“How did you end up right here at Isabela, though?”
“Cause it’s out of the way and I figured nobody in their right mind would be here. Didn’t know you dupes were here, but that just proves my point. There I was, sitting in a bar in Key West with the boat skipper, looking at a map of Cuba. I told him I wanted to sneak ashore here, so I could spy out what’s really going on with the Cubans and the Spanish. Had no friggin’ idea Uncle Sam’s Navy was playing army soldier here. You can imagine my surprise when we finally get past the Spanish Navy and come smack dab right up against the U.S. Navy.”
He cast a doubtful look at the sailors around us, before continuing.
“But please, don’t let me interrupt whatever the hell it is you’re trying to do here. This little shindig should actually be rather amusing for me to watch unravel. Wish that little writer boy was here to see the show. He could’ve gotten a story about how not to do things.”
Another whine split the air, the shell exploding in an airburst a hundred feet short of our inner line. A piece of shrapnel thudded into the ground at my feet.
“Finally!” exclaimed Woodgerd. “A decent bracket shot from someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Scattered rifle shots came from the south, accompanied by the sound of a military band and boots crunching in unison.
Gavin interrupted. “Commodore, Mr. Yeats is signaling—Enemy in sight. Full regiment. POWs in front. OP in retreat.”
“Well, here they come now,” said Woodgerd as he folded his arms. “Oh, please do go right ahead, gents. Don’t let me delay you. The games are about to begin.”
52
Them or Us
Isabela, Cuba
Friday morning
29 April 1898
The Spanish formation had reached the bend in the road a quarter mile away and were coming into view. Two hundred feet out in front of the regiment, twenty-one bedraggled prisoners, blindfolded with hands lashed behind their backs, were being pushed forward at bayonet point by a row of skirmishers.
Behind them, the column of Spanish infantry marched eight abreast. Beside the column, several officers pranced about on horses, flourishing their drawn swords as they shouted patriotic Spanish slogans. The regimental music was a funeral dirge, slow and steady and ominous.
The prisoner shield was something I hadn’t imagined. It was clearly against the rules of war, but then Colonel Arce’s past behavior had been a warning of what he was capable of doing. A warning I’d failed to fully appreciate.
The prisoners precluded the Spanish from following my plan of running after the American sailors fleeing the observation post. Those men were now sprinting up the road toward the cane field, theatrically whooping and hollering, dropping camp articles the whole way. Obviously, the notorious Colonel Arce was no beginner and had enacted his own plan.
I swung my field glasses up to focus on the miserable hostages in front of the Spanish. They all appeared to be privates in the dark tan uniform of the exile unit, with no officers among them.
Rork offered his opinion. “Methinks the snipers should shoot the skirmishers pushing the prisoners, sir, instead o’ hittin’ the officers farther back in the formation. That’d give those poor bastards a wee bit o’ a chance to flee.”
“No,” I countered. “Yeats’ men will do both. First they’ll shoot the skirmishers, then the officers. But we’ve still got to wait until the main formation is opposite the fougasse.”
I summoned Lieutenant Gavin. “Send a runner to Mr. Yeats with this message. Once the main formation has come up to the fougasse, he is to first shoot the soldiers pushing the prisoners, then shoot the officers farther back in the formation.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“I have something else, Mr. Gavin. Once our snipers shoot the enemy guards, I want everybody in your line who speaks Spanish to yell for the Cuban prisoners to come up the road toward us. Everyone else can yell in English. Those prisoners are blindfolded, but they can run toward the sound of our men. Yes, I know some may be killed trying to escape the Spanish, but do not send anyone out to bring them in. You must keep your sailors lying on the ground in their prone positions. They must remain down, out of sight from the Spanish. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He began a long series of semaphore arm gestures as I turned my gaze back to the spectacle. One of the Cuban prisoners stumbled, then fell on his knees. The Spanish soldier behind him never hesitated, ramming the bayonet through the Cuban’s torso, pushing off with his boot to pull it out. The prisoner crumpled in a heap by the side of the road.
The Spanish regiment behind, meanwhile, acted as if on parade in Havana. Every man marched in unison to the incessant beat of the drums. On they came, every synchronized step bringing them closer to the cane field, where Yeats and his men were now fully concealed. Across the road from the cane field, nothing of the camouflaged fougasse preparations or ignition detail could be seen. Yeats had done his job well.
The Cuban prisoners and their tormentors passed the cane field and were approaching the extreme rifle range of our inner defenses. Our sailors on the line, their Model 1895 Lee rifles aimed toward the enemy, buzzed with contempt for the terrible scene before them.
Gavin admonished them in a low snarl. “Silence on deck! Petty officers, control your men.”
I expected this bizarre and pitiful sight to instigate some random shots in anger, but discipline held firm. Every sailor had been briefed on the plan. All hands knew it was up to Lieutenant Yeats now.
The leading company of the main Spanish formation passed the cane field behind a younger officer mounted on a black stallion, his epaulettes gleaming in the sunrise. The column behind them stretched back beyond the curve. I estimated the entire eight hundred men of the regiment had been gathered for the assault against my eighty-seven sailors.
Where the hell is Colonel Arce, I wondered. Then I saw a man with more ornate gold tassels and lace on his uniform than those of the accompanying officers. He and his companions on horseback were just behind the regimental color party, a third of the way back from the vanguard. Pointing arms in our direction, I deduced they were discussing the visibly meager defenses of the town ahead of them.
Pulse racing, I willed Yeats to wait until Arce was close enough to the fougasse.
“Nice parade,” offered Woodgerd to no one in particular. “Reminds me of the Brits marching through the valleys in Afghanistan—right up until the locals killed them. I take it you have something more to give these fellows than applause, because I’m not seeing much in the way of defenses here.”
Rork elbowed him. “Watch an’ learn, Michael. An’ pipe down while you’re at it.”
The crack of a rifle sounded, then a ragged volley from the smokeless Lee rifles at the cane field. Five Spanish soldiers dropped near the prisoners. The other skirmishers whirled around in confusion, trying to find the shooters, but the band kept playing and the regiment continued marching.
Within seconds, five more soldiers dropped. The sailors along the inner defenses started yelling in English and crude Spanish for the prisoners to run to them. Several began trying to run up the road. One of the soldiers started shooting prisoners. He was dropped, along with several other comrades, in Yeats’ third volley.
At this point, the regimental officers realized what was going on and where the gunfire was coming from. The surviving prisoners were abandoned and ran for our sailors, with the Spanish skirmishers rejoining the main column.
By commands, the band stopped playing, the entire regiment stopped, and every soldier made a right turn. Going exactly by the manual of arms, the three hundred soldiers of the lead companies unshouldered their rifles, came to the ready, then aimed their rifles across the cane field. One of their officers fell off his horse, then another and another, as Yeats gave permission for his five sharpshooters to use independent fire.
/> Boooooom . . . the Spanish volley rumbled out across the landscape as a hail of lead swept the field. I heard a Spanish officer shout his command—advance at the run!
As the second company in the column charged into the cane field with bayonets wickedly glistening, I heard a whine in the air coming at me. It went a few feet over us, the shell exploding behind and to the right. Two sailors yipped when shrapnel nicked them. A red stain spread along Gavin’s left sleeve.
The charging Spanish hit the first trip wire at a full run, the entire front rank going down. Another officer was shot as he stood back up and waved his sword. Colonel Arce and the other officers had dismounted and I lost sight of them in the commotion.
Another unit of men charged into the field. They hit the second trip wire line and many fell, but quickly got back up. The lead enemy troops were halfway across the field.
I heard someone yell, “Minas explosivos!” and begin pointing at the Quaker mines in the field. Two more soldiers pointed and backed up, then four, then a platoon. A subaltern ran out in front and berated them. His tirade ended in mid-sentence when his head snapped back from the rifle shot.
That did it, and the conscripts began running out of the field and across the road. The rear companies of the column were hurrying at the double quick toward the chaotic scene, where officers pointed at the town, trying to rally their men to assemble and assault the town. One of the reinforcing companies broke away from the column and charged diagonally toward the field, headed for Yeats’ left flank.
“Fourteen of the Cuban prisoners made it to our line, sir,” reported Gavin.
Amidst the general gunfire, I couldn’t make out the sound of Yeats’ shots anymore, but their results seemed to have diminished, for fewer Spanish soldiers and officers were falling. There were too many Spanish troops still on the road. They weren’t panicking as completely as I had hoped.
We had to adapt in order to exploit our surprise. I looked at my line of sailors.
“Mr. Gavin, please have the left half of your line fire three volleys at the main body of enemy troops on the road. Aim higher to handle the trajectory.”
It would be at extreme range, but was worth the try. I focused my binoculars at the mass of Spanish troops. They were starting to get more organized. Many were facing the town. Only a few were in the ditch, and they were climbing out. We were losing the opportunity.
The sailors’ volley erupted with a roar, and I heard every man pulling his bolt back simultaneously. Seconds later the second volley was sent down the road. The third went out as another artillery round blew up on the left side of our line. Three wounded sailors howled foul curses.
On the road, only a few enemy soldiers were hit, but the rest apparently didn’t like the odds and jumped in the ditch. Most began firing at the cane field in confusion, some fired at the town, but the sailors were flat on the ground, out of sight. None were hit.
“Another volley please, Mr. Gavin.”
It blasted out, raising a line of dust into the air. More soldiers descended into the ditch, including officers. At least two of the lead companies had gotten down into the ditch. There were still men on the road, but fewer and fewer.
Now was the moment for the bugle signal to set off the fougasse, but it didn’t come. My heart pounded, and I focused the glasses to where I’d last seen Yeats. No one was in sight there. Next I checked the railroad embankment by the fougasse, looking for the men hidden in the mangroves beyond, but saw nothing there either. Something was wrong. Had the massive Spanish volley into the field killed Yeats and his men?
I thought of sending the bugle call from our position, then remembered Yeats had Kestrel’s one and only bugle.
The Spanish infantry making a flank attack on the southern side of the cane field had slowed down, cautiously moving over the trip wire placed there, heading along the field’s edge toward Yeats’ position. Farther back, at the curve of the road, the rear Spanish units were spreading out across the road to the mangrove tree lines on both flanks.
Rork shot me a worried glance. I had to buy time for Yeats and his men, wherever they were. “Mr. Gavin, continue with three more volleys, this time from your entire line. Remember to aim high at this range.”
The sixty men in the line went through the drill as if they were still on the beach at Congo Town. The ensuing enfilades, loosed at thirty second intervals, ensured the Spanish in the ditch would think twice about emerging for an attack.
After the third volley, gunfire on both sides ended, and the battlefield suddenly went quiet. Only the groans of wounded Spanish soldiers, and the curses of my own wounded men, broke the stark stillness.
It was then I heard Yeats’ bugle, a croaking wail fading away in a sour note. It was enough.
A crack resounded near the road, followed by a whoosh. Instantly, a six-foot-high wave of flames raced down the ditch in seconds and engulfed the Spanish. Screams and shouts erupted instantly as dozens, then hundreds, of men leaped out of the ditch. Some of them were on fire, some limping from gunshot wounds. All fled south on the road toward their rear. Officers, soldiers, and horses were seized by utter panic, frantically trying to escape.
The sailors stared in soundless horror at the sight of the enemy roasting alive.
“Them or us, lads,” Rork told them. “War is what you signed up for.”
“Should we open fire on the enemy soldiers, sir?” Gavin asked quietly.
It had to be done. “Yes, Lieutenant. Open fire, but only with a few of your best shots. I do not want us to waste rounds. We’ll need them later for the enemy’s second attack. Aim specifically for those enemy soldiers who appear not to be already wounded.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Oh, and one of the Cuban prisoners just told our men a pretty bizarre tale about how they got captured. His English is pretty good. Do you want to speak with him?”
No, I didn’t, but intelligence about the enemy was of paramount importance. And I wanted to know about Mario. “Yes. Send him to me.”
The fougasse fire created its own wind, which blew inland. A thick bank of roiling black smoke and burning embers floated over the fleeing soldiers, as if chasing them. In a few minutes the screaming from the men trapped in the ditch stopped, then even the flames burned out. Only the sickly sweet stench of burned molasses and bodies endured.
Woodgerd walked over to me. “You did good, Peter. But they won’t be stupid next time.”
“Yeah, I know.”
53
The Confession
Isabela, Cuba
Friday
29 April 1898
While gulping down a cup of orange juice and a plantain, Sergeant Julio Rivera, a diminutive mestizo farmhand originally from Matamoros, Mexico, shared with me how he ended up in Cuba. Though I wanted first and foremost to hear about Mario, I let the man tell the story his own way.
Rivera started by explaining how he became a prisoner. Barida’s column made it halfway to Sagua Grande when they met a Spanish roadblock. The determined enemy sent fusillades of bullets toward them, several of which found their mark and frightened the raw troops. Barida got most of his men into position and finally got them shooting in the right direction.
At this rather busy moment in time, a small group in the battalion, including Rivera, refused to obey any further orders. They protested they had been lied to about what their military duties would be, and what their remuneration would be, all from Zaldivar’s smooth oratory months prior.
Barida, naturally, couldn’t have cared less about their complaints right about then. The major’s reaction to the mutiny was a very sincere promise to shoot the entire bunch himself. This merely exacerbated the mutineers’ fears, which instantly descended into abject terror and panic. In response to my next question, Rivera detailed the beginning of the entire idiotic enterprise. Evidently, in his tour of southern cities in February, right after the Maine
explosion, when the fever for war was heating up, Zaldivar began on his recruitment tour. Before signing up for Zaldivar’s battalion, Rivera never even knew Cuba’s location on a map, and still wasn’t completely sure.
Rivera and many other ignorant souls based their decision to join on the colonel’s rosy promises. Zaldivar said the battalion would be hailed as heroes upon getting off the ship, would only have to hold the town of Isabela, and would not face any major opposition from the Spanish Army. A lovely way to fight a war, if only it was true.
The enlistees were duly impressed and signed up for three months service to end in mid-May, when the war was predicted to be over. After a wondrous celebration of their heroic and bloodless victory, each man would then be given the title to ten hectares of land and citizenship in the new Republic of Cuba. Apparently, the new landowners would henceforth be called by the Spanish honorific of “Don” for the rest of their lives—a powerful inducement for a peasant from the hill country of Mexico.
The reality these naïve dupes found was far different. The men became suspicious when they never got paid their enlistment bonus or monthly stipend. Next, unlike Zaldivar’s plush cabin and extravagant cuisine, their crude accommodations in the cargo holds of the freighter were not what they expected. In addition, most of their officers appeared incompetent and disinterested. When the joyous welcome at the miserable hamlet of Isabela didn’t happen, the recruits’ mistrust turned into outright anger.
The final straw came when they got word Zaldivar was no longer in charge and their lives were forfeited to a real warrior officer like Barida. He actually intended them to fight the enemy for as long as the war would take—forget this ninety-day nonsense. As they marched toward Sagua Grande, the communal complaining in the ranks grew into conspiratorial discussions of how to secure freedom from the predicament they found themselves in.
An Honorable War Page 25
