Yankee Moon — Chapter 4

Landfall: Havana

Andromeda slowed to a drift and we dropped anchor into the muddy bottom on the far side of Havana Bay. A Spanish Customs sloop watched us all the way and was already heading toward us with all due speed. A show of our false papers and some silver to line his pocket seemed to satisfy him – at least, for a while. If we lingered too long, he would be back for more, and I had none to spare.

My plan was to get it done quickly and leave for home as soon as possible. First I had to find my contact, a man called Sancho. Right at that moment, it seemed quite impossible. Perhaps Sancho would find us.

We were anchored off Regla, a small fishing village in the back bay, a few miles across the water from the city of Havana – the very same city we had besieged three years before, in the summer of 1762. Our hard-won prize had been handed back to Spain in the peace treaty, six months later. And now the rebuilding of the city – and the fort we had taken. Alejandro O’Reilly, the Irish-born governor of Havana, was overseeing the re-design and enlargement of the fort –it was to be unconquerable, they said. Perhaps. But in the meanwhile adventurers of many nationalities were making profits in trade. The savvy O’Reilly had essentially turned Havana into a free port, for a short time. And now, though the restrictions against trade were once again in effect, nobody seemed to pay them any mind –as long as the customs officials were given their due. British and American ships were bringing building materials and machinery, flour and foodstuffs, and Africans by the thousands. This island would soon have sugar plantations to rival Jamaica.

All around us now, hustle, hustle, goodwill and prosperity. Englishmen fraternizing with habaneros, with French, Dutch and Danes, everyone trying to make a discreet profit before Spain shut the door again. That’s all we were looking for. Not empire, just a return on our investment and labor.

At sunset I changed into a fresh shirt and neck stock, slipped into my waistcoat, donned my wig and hat and launched the ship’s boat, heading to a shabby waterfront pothouse on Regla’s shore. This was where I hoped to meet Sancho; this was where I had met him the last time I was here. Sancho’s counting house, he had said with a grin. Indeed, the establishment had no sign, no name in print. Everyone knew it as Sanchos.

 “Aguardiente?” the matron asked, resting her plump elbows on the plank of polished wood that was the serving bar. The cane liquor they called aguardiente was a vile spirit. A man must be low indeed to let that spirit pass his lips. I thought of the fine Rhode Island rum I had to sell.

“No, gracias. I’m here to see Sancho.”

The senora winced at my bad Spanish. “Of course you are. Señor Sancho, he’s a busy man.” She looked me up and down with shrewd black eyes as if she was inspecting a side of beef for maggots. The mole beneath her left eye quivered ever so slightly. “You are Inglés.” It was an accusation. We had broken El Morro, destroyed their forts, damaged their fine homes, humiliated them. Now that Havana was theirs again they held us in disdain but welcomed the goods we brought and defied their own king’s law to buy them.

“I was born of an Englishman,” I said with a slight sniff of superiority, bred into me. “But I haven’t seen her shores in years. The sea is my proper home.”

She shrugged and allowed me a jaded smile. “It’s all the same to me, señor, where you come from. Havana is a regular barnyard these days. Pigs, goats, chickens, all grubbing together. But all animals must drink. What are you drinking, inglés?”

“I’ll have a pint of ale, señora,” I said, overlooking the insult.   Indeed, it sounded like a farmyard – the brays and squawks of men laughing, talking in a variety of languages, loud with their liquor. Even though Cuba had been returned to Spain and officially closed once again to outsiders, it wasn’t closed at all. Havana was essentially a free port; Havana was prospering and no one wanted to put a stop to that.

The matron brought my ale –warm, flat, and slightly sour. I drank it down, not caring, and ordered a second.

“Relax, inglés. Stay awhile. Nothing happens fast in Regla. Have some supper while you wait for your friend.” It was an order I couldn’t refuse. I took my second pint and found a chair in front of a barrel in the far corner of the room where I waited for whatever fare she was serving up. Fish, I expected, but instead it was goat stewed with peppers and plantains. Only in Havana would this taste good, I realized, lifting the first spoonful to my mouth. What it needs in a bit of Rhode Island johnnycake to soak up the broth – and I had barrels of cornmeal in the hold to sell.

Not wanting to invite company, I pulled out my little pocket book and pretended to look over some accounts. The last thing I wanted to do was converse with someone. I was here to make a trade and the sooner I could do so, the better. With any luck we could exchange goods quickly and be on our way back north in a day or two.

