The ten-mile trip back to Sagua Grande was done in contemplative silence, each man having a lot to think about. We stopped down by the river, a block from the post office. Gonzart wandered off to his desk to check for telegraph messages.
He returned with a telegraph message form. As I expected, it was a short message in a simple two-time substitution code from Roosevelt personally, sent that very morning. Rork and I walked over to the river bank with the telegram. Theodore used the alias CAGED. It was addressed to an alias he’d chosen for me, BLUEBIRD—ornithological humor of the Rooseveltian kind. It read:
XXX—BOARD SAYS NO TO BANK—XX—YES TO MINER AS SOON AS THEO SAYS YEA—XX—IF DEAL LOOKS GOOD STAY AND WORK ON CUSTOMERS—XX—NO OFFER FROM WILSON—XX—CHECK ON WHY—XX—MINER HAS YOUR FUNDS—XXX
This was nothing unforeseen by me: the president (BOARD) was continuing to resist calls for war (BANK), but he was finally sending the Maine (MINER) to Havana, once he got permission of the Spanish government (THEO). Rork and I were to reconnoiter the potential invasion site at Isabela (DEAL) and continue preparing our espionage network (CUSTOMERS). Our agent in Havana (WILSON), whom we had taken great pains to cultivate and keep safe, hadn’t sent the defense plans (OFFER) which were expected by then, and we were to go and find out why. The final line said Captain Sigsbee of the Maine would have Roosevelt’s next message (FUNDS) for me, so I was to meet with him, too.
I uttered an elongated and vivid curse, something I try not to do often in my older years, which caused Rork to glance worriedly at me. I handed him the message. Seconds later, he echoed my reaction.
We had to get to Havana, find our wayward agent, get the Spanish plans, and meet with Sigsbee—all of which I had previously told Roosevelt was far too dangerous. The city was crawling with informers, counterintelligence agents, vigilante militias, policemen, soldiers, and revolutionaries. Rork and I were known by the Spanish, in particular, Marrón.
But Theodore, for some reason unknown to us, was clearly desperate and had ordered it done, so that was that.
“Any reply?” asked Gonzart when we returned to the landau.
“Yes. Please send this today.” I wrote it out on a piece of scrap paper.
XXX—DEAL LOOKS GOOD—XX—WILL SEE MINER—XXX
Before we went to Havana, our work at Sagua had to be completed. Rork and I checked into the Grand Hotel at Sagua, using our aliases of Fisker and Clooney. For the next four days, Rork stayed mainly in the room, guarding our equipment while pretending to do accounting work on tobacco offers. I roamed the countryside with Lizambard and Gonzart, visiting tobacco and sugar plantations, carefully examining leaves and getting prices. In actuality, I was evaluating the terrain, railways, roads, telegraph cables, telephone lines, Spanish army garrisons, bridges, the militia units we encountered, and most important of all, the attitude of the inhabitants.
My conclusion was the area was not optimal for a largescale invasion force from a logistical point of view, but few places in Cuba were. It was certainly doable, though, with decisive commanders and the aforementioned surprise and speed at the outset.
A brigade-sized force—four infantry regiments, one cavalry, and one of artillery—could be landed at Isabela within the first forty-eight hours, if the ships were properly loaded and organized beforehand. By the next evening, it would be in possession of the Sagua Grande area. Another full division could be landed at Isabela in the ensuing week and strike across the island the seventy miles to Cienfuegos within eight days of the initial assault. Taking the city from the rear, they would thereby have gained a port on both the north and south coasts for further reinforcements.
Joining forces with General Gómez, the American army regiments could then move west along the island and take Matanzas, then Havana. If begun by the beginning of March and prosecuted vigorously, the campaign could be concluded before summer rains slowed military movement in June. The campaign had to conclude successsfully before July and the advent of the deadly fever season, when yellow fever and malaria would begin to decimate foreigners in Cuba.
The U.S. Navy and Marines would have the responsibility for the initial assault on Isabela. They would secure the port and its environs, and handle harassment of the enemy along the adjacent northern coast, the landings of men and materiel, and transport and communications inland to Sagua Grande.
