An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  Last, but most certainly not least, the ambassador vented his opinion of William McKinley, the president of the United States: “McKinley is weak, and a bidder for the admiration of the crowd beside being a would-be politician who tries to leave a door open behind himself while keeping on good terms with the jingoes of his party.”

  The newspaper reported de Lome, confronted by his gross error in diplomatic judgment, had resigned his position. The American reaction to the exposé was predictable and fast. The press and jingo crowd wanted blood in the name of national honor. De Lome’s letter became a rally cry for war.

  I could just imagine Theodore Roosevelt’s reaction—jumping with glee in his office and shouting to the world map on his wall, “Bully for de Lome! He accomplished in one letter what I’ve been trying to do for a year. Now maybe they’ll wake up around here and take action!”

  In Havana, the article caused universal gasps among all parties who read it, and within an hour everyone wanted to read it. Copies sold at five times the regular price. The population, from the Spanish governor to Cuban insurrectos, waited for the American response.

  The second event on the morning of the eleventh was the arrival of the American Navy torpedo boat Cushing, which steamed into Havana with black mourning bunting and moored alongside Maine. Soon word of a tragedy aboard her was spreading in the city. The nor-wester which had been pounding Havana for two days, also swept Ensign Joseph Breckinridge, grandson of John C. Breckinridge, former U.S. vice-president and Confederate secretary of war, overboard. Despite the efforts of two petty officers who heroically tried to save the young man, he was lost.

  “Pity about the young officer, but that’s the way o’ the sea. Just hope Cushing’ll have new orders for us,” said Rork, watching the two warships from our balcony. “Got a bad feelin’ about stayin’ here. Odds o’ Marrón’s thugs findin’ us’re gettin’ bigger the longer we stay.”

  “I agree, Rork. We’ll have to bribe a bumboat to get us past the Spanish harbor patrol to the ship to find out, but only after we enjoy a final dinner ashore. Can you arrange a boat for later tonight? Once aboard Maine, we can stay on her until they return to Key West.”

  With more enthusiasm than I’d seen from him in days, Rork nodded his assent. “Aye, sir. I’ll attend to it straight away. There’s a couple o’ likely fellows down by the gas factory docks.”

  “Good. Later, I’ll head over to pick up the mail where I left it.”

  That was the plan. It didn’t work out that way, however, for that afternoon the third significant event of the day greeted me at the door.

  29

  Bad-Mannered Behavior

  Her Britannic Majesty’s Consulate

  Havana, Cuba

  Friday afternoon

  11 February 1898

  Rork had been gone for some time when I was about to head out and retrieve the defense plans from their hiding place. I was stopped by a knock at the door just as I was reaching for it. Assuming it was the maid, I opened the door without thinking.

  It wasn’t the maid. A captain in the uniform of the Orden Publico regiment stood there, and he had two of his men with him. They stayed directly behind him, blocking the hallway. All three had holstered pistols.

  The captain’s English was excellent, his tone dictatorial, and his eyes dead cold. With no preamble, he declared, “Mr. Melville Brinson, you and Mr. Angus McGregor are British citizens and required at the British Consulate immediately. I will escort you there now.”

  Over the years of portraying myself as a Canadian at risky locales, I’ve had several confrontations with local authorities, but have never been summoned by the British consulate. None of this seemed legitimate in the least. Would I ever see the British consulate if I went with them? I played for time to deduce how much the captain knew about me and what his real orders were.

  “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Captain. Mr. McGregor and I are not British citizens. We are Canadian citizens and loyal subjects of Her Britannic Majesty, our most gracious Queen Victoria, may God grant her many years more. Evidently you don’t know we Canadians became an independent dominion back in sixty-seven. Not to worry though, son, many Europeans make the same mistake. Completely understandable. So have a nice day, eh?”

  The captain ignored my inane banter. “You both will go now to the British Consulate.”

