An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  Gonzart arrived in a state of confusion and indignation. Rork told the petty officer he was free to go and took custody of the prisoner. Once the door was closed and locked, pretenses were suspended. Gonzart and I shook hands. I poured him a chilled orange juice and bid him to relax in a chair. The change on his face from horror to relief was readily apparent.

  “Very sorry for the ruse, Raul, but I trust no one with your clandestine identity.”

  “They thought I was a Spanish spy. That officer told me I was going to be hung by the neck! When I first heard the U.S. Navy was at Isabela, I hoped it was you. Then when I got here, I thought all had gone terribly wrong and I would killed by our allies!”

  “What can you tell me about the reaction to our arrival?”

  “The people of Isabela fled to my town this morning and spread the word of your coming, and it is the talk of Sagua Grande. The Spanish are irate and massing their men. The Cuban civilians are cautiously hopeful. General Lacret ordered me to make contact with the Americans and discover their intentions. Is this the invasion?”

  “No, it is not. Our intentions are not what they were originally. There is no invasion by American troops coming here. We have secured Isabela only temporarily, for the disembarkation of a few exile Cuban troops, not all of whom are actually Cuban.”

  This was not what Gonzart was expecting, and his face showed it.

  I told him the rest of it. “The unit is designated the Batallón Nacional Orgullo de Cuba, and there is an accompanying battery of purchased artillery. The battalion is now forming up to march inland to Sagua Grande and serve in General Lacret’s division. Both are under Major Ramon Barida, whom you may know.

  “No, I misstated that. They are officially under the command of Colonel Ruben Ramon Armando Zaldivar de Aviles y Vega, whose family owned a plantation in this area thirty years ago. But believe me, Major Barida is really in command. Zaldivar is a political dilettante who won’t last long once the shooting starts.”

  Gonzart’s expression lit up. “Major Barida has come back to Cuba with the artillery! Excellent news. And we have reinforcements? General Lacret will be very happy.”

  “Tell him not to be. Most aren’t from Cuba. Only six have combat experience. They look useless to me, but they do have rifles and ammunition. So tell me, where is the Spanish Army?”

  His report on the Spanish Army was succinct and discouraging. Assembling under Colonel Arce at Sagua Grande were eight hundred men, who would be at Isabela the next morning. The only good news was they had no artillery or cavalry. Telegraph intercepts, done by Gonzart at his office job, between the First Corps commander, General Aguirre, at Santa Clara, and Spanish Army headquarters in Havana, provided more ominous intelligence. Elements of the 38th Leon Infantry, veterans of Cuba and North Africa, were en route to Sagua Grande by rail from Havana. They would arrive late the next day. It was unknown if they had artillery or cavalry with them.

  “Raul, I need three things from you. One: tell General Lacret I am requesting he send forces here to help get these guns and men out of this area before they are intercepted by Arce’s regiment. Two: I am requesting he sabotage the tracks to Havana to slow down the Leon regiment’s transit here. Tell the general to hurry, the navy will leave Isabela at noon on Saturday for other missions. Lastly: please take this box of personal effects from the Spanish Navy dead, and get them to their headquarters for their families.”

  He looked inside the box at the few items which survived destruction. “I will do as you say, sir. I do not know if General Lacret can help, though. Like everyone, the general thought the norteamericanos were invading in great strength at Isabela. It will take time to assemble his units and have them travel here to assist Major Barida.”

  “Anything he can do will be appreciated, Raul. You’d better get going now.”

  Rork escorted the “prisoner” back to Lieutenant Yeats, with the explanation that Gonzart was a harmless fool I’d met on a previous visit, and to let him go.

  Shortly after they left, the resplendent form of the commanding officer of the Batallón Nacional Orgullo de Cuba filled the entrance of my cabin. In an indignant drunken rage, Colonel Zaldivar barged right in and loudly declared in English he wanted vengeance and he wanted it right then. I noted his fluency. Surprising for a fellow who’d needed an interpreter only a day before.

