The Lost Years of Billy Battles: Book 3 of the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy

Mo.

Chapter 1

You would think when a man entered the sixth decade of his life that he would be settled and reasonably contented. I thought I was that man. I was wrong.

When I turned fifty in 1910, I was living comfortably in Chicago with my wife, Katharina, and my daughter, Anna Marie. I had a fulfilling job as an assistant managing editor at the Chicago Record-Herald. We lived in the city’s Astor Street District in a magnificent three-story Germanic-style manor on Schiller Street that Katharina inherited from her German parents.

Life was good, but as I was about to learn, it was too good to last.

Trouble was a constant companion in my life. It began more than thirty years before when I was just 19. Two companions and I were forced to defend ourselves against a clan of criminals that was squatting on my family’s homestead in western Kansas. In the skirmish, I accidentally shot and killed the malevolent matriarch of the band when she unintentionally stepped into the line of fire. Then, one of my companions killed one of her two sons. Consequently, the clan spent the next ten years pursuing me and almost killed me one morning in Denver, Colorado.

After I recovered from that gunshot wound, I realized I had to finish the vendetta once and for all or spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. With my cousin, Charley Higgins, and a posse of vaguely deputized men, we tracked the deadly clan to New Mexico and then back to western Kansas where we fought a pitched battle. I was wounded again, but when the smoke cleared, the clan was permanently eliminated.

At last I was sure my life was finally on track and moving toward a little happiness. As my cousin Charley used to say when life was going tolerably well, I was steppin’ as high as a blind dog in tall grass. But it wouldn’t last. My wife, Mallie, passed away from the influenza epidemic of 1894, and I was so miserable that I cut my picket pin and drifted to the Far East, leaving my four-year-old daughter, Anna Marie, with my mother. I know today that it was an unpardonable act, but at the time I wasn’t thinking rationally.

I wound up in French Indochina during the first anti-French rebellion by the colony’s indigenous people. A few years later I was in the Philippines. While there in 1898 and 1899, I found myself reluctantly serving as a captain in the US Army—first fighting the Spanish and then clashing with Filipino insurgents in the Philippine-American War. I managed to come through both scraps relatively unscathed.

But perhaps the most significant event during that stage of my life was my marriage to the Baroness Katharina von Schreiber. We were married in the Philippines, and I am convinced that it was the most providential decision I ever made. I could count on Katharina to keep me on a tight rein when I had a tendency to react too quickly to a slight or a confrontation. But more than that, we were perfectly matched, and not many couples can say that.

So, here it was, 1914, and the world was changing in ways I never imagined possible twenty years before when I was in the Far East. In August of 1914, the Great War began in Europe. Newspapers were chockablock with stories of men dying by the hundreds of thousands every month on the bloody trench-furrowed battlefields of France and Belgium, their lives squandered by generals imprudently employing nineteenth century tactics in a twentieth century war with its merciless mechanized weapons.  America initially remained out of the fray, and there was no reason to think that we would ever get involved in Europe’s conflict.

As for me, I had no intention of ever again firing a shot in anger.

That all changed one Saturday morning in mid-March 1914 when the telephone rang while Katharina and I were having breakfast.

William Battles? the voice on the other end asked.

Yes.

Please hold on. I am connecting you to General Funston.

General Funston? I thought to myself. What could he possibly want with me?

When I first met Frederick Funston in 1898, he was a colonel and in command of the storied Twentieth Kansas Volunteer Infantry during the Spanish-American War and the ensuing Filipino insurgency. I had sailed to the Philippines to assist Katharina’s brother, Manfred, who operated a lumber export business there and who had been arrested by the Spanish authorities just prior to the outbreak of war between Spain and the United States.

After securing Manfred’s freedom, the general in charge of American troops in the Philippines persuaded me to accept a temporary commission as a captain and serve eight months as a liaison officer between him and the Twentieth Kansas Volunteer Infantry. That’s how I came to serve with Funston.

Funston was a five-foot, four-inch package of ferocity and fearlessness who relentlessly led his men into battle waving his hat and yelling, Follow me! He seemed impervious to harm, and eventually his men began calling him Fearless Freddy, out of awe and respect.

Who is it? Katharina asked as I held the phone to my ear.

It’s Frederick Funston.

Funston? I thought he was in Asia.

In fact, Funston had served three years as Commander of the Department of Luzon in the Philippines and then was briefly shifted to the same role in the Hawaiian Department from 1913 to 1914. Now he was back in the US where he was a brigadier general in charge of the US Army’s Southern Department along the Texas-Mexico border.

No matter what he wants, tell him no! Katharina said. Wherever that man is there is bound to be trouble.

I held my hand over the mouthpiece. What could he possibly want from me? The man’s a general, and I am just a newspaper scribbler.

Then it dawned on me. He was probably inviting me to come to the Texas-Mexico border to write about the ongoing bandit war that had been raging there since the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution in 1910. Funston was adept at acquiring newspaper exposure.