  “No can do right now, Captain, but we’ll be delighted to stop by later. It’s probably about them wanting to invite us to the Valentine’s Day dance. They like to invite everyone in town. Maybe I can get you and your wife an invitation too. It’s always great fun, eh? I’ll let you know.”

  I started closing the door. He blocked it with a boot and stared at me. Obviously, being the nice Canadian wasn’t working. It was time for taking the other tack. How exactly does an irate Canadian sound, I wondered? I wasn’t sure, but gave it my best try.

  “My friend isn’t here right now, Captain, and I am quite indisposed myself. And I must say I find your behavior to be distinctly bad-mannered, even for a Spaniard. Kindly tell the British Consulate that I do not appreciate their rude interruption of my siesta. Mr. McGregor and I are professional journalists, and we will be pleased to stop by and say hello in the morning. Say about ten, eh? If this sort of thing keeps up, we most certainly will not attend the Valentine’s Dance and will notify the foreign ministry in London of the uncivilized behavior of their representatives in Havana. Canadians do not put up with this, sir, from anybody!”

  My bombast fell flat. The Spaniard’s stone face never reacted. “You are under arrest. Where is McGregor?”

  Devoid of other ideas, I continued posturing. “I don’t have a clue as to the location of Mister McGregor. Last saw him this morning with a very pretty girl at breakfast and imagine he’s doing what one does with a pretty girl, eh? What’s this, did you say arrest? That is utterly ridiculous. One word from me and Queen Victoria will demand her friend, the Spanish king, order you shot for such impudence!”

  Damn all, in my haste I’d forgotten an important fact. Spain’s king was only twelve years old. His Austrian mother was the real royal power, and not a close friend of Victoria. The captain sneered at my comment and produced a set of handcuffs from the gun belt around his waist.

  “You are under arrest and will go with me.”

  All three of them stepped forward into the room. Faced with such a development, I had two choices left. Stun him, steal his pistol and shoot all three of them. Or go along with him quietly. The reader may think less of me, but the latter option seemed a bit easier and far less messy.

  “No need for those, old chap. I am a gentlemen journalist. We view fisticuffs as a barbaric lack of manners. So I will accompany you, but the British consul-general better have a damned bloody good explanation for all this nonsense.”

  I went peaceably, sans shackles. The captain ran his hands over the outside of my clothing in a token check for weapons. As his hand went down my right side, near where my Merwin-Hulbert revolver is stowed, I turned slightly so the hand descended over a less ominous portion of my torso. At the same time, I extended my left hand toward the parlor table and picked a flower from the vase there. I put the flower in my lapel. The gesture occupied the captain’s attention for a moment, so he didn’t understand what I was really doing.

  “One must look his best when visiting Her Majesty’s consulate. I’m sure you understand, Captain,” I said with imperious gravity.

  The real reason for the flower was to allow me to rearrange the flower vase’s position on the table. It was only moved six inches but that was enough. Its new location was the signal between Rork and me that something amiss had occurred while the other was out of the suite. Upon returning to the room and seeing the signal, we would instantly, but carefully, flee the hotel. The emergency rendezvous was across the harbor in Regla. Each midnight for an hour, during the ensuing seven nights, we would watch for t
he other at the corner of Barrero and Soledad streets.

  The ride in the captain’s wagon only took a few minutes, during which no one spoke to me. To my surprise, we actually drove to the consulate. Once there, my escorts marched me into the musty anteroom. In front of an indifferent clerk, the captain clicked his heels with parade-ground precision, ordering him to announce to Mr. Harpford, deputy third secretary of the legation, that we had arrived. After a yawn to show the captain he wasn’t impressed, the clerk disappeared to find Harpford.

  The clerk reappeared several minutes later. He bid me to follow him, and for the captain, et al, to seat themselves in the anteroom. The captain, clearly upset by this assertion of British authority inside their own consulate, declined to repose in a chair. Instead, he shifted to a position of parade rest, which his minions tardily assumed a second later.

  I followed Harpford to his tiny windowless office in the back of the building. On the way, we passed an open window in the hallway. Since it was on the first floor, the drop wouldn’t be that bad, I reasoned, and noted it for emergency egress should things prove difficult.

