Honorable Lies Read online

  In June of ’88, I again had a mission involving Havana. Tensions between the United States and Spain were rising over private American citizens’ support for the rebels on the island. Money, guns, supplies, and manpower came from Cubans and Anglo-Americans alike living in the eastern United States, especially in Florida and New York City.

  In Spain, there were calls for a naval blockade against the United States in the Straits of Florida, and some even wanted war. In Washington, President Grover Cleveland’s administration wanted no part of Cuba or the revolutionaries, much less war with Spain, but neither could it abide the humility of a Spanish blockade off Florida. The true character of the Spanish navy’s ability to conduct a sustained naval blockade—and its lethality against the American navy should war break out—needed to be taken into account before U.S. national policy was decided.

  Since Cuba was my bailiwick, I drew the assignment and oversaw an espionage mission that used extortion to make a man named Paloma, the number-two Spanish official at the naval repair and supply base in Havana, one of our informants. In exchange for our not letting the captain-general know of his violent and grossly unnatural proclivities concerning adolescent boys—he was a horrifying fiend—Paloma gave us a whole store of inside knowledge, along with his word that the depravity would stop. Thus, I held his life in my hands.

  Yes, I know that this effort was not high moral ground, but intelligence work seldom reaches those heights. It did yield crucial information, however, for we learned that the Spanish navy looked ominous only on paper. In reality, their ships were low on fuel supplies, in desperate need of repair, behind on gunnery training, and short of trained seaman and gunners. Only one warship in Cuban waters, the armored cruiser Reina Regente, newly built and recently arrived from Spain, was of any real intimidating value. The Spanish repair facilities were obsolete and under-equipped. They couldn’t maintain any type of blockade, mobilize for war on a global scale, or do any major naval damage against the U.S. at that time.

  This good news allowed our executive leadership to dampen the zealots in Washington and let tensions ease during the summer. To prolong this state of affairs, I intended to keep control by maintaining the extortion over my Spanish informant to continue our access to such good intelligence.

  Then, in July, I became involved in another, unrelated series of incidents in the Bahamas and Haiti that claimed my attention. I was incommunicado in those countries until my return to Washington in early September. My reception upon returning to headquarters was frosty, for in my absence disaster had struck the Paloma mission. I was summoned to the office of my superior, Commodore John Grimes Walker, chief of the Bureau of Navigation.

  It was in Commodore Walker’s office that I learned what was known. There were three men in the room—Walker, myself, and a portly older man with a New York City accent. I’d never met or heard of the man, who was introduced only as Mr. Smith from executive branch. Walker explained that our sadist informant, Paloma, had disappeared from Havana in August while I was in Haiti. So did one of my Cuban operatives who helped us on the project, a man I called by his alias: Casas. Neither man was known to have left the island, so both were assumed to be under arrest and in the dungeon under the Audiencia in Havana. Several other operatives in Havana had not replied to communications sent them. Mr. Smith was particularly worried and wanted to know how badly our intelligence operations in Cuba were compromised.

  Without waiting for replies, Mr. Smith rattled off rhetorical questions to me: Was Paloma in fact under arrest? Had he been executed? Was Casas in the Audiencia with Paloma, or had he been executed also? Had they both told all they knew of that operation and our other efforts to Colonel Marrón and his henchmen? Or was the opposite true? Was Paloma in actuality a double agent run by Marrón, feeding us false information while the entire time gaining knowledge for the Spanish crown about our intelligence operations? Was Casas his accomplice? Had we—make that you, Commander Wake—been completely duped? Were the Spanish making us complacent with false intelligence while actually building up their own abilities against us, perhaps contemplating a first attack?

  Walker was clearly uncomfortable with Mr. Smith’s arrogant and accusatory attitude, a sentiment with which I was in increasing agreement as our little conference continued. With a level tone and furrowed brow, Walker gruffly interrupted Smith’s monologue and resumed command of the meeting by informing me that, since I was “responsible for the whole Paloma thing from the beginning,” it was I who was going to Cuba to solve the problem.

