Eventually, we made it to the president and his wife.
I half bowed, shook his proffered hand, and introduced myself. “Good evening, Mr. President, Mrs. McKinley. Captain Peter Wake, special personal aide to Assistant Secretary of the Navy Roosevelt, sir.” Gesturing toward Maria, I continued, “Mr. President, may I present my wife, Maria Maura Wake.”
She half-curtseyed as only Continental ladies can, her accent making a simple greeting sound exotic. “Good evening, Mr. President and Mrs. McKinley.”
McKinley’s wife Ida was next to him, seated due to a chronic nervous illness afflicting her since her two young daughters had tragically died over twenty years earlier. She smiled shyly at us, looking as distinctly uncomfortable and worn as I felt.
The president turned his attention to Maria. “Mrs. Wake, this is indeed an honor and a pleasure. Your husband is known for his skill and bravery. Now I see why he is so inspired. This is my dear wife Ida.”
The ladies exchanged pleasantries and we moved away from the receiving line, but not before McKinley whispered to me, “I would like a word with you and Roosevelt later. This line won’t take much longer than a few minutes.”
I’d planned on our leaving right after being “seen” by the president and my superiors, but alas, now I had to stay. At my urging, Maria went home to Alexandria. As I knew would happen, McKinley was wrong on the timing. “A few minutes” turned out to be two hours, my mood deteriorating by the minute as I waited in the corner with a few other bored officers. I tried to deduce the reason for the order to remain. Theodore said he had no idea. Whatever the president wanted, it couldn’t be good.
At ten o’clock, I was summoned by a harried aide to meet the president and Roosevelt in Secretary Long’s office. The secretary wasn’t present, having excused himself earlier in the evening, shortly after Theodore suggested he looked unwell and should spend the weekend resting. Such advice would be repeated several times over the next year, to Theodore’s benefit.
A quick description of Long’s current office is in order, for over the years I have spent many an hour briefing presidents, secretaries of state, and navy secretaries on foreign affairs there. It is as impressive as the Library and Reception Room and is a place where I’ve witnessed major foreign policy decisions being made.
The walls and ceiling are decorated with hand-painted symbolic naval stencils. The floor is cherry, mahogany, and white maple, covered with small Persian rugs. The two fireplaces are Belgian black marble with large gilded mirrors over stout mantles and Minton tile hearths. Both had fires crackling away to take the spring chill out of the room. Two chandeliers dominate the space above, each equipped for gas and electricity, with gas globes on top and the electric light bulbs below. Ship models, books, and maps are everywhere. There are no frivolous decorations or displays. It is a serious room, evoking American power and its relationship to the world.
Secretary Long’s desk had its accoutrements carefully organized around the periphery. Unlike Theodore’s desk in nearby 278 and mine in Room 279, there were no piles of documents, no paperwork of any kind, in sight. It was a telling sign about the secretary, for although decisions are expected to be made inside the office, the work of preparing and executing them goes on elsewhere. Mr. Long had no interest in either. His preferred topic of conversation was the garden of his home in Buckfield, Maine. To Theodore’s joy, the garden was blooming quite nicely right about then, and demanding more of the kind old gentleman’s attention.
The president plopped down in the secretary’s chair with a sigh and turned his large unblinking eyes to Roosevelt, who was seated bolt upright in a guest chair, like a pupil summoned before the headmaster. I was seated to Theodore’s right and slightly behind him, sitting at attention as well.
McKinley got right to the point. “Gentlemen, I’ve seen war close up, and never want to see it again. I will not have us in a war or confrontation over Cuba, or anywhere else beyond our borders. This country will remain at peace with everybody. Is that abundantly clear to both of you?”
My reply was an automatic and quick, “Aye, sir.”
Theodore paused and leaned forward, his eyes focused on the president’s while he formulated an answer.
Outwardly, I remained impassive at McKinley’s statement. Inwardly, I was a bit disconcerted at having the president of the United States lump me in with Theodore’s well-known penchant for bellicosity. Why was the president including me in his lecture?
I was the one who frequently counseled my superiors over the past seventeen years to be cautious of involvement in various foreign crises, particularly in Cuba. I had also given this president my opinion that our army and navy weren’t yet ready for war with Spain, no matter what the situation in Cuba. I was known for my opinions—strongly pro-Cuban independence, and against any American colonial acquisitions. McKinley had already sought my advice on Hawaii, which was simple—reverse the U.S. moves toward annexation—and he seemed to agree. The president wants me as a witness to his statement to Roosevelt, I decided.
Theodore’s response emerged in an uncharacteristically subservient tone, without his usual fervent accentuations.
“Mr. President, I am a loyal American and entirely at your command, both personally and professionally. My only goal is to keep the United States Navy ready at all times to do precisely your bidding, whatever and whenever you decide. As for Captain Wake here, he knows the situation and personalities in Cuba better than anyone else in our national government. He will provide factual information about the evolving state of affairs inside Cuba so reasoned executive decisions can be made with a high degree of confidence. And I guarantee Captain Wake will promptly and efficiently follow his orders without personal prejudice or delay.”
