A burst of laughter went up from the onlookers, and Aaron colored slightly. Then he laughed heartily with the rest, saying, “You got me that time, Isaiah!”
“Yes, suh, I sho’ did—sho’ did! But dat’s the way it is with these bodacious huntin’ stories, ain’t it now? The fun’s in catchin’ someone.”
It was the good-hearted humor of Isaiah Wilson that made the long trip fairly pleasant for the two young women. He made it his personal duty to see to their comfort. No matter what they joked about having in the way of small comforts, Isaiah would just flash that big smile of his and walk away. Then he’d scour the ship until he found what the women had only wished for. It meant doing some mighty long bargaining into the wee hours of the night, but the next day he’d reappear at their makeshift room and present them with what he had found. He was so quick at making friends that he even managed to get them better food than the others. When they wanted to wash their clothes, he showed them how to tie their clothes on a rope and throw them over the fantail so the salt water would wash them clean—which worked better than either of them expected.
On June 20, the convoy of ships arrived off the coast of Cuba. Every soldier that could squeeze on deck was there peering through the mist. And it was Isaiah who said, “Well, here we is in Cuba! I sure hope the good Lawd done take care of us. I been sayin’ a special prayer for all you nurses and doctors, and for you too, Mr. Aaron and Mr. Lewis. God give me a special burden for you. I’m praying that not a hair on your head be hurt!”
Lewis moved his eyes away from the sea and looked at this simple friend of his. He put his hand on Isaiah’s sturdy shoulder and said, “Thank you, Isaiah, I take that kindly, and may the Lord watch out for you, too!”
“Oh, sure, the Lawd gonna watch out for ol’ Isaiah, ain’t no question about dat!”
The convoy steamed toward the Cuban coast, whose high, forested mountains rose abruptly on the shore as they rounded the eastern tip and turned west. That night, the Southern Cross shone above the horizon. It seemed strange to see it in the sky with the friendly Dipper. They passed Guantanamo and finally sighted the gray ships of the navy. Beyond the line of breakers, the narrow beach, and the steep bluffs rising above the sea lay Santiago—the goal of all their efforts.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On the Beach
Stephen Crane lifted his head cautiously, peering at the razor-backed hill that looked innocent enough. He’d climbed over dozens just like it in the past few hours.
The big marine five yards to his left turned a sunburned face toward the journalist. “I don’t get paid for doin’ your job, Crane,” he grinned. “When the lead starts flying, don’t come botherin’ me with dates and stuff.”
“Doesn’t look like the enemy’s going to show up.”
Herbert Norris, the burly first sergeant of C Company, First Marine Battalion, stared at Crane, then turned to spit an amber stream of tobacco juice at a huge beetle lumbering along at his feet. He nodded with satisfaction when the bug was literally baptized with the liquid, then turned his pale blue eyes to the hill that lifted its crest in front of the marines. “They’ll hit us, Crane. I got a feelin’ about stuff like this.”
“We haven’t seen anything since we left the coast.”
“You don’t trust my feelin’s?”
Crane, a small man with sharp features, pulled his eyes from the hill and leveled them on Norris. “If you say you’ve got such a feeling, I guess you have, Herbert.”
“You scared, Crane?” asked the sergeant.
“Nothing to be scared of—not yet,” said Crane.
“You ever been shot at?”
“No.” Crane shrugged his trim shoulder and wiped the sweat that had beaded on his pale forehead. “I’m scared of one thing, Herbert—and that’s yellow fever.”
“Bad stuff!” shrugged Norris, who turned and spit again.
“I think I’d rather take a wound than get struck with the fever,” Crane murmured. “And this is supposed to be the rainy season. We’re lucky it’s been dry, but it could start raining anytime.” He looked up at the hard blue sky, then shook his head. “When it does, it’ll turn these roads to mud. Then the artillery and supply wagons won’t be able to get through.”
“Guess you and the general should’ve put this thing off, Crane.”
The marine was pulling his leg, but Crane shook his head, a doubtful expression in his thoughtful brown eyes. “I’d have waited until October—but that’s the height of the hurricane season, and the navy wouldn’t hear of it. He glanced at the cloudless skies and thought suddenly, Hurricanes sometimes hit in the Caribbean as early as June. . . .