  I would join Richmond that very day as a supernumerary on Admiral Luce’s staff with the ridiculously pompous title of “protocol officer,” a topic I know little of and care about even less. Richmond was making a five-day courtesy call in Havana, part of the de-escalation of tensions between Spain and the U.S.—a result of Paloma’s information on the Spanish fleet—before heading around the Caribbean to show the flag at other places of turmoil, such as Panama and Haiti. Walker further informed me that as of that exact minute, I had eleven days in total to accomplish the mission. But, he warned, that included transit time to and from Cuba, so only five of the days would be in Havana.

  Mr. Smith, whose soft hands and suave manner indicated a lack of familiarity with the more tumultuous regions of the world, then chimed in by announcing that the mission had three objectives. The first was to quietly determine what had happened to the two missing men and the potential for other losses in our network of informants. Second, to rescue the two men if they had been captured and put in the Audiencia dungeon, as I thought probable. This was to be a false flag mission, he emphasized, with us portraying ourselves as something other than Americans. He suggested Cuban patriots. The third objective was to be undertaken while rescuing the men in the dungeon—I was to take that unique opportunity to remove documents of intelligence value in Colonel Marrón’s office in the dungeon.

  After all this had been done, we were to make our way back to the anchored Richmond under cover of darkness and depart Cuba immediately, hopefully with none in Havana the wiser, or at least without possessing proof as to how the prisoners had escaped the Audiencia. I was to cable a report in cipher from Key West to Commodore Walker in Washington no later than Monday, October first, relating what I had discovered and subsequently achieved.

  Following that, I was to return to Washington, where I would personally present an account of the mission to Commodore Walker, Admiral David Dixon Porter, commanding admiral of the navy, and the enigmatic Mr. Smith. That would occur no later than eight o’clock on the morning of Thursday, October fourth. All this meant I needed to be out of Havana by the first day of the month, send the telegraph message, and board the first northbound steamer in order to travel all the way back to headquarters in time. And even then, it would be a very close-run thing.

  “Why the time limit, sir?” I asked Commodore Walker in perplexity, since something like this needed far more time to plan and execute. My unstated opinion was that only a fool in Washington with no experience in the real world—which undoubtedly was Mr. Smith—could have concocted this fantasy of a plan.

  My question was answered with a nebulous reply by Mr. Smith, whom I was beginning to truly despise. “Commander, the time parameters are due to upcoming decisions in Washington that might be influenced by events in Cuba.”

  An hour later, I learned from an idler in the staff offices, one of those who paid attention to such things for the advancement of his own career, that there was to be a political campaign rally for the president in Washington at high noon on the day I was to brief my superiors at eight in the morn, the fourth of October. A Texas congressman—and former Confederate colonel—who was in favor of the president’s policy of reducing tariffs on imports, including sugar from Cuba, was to be primary speaker at the event.

  Aha, thought I, that explains it all. Cuba, tariffs, and the upcoming presidential election—it all coalesced in my mind. The navy leadership, like everyone in Washington, thought P
resident Cleveland would have an easy reelection. The leadership didn’t want any bad news out of Cuba that would incur the wrath of the Democrat-controlled executive branch or Congress, for the navy was trying to modernize and desperately needed political help for the budget. The Republican candidate, Benjamin Harrison, a former Union general, was crisscrossing the country and publicly espousing his support for a modern navy and high tariffs to protect American industry and agriculture—but no one really thought he would win. It was a delicate balancing act for the navy, but wily old Admiral Porter had been doing just that for the eighteen years he’d been the senior admiral of the U.S. Navy.

  As I took in my present situation in the patio of the palace, that meeting in Washington seemed ages earlier. I bitterly wondered what brilliant advice Mr. Smith would give if he could see my predicament now.

  It was no use to dwell on all that. Before I could do anything else to accomplish my mission in Havana, I had to fight—of all the men in the world—the son of a man I’d killed two years earlier, in what some would describe as the very darkest shade of honor.