Glancing around the dark room I saw I wasn’t the only one who seemed to be waiting for someone. A den of freebooters, this was, yet I was neither pirate, thief, nor smuggler. A Rhode Islander avoiding unjust taxes is quite a different animal than a common smuggler. Besides, the war was over. We were no longer trading with the enemy, we were trading with neighboring colonies for mutual benefit. Did that make it right? By whose law? By a Parliament we had no voice in; a Parliament who was overstepping their bounds and directly taxing the colonies to raise revenues.

Enough of these thoughts. What do I know? Precious little when it comes to governments and the rights of man. My schooling prepared me to bang at the harpsichord, speak French, dance the quadrille, and embroider a collar –all badly. The only thing I excelled at was riding; I could ride a horse with the best of them. Oh, but why think of those days, they’re gone. And where is Sancho? I want to go back to my boat and sleep. This squalid tavern like so many others I’ve been to – dark as a cellar, the smell of spirits and beer where men go seeking something they don’t have.

My eyes were beginning to blur. I had finished the peppers and plantains, two pints of ale and was making my way through a carafe of cheap rojo when I felt his presence. From across the room a man was looking at me, looking at me in the manner of a man looking at a woman he wants to bed. It wasn’t Sancho. I could feel his eyes and his gaze unnerved me, yet I met his eyes, man to man. My cheeks flushed, but I squared my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. My God, he picked up his glass and was walking toward me across the crowded room. Was this someone Sancho had sent in his place? He looked magnificent in his bleached white shirt, no stock, open at the neck revealing his Adam’s apple and the hollow beneath it. His well-cut breeches, flawless stockings, like he had just stepped out of the haberdasher’s shop.

And as if I had been struck by lightning, I recognized him. But how does one greet a former enemy and captor?

“Lieutenant Guyon. What a surprise, meeting you here,” I said coldly, though I felt a strange and warm excitement as he approached. I stood to greet him, wondering if I should bow first. He was taller than I remembered. More handsome. I found myself staring.

“Docteur.” The Frenchman bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”

My heart was knocking ridiculously in my chest and I felt the blood race up my neck. “You have keen eyes and a good memory to recognize me from across the room,” I said as dryly as I could manage.

He regarded me with frank knowing – as if we had been lovers. “I never forget a face.” His own face, so perfectly made, so composed. An enigmatic smile played on his lips and lit up his dark eyes.

What does one say to a former enemy – the man who boarded your vessel and took you captive? Yet, he had been ever the gentleman.

“How is your Captain’s health?” I had pulled Renwez’s offending tooth in exchange for our release.

Guyon shook his head and gave me a Frenchman’s dismissive shrug. “I am my own captain now. But if you’re referring to Renwez, I’ve not seen him since the war’s end. I’m told he has retired to a little cottage back in Bretagne. Raising cabbages. With one less tooth to give him pain, thanks to you.”

“And you, Lieutenant? Or shall I address you as Captain Guyon? Have you retired?”

“Au contraire. But the King of France doesn’t require my services at the present.”

“Do you work for Spain, then?” I goaded.

He smiled, his dark eyes dancing. “I work for my own gain. As do you, I would venture.”

“I would ask you to join me, but there seems to be a shortage of chairs.”

“Such an ill appointed little pot house. But I have a chair for you at my table. Will you do me the honor?”

“I do not intend to stay long,” I feigned. “I’m here on business matters.”

“Of course you are. We’re all here on business matters. Mon Dieu, this place is not known for its food! But since we are waiting for a certain someone, we might as well pass the time in good company. As I recall, we started a backgammon game in Martinique that was never finished.” His look was unmistakable. “Come, have a glass of wine and roll the dice with me while you wait for your contact.”

A flush of heat crept up my already warm neck. “I’m not a gaming man, Guyon.”

He looked at me and smiled, his eyes filled with my secret. “I believe you are quite adept at games. Le jeu, c’est tout, n’est ce pas?”

Against my better judgment I followed him across the room, weaving in and out between the tables filled with traders and fishermen, to his table where he poured me a glass of wine from an open bottle. French wine, not Madeira. “There, that’s better. It’s no good to drink alone. Now, let me guess, is it Sancho you’re waiting for? He’s always late. It’s unfortunate you have fallen in with him. Juan is much more trustworthy.”

Was I so transparent? Was I a fool?

“Do you always have an extra glass?”

“But of course. One never likes to drink alone.” He raised his glass and smiled warmly. “Once enemies, now friends?”

“Friends? On what basis? On whose authority?” I challenged, my insides beginning to go soft as butter in the churn.

“Fortune. It seems she has flung us together again.”

