Honorable Lies Page 4
My own clumsy hits were lightweight, without powerful follow-through, but I managed, using Nicolas’s and Hutton’s techniques, to land four touches to Boreau’s three. If the match had been on style or machismo, he would have already won, but it wasn’t. And unlike me, I could see that the bastard—I was long past the point of niceties—wasn’t hurting or tired at all. But I did have him infuriated by my score, plainly ready to cast all caution aside.
Breathing heavily now, I willed myself to silent exhales, trying to slow my heart as it pounded in my chest. My clothes were soaked from the incredible humidity in the courtyard. I was beyond caring what I looked like. The mask had turned into a slimy, claustrophobic tomb for my face, but there was no way to remove it and wipe away the sweat before we would begin again. The scent of frangipani and jasmine was just a memory. All I smelled now was fear.
“Commence!” shouted Gondolfo.
Boreau advanced steadily, then did a ballestra, the Italian jumping lunge attack that changes tempo and catches the opponent off guard. He feinted to my right, then again to my right. That and the ballestra were enough to confuse me, and I left my vulnerable left side open. It took only the fraction of a second for him to take advantage of my lapse. Before I knew it, his saber was making a wide swinging arc, the blade flying toward the left side of my neck. It was obvious what he was doing. Boreau was going to slash through my mask and open my carotid artery.
The accidental coup de grâce.
I turned my body quickly to face the threat, but my left hand remained where it had been, now next to the left side of my head instead of behind it. That was a basic error—you always keep your unprotected left hand and arm behind you. I realized my mistake as the tip of his saber sliced through it.
The hand slowed and deflected the blow enough to allow me to instinctively duck as the blade went over my head. Pain was instantaneous and severe, like the hand was on fire. I shook it and blood splattered everywhere. Several women screamed.
Boreau’s attack had such force to it that he spun almost all the way around, but he quickly corrected and used his momentum to advance for another attack. I was stumbling backward, into the warning area near the end of the piste, when Gondolfo pointed to Boreau and yelled, “Basta!”—“Enough!” Boreau shook his head in disgust and took up the standing position on his half of the piste, chest heaving with fury.
The president of the jury came to me. “Commander Wake, blood has been drawn, and the match will now end. With this new touch by Lieutenant Commander Boreau, you both now have a tie at four points each. An honorable end. Congratulations. And now we will attend to your wound.”
I examined my bleeding hand. Because it was blunted, the tip of Boreau’s saber had opened a very ragged, three-inch cut along the bottom edge of the hand, perhaps half an inch deep. It hurt like hell, but the pain cleared my head and filled it with anger.
Rork dashed over with a cloth and bound up the hand tightly. Glancing at Boreau, he grumbled, “That bloody friggin’ Spic bastard’s—” then stopped, seeing my reaction and abruptly remembering our mutual agreement of a month earlier. We had both agreed to lessen our cursing and diminish derogatory ethnic slurs.
Rork had no illusion that the pact was mainly aimed at him, for he, like all bosuns, could swear a blue streak. What I never could understand, though, was how he, who suffered like so many Irish immigrants from derogatory myths about his people and faith, could be such a xenophobe regarding other cultures. So “we” decided to change that. From then on, no more Dagos, Spics, Krauts, Frogs, Rag Heads, Camel Jockies, Chinks, Limeys, Poufs, Micks, Wops, Cheesers, or Polacks would emerge from that Irish mouth, or a penny would be forfeited each time. I am pleased to report that the cursing had diminished by that day in Havana but must admit the efforts against ethnic epithets weren’t going as well. Back in Washington, a jar was already filled with penance.
With great consternation he changed his verbiage to “Sorry, sir. What I meant to say was that Spaniardo Boreau fella thinks yer done for.” With typical lower-deck wit, he added, “So now that ye’ve got that bugger fooled nice an’ good, go ahead an’ kill ’im.”