The U.S. Army would have to take it from there. I felt confident of the naval services’ ability to handle their tasks. Our land-based colleagues were another matter. They weren’t prepared for anything like a modern war with a European enemy. The Spanish, in spite of the New York jingoists’ opinions, were well armed and well led in Cuba. They would fight.
This was the report I would give to Sigsbee. I hoped to be out of Cuba and back in Washington shortly thereafter, where Rork and I could construct a far more detailed war plan.
But, as has happened so often in my career, a whim of fate intervened to subvert my design. This time, it arrived in the form of a distraught mother.
21
Searching for Goatsuckers
Sagua Grande, Cuba
Monday
24 January 1898
The next cable came in on our last day in Sagua, the day I was to meet General Lacret. Rork and I were with Lizambard in his landau and had just picked up Gonzart for a trip to see the countryside west of Sagua Grande. I wanted to evaluate the terrain for the right flank of an invading army.
Gonzart handed me the cable message when he climbed in. The sender was Mario Cano, my Cuban attorney son-in-law in Tampa, who was deeply connected with the Cuban exile government in New York and the rebel fighters on the island. He sometimes forwarded confidential information he thought I might be interested in.
The unexpected telegram was in plain English and addressed to one of my clandestine names in Baltimore which were regularly checked by my staff in Washington. Connally, bright soul that he is, had guessed at the importance, and forwarded it onward to Sagua.
This communication was different, though. It was a purely personal matter.
XXX—MOTHER LEFT HERE TODAY—XX—ENROUTE TO SONS—XXX
I asked the priest to stop the vehicle. Rork and I walked to the riverbank and I told him the news. “Maria just took the Plant Line steamer from Tampa to see Francisco and Juanito in Havana.”
He read the message. “Ooh, ‘tis Maria’s heart she’s listenin’ to, but this is dangerous as hell. What do we do now?”
“No choice, Sean. We’ll have to find Maria in Havana, and get her the hell out of Cuba before Marrón gets her. Then we can get back to the job we’re here for.”
Rork’s jaw tightened. “Methinks after Maria’s safely out o’ Cuba, we should find Colonel Isidro Marrón again an’ this time we can kill that slimy bastard once an’ for all, in proper naval fashion, with a marline spike into his demented brain.”
Rork referred to employing his false left hand. It was a work of art made out of India rubber by a French navy carpenter’s mate in Indochina fifteen years before. A sniper’s bullet had mangled the arm and gangrene forced the surgeons to amputate it at the forearm. So perfectly painted that most people never guess it is a replica, the hand was posed in a permanent gripping position. This enables Rork to hold an oar, a belaying pin, or a bottle of rum. He has it lovingly repainted each year by a lady friend of his who nocturnally worked the street beside the Washington Navy Yard. It’s her annual Christmas present to him.
The fake hand served another role. It was the outer concealment for a silent and deadly weapon within. The hand could be easily unscrewed and removed from its base plate, where a five-inch-long steel marline spike waited for either benign or malevolent use. Rork is inordinately proud of his unique “appliance,” as he sometimes refers to it, keeping the thing polished and extremely sharp. The threat against Marrón was not rhetorical.
We walked back to the landau and climbed in. Go
nzart asked about sending a reply.
“No reply to this cable is necessary,” I told Raul. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, our plans have changed. We won’t be able to meet General Lacret tonight. Please pass along my sincere regrets and my respects to him.”
Gonzart was visibly surprised. It hadn’t been easy to set up the meeting. “When will you be able to meet with the general?”
“Not sure. We have to go to the south to see about some things which just came up, so this is where we must leave you. I’ll be back in touch soon. You’ve done very good work, Raul. Thank you.”
“Where exactly are you headed, Mr. Fisker?” he asked too nonchalantly. “Perhaps I can help.”
Nice try, I thought. “Thank you for the offer, Raul, but Father Jacques will take us. Rork and I are headed down to Santo Domingo, where we’ll catch the train for Cienfuegos on the south coast. We should reach there by tonight.”
