I glanced around the table. “Thank you, Captain Southby. Are there any questions, gentlemen? This is your last chance.”
Each man, except the colonel and his aide, said no.
“Then you are dismissed. Good luck tonight and tomorrow.”
After the others filed out of the cabin, Cano stayed by the table and gave me a plaintive look. “Commodore, please allow me to explain.”
“Captain Cano and Captain Southby, please remain for a moment so we can discuss logistical matters,” I said, quietly adding. “I want Rork here too.”
44
Putting Things in Perspective
Anguilla Cays
Cay Sal Bank
Her Majesty’s Colony of the Bahamas
Wednesday
27 April 1898
“All right, Mario, what the hell is really going on here? Start with why you are here, when you’re supposed to be in Tampa with my daughter.”
Rork, who had been busy with Mack on the boat deck during the briefing, hadn’t even known Cano was aboard. His face reflected it when he strode into my cabin.
“Mario, me lad! Why’re you here? An’ in a Cuban uniform too,” Rork exclaimed. “An’ how’s me dear god-daughter, Useppa?”
“Long story about how I am here, Sean, which I am about to tell. And Useppa is fine.”
Southby, who vaguely knew I had a son-in-law in Florida named Cano, fidgeted in his chair and said, “Ah, sir, I’ve got a lot of things to get done and this looks like a personal issue, so I’ll just go attend to my duties.”
“Yes, you do have a lot of things to do right now, Captain, but stay. You need to be fully aware of all the factors involved in this operation. This won’t take long, for Captain Cano will be concise.”
To Cano, I said, “Out with it, Mario.”
He adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and began. “Yes, sir. Well, as you know, sir, since our dear friend José Martí asked me back in 1891, I have been a legal counselor with the Cuban Revolutionary Party. After he was killed three years ago, the leaders requested me to remain as their counselor for Tampa and Ocala, and sometimes Key West. Occasionally, I do some work for them up in Washington and New York.
“Five weeks ago, the New York junta leaders sent me to liaise with Colonel Zaldivar as he recruited exile Cubans and other Latin Americans around the Southern states for his newly formed regiment, which he equipped, armed, and provisioned with his own money. Zaldivar left Cuba thirty years ago at the beginning of the fight for independence. His father supported Carlos Manuel Céspedes’s original military efforts, but was killed in battle. The family was subsequently forced off the island by the Spanish.
“Once in the United States, Zaldivar used what remained of the family’s sugar cane plantation fortune to build up a successful mercantile business in several major Southern cities. He recently began calling for liberation of the area around Sagua Grande, which is where his father’s planation was until 1868. Nobody took him seriously until he bought their attention with a sizable donation to the cause. I was assigned to be his liaison with the revolutionary leaders in New York.”
“So, to summarize,” I said. “You were told to spy on the rich fool who bought his colonelcy and try to keep him from making a total ass of himself, and the revolutionary cause, while recruiting around the United States. Zaldivar seems to have visions of returning to Cuba in grandeur and being the petty dictator of his province once the island becomes independent.”
Cano agreed. “Yes, sir. That pretty much sums it up.”
“How’d the recruiting go?”
“Sir, you’ve met the colonel. You can imagine how his exhortations were received by Latin Americans who attended his rallies in various cities. Instead of a regiment of eight or nine hundred men, he got only a hundred sixty-one men to volunteer, barely a battalion. Most of them are idlers or criminals from New Orleans and Charleston. Only a few of them are actually Cuban. He also got a dozen of his own employees to join. They were store managers and all of them are Cuban exiles. Their incentive was that their families will still draw their previous salaries, plus they get bonuses and have been promised land in Cuba when the war is over. They are now the battalion staff and company officers. Only a couple of them have served in the Cuban army.”
Rork groaned. Southby’s face lost its color. My stomach turned sour. This was worse than I thought.
“And Major Barida?” I asked.