“Spaniardo” was Rork’s substitute for previous untoward descriptors of Hispanic people. His opinion of Boreau echoed my thoughts—the man was gloating at that very moment. Gondolfo had offered the perfect way out for me, and logically I should have taken it. My goal was accomplished, and I could stay in nice quarters ashore in Havana. But I wasn’t thinking logically by that point. The mission was completely gone from my mind. There was only Boreau, and I’d be damned if I would quit now while he was standing there, arrogantly planning his final move to ensure my death.
“Precisely, Rork,” I wheezed, trying not to double over in pain. “Glad you recognized my plan. He’s completely overconfident.”
I turned to Gondolfo. “Mr. President, I am fine. It is a minor cut and my own fault for having my left hand in the way. We can go on and finish the match.”
Gondolfo didn’t like that. He’d seen Boreau’s attacks and knew there was something personal going on. This wasn’t an exhibition of skill and sportsmanship.
“I insist, sir,” I told him, probably a little too strongly through my gritted teeth. He scowled, then looked at the now red cloth around my hand.
“Commander . . .” he began, but I interrupted.
“Mr. President, I am sure my adversary did not intentionally target my left hand, but it was a legitimate hit and a minor wound. I don’t need that hand to continue the fencing match. This is a matter of personal honor, so I am now demanding we continue.”
Gondolfo shook his head. “Very well, Commander.”
I turned to the audience and announced, “Touché. Soy listo que continuar. I am ready to continue.”
Admiral Luce had been walking toward me but stopped and went pale when I made my statement. Rork grinned at Luce and pointed to his rubber left hand. “No worries, Admiral. He’ll be right as rain on a Derry mornin’—hand wounds’re me specialty!”
Boreau wiped his saber on his white trouser leg, my blood making a long smear like a trophy. He looked at it, then me, snickering quietly.
Enjoy it now, you son of a demented son of a lunatic, I thought, for my turn is coming.
“The match will continue,” announced Gondolfo, sadly. “The score is now even, la belle, with four touches for each of our honored opponents. The next touch will be the winning point.”
It is customary when a match becomes tied, known as la belle, that the fencers salute each other before resuming. It must have been obvious by that time to the onlookers that Boreau and I were anything but “honored opponents,” but we dutifully executed our flourishes when Gondolfo ordered, “Salute!”
Seconds later, he commanded, “En garde,” then, “Commence!”
And with that, Boreau and I went at it for the final time.
I had gone into the terce, or third, position. It was a slightly higher stance, and the one Hutton taught me for serious saber fighting. Boreau didn’t seem to notice the change and proceeded to attack violently without even feinting. It was what I thought he’d do—another accelerating advance with a beautifully done ballestra, which didn’t confuse me in the least, for in that split second I saw his leveled saber in position for a high molinello slash to my chest.
His mistake.
Because I’d started in the terce stance, I already had my blade up and executed a coulé, sliding my blade along his saber, turning it into a circular envelopment that loosened Boreau’s positive control of his saber. Forcing his blade up and away, I dropped my body down with the left hand on the piste in a very low passata sotto position, denying him a target as he ineffectually swung the saber over my head. Before he could recover, I lunged onward and upward.
A good fencer would probably have done a molinello slash to Boreau’s undefended midsection to score the point, but I was far beyond fencing by that point. With a growl and the last of my strength, I rammed my saber’
s tip directly into Boreau’s solar plexus and bulled him backward along the piste until he stumbled and fell. It wasn’t a pretty move, but it worked.
My blade never left him, following Boreau down, the tip ripping the outer layer of padding and traveling up his chest and under the lower edge of his mask toward the throat until, at the last moment, I forced myself to lift it away, putting his mask askew. He tried to stand but was too wobbly and fell rearward again—off the very end of the piste.
The crowd gasped in horror. The despised yanqui had won. The beloved Spanish hero had not only lost but was humiliated. Dead silence. I quickly saluted Boreau and Gondolfo, then the captain-general. Heart pounding and ears ringing, I executed an about-face and walked away.
Thank you, Captain Hutton, for teaching me the passata sotto.