I was about to mention that to Katharina when the phone crackled, and I heard Funston’s familiar voice on the other end.

Captain Battles, Funston said, are you hale and fit? It was not an unusual way for Funston to begin a conversation.

As well as can be expected, I guess. How about you?

Fit as a fiddle and twice as loud, he replied. But I didn’t call you to share details about our mutual health.

I didn’t think so.

How soon can you get down to San Antonio?

San Antonio? Why?

I could use your help.

My help? In what way? Now I was intrigued.

I can’t discuss it over the telephone. But let’s just say things are about to get serious with our neighbor to the south, and I need someone I can trust unreservedly for a vital job.

By now, Katharina was standing next to me, her ear close to the receiver. She backed away a few steps and shook her head.

No, William. No, she whispered.

I put a finger to my lips and held my hand over the mouthpiece.

By all means, bring Katharina with you. Eda would love to see her again. It was as if Funston could see Katharina standing next to me indicating her annoyance with his entreaty.

After several unsuccessful attempts to wheedle more information out of Funston, Katharina and I reluctantly agreed to take the train to San Antonio two days later.

I’m sure it can’t be anything dangerous, I said. After all, he invited you to come too.

But Katharina wasn’t having any of it. The man’s a magnet for trouble, just like your cousin, Charley. He has something up his sleeve.

The next day I advised the paper’s editor–in-chief that I was going to San Antonio to spend time with General Funston and to gather information for a series of stories about the ongoing problems along the US-Mexico border.

We took Illinois Central’s Panama Limited to St. Louis, switched to the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad’s Texas Special, and arrived in San Antonio on the afternoon of the third day. When we stepped from the train we were met by a lieutenant named Walsh and a sergeant named Lopez. They ushered us to an open-air Dodge Brothers touring car.

As Katharina and I settled into the backseat, she wondered out loud about our luggage.

We are bringing it by truck to General Funston’s quarters, ma’am, the lieutenant said.

"My God, we don’t have that much luggage, do we?" Katharina asked.

No, ma’am, but there is no boot on this car.

I was only chaffing you, lieutenant.

The car lurched forward as the sergeant put it in gear. The lieutenant smiled and then turned back to me.

The general tells me you helped him whip those Filipinos back in ’98 and ’99.

I’m not sure I was much help, I replied. But General Funston was a terror.

He still is. He’s always looking for a good scrap.

He may be looking, I said, but there is nothing going on down here that would satisfy his appetite for a skirmish.

Don’t be too sure about that, sir, Lieutenant Walsh said. Villa and his men have caused quite a ruckus on the Texas-Chihuahua border, and now there’s another problem.

Another problem? I leaned forward in my seat.

I best let the general tell you about that, sir, the lieutenant said.

Several minutes later we arrived at the gates of Fort Sam Houston.

Funston’s quarters turned out to be a substantial white, two-story house with wraparound verandas on both the first and second floors. As our car pulled up, the general’s wife, Eda, was sitting in one of several green rattan chairs on the front porch. When she saw us, she put down the book she’d been reading and hurried toward our car.

Eda was a stunning and spirited woman in her late thirties, some twelve years younger than Katharina. She was about an inch shorter than the general with coffee-brown hair and intense hazel eyes that flared when she talked. The last time I saw her was in 1910. She and General Funston had dinner with us in Chicago on their way to Manila where he had been appointed governor-general.

Like Katharina, Eda’s parents, Otto and Teresa Blankart, were German-born. Both were accomplished musicians and music teachers. Eda grew up in San Francisco where the Blankart home was a magnet for musicians and music. In fact, her father established the city’s first string quartet, and Eda developed into a gifted musician.

Katharina, Eda said, embracing her. It’s so good to see you again. You are more beautiful than ever.

What about me? I asked, feigning a fit of piqué.

"You too, William. But as I always say, wealth, beauty, and fame are transient. When those are gone, little is left except the need to be useful."

Well, as long as he’s useful I guess I’ll keep him around a while longer, Katharina said.

Eda laughed. Come on in and let’s get you settled.

The Funston house was expansive, to say the least. Just off the main hallway was a forty-by fifty-foot parlor dotted with islands of couches, chairs, and coffee tables. I was marveling at the size of the chamber when Eda grabbed my arm.

We don’t use that room except when Frederick entertains, she said. Come with me. We have a much cozier area where we prefer to gather.

The room she led us to was a smaller, screened-in back porch overlooking countless trellises of red, yellow, and pink roses, a dozen or so queen palms, and several beds of flowers.

Oh, this is lovely, Katharina said, stepping into the porch. And your garden is exquisite.

Well, it’s not as grand as the one we had in Manila, Eda said. That garden was a tropical paradise, except for the occasional cobra or yellow pit viper. Did you know one of our maids was bitten by a cobra and almost died?

Well, all you have in Texas are those nasty rattlers, I said. And they aren’t as poisonous as cobras or yellow vipers.

Yes, well so far I haven’t seen one, and I don’t relish doing so either.