“He is what he appears to be, sir—a veteran combat officer of the Cuban Liberation Army under General Lacret. He is squared-away, as you sailors say. Barida had been up in New York City obtaining a field artillery battery for Lacret and was about to return with it when the revolutionary leaders asked him to join Zaldivar’s battalion. His mission is to keep it under control, and get it and the artillery to General Lacret. Major Barida has no artillerymen with him to work the guns. He will use the battalion to get them to Lacret, who does have artillerymen.”
“And the relationship between Barida and the colonel?”
“Barida despises the colonel and vice versa, but the colonel knows he needs the major. Zaldivar offered him a bonus if he stays with the battalion once they join Lacret. I was there when Barida hotly refused it, saying his mission with the battalion and the colonel ends when he gets his guns to Lacret. He also told the colonel he considered the offer a bribe and a mark of dishonor. The colonel ignored the insult.”
“So what will happen when the battalion goes inland from Isabela?”
“Once we are ashore and away from Isabela, Barida will take his artillery, plus any men who really want to fight for Cuba, and join Lacret as fast as he can. Zaldivar and the others will be left to fend for themselves. The major told me yesterday he thinks quite a few of the battalion’s men can improve once he gets them ashore, under proper leadership and professional discipline. On the ship they are seasick, quarrelsome, and useless, and have been since we left Jacksonville last week.”
“And what about you, Captain Cano?”
He winced. “Commodore, my rank is only temporary. My mission ends when the men join Lacret’s division. I have a message for Lacret, and one to pass onward to General Gómez, from the New York staff. Then I am free to return to my life as a lawyer in Tampa. Sir, when they asked, I had no real choice but to do my duty to help the Cuban cause for freedom.”
“Does Useppa know what you’re doing?”
“In a general way, yes sir. She’s not pleased, but understands. I regret not being able to notify you of my assignment, but when I cabled your office at the naval yard in New York, I was told you had already gone to sea. I had no idea our transport would be escorted by your squadron. We were only told some American naval vessels would be helping us.”
My mind swirled with unanswerable questions about how this operation would unfold. And on a personal note, I now had the burden of my daughter’s husband, who stood a good chance of getting killed while under my command.
My usual self-restraint vanished.
“Damn it all to hell and back!” I bellowed while pounding the chart of Isabela. “This convoluted zoo of misfit dregs isn’t a battalion—it’s a collection of targets for the Spanish! I know Roosevelt didn’t authorize this mess, but I will find out who did. Lord knows I have seen some colossal errors in judgment and leadership during my thirty-five years in the navy, but I have never seen anything like this. And when I do find out which of those pompous bastards up in Washington decided to give me this crap pile of an assignment, I will personally drag his worthless ass out into Seventeenth Street and kick it all the way up to his cronies at Capitol Hill.”
I took a breath, and then aimed a salvo of invective at Cano. “And those pencil-pushing politicos in the New York Cuban junta are no damned better! They just wanted Colonel What’s-his-name’s friggin’ money, and in the process have jeopardized you, my ships and men, Barida’s ar
tillery, and Lacret’s soldiers with this hare-brained scheme. To think our original strategy of landing American troops at Isabela and attacking Havana from the east was thought too ambitious! Yet somebody somewhere approved this . . . this . . . ludicrous notion? Good Lord, how will we ever win this war?”
Southby and Cano lowered their eyes. Rork raised an eyebrow and gave me a conspiratorial wink. I suddenly came to my senses and realized I was looking and sounding like a maniac. I sat down and shut up.
Rork broke the tension. “Aye, sir, this whole shebang was properly bollocks’d up from the start, but really, you an’ me’ve been through far worse. Why, remember the time in the Forbidden Purple City o’ Hue? Why we had enemies on top o’ enemies, an’ they all wanted the likes o’ us dead.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember every second of that mess,” I said, as the memories hit me.
