An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  When two streets away, I heard the Orden Publico captain shouting far behind me. He was too late, for I was blended into the pedestrians by then and halfway to the map.

  I figured with any luck I could make Regla by midnight.

  31

  Jupiter’s Thunderbolt

  Barrero & Soledad streets

  Regla, Cuba

  3:30 a.m., Monday morning

  14 February 1898

  My estimate was far too optimistic. The journey of ten miles took three days, most of which was spent hiding in alleys, bushes, and trees.

  It was well over two hours after the agreed nightly meeting time when I hobbled into the rendezvous location. Rork wasn’t in sight. Since I had nowhere else to go and my feet were throbbing, I sat down by a derelict coal wagon which had been relieved of its wheels and the brake. Its condition was symbolic of the place.

  Regla was a filthy little town, covered by a thin layer of black dust and reeking of kerosene. The leading characteristics were the steamer docks, the attendant mountain of steamship coal, the railroad from the docks to Guanabacoa and Matanzas, several large Standard Oil Company-owned kerosene storage tanks, the rundown bullring, and the Church of Our Lady of Regla which boasted a famous black Madonna. Surrounding all this was a tenement slum.

  In the early evening when the taverns were open, the town was a bustling place, for there were many ways to spend your money in Regla. Notwithstanding the church, most of them were associated with forms of vice. Those who furnish it were plentiful. But after midnight, it was quiet, dark, and vacant. Perfect for a clandestine rendezvous.

  In pleasant contrast to my dismal environment on terra firma, a dome of clear winter air had arrived from North America, making the night sky a stunning palette. Sailors appreciate and use the heavens every day at sea for navigation, and surveying them is always a welcome respite. I felt the tensions within me easing away as I took it all in.

  To the southeast, a half moon was rising over the hills on its timeless orbit to the other side of the world. Fortunately, its illumination wasn’t bright enough to diminish the stars overhead. They glittered like diamonds strewn across a lady’s black velvet cape, and the image of Maria wearing hers on special occasions came to mind.

  Below the moon was the ruby flicker of Antares. In the constellation Scorpius, it’s commonly known as the heart of the scorpion, one of the most insidious and dangerous mythological beings in the celestial sky. Childhood memories flashed from when I was a youngster at school and Mr. Stonehead regaled us with the stories from Greek and Roman mythology, connecting them to the stars above. Love, treachery, jealousy, bravery—the scorpion was in the middle of many of them.

  To the east of Antares was mighty Saturn, Lord of the Titans. The pale-orange planet shone as a symbol of perennial power which couldn’t be ignored. To me, it was a metaphor for many of the foes I’d battled in my life.

  But the most impressive beacon in the sky was high overhead—Jupiter. Considered by the Romans to be king of the gods, Jupiter used thunderbolts to destroy his enemies. His likeness was prominently displayed by Rome’s legions as a warning to enemies of what to expect if they dared to oppose the empire.

  Lying on my back and gazing up at this cosmic history, I felt a sense of awe at the mythological supremacy imperial Rome maintained over its world. For a moment I wasn’t in Cuba. I was up there among the planets and stars, sailing through the night. My eyelids grew heavy, and dreams took over.

  “Ooh, boyo! The thunder king o’ the gods `tis a bright little bugger tonight, now ain’t he just? Methinks a scholar like our young Theodore could read somethin’ into that!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin, instinctively reaching for my revolver.

  Rork sat down beside me with a weary groan. He was dressed in dark clothes, blending in with the shadow of the wagon. I, on the other hand, was in stolen white trousers and light blue shirt, now in far more ragged shape than when first purloined two days earlier.

  “Dammit all, Rork, don’t ever scare me like that again! I almost shot you.”

  “Well now, that’s a fine hello for your dear ol’ shipmate. An’ by the by, methinks it’d most likely be the other way around, sir, for you’re the lad who let his guard down an’ didn’t notice me comin’ on you.”

  Rork studied me closer. “You look like hell. What’d ye do, rob a beggar for his rags?”

  There was something odd about his clothing too. “No, he was a farmer. Long, bad, story. What is it you’re wearing?”