5
Instinct
Palace of His Excellency
Captain-General Don Sabas Marin y Gonzalez
Plaza de Armas, Havana
10:30 a.m., Tuesday
25 September 1888
After the grandees recovered from their shock, they quickly headed for the entrance and their carriages. The Spanish civil and military leadership curtly bowed to Admiral Luce, then retired up the steps to the captain-general’s offices, I presume to discuss how the Americans had pulled off this latest trick. Boreau, still stunned, was taken off to a room somewhere near the stables by Lieutenant What’s-his-name, the staff translator, whose magnificent show had evaporated in front of him.
Indeed, the ambiance of the place had changed from haughty to funereal in the space of seconds. I was left standing alone by a peacock in the corner of the patio, rather stunned myself and still trying to catch my breath.
Rork and Luce came over to me, satisfaction and worry competing in their expressions. “How are you, Peter?” asked the admiral.
“Tired, sir.”
“What happened there? That was no fencing match—he was out to kill you.”
“It was a trap, sir—set up by an old enemy of mine in the government here, but it failed.”
“Can you still carry out your mission? Does this negate it?”
Hmm. Well, it hadn’t really helped it. Admiral Luce hadn’t been told the exact nature of my mission in Havana. Only Rork knew that. I simply said, “Yes, sir, I can still carry it out.”
To my relief, the admiral, one of the sharpest minds in the navy, didn’t ask for further clarification. Telling an admiral he’s not important enough to be let in on a secret assignment is definitely not good for one’s career. Especially when the admiral knows the enlisted petty officer with you is privy to the entire plan.
Rork diverted the dialogue by producing another handkerchief and wrapping my hand anew. The old one was sopping red, and he tsk-tsked me. “Aye, ye’ve gone an’ opened up the bloody damned thing, Commander. Needs a wee bit o’ sewin’, by the looks o’ it.”
Another tsk-tsk, accompanied by a disapproving shaking of his head—as if my wound was my fault. Well, actually, I suppose it was.
I ignored Rork’s verbal transgression, for by then I was ready for some foul language myself. A palace servant stared at me from the balcony while talking to someone out of my view. Embarrassed by all the attention over my hand, I told my friend, “Oh, stop clucking like an old lady about it, Rork. It’s a small cut.”
“Aye, ’tis smaller than some. An’ wee cuts’re still serious on a hand, what with infection an’ all.” He raised the index finger of his real hand. “Take me word on that subject! But nary’s the worry, sir. Me an’ that ol’ sailmaker’ll get ye sewed up an’ squared away inside o’ three snaps o’ a bishop’s garter.”
Rork glanced warily around us. The few remaining people in the courtyard were giving us distinctly unfriendly looks. “Aye, sir, ’tis time to get under way an’ outta here. Let’s get onboard o’ Richmond. We’ll come back ashore later.”
“Take my carriage straight away, Rork,” ordered Luce. “I’ll board another one later. I want to have a word with the Spanish admiral anyway, if I can find the man. They all seem to have disappeared on me.”
With a less-than-amused tone, he added, “And for God’s sake, Bosun Rork, get Commander Wake to the ship’s surgeon immediately, not the blasted sailmaker.”
I appreciated his kind offer of quick transport, for though the cut was small in comparison to others I’ve had, that ragged gash was beginning to throb considerably.
Rork wasted no time in piping up, “Aye, aye, sir,” and propelled me through the line of guests in the entryway. We rushed toward the fancy carriage reserved for the American admiral.
Ahead of our vehicle was an even more ornate coach, the amount of its gold gilt obviously denoting royal rank. Several sour-faced, mature ladies were boarding. A young gentleman with them, perhaps sixteen years of age and dressed to the hilt, was rattling off in a thick Castilian accent details of a soiree that evening.
Rork jumped up to the driver’s bench of our carriage—only officers ride inside—as a footman opened the door for me. I was about to board when a movement to my right, beyond the royal coach, caught my attention.