Holding up his rubber hand for emphasis, Rork turned to Southby. “Captain, ’twas a dark an’ dicey deal, indeed. Why, even our so-called friends turned out to be enemies. Hell, at one time we had the emperor’s high mandarins, some shifty-eyed Viet chaps, half the French navy, a couple o’ Limey mercenaries, an’ a gang o’ crazed Chinese pirates, all after us. An’ that’s not to mention two lovely Oriental lasses who said they loved me but then got a bit disgruntled an’ started gunnin’ for my Irish arse. Can you believe it, sir? Everywhere we looked, there was somebody tryin’ to kill us. Damned disheartenin’ it was. In fact, that’s where I got me hand shot off an’ got me a spike, instead.”
Rork regarded his false hand. “Proud as hell o’ it, o’ course, sir. Best weapon a man could have. But still, `tis a bit awkward durin’ romantical moments, if you know me meanin’.”
That got Southby and Cano laughing. Having lightened the mood, Rork turned his Gaelic wisdom on me.
“So nary’s to worry, Commodore. This little run ashore at Isabela’ll be a lot easier than the one fifteen years ago in Vietnam. An’ as for the colonel, that ol’ windbag’ll fold like a cheap brollie at the first shot, an’ he’ll not be a spot o’ bother to anyone after that. Just put ‘im to bed on Norden.
“Yes, sir, he’ll be outta the way then. This Major Barida fellow’ll handle those men just fine. This’ll be simple, for the only real enemy we’ve got on this caper is the Spaniardos. An’ those poor bastards’ve never run up against Uncle Sam’s blessed bluejackets. Hell, our lads’re so well drilled we could be three sheets to the wind an’ still scare the pantaloons off `em!”
Even I was laughing by then. “Rork, after all these years, you are still true to form. Thank you for putting things in perspective.”
“Always try me best, sir,” Rork replied with faux innocence.
“Gentlemen, I guess now we know who is who and what is what, so let’s get on with it. Rork, please get Mario over to Norden.”
Assuming my most fearsome pose for my my son-in-law’s sake, I announced, “By the way, Captain Mario Cano of the Free Cuban Army, it took a long damn time to get my daughter married off. I don’t have the patience to start over again. Besides, I want to be a grandfather someday to your children, so listen to this very closely. You do not have approval for getting killed—which means you are not to do anything stupid. Is that completely understood?”
He straightened to attention and replied, “Aye, aye, sir. And if I may have permission to reciprocate the sentiment, I very much want my children to have a couple of grizzled old salts for their grandfather and uncle, so please be careful yourselves.”
45
Luck
Isabela, Cuba
Thursday morning
28 April 1898
The squadron’s approach to Cuba was made under a cloudy sky. No moon and only a few stars penetrated the overcast. For the entire transit from Anguilla, not another ship was seen. We reached the outer buoy of the channel and turned south. I hoped our luck would hold.
Steamed south through the channel between the islands of Cayo de la Cruz and Cayo Maravillas, nobody moved or spoke aboard Kestrel. Every ear and eye strained to find the enemy. Our guns were trained port and starboard, ready as they could be for a fight. Astern, Osprey and rest of the squadron followed. Dark forms on a dark sea, only their bow waves showed some color, a greyish-white line of froth, barely visible. I braced myself for a shout of alarm from the island, or the shot of a field gun.
Nothing happened.
There were small craft drawn up on the beach on Cayo Maravillas in front of a couple of palm-thatched shacks. No lights shown or men were seen. Evidently, they were asleep, unusual for fishermen at this time of the morning. Seconds later we were beyond them, entering the bay and steering straight down the channel. We slowed down to four knots at Cayo Paloma, bare steerageway, so even the bow waves disappeared as the squadron approached the unseen little town ahead.
Southby had bearings on the surrounding headlands double checked, but they proved we were still right in the middle of the channel. The current I feared would veer us off course in the night was slacking and didn’t interfere. I checked my pocket watch. We were right on time, and right on course.