  A touch of pride could be heard in his reply. “Oooh, just a little somethin’ what get’s me a free pass from the Spaniardos. They dearly love the one and true Church, unlike the likes o’ you heathenly heretical Methodists.”

  He pulled open an overcoat and showed his black shirt. A white collar and gold crucifix gleamed at me.

  “Why you old pirate,” I said. “You stole it, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, regrettably, `tis the truth o’ the matter. But they’ll never miss it, an’ Jesus will understand. Maybe.”

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done! Where’s mine?”

  “You? Nay, nay, me ol’ friend.” He shook his head in grave disapproval. “There’s such a thing as scruples, don’t ’cha know. Jesus might be understandin’ o’ me in this rig, one o’ his blessed peoples, but He’ll not fancy for a wee second a Protestant such as you wearin’ one!”

  “Rork, you’re sounding a bit over pious to me. You hardly ever go to church,” I reminded him.

  “Aye, an’ mores the pity. Besides your wayward beliefs, there’s a practical reason. Could only lay me hands on one o’ these, an’ it wouldn’t do to return for another. Never nick the same place twice, so said me ol’ Uncle Conall. An’ he was a man who knew well the inside o’ the gaol. But no worries, sir, we’ll find somethin’ for you `round here. So tell me what the hell happened to make us both take French leave o’ Havana?”

  I filled him in on my interrogation, escape, and the prolonged journey to get to Regla. His trek was simpler. He simply took the sewage barge across the harbor, telling the skipper he was a German seaman trying to get back to his ship. At Regla, he hid out behind the church rectory until I arrived.

  “Damn, I wish I’d thought of that route,” I muttered.

  “Wouldn’t work. Those boyos’d see through you in a heartbeat, sir. You’re not rough an’ tough enough lookin’ to be a common sailorman. A gentleman is what you are, through an’ through.”

  Rork laughed, then shook his head. “You gettin’ hauled into the Brit consulate was part o’ somethin’ bigger an’ uglier. This very mornin’ got bad news from a young priest at the Regla church.”

  “Wait just a minute. The priest thought you were a brother priest? Isn’t that blasphemy?”

  He frowned at my interruption. “Well, now, me own tongue never actually said to the lad I was a priest. He assumed I was. His mistake, not mine.

  “Be that as it may, me tale o’ the bad news ain’t done. The young priest at Regla church told me about his older brother, a sergeant in the uniform regiment of the Orden Publico, seeing Father Francisco Maura’s dead body lyin’ there in the trench at Cabaña Fortress. That was three mornin’s ago, on the eleventh, the same day you were hauled in to face Juanito. The soldier knew Francisco well as a priest over at the Assisi monastery. Francisco’s body wasn’t in his cassock, though. He was in peasant rags, like he was a common rebel. The priest said his brother is a devout man an’ very upset by a priest bein’ murdered. Said the brother was even more upset the newspaper yesterday listed an unnamed Franciscan priest as the deceased victim of a bandit gang outside the city.”

  The trench at Cabaña is notorious for being where Cuban rebels have been executed since 1868. The fortress is one of several located on a bluff across the harbor’s entrance channel from Havana city. Marrón moved the location of his
special unit’s interrogations four years earlier, from the basement of the Carcel, the old criminal court jail, in Havana, across the water to the lower levels of Cabaña. It is far more removed from the public, rebels, senior authorities, and prying eyes. I knew of no prisoner who’d ever come out of Cabaña alive. The mere mention of the place causes many Cubans to shudder.

  “Let me get this straight. This soldier is absolutely sure it was Father Francisco Maura?”

  “Exactly me own question, an’ he said yes, his brother was certain o’ it. An’ there’s a wee bit more, sir. An’ it’s a nasty wee bit.”

  I steeled myself. “Which is?”

  “The sergeant brother o’ the priest asked about the dead body. The lad’s officer told him the body was a rebel spy workin’ for the norteamericanos, passin’ messages to `em from the rebels.”

  “At the luncheon with Maria at the yacht club.”