It was a figure in a plain black suit at the edge of the park that covered the plaza. Standing there by himself on the empty street, he looked like a merchant’s clerk and harmless enough, but he had a large object clutched in both hands. And he was openly staring at the line of coaches under the portico.
No, it was more than that. Glaring is a better description. There was clear hostility in his face. Suddenly he began sprinting across the intervening street, shouting in a Cuban accent, “Abajo con los gusanos reales!” (“Down with the royal worms!”) Calling someone a “worm” in Cuba is a serious insult. Two costumed soldiers farther down the street, armed with three-hundred-year-old pikes, began heading his way.
The man in black had more than insults for the royals, though, for he suddenly hurled the large object, which I now saw was a satchel, toward the young nobleman by the royal carriage. The boy stopped and watched as the satchel flew in a shallow arc right at him.
Having divested himself of his burden, the intruder now produced a revolver from his pocket and screamed, “Muerte a los tiranos!” (“Death to tyrants!”) He raised it in the boy’s direction. The soldiers were running flat out now but were still too far away. The pistol clicked—a misfire—but the Cuban kept it aimed and was trying again. The satchel had landed at the boy’s feet, hissing and smoking ominously.
It was one of those tableau moments, frozen in time. Rork yelled, “Bomb!” An officer in the entryway shouted an order to his men, one of the women in the coach screamed, and everyone else just stood there.
Why and how I did what came next, I cannot explain. Instinct, probably.
It took me three strides—and perhaps half as many seconds—to reach the boy and shove him back into the crowd at the palace’s entry. I then kicked the satchel as I would a ball, launching it in a trajectory away from the carriage and confines of the portico, toward the open street.
By this point, the bomber had arrived at my location and did not take kindly to my interruption of his work. He switched targets from the boy to me but failed to notice that I had targeted him. My right hand moved faster than his trigger finger, executing a passable sweeping parry from below. It knocked that weapon out of his hand. Captain Hutton would have been proud to see my adaptation of his lesson on singled-handed defense against an armed adversary.
There was no time for self-congratulation, though, for several things occurred simultaneously: The royal youngster sprawled on the floor behind a massive potted plant by the enormous mahogany palace door, felling several people in line; one of the arriving soldiers slammed his pike into the bomber’s stomach; and Rork used his navy-issued Colt to shoot the bomber in the face from fifteen yards range, which I thought an impressive shot.
And out on the street, the bomb detonated.
The thing had been packed with small nails. The makeshift grapeshot blasted out in al
l directions, lacerating everything in its path. Four other costumed soldiers, running across the street from the park to reinforce their comrades, were flung sideways, their bodies contorting in unnatural poses as they collapsed on the street. The nails thudded into the street side of the carriages lined up for the passengers. Horses shrieked from their wounds and bolted with the vehicles. Several windows along the front wall of the palace disintegrated. A dozen people were wounded.
The concussion was thunderous in the portico. I was thrown sideways, my head impacting that decorative stone planter the royal youngster was behind. Several nails penetrated my left arm and leg, but thankfully I escaped the fate of those soldiers on the street. It could have been worse. The bomb was homemade and not of military-grade explosive, or there would’ve been more dead and maimed.
After firing his shot, Rork jumped down to assist me. Thus, he was behind the bulk of our carriage when the bomb went off. Untouched, he ran over and knelt beside me, running his hand over my head and looking quite anxious while speaking to me. I could see his lips moving, but heard only a constant ringing. “What?” I asked.
His lips moved again. I tried to stand but lost my sense of balance and keeled forward face-first toward the floor. Rork caught my right arm in mid-fall and gently lowered me to the ground. Every time I tried to lift my head, my vision swam in circles and nausea rebelled in my stomach.
Beside me the boy was shouting frantically, but it just sounded like muffled babbling to me. Women with blood-stained gowns stared at each other before bursting into shrieking hysteria. Two officers were dragging a wounded comrade away to the interior of the palace while modern-clad soldiers with real armaments started arriving from the nearby fortress, their faces tense as they formed a protective perimeter, waiting for another attack.