At least they give you a warning before they strike.

You two sound like herpetologists, Katharina said. Can’t we talk about something more pleasant than venomous vipers?

Eda laughed, her eyes sparkling. Yes, it is a morose topic, isn’t it?

Moments later, a Mexican woman appeared with pitchers of iced tea and lemonade.

We have something stronger if you prefer, Eda said, looking at us.

Not for me, Katharina said. I concurred.

Just then, the clock on the mantle chimed.  Five o’clock already? Where did this day go? Eda said. Frederick should be home any time now.

We talked a few minutes more. Eda updated us on their activities during the past four years. 

Frederick has done very well for himself in the Army, I said. I can tell you from experience, he was without doubt the most audacious commander in the Philippines during the insurrection.

Eda brightened. Frederick speaks fondly of you and Katharina’s brother. He says you and Manfred were both intrepid officers who the men would follow anywhere.

I don’t know about that. I felt a tinge of embarrassment and found myself looking at the floor. Then, looking up, I said, I think both of us were just relieved to have survived the war with minimal damage.

Moments later we heard the front door open, and the sound of Funston’s stentorian voice immediately filled the house.

I know that troublemaker Captain Battles and his beautiful wife are here somewhere. Come out, come out wherever you are.

Eda grinned and winked at us. You’ll just have to come find us, she said.

Marvelous, Katharina said in a deliberately loud voice. I’ve never witnessed a brigadier general engaging in a game of hide-and-seek.

And you won’t today, either, Funston said as he entered the room, a broad smile on his face. He was dressed in khaki pants and tunic with a single gold star on both shoulders, signifying his rank as brigadier general. He walked directly to Katharina, who was standing next to Eda, and hugged her. I couldn’t help but be amused. At five feet, ten inches, Katharina towered over Funston, and the scene reminded me of a boy in a soldier suit hugging his mother.

Eda looked at me and smiled as though she knew what I was thinking.

Hello, my dear, Funston said as he hugged Eda and kissed her on the cheek.

Then, turning to me, he said, Captain Battles . . . have you put on some weight?

I had, and I acknowledged as much. Too much German food, I said. When I last saw Funston in 1910 I weighed about 198 pounds. Not bad for someone six foot, four inches tall. Now, I weighed close to 220 pounds.

And not enough physical activity, I’ll wager, Funston said.

Possibly, I replied. Funston had put on a few pounds himself and didn’t look at all like the man who had run wildly through six-foot-high blades of cogon grass in the Philippines chasing insurgents and urging his men forward.

Well, we will have to get you out on the drill field so you can lose that bulge you’ve developed amidships.

I’m sorry to say that our dinner tonight won’t be much help, Eda said. "We’re having a traditional German meal or, as the German’s say, ‘ein gut bürgerliches deutsches Essen.’"

She wasn’t jesting. Dinner consisted of Rouladen, a roulade of bacon and onions wrapped in thinly sliced beef; Semmelknödel, dumplings made with flour and cubes of bread; Leipziger Allerlei, a vegetable dish of peas, baby carrots, white asparagus, green beans, and broccoli; and for dessert, coffee and Prinzregententorte, seven thin layers of sponge cake interlaid with chocolate buttercream and a topping of apricot jam, all covered with a dark chocolate glaze.

"Na ja, du hast dir den Bauch vollgeschlagen," Katharina said to me after I put the last of the Prinzregententorte into my mouth.

Eda chortled at that. Both she and Katharina often spoke in German, and to hear Katharina accuse me of stuffing myself made her laugh.

"William hat einen süßen Zahn, Eda said, nodding at my empty dessert plate. Right, William?"

Funston looked at me. I have no idea what they are saying. Do you?

I’m afraid so. Let’s just say I stuffed myself and satisfied my sweet tooth at the same time.

Well, once in a while won’t hurt, Funston said. That was a fine feast you rustled up, Eda.

Thank you, dear. But don’t get used to it. You could stand to lose a few pounds yourself.

Quite so, quite so, Funston said. Now, would you ladies excuse us? I want to take William here for a stroll in the garden.

How romantic, Katharina said. Then she shot me a worried look, and her expression seemed to say, Agree to nothing.

Funston and I walked a few minutes and entered a white gazebo. The two of us settled onto a bench. Funston cleared his throat.

I’m sure you must be wondering why I invited you and Katharina down here.

It had crossed our minds.

Yes, well, I best acknowledge the corn about that. How would you and Katharina fancy a little vacation in Mexico?

I looked at Funston with a puzzled expression, but before I could respond, he continued.

A working vacation, I should add.

What kind of work? And where in Mexico?

I didn’t know it at the time, but, as my mother used to say, I was about to go up Fool’s Hill on the slippery side.

Chapter 2

That night as we prepared to turn in, Katharina and I discussed Funston’s proposal.

I don’t like it, William. I don’t like it one bit. Katharina had propped herself up in bed with a book in her lap.