  I have used a blade in combat, but my limited knowledge in the art of fencing was of recent origin. Fortunately, the quality of my instruction outweighed the quantity, for in the previous year of 1887, I’d had occasion to study briefly under two of the best sabreurs (masters of the saber) in the world.

  It started with an athletically enthusiastic friend in New York City, the very same man who received that message in ’86, Theodore Roosevelt. He’d been constantly haranguing me to try various manly martial arts like boxing and sword fighting. To get my young friend to stop, I finally said yes to fencing. He arranged five saber lessons from one of the top instructors in the city, the famous Captain Hyppolyte Nicolas, formerly of the Hungarian hussar guards. Accordingly, I spent five long and strenuous nights in a row at the captain’s fencing club on Twenty-Fourth Street, with Roosevelt shouting a steady stream of inane encouragements from the side.

  At the end of the week, Captain Nicolas pronounced me a natural at the saber, with the observation that I obviously had Hungarian blood somewhere in my family lineage. More importantly, he taught me several moves that are designed to be of use in a real sword fight, as opposed to a sporting match.

  Then, a few months later in the fall of 1887, I was in Europe on a courier assignment and had the occasion to be in Great Britain for a month. With my interest in fencing having been sparked by Captain Nicolas, I took the opportunity to attend classes taught by the legendary Captain Alfred Hutton, late of the 1st King’s Guards Regiment of the British Army in India. Hutton, an expert in various edged weapons, has a particular affinity for the saber and instructs his students how to use it in combat against various other weapons. His training is even more strenuous than the Hungarian’s, and, after several weeks of sore muscles, contusions, and a few lacerations, I had learned quite a lot the hard way.

  And so, it may now become apparent that my reason for requesting sabers over foils was to gain some small advantage over Boreau, who I predicted would allow his rage to overcome his judgment and thus degrade his skill, especially with a heavier blade than he was used to handling. In addition, though he was a champion in the art of fencing, I had some life experience, which I guessed my foe did not. You see, unlike many naval officers in this advanced day and age, I’ve actually killed a man with a naval cutlass.

  There is nothing artistic about it.

  4

  Passata, Sotto!

  Palace of His Excellency

  Captain-General Sabas Marin y Gonzalez

  Plaza de Armas, Havana

  10:20 a.m., Tuesday

  25 September 1888

  Boreau and I stared at each other as the sour-faced president of the jury was introduced. He was a veteran fencing master named Gondolfo, who looked old enough to have fought under Napoleon. The president got right down to business, introducing the jury members and announcing the rules of combat. They were simple. The match would continue without time limit until the first man scored five “touches” of his saber on the other. The areas of the body open for attack, by slashing or thrusting, would be everything above the hips, including the head and hands.

  One of the jury members took a piece of white chalk and ran it up and down our blades. That was to mark the hits on our black jackets. He then examined the very tips of the blades, making sure they were bent back and blunted. The other man inspected our masks, then the piste. When they were finished, the jurymen took their positions and bobbed their heads to Gondolfo, who stood ramrod straight and clapped his hands for quiet.

  “The combatants will now execute their salutes!”

  Boreau went first. Facing the captain-general, he whipped his saber up and across his front in a dramatic demonstration of control and speed, coming to attention with a click of his heels and ending up with the bell guard at his face and the blade absolutely vertical. He then swept it down to his right front, the rippled swish clearly audible. Don Sabas acknowledged the salute with a leisurely nod.

  In similar beautiful fashion, Boreau saluted the president of the jury and the other members of the jury, each of whom reacted by bowing slightly. His final salute was to me, which he managed to accomplish with a gross sense of disdain, barely lifting his bell guard to his face and refusing to look me in the eye.

  Not to be outdone in the theatrical department, I stamped to attention—I’ve seen enough Brits do it to get the hang of the maneuver—and faced Don Sabas, flourishing my blade in a wide S-shaped arc from the floor to the present-arms position in front of my face. I then did the same for each member of the jury. Finally, I made my salute to Boreau, with the added touch of pressing the forte section of the blade, the strongest part just above the guard, to my lips while smiling at him. The kiss of death, delivered with haughty pleasure, as it were.

