"And by going to that cockfight, I met some Spanish sailors and found out that the San Cristobal, which you must admit is a clear and very present danger to us, will not sail for at least two weeks. So there," I say, fluffing up. "Have I not been a good spy, Mr. Special Intelligence Agent John Higgins?"
"Um," says Higgins, considering. "Yes, that is good to know."
"And later last night, when we were all at Ric's and I had finished my set and they were all well into their cups, they confided in me that they consider their Captain Morello to be a tyrant as well as a coward and that they hate their gunnery division officer, Lieutenant Juan Carlos Cisneros y Siquieros, with a deep and abiding passion."
"And they are?"
"Eduardo, Jesus, Manuelo, and Mateo. Pretty good coves, actually, even though they are the enemy. They've gotten used to treating me as an entertainer, rather than as una puta."
"That is good," says my friend and protector, whom I know I should never, ever get miffed at. "Now, let us have a look at the rest of this fine city. Driver, push on!"
We visit a tobacco plantation, where Higgins buys several boxes of the vile things—They are the very finest, Miss. None can compare. I do not protest, as we all have our vices. Then Los Baños de San Diego, a fine beach where small thatched huts are built out into the water such that the fine ladies of Havana can bathe in privacy. Me, I'm thinkin' about rentin' out one of those baños should Jaimy and I ever get shore leave in Havana. We could have some fun, we could. Ain't bloody likely, but still ... heh-heh ... but never mind. Mostly what we look at are the formidable fortiications that encircle the city.
"This city has always feared attack from all sides," says Higgins. "And well they should—the place has been captured by pirates, and by us British not too long ago."
"Yes, I know about that," I say. My belly gives out with a little growl and I'm thinking that maybe we should be getting back to the Nancy B. for a bit of a snack before we head out to Ric's for the evening. I have been promised a full set tonight and must prepare.
"What you perhaps do not know is that this city very much fears a slave rebellion above all things," says Higgins.
"Oh?"
"There are at least two thousand escaped slaves in those hills over there." I look over the green and peaceful-seeming country. "They have been joined by many free men of color as well. They have been gathering arms and are ... waiting ... waiting for their chance. They are led by a black man who calls himself Emperor León de Cuba, the Lion of Cuba."
"And how do you know this, Friend and Conscience Higgins?" I ask.
"I have been spending my time at the local university, reading and immersing myself in the culture of Cuba."
"Uh-huh," I say, giving him a poke in the ribs. "And what else have you been doing?"
"Well, ahem, I have made ... friends ... with some of the scholars there, young hidalgos, aristocratic young men of pure Castilian extraction. They know much of what is going on."
"Well, Higgins, I think we both have been doing our jobs. I am good at chatting up the low types, and you are very good at doing the same with the nobs. Is that not right?"
"Yes, Miss," Higgins says with his secret smile. "You are very right."
And back we go to the Nancy B.
Chapter 26
We're all onboard and suiting up for tonight's performance at Ric's. I had expected Jim, Davy, and Tink to come back dressed in the loose linen suits favored by the local gentry, but no, they all had bought short, tight, heavily brocaded jackets that come down only to the waist, with gold trimmed tails behind, tight white trousers below, in short, exactly what young Spanish naval officers would have chosen. Seems the lads have given themselves promotions. Oh, well ... They do look good, I must say.
Joannie and Daniel returned as Higgins and I arrived, and then went rather quickly down below—rather too quickly, I'm thinking—and I waste no time in plunging down after them to find out what mischief the two little rotters have been up to.
The kids are standing by the stove, facing away. "All right, out with it," I demand. "What did you do?" I take Joannie by the shoulders and spin her around.
There, hanging from her left earlobe is a bright gold ring. A quick glance at Daniel proves that he wears one, too.
They both try weak, anxious smiles. "The Sailor's Bargain, remember?" says Joannie.
I do not smile. "Both of you. In my cabin. Now!"
Their smiles disappear as they dash toward my cabin and to what they must assume will be certain doom. The two miscreants are standing nervously next to my table when I get there. I say nothing as I go to my medicine cabinet and pull out the bottle of pure alcohol.
"All right. Across the table, both of you. Earring up."
They do it and I am reminded of the many times I myself was spread out across Mistress Pimm's desk at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston, my skirts up, my bottom ready to receive the rod.
Instead of the whip, I have something better in mind for these two. I start with Daniel. I soak a clean piece of cloth in the spirits of wine, peer at his swollen red earlobe, and then place the alcohol directly upon the wound. He flinches, but does not cry out; he merely lets out a long eeeeeeeee! I flip his earlobe over and hit it from the back. Another eeeeeeee! I hit the lobe with a healthy dab of my healing salve, and that's it.
"All right, you. You're done, but we will do this every day till your ear heals up ... or turns black and falls off. Do you understand, Daniel Prescott? Good. Now stand up."
