remember Dan, his life’s accomplishments, and how he saved our lives by flying that bizarre machine out of Haiti, even while mortally wounded. I also never fail to thank Corny for his efforts in ending my premature death at the hands of Lieutenant Laurent, the Haitian sorcerer.

And we do not fail to remember our black friend, that noble son of Haiti, Vladimir Yablonowski. When I think of Haiti now, I prefer to think of him, a quiet patriot, aglow with dignity and strength.

Colonel Michael Woodgerd still embarks on “military consultation contracts,” as he prefers to call them these days. The snobbier description has enabled him to raise his fees and hobnob with some of the world’s richest potentates, warlords, and dictators. No more slogging in the mud with common soldiers on hopeless missions for Woodgerd. Now his campaigns are planned and fought in the considerable comfort of foreign parlors and offices, not to mention cocktail parties. My friend, jaded old goat that he is, refuses to admit it, but I think he enjoys the work. In appreciation for my extricating him from Haiti, he presented me with his Martini-Henry rifle from Afghanistan, which is now mounted on the wall at my island bungalow.

Cornelius Rathburn, doctor of ethnology, continues to set off on expeditions for various universities and museums on projects regarding native North and Central American cultures. Recently, he convinced some of his Smithsonian colleagues to come to the southwestern coast of Florida to delve into the history of the pre-Colombian Calusa empire—but that, too, is another tale altogether.

Rork is still Rork. He’ll never change, thank the Lord. He’s older now, with more scars and ailments, but then again, so am I. For some reason, we bonded all those years ago during the war and have stayed together as comrade and friend, two kindred souls who find themselves in the peculiar position of hating war, but being rather good at waging it. I suppose that is fortunate, for as this nineteenth century races toward its conclusion there seems to be no dearth of threats to our country’s peace and tranquility. Global war with Spain is coming. I can feel its inexorable advance and fear that no one, on either side of the Atlantic, can stop it.

And now I must share the most bitter-sweet consequence of that summer. Cynda Saunders returned to her home in Puerto Rico. I subsequently heard nothing, in spite of many letters to her. Knowing the fragile condition of her health upon our parting and anxious for her safety, I asked a friend in San Juan to check with the local authorities at Mayaguez, the nearest city to Cynda’s home. The report back was disconcerting: the lady had sold the plantation and departed the island. Her whereabouts were unknown.

Then, six months later, in June of 1889, a letter arrived at naval headquarters while I was away on assignment. It was sent from Cynda’s younger sister, Mary Alice, whom I hadn’t seen since the war. She was living with husband and family in Peoria, Illinois.

When I finally returned to headquarters sometime later and opened it, I sat at my desk for a long time, distraught and confused. The letter explained so much, but it broke my heart.

Dear Peter,

June 10, 1889

I am sorry to convey sad news to you. My sister Cynda died here in Peoria on April 6, two days after her daughter Patricia was born. The baby showed no signs of congenital infirmity, thank God above.

Cynda knew she was dying and insisted that I promise to carry out her wishes regarding Patricia. When she came here from the West Indies, I knew in my heart she would not survive the birth. She was weak and sickly and it was a difficult pregnancy. The doctor said it was due to her age and the stress of losing her husband and son, but I think she also had a long-standing debility from many years of tropical fevers.

My sister wanted me to wait until Patricia had been adopted to send this letter. Yesterday the adoption was finalized and the little girl is now with a loving family, a new life ahead of her. I do not know who or where they are, but am told that they are keeping her Christian name, which Cynda said was in honor of the island where you live. She told me that she spent a lovely night with you there. Her eyes lit up when she said that, and for a few minutes she became a beautiful young woman again.

Cynda wrote out a letter to her daughter, which I delivered to the court to give to the parents. It is to be opened the day after Patricia turns twenty-one, and explains who her mother and father were, and the reason she was given up for adoption. That will be in 1910, a long time from now. If God wills my existence here to continue, I’ll be an old lady of sixty-one. Maybe Patricia will find me and let me know how her life unfolded.

Cynda told me to make sure you know that she loved you, Peter, and that she hoped Patricia would someday find a man to marry who is just like her father.

