An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Southby rejoined. “Helmsman, make your course zero-four-zero degrees, with revolutions for fifteen knots. Standby for rapid helm orders.”

  “Signal from Falcon, sir,” interrupted the signalman from the port bridge wing. “Two enemy gunboats attacking. Am engaging enemy gunboat targets number one and two.”

  Every man on the bridge looked northeast toward Falcon. She had altered course to bring all her guns to fire. Out in the gap between Cayo de la Cruz and Cayo Maravillas, two vessels were steaming abreast with foaming white bow waves, heading right for us, their forward guns winking.

  Why are only two of the three Spanish gunboats attacking? I asked myself, then got the answer when the signalman announced another message coming in.

  “Falcon reports enemy gunboat number three entering bay to the northwest at Pasa Boca Ciega, west of Cayo de la Cruz. Moving at ten knots toward Kestrel.”

  It was a flank attack. Using my binoculars, I saw the third gunboat emerge from the shallow passage between behind Cayo de la Cruz. All three Spanish gunboats were converging on us at full speed.

  “Captain Southby, signal all ships. Kestrel will engage enemy gunboat number three. Falcon and Harrier will engage gunboats number one and two. Osprey will continue bombardment of town.”

  The squadron acknowledged and each ship began firing on their designated targets. The Spanish gunboats near Maravillas concentrated their fire mainly on Falcon, which was surrounded by fountains of rapid-fired near misses. One of Falcon’s rounds hit the right hand gunboat, fragments and smoke blasting up from her small bridge

  The signalman had another message. “Harrier reports unknown cruiser now over northern horizon.”

  “Time for the squadron to make a run for it, sir?” asked Southby.

  “Carpe diem, James. Signal Norden to head out to sea at full steam and head northwest to Cay Sal Bank, thence to Key West. Signal all other ships to continue firing on enemy gunboats while following Norden out through the eastern passage.”

  “Carpe diem it is, sir,” Southby replied in a jovial tone and gave orders for Kestrel’s new course as the signalman sent the message out.

  Even though the enemy gunboats were firing at us, they were already astern and unable to catch up. The officers and men around me remained focused on them, but relief the cruiser had departed was plain to see on their faces.

  For the first time since leaving Congo Town in the Bahamas, I felt hopeful. Soon, we’d be out of Cuba.

  63

  Skewered

  Isabela, Cuba

  Saturday

  30 April 1898

  The third enemy gunboat fared better than the first two. They were shot up by Falcon, Kestrel, and Harrier as they made their attack. Halfway across the bay, their battle damage slowed them down, black smoke flowing out of their hulls. The one on the right began listing heavily to port, then veered in a circle to the east and north, steam and smoke spewing out. Her companion followed suit as they both retired toward Maravillas. I ordered our ships to cease fire to conserve ammunition.

  Rork left the bridge to check on Maura. Southby went out on the starboard bridge deck to survey the situation in Isabela and the enemy astern of us. I stayed inside the bridge, reexamining our escape route on the chart.

  The third gunboat astern had a smart commander. Ducking his vessel behind Cayo Paloma in the middle of the bay, he thereby escaped our gunfire for most of their approach. By the time she emerged from behind the island, the gunboat was only a mile away. Her forty-two-millimeter bow gun fired continuously, precisely at the same time we had to stop our six-pounders from further firing due to overheated barrels. We were at least five knots faster than the gunboat and she had no hope of catching us, but for the next several minutes we were still within range of her main gun.

  Our port side Colt machine gun started in on her, but not before she landed some rounds on our stern, causing some damage. Luckily, it was nothing crippling to our rudder, my main worry at that point. Then came the final Spanish shot fired at us. It turned out to be one of those quirks of chance.

  Skidding along the boat deck aft of the bridge, it deflected upward off a ringbolt, and slammed into the outside of the bridge’s after-bulkhead, right where I was standing. I’d left the chart table and was looking aft out the large porthole, estimating the rate of comparative speed between the gunboat and ourselves. The round hit six inches below the opening.