Now for Joannie. Her ear is more swollen and inflamed than Daniel's. Damn! I put the alcohol to it and she, too, jerks, but she makes not a sound. I clean out the blood that has gathered about the hoop on both sides, give the ring a quarter turn to make sure the alcohol gets right in there, and she squirms and writhes on the tabletop. I know it hurts, but it's good for you. Then it's the salve, then up on her feet.
I confront her. "I can't believe it. You're just recovering from a serious injury, and yet you go out and inflict another one on yourself," I say, an accusing finger in her face. "What about the danger of infection? Well? What about that?" She hangs her head.
"Prescott! Did you put her up to this?"
"N-no, Jacky. It was my idea," whispers Joannie.
"Well, I ain't your mother, but..."
Joannie's head jerks back up.
"That's right, you're not," she snaps, her eyes on mine. "So why don't you stop acting like you are?"
"Don't you speak to me like that, young lady!" I hiss, and, without thinking, reach out and slap her across the face.
I instantly regret it.
Her eyes fill with tears. "You were s-s-supposed to be my friend ... But now you ... hit me."
I throw my arms around her. She stands stiff in my embrace. "I am so sorry, Joannie," I wail. "It's just that I worry about you so much!"
She remains rigid. The tears that were in her eyes now run down her cheeks.
I drop my arms to my sides. "Here, Joannie. Slap me back, then we'll be even," I say, holding out my chin, hoping she'll take me up on it.
She doesn't.
"I love you, Jacky. I could never hit you."
Could I feel any more rotten and ashamed? Oh, I am such a hypocrite!
I put my arms around her again. "I love you, too, and I promise never to do it again. Never again. Do you forgive me? Say you will, Joannie. Please."
I feel her relax and nod her head.
"Thank you, Sister," I say, and plant a kiss on her forehead. "Now, out, the both of you, and put your best clothes on. Tonight we're all going to Ric's."
With whoops of delight, they charge out the door, the tensions of the last few minutes forgotten as they anticipate a night out on the town. As they leave, Higgins appears and watches them go.
"You seem flushed, Miss," he says. "May I inquire as to the matter?"
"Oh, it's nothing, Higgins. I was just taught a lesson in love and trust by a twelve-year-old, is all."
"Ah," says Higgins, withholding comment on that. "And what will you wear tonight?"
"Oh, the blue! Definitely the blue! With the red wig!"
Heavy sigh from Higgins, as he sets to work making me look presentable, which ain't an easy task.
Ricardo Mendoza is a small, dapper gent, who wears perfectly tailored suits and rules over his establishment with a quiet but iron hand. Break one of his rules and you will never again step into Café Americano, which is a very popular spot. The rules are:
Do not ever provoke a fight.
Do not ever become a nasty or sloppy drunk.
Do not ever force your attentions on any of the women and girls in the place.
Do not ever cheat at the gaming tables (that one could get you killed as well).
Do conduct yourselves, always, as ladies and gentlemen.
Yes, Ric runs a classy joint, and I like it and feel right at home. There is a long, curving bar at the end of the large room, with many brightly colored liquors displayed and softly lit with lamps hidden behind the rows of bottles. There are tables all about that seat anywhere from two to ten people, and food, good food, is served by smiling young girls, modestly dressed.
The gaming tables are off to the left, the stage is in the center, and there are private rooms off a hallway that goes back to the privy.
In the center of it all stands Ricardo Mendoza, ramrod straight, greeting his customers with a quiet dignity.
"Buenas noches, Señorita Bouvier," he says, bowing. "It is very good to see you again. We very much enjoyed your performance last night."
"Good evening, Señor Ric," say I, dipping down into a medium curtsy. "I hope tonight will be as successful." He then leads me and my entourage to a fine table. The kids are beside me—carrying my guitar, fiddle, and concertina—and they are followed by Tink, Davy, and Higgins, all looking fine. I have my pennywhistle up one sleeve and my shiv up the other.
It's a good hour before the performance, so we order food and drink—delicious, spicy Cuban dishes, fine wine for me, rum punches for the lads, and straight rum, carefully sipped, for Higgins. Joannie and Daniel delight in the piles of sweetened tropical fruit placed on the table—oranges, grapefruit, pomegranates, passion fruit, bananas—and the drinks made from them, as well as a rice water and sugar mixture that they especially like.
At the end of the dinner, I lift my glass and say, "A toast to the Brotherhood ... and the Sisterhood of the Nancy B. Alsop. Long may all sail."
Hear, hear!
The toast is drunk and I look across all the riches laid on the table and say to Joannie, "A far cry from the old kip in Cheapside, eh girl?"
She nods, putting another breaded shrimp in her mouth, grinding it up, and washing it down with a slug of lemonade.
"But not too much, Sister, or you'll get sick," I say, dispatching a last shrimp of my own. "I know I ain't your mother"—and here I give her a big wink—"but we do have to sing for our supper soon." We have been practicing a few numbers together, and tonight will be the first time she performs in public. I know she is a little nervous about it.