An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  U.S.S. Falcon was the former West Indies yacht Paloma Mar, and commanded by Massachusetts Naval Militia Lieutenant Oscar Brahm of New Bedford, an experienced merchant marine chief mate on coastal passenger liners. Her dimensions were 210 feet long, 42-foot beam, and a 14-foot draft, with a 14-knot speed. She carried four officers, 39 men, two four-pounder guns, and three Colt machine guns.

  The day Kestrel departed New York, Falcon and Harrier left Boston, and Osprey steamed out of Newport. Each newly created warship steamed southward to meet her squadron mates off the village of Congo Town, on the east coast of Andros Island, in the British colony of the Bahamas.

  40

  The Hideout

  Congo Town, Andros Island

  Her Majesty’s Colony of the Bahamas

  Monday evening

  25 April 1898

  Kestrel was first ship to arrive at our squadron hideout on the seventh of April. The local natives, most of whom were fishermen, had never seen a U.S. warship. Over the next two weeks, they were delighted with their ringside seats, astonished at how we train for battle. Osprey and Falcon arrived on the eighth. Harrier reached us on the eleventh from Norfolk. The weather was the opposite of New England’s—sunny and warm, with a steady trade wind from the southeast.

  Notwithstanding the beautiful weather at our picturesque lair in the tropics, I pushed the squadron’s officers and men hard with spontaneous drills on gunnery, signaling, formation steaming, damage control, small boat work, landing force tactics, rifle practice, and resupply at sea procedures. This work did not endear the enlisted men, most of whom were soft militia reservists, to me, their squadron commodore, but I wasn’t there to be liked. Their petty officers, almost all regular salts, understood my meaning full and well. They roused their men to get things done correctly and quickly with each new exercise.

  After my initial inspection of the newly arrived ships, I was appalled to see those from Newport and Boston still contained too many vestiges of their previous lifestyle—a most dangerous factor when ships get impacted by high explosives, as I expected them to be. I had seen the results of such opulence on fire in naval battle at Peru almost twenty years earlier, so Kestrel had already been stripped of such useless accoutrements back at Brooklyn.

  Instantly, all non-essential flammable materials were ordered to be removed from the other ships, most of it located in the officers’ cabins. Now the grousing came from the gold braid club as they watched their plush yacht accommodations being ripped apart by gleeful sailors, who enjoyed their chore immensely.

  At first, the results of our incessant drills were sadly ludicrous, but fortunately my captains set a stern tone, for they knew this was their last chance to practice before mistakes would be measured in blood. Training dominated every waking hour of our days and nights, and frequently interrupted those asleep. I kept it up until I was convinced all hands on each ship could perform their duties in an emergency while blinded by smoke and flame, and short-handed by casualties. As we progressed, the men began to show quiet confidence in how to handle the challenges I instigated.

  After ten days, Rork, the most cynical of old salts, gave his approval. “Aye, `tis nothin’ short o’ amazin’. The lads’re as ready as they can be, sir.”

  We continued training, for I worried their hard-won skills might atrophy if not practiced.

  At sunset on the twenty-fifth, our time for practicing ended. I gave surprise orders for Harrier to immediately establish a tow of Kestrel. It was to be accomplished under the assumption we were both under heavy gunfire from a shore battery and Kestrel was afire aft. As Harrier acknowledged, a small steamer raced into view on the northern horizon. Steamers were rare in that place, and as the vessel neared, a discussion ensued on Kestrel’s bridge regarding her identity and intentions.

  I knew she was the Meteor. While still in New York, I had our agent in Nassau retain her for use as a dispatch boat. The moment new cabled orders for me arrived at Nassau, the nearest telegraph station to us, Meteor was to speed the seventy-four miles south to us at Congo Town with the message. She was also to bring our squadron mail, which had been forwarded to her.

  Twenty-nine minutes after Meteor came into view, Yeats entered my cabin, handing me Roosevelt’s message. Remarkably, it had been received at Nassau only five hours earlier, an example of modern communications in warfare. Rendered by the lieutenant into plain language, it read as follows.