“For me, friendship is based on more than chance. Let me make one thing clear, Lieutenant: We are not friends. But I bear you no ill will and I will drink to your health.”

He smiled broadly, warmly, and raised his glass.

Touching his glass, hearing the little clink, I felt like I was entering deep water.

“Salut. To our health and to our mutual success. Money brings us all to Havana, does it not? The richest city in the hemisphere. Why the British returned it to the Spanish is quite beyond me. Ah, but you kept the cold Canadian provinces, didn’t you? That would not have been my choice. And you gave Nouvelle Orleans to the Spanish to weaken France even further.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

He laughed. “Of course not. None of ever has a say in the treaties.” Then, leaning across the table as if to confide in me, he said. “I know a better place than this. Shall we?”

My heart nearly leaped from my chest. “I told you I’m waiting for someone. I have business to attend to.”

“Ah, yes. Sancho. Waiting for Sancho. Everyone is waiting for Sancho.” His eyes, dark-lashed and moist, were to be avoided. I looked past them, at his left ear, but I felt them like hands, caressing my face. “Sancho is not to be relied upon. He’s an opportunist, Doctor MacPherson.”

“Actually it’s Captain MacPherson. I am now master of the schooner Andromeda. The vessel you detained.”

“Captured, you mean to say.” His smile was unmistakably flirtatious. “So you are no longer a ship doctor? You no longer practice medicine?”

I had served as a surgeon’s mate in the navy but did not have a medical degree; in fact, though I was skilled as a ship surgeon, I had never sat for the exam. I was an imposter.

“I can still pull a tooth or dig out a bullet. Or remove a gangrenous limb, should the occasion arise.”

“Handy skills for a merchant captain to have.” He sipped his wine, regarding me the whole while. “I too, have advanced from my former rank. Now captain of my own vessel – a fine merchant brig. Like you, after the war I turned to trade. We have much in common, MacPherson. We’d made a good team.”

Now that he had my attention, Guyon prepared to take his leave. “The habaneros will be here shortly; I’ll leave you to your rendezvous. But you may find his terms less favorable than you would like. You’ve only just arrived. The rules of the game here have changed, you’ll find. In any case, perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

He pushed back his chair and I stood up, wondering whether to offer him my hand in the cordial Yankee fashion. He bowed courteously and I touched the corner of my hat in return.

“Speaking of games, we never finished that game of backgammon, Capitain. Later this evening, perhaps? Your vessel, Andromeda, such a lovely little schooner. To think, I let you go.”

Guyon left a doubloon on the table and walked out into the night. I sat there as if in a trance, staring after him.

*

Sancho showed up soon after and helped himself to the rest of Guyon’s bottle.; we quickly closed our deal over the rest of the bottle Guyon had paid for. He wanted everything we had, offering molasses, tobacco, and coffee in return; the only catch was, he did not have them ready. It would be a week, maybe two. For a price he could perhaps expedite the transaction. I didn’t like sitting around in a foreign port, and he knew it.

“There are many pleasures in Havana for you to take advantage of, while you’re waiting for the goods. If you’d like a woman, for instance? A nubile young girl?”

“I cannot afford to wait very long. Maybe we should call the deal off.”

Sancho smiled, showing his yellow teeth. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, Capitan. The officials would not look kindly on an English Colonial trading vessel. The woman, she’s complementary. My gift to you, to make your short delay –more bearable.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “I will see what I can do.”

*

I gave Lovelace and the crew the night off. The men changed into their liberty clothes and gathered their personal articles to sell, then took the ship’s boat across the bay to Havana proper, which offered more prospects and excitement than sleepy little Rigel. I remained aboard, in the cockpit, enjoying the night air and my inebriated state. Havana wakes up when the sun goes down and the land breeze brings the smell of burning cane from inland. From the new fort, a cannon rumbles and the great chain guarding the entrance is winched up off the harbor floor.

A bumping alongside, a soft, Ahoy. I dropped him two lines – one to secure his jollyboat and one to climb aboard. Guyon scrambled nimbly up the side and onto Andromeda’s deck.

“I’ve come to tell you I’ve spoken with the harbor master. He will ignore you for a week.”

“I should thank you, I suppose. But what do I owe you for the favor of your influence?”

“Only that you entertain my proposition.”

“Your proposition?”

“Of an alliance. We would make a good pair, you and I.”

“You’re mad, Guyon,” I said, my heart knocking furiously in my chest.