  Once the door to his office was closed, Harpford installed a monocle and sat down ceremoniously at his paper-bestrewn desk. Straightening his wrinkled vest and coat, and seemingly oblivious to the draconian manner of my coming, he thanked me for coming so promptly. Harpford then waved me to a cane-back chair and gestured to a gray-suited young man seated three feet away.

  “Mr. Brinson, this is Mr. Juan Maura, assistant to the deputy chief of the foreign affairs section at the colonial ministry here in Havana. Mr. Maura is the Spanish governmental liaison with foreign journalists. He has come to us with a matter regarding you and Mr. McGregor, since we at the consulate represent all Her Majesty’s imperial subjects in Cuba.”

  Juan Maura—Maria’s Juanito? One look at him told me I was in serious trouble.

  30

  Claudine

  Her Britannic Majesty’s Consulate

  Havana, Cuba

  Friday afternoon

  11 February 1898

  Juan Maura was quite different from his older brother—shorter, stockier, with a darker complexion and attitude. Sitting ramrod straight with a briefcase on his lap and sheaf of papers in his hand, he cast me a stern look, but said nothing. In the dim light of a lone electric light bulb in the ceiling, I couldn’t tell if he shared his mother’s indigo blue eyes, but I could tell they weren’t friendly.

  Trying not to react to his name or scrutiny, I did a little half bow. “Melville Brinson, Toronto Express, at your service, sir. Nice to meet you.”

  I extended my hand, which he took with a surprisingly strong grip. If he knew who I really was, he didn’t show it. I smiled at him and turned to Harpford.

  “I say, my good man, if this is about an invitation to the Valentine’s dance, I’ll be delighted to come. A nice little bit of home tradition, way down here in the tropics, eh?”

  “There is no Valentine’s dance, Mr. Brinson,” said Harpford humorlessly. “This is a bureaucratic issue, which needs to be resolved today, for our dear friends in the Spanish government are quite troubled about it.”

  Harpford was clearly bored with the meeting, and wanted this intrusion into his siesta hour over as soon as possible. I viewed his attitude and the topic as a positive sign—the entire thing was apparently some minor routine problem, easily explained away.

  The Brit droned on. “Having said that, it seems there are some irregularities as to the position of you and Mr. McGregor in Cuba. Mr. Maura, would you care to state your concerns?”

  Maura wasn’t bored at all and, unlike Harpford, didn’t mince any words.

  “We have no record of your passport, no record of your entry into Cuba, and no record of your registration with us as required for foreign journalists in a war zone. There is no record of a newspaper called the Express in Toronto, Canada, having asked our government for permission to have one of their reporters work here.”

  “My goodness gracious!” I replied, thinking about how long it would take me to get to that open hallway window. “Well, somebody back at the editorial office in Toronto has buggered this up in monumental fashion, eh? Thank you for letting me know, and I sincerely apologize for their mistake. Gentlemen, I will get right over to the cable office and send them a telegram, post haste. We’ll find out who fell asleep on that job, eh? I bet it was old Pinky—nice enough chap, but not really sharp with the paperwork, you know. The old boy is simply overwhelmed by too much to do.”

  I wagged my head in solemn empathy, then resumed. “They will send a cable back tomorrow, and mail all the paperwork you require for your records. And let me add this about that: my article about the efficiency and hospitality of the Spanish government in Havana will be centered on the man who truly knows what he’s doing. That will be you, Mr. Maura. A real credit to your profession. With any luck, there’ll be a promotion in it for you. Oh, and I won’t forget you, Mr. Harpford. You have been a fine representative of Her Majesty. Again, gentlemen, thanks for informing me of this silly oversight. Damned embarrassing, eh?”

  Harpford, who’d been leaning back in his swivel chair and daydreaming, gazed feebly at Maura and me. He’d done his duty, the matter was closed amiably, and he could go back to whatever he wasn’t doing. The monocle was returned to his vest pocket.

