The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(56)

I loosen my gait, trying to imitate the walk of the men of my acquaintance, striving for nonchalance even as my body yearns to run.

Carlos’s house is two blocks away from the wharf, and we walk down Obispo Street together, Karl and the other men trailing behind us, their guns swinging loose from their hands now, ready for trouble. A little farther behind them is a carriage, and I’ve been urged to run to its safety if someone recognizes me and sounds the alarm.

It’s evening now, that in-between time when twilight crosses over into darkness. Every so often we pass by someone on the street, but for the most part people are in their houses eating dinner. The real danger will come at the Machina Wharf where my friends tell me the Spanish officers often loiter. With each step, my nerves grow, but when we near the wharf, there are only a few people in sight. Passengers have gathered near the landing stage for the Seneca.

The lights in Regla reflect on the water. The dark sky is illuminated with stars, and for a moment, I break character and cast my face upward, taking in all I’ve missed since I’ve been in prison.

I can feel Carlos’s gaze on me. Tears prick my eyes as I am overcome by the beauty of the night.

When will I see Cuba again?

Beside me, Carlos clears his throat, and I am returned to myself once more.

Off in the distance, the steamer lies in the harbor, plumes of smoke drifting from her funnels as she readies to set sail.

We hurry on.

There is a flurry of motion on the docks as the propellers of the launch carrying passengers to the Seneca start up with a whirl. I stand still, Carlos a hairbreadth away from me, watching the passengers board the launch. From the corner of my eye, I spy Decker and his friends heading toward a café that overlooks the harbor, a Spanish policeman in their company.

“This is it,” Carlos murmurs. “Karl and the others will distract the policeman. The quartermaster will help get you on board.”

“This is good-bye, then,” I say, sadness filling me.

“It is. You’ll be fine. The Americans will love you. How could they not?” He smiles. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget you.”

There is so much more I wish to say, but there is no time for it, so I turn away from him and climb into the little boat with the other passengers, my gaze on the docks. I can barely make out Carlos’s silhouette, and then he disappears from view entirely.

We arrive at the Seneca, and as I climb on board, a sailor walks toward me and instructs me to follow him.

My friends told me there would be people around helping me along the way, but the sailor’s presence still surprises me, and for a moment, I almost don’t follow him, afraid this is a trap.

A few policemen including the chief of police mill around.

I keep my gaze trained to the ground, following the sailor to another part of the boarding area.

An officer requests my passport, and I produce the one Carlos gave me that proclaims me to be Juan Sola, an eighteen-year-old sailor.

My heart pounds as I wait to see if my papers arouse suspicion, but the officer waves me on without another glance.

The sailor leads me to a small cabin on deck. He opens the door and tells me to enter, before closing it behind me quickly, and I am alone once more.

I crawl onto the lowest berth, staring up at the bunk above me. The room is dark, and even though I am alone, I lie as still as possible to avoid attracting any attention. Time passes slowly, and every so often there is a noise that sends a chill down my spine.

To have come so far, only to be sent back—

The boat rocks slightly, but I can’t tell if we’re moving or not, if we’ve cast off, and then suddenly, my stateroom door swings open.

Heavy footsteps fill the room.

I can’t see the intruder, but by the rustling noises filling the room it is clear that they are searching for something—or someone—in the cabin.

Have my friends been captured as well?

I press my body closer to the wall, holding my breath and stilling my limbs as much as possible in the hopes that the intruder will think the cabin is empty and leave immediately.

The sound of a match being struck fills the room, followed by the glow of a little flame.

This is it.

Tears of frustration and anger fill my eyes.

When they take me onto the deck, I’ll look for the first opportunity I can to jump overboard.

“Evangelina,” a man’s voice calls out.

I don’t dare respond.

“Miss Cisneros—I’m Walter B. Barker. Where are you?”

I recognize the name instantly from my conversations with Carlos. If my memory serves, Mr. Barker is an American diplomatic staff member who was posted in Havana and is a confidant of Consul General Lee’s.

He is a friend.

I crawl out from the berth, relief filling me.

Walter smiles at me. “We’ve been at sea for about an hour now. We’re far enough away from Havana that no one can hurt you. Why don’t you come up on deck with me?”

Tears spill down my cheeks.

As much as I want to, the events of the past few days crash into me over and over again, until I can do nothing but cry, unable to believe my good fortune—

I am really and truly free.





Twenty-One





Grace


On October 8, 1897, the Journal reports “the Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba,” Evangelina Cisneros, has escaped from Recogidas. There’s no mention of the paper’s role in the story, only that she never appeared for the prison’s roll call in the morning and they launched a search for her, only to find one of the bars in her room had been filed and bent outward, several prison employees arrested for allegedly aiding in her escape. The article is remarkably succinct for Hearst’s usual style, absent the flourishes and dramatization that has characterized the entire proceeding up until this point.