“Yes, well that’s not surprising. Nobody likes a shyster, especially one who bolts when it gets tough. Exactly how did we end up here in Tampa? There’s a naval hospital at Key West.”
“Captain Southby took the squadron for more coal and then went on blockade duty. Captain Bendel brought you, Juan Maura, me, and two of the wounded sailors to Key West in Norden. When he went ashore and saw the naval hospital was run down and overcrowded, he said he was not putting us in such a place. On his own, he steamed directly here, for the new hospital recently set up in tents. That was where we saw Maria. She immediately got rooms for you, Yeats, and the two wounded sailors, right here at the hotel—much better than any hospital tent. Thank you, again, Maria”
Maria took that moment to ask our leave, explaining she was needed at the hospital. As Useppa walked her out, I asked my son-in-law about the outcome at Isabela.
“Not certain of the very end, sir, but Lacret’s Cubans attacked the Spanish forces from the rear, using Barida’s new guns to maximum effect. Combined with our bombardment, they were trapped. Last thing I saw was Spanish soldiers trying to get out, but Lacret’s forces had reached the edge of town.
“It looked like a solid victory to me at the time. Once we got here, I sent a full report to my friend Horatio Rubens with the exile government in New York. He cabled me this morning that the Republic of Cuba greatly appreciates your sacrifice and victory. You are quite the hero to them, Peter. Oh, and I heard Lacret wants to thank you himself. He may be heading here on some other matters. Not sure yet.”
He rubbed his chin. “Here comes the curious part of all this. I checked and found there has been no coverage of the battle in any newspaper, either in the United States or Cuba. None. I find that very odd, don’t you?”
I didn’t. But my reply was cut short by the arrival of Woodgerd, who marched into the room and plopped into a chair. His face was contorted with anger. Without preamble, he nodded to Mario and launched into a tirade.
“Ha! Those lily-livered bastards won’t print it because your defense was too effective!” “My idiotic editor thought the fougasse and bomb blast would repulse readers as un-gentlemanly. Too nauseating—might make people sick at the breakfast table. As if war is supposed to be a pretty parade where nobody gets hurt? He said the Spanish papers won’t print anything about it either, because they lost the battle. That puffed up poser said if any U.S. press does print it, the Spanish will accuse us of barbaric war crimes at Isabela. The fool actually wrote all that to me in a telegram this morning. Want to see it?”
I shook my head and he returned to his diatribe. “Can you believe this crap? We were outnumbered ten to one, and they want our defenses to be fair? That’s it, boys. I’m through with this press silliness. Just sent a cable back that I quit and Hearst should get his own dainty ass out of the cocktail parties at Newport and down there in the gawdforsaken Cuban jungle to write the next story.”
There was no stopping Woodgerd at this point, so I let him continue blowing off his considerable head of steam. “Fellas, the victory at Isabela will be unknown, because we mustn’t offend the squeamish stomachs of the weak-kneed sonsabitches in the New York press. Those slimy toads would much rather have a heroic American defeat fought in a gentlemanly manner.”
“What about Washington?” asked Mario, not knowing Woodgerd’s hatred for the place.
“The army and navy brass in Washington are no damn better! The official comment is there was a skirmish at Isabela, nothing more, even though they damn well know the real story. Those armchair slugs are the very same ones who eight years ago called Wounded Knee a noble victory after one of their own killed three hundred Lakota women and children. Hell, they promoted the officer in charge of that outrage to general. The two-faced bastards have no shame. Never did.”
Temporarily out of breath, Woodgerd scowled out the window. I felt exhausted by the effort of merely listening. The room’s sinking morale wasn’t improved when Grover Yeats arrived right then, in a wheelchair pushed by a porter.
It was heartbreaking. He was in uniform, his head completely swathed in thick bandages, grotesquely appearing to be almost twice as big. There were holes for his eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Mario and Woodgerd gave him subdued hellos. My sentiments at seeing him were so distraught, I couldn’t speak.
“Morning, sir,” came from mouth hole. “Looks like we both got hit in the same place.”