  XXX—WAR VOTED TODAY—X—ARMY MOBILIZING—X—NAVAL BLOCKADE IN EFFECT—X—MAIN FLEET LEFT KEY WEST FOR NORTH CUBA—X—SPANISH FORCES IN CUBA MOBILIZED—X—SPANISH FLEET STEAMING FROM CADIZ POSITION UNKNOWN—X—EXECUTE PLAN SUGAR—X—RENDEZVOUS WITH BAKER APRIL 27—X—PLAN SUGAR DATE APRIL 28—X—MUST HOLD TARGET FOR 3 DAYS TO ENSURE CUBAN WITHDRAWAL IF SPANISH REPEL THEM—X—MEET COLLIER MAY 1 AT ALFA—X—NO OTHER REINFORCEMENTS AVAILABLE—X—AFTER PLAN SUGAR EXECUTED BEGIN AGGRESSIVE INSHORE BLOCKADE OF ASSIGNED SECTOR—X—YOUR SQUADRON UNDER SAMPSON FLEET COMMAND—X—GOOD LUCK—XXX

  I called in Southby and ordered all ships to get under way for the Anguilla Cays, a line of tiny coral islets at the southeast corner of the Cay Sal Bank. There we would meet BAKER, the freighter Norden, the master of which was Karl Bendel, a longtime operative of mine. Norden carried the battalion of exile Cuban troops who would be landed at the dismal port of Isabela the next day. After holding the port for three days, we would leave and refuel from a collier at ALFA, Salt Cay, at the southwest corner of the Cay Sal Bank.

  When he departed I perused the pile of waiting personal mail, opening Roosevelt’s first and noting the date.

  Washington, D.C. 19 April 1898

  My Dear Friend Peter,

  The army has finally come to its senses and accepted my offer to form a regiment of horse. I will be the executive officer of the First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry, with the brevet rank of lieutenant colonel. Our friend Leonard Wood will be the commanding officer. It’s a wonderful regiment, and is already filling with rugged Western men eager to show their mettle against the Spanish. Onward to Cuba!

  My final official day at the Navy Department will be on the last day of April, but actually the twenty-sixth because I must journey out to the regiment in Texas. Henceforth we will revert to our previous correlation, for you will outrank me! I shall be honored and pleased to be able to call you “Sir” once again.

  A serious note, my friend: you will no longer have me as your rearguard in Washington, so please beware of the court intrigue which fills the place. Your mission will be difficult to accomplish, but it is nothing a naval mastermind like you can’t handle. I look forward to hearing of your success.

  I hope to see you again in Florida or Cuba, or perhaps among the vaunted warriors of Valhalla in our afterlife. May we taste victory before death!

  Your longtime admirer…

  Theodore Roosevelt

  He’d finally gotten his wish to test his mettle in battle. Theodore wouldn’t be alone in his germinal enthusiasm. Thirty-five years had gone by since our country had tasted the ghastly result of large-scale war, with every family feeling grief. This war wasn’t even to defend our land. Once the casualty lists started coming in, patriotic naïveté about a foreign war would turn into revulsion.

  I felt the rhythm of the ship’s engine quicken beneath me. A shaft of sunlight from the open cabin port crossed my desk as Kestrel swung around on her new course toward the north. It settled on the next envelope atop the pile, a letter from Maria.

  Her previous five letters had been rambling torrents of anguish and regret about her family, and the situation in Cuba. In her despair, Maria had secluded herself in our home, not wanting to face people or hear any more distressing news.

  This letter was different.

  17th of April, 1898

  Dearest Husband Peter,

  I have come to regret the lamentations you received in my earlier letters. They were created by the real
ization of my uselessness in averting the catastrophe of war. I have lost my oldest son, and my heart will never be the same. But I know now my heartache can and should be replaced by action.

  Accordingly, I have decided to volunteer with the Red Cross, as tribute to my Francisco. Having been impressed when meeting Miss Barton years ago, and knowing of the noble work she has done for the concentration camp refugees inside Cuba, I will alleviate the war suffering in any way I can. The Red Cross office in Washington was quite appreciative of my offer and said I would be contacted presently with word of when and where I am to work. They indicated it would be close by, and I would be part of the effort to organize and supply new hospitals. I have full trust you can understand and will support my decision.