I was not inclined to argue with her. What Funston had proposed was that Katharina and I travel to Veracruz and pose as tourists on a tour of Mexico. The reason for this subterfuge was that the U.S. had received intelligence that a German merchant ship named the SS Ypiranga, carrying arms and munitions for Mexican dictator General Victoriano Huerta, was on the way to Veracruz. That was in direct violation of the arms embargo the U.S. had placed on Mexico.

Because we both spoke German, our job would be to watch and listen, without attracting any undue attention to ourselves, and relay any intelligence we might gather back to Funston. Veracruz was apparently swarming with German agents and a surplus of other European spies.

I don’t see how what happens in Mexico is any of our concern, Katharina said. Won’t those idiots in Washington ever learn to stop meddling in the political affairs of other countries?

The next morning over breakfast Katharina raised that very point with Funston, who I could tell demonstrated considerable restraint in crafting an answer to her question.

We need to stifle the flow of weaponry into Mexico, because this civil war of theirs is getting out of hand and spilling over the border into Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, Funston said. And to top it all off that damned Huerta is working a might too closely with Germany.

Katharina and I looked at one another. Some 15 years before, we had learned of secret plans by Germany to invade the United States,¹ so the idea of a German-Mexican collaboration was not out of the question—especially now, with tensions high in Europe because of the wars in the Balkan Peninsula. If war were to break out in Europe, it would be in Germany’s interests to keep the United States occupied with Mexico.

Funston was a shrewd man and immediately noticed that we seemed to know something that he didn’t.

I get the feeling I’m in the dark here, Funston said, looking first at Katharina and then at me.

It’s a long story, General, Katharina said. Let’s just say William and I had a run-in with some German government agents over a document I shouldn’t have had, and having it almost got us both killed.

Now you’ve got my complete attention.

That’s all I can tell you, but suffice it to say that what was in those documents was not in the interest of the United States.

Funston got up and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from a silver urn on a nearby side table.

I see. Then, without a doubt, you two are the perfect pair to do some sleuthing down in Veracruz. Not only will you understand what’s being said, but you have an understanding of Germany’s ambitions in this part of the world if and when war erupts in Europe.

Katharina looked at Funston. You know what Ambrose Bierce said about war, don’t you?

No, what did he say?

War is God's way of teaching Americans geography.

Old bitter Bierce was not one of my favorite hacks, Funston said. You know he was last seen in Mexico in the city of Chihuahua. I suspect Pancho Villa’s men got weary of his sarcasm and insolence and shot him.

We don’t know that, I said. He may have just leaked out of the landscape looking for peace and quiet in his old age.

We may never know. But as for you, Captain Battles, I trust you won’t be lighting a shuck for parts unknown.

Not if I can help it, Katharina said.

Splendid. I expect you and the captain to find out what those Heinies are up to in Veracruz.

There’s only one problem, I said. I speak German with an American accent.

Katharina nodded. And I’m not actually a Heinie, as you so charmingly put it.

Yes, but you were a German baroness, Funston said. That has to carry some weight with those squareheads.

Katharina and I exchanged glances. I wondered if we should tell Funston of Katharina’s unabridged history with the late Baron von Schreiber. She could tell what I was thinking.

That may be true, she said. But that was then. Today I’m married to a Kansas sand cutter. Isn’t that what they call you Kansans?

After some discussion we decided to explain my facility with the German language by telling anyone who asked that I was born in the Oberharz region of Germany and immigrated to America with my parents when I was twelve. Because Katharina and I had visited my mother’s relatives in 1902 in the Oberharz village of Lautenthal, we were confident we could describe the area well enough to convince any doubters. In addition, we would make it clear that both of us had strong ties to the fatherland.

Against our better judgment, Katharina and I agreed to enter into the North American version of what Rudyard Kipling once called The Great Game and function as secret agents for Funston in Veracruz. To make our story more plausible, Funston requisitioned a yacht crewed by seven incognito U.S. Navy sailors. We were to sail from Brownsville, Texas, stop in Tampico, and then continue on to Veracruz.

The yacht’s papers indicated that she was registered in New Orleans to William Templeton, a wealthy businessman, but that we had recently purchased the boat and were taking it on a shakedown cruise from New Orleans to various port cities in the Gulf of Mexico.

Templeton was an old friend from Kansas City, Funston said. He passed away last year, and his widow has agreed to loan me their boat. We’ve been on it, and I can tell you it is quite sumptuous, eh, Eda?

Eda nodded. If you like bobbing around on the ocean, it is. But I am not a nautical person.

Neither am I, Katharina said. But as long as it keeps us afloat, I’ll be happy.

That evening we boarded the train from San Antonio to Brownsville. The trip took about 12 hours, and when we arrived we were met by a Navy lieutenant named Latham and Petty Officer 1st Class Goodson. They took us to the deepwater port of Brownsville where the yacht, called the Comanche, was moored.

The Comanche was a twin-masted, 145-ton, 135-foot steam-driven vessel with a beam of 18 feet.