  “Aye, sir. An’ that means they’ve connected it all—Maria, Francisco, an’ you. Thank you Jesus our dear lady’s safe at home, an’ that you got away from the limey embassy when you did.”

  The information, if true, was staggering. To arrest a priest was serious, even if only for an interview and involuntary transfer out of Cuba. It could only be undertaken with the highest approval in the colonial government and church. To murder a priest was far beyond anything a senior official would authorize. I’d never heard of anything like it.

  I remembered Juanito Maura’s question on why I was at the luncheon for Sigsbee where treasonous statements were made. Francisco had been verbally supportive of his mother’s comments at the luncheon, but they were more pro-peace than anti-Spain. In the fearful atmosphere of Havana’s secret police, however, that was enough. It told me Marrón must be completely panicked and devoid of any last shred of sanity.

  “Maria’s heart will be broken . . .” I said in despair.

  “Aye, a mother’s grief has no end.”

  “We’ve got to get the defense plans out to Maine. I saw she’s still at anchor in the same spot.”

  “Aye, sir, that she is. But me hands’ve not been idle while waitin’ for you. Made arrangements here in Regla to get you out to Maine.”

  “Rork, you continually amaze me.”

  “Well, don’t be congratulatin’ me yet, sir. It ain’t gonna be a posh ride, but it’s the only one available for the likes o’ us right about now. An’ it’ll only be you goin’ out to the ship.”

  “Only me? You’re going too.”

  He shook his head. “Two days ago, before me unofficial joinin’ the priesthood, a villainous ol’ sort here in Regla told me he’ll do it for twenty in gold tomorrow night—but he wants his rummy pal along to help on the long row from here to the ship an’ back. The dinghy’s pretty small, seen it with me own eyes, so only one o’ us at a time can go with `em in the boat. Me an’ the bag o’ gear’ll wait by the docks for your return, or a message to come on out.”

  “Very well. I’ll either come back in person, or send word for you to come out.”

  Rork laid back and took in the heavenly display above us. “Ooh, now there’s the thunderbolt. Bad omen.”

  I followed his pointing finger, but my mind was on other things. “What?”

  “The celestial thunderbolt. `Tis the line o’ stars from Jupiter’s hand down through the moon to blood-stained Saturn and Antares. Hells bells, Peter, you’re the one who taught me about it back in Florida durin’ the war. `Tis not a favorin’ sign at all. Best be careful on that wee little boat with those two ne’er-do-wells.”

  I suddenly remembered that night, back in 1864, off the Dry Tortugas. Then I saw what he meant tonight—a jagged line of twinkling fire from the heavens to the earth. To Havana.

  “Rork, your Gaelic superstitions are getting the best of you.”

  I’m a Christian and dismiss such lore, but couldn’t ignore the chill that swept through me.

  32

  Things Are Looking Up

  U.S.S. Maine

  Havana Harbor

  Tuesday night

  15 February 1898

  After hiding out overnight in an open sugar cane barn, the next morning Rork “found” a suit of clothes for me near the back door of a nearby laundry. I was still sweaty and grimy, but at least my attire was appropriate. Since “Melville Brinson” of Toronto probably had become persona non grata in the area around Havana, I returned to my earlier alias used at Sagua, that of “Peder Fisker,” the Canadian tobacco broker of Danish heritage.

  Rork took me to meet the dinghy man at a half past eight o’clock in the evening. A less inspiring fellow would be hard to find, and that’s saying something in Regla. Ancient, arthritic, drunk, with shifty yellow eyes and greasy hands, Perro and his unnamed crewman offered a garbled greeting, then descended unsteadily into a rough-built dinghy of perhaps ten feet. Water slopped aboard in the process, prompting Perro to giggle and cough, spewing phlegm all over his friend. Then he gestured for me to come on down.

  Rork looked apologetically at me and said, “He wasn’t this drunk when I made the deal, sir. Maybe we should belay this idea? Or, we could just steal the damn boat an’ do it ourselves.”