  I had dinner the other night with Edith, who is thankfully recovering and wanted some company. She told me she heard you will be ordered to sea soon, no doubt for Cuba. She also said Theodore is joining the army so he can fight. She is terrified for him.

  Peter, the world is descending into war madness. I can only hope and pray my little Juanito remains untouched by it. I know you will be somewhere in the middle of it all. I beg you to be careful, my darling, for you are not young anymore, though I know you dislike admitting it. Please come home to me. I want us to fulfill our dream of growing old together at Patricio Island, where God’s sunsets have magical abilities to salve any wounded heart and any dark memory.

  You are constantly in my heart, my dreams, and my thoughts. I live for the day you are back in my arms. May God have mercy upon us and make it soon.

  Your loving wife,

  Maria

  I sat there a long time. My steward came in and quietly closed the ports, saying in an apologetic tone that per the captain’s orders no lights could be shown from the ship.

  When I reached the bridge deck an hour later, after the last vestige of dusk, we were at war conditions. Guns had minimal crews stationed at them at all times, ready ammunition was distributed, the lookouts were doubled, and interior hatches were dogged down. Everyone was tense. Astern of us, my ships were black forms on the dark sea. It reminded me precisely of a scene from another war, when I was a young officer in command of a small sailing gunboat on another jungle coast.

  Even the dread was the same.

  41

  Blossom Channel

  Anguilla Cays

  Cay Sal Bank

  Her Majesty’s Colony of the Bahamas

  Tuesday

  26 April 1898

  Against the wise advice of my staff, I choose the perilous, but expeditious, course to the rendezvous with our new Cuban allies. The usual route to Cay Sal Bank from Congo Town for ships of our size was to first head north and west around the top of Andros Island, the Berry Islands, the Bimini Islands, and Great Bahama Bank, thence south to the Cay Sal Bank, which would require three to four days. That meant our new Cuban allies would have to wait for us, unprotected, at a locale close enough to Cuba to be vulnerable to Spanish naval patrols.

  Instead, I led the squadron first south, into the little-known Blossom Channel. This was not a light choice, for it is a thirty-foot-deep snaking course through twenty miles of coral reefs at the bottom of the Bahamas. Few have heard of it, and even fewer have been through it in anything larger than a native schooner. I was met initially with wide-eyed disbelief, but the captains did as commanded and followed the flagship as we steamed the fifty-eight miles from Congo Town south-southeast toward the jagged wall of shallow coral which borders the southern edge of the Tongue of the Ocean.

  At mid-morning on the twenty-sixth, when the sun had reached forty-five degrees in elevation and the path ahead lay thus illuminated, we transited from a depth of three-thousand feet to that of a mere twenty-nine in the space of two hundred yards. As we started through the labyrinth, Rork sat in the crosstrees high aloft, calmly calling down course alterations to the officer of the deck for us to avoid the worst of the giant coral heads which haphazardly erupted from the sandy bottom.

  Rork and I learned the way through the maze while chasing blockade runners during the Civil War, and yet again in 1888, when we escaped to Nassau from a rather dodgy situation in Haiti.

  The southeasterly course lasted for twenty very tense miles. When we reached deeper water it was late afternoon and Rork, relieved at his perch by another petty officer, descended to the accolades of both officer and enlisted. We swung southwest to Copper Rocks and then, as the sun set ahead of us, we steered west along the edge of Hurricane Flats and across the deep Santaren Channel.

  The night was rough and dark when we finally arrived at the scrub-covered coral rocks of the Anguilla Cays, on the southeast corner of the triangular Cay Sal Bank, a notorious archipelago of reefs. This was an improbable meeting point, for most ships go out of their way to avoid the area. The strong currents are unpredictable, frequently setting a vessel right into the reefs. Only turtle fishermen who know the reefs go there, and then not for long.

  The current was flowing strongly toward the reef, so I kept the squadron three miles to the northeast of the islands, with our noses pointed into the easterly wind. All ships maintained a sharp watch to the north for the Cuban ship, and especially to the south for any Spanish cruiser which might by chance or design come into the area. The night passed in apprehension and sleep eluded me.

