His armament was one small pearl-handled derringer, date 1849. He wore it suspended by a string inside of one leg of a trouser, a pant, and could always verify its presence by sitting down. It had been given him by his father and was not really a dangerous weapon, since it was necessary to turn down all its grease-cups daily, else it would not go off, shoot.
⁂
On the deck of the Morro Castle, whence all but he had fled, stood a solitary figure, little Joe, the Boy Liberator. The tallest of stocks seemed to proclaim the Duke of Wellington; the plum-coloredest of capes, Beau Brummell. Like Napoleon, he depended greatly on his heavy artillery, which, in turn, depended inside a nicely-cut trouser.
⁂
Andrés Escobar called on him at the Hotel Inglaterra.
“Is this your first visit to Cuba?” he asked. “What do you think of our Cuban women?”
“It is. I do not,” laconic Joseph replied.
“I mean I don’t think about them at all,” he continued. “My mind has been singularly purified. I have a sensation of remoteness from my flesh.”
“Ah,” said Andrés, “I see. Something like un esqueleto, a skeleton. Very nice for the hot weather.”
“Not exactly,” said Joseph doubtfully. “Still, come to think of it, there is something in what you say. But lissen, friend, amigo! I came here to shoot, tirar, el Capitan-General in his gold-laced tummy and to get shot in the fracas or somewhere else. Thus Cuba shall be freed.