McKinley seemed satisfied, nodding his approval. Either he did not understand, or chose to ignore, a salient but subtle point around which Theodore had deftly detoured—that I would promptly and efficiently follow orders from whom?
10
Cuba’s Pain
Secretary of the Navy’s Office
Room 274—State, War, & Navy Building
Washington D.C.
Friday evening
23 April 1897
Having delivered his policy statement to Roosevelt and me, the president swung around in the secretary’s chair to face me. “Please read this, Captain Wake.”
He took some folded pages from his coat pocket and presented me with a five-page letter from General Máximo Gómez, the senior military commander of the free Cuban forces inside Cuba. It was dated the ninth of February and asked McKinley to condemn the widely known Spanish atrocities on the island. I noted it specifically emphasized the Cubans were not asking for any United States intervention in the war. I handed the letter to Roosevelt to peruse.
The president asked of me, “I want your opinion of this man, Gomez.”
The moment I saw the letter, I knew I would be called upon to educate the president on the Cuban situation. Typical of our presidents, McKinley had never been outside the country, knew nothing of foreign languages or cultures, and been a Congressional politician for much of his career. When international incidents demanded presidential attention, they always summoned the Navy for answers, for we were the only ones in the government who understood the world.
“Aye, sir,” I replied. “I met General Gómez once, in 1886. He is a serious man of impressive demeanor and gravitas, educated and compassionate, and very professional in military matters. Born in the Dominican Republic, he fought as an officer in the Spanish army there in the 1860s and grew disillusioned. He then left that army in 1868 and went to fight with the Cubans for their freedom. Gómez has never wavered from his duty or his sense of honor, and has paid a heavy price—his son was killed in action with Maceo. The general is universally revered among the Cubans.”
McKinley, the former combat soldier, grunted in appreciation. His next questi
on was one many in Washington had inquired of me.
“With all this leadership and motivation, why haven’t the Cubans beaten the Spanish yet? It’s been almost thirty years since they declared they wanted independence.”
“Supplies, transport, and communications, sir. The Cubans have little of those three necessities for modern military operations. Due to the neutrality embargo our country has placed against Cuba, few of the necessary munitions, supplies, and equipment are getting to the freedom forces on the island. This is critical, and is what General Jomini called logistics in his seminal work on military science sixty years ago, titled Summary of the Art of War. Inefficient Confederate logistics helped defeat them three decades ago. Lack of crucial supplies is the main reason for the lack of a Cuban victory to date—not Spanish military skill or élan.”
He huffed and shook his head. “Hmm, well, the embargo will have to stay right in place, Captain Wake, otherwise it will mean a general war with Spain for us. Our army’s logistics are completely unready for anything like that. What about the Spanish army in Cuba?”
“The Spanish army, unlike the Cuban army, is a well-equipped and supplied modern army. Their officers are professional. The troops are reasonably well trained. The Spanish forces outnumber the Cubans about ten to one, if you include the pro-Spanish militia units on the island. A significant point to remember, though, is that even with their advantages the Spanish are primarily on the defensive. Other than the occasional foray, they stay mostly within the major towns and cities, and inside the three fortification lines built across the north-south width of the island, which are known as trochas. Plus, many of their troops brought from Spain are conscripts, who are far more sickly in the tropical jungle and much less motivated than the Cubans.”
“The Cuban army officers, what are they like?”
“Gómez has weeded out most of dilettantes and fools, so they are generally very good, with intimate knowledge of their operational areas. They have excellent intelligence about the Spanish strengths, weaknesses, and forays; which is important. They also have a penchant for action, when it will be successful.”
I added something I thought might be important to McKinley, well-known to be a Freemason. “Many of the Cuban officers, as well as the political leadership, are Freemasons, sir. It is a commitment taken very seriously in Cuba.”
As I expected, he didn’t visibly react. Freemasons seldom do in front of non-Masons such as me. I continued, “The Cuban forces have general control of most of the countryside and, combined with their intelligence advantage, they therefore have the military initiative over place and time of contact. Their main problem is exploitation of their successes. For that they need logistical support immediately available to them.”
Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped, the president asked another question I’d heard many times. “What about the average Cuban soldiers?”
“Most of the rank and file in their army are farm peasants who know the lay of the land quite well. These mambis, as they are called, have incredible endurance. Most important, they’ve perfected a chilling tactic taught to them by General Antonio Maceo before he was killed in battle. It is a machete cavalry charge, and it terrifies the Spanish soldiers.”
McKinley looked out the window and grew pensive. I wondered if my explanation had kindled old memories of battlefield terrors. At last, he said, “I see. What is happening there right now?”
“Pretty much a stalemate, sir. For the last six months, the war has begun to bog down for both sides into a war of attrition, with no knockout battles. Morale among the Spanish soldiers is worsening and desertion is increasing. I would say that attrition favors the Cubans, but very slowly.”