She’s quite a vessel, isn’t she? Lieutenant Latham said as we walked alongside the dock where the yacht was moored. Latham was a tall, reedy, sharp-featured man in his early thirties. His sandy hair was close-thatched in the military style of the time. He had a seasoned, self-assured demeanor that suggested he was a leader of men.

The Comanche had a white steel hull and a teakwood deckhouse that contained the owner’s cabin. Her fore and aft decks were shielded overhead by broad swaths of white canvas. A single black 15-foot smokestack was amidships.

That she is, I said. What kind of engine does she have?

She’s powered by a four-cylinder triple-expansion compound reciprocating steam engine that develops almost 400 horsepower and will move her along at a cruising speed of 12 knots, Latham said. She has a maximum draft of eight feet, which means she can operate in shallow water.

Well, it’s a lot bigger than I figured it would be. It must have cost a fortune, Katharina said. 

Yes, it did. And our orders from General Funston are to make sure she isn’t damaged in any way, the lieutenant said.

Drat, and I planned to carve my initials on the cabin wall, Katharina said.

Lieutenant Latham looked confused and cleared his throat uneasily. He was obviously not used to dealing with feisty civilians.

Pay no attention to the baroness, I said. She does not have a nautical nature.

Katharina shot me an exasperated look as she always did when I referred to her as baroness.

Well, let’s get aboard this tub, she said. When will we be getting underway, Admiral?

The lieutenant smiled sheepishly. We have to get provisions and then get up steam. I figure we will shove off in two to three days or so.

That meant we would be sailing on the weekend, either Saturday or Sunday. It was already March 19, and Funston wanted us in Veracruz by early April because he had been informed by the US counsel there that the SS Ypiranga was due to arrive around April 21.

We don’t know if the Germans are behind this shipment or if someone else is, Funston had told us. In any case, the arms and munitions are aboard a German ship registered in Hamburg. We need to find out who is behind it. That will be your primary task.

Is that all? Why not send a cable to Kaiser Wilhelm and ask him? Katharina’s sardonic streak had been on full display.

Funston, whose sense of humor was not particularly honed to sarcasm, had simply nodded, looked at me, and cleared his throat. Were it that simple, Katharina. Were it that simple.

Lieutenant Latham and Petty Officer Goodson got us settled in the owner’s cabin, a sumptuous collection of dark mahogany rooms that extended from just behind the bridge to about forty feet aft. It was replete with overstuffed chairs, tables, a couch, a bedroom with an oversized bed, a private bathroom with shower and tub, and a well-stocked bar with an excellent collection of spirits.

This is the kind of government work I could get used to, I said, collapsing into one of the hefty leather chairs. I thought I heard my war-martyred body creak a little, but instead it was Lieutenant Latham knocking softly at our cabin door.

Katharina opened the door for him.

"I forgot to explain the way the Comanche will be organized and commanded. May I come in for a few minutes?"

I nodded. Have a seat, Mr. Latham.

I hope I’m not expected to do the cooking, Katharina said, settling into a chair opposite the lieutenant.

Oh, not at all, ma’am. That will be done by Seaman Jackson. He’s a fine belly cheater. Sorry. Uh . . . I mean, cook.

No need to apologize, Lieutenant Latham. I may have lived in a castle once upon a time, but I’m just a simple Chicago girl at heart, Katharina said, looking at me.

Simple? I think not, Baroness, I said. So, Latham, you wanted to tell us the rules? I said.

Latham shot us a wary glance. Perhaps my calling Katharina Baroness had thrown him off.

"Yes, well, as ranking officer, I am the ship’s captain. Mr. Goodson will be second in command, followed by Petty Officer Third Class Ruppert. While we are aboard the Comanche, that will be the chain of command. Do you agree?"

I nodded. You’ll get no argument from me. What I know about oceangoing vessels you could put into a leprechaun’s navel.

Lathan cleared his throat. Yes, well, as I said, Seaman Jackson will run the galley. As for the black gang, Seaman Vane is our chief engineer, Seaman Longworth is the boat’s first assistant engineer, and Seaman Flores is the boat’s wiper.

Black gang? Wiper? I had not heard those terms before.

Sorry, Latham said. The black gang is the engine room crew. The wiper is an all-around worker in the engine room. He keeps the machinery clean and does repair work.

Flores? Is he Mexican?

No, he’s Cuban and, of course, he speaks Spanish. We figured that might come in handy.

How wonderfully premeditated, Katharina said. Somebody who actually speaks the language of the country to which we are sailing. Though I do believe my other half here can converse a bit in Spanish.

Lieutenant Latham fidgeted. Yes, well, General Funston said we are not to divulge our U.S. Navy affiliation. As far as anybody is concerned, we are your civilian crew.

Sounds reasonable to me, given that we are on a surreptitious mission.

Latham explained that both he and Petty Officer Goodson had experience in the Gulf of Mexico, having served aboard U.S. Navy vessels in the region for the past two years.

