Jack made his way up the gangplank to speak to Quince. “Any sign of Quen-Li?”
The one-armed first mate shook his head. “Nary a sign. But Hansumbob said he saw Cheatum speaking to some of the crew on that large galleon tied tandem with that Spanish bark.”
Jack looked across the small harbor to the ship. He could just make out the name—Agresor. “Well, if he’s looking for a job, that ship is well named for him.” They shared a laugh.
“Jack, if you’re planning something along the lines of revenge, make sure we have a way out of this harbor. It’s small and not very maneuverable.”
Jack looked toward the open Caribbean Sea. “I have to go back to the American consul. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Any luck with the land?”
“Not yet.”
Jack stepped off the gangplank. Quince’s question about a plan got him thinking. As he walked toward the consulate, he found himself passing the count’s hacienda. Was it fate that had brought him this way? He gazed at the house that seemed the source of all his misery. On impulse, he borrowed a pen and paper from a shop owner and scrawled a message to the count—one that he felt would not be ignored. He stuffed the note under the clapper and retraced his steps to the American consulate.
The consul himself sat behind a large desk in an elaborate office, American and Cuban flags bordering a painting of Thomas Jefferson. Jack sat before him.
“Your claim of ownership of this property at milepost twenty-seven in Matanzas Province seems completely unfounded,” the consul said. “I am frankly baffled that you would come in here and demand—nay, threaten—my clerk and the associate consul with what seems a spurious claim.”
Jack bit his lip, trying to maintain control. “I felt, sir, and maybe wrongfully, that I was being dodged, or that no one was interested in my problem.”
“Your problem, young man, is that your respect for the proper way to proceed in these matters is completely lacking.” The consul shuffled some papers in front of him. “Now I’ll leave you with the following. The property that you speak of, Hacienda de la Roja, or finca milepost twenty-seven, was bought for back taxes by one Alfonso de Silva on the fifth day of December 1805.” The consul looked up with a smile. “So you see, young man, you are just about three years too late. And as for your behavior, you should be ashamed of yourself, conducting this business in a manner that would reflect badly on the worthy citizens of our country.”
The small office seemed to close in on Jack. De Silva had the land. He felt a chill spread up his spine and he started to shake. His knees felt watery, and he wondered how much the consul could see.
“I’ve instructed my clerk to have a member of the guardia escort you back to your accommodations.” The consul paused solemnly. “Let this be a lesson, Mr. O’Reilly.” The official leaned back in his chair. “You’re dismissed.”
Jack was beyond rage. He glared at the politician and forced a smile. Rising slowly, he left the office, to be met in the outer office by three members of the guardia civil.
Once outside, Jack headed for the wharf, even though he realized he could not lead his escorts there. He avoided looking at them, determined to lose these fools long before they found out where he was going. The guardia seemed content to just walk behind him, chatting away. Jack was startled to hear one of the guards address another as Sargento Matros. He turned around, looking quickly at Matros. It had been three years and the man obviously did not recognize Jack. After all, thought Jack, the sergeant had been much more intent on murdering his mother and father than taking notice of a seventeen-year-old.
Jack turned right on Calle Juan Carlos, away from the ship. At a small inn he turned abruptly and darted up the stairs, standing in an alcove on the third floor. He watched through the open atrium as the guardia wandered around looking for him. Soon losing interest, they left.
Jack bounded down the stairs, following the soldiers. They stopped at a tavern filled with what seemed to be half of the guardia in Habana. He watched from across the avenida as Matros imitated Jack’s flight up the stairs. The sergeant had changed little in three years. Jack had not forgotten his pig eyes and flowing mustache.
Now that he knew where Matros could be found each evening, Jack allowed himself to ease away, fighting the urge to bound across the avenida and plunge a dagger into the beating black heart of his enemy. Feeling light-headed, Jack steadied himself against a lamppost, looking to the world like just another drunk. He began the walk back to the Star, his soul filled with violence.
The next morning Paul and Jack left the ship, their destination Matanzas. Jack had asked Paul to go with him; they would try to find where Jack’s parents were buried. They jumped on the tailgate of an empty lumber wagon, blending back into the dark interior. The driver of the four-horse team saw them, however, and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal symbol of money. Jack smiled, tossed the driver a coin, and they drove on.
Before long, Jack and Paul stood on a small rise, staring out at miles and miles of stripped fields. They were at milepost 27. Nothing looked the same. The cane had been vibrant and full when Jack had last seen this spot; now it had been cut. Short stalks sprouted in rows, like grave sites. They found nothing that would indicate a massacre. Paul watched Jack pace the red earth. Eventually, with the realization that his parents were not there, Jack gazed at his friend, then started down the road back to Habana, Paul following.
After several miles they stopped for tea in the village of Soñar. As they were leaving, Paul spoke to the proprietor while Jack waited in the street. Then they once again started west, Paul guiding them up a winding trail a half mile above the village. There, covering an acre of ground, was a small cemetery. It took them only moments to find the modest marker with the inscription: “Two unknown souls resting in peace. Heaven help them. December 1805.” Apparently the townspeople had taken this man and woman, when found, and buried them. Jack slipped to his knees in silent prayer.
After several minutes, he rose and looked around at the wellkept graves. His voice was thick.
“Let’s go back. I have business in Habana.”
Jack leaned against the stone building, watching the guardia celebrate the end of another working day. Matros and several other soldiers had arrived early and were heavily into their liquor. When Jack gauged them amply drunk, he crossed the street, entered the tavern, and ordered a glass of beer. He had never acquired a taste for it, but felt less conspicuous with the drink in front of him. A guitar’s strident tone rang above the noise of the soldiers. A small fight had broken out between a uniformed civil guard and a woman with too much makeup and too little common sense. She cursed the soldiers, only to be rewarded with a clout to her left ear. She retreated, sobbing, into a back room. The atmosphere was rife with malice. Jack bided his time. He felt sooner or later Matros would recognize him.
Around midnight, as the soldiers were starting to drift back toward their barracks, Matros himself stopped next to Jack at the bar. He stared at the American bleary-eyed. “¿Cómo se llama usted?”
Jack was relieved; his patience had waned. His thoughts momentarily returned to his mother, face down in the road, eyes glazed, lips moving soundlessly. “No habla español, señor.”