  Entering right behind Zaldivar, a short exile sergeant sheepishly escorted a uniformed prisoner whose hands were manacled. The prisoner was twice the size of the sergeant.

  Major Ramon Barida sighed and cast the colonel a disgusted look.

  48

  Time Dwindles

  Isabela, Cuba

  Thursday morning

  28 April 1898

  Zaldivar wasted no time. “Commodore Wake, I demand Major Ramon Barida be court-martialed immediately for insubordination and cowardice, the penalty to be death by gunfire!”

  The colonel made a shrugging half bow in my direction. “Of course, I would arrange this proceeding myself, but this insidious traitor Barida has exerted undue negative influence over the officers of my battalion and it is impossible for me to assemble the needed court.”

  “Colonel, I really don’t have time for this nonsense. You see, there’s the little matter of a war going on, in which your men were supposed to begin taking part over an hour ago!”

  Zaldivar’s nose tilted even higher. “We cannot and will not start the march until this disgraceful matter is resolved to my satisfaction.”

  That was the final straw for me. “Very well, it will be resolved, right now, right here—to my satisfaction. Take the handcuffs off your prisoner and let him get back to work, fighting the Spanish. By the way, congratulations on your rapid mastery of English.”

  He ignored my sarcasm with an exasperated harrumph. “The key to the handcuffs is in my possession, and I will not remove the handcuffs until after he has been executed. Discipline must be preserved!”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Zaldivar,” intentionally omitting his rank as I removed my pistol from its holster and leveled it at his right leg. “So, as the senior officer in command of this entire allied operation, I will preserve discipline right now. You have five seconds to get those handcuffs off Major Barida, or you will be shot. One thousand one . . .”

  The sergeant didn’t understand English, but he understood my pistol, and stood there gape-mouthed. Barida assumed the air of a bemused spectator. Southby, who burst in the cabin at just that point, shook his head in confusion and reached for his own pistol.

  Meanwhile, Zaldivar’s eyes lost their haughty little sneer when I got to “one thousand four” and cocked the hammer.

  “Wait,” he sputtered, while digging in his tunic pocket. “I will remove them, but only under protest at your grossly unprofessional and disrespectful behavior. I will complain of your lunacy to your superiors and seek justice.”

  Barida rubbed his newly freed hands and wrists, and quietly told the sergeant he could leave. That poor soul didn’t need any more encouragement and was gone in a flash.

  I wasn’t done yet. “Major Barida, please handcuff Zaldivar, who is under arrest for whatever charges you prefer. I would suggest drunkenness, incompetence, dereliction of duty, and cowardice. No doubt there has been a misappropriation of funds somewhere along the line also. The court-martial can be at the discretion of General Lacret. I turn custody of the prisoner over to the Free Cuban Army, where I know justice will be served.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Barida, who then officially arrested Zaldivar in Spanish.

  Before Zaldivar’s slow mind could form a word of protest, he was spun around with his hands manacled behind his back.

  “Major Barida, get your battalion on the move this instant and take the prisoner with you. His perfume is stinking up my ship. I wish you all good fortune in your mission, Ramon. Please present my respects to General Lacret
.”

  Barida saluted me and led a silent Zaldivar from my quarters. Southby cleared the passageway of spectators, closed the door, and sat down by my desk.

  “Damn, Commodore. I thought you were really going to shoot him.”

  I shrugged. “I was.”

  It was almost noon before the exiles got under way on the road out of town. Barida and my son-in-law corralled the throng into a semblance of a military formation. With skirmishers and scouts out front, they headed off down the road. Zaldivar was in the middle of the column, guarded by four very nasty-looking, dark-skinned fellows with newly pinned chevrons. The guards glared at anyone trying to get close to the prisoner.

  All in all, the liberators of Isabela were not an inspiring or imposing sight. In fact, they were damned pitiful. Tellingly, none of our sailors joked with them as the soldiers trudged by with clanking rifles and canteens. The sailors merely nodded and quietly wished them well.