  At noon the next day, the twenty-seventh of April, I was standing on the starboard bridge deck, staring at the guano-covered islets, when the lookout reported a lone tramp steamer approaching from the north horizon. In ten minutes, I could make out the ship from the bridge. Soon, she was stopped off our starboard, rolling in the swells.

  “Is she the one, sir?” Southby asked, rather anxiously giving voice to what everyone else was thinking.

  “Yes, James, as a matter of fact that’s her, the Norden. Right on time.”

  “Commodore, I’m impressed,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve gone through a two-hundred-mile navigational nightmare to get to this dismal place, and they’ve come six-hundred miles against the Gulf Stream, and this meeting is smack dab right on time. Incredible!”

  I laughed. “You don’t know Captain Karl Bendel. He keeps his word.”

  Southby’s brows arched. “She is a dirty old tub, isn’t she? Must be at least thirty, maybe forty years old. Just look at that hull. I’d bet her machinery’s in even worse shape.”

  Naval officers hate to see dirt, rust, or unkempt crew. The steamer before us epitomized all three.

  “She’s only ten years old,” I replied. “Karl intentionally keeps Norden’s outward appearance looking that way so port officials don’t over-charge him on harbor dues, and customs patrols underestimate her. But down below is another matter. The boiler and engine rooms are very well maintained. Her bottom is kept clean too.”

  “Sounds like a valuable man to have on our side, sir. But look at those wretches.”

  The steamer’s rails were lined with men trying to vomit overboard—the exile Cuban troops. They didn’t look in shape for combat the next day.

  With my disposition soured, I turned to go below to my cabin. “Please send word for Captain Bendel and the Cuban commanding officer to meet with me as soon as possible. I want you and our ships’ captains at the meeting also.”

  I stopped at the ladder for, as sailors usually do in such situations, our bluejackets began jeering the seasick soldiers.

  “And Captain Southby, please stop our men making fun of those soldiers. Many of them will die tomorrow. The least we can do is be decent to them today.”

  42

  Meeting of Minds

  Anguilla Cays

  Cay Sal Bank

  Her Majesty’s Colony of the Bahamas

  Wednesday

  27 April 1898

  I was not impressed by His Excellency Colonel Ruben Ramon Armando Zaldivar de Aviles y Vega, commanding officer of the Batallón Nacional Orgullo de
Cuba—the National Pride Battalion of Cuba. The high-sounding name and title made the individual who stood before me in a Napoleonic pose even more of a bad joke.

  His double chin, fleshy-lipped mouth, enormous black-dyed mustache, and vacant grayish eyes were clearly the product of bonne cuisine instead of military discipline. He paused upon entry, waiting to receive my groveling welcome. So did the fawning subaltern who had dashed into my cabin ahead of the colonel and introduced him in hushed reverential tones as the great man himself appeared.

  There was a collective gasp behind me from my assembled captains, which I’m sure the colonel perceived as yanqui awe of his magnificent uniform. It was one of the best target silhouettes I have ever seen—a comic opera combination of white trousers and tunic with red piping and belt, accented by brass buttons and colonel epaulettes, and topped with a blue cocked and feathered hat. The chest was adorned with several large antique medals. It was all I could do not to laugh. I made a mental note not to stand anywhere near the fool in a battle.

  I did not extend my hand, but directed the colonel to the chair nearest mine at the long table adjacent to my desk. My officers already stood along the outboard side of the table.

  “I am Commodore Peter Wake, of the Second Special Service Squadron, Colonel, and the commanding officer of the combined Cuban and American forces on this operation. Welcome aboard Kestrel, and please be seated. I presume Captain Bendel has arrived for the meeting, as well as some of your senior staff officers, correct? I understand you speak English, so we will proceed in that language, as it is the most common among those present.”

  A flurry of Spanish passed between the colonel and the subaltern, who sheepishly reported to me, “His Excellency does not prefer to use English, sir, as his knowledge of the language is not fully developed, so I will interpret all which is said. Both Captain Bendel and our battalion staff are present for the meeting.” He gestured to the passageway, where a tightly packed crowd was trying to get into my cabin.