The muffled words came out slow and slurred. His face wound far more destructive than mine, I realized. His morphine doses must have been much heavier. I thought of my own young son, Sean, in Oregon heading around the Horn for the war in Cuba. He and Yeats had been classmates at Annapolis.
“Yes, we did, Grover, but we’ll make it. Your innovation saved the lives of a lot of our men that day. Thank you.”
“Petty officers did the hard work, sir. I put that in my report and hope they get recognized for it.”
“They will, Grover. How are you doing now?” I asked. “Is there anything we can get for you, son.”
“No, sir, there’s nothing anybody can do. I’m going home,” Yeats answered. There was no tinge of anger or sarcasm in his tone, just a simple acceptance. “My naval career is over. Lost part of my lower left jaw and inner ear. The army doctor told me this morning it can’t be fixed.”
“Your family is in Iowa, right?” I inquired, trying to find something positive to say.
“Yes, sir. Ida Grove, Iowa. I’ll head back there and try farming. The corn won’t care what I look like. I’ve got to go now, sir. They have to change the bandage. It takes a while.”
“Grover, promise me you’ll let me know if I can help in any way. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he said, probably for the last time in his life, as he was wheeled out.
The three of us sat in silence for some time. After a while, Woodgerd walked over to my bed. “You made the right decisions in that battle, Peter. Second-guessing them later doesn’t help.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But it’s damned hard not to,” I admitted to my friend.
Then they departed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
66
For the Duration
Tampa, Florida
Saturday evening
4 June 1898
It’d been a month since I arrived at the Tampa Bay Hotel. The army doctors who attended my recovery expressed particular admiration for Maria’s nursing skills.
My wife took the accolades in stride, saying my physical state would improve even more when we got back to our home up in Alexandria. She fully expected her hero husband to be granted a long leave at home, a “fifth anniversary honeymoon,” as she called it. I knew better.
My mended physical condition was known to the naval leadership in Washington. Every experienced naval officer was needed for the growing fleet and impending actions. They wouldn’t let me go home. And the truth of the matter was I wouldn’t be content sitting at home while all this was going on. As much as I loved Maria, right then I needed to be with my navy.
The army didn’t have many officers experienced in operating larger than brigade formations. That became apparent very early. The first regiments arrived in Tampa without plan or preparation. Chaos ruled every aspect of the military camps scattered around the city. It was getting progressively worse as more and more soldiers showed up, because no one had taken overall charge of the logistics—transport, supplies, provisions, munitions, communications, sanitation, medical support, etc.
There was, however, someone at Tampa officially in overall command.
General William Rufus Shafter, a 330-pound gentleman of sixty-three years, suffering from gout, heat rash, and headaches, was chosen to lead the army forces in the invasion of Cuba—the newly created Fifth Corps of the United States Army. Rumor had it he was chosen for this critical command for his complete lack of political ambition or intr
igues, but the man’s lethargy was not confined to politics. Shafter allowed events at Tampa to evolve on their own, so they evolved very badly. I became closely aware of this, for the general’s headquarters were set up inside the Tampa Bay Hotel.
The army headquarters staff suffered from a complete dearth of knowledge about Tampa, Cuba, Spain, the U.S. Navy, ocean transport, and landing operations on foreign soil. Since I was the only officer there who had actually been to Cuba, I was frequently waylaid on the hotel verandah and pressed for pertinent information, opinions, and suggestions. As they shed their pride and came to increasingly rely more on me, this navy fellow, for answers, I had the disturbing feeling someone would try to make the relationship a more permanent one.
Fourteen days after the army staff officers first arrived at the hotel in mid-May, two telegrams arrived for me—one from the U.S. Navy and the other from the U.S. Army. It was a little after six o’clock on a Saturday evening. I was sitting alone on my end of the verandah, sipping a glass of very nice Bordeaux (Chateau Clerc Milon, 1892). The lovely gardens were highlighted by the lowering sun, the flowers’ color bursting from the lush foliage. It was a relaxing scene, accompanied musically by a mockingbird’s remarkably accurate impersonation of his feathered neighbors’ songs.