  The pit of my stomach churned when I thought of Mario Cano in battle. My daughter couldn’t take another heartache in life. Mario was a smart judge of men and situations, understood some of the clandestine arts, but the Cuban lawyer had no military experience at all. He smiled wanly at me before striding up to where Barida marched. I said a little prayer for him, and for them all.

  Viewing the defense preparations was decidedly more positive for my morale. It began with Captain Bendel meeting me on the wharf and expressing admiration in his unique way.

  “Your people have done wonders, Peter. Even the Imperial German Navy could learn a thing or two. I may try to get some of them to desert to my merchant ship! I will be getting away from the wharf in five minutes and anchoring in the bay, to await the wounded.”

  I shook his hand. “It’s always a pleasure to work with you, Karl. No telling how long this war will go on, so there may be more quiet work for you.”

  “Quiet work” was a euphemism for clandestine endeavors. Bendel had been a valued operative of mine for years. The man was fearless.

  Bendel grinned at the idea. “Good! Something more exciting than transporting sheep to the slaughter, like this job. I must be off now. See you later, Peter.”

  Kestrel’s petty officers had clearly gotten into the innovative spirit at the impromptu workshop set up on the wharf. Though they’d never heard of the ancient weaponry and tactics they would create for us, they immediately grasped the concept when Rork or I had explained it to them earlier in the morning. They even made some improvements on the designs.

  The machinist mate turned out two dozen caltrops—four or five-armed iron spikes like large children’s jacks, with extremely sharp points which stand four inches up in the air no matter how they fall on the ground. Caltrops terrify horses and will stop a cavalry charge.

  Assisted by a boilerman, the machinist also worked on the cylindrical molasses tank which was to be placed under the flatbed railcar. Freeing the rivets along one lengthwise seam, they then helped the gunner’s mate pack it with all the spare guncotton in the squadron, followed by gunpowder and scrap metal found around the wharf. In a hole at one end of the tank, the gunner’s mate placed a standard shell from a six-pounder gun with an impact percussion primer. Then the two of them rigged a mechanical trigger device to set the shell off, activated by a long lanyard.

  From lumber scavenged in the town, the carpenter mate and his helpers constructed four chevals de frise—twenty-foot-long rails with four rows of three-foot-long wooden spikes radiating from them. Thus, each cheval de frise formed a twenty-foot-long by almost six-foot-high barrier, impenetrable by infantry or cavalry charge. Our sailors would be able stand behind the cheval and shoot through the small spaces between the spikes.

  With compliments given out to all hands on the wharf, Southby and I headed ashore and down the road. Near the end of town was one of Kestrel’s two Colt machine guns, mounted on a two-wheel push cart in the right side of the road. The cart’s mobility enabled the gun to be employed at any needed location, but its main position would be right there, where it could enfilade the enemy on the road, just as the railcar bomb exploded.

  A hundred feet beyond the town, across the road in the area to the east, several sailors were laboring to dig three trou de loups—camouflaged trenches filled with spikes in the sides and bottom. When the enemy charged across seemingly benign ground, they would fall through the false roof of kindling and leaves topped with sand, plunging down into the spikes. But there was a problem, the bosun mate in charge informed us. The ground was only sandy for about a foot in depth. Below that it was solid coral and limestone rock. There were test holes all over, but none was more than a foot or so deep.

  Southby freed them all from the fruitless task and had them report to the men working on the defenses a quarter mile farther out, to whence we now headed. While we walked in that direction, Rork showed up and reported Gonzart was on his way, and the Cuban battalion was now marching in better order for Sagua Grande.

  He then leaned closer to my ear. “Heard a most amazin’ rumor from the Cuban lads when they marched past me, sir. They said the crazy gringo commodore was goin’ to shoot that fool colonel `cause he arrested Barida, an’ damned happy they were you stopped that idiocy. Ooh, let me tell you, you’re a bloomin’ hero to those boyos.”

