An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  What I did not know prior to seeing him in the doorway was his appearance. Six-foot-five, as big as Rork, he had the face of a boy years younger than his true age. Misgivings began to percolate in my mind, for Roosevelt and I had made big plans for Agent R94.

  In Cuba, the Spanish post office administered the mail, the telephone system, and the telegraph system. Thus, they were in a perfect position to monitor all forms of communication to and from everyone on the island—a very effective tool for the secret police.

  And therein lay an opportunity. If I could get a man on the inside of their post office telegraph system, as I knew the Cuban rebels already had done all over the island, I could read the Spanish government and military messages. Jacques understood that as well and had cultivated Gonzart carefully before recommending him for our organization. R94 became our man inside the Spanish communications system of Cuba.

  Gonzart smiled shyly and sat down. His manner did not inspire confidence. Then, in a pleasant but slightly squeaky voice loud enough for the barkeeper and anyone else nearby to hear, he said, “Welcome to Sagua, Mr. Fisker. Father Lizambard here told me he heard you were looking for quality wrapper leaf for cigars. Our farm has an excellent crop of corojo leaf growing this year, twenty hectares worth. I am glad you came all the way from Santa Clara to see them. My stepfather does not speak English so he sent me. I can answer any questions you have.”

  “Any sign of blue mold or black shank disease in your fields?” I asked in an equally loud tone, trying to sound knowledgeable while hoping no detailed debate would ensue. I am not a smoker and knew only some rudimentary information hurriedly gleaned from an encyclopedia in the Navy Library. I had not a notion as to what those diseases looked like or did to a plant, or what the hell a corojo leaf was.

  “Absolutely none!” the young man proclaimed. “We protect our plants very carefully at Stahl farm. After our meal, I can show you.”

  He was equally pleasant during the rest of the conversation, which was on tobacco prices, as we forced down a truly wretched breakfast of unrecognizable ingredients, purported to be rice, beans, and some part of a chicken. When we finished as much as we could, I reluctantly paid the woman good money for the mess, only because it was in keeping with my façade as a commercialist.

  Once back in the landau, we headed north out of town, ostensibly to inspect tobacco plants at Stahl farm, but actually to inspect the docks at Isabela. It began as a quiet drive with polite discussion about the farm and Mr. Stahl, but once past the outer perimeter of the town, our young man changed his character.

  That was when the real Raul Gonzart appeared.

  19

  A Little Complication

  Isabela, Cuba

  Thursday morning

  20 January 1898

  Gonzart’s eyes shed the youthful innocence of the past hour and narrowed in on me. His tone was now clipped and pure business, like a Boston shipping baron. The change was disconcerting, and I studied him carefully as he spoke.

  “Enough of stupid tobacco talk, Mr. Fisker. You obviously know nothing about the subject. My advice is to not to speak about it with any Cuban in the future. I have also heard that a suspected yanqui gunrunner was cornered in a cane field by a Spanish patrol west of here a couple nights ago, but somehow got away. I presume that was your bungled entry into the island. Not an impressive performance so far. I further presume you asked for this rendezvous, which might imperil all of us, for a serious reason. What is it?”

  Father Jacques grinned at me. Rork glared at Gonzart.

  “I appreciate the candor, Mr. Gonzart,” I countered, with new respect. He was smarter than he allowed others to perceive, a valuable attribute in a spy. Ignoring his negative assessment of my efforts so far, I said, “Yes, there is a serious reason for this personal meeting, but you don’t get to know it. I am in charge, not you. Instead, you will give me the information I pay you to provide. Now, what is the disposition of the Spanish forces, army and navy, in this specific coastal area? Start with the navy.”