The mainland ahead became more defined as we grew closer. Punta Sotavento showed on the port bow, with Cayo Mendoza on the starboard. The clapboard and thatched dwellings of Isabela emerged as pale shapes against the mangrove-jungled coastline. The large commercial wharf took form, looming out of the dusk. I was relieved to see no steamers at it.
“Fishing boat putting off from the beach, close on the port bow!” reported the port lookout as we turned toward the wharf. “There’s a crowd of people on the beach. Here comes another fishing boat.”
“Hold your course, helmsman,” said Southby, standing amidship. “All engines stop. Line handlers, standby with grappling hooks.”
“Qué es eso?” came a confused shout from the fishermen on the beach—what is that?
“¡Es un buque de guerra norteamericano! ¡La invasión!” somebody else answered—It’s an American warship! The invasion!
I was on the starboard side, looking for those two gunboats. I made out Mayari an instant later, then saw flashes.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A staccato series of flames leaped out toward us from a hundred yards away to starboard. It was Mayari’s forty-two-millimeter bow gun. The rounds whooshed right over my head. In their haste the Spanish sailors had aimed too high, but I knew their next shots would be corrected lower—right at the bridge deck where I stood.
Behind me, Southby calmly ordered, “All guns that bear—open fire at target to starboard.”
Before he finished the command, the Spanish gunboat’s stern machine gun quickly opened fire, raking our main deck. I shut my eyes barely in time to not be blinded by what I knew was coming.
With a loud roar, Kestrel lit up fore and aft in a blast of fire and smoke as all guns that would bear to starboard—two rapid-fire six-pounders and a Colt machine gun—fired in unison. The simultaneous concussion and recoil pushed the ship to port, crunching her against the wharf.
The impact explosions at that point-blank range were instantaneous, igniting Mayari’s ready ammunition, then her magazine. The gunboat disintegrated into a mass of blazing debris hurtling in all directions. The heat wave pushed me backward into a signalman. Seconds later burning embers and pieces of wood and iron rained down.
Mayari didn’t exist anymore. Neither did her dock. The small naval depot on shore was burning. I saw no survivors.
“Douse the decks,” Southby shouted above the din as Kestrel’s foredeck crew reported the bow lines were over and holding. Two young sailors came along and sloshed buckets of water on the scattered embers before they could set off our own ready ammunition.
“Away the landing party to port!” was Southby’s next order and a chorus of war hoops told me the sailors were already leaping onto the wharf.
Above it all, I heard Grover Yeats yellin
g, “Follow me, men!”
“Spanish gunboat closing fast on the starboard quarter!” called the lookout beside me. Machine gun fire sparked at us as Lealtad attacked.
“Open fire on target astern!” ordered Southby. The stern gun blasted out three quick rounds. The Spanish never had a chance. Her hull fragmented apart amidship, breaking her in half. The stern went right down but the bow continued its forward momentum before gradually sinking.
The two most immediate threats having been disposed of, I crossed over to the port side. In the lightening of the dawn I watched as Osprey came up the wharf opposite us, her landing party jumping ashore while she was still moving forward. At the head of the wharf, I could see young Yeats rallying his sailors, spreading them out as they went off to the right along the shoreline toward what was left of the gunboat station.
“Situation report?” I asked Southby.
“Phase one is completed, Commodore,” reported Southby. “Casualties are Seaman Jackson wounded in the leg and none killed. Kestrel’s only damage is superficial to the starboard side, where some debris from Mayari’s explosion hit us.”
“Ashore?”
“The wharf is secured. No opposition so far, with no shots fired. Most of the civilians fled inland right away. That crowd of fishermen have taken their boats away too. This end of the town appears empty, but the sailors will search it to make sure.”
“The squadron?”
“No enemy ships are in sight. Osprey is backing off the wharf and Falcon is about to come in and land her sailors. Harrier’s launch has already disembarked her contingent, so the naval landing party is almost at full initial strength. Norden should be coming in with the Cuban troops in about twenty minutes. We are right on schedule, sir.”
An Honorable War Page 21