  “Did what I had to do, Rork. Come with us to see the fougasse. I want your opinion.”

  Mr. Yeats was in charge of the outer defense preparations, which was quite a daunting job. Especially the fougasse, for it was a tricky matter. It had to be carefully prepared en situ at the ditch across from the field. Any miscalculation, physical or mental, would result in the flaming deaths of our own men.

  First, a layer of molasses was poured into the ditch. This ubiquitous Cuban material, part of the rum-making process, would not alarm the Spanish soldiers when they jumped to safety in the ditch. It thickly coated the ditch, preventing the accelerant from dissipating into the sandy soil. The molasses’ strong smell would also serve to mask the odor of the accelerant waiting close by. When we arrived, the molasses had already been spread, covering the ditch a foot deep in the sticky stuff, for a length of a hundred-fifty feet.

  Next came the truly precarious part—creating and positioning the accelerant. It was a complicated balancing act. The mixture had to be fluid enough to swiftly spread atop the entire length of the molasses. The amount had to be a large enough to provide an overwhelming conflagration. The container had to be small enough to be well concealed and easily employed. And the ignition had to be reliable enough to work via a long lanyard.

  Lieutenant Yeats proved equal to the task. The mixture was a combination of coal oil, kerosene, urine ammonia, and the pièce de résistance, 180-proof rot-gut aguardiente, liberated from a shack. The concoction was contained in a forty-gallon old oak barrel and concealed with the lush leaves of a small manchineel tree.

  This choice of location was a stroke of true genius, for the manchineel is extremely poisonous to touch. No one with any experience in Cuba would get close enough to examine something hidden inside a manchineel’s foliage. Yeats explained to me his men used blankets and long shell-handlers’ gloves from the ship’s gun mounts to hold back the tree’s branches so the fougasse barrel could be positioned. Two small braces were underneath the barrel, each with a bight of line around it, so that they could be yanked away, thereby freeing the barrel to fall into the ditch.

  With a pleased expression, Yeats explained the barrel would already be flaming when it fell into the ditch, because the first thing that would happen was a flint-lock trigger sparking gunpowder to create a flash, which would ignite the accelerant, which would then race down the ditch. He said the entire chain of events, from trigger to flaming ditch, would take three seconds.

  Both the trigger and the brace pulls were operated by separate sixty-foot lanyards led across the adjacent tracks to the edge of the mangroves. There, two volunteers would pull them upon a
bugle signal from Yeats in the field to the east. The sailors would then “run like the dickens to the town” while chaos erupted behind them.

  “Bloody friggin’ marvelous! Well done, sir!” exclaimed Rork. “Bit o’ the Irish in your veins, methinks, sir.”

  “Well done, Mr. Yeats,” I said. “This will save our men’s lives.”

  Southby, Rork, and I next crossed the road and visited the cane field opposite the fougasse. Trip wires, staked by cane sticks which blended in nicely, were strung at a height of eight inches all along the roadside edge of the field and off to either flank. Inside the field were several Quaker mines, authentic-looking bombs which were actually wooden replicas. They were scrupulously hard enough to discern in the sooty field to make them seem real and very intimidating.

  On the east edge of the field, ten short aiming staffs with notches for the rifle barrels were erected. The sharpshooters would fire from the prone position. We were using only five snipers, and each man would move between two staffs, leading the Spanish to overestimate their number. The accurate gunfire against officers, along with the bugle signal, would make it seem there were regular American soldiers or marines attacking the Spanish, thereby adding to the enemy’s inducement to jump in the ditch before the fougasse was ignited.

  Yeats ended by telling us Kestrel’s gig was already waiting on the river bank. The observation post down the road was manned. He and all his men were ready.

  I pulled out my watch. It was already three o’clock.

  “Time is dwindling, gentlemen. We need to complete our preparations by five this afternoon. I want the men to eat and rest, so they are as ready as they can be for a very crowded day tomorrow. Now, I will take a solitary stroll back to the ship. Thank you all.”