Spy in a Little Black Dress

Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth


PROLOGUE


Granada, Nicaragua, October 13, 1856


Maria Consuela heard the pop-pop-pop of musket fire coming from beyond the convent walls and knew that the day of liberation had arrived.

Today the convent gates were thrown wide open, and she and her sister novices ran out into the street, as uncharacteristically giddy as young schoolgirls on holiday, to greet the conquering heroes. There they were, the norteamericanos, or the filibusters, as they were known back home in America, supporters of her country’s Democratic faction. They wore no uniforms, but instead a rough collection of motley outfits: swallowtail coats and middy jackets, stovepipe hats and cloth caps. Some had bandoliers strapped across their chests; others had leather or burlap ammunition pouches slung over one shoulder. All of them carried their rifles and pistols casually at their sides, raising them occasionally to shoot at the odd Legitimist sniper popping up here and there.

Joining the crowd in support of the liberators was just the excuse Maria Consuela needed to say good-bye to the convent behind whose walls she had lived for so many years, like a prisoner resigned to her fate. She had been forced by circumstance to trade one stifling existence as the dutiful daughter of middle-class parents for another as the young novitiate dedicated to Christ. And now, this liberation of her country was her chance to leave both lives behind and make a fresh start. She would never return to the convent, she promised, even if it meant becoming a campesino’s wife and working in the fields from dawn till dusk.

Maria Consuela and the other novices joined the joyous crowd and skipped alongside the filibusters as they marched—strolled, really—through the narrow and twisty streets of Granada, the former Legitimist stronghold. The young women pecked the soldiers daringly on the cheek as a show of thanks for freeing them from the oppressive Legitimist regime and showered them with flowers as a kind of benediction.

One very young soldier caught the flower Maria Consuela boldly threw his way, removed his cap, and put the flower in his hair. His fellow filibusters laughed at him, but he looked at Maria Consuela and winked at her, as though they were sharing a private joke. To Maria Consuela, this soldier, with his thick rimless glasses, looked more like a librarian than a member of a conquering army.

Suddenly, Maria Consuela heard the sound of a single rifle shot coming from above the street and watched as one of the soldiers fell to the ground, his chest exploding in a bright red spray of blood. She had never seen anyone killed before, and it horrified her.

A second rifle shot immediately ensued, and Maria Consuela mistook it for an echo of the first. But when a second soldier collapsed in a shattered heap, she realized just how much danger the crowd was in.

“Sniper,” someone called out. And all the soldiers and their well-wishers melted away into the nearest doorways or alleyways, seeking protection from the shooter lying in wait in his vantage point on a rooftop overlooking the street.

Maria Consuela wanted to move to safety too, but found that her legs wouldn’t let her. She was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.

Then a third rifle shot sounded in the street, and a little spray of earth erupted right in front of her. Something must be wrong, Maria Consuela thought. The sniper couldn’t be such a bad shot that he missed her so completely.

Before she could react, a fourth rifle shot cracked the air, and dirt from the ground spat up to her right.

A fifth, and a clod of dirt sprang up to her left.

Then, with a chill, Maria Consuela realized that the sniper wasn’t a bad marksman. He was merely toying with her, using her as a staked goat in order to lure some of the soldiers out of hiding so he could finish them off. He knew that sooner or later someone would come to her aid, and then he would hit his target with deadly accuracy. Unless he got tired of waiting, at which point she was sure to become his next victim.

Maria Consuela cringed, knowing that the next breath she took might well be her last. Please, God, she pleaded in the throes of desperation, let me live, and if you do, I will return to the convent and pledge the rest of my life to extolling your glory.

But in the interval between the last rifle shot and the one sure to come, a man appeared in the street. He was diminutive in stature and wore a black frock coat with black trousers and a black, flat-brimmed hat that made him look like an undertaker or a fire-and-brimstone preacher. From a holster cinched around his waist, he whipped out a pistol and began calmly and methodically firing it up in the direction the shots had been coming from. Spurts of dust pocked the ground around him as the sniper alternated between returning the gunfire and ducking for cover. But the black-clad little man remained heedless of his own safety and refused to flinch. Instead, he just kept on firing until his pistol was empty and he was forced to reload.

With the echo of the man’s last shot still reverberating in the narrow street, Maria Consuela heard a clattering sound from above and watched as the sniper’s rifle rolled down the tiled roof and fell to the street. A moment later came the sniper himself. His lifeless body tumbled down the slanted roof and struck the ground within an arm’s length of his weapon, landing with a resounding thud. The filibusters and their well-wishers emerged from their hiding places and approached the body to make sure that the sniper was well and truly dead.

Ignoring the dead sniper, the man in black holstered his weapon and approached Maria Consuela.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. His eyes lingered for a moment on her petite form inside her novice’s habit, as if trying to assure himself that she hadn’t been injured.

Maria Consuela found herself unable to speak, trembling not with fear but out of a profound sense of relief. All she could do was nod, shaking the long, dark curls that stuck out on either side of her wimple. She looked into his eyes and was surprised by their intensity. They were blue and fervent as though lit from within by a holy fire, and his riveting gaze made her feel safe. Something akin to the first stirrings of love quivered inside her, like a cocoon vibrating right before the birth of a butterfly.

“Good,” the man in black said as he held out his arm for her to take.

Maria Consuela smiled at this gentlemanly gesture. Arm in arm, she accompanied him through the streets of Granada until they, along with the crowd of soldiers and their well-wishers, arrived at the large and imposing villa that was the former headquarters of the overthrown Legitimist regime.

As she stood next to him, a delegation from the Democratic faction swarmed around the little black-clad man and deluged him with gratitude.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, may God bless you for liberating our country,” they said, some with tears streaming down their cheeks.

He accepted their thanks with grace and humility, but Maria Consuela had the distinct impression that he also thought of this acknowledgment as his just due, like Caesar being rightfully rendered unto.

Maria Consuela noticed a man who was holding himself apart from all the others. Hat in hand, he approached the small man in black and introduced himself.

“My name is Dominga Goicuria, and it is my honor to speak to you on behalf of the country of Cuba,” he said in a deferential tone, bordering on awe. “I have traveled here to ask you to come to the aid of the Cuban people and free our island from Spanish rule.”

It was then that Maria Consuela realized that this man in black, her savior, was the generalissimo of the norteamericano army of filibusters. Despite his diminutive stature, this American Napoléon had liberated her people and, inadvertently, liberated her as well. His name was William Walker, and he had changed her life forever. On the spot, she abandoned her pledge to return to the convent if she survived the sniper’s bullet—a promise clearly made in a moment of foolish weakness. No, now there was no going back. Maria Consuela knew that from this moment on her life would be inextricably bound with this American, who would declare himself the new president of Nicaragua.