  I’d been thinking the same thing, but there wasn’t time. “No, we’d have to kill them to stop them from howling about it. Then we’d have to hide the bodies. This seems to be the only way, so this it is. I’ll swim back if worse comes to worse and we sink on the way out.”

  To my amazement, it didn’t come to worse. The two reprobates were veteran boatmen, and once under way they handled their oars well, rowing without comment through the crowded harbor toward the brightly lit American warship. After evading two Spanish guard boats on the way, they also had to wait until another Spanish guard boat went around to the other side of Maine’s bow before making the final approach to the warship’s port quarter.

  “Boat ahoy!” called a petty officer from the main deck, as a cone of light from aloft swung around to settle on the dinghy.

  “I am a Canadian friend of Captain Sigsbee, with a message for him about the boa constrictor he wanted,” I shouted to the blinding light. Of course, I didn’t look like a friend. My companions and I looked like bandits. And the boa constrictor part was absurd.

  A new voice, presumably the officer of the deck, boomed out of the light. “Who exactly are you?”

  I knew there were now half a dozen rifles and a machine gun aimed at me.

  “Mr. Peder Fisker, of Ontario, Canada, eh. I am a tobacco broker visiting Havana. Please inform Captain Sigsbee I am arriving. He’s expecting me.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer and instead urged my motley crew to action, for the commotion was sure to attract the unwanted attention of the Spanish guard boat on the other side of the warship. Without permission, I leaped onto the boarding ladder and over my shoulder told the Cubans to head back for me in half an hour.

  When I reached the main deck, my reception committee was fully armed and ready to repel boarders, not a single one of them recognizing me in my present dishevelment. An angry lieutenant stepped forward.

  “Stop right there. I am Lieutenant Randal Briggs, officer of the deck. Do you have any identification?”

  I was prepared to explain my real name and profession, but we were interrupted by a man calling from the bridge deck forward. “I know him, Mr. Briggs. Please guide the gentleman to my cabin.”

  “Turn the searchlight away from the dinghy, Mr. Briggs,” I said in a low voice, changing my tone from friendly Canadian trader to one accustomed to command. “It is coming back in thirty minutes for me. Please do not shine a light on it then either. I do not want the Spanish guard boats to be alarmed over it. And you don’t have to escort me to the captain’s cabin—I know the way quite well.”

  Briggs instinctively straightened to attention. “Aye, aye, sir,” came the automatic but perplexed reply from the young officer
, who then escorted me anyway.

  Once we got to Sigsbee’s cabin and the door was closed behind me, I said, “Forgive my intrusion, Captain Sigsbee, and thank you for seeing me so unexpectedly.”

  He greeted me with a slap on the shoulder and broad smile. “No intrusion at all, Captain Wake, I was just writing some letters home. I must say, you do lead an unusual life, don’t you? So now it’s Mr. Peder Fisker, a Canadian tobacco broker? I expected you before this.”

  “Yes, well, we had some unfortunate difficulties ashore and have been trying to evade the attention of the Spanish authorities. Hence the change in alias and my rather irregular appearance and arrival.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “You look like you could use a bath, shave, decent meal, and tot of something strong. We can accommodate all of that straight away.”

  The mention of such luxuries weakened my resolve, but I declined quickly. “Maybe later, Captain, when I have a bit more time. I brought out a secret document which needs to get to Washington immediately—the Spanish defense plans for Havana. Go ahead and take a look at them. You need to know them more than anyone. I thought Cushing could get it to Key West, but I see she’s gone.”

  “Left this morning.” He took the defense map. “My goodness. They’ve really reinforced them, haven’t they? I won’t ask how you got it, but this is an incredible find, Captain Wake.”

  “Yes, it is. I think you might have our orders from Secretary Roosevelt. Did they arrive?”

  He handed me a steaming mug. “Yes, they did. Sit down and drink this while I get the envelope.”

  As he disappeared into his office, I sat down in one of his navy blue velveteen chairs and lifted the mug from the cherry wood side table. It was black coffee laced with rum and tasted delicious. I leaned back in the chair and admired his plush cabin. It was even better than my captain’s sanctum in Newark.