  This impertinence elicited just what I’d hoped for, a low growl of fury from Boreau. Oh, yes, he was aching to kill me, all right. It was all he could do not to run me through right then and there, which would be an exceedingly bad breech of manners since old Gondolfo hadn’t given the word to start yet.

  Ten seconds later the president of the jury ordered, “Masks!” We both put on our masks and stood in the prescribed stance: right foot advanced and pointed precisely forward, the left foot one length astern and pointed an exact ninety degrees to port, with both knees slightly flexed and the saber pointing downward at forty-five degrees.

  The assembly grew hushed. Behind Boreau, I noticed a mature woman in the audience flutter a fan for air, her bejeweled bosom heaving in very apparent anticipation.

  Gondolfo shouted, “En garde!”

  Boreau lifted his saber. I could hear his breathing, deep and rhythmic, exhaling like a steam engine. He chose the classic position of foil fencers. His hand was extended and raised to just below the level of his shoulder and slightly to the left of his line of body, the upper arm and forearm in the traditional right angle. His blade slowly elevated to a forty-five-degree upward angle. I noticed the tip didn’t shake at all.

  I chose the same opening position. Not as a preference but as a feint, as if I was an experienced foil fencer too. Waiting for the word from Gondolfo, I studied Boreau’s perfect body position through the mesh of my mask and willed my hand to do what Nicolas had drilled into me, remain loose but in control. Stand your ground, let the fingers direct the saber, and make the other man expend the energy.

  The Hungarian’s words came back to me: “Ach, Peter, you are so very American. Your movements are too clumsy and easy to discern in advance. Kindly remember to relax your saber hand, so that it is more supple and therefore more difficult to predict or counter. Allow your hand to do the work. And above all, enjoy the combat . . .”

  “Commence!” Gondolfo ordered.

  I was still registering the order as Boreau raced toward me, his blade leveled at my chest. I parried it up and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. He wanted me to do that, taking my movement an
d turning it into his real attack. His saber lifted up and then instantly slashed down.

  Thwack! Boreau’s blade came down hard, cleaving into the top of my mask’s helmet. The classic cavalryman’s move. Without that protection, I would have been dead right then. As it was, I stood there stunned at the speed and weight of the attack, wondering far too late if my helmet had the regulation amount of leather padding. But, of course, there was no time to ponder such things, and one is not supposed to remove the helmet and contemplate the size of the dent he has just endured.

  “Touché,” I said, belatedly, in the traditional admission of a hit upon me.

  “Un touché à Boreau!” announced Gondolfo. The Spanish audience applauded. Laughter came from somewhere.

  I heard, “En garde!” and seconds later, “Commence!”

  This time I was a bit quicker on the draw, getting my blade over and down to the left into the number one position of parry, where it descends from the hand held at chest level. That was enough to block Boreau’s slashing molinello attack on my chest, but before I could riposte effectively, Boreau had jumped away. The man was all over the narrow piste, lunging and backing, while I remained pretty much in my original position. There was no way I could match his footwork.

  Boreau began a rapid advance, his saber cutting through the air, reaching out for me. With no time for fancy moves, I feinted to the left, then slashed upward and across my front, parrying his saber. Since I didn’t move, he ended up running into me, a corps-à-corps situation where our bodies came into contact. Before Gondolfo could call for us to separate, I tapped Boreau on the arm with my blade, leaving a nice white chalk mark. Point for me.

  This sort of back and forth thing went on for the next ten minutes—an eternity when you’re faced with a homicidal maniac. His attacks on me were hard, slashing hits. I felt a trickle on my abdomen after Boreau had done another lower molinello attack, ripping hard into my guts. I hoped the padding had held and that it was sweat. That point got him an ovation from the Spanish and a groan from the Americans. Another of Boreau’s hits was a slash exactly on the bone of my right forearm, the pain seriously degrading my strength and saber control.