The two men were in the line of six hundred fifty men from the First Marine Division that had landed at Guantanamo Bay, a harbor some forty miles east of Santiago. Crane had been one of the first off the USS Panther, and had waited impatiently until the force was shaken into order, then sent inland. The purpose of the expedition was to establish a coaling station for the ships that had set up a blockade around Santiago. Previously they had to make the long voyage all the way back to Key West to recoal.
As the marines had advanced inland cautiously, they’d met no opposition, but there was a sullen look to the countryside—a malevolent air that made the men apprehensive and jumpy. Now as Crane glanced down the line, he saw that the youthful marine on his left had a tic in his right eye. “What’s your name, Private?” he asked.
“Jimmy Hope.” The private was wearing the soft felt campaign hat, and he straightened up, pulling it from his head. He was no more than eighteen years old, and his hair was soft and blond—much like a baby’s first crop, Crane thought.
“Better get down, Hope,” Norris growled. He gave the beetle another jolt of tobacco juice, then nodded toward the hill that rose in front of them. “I got a feelin’ they’s more than cactus up ahead.”
Hope was young enough to take this as a personal challenge. “Aw, there’ ain’t no greasers within a mile of—”
A sharp “pop” broke the still air, and even as Crane watched, a black dot appeared in the exact center of the young marine’s forehead. His light blue eyes stared blankly at the hill, a reproachful twist to his mouth as though he’d been somehow terribly disappointed. He leaned to the side, and then slumped stiffly at Crane’s feet.
“There they are!” Norris bellowed, and at once the marines began firing. The U.S. Navy Winchester-Lees made an odd flat noise—”Phut!” The Spanish Mausers made a popping noise as sharp and crisp as firecrackers. Crouching behind a hummock with his face pressed against the earth, Crane listened to the Mauser bullets singing overhead. Taking out his notebook and pencil, he scrawled, “The bullets sang as if one string of a most delicate musical instrument had been touched by the wind into a long faint note.”
A wiry lieutenant suddenly appeared to wave the marines forward. As Norris leaped ahead, Crane continued to scribble frantically:
Along the top of our particular hill, mingled with the cactus and chaparral, was a long irregular line of men fighting the first part of the first action of the Spanish war. Toiling, sweating marines; shrill, jumping Cubans; officers shouting out the ranges, 200 Lee rifles crashing—these were the essentials. The razor-backed hill seemed to reel with it all.
Jamming his notebook into his pocket, Crane stood up and moved forward. Dodging from tree to tree, his sharp eyes missed nothing of the action. It was this phenomenal memory that helped him to write the informed dispatches back to the States that appeared in papers across the country—he had already written what many consider the best war novel ever written—The Red Badge of Courage.
The assault continued, and soon artillery fire from the USS Dolphin began to pound the hills surrounding Santiago. The distant booming of the big guns, the whistling of the shells overhead, and the explosions that tore huge chunks out of the hills continued as the marines moved doggedly forward over the ragged terrain. Crane watched as Sergeant John H. Wick relayed range and bearing instructi
ons to the ship with wigwag flags. The man’s courage to stand in the midst of enemy fire prompted Crane to make another entry in his notebook. This was the very stuff that would make headline stories in every paper across the land:
It was necessary that this man should stand at the very top of the ridge in order that his flag might appear in relief against the sky, and the Spaniards must have concentrated a fire of at least twenty rifles upon him. His society at that moment was sought by none. We gave him a wide berth.
Crane edged forward and saw a black Cuban soldier hit: “He seemed to feel no pain. He made no outcry, but simply toppled over.” And he wrote of one marine who lay wounded under a bush: “His expression was of a man weary, weary, weary. . ..”
Time and again the Spanish broke, and Crane watched them scramble back into the thick underbrush. Sometimes the whole squad would vanish, and it was impossible to tell how many of them there were. Marine marksmanship was splendid. The long, grueling hours of practice that the officers had made their men endure were now paying off. Crane jotted down that the rifles were reloaded “like lightning,” and that aim was taken with “a rocklike beautiful poise.” The Cuban soldiers had less discipline. Crane wrote:
The entire function of a Cuban lieutenant