He stepped closer, close enough to kiss me, I thought. And I realized I wanted that very much. “You’re quite right. You make me so.” His voice was low and strained with desire. But I could not believe it. I could not believe he could find me attractive. I was an abomination.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, backing away. “Are you an unnatural man? Are you looking for a young boy to bugger?”

“Come now, Madame. I recognized you for a woman the first time we met. Remember our game of backgammon aboard my ship? We never finished.”

“I detest games.”

He smiled and gestured in a French-like fashion. “All of this is a game, my dear. Life is a game. Best to have a good partner. Someone who knows your mind and can back your play. Someone to throw your lot in with, win or lose.”

Guyon was one of the very few who knew me for the woman I was, he sensed it almost immediately. Yet he had not tried to take advantage of me, for those hours I was his captive, nor had he exposed me. The fact that he was a Frenchman, a former enemy, bothered me not in the least. What held me back was much more complicated. Still, the desire was there, an enormous and powerful presence that would occupy my thoughts and dreams in the hot days and sultry nights to come.

He lifted his hat, gave me a courtly bow. “I respect your independence, as well as your disguise, Captain. But do allow me to be of service to you and to enjoy the pleasure of your company for a few evenings. Allow me to show you Havana and her many charms.” With that he disappeared over the gunwale, untying the painter and casting off in his boat, leaving me wanting him.

*

Havana wakes up when the sun goes down and the land breeze brings the smell of burning cane from inland. From the new fort, a cannon rumbles and the great chain guarding the entrance is winched up off the harbor floor.

The next few evenings Guyon showed me Havana, the Havana he had come to know. The old Spanish stronghold and the newly rebuilt, emerging city – all of it was new to me. Even though I had been among the victorious besiegers, I had never set foot in the great old city proper. All I had known of it were the jungles of the heights where Dudley Freeman and I, as Richmond’s surgeon’s mates, had been sent to operate a field hospital. More of our men died from tropical fevers and fluxes than from battle wounds. I had fallen to disease myself and taken prisoner in the Moro. For us, Havana had been a hellhole. Now Guyon was showing me the opulence and opportunity of the city, once more a possession of Spain but no longer entirely Spanish.

The Havana he showed me was a city of churches, convents and elegantly aloof palacios, built in the Moorish style. The soldiers, the tradesmen, the engineers, and the servants who were rebuilding the fort and the city mingled in the cobblestone streets and plazas, Havana’s public places. We moved among them, Guyon and I, to El Arsenal, the shipyard, where a dozen vessels were under construction. The smell of sawdust hung on the thick, sweet evening air. Havana had been building ships for nearly two centuries. “This one,” Guyon said, stopping in front of a massive frame on blocks, “is to be the largest ship of the line ever constructed – over two hundred feet long. Designed by the Irish naval architect Mullan. Mateo Mullan, an Irishman in the service of King Charles. Built of mahogany from the forests – forests being cleared for sugar cane.”

Mullan wasn’t the only wild goose working for Spain, my companion assured me. Alejandro O’Reilly had left Ireland to fight for Spain in the last war, rising in the ranks to become major general. Now that England had returned our prize, Havana, as part of the peace treaty, King Charles III sent the Irishmen to oversee the rebuilding of the city and forts.

Havana was a gold pot of opportunists, attracted to a free port, bringing all sorts of goods for a tidy profit. Captive Africans were being shipped in and sold at the slave market. We walked among them now, finishing their long day’s work under the watchful eye and whip of the overseer.

It was very late when we supped, nearly midnight, at a tavern near the water’s edge. We quenched our thirst with small beer, brewed on site from New England barley. It was then he popped the question. “Will you accompany me to the Lieutenant Governor’s palace tomorrow night? There are some men I’d like to acquaint you with.”

“Really, Guyon, I think you’ve confused me with someone important. I’m a Yankee merchant who, at the moment, is sitting fully laden in a forbidden port, waiting for a disreputable factor to deliver the goods.” I found myself returning his smile. “I’m a freebooter of no consequence.”

“Precisely.” Now the smile was gone. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the tabletop. “What I have in mind for you – for us – is much bigger than Sancho. I am well-connected with the men who operate the new Havana.”

Why would he want to include me, I wondered? What could I possibly offer? If he wanted a woman – or a man – he could get one, God knows. I’m sure he has no difficulty finding someone to share his bed. Surely there were any number of wealthy creoles with beautiful, well endowed daughters. Lively widows with fortunes aplenty.

“Bien.” The smile returned and he reached for his glass. “I will come for you at sunset.”

*

— from Yankee Moon; the Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventures

copyright 2016 Linda Collison