This soothing entertainment allowed me to ignore the vaunted hero himself, General Shafter, at the other end of the verandah, where he pontificated truly inane comments to the equally naïve questions asked him by a herd of Hearst and Pulitzer reporters. I congratulated myself on my self-restraint—Woodgerd would’ve done something rash to stop the mindless noise.
I had just switched my focus to a proud little cardinal at the bird bowl when a steward delivered the Western Union envelopes. Taking another sip to calm my nerves, I naturally opened the navy’s first.
XXX—TO CAPT P. WAKE—X—DOCTORS CONFIRM AND NAVY DEPARTMENT CONGRATULATES YOUR MEDICAL RECOVERY—X—AS PER SECNAV ORDER ALL HOME LEAVES FOR NAVAL PERSONNEL ARE CANCELLED FOR WAR DURATION—X—EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY YOU ARE PLACED ON TEMPORARY LIAISON DUTY WITH ARMY 5TH CORPS HQ AND UNDER DIRECT COMMAND OF GENERAL W. R. SHAFTER—X—THIS DUTY WILL BE UNTIL 30 JUNE 1898 OR UNTIL OTHERWISE DIRECTED BY THIS DEPARTMENT—X—EXPENSES AND SUPPORT WILL BE FURNISHED BY 5TH CORPS—X—BY C. ALLEN ASST SEC NAVY—XXX
Charles Allen was Roosevelt’s replacement as assistant secretary of the navy, and a worthy man. These orders were highly unusual, though. I couldn’t recall ever hearing of a navy man assigned to an army staff.
This would make Maria happy. If I couldn’t go home with her, she’d think at least I would remain in Tampa. I wasn’t so sure about that.
I’d heard the army corps would leave Tampa for the invasion of Cuba in mid-June. My liaison orders didn’t specify any location, just the unit, and the unit was going to Cuba. The worst case scenario, which was entirely probable, would have me in the jungles of Cuba during the summer yellow fever season, tethered to Shafter’s staff. It is precisely the wrong season to engage in large-scale operations in the tropics with unacclimated and untrained soldiers.
I looked over at my new commanding officer, who was struggling to get out of his rattan lounging chair, to the stifled amusement of the reporters. There was no way the man could survive in the jungle.
I opened the telegram from army headquarters in Washington.
XXX—TO CAPT. P. WAKE USN—X—NAVY DEPT ORDERS YOU TO LIAISON DUTY WITH 5TH CORPS—X—REPORT TO GEN. SHAFTER MONDAY 6 JUNE 1898—X—TRANSPORT FROM PRESENT LOCATION TO NEW DUTY STATION TO BE REIMBURSED BY USA HQ—X—BY COL. R. MILLER ACTG ASST ADJT TO SECWAR—XXX
Apparently, the army in Washington didn’t know the location of the army in Tampa, yet another shining example of military efficiency. I had the whimsical idea of sending an expense voucher to Washington for transport from my end of the verandah to the other end, but thought better of it. The army has never understood dry navy humor; it’s far too sophisticated.
Glancing down the verandah, I saw the reporters had disappeared inside to the bar, and General Shafter had finally loosened the chair’s grip on him. He stood there, straightening his uniform, trying to regain his dignity. Other army officers on the verandah politely looked anywhere else.
I heartily wished Rork was nearby. His sense of humor was needed right then. With him alongside, I could endure the monumental insanity I knew was coming. But Rork had joined Oregon at Key West a week earlier, after she arrived from her epic voyage from San Francisco. He and my son Sean were already bound for the fleet off the coast of Cuba. They were where I should be.
So I sat there alone, thinking about this development while waiting for Maria to return in three hours from her shift at the hospital. The twilight was beginning to fade, and I heard the army officers speak of gathering for dinner. In a moment, one of them would walk over and invite me out of politeness, for they were a very sociable lot and thought me quaint.
Tonight I would join them, using the opportunity to subtly ascertain what would be expected of me at Fifth Corps.
67
For Honor and For Cuba
Tampa, Florida
Midnight, Saturday
4 June 1898
The clock slowly struck out the twelve chimes of midnight, startling me. I hadn’t realized Maria and I were talking that long—ever since she’d come home from the hospital. It was a lovely night to stay up late in bed, sipping the last of our Matusalem rum. Outside our window, mystical rays of moonlight peeked through the live oaks, their moss waving in the warm night’s land breeze. The Hillsborough River was a ribbon of silver, edged by golden lanterns along the shore. A night heron softly flapped by our window. Gardenias and jasmine lightly scented the humid air. It was enchanting.
In the midst of this romantic setting, just as my thoughts were turning amorous, Maria felt the need to discuss the war. She hated everything about it, she said. Her opinion was hardened by our sorrows and terrors of the previous five months, and by victims of the camp diseases she nursed in the hospital. She dreaded what she’d see when even more wounded began returning from Cuba.
But with a quiet display of courage, Maria also said she understood my sense of duty and that she knew I had to follow it. Especially now, when so many American and Cuban lives were at stake. She understood my hard-won knowledge of Cuba was much needed by the army leadership in Tampa to prevent those lives being wasted.
We spoke freely about the hospital, my joining the army staff in Tampa, the war dragging on inside Cuba, our hopes for the conflict’s outcome. But there was one topic I did not share, for I didn’t know how. It was what a staff colonel had revealed to me at dinner earlier in the evening.
The colonel had whispered, in pathetic drunken “confidentiality,” that General Shafter wanted me to be the American liaison with Generals Gómez and García inside Cuba. The daunting mission was to get into Cuba quietly, find the Cuban generals, and convince the Cuban military to ensure an unopposed American invasion of the island, at a place yet undetermined.
My name had been suggested to General Shafter by two army officers, who were due to arrive soon at Tampa with their regiment. I knew both of them. Colonel Leonard Wood was commanding officer of the First Volunteer Cavalry. His new assistant regimental commander was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Roosevelt. They had insisted to Shafter that I was the only American officer, army or navy, who could accomplish that crucial mission.
Oh hell, Theodore has struck yet again, I reflected. How will I tell Maria?
The colonel had further informed me I would receive my orders upon reporting to General Shafter on Monday morning. My covert departure for Cuba would be soon afterward.
The inebriated staff colonel then gushed his congratulations and envy for my exciting assignment. He’d finished his sappy sotto voce speech to me with the ultimate in ignorant statements. “Yes, sir. We’ve got ourselves an honorable war to fight. Lot of folks’re saying
we’ll get our very own empire out of it.”
It had been all I could do not to gag at that point, for I’d felt sick deep inside.
As I sat there with Maria in bed and talked, I debated inwardly about how and when to tell her. I would have to tell her, but a moonlit boudoir wasn’t the place. With yawns, we lay back on the pillows, two lovers intertwined. A nearby frog began his mating call, making us laugh. Our embrace tightened. The war seemed far away.
I was about to turn out the oil lamp when, suddenly, Maria propped herself up on an elbow. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Promise me you will come home from Cuba, Peter.”
“What? Who told you?” I stammered out, trying to deduce how she had gotten such restricted information. And if she knew, who else did?
She stopped me with a finger to my lips. “Peter, we both know you are eligible to retire right now. Though the navy pension will not be much, with my accounts we have enough money to live comfortably.”
She paused, moving her delicate finger from my lips across my new scar and softly down my neck, then continued before I could say anything. “But I know you are not going to retire. Our friend Martí’s dreams for the Cuban people finally have a chance to come true, and you have a need to be there to help. So you are heading back into the war. Please respect me enough not to try mollifying me with empty if’s and when’s and maybe’s.”
She was right about my belief in Martí’s dreams for Cuba. My reasons for staying in the navy and going back to the war were morally deeper than fulfilling professional duty or pride. A surge of affection went through me for this remarkable woman. Her strength and compassion were awe inspiring.
I took her hand in mine. “Yes, you are right. I am going back to Cuba on a clandestine mission. And yes, Maria, you have my word—I will come home to you. We will love each other and grow old together while we enjoy our new grandchild.”
An Honorable War Page 31