With affection and respect from your old friend,

Mary Alice

That was how I learned that Cynda, the second love of my life, had departed from this world. I had a little daughter, who would be estranged from me until the impossibly advanced year of 1910, well into the next century, when I would be seventy-one years old, if even alive.

Emotions flooded me. At first I was angry at myself, for not insisting more forcefully that Cynda marry me. Other sentiments rose within me: anger at my career, for dominating my life; anger at Cynda, for selfishly assuming I could not take care of my daughter and not even telling me of her pregnancy; and profound desolation at my double loss.

I’ve remained silent for eight years. Useppa and I regained our familial love, but I’ve never explained my actions and the consequences of that summer to her until now. Useppa and her brother Sean never knew they had a sister, for the story of how everything came about was too painful, too complicated, to describe.

But Rork’s appraisal of the account was right. The summer of 1888 did have important consequences. We saved untold numbers of people from a terrible death from Sokolov’s invention. Vital intelligence on secret terror clans was uncovered. Significant scientific advancements were learned. Valuable professional relationships were begun.

And for me? I learned that love is that most unexplainable emotion of the human condition, that it will occur when you least expect it, and that even the merest fragment of time spent in true affection is worth taking the chance.

***

Rork just looked at the revised ending of this account and smiled. Then he gazed out over the bay, where the sky was a fantasy of color and texture. Sunsets at Patricio Island make up for the heat and bugs and lack of modern conveniences so common up north.

Still facing the sunset, Rork quietly spoke to me.

“Peter, we got into this thing ’cause ye were feelin’ honor bound to Cynda. With all we went through—an’ the pain still in yer heart—do ye ever wish ye’d nipped out o’ the church afore she arrived, that an’ none o’ this had ever happened?”

“No, Sean—though I could’ve done without experiencing that death by voudou poison.”

Rork grimaced. “Aye, that was a bit too close.”

He came over and shook my hand, his eyes serious. “But ye an’ the dear lady got to know true love together. That’s more’n most get. More’n the likes o’ me.”

Whidden began laying out the plates and cutlery on the porch table, fussing to get them right, then disappeared inside, soon to emerge with a steaming dinner. It was a perfect scene, but I couldn’t shake an empty feeling. Patricio was a bachelor island again. It felt wrong—coarse, devoid of gentleness.

The sky was more vivid now, the sun a dark red boiling mass, the clouds shimmering iridescent gold. Soon it would be night. Rork sounded the conch shell three times, and from the islands around us were heard answering calls.

I gave the traditional naval toast for Thursday evening: “A bloody war and a quick promotion!” The lads echoed it and began digging into the fish. I didn’t. There was something more on my mind that needed to be said.

Rork saw my expression and nudged Whidden, stopping him in mid-bite as I raised my glass of Matusalem northward, toward Illinois.

“Gentlemen, a toast to the future of a little baby named Patricia. May she know true love in her heart during her lifetime. And may God grant us the chance to meet her someday. . . .”

Miss Useppa Wake

Assistant Headmistress

Frederick Douglass School

Key West, Florida

26 March 1896

My dearest daughter Useppa,

Admittedly, it’s been far too long in coming, but this chronicle is my attempt to clarify what happened that summer of 1888.

Please understand that I make no apologies for my private conduct then. I do not pretend to be perfect, unlike some of the more arrogant hypocrites I see in Christian society. And after all has been said and done, I still savor the gentle affection I found with Cynda during that ordeal. Great joy is in my heart by the wonderful result of our love, your little sister Patricia. I earnestly hope that you, and your brother Sean, will embrace her fully when the time comes.

In any event, I think you’ve found this story to be more than moderately interesting, as it demonstrates what your father does for a living, even when he’s not supposed to be doing it. Such is the call of my uncommon profession.

I am further gladdened by the fact that unknown numbers of future lives were saved by my professional efforts. And lastly, I pray that Sean sees no similar challenge in his private life or naval career, but I fear he may. Many have. Perhaps after reading this story, he’ll be better prepared for whatever decision he makes.

Your loving father,

Peter Wake

Captain, U.S.N.

Special Assignments Section/Office of Naval Intelligence

Bureau of Navigation/Department of the Navy

Washington, D.C.