We know all of the Mexican ports very well, Latham said.

We got underway two days later, and after twenty-four hours at sea, we sailed into Tampico’s coastal breakwater harbor and then six miles up the broad Pánuco River to the anchorage.

After tying up along the wharf, Katharina, Lieutenant Latham, and I disembarked and took a stroll through the city. The place was not what I expected. It was a rough and tumble oil boomtown and had been since oil was discovered in 1901 in the state of Tamaulipas. It reminded me of places like Tombstone, Arizona, and Las Vegas, New Mexico—with a couple of notable exceptions. Much of its architecture consisted of New Orleans French-Quarter-style terraces and balconies because of the influx of French-speaking creoles from Louisiana in the 1850s.

There were plenty of American ex-patriots also, most of whom were engaged in the oil industry which was owned almost exclusively by American companies, including Standard Oil. Groups of beefy American oil workers prowled the streets and populated many of the cantinas. Everything from ragtime to música folclórica Mexicana poured from their open doorways.

Looks like Uncle Sam is well-represented here, Lieutenant Latham said.

Should we be surprised? Katharina quipped.

Tampico’s streets were lined with open-air shops and restaurants featuring fresh seafood cooked in the Louisiana creole style. The three of us stopped at one such eatery on Calle Jaurez and enjoyed a splendid lunch of huachinango (fresh local red snapper). Then it was back to the Comanche.

We need to get underway tonight, Latham said. It’s about a forty-eight-hour passage to Veracruz.

The Comanche headed back down the Rio Pánuco at about nine o’clock and then south along the coast toward Veracruz. Katharina and I sat on the aft deck sipping some of William Templeton’s fine Kentucky bourbon.

This is damned fine coffin varnish, I said, swirling the bourbon in my glass. Katharina didn’t respond. Instead, she gazed pensively at the frothy wake the Comanche was leaving behind in the tenebrous water.

The more I think about this little adventure of ours, the more I dislike it, Katharina said finally.

I had been looking at her face silhouetted against the bright moon. At forty-nine, she was as stunning and alluring as the day I first met her aboard the SS China twenty years before—perhaps more so. Her light-brown hair was brushed back and streaked with a bit of gray, as was mine, and she had a few more lines in her face, but neither diminished her natural beauty. My eyes were still fixed on her when she noticed that I was gawping at her.

What? she asked, smoothing her hair self-consciously. Do I have a seagull on my head?

I laughed out loud. Now that would be a sight, the baroness wearing a seagull.

Well, what then?

Nothing. I was just . . . well, I was just looking at you and thinking how lucky I was to have met you way back when.

Katharina leaned nearer, put her arm through mine, and nuzzled my neck.

I have to confess, I never really understood what you saw in me, I continued, putting my arm around her waist. My luck was runnin’ kind of muddy back then, and I’m sure I wasn’t very good company.

I think we were both in the same boat—literally and figuratively. And that’s what drew us to one another.

Good point.

But I have to say, you took your time about it, spending all that time in Saigon—

What about you? Going on to Germany after that brief stopover in Saigon?

My dear William. Any woman with any brains at all could see you were not ready to commit yourself to any kind of meaningful liaison. After all, we barely knew one another.

Were you?

Were I what?

Were you ready to commit yourself?

No, but had you remained in Manila and not flitted off to Saigon we might have cut a year off our courting time.

I took Katharina’s hand. It was well worth the wait.

Such soft solder won’t get you anywhere. Katharina stopped, looked around to make sure we were alone, and then continued. Except in my bed.

Spoken like a true soiled dove. If it’s harvest time in the fields of Venus, then show me the way, Baroness.

Loutish galoot. Now I just might change my mind.

She didn’t.

Chapter 3

We steamed into the port of La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz on a late Wednesday evening and tied up alongside Pier Four.

A light fog was rolling in from the east, and as we came ashore, a few dull streetlamps flickered, casting pale patches of reddish-brown light on the wharf. To the west, the city’s streets and buildings were shrouded in a pale, ghostly mist.

Not a very cheerful place, Katharina said as we walked past the Paseo del Malecón and up Calle Benito Juarez toward the Plaza de Armas in the heart of town.

What can you expect from the oldest city on the North American continent? I said. After all, the place was founded by Hernán Cortés himself and is almost four hundred years old. We’re lucky to have paved streets.

I guess I would have expected Mexico’s oldest and largest port to be a bit more inviting. She put her arm through mine and shuddered. I have a bad feeling about this place.

I pulled her closer. Sort of like whistlin’ past the graveyard, isn’t it?

The fog thinned as we moved away from the harbor, but walking past the mixture of ancient Caribbean creole buildings felt like we were entering a different time.

Then, from behind us I heard the sound of hoofbeats and metal-rimmed wheels on rough cobblestone.

Ya’ll okay? It was Seaman Vane. He and Seaman Flores had caught up to us in a hired horse-drawn cart that contained our luggage. You want a ride?

No, we’ll walk. It’s only a couple more blocks to the hotel.