We left Gonzart pondering our explanation and headed the carriage south. Half an hour later, as a hot sun baked the land around us, we reached the junction with the east-west coastal road.
Jacques stopped the landau. What little wind we’d felt from our forward movement ended. The heat settled over us in an oven-like weight of air.
With his usual bemused expression, he asked, “Peter, I am certain we are not continuing south to Santo Domingo so you can catch the train to Cienfuegos. I understand it was a ruse de guerre because you do not fully trust Raul Gonzart. So, which way do you want me to turn? East to Santa Clara, or west to Colon? I know of a very nice place to lodge for the night and dine in Santa Clara, by the way. No bed bugs. Decent food. Good rum.”
I decided that at this moment in time, Jacques did not need to know about our plans. So, ignoring the bit about mistrusting Gonzart, I half bowed in mock formality. “Sounds delightful, my friend. Another time, though. Right now, Rork and I are going to take some time off and go camping. We’ve accomplished what we need to do, and now we’ll take a few days to see the flora and fauna of this beautiful island. A rare bird or two would be nice. One must always take time out to commune with nature, don’t you think? It enhances our appreciation for the wonders of God’s magnificent work.”
Lizambard paused with a momentary doubtful expression, then said, “Ah, a secret naturalist. I am seeing a completely new side of you. I had no idea. How romantically Thoreauvian, Peter.”
I knew that Jacques knew I was lying. But he was a humorous soul and enjoyed repartee, so I continued the vein of dry wit. “Yes, well, I don’t like to show it often. Looks bad for someone in my profession.”
“Oh, I understand completely. I have to maintain my gravitas also for, alas, it is expected of me. Goes with the collar,” he said ruefully. “Any specific birds you are searching for?”
“Why yes, indeed, Jacques. Rork has long wanted to see the Antillean goatsucker in the wild,” I said with a straight face.
Rork nodded enthusiastically. “Ooh, right he is. The goatsucker’s a hellova bird!”
“Well, well . . .” said the clergyman-scientist. “The famed Antrostomus cubanensis, commonly known as the Cuban nightjar, or, among the less enlightened, the goatsucker. I would suggest the best time to see one will be at dusk tonight, when they come out to eat mosquitos and gnats. You two can be the bait for their prey.”
Rork held up his false hand and retorted, “Aye, but pity the poor mosquitos. For we all know you can’t get blood from rubber.”
“Touché, my son,” said Lizambard. “You win this round!”
Rork and I got out and shouldered our gear. The priest grew solemn. “I will not warn you to be careful, for that is not your mission or style. But please know you are in my prayers. God be with you.”
Rork made the sign of the cross. I replied, “Thank you, Jacques. Expect a cable soon.”
And with that, my ecclesiastical friend turned the landau west, toward his comfortable university life. The two of us waited until he was out of sight, then hoisted our gear onto our backs and started walking back to the railroad tracks. An hour later, we were hiding in a precariously overloaded cane car, heading west ourselves. It took four horrendous days, stowing away aboard five trains while hiding from guards, before we finally arrived at the one place in Cuba I dreaded most.
Havana.
22
City of Shadows
Havana, Cuba
Friday
28 January 1898
It had been several years since I’d been inside Havana. They hadn’t been kind to the city. Away from the waterfront restaurants and taverns, where rich Spaniards and foreigners congregated, the ambiance was sadder, without the laughter and music of the old days. Fear was palpable in the common peoples’ furtive glances and cautious words, never knowing when a comment or gesture would be construed as disloyalty by the police or militia.
Havana was a city under siege in an ugly civil war.
Detachments of voluntarios were everywhere, searching everyone and everything with self-important zeal. The Spanish garrison’s troops paraded each day, but more as a show of force than the traditional show of pride and heritage. The police were nervous, and never went about unless in groups of three or more.
I’d always thought of Havana as a city of shadows, even in the daytime, because of the narrow streets between the two- and three-story buildings. For years I had been comfortable within those streets. The shadows were still there, but now all was changed. Even the shadows weren’t safe. Our ostensible identities might stand up to a police encounter out in the hinterlands, but not in Havana, where the authorities were far tougher to fool, and more desperate to protect the capital of the colony.
The time spent hiding during our journey had given me enough time to come up with a plan to accomplish my priority—finding my wife. Much of the search would be by proxy, utilizing old contacts. This, as the reader can discern, was a leap of faith, for in wartime the concept of loyalty, even among those you have previously trusted, often adjusts to prevailing factors, which may be unknown to you.
We laid low in the poor quarter, west of the Antares fortress. Rork and I used this barrio on operations back in the `80s, and it was well suited for our current needs. A Spanish five-peseta silver coin, accompanied by the story we were Bahamian rum smugglers, and backed up with an evil grimace from Rork, ensured a remote corner in a lean-to at the back of an alley. It also gained us the daily delivery of a plate of lechon asado, the roasted pork of Cuba. It is my favorite when done correctly. Stale and greasy, this stuff was not done correctly.
Maria’s oldest son, Father Francisco lived and worked at the Saint Francis of Assisi monastery and church. It is a massive place on Oficios Street, initially built in 1608 and expanded continuously since then. Most inconveniently for us, the Spanish custom house and naval commandant’s headquarters are right across from it. Armed men in uniform are always circulating in the area. Particularly vexing was that police, including Marrón’s special section of the Orden Publico, would be there too. Some would remember Rork’s and my face.
Maria’s youngest son Juanito worked in the Spanish government’s colonial offices, which were a short distance north of Francisco’s church, and adjacent to the palace of the captain-general, the royal governor of Cuba. I knew not where Juanito resided, but guessed it would be nearby.
Agent R4, with the street name of Flaco Pájaro, was a disreputable man I had paid well for information in the 1880s. He was an emaciated old man, with teak-colored skin, yellowed eyes, and rasping voice, and thus usually underestimated at first glance. That would be a mistake. Flaco was a bozal, a former slave who was born and raised in Africa, and deceptively strong and fast. He had been the victim of great violence in his life, with scars on his back to prove it. Flaco only fought to kill.
I can’t think of anything Flaco wouldn’t do, or arrange, for money, including murder. He was just the man I needed right then, f
or he knew the city by heart, and at night moved through it at will along the rooftops, as if a ghost. A shrewd judge of character, he knew everyone’s vulnerabilities. Flaco Pájaro was a man who could get things done.
I put Rork on the mission to find Flaco. In the meantime, another complication was added to the list. On the twenty-fifth of January, three days before Rork and I arrived in the city, the U.S.S. Maine had steamed into the harbor and anchored right off the Spanish admiral’s office. The German cruiser Gneisenau and the Spanish cruiser Alfonso XII were anchored two hundred yards away. Crowds still gathered along the harbor’s shore, silently looking at the American warship in her gleaming white hull and buff-colored funnels. There was no joy in their eyes.
Maine’s commanding officer, Charles Sigsbee, was an oceanography expert and one of the smartest officers in the navy. I’d met him occasionally while on duty at headquarters. In the days after arriving, I was glad to see Sigsbee wisely kept his men, and most of the officers, from going ashore on anything other than absolutely necessary supply or pro-forma diplomatic runs.
The pro-Spanish Havana press had a field day nonetheless. The always present anti-American emotions of the Spanish-born classes in the city, which had been ebbing since the riots ended, were stoked once again. Protesters returned to the streets, fiery speeches were made at social clubs, and epithets flew in the direction of the U.S. cruiser from passing boats and the shore.
The newspapers ignored a lot of the mob’s bad behavior, but reported in great detail that the Spanish admiral of Havana, Vicente Manterola, was scrupulously gallant in rendering all expected international naval courtesies to Maine’s captain and officers, including invitations to bullfights, receptions, and professional demonstrations of naval skill. His efforts were described as proof of Spanish civility and patience, in contrast to the uncivilized behavior of the New York newspapers and Washington politicians calling for Spain’s ouster from Cuba. Spain’s newest and most powerful battleship, Vizcaya, was steaming across the Atlantic for a reciprocal visit to frigid New York, and Havana’s press predicted American hospitality would pale in comparison to that of the Spanish Navy in Cuba.
An Honorable War Page 11
