The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(77)

I hurry past the harbor and the Maine, headed toward one of the meetinghouses Carlos Carbonell has taken to renting for his own purposes.

I carry a bundle of laundry in my arms. In the past few months, I’ve gained a reputation for doing good, reliable work, and the extra money we’ve taken in has been a lifesaver when it comes to ensuring Luz and I have food to eat.

I knock on the door, glancing around as I wait on the threshold for Carlos to answer it. Even with Weyler gone, this is still a dangerous business.

Carlos opens the door quickly, moving back so I can walk inside. He immediately closes the door behind him.

“Are you well?” he asks me, and I nod, for I suppose I am as well as I can be considering everything going on around us.

He hands me a note. “I need you to deliver this message to the American consulate at once. It’s extremely important that you do so.”

“Why do you need my help? I thought you had close ties to the consulate.”

“I do, but I’ve had to be more careful since the business with Evangelina. The Spanish watch me more closely than they used to. No one has proof, but there are enough suspicions, too many people who saw me in the company of Karl Decker when he was in Havana.”

“I can get the letter to the consulate. I’ve delivered their laundry before, so no one should think anything of it.”

“This letter is extremely important. This could be what we need to end the war once and for all.”

He’s not a man prone to exaggeration, but I find the claim a little hard to believe. “What could possibly be that important?”

“Dupuy de L?me, the Spanish minister in Washington, wrote a letter to a friend of his, José Canalejas. Canalejas is the editor of the Madrid Heraldo and frequently travels to Havana,” Carlos adds. “He also has dealings with the New York City Junta.”

“What does the letter say?”

“It’s critical of President McKinley.”

“How so?”

“De L?me calls McKinley weak and a low politician. Says he caters to the masses. If the American newspapers had such a letter in their possession and printed it, the embarrassment for the president would be too great to ignore. It might be the push we need for him to act.”

“How did you find out about the letter? Surely, Canalejas couldn’t have been so indiscreet as to share the contents.”

“No, but when he came to Cuba he brought the letter with him. He hired a man who is sympathetic to our cause to be his secretary here. His name is Gustavo Escoto. He saw the letter and realized its value immediately.”

“Where is the letter now?”

“Escoto has the letter. He’s on the next boat for New York. He’s going to deliver it to Tomás Estrada Palma and the Junta with the hopes that they can give it to the New York newspapers to publish. If we can anger the Americans—perhaps this is the shot across the bow we need.”

“Do you really think the Americans will support independence if they get involved?”

When things were as desperate as they were under Weyler, it seemed like the Americans were our best hope. But now I can’t help but worry that the interest they have always shown in Cuba, the multiple attempts to buy the island, will drive their actions. After years of armed conflict between us, neither Spain nor Cuba is in much of a position to face off against the United States.

José Martí warned us about the Americans, was concerned that if we weren’t careful, Cuba would change hands from Spanish ones to American ones.

“I believe so,” Carlos replies. “Look how much they have championed our cause.”

I can’t tell if he believes it or if it’s what he must tell himself considering how much he has reportedly aligned himself with Consul General Fitzhugh Lee. My father used to say that Carlos always had a way of taking care of his own interests before anyone else.

“Will you take the letter to the consulate?” he asks me. “We’ve copied out the contents here. It’s not as good as the original, but if something happens to Escoto, it’s the best chance we have.”

I’m in too deep to turn back now. If this will bring my husband and daughter home to me, then what choice do I have?

“I’ll deliver it to them.”



* * *



—

I hurry through the streets of Havana, the copied letter Carlos gave to me wrapped in the laundry I carry in my arms. It’s late in the day, the sun setting over the city, people milling about, and Spanish soldiers all over the place. Of all the things I’ve done, all the messages I’ve ferried between loyal patriots, this is without question the most dangerous.

Even as fear fills me, adrenaline rushes through me.

After all we’ve fought for and lost, for as much as I’ve railed against my ability to act, this is the moment when it feels like I can truly serve my country in my own way. War isn’t just waged on the battlefield, and if this letter has the power to end the bloodshed, then I hope it will do so swiftly.

I slow as I near Consul General Fitzhugh Lee’s residence. Carlos told me to leave the linens and note with his staff, that they would pass them on to the consul.

A group of Spanish soldiers stands near the neighboring street, their hands on their weapons, their gazes surveying the crowd.

My heart pounds.