We passed campesinos leading burros laden with sacks and baskets and women with baskets of produce balanced on their heads.

They greeted us as we passed. "Buenas tardes."

I replied in kind.

Well, at least the people are friendly, even if the city seems gloomy, I said.

We continued up Benito Jaurez for the next few minutes, past shops that had closed for the day, until we came to the plaza which was bathed in lights. The place was awash with music. Hundreds of people were eating their dinners from ubiquitous street stalls.

At last . . . civilization, Katharina observed.

We had been told to check into the Gran Hotel Diligenicias on the west side of the sprawling zócalo. The hotel was a U-shaped alabaster brick and stucco building, three stories high with a wide, multiarched terrace along its front facing the cobblestoned Calle Principal and the plaza. A two-room suite had been reserved for us by the American consulate.

Before leaving San Antonio, Funston had told us that a man named David Parker would come to our hotel two or three days after we checked in.

He’s the military attaché at the U.S. consulate, Funston had said. In the meantime, just behave like tourists. Get to know the places Germans frequent, and keep your eyes and ears open.

Our hotel room had a view of the plaza, which was ringed with royal and traveler palm trees. A Spanish fountain babbled in the plaza’s center. On one side of the square stood the city’s imposing 18th century neoclassical Cathedral de la Virgen de la Asunción, with its whitewashed façade, bell tower, and five octagonal tile-covered domes.

Directly across the plaza from the hotel stood the city hall—a two-story stucco building a block square with arched porticos.

Even though Veracruz was below the Tropic of Cancer and much further south than Florida, the temperature in the spring was a bearable eighty-five degrees most days—nothing like Saigon or Manila in March where I remember the temperatures could easily hit one hundred degrees by ten o’clock in the morning with eighty percent humidity.

We came prepared for the heat, however. Both of us brought lightweight clothing and wide-brimmed hats to protect us from the ever-present sun. As I watched Katharina unpack her clothes, I was struck by how much she was able to pack in her luggage compared to a few years before. The reason, she told me, was that women were moving away from the rigid, tailored clothes of the Edwardian era to simpler, looser, more comfortable clothing. I recall one day in Chicago when I’d come home to find Katharina discarding mounds of bulky Victorian-and Edwardian-era dresses for what she called the new crinoline styles of 1914.

Finally, clothes that let a woman move freely, she’d said as she showed me her new wardrobe. You men have no idea how easy you have it.

Katharina’s new dresses, walking suits, full and bell-shaped skirts were shorter, with pleats for ease of movement, she’d explained. Thank God we no longer have to wear corsets and those damnable high-button boots.

What’s wrong with high-button boots? I’d asked.

Don’t be such a dunce. Shorter hemlines expose a gap between the tip of the boot and a skirt hem—

I hadn’t noticed. Of course I’d noticed. What man wouldn’t? Hemlines were now a good eight inches above the ground, exposing a woman’s ankles.

And wearing boots distracts from the appearance of these new outfits. Now, women can wear pumps instead of high-topped shoes and boots. It’s a new era, William, a new era for women.

If you say so, I’d muttered.

On our second day we decided to do a walking tour of Veracruz. We arose early, hoping to beat the inevitable sticky heat. Katharina donned one of her new lightweight Gibson Girl walking suits, and I wore a cream-colored linen suit without a tie.

As we walked past the cathedral, wizened old women hunkered on the tiled piazza selling candles and prayer books. Señoritas and señoras paused at the basilica’s entrance to adjust the white Spanish lace mantillas covering their hair before entering for early morning mass.

We continued along Zamora Street past the Trigueros Market and a row of shops whose proprietors were scattering buckets of water in front of their doorways to settle the dust. The pungent smell of rawhide and pigskin enveloped us as we walked past several leather shops. In other stores, men and women pounded and prodded brass and copper, turning the metal into lamps, pots, and belt buckles. 

No one can accuse the people of Veracruz of being lethargic, Katharina remarked. It looks like everybody is occupied.

That included the city’s musicians. Veracruz resounded with traditional music—what the locals called Son Jarocho—played by the city’s ubiquitous mariachis and marimba groups. Guitars, marimbas, trumpets, bass fiddles, accordions, and gourds filled with dried beans were everywhere in the zócalo. The music was a cheerful, effervescent blend of Spanish, African, and Caribbean. After a while, we came to recognize certain songs, even though we couldn’t always understand the dialect.

Katharina grew especially fond of a song called "El Pájaro Carpintero (The Woodpecker). My favorite was La Mujer Inconforme (The Unhappy Woman").

You would like that song, Katharina said. Are you trying to tell me something?

Well, after all, you aren’t that happy about this little assignment of ours down here, right?

No, I am not.

"There you have it. La mujer inconforme."

I doubt if I will be truly happy until we’re back in Chicago.

Eventually, we found our way to El Gran Café de la Parroquia, which our hotel clerk told us was Mexico’s oldest and most famous coffee house dating to 1808. There, we ordered café con leche y pan dulce.