  My rebuke didn’t startle him at all. He thought for a moment, before reciting a detailed report. “The Spanish Navy has the following ships at Isabela. The Lealtad is a newly built 30-ton patrol boat with a machine gun, under command of Lt. Chereguini. It can go ten knots, has eight crewmen, and needs just under two meters of water to float. The Mayari is a 40-ton, 20-meter-long, 12-knot gunboat built two years ago. It needs over two meters to float, carries thirteen men, and has one 42-millimeter gun in the bow and a 37-millimeter Maxim gun in the stern. Lt. Lisarregui is in command. He is senior to Chereguini. The two boats patrol the coast for ten leagues both east and west of here. Their dock is the small one south of the ship docks. Usually, one of the boats is at the dock when the other is on patrol.”

  “What about those two officers? Have you met them? Age, experience, temperament?”

  Gonzart didn’t hesitate. Either he was a very good liar—entirely possible in wartime Cuba—or he knew his subject extremely well.

  “I have met and conversed with them, when they were at social events in Sagua. They are both from Spain, have about ten years of service, and are professional in their deportment. Chereguini is slightly younger than Lisarregui. Both would like to be assigned on a more prestigious ship in the oceangoing fleet.”

  “Any other naval vessels on this coast?”

  “Yes. At Cárdenas, there are three gunboats and a tugboat. The three gunboats are the same design, 43 tons and 23 meters long, and built three years ago in Britain for the Spanish. They are named Alerta, under Lt. Pasquin; Ligera, under Lt. Perez; and Ardilla, under Lt. Bauza. Each needs two meters to float, can go eleven knots, and has thirteen men. The guns are the same as for Mayari. The lieutenants and their gunboats have been in Cuba for two years. I have not met them and do not know of their personalities or experience.”

  “And the tug?”

  “It is 68 tons, about thirty meters long, named the Antonio Lopez and was originally built in . . .” Gonzart paused in his recitation, then proceeded slowly, “Phi-la-del-phi-a, in Penn-syl-va-ni-a, in 1883. I do not know how much water it needs to float or how many men it carries. I do know it can go ten knots and has bigger guns than the other boats—one 57-millimeter Hotchkiss rapid-firing gun on the bow and a 37-millimeter Nordenfelt gun on the stern. It is commanded by Lt. Montes, who is senior to other naval officers on this part of the coast. I do not know him.”

  “Are you certain of everything you just told me? There are no other Spanish patrol or gunboats between Cárdenas to the west and the Cayos Romanos to the east?”

  “Yes, I am certain of the facts I have stated. For two months I have been asking quietly about the navy boats at Cárdenas, and I have personally seen the ones at Isabela. There are no more gunboats stationed on this section of the coast.”

  I was impressed by his phenomenal memorization, but wasn’t going to say so yet. I pressed him further. “Where are the coal supplies for the navy boats? What is the condition of the ship channel, from the open sea through the islands and into Isabela?”

  “A small amount of coal is kept here. A bigger amount is kept at Cárdenas and also at Nuevitas, much farther to the east. As for the channel, I have heard it has markers along the way and is six meters deep. I have never been on a boat in that channel.”

  This entire time we’d seen no vehicles on the road and no train on the tracks beside it. One little Negro boy was the sole pedestrian. Ahead of us, I could see the tops of some buildings begin to show through the mangrove trees. We were nearing Isabela. I needed to conclude the interview soon.

  “What about the Spanish Army in this area? Tell me about their units and commanders. Start with the senior commander.”

  Gonzart’s reply was matter of fact, but hatred began showing in his eyes. “Colonel Arce commands the area around Sagua Grande. At Olayita Plantation two years ago, the men of his voluntario bat
talion murdered the plantation manager, Braulio Duarte, a respected Frenchman, by hacking him to death as he stood wrapped in the French flag. Then they burned all the buildings and slaughtered twenty-three innocent women and children who were staying there under Duarte’s protection. The bodies, some still alive, were thrown into the flames. A Chinese laborer was the only survivor. He escaped with six Mauser holes in him and told me what happened.”

  “God bless their souls,” intoned Jacques. “And bring justice to their tormentors.”

  “Arce was there?” I asked.