  Maura wasn’t impressed by my explanation. “Present your identity papers now, Mr. Brinson. I will examine them.”

  Presenting a sincere look of confusion, I began fishing through my pockets for those papers, while estimating it would be twenty to thirty seconds to reach the hallway window. More if Maura tried to stop me. Shooting him wasn’t an option—too loud.

  “Let me see, where did I put those damned papers?”

  Maura drummed his fingers on the chair arm and looked at the door, as if ready to call for the captain to come in and help me find them. I got the hint and brought out my personal documents.

  “Right, here they are.”

  They consisted of an Ontario provincial press pass, a letter from my editor on the newspaper’s stationery, an Imperial passport, and a Toronto bank statement—all reasonably well forged by a criminal acquaintance of mine in Washington. The point of having them was to bamboozle some street policeman, not a trained expert, which my stepson increasingly seemed to be.

  He silently took them and slowly analyzed each one, writing notes about them in a ledger. That task took at least ten disquieting minutes. I glanced over at Harpford, who shrugged vacantly, for all this fuss wasn’t his predicament. It would, though, make an interesting anecdote at the staff dining room later.

  Finally, Maura finished with a disapproving harrumph. Without returning the papers, he announced, “These do not appear to be correct, Mr. Brinson. There is no entry stamp into Cuba on your passport, no Spanish government endorsement on your company stationery, no Spanish government press pass, and no mailing address for the Toronto newspaper on this stationery.”

  “Oh, you need the address, eh?” I said. “No worries, old boy. They’ve just moved and I can have that sent down straight away. As for the passport, the fellow at—”

  Maura interrupted by slashing his hand up through the air. He was done with small talk.

  “Enough! I have already tried to contact the Toronto Express by telegraph and was told there is no address in Toronto for such an organization. I then had the Spanish consulate in Ottawa investigate and they reported your newspaper does not exist and has never existed. What do you say to that, Mr. Brinson? Now, state precisely how and when you entered Cuba. Tell me all of your locations while you have been here. And then include why you were at a private reception for the American naval captain, where treasonous anti-Spanish sentiments were expressed.”

  For the first time, his face showed emotion, and not the kind I wanted to see. It was a vicious little sneer. “Brinson, you are an imposter
!”

  Harpford was wide awake now. This wasn’t a clerical error. His brows lowered ominously as he regarded me with new interest. I could see the machinations of his brain—this man Brinson could be trouble for my career. Both men leaned forward, eager to hear how I was going to answer. Maura’s right hand was near his coat pocket and I wondered if he had a pistol ready to draw.

  Slumping my shoulders, pouting my lips, and holding up my open left hand in the universal indications of submission, I gave Maura what he wanted, a confession. With their concentration centered on my face and words, my audience didn’t notice my right foot hooking around the leg of my chair, and right hand slipping under a pile of papers on the corner of Harpford’s desk beside me.

  With plaintive voice I gave them a salacious reason for my deceit. “You’ve got me, gents. I lied, and it’s all because of my lover, gentlemen. Claudine is a beautiful French girl, a Quebecoise, and I confess I have no power to resist her desires. The winter has been so bloody awful in Canada, you see, and dear Claudine wanted to come to Cuba where it is warm. She said she wanted to lie back on a beach under a coconut palm, without all those winter clothes, and feel the tropical sun’s warmth on her lovely smooth skin.”

  My hand launched the entire pile of papers toward Maura’s face as I leaped up and kicked my chair toward his legs. He tried to stand but fell backward in a heap as I jumped up and spun around toward the door. A second later, I was racing down the hallway toward that blessedly open window.

  My leap out the window was ungainly, but I landed on both feet. As I ran down the side alley, my mind prioritized the route. First, retrieve the Spanish defenses map. Second, get to the rail yard. Third, hide on an eastbound cargo train to escape the city. Fourth, leave the train as it passed through Guanabacoa. Finally, I’d walk north to Regla and the rendezvous spot.