I have to say, this is absolutely the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had, Katharina said. And this sweet bread is beyond excellent.

As we sat drinking our coffee, which was served in glasses, not cups, we were treated to the incessant clinking of spoons on the sides of glasses.

Is somebody about to give a speech? Katharina asked our waiter.

No, it is the way you order a refill, he said.

A sign I read as we entered was inscribed with the words: "El café como debe ser."

Did you notice that sign over there? I tipped my head toward the door. It says, ‘Coffee as it should be.’

They’ll get no argument from me, Katharina said.

Leaving the café, we walked through quiet neighborhoods replete with modest stucco bungalows painted blue, pink, yellow, and brown, their vibrant colors softened with age into warm pastel tints.

As we patronized the numerous businesses that bounded or were near the zócalo, it was apparent that Veracruz was one of the most international cities we had ever visited. In addition to Spanish and English, we heard French, Italian, German, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and some languages neither of us recognized.

It’s like the city is speaking in tongues, Katharina said.

Yes, but fortunately for us, we only need to understand the German.

"Well, so far I haven’t heard anything auf deutsch, other than Germans complaining about the food, the heat, the insects, and the beer, of course. Germans are such snobs when it comes to beer."

Katharina was right. Espionage in the oldest European settlement on the North American mainland was proving to be a boring activity. The most exciting aspect was the eclectic variety of food we encountered.

Wandering around town exposed us to a glut of aromas, most coming from the antojitos or street stalls on just about every corner. They sold a wide array of traditional Mexican food.

Women with dark bronzed faces dished out everything from tamales to thick corn patties fried and stuffed with salsa, cheese, cooked eggs, and beans. Others sold fresh, folded tortillas stuffed with seasoned pork, mesquite-seasoned carne asada, and a variety of soups.

I don’t think my delicate beak has ever experienced anything like this, Katharina said. The smells are scrumptious.

I agreed. The scents of Veracruz were piquant and provocative and unlike anything in Chicago. There, when the wind was just right, the charnel house stench of butchered beef and pork from Chicago’s sprawling west-side stockyards sometimes drifted into fashionable Southside and Northside neighborhoods where the city’s crème de la crème dwelled.

I reminded Katharina of that distinctive Chicago aroma. It’s the price Chicagoans pay for being, as the poet Carl Sandburg says, ‘hog butcher for the world.’

I wasn’t aware you knew who Carl Sandburg was, Katharina said. Since when do newspaper drudges have an affinity for poetry?

Haven’t you learned by now? We hacks are just chock-full of astonishments, I said, putting my arm around Katharina’s waist and pulling her closer.

Finally, after almost three hours of wandering Veracruz’s meandrous streets we came to the city’s wharf area where we were greeted by the fetid stench of fish being gutted and scrubbed in fish markets.

Okay, enough of this, Katharina said, holding a hanky over her mouth and nose. Let’s revisit the tamales.

***

On the morning of the third day, Parker showed up at our hotel, and the three of us made our way to a secluded area at the back of the marble-floored lobby. Katharina and I settled onto a couch, and Parker sat across from us facing the front of the lobby. After some small talk, we ordered three cafés con leche. The coffee was good, but not as good as the ones we’d had the day before. I said as much to Parker.

Few coffee houses are, he said. The Café de la Parroquia is absolutely the best in the world. Well, at least in this part of the world.

I provided him with an account of our activities in Veracruz and the dearth of any meaningful information we had accumulated.

Parker was a short, wiry man in his early forties. He wore a gray suit and highly shined black shoes. When he talked he continually surveyed the lobby, often looking past Katharina and me.

You expecting somebody? I finally asked.

What do you mean?

The way you’re eyeballing the lobby I thought you might be waiting for somebody else.

It’s a habit I’ve gotten into here, he said. Veracruz is a perfidious arena for several competing political factions in Mexico. Then, leaning forward toward the coffee table that separated us, he half-whispered, There are more foreign spies, saboteurs, and subversives per square foot in Veracruz than any place else on earth. I’m not eager to call attention to you. After all, you are just tourists, right?

If you say so, Katharina said.

I handed Parker a piece of paper with a list of the places Katharina and I had visited.

Parker looked it over. You haven’t been to Via Berlin or Casa Luna?

Not yet. Where are they?

Off the plaza a few blocks. They are the two preferred public houses for Germans.

Katharina leaned closer to Parker and lowered her voice. What are we supposed to do if we do overhear something? After all, we will have no idea who is talking. It could be just some drunk yattering on about the fatherland.

You just need to note anything you hear about ship movements, weapons, ammunition, General Huerta, the Mexican army, revolutionaries . . . things like that, Parker said. We will make sense out of it once you give us your notes. We have nobody in the consulate who speaks German, and the people that I know here who do speak German are not to be trusted.

Then Parker added, Of course, it would be extremely useful if you were to meet and get close to one or two of Germany’s agents here. That would be an invaluable source of information.