1—That an immediate State of Truce be mutually declared by both of us upon receipt by you of this message and your word of honor to the messenger, Lt. Gavin, which will last until 11:30 a.m., this day.
2—That until 10:30 a.m., this day, my forces collect and deliver the Spanish wounded to the edge of the cane field nearest your lines, for repatriation to your regiment.
3—That once the wounded are delivered to the aforementioned location at 10:30 a.m., your forces come out and bring your wounded back to your regimental surgeons.
4—That at 10:30 a.m., you also deliver Captain Mario Cano, of the Free Cuban Army, who is known to be one of your prisoners, and any other Free Cuban Army prisoners in your possession, to the aforementioned location, for return to our forces.
5—That at 11:30 a.m., this day, the State of Truce will end and a State of War shall resume between our forces.
6—That this State of War shall only be avoided by the surrender of, or withdrawal by, all Spanish forces from the area of Isabela by 11:30 a.m., this day.
7—That once surrendered, all Spanish officers and men of the famed 38th Leon Regiment, and other accompanying Spanish units, shall be given military parole and treated with the highest esteem and honor by the Allied forces, with officers retaining their side arms and baggage, and regimental colors staying with the regimental commander. It will be our pleasure to arrange decent accommodations and cuisine, and repatriation to Spain in the near future.
These proposals are rendered by your most admiring adversary, with the utmost respect,
Commodore Peter Wake, United States Navy
Supreme Commanding Officer, All Allied Land and Naval Forces in Northern Cuba
Gavin shook his head in wonder. Woodgerd gave me an approving look. Mack stayed neutral.
Rork verbalized his opinion. “Commodore—you’ve got `em right where you want `em. Those grandees’ll have to go for this to get their precious Ortega back. Aye, an’ they’ll be convinced we’re stronger than we are. We’ll get Mario back, an’ a nice little delay `til the Free Cuban Army arrives to box the bastards in.”
“Yes, if they buy it.”
60
The Bluff
Isabela, Cuba
Saturday morning
30 April 1898
Southby’s next message said the Spanish gunboats were continuing to loiter off Maravillas. Were they waiting for others in order to attack in greater strength or merely surveilling us. Or were they diversionary bait to lure us away from Isabela? The cruiser east of us had gone farther offshore and slowed down, exact identity yet unknown.
Osprey’s five-round ranging barrage landed right where I wanted, a demonstration of our newly positioned firepower. Shortly afterward, Gavin set out on his mission, marching down the road under a waving bedsheet from my cabin in Kestrel. Both he and his assistants, a gunner’s mate from Harrier and the newly reinstated Sergeant Julio Rivera, were cleaned up, shaved, and looking sharp in new uniforms. They were counseled to act refreshed and unconcerned, as if the outcome of the battle, and the war for Cuban independence, were foregone conclusions in our favor.
As Rork predicted, the Spanish commander, Colonel Tomás Diaz Fernandez de San Martín, accepted the offer of exchanging the wounded for Cano. He also declined to surrender, as expected, and made a very shrewd demand of his own, which I didn’t expect.
Colonel Diaz wanted to meet me.
It was apparent he wanted to gauge me personally. I couldn’t come up with a way to avoid it. I’d made the subtle bluff about our strength, and now I had to meet him or risk Diaz’s seeing through the ruse and attacking us immediately.
We met at 10:30 a.m. in the cane field. On my way to the rendezvous, I accompanied the stretcher of Lieutenant Colonel Ortega, the iron shard still protruding but his pain deadened by a large dose of our limited morphine. He and I conversed about my visits to Spain in ’74 and ’95, mainly discussing the wonderful wines of Andalusia.
As his surgeons and soldiers took away their wounded, Diaz marched from his lines up the road to the field. A few paces behind him came Captain Mario Cano, walking with a pronounced limp.
The colonel embraced his friend Ortega, then turned to me. Since I was the senior officer, Diaz saluted me and presented his name, rank, and respects—in surprisingly fluent British English. I presented my name, rank, and compliments to him in return.
These pleasantries ended when Diaz’s expression turned stony.
“So Commodore, I finally meet the American who married the beautiful Doña Maria Ana Maura of Spain, and even convinced her to renounce her faith and her country.”
Many in Spain knew of our marriage. It was no secret. I desperately searched my memory to see if Maria had ever mentioned him, but nothing came to mind.
My subordinates had been standing behind me, and no doubt were wondering what was happening between their commander and the Spanish colonel. I was about to utter some sort of reply, but Diaz wasn’t quite done. He beckoned an officer accompanying his surgeons to come over to us. The young man marched up, clicked his heels, and saluted. He turned toward me, his visage burning with hatred.
It was Juanito Maura.
Enjoying every second of my discomfort, Colonel Diaz smugly continued. “Commodore Wake, may I have the honor to present Captain Juan Maura, one of our fine reserve officers who has volunteered for active duty in order to defend Spain and her most faithful isle of Cuba. I must say we were quite fortunate to have him posted with our regiment. He is my aide de camp, and has proven to be an efficient one. I believe you two have already met, and so you probably have an idea of his zeal and abilities, and complete devotion to Spain.”
I had to say something. “Thank you for the introduction, Colonel. I do, indeed, fully understand Captain Maura’s remarkable intelligence and accomplishments. You have my congratulations on getting such an able staff officer.”
Diaz waved a hand. “Oh, no, Commodore. You misunderstand. Captain Maura is not only a staff officer, he is a combat officer as well. In fact, Captain Maura is leading the final attack on your positions today, which will begin as soon as our short truce ends. I suppose I should reciprocate your kind and generous terms of surrender and offer them likewise to you but, alas, I cannot. Too many Spaniards have died by your atrocious barbarities, which defy all standards of morality among professional warriors.”
Diaz made his next comment with deliberation. “No, after what you have done to stain the profession of arms, Commodore, Spanish honor demands a total victory, without quarter or mercy on the men who have perpetrated such crimes against decency.”
Without waiting for a reply, Diaz and Maura executed an about-face and marched back down the road. I turned around far less martially, only to find three faces staring at me in disbelief over how the whole parley had transpired.
We returned to our lines in silence.
61
Inferno
Isabela, Cuba
Late Saturday morning
30 April 1898
Instead of what I anticipated, a full scale charge up the road, the first enemy gunshots came from the mangrove jungle on both our flanks. Each one of the half-dozen rounds on both sides had been aimed and ready when a bugle sounded at the Spanish camp. Instantly, each round struck a sailor. Somehow, during the truce, the Spanish had infiltrated up to our lines through the thick mangroves without our seeing or hearing them. There weren’t many, perhaps a squad on either flank, but their initial success was enough to embolden their comrades.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bilton in Osprey followed orders and fired his guns at 11:35 a.m., striking the curve of the road where the main regiment was located. The regiment didn’t stay there, however, for they were already quickly trotting out of the barrage zone toward Isabela, arranged by companies in line ahead. Arce’s survivors must have been with them because it looked to be far more t
han six hundred soldiers heading our way.
Assessing our assets after returning from Colonel Diaz, I counted our rifles; the Colt machine gun; Osprey’s two six-pounders for the next twenty-one minutes, before the ebb tide got too low; and Kestrel’s bow six-pounder for the left side of the cane field. The main defense line consisted of a few dozen sailors and volunteers, half of whom were already wounded in some way. Everything we had wasn’t enough to stop, or even slow, the Spanish. We would be overwhelmed within minutes—if we did what the enemy expected.
I had absolutely no intention of doing what Colonel Diaz expected.
First, I brought all hands up to date on the situation. Against Rork’s opinion, I explained my relationship with Cano and Maura. I didn’t want false rumors degrading our morale. Then I made sure everyone knew Colonel Diaz’s declared fate for us. This revelation proved to be quite the rejuvenator for my exhausted men. Nothing motivates quite like fear.
Finally, I explained my new plan, and the fact they had only fifteen minutes to prepare for it. Deception was everything. The Spanish must believe they were winning, pushing us backward, and we were trapped in the town, but not being fully aware of our true strength ashore or afloat.
Our first deception consisted of the figures in navy uniforms standing by the doorways or windows of the shacks. They were straw men, with a board delicately balanced inside them which would keel over when a bullet hit. Thus, the Spanish sharpshooters in the mangroves would see every one of their first shots of the final assault knock down a despised yanqui sailor.
The straw men were reinforced by dead men—the enemy dead—in U.S. uniforms. These were also propped up as if defending a position, and also strewn about as if casualties of the Spanish assault.
Simultaneously, it was important the enemy lose some men to our defending fire, so our sharpshooters were in concealed positions scattered throughout the town. The sailors assigned to this duty had a clear route of escape to a ship’s boat waiting to take them to the closest American vessel when it came time to run. Our snipers at the edge of town began firing at the Spanish sharpshooters in the mangroves, also sending rounds down the road toward the advancing regiment.
The Colt gun was kept on its cart and stationed near the burial ground of the Spanish sailors. It would fire down the road until the last moment, then be spiked. The crew would run to Kestrel.
The retreat phase of the plan was simple. Time would tell if the enemy would allow the second phase to be enacted.
Within five minutes the Spanish regiment was past the cane field, taking some casualties from our Colt gun and snipers, but not enough to slow the advance. The Spanish riflemen on the mangrove flanks weren’t moving forward either, which told me they didn’t know we’d evacuated our flanks.
A lull came in the firing. Spanish bugles rang out, echoing the call to charge.
The entire mass of light blue lifted up from the kneeling position and ran toward us. I could hear in their battle cries they wanted revenge. It was an unstoppable rage, the Spanish officers urging it on. Their furious momentum would take them deep into the town before wiser heads, which did not include Juan Maura, would question their good luck.
By the time the Spanish arrived at our former defense line, I had most of the sailors and volunteers aboard Kestrel. She was no longer moored to the pier, merely sitting alongside, with full steam up and ready to go astern and away from the various buildings which blocked her guns. On the other side of the town’s peninsula, Osprey had backed away from the shoals and was in deep water well off Punta Barlovento, at the mouth of the river. That gave her a clear range of fire at the entire town. Falcon had steamed across the bay from Maravillas to a location just off Punta Sotavento, the extremity of the town’s peninsula.
The three small yachts-turned-gunboats were now in position to systematically rake the town with point-blank gunfire from three sides. All we needed were the targets, and those would soon be supplied by the seemingly triumphant Spanish regiment.
Concurrently with the other evolutions, Norden and Harrier moved with minimum smoke toward the eastern side of the bay, near a winding narrow channel, Pasa Boca del Serón, between mangrove islands. Harrier would lead the squadron’s escape out the channel when the time came.
In a gamble, I’d left no ships guarding the main channel entrance at Maravillas. Our route of escape was to the east, where the mystery cruiser lurked offshore. I was betting on surprise, and that the enemy would think we’d escape to the west, the side closest to Key West.
The Spanish Army was behaving as I hoped. But would the Spanish Navy?
62
Carpe Diem
Isabela, Cuba
High noon, Saturday
30 April 1898
The Spanish assault quickly passed our defense line from the day before, and drove deep into the town. Kestrel had just embarked our last men and even managed to retrieve the Colt gun, which was manhandled aboard.
As Diaz promised, I saw Captain Juan Maura leading the Spanish regiment, and the few men who were dropped along the way by our sharpshooters didn’t dampen his élan. From my vantage point, I’d watched him coming, leading from out in front of his men, sensibly holding a revolver instead of a sword. He was doing well, watching his flanks, the unit behind, keeping his men moving and spread apart. Juanito kept leading his troops north through the town, but changed over to a parallel alley that ended at the side street by the wharf.
Of course, I shouldn’t have been ashore. I should have been on Kestrel’s bridge with Southby. But I wasn’t. I was right there at the end corner of the alleyway, with Rork and Woodgerd beside me. Cano wanted to come too, but I forbade it—his leg wound precluded the necessary agility.
Any military or naval officer reading this knows I violated every precept of command and every dictum of logic as I stood there. But I will admit that right then, I wasn’t thinking like a professional. I was thinking of my Maria, and feared what the loss of her remaining son would do to her. I had to try, against all odds and sense, to prevent that.
I heard the sound of my stepson’s approach. Fortunately, he was still in front of his men, issuing an order as he rounded the corner. I rammed the butt of my shotgun into his face, propelling his flailing body backward into the waiting arms of Rork, who had leaned out a doorway.
Rork slung him over a shoulder while I fired five double-ought buckshot shells in rapid order at the other soldiers in the alleyway, sending forty-five separate .33 caliber rounds into them. Most dropped. The rest took cover. Woodgerd covered the other direction, but the Spanish hadn’t gotten there yet.
Then the three of us ran to the ship, which was already moving slowly astern, Southby being under strict orders not to wait if things went wrong. Sailors cheered us on as we leaped, including Rork and his burden, over the growing gap between wharf and ship. All of us miraculously made it, and fell onto the main deck. I raced up the ladder to the bridge, where Southby was directing gunfire into the Spanish charging up the wharf toward us.
The Colt machine gun had been reset upon its portside main deck pedestal mount just in time, and unleashed its mechanical hail of lead into the enemy. Within the next sixty seconds, four hundred rounds had swept the wharf of enemy soldiers. Now free from the blocking structures, the bow gun was already firing a dozen rounds of grapeshot into the town, the stern gun doing likewise into the shore line to starboard.
From the other side of the peninsula, Osprey fired high explosive into the main road at the edges of town, where I could see regimental banners flying. Colonel Diaz’s headquarters staff was already entering Isabela, but much of the place was alight, ignited by the bombardment. The thatch homes burned in seconds, churning up thick black smoke, carried away inland on the growing sea breeze. Whereas Isabela was dismal when we first arrived, now the scene was chaos.
“What’s the situation at Maravillas?” I breathlessly asked Southb
y.
“Falcon just signaled, sir. Those Spanish gunboats are entering the channel.”
“Signal Falcon and Harrier to engage them. Let’s get Kestrel around the town and heading east.”
A signalman I recognized from our land defenses rushed to the portside bridge wing and began clicking out the message on the signal lamp.
Southby pointed inland. “I can’t tell in all this noise, sir. Is that gunfire from down the road? Maybe the Cuban attack?”
I couldn’t tell either. The time was twelve twenty-one. If it was the Cuban Liberation Army under General Lacret, they were attacking early. Who else could it be?
As Kestrel backed to starboard, the starboard Colt gun began sweeping the shacks to stop the enemy from firing at us. Then the six-pounders joined in, blasting the cane warehouse apart.
Rork arrived on the bridge and shouted in my ear he’d left Maura unconscious in a chair and manacled to the bulkhead in my cabin. Rork’s medical evaluation was a broken nose, and maybe some cracked teeth, but the prognosis was my stepson would live.
I walked out onto the starboard bridge and pointed south. “Rork, is that the Cuban artillery I’m hearing down the road?”
Rork cocked his head to listen. “Aye, sir. That’s one o’ those beautiful Brit twelve-pounder field pieces. Barida an’ his Limey guns are attackin’ the Spaniardos’ rear!”
“Well, I’ll be damned. They actually did it,”declared Woodgerd, who’d just walked in.
“They did, indeed, Michael,” I replied. “They probably captured the enemy’s cache of supplies without much opposition. Diaz had all his troops facing us. But now he’s trapped and our job is done. Captain Southby, it’s time to leave Cuba.”
An Honorable War Page 29