And what of my new boss Roosevelt during this discussion? Apparently content to stay out of the conversation, he’d been sitting impressively mute—the first time I’d ever seen that happen.
“How long will it take for the Cubans to win this thing?” McKinley asked.
“Without our help? At least another five long bloody years, sir.”
Never taking his eyes off me, the president sat back and pondered for a moment, then said, “And what about this General Weyler? The press calls him ‘The Butcher.’”
“A shrewd, tough character, sir. Career soldier since the age of sixteen who has fought in several wars. Been the governor of Cuba and several other colonies. His methods are brutally efficient, especially the concentration camps he has forced the rural poor into, but very short-sighted. The press accounts of thousands starving in those camps have horrified many of the moderates in Cuba who supported autonomy within the Spanish Empire, instead of outright independence. Weyler doesn’t care. He says many of his tactics simply echo Sherman’s policy in Georgia and South Carolina during our rebellion—scorched-earth, total war.”
Another presidential sigh. “Cuba’s a disaster, no matter which way you look at it.”
“Yes, sir. The island is in pain.”
McKinley stood, as did we. “Thank you, Captain Wake. You’ve been refreshingly informative and concise.”
He turned toward Theodore. His voice was hoarse from the reception line, but I detected an ominous edge. “Hopefully, Mr. Assistant Secretary, we won’t have to use your navy for anything regarding Cuba or Spain.”
“I agree, Mr. President,” replied Roosevelt, with a remarkably straight face.
11
El Consorcio de Azúcar
Sagamore Hill
Oyster Bay, Long Island
New York
Late Sunday evening
4 July 1897
Ten hectic weeks later, Theodore Roosevelt was in fine fettle. He had kept unaccustomedly muted for three months. That ended with a fiery speech at the Naval War College at Newport, Rhode Island in early June, espousing the virtues of war, mentioning the word no less than sixty-two times. His speech received compliments from the attendees, but the president and navy secretary were not amused, for they were on the receiving end of the great consternation engendered amongst the “chattering class” in Washington and Europe.
Theodore, naturally, was completely oblivious to the critics, telling me a week later, “I simply told the truth, Peter. And as is well known, the truth is always an absolute defense!”
It was now Independence Day weekend at Sagamore Hill. The veritable squire in his manor, Theodore was surrounded by adoring family, as well as Maria and me, his guests for the weekend.
A festive dinner was followed by an impromptu football game in the yard and fireworks on the nearby beach. It was all led with unbounded boyish enthusiasm by “Papa,” as his children called him, after which the utterly exhausted family and guests retired to their beds. Having celebrated my fifty-eighth birthday a week earlier, I was utterly exhausted too, and headed to join Maria upstairs in the guest bedroom. My host had other plans, and intercepted me in the hall. It seemed Theodore wasn’t tired in the least. He wanted to discuss the “Sugar Consortium.”
I knew the drill and headed for the library, the sanctum sanctorum for confidential conversations in the house. Sitting in a leather chair, probably furnished from some exotic victim of his, I waited to be interrogated thoroughly, for Roosevelt is the most informed man in government I’ve ever known. He actually reads the volumes of reports which pass through his office, a rarity in Washington, and thereafter makes inquiries which get straight to the core of the matter, another rarity. His ability for rapid consumption of printed material, and the memorization and recitation of its contents, is well known—and dreaded by subordinates.
“Peter, I want an overall situation report on our Sugar Consortium,” he said while sitting down in a rocker, all business now. “Start with the administrative details: finances, communications, staff personnel, and subject matter areas. Then we’ll cover the two main operational goals.”
He was speaking of a clandestine web of agents I’d
been putting in place inside Cuba since late April. It was my initial assignment from him, an hour after I had arrived in my office. Though other projects regarding Germany, Venezuela, and Chile came my way, the Cuban espionage operation was to be my number one priority. There were no reports yet for him to read, however, for this was highly secret work and completely segregated from regular ONI intelligence efforts.
My previous network of spies in Cuba—code named Los Aficionados de Ron, or “The Rum Enthusiasts” in English—from ten years earlier had dissolved. When he initially chose me for the position, Roosevelt knew I still had contacts among people on the island and surmised they could be productive in obtaining a true picture of the Spanish presence and plans. This was part and parcel of his “getting the navy ready” goal, and one with which I agreed. The president would need facts to make valid decisions regarding Cuba. I was to furnish them.
Thus, “The Sugar Consortium,” or El Consorcio de Azúcar, was born. A week after Rork and I moved into Room 279, I had the general framework of the operation worked out. A month into it, we had half the agents set up. Now, after two months, the entire network was in operation.
The reader might wonder about the chosen moniker. In sugar-dominated Cuba, the name was sufficiently ubiquitous as to not generate undue alarm should it come to anyone’s attention. It would be used only among those in the know at naval headquarters in Washington, no more than seven men at most, none of whom would be officially part of ONI. Should the term be overheard, its true nature would not be apparent.
An Honorable War Page 5