  “He was in personal command at the scene.”

  That explained a lot. I guessed at the rest. “One of those victims was your friend?”

  “My fiancé.” He said it without tears. He was past them. That was good, because he would need to be rational and calculating when the war came. Or to be more accurate, I should say when the U.S. got into the war which had long been raging. My demands on him would be increased.

  My daughter Useppa had lost her Cuban fiancé, ironically also named Raul, to a Spanish agent’s bullet at Key West. I could well imagine Gonzart’s pain. “I am very sorry for your loss, Raul, but we must continue with the briefing. What of the other senior Spanish Army officers in the area?”

  “Colonel Carrem also commands a voluntario battalion. He is similar to Arce in personality and works with him. Colonel Carrera is in the area from time to time. I do not know him. Colonel Velasco is well respected, a man of honor. He commands a regular infantry regiment near Santa Clara which comes this way now and then, but does not kill innocent civilians. We call the innocents pacificos. Those are the colonels. There are no Spanish generals here.”

  “What about Spanish Army units defending Isabela?”

  “None are assigned to Isabela permanently. They are fighting the Cubans in the interior, not defending small villages on the coast.”

  We were approaching the outer shacks of Isabela village. No one greeted us. Most stared with open mistrust at the three men in the expensive landau. Some had more devious gazes, as if estimating their chances of stealing the vehicle and robbing the occupants.

  “You can now see what I mean about this place,” said Jacques. “Evil is here.”

  “And what about the Cuban forces and leaders?” I asked Gonzart.

  “Brigadier General José Francisco Lacret is senior commander. He reports to General Gómez, the supreme commander. Lacret is about forty-nine, esteemed by his men and the civilians. He was wounded in the foot back in `76 during the early years of our struggle for independence. It never healed well, so he walks with a bad limp. He speaks English. Oh, yes . . . I remember hearing that he married a Cuban lady in Key West fifteen years ago. I do not know where she lives at this time, maybe back there.”

  “The other Cuban officers?”

  “Major Borde is chief of staff and very smart, also fluent in English. I think he was a lawyer and lived in the United States for a couple of years. Major Quentino Bandera is a black man in his sixties, and commands a battalion of four hundred men. He was born a slave and is famous among the Cuban people, especially the mambises, the peasant warriors, for being very fearless. He is the most successful commander against the Spanish in this area and the enemy soldiers fear him. He makes the Spaniard, Colonel Arce, look like a fool, which is not difficult. Arce hates Bandera and was looking for him when he went to Olayita and committed the massacre. Recently, I heard Bandera is being promoted to lieutenant colonel by General Gómez.”

  “Sounds like me own sort o’ lad,” opined Rork. “Bet he fancies a tot o’ rum every once in a while, too. I could surely use one right about now.”

  “I believe he was a disciple of the great ‘Bronze Titan,’ General Antonio Maceo,” said Jacques. Gonzart made no comment.

  Guessing what his answer would be, I asked, “How long have you been a member of the Cuban Liberation Army, Raul? You are a lieutenant on the staff, probably under Major Borde, correct?”

  I checked Jacques’ reaction to my question, which also was what I expected—bland. He’d never told me R94 was in the rebel army, but it was now obvious. Gonzart knew too much about too many senior officers. Equally clear was that he was the Cuban agent inside American intelligence. It bothered me Jacques had left out a lot when briefing me about his protégé. What else was there about the young Cuban I should know? And correspondingly salient, what had Gonzart learned from me which he could pass along to Borde and Lacret?

  He made no attempt to deny or disguise his affiliation. “Yes. I have been a staff lieutenant under Major Borde for two years.”

  Since the massacre at Olayita, I noted inwardly before asking another question. “And therefore, all of the communications between us in the past, and those we may have in the future, will be repeated to the Cuban Liberation Army?”

  Gonzart’s eyes showed no emotion. “Of course. You need us as allies, no?”

  I cast an accusatory glance at Father Jacques, who adopted a kindly pastoral manner. “Now do not be angry, Peter. After all, we are all on the same side—peace and freedom for the Cuban people. This is only a little complication, my son. In God’s greater plan of things, it is a minor detail.”

  20

  Reconnaissance Among Pirates

  Isabela, Cuba

  Thursday

  20 January 1898

  The village of Isabela was even tinier than I imagined from the reports and charts I’d perused in my office at headquarters. The community is perched along a 250-foot-wide mangrove peninsula which juts out of the coastline northward for a quarter mile into a large bay. The eastern side of this peninsula is bordered by the mouth of the Sagua River, and the western side faces the open water of the bay. The northern perimeter of the bay is composed of more mangrove and scrub-covered islands forming a barrier to the open ocean beyond. In no more than one minute, we travelled the entire length of the village and stopped at the docks on the western side.

  Gonzart switched back to his public persona and smiled broadly as he swept his hand over the view. “And this is where your ships can load our tobacco, Mr. Fisker. This place is much easier and faster than Matanzas or Havana. Combined with our good prices and quality leaf, it makes a powerful argument for you to buy from us for your Canadian customers.”

  Following Gonzart’s gesture, I saw before us two wooden wharves in need of serious repair. The railroad tracks from Sagua split into two sidings which led onto each wharf. One of the wharves was large enough to berth a moderate-sized ship. I saw no large coal pile or loading derricks. Clearly, Isabela was seldom used by steamers.

  On both sides of the only road were crudely thatched shacks on stilts, many out over the shallows with long planks connecting them to shore. To the north, across the vast bay surrounded by mangrove islands, I saw a ragged line of confusing marker posts delineating a channel. It headed for a gap between two dark green islands in the distance.

  “That is the Maravillas Channel, Mr. Fisker,” my Cuban companion explained. “The island it passes in the bay is Cayo Paloma, and those two out there are De La Cruz and Maravillas islands. Beyond them is the ocean. And thirty miles out in the ocean are the Anguila Keys of the Bahama Islands, your fellow subjects of the beautiful Queen Victoria!”

  I dutifully nodded at his reference to the 79-year-old monarch, who was anything but beautiful, but my eyes and mind were on that channel, which was bottle-necked between the two islands. When I’d examined the chart in Washington, it appeared there’d be more room to maneuver. But seeing it in person, I realized it would be damn near impossible to get through that channel in the dark under enemy fire.

  Even a light field-gun set up in the village, if skillfully employed, could delay an invasion force long enough for Spanish reinforcements to arrive. Surprise and speed would be crucial in my plan. Anything that hindered them had to be eliminated.

  The tactical subject reminded me
of another factor and I surveyed the shoreline to the left of the docks. Just like Gonzart had explained, the Mayari, the larger of the two small Spanish gunboats stationed at Isabela, was moored to a dilapidated jetty alone. Evidently, Lealtad was out on patrol. There was no naval depot, only a small office shack.

  No officer or petty officer was in sight. Two young sailors were lounging on deck, pretending to do rope work. We were too far away to gauge the state of readiness of her guns, but the general appearance of the vessel was good. In these waters, where a shallow draft gunboat could dart among the islands, she was a very dangerous foe.

  “You are a convincing salesman, Mr. Gonzart,” I said to my companion and the audience of piratical-looking ne’er-do-wells who had gathered around us. “I will be in contact with you, but now I must return to Sagua Grande so I can make the train for Caibarién. I’m expected there for a business dinner later tonight.”

  Needless to say, I had no intention of going on a sixty-mile rail journey to the east for dinner. It was just another false trail laid for the confusion of the enemy, who surely had informants among our spectators. Under my breath, I added, “I will need to meet with General Lacret, in about four days’ time, if possible. Can it be arranged?”

  “No problem, Mr. Fisker,” Gonzart announced in his stage voice. “My stepfather will be pleased to meet you when you return from Caibarién.”