  Since we were built like a yacht, not a proper warship, the bulkhead was mahogany, not steel. That meant a one foot-wide section of the bulkhead exploded into a hundred barbed splinters which fusilladed across the inside of the bridge. Four men were impaled.

  Nine of the biggest damned splinters managed to skewer right into me.

  The force of the blast spun me around and sent me into the helmsman, my body fortunately shielding him from injury, before doubling over and falling to the deck. I felt something huge speared into my left cheek. For a second it didn’t hurt. Several inches long, the nasty devil went in just below my eye. There were others, from my knees to my chest, but that thing in my face dominated my attention. Then everything started to hurt, a searing pain so strong it took my breath. I clenched my guts to try and block it.

  Southby got to me first. What with the blood and mess covering my face, his anguished question was understandable. “Are you alive?”

  “Yes,” I replied with effort. It’s hard to talk with a hunk of wood sticking through your face. “Tend the ship and squadron, James.”

  He ignored my command and tried to lift me. “We’ll get you below.”

  This perturbed me greatly, and I gasped, “Get back to work. Now!”

  Rork, Mack, and Woodgerd were my next companions, followed shortly after by Cano. They all had a horrified look on their faces.

  Southby ordered, “Get him to his cabin. Clean and dress those wounds right away.”

  This time it was Woodgerd who did the heavy lifting, and none too gently, I might add. At any rate, the entire entourage ended up in my cabin, a motley assembly if ever there was one.

  Even with all the excruciating pain and mental confusion, I noted the peculiar group which providence had assembled in my cabin. There was my longest and dearest friend, my beloved son-in-law, one of the last Negro bosuns in the navy, my rather eccentric mercenary comrade-in-arms, and my stepson-turned-prisoner of war who despised me. Thankfully, he was still passed out. None of us was in the mood to deal with him right then.

  Rork cut away my uniform and washed away some of the gore, poking around my face and torso. His own face was firmly set in a severe pose, which did nothing for my courage.

  “Can you believe it, Rork? Nailed by a lucky shot, last one fired,” I said, trying to remain calm.

  “Ooh, boyo, `tis only to be expected, you know,” he said softly. “You been around me so long you’ve the bloody black luck o’ the Irish followin’ you. Here, lad, we’ve found a wee somethin’ in the medical chest to take your mind off your troubles, so take a whiff o’ this an’ dream o’ love.”

  I felt Kestrel’s hull rise to an ocean swell, then fall and rise to another, and knew we were free of Cuba. Rork nodded in confirmation. “We’re goin’ home, Peter.”

  My last sensation was a strange smelling cloth being placed over my face.

  64

  Heaven and the Angel

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday

  4 May 1898

  It was a wonderful dream—the loveliest I’ve ever had—and it blissfully went on without end. Time had no measure. Anxiety, pain, and anger were sensations of the past. All I felt was peace and happiness.

  The dream centered on an incredibly beautiful angel dressed in white. She and I floated effortlessly in the clouds of Heaven as she attended to my every need. Close by, harps were playing while other angels sang and laughed. My angel had long
black hair, shiny and soft, and seductive eyes of indigo blue. Her mirth was lyrical and clear, like a soothing song. Her touch was tender and light. No hint of ill intent or duplicity marred the ambiance. Only the purest form of peace and love filled this Heaven, and every part of my being. I wanted to live there forever.

  I was reposed in a grand bed, impossibly soft and covered with silky linens. Wisps of clouds waved in the wind around us. I lay back on fluffy pillows, the fluffiest I’ve ever known. Our surroundings had a diaphanous light, which shed a gentle tinge on everything. It was perfect. I was perfect, my failings and flaws far in the past. I was in pure harmony with the angel and Heaven. I knew then, with absolute certainty, Heaven was real.

  “Happy fifth anniversary, darling,” the angel murmured, kissing me. “I love you.”

  I’ve been in Heaven for five years? Something didn’t make sense. She said it again, with another kiss, this one even more intimate. The passion of her kiss and specificity of those words—fifth anniversary?—concentrated my mind. The angel crystalized into sharper focus, like a ship at sea through a long glass. She smiled at me as I caressed her welcoming face, looking deep into those indigo eyes.

  “It is a miracle, Peter,” she said. “You came home to me alive, and you brought my Juanito.”

  Juanito? Oh, Juanito Maura. My bliss ended.

  Reality intruded. The wondrous light grew garishly yellow, like the glow from an electric light bulb. The dream’s clouds morphed into lace curtains, swayed by a faint breeze, hot and humid, through a window. The harp music disappeared, replaced by someone banging out a minstrel song on a banjo, some ridiculous thing about an old black man named Joe. A hammer clanged raucously on metal somewhere close by, followed by the shriek of a distant steam whistle. My pillow was soaked with sweat. So was I. Everything in my body hurt. I missed Heaven, but didn’t know the way back.

  “What is wrong?” Maria asked me, her face confused. “Peter, what happened? You look angry.”

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a white dress with a red cross on the front. “Maria? You’re the angel. Where are we?”

  “Tampa Bay Hotel, Peter. Don’t you remember? You got here this morning. Captain Bendel brought you here from Cuba. We gave you morphine. You have been sleeping.”

  “This room . . .” It looked familiar, a corner room with windows on two sides.

  “This room is where you proposed to me five and a half years ago, Peter. Today is the fourth day of May. It is our fifth wedding anniversary, darling.”

  The fog in my brain vanished. “I love you, Maria.”

  Tears streamed down her face. “You are my hero, Peter. Thank you for coming home, and saving Juanito and Mario. I told my son what you did for him, and what the Spanish did to his brother. Juanito has changed his feelings about you.”

  That was difficult to believe. “Where’s Rork?”

  “At sea with the navy. But Mario, Useppa, Juanito, and Michael Woodgerd are all here in Tampa. One of your young officers, Grover Yeats, is recovering in the next room.

  “And I have the very best news—you are going to be a grandfather! Useppa is four months pregnant. The baby will be born in early October. She just told Mario and he is thrilled. If it is a boy, his name will be Peter, and if a girl, she will be named Linda.”

  It was so much to take in. “A baby . . . Linda . . .”

  Visions flooded my mind of Useppa’s mother holding her as a baby. Seventeen years after Linda’s death, I still missed her. The emotions were almost too much for me.

  Misty-eyed, Maria embraced me. “Useppa told me she wants me to be a real grandmother, not a step-grandmother. That meant so very much to me.”

  “You will be a perfect grandmother.”

  “Won’t it be nice to have a baby in the family, Peter? To know the innocence and pure love of a little child again. This is God’s gift to us all, when we needed it the most.”

  I suddenly realized her dress was the uniform of a Red Cross nurse. “You’re a nurse?”

  She blushed. “I came here only to organize the hospital, but they asked me to help with the patients because we are so short of real nurses. But don’t try to speak any more, darling. Let the drug work. You need to rest and heal. We can talk tomorrow.”

  One question filled my mind. Why was Rork back at sea already?

  She caressed my face. “Go to sleep.”

  Then everything faded.

  65

  Family

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday morning

  6 May 1898

  At breakfast two days later, Maria sat beside me in bed, sharing stories of dealing with local ineptitude and army bureaucracy while setting up the Red Cross hospital in Tampa. She was getting to the part about the medicinal spirits when we were interrupted by a commotion out in the hallway. Two women were arguing over something, which I quickly realized was me.

  A gentle black voice said, “The gentleman’s resting, ma’am. Maybe you can come later.”

  The reply was an indignant command. “Stand aside this instant—I’m his daughter!”

  Useppa rushed in the room and embraced me. “Daddy! Oh Daddy . . . I was so scared for you both! Thank you for saving my husband. Maria said she told you our splendid news.”

  “She did and I am thrilled, dear.”

  Her husband limped into the room. Mario grabbed and held my hand. “Peter, it is good to see you doing better. I have a lot to report to you.”

  “So I’ve heard. Congratulations on becoming a father, Mario.”

  “And to you on being a grandfather. Remember our conversation about that? You gave me an order, as I recall.”

  “I’m glad you followed the order! Now, tell me how is your leg healing? You’ll need both sticks working to keep up with your new child.”

  “The wound is through and through, without infection. I should be dancing with Useppa in a month. Though I fear my military career is over for a while.”

  “Thank you, God!” blurted out Useppa as she hugged him.

  I knew my son-in-law would have the answer to the question nagging my mind. I’d asked Maria again that morning, but her reply was vague and she quickly changed the subject.

  “Mario, where exactly is Rork? He did make it back, didn’t he?”

  He hesitated, glancing at his wife and mother-in-law. “Yes, he did—undamaged. Sean’s plan was to stay in the room Maria got him here at the hotel for a couple days while you recovered. Then he was going to take a week of leave and see his fiancé Minnie down at Patricio Island. You remember they were planning to be married this August.

  “Well, when I went to the post office to get my mail, I saw that your mail and his mail had been sitting in general delivery, so I picked them up. Sean only had one letter, postmarked two months ago. Later, I wished I had not delivered it to him.”

  “Minnie, the fiancé . . .” I guessed the rest, and its effect on Rork.

  “Yes, sir. Minnie explained the engagement was off. She met a man in Fort Myers back in February, and they were getting married in April. She wrote that the life of a common sailor’s bride was not for her, when she had a better offer. It was cruel.”

  I’d had a feeling this would be the outcome. Rork was old and lonely, and desperately wanted what I had with Maria, but his intended wasn’t the same as Maria.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “Evidently, right after he read her letter, Sean quietly left the hotel without a word to anyone, including us, and got on the Plant Line steamer to Key West, presumably to rejoin the fleet. We didn’t even know he was gone, or what had happened, until he was missing from dinner. I went to his room and found her letter to him, along with this note for you.”

  I recognized Rork’s large looping cursive. Though it was written in self-taught proper English, I could hear him saying the words i
n his distinctive Wexford brogue.

  Tampa Bay Hotel, 4 May 1898

  Dear Peter,

  You made it home, old salt, so enjoy every minute with dear Maria and the family. Happy fifth anniversary, you lucky dog. No such fair wind and tide for me—Uncle Sam is calling. Times are tough, but it’s good to know us ancient main deck tars are still wanted by somebody.

  Don’t dare forget, you owe me a decent drink for my surgery job, payable on my return. Used a sailmaker’s broad seam stitch on that ugly mug of yours—not the prettiest stitch, but it can take the strain of a storm wind, just like you.

  You did good work in Cuba, my dear friend. All our lads lived because of your decisions.

  Always remember that.

  Sean

  Everyone watched my reaction, so I presented a positive one. “It’s better Sean’s back at sea, even if it is in a war. The worst thing is for him to brood alone at home.”

  I turned to Mario. “Now, please brief me about the squadron.”

  Mario reverted to his military role, presenting the facts concisely. “The squadron sank one of the attacking Spanish gunboats, badly damaged another. The one that got you escaped from us. All your ships got out of the bay through the narrow passage between the islands to the east. By the way, the cruiser that worried everyone turned out to be a neutral German, the Gneisenau. They’ve got four warships at Cuba now under Commodore Thiele, and they are openly pro-Spanish. They’re watching the Americans closely and probably sharing the information to the Spanish, according to Captain Bendel.”

  “I know Thiele, a very competent naval officer. And what of your fellow prisoner, the notorious Colonel Zaldivar? What happened to him?”

  “When I was exchanged, he was being taken to Havana as a prisoner. I could tell the Spanish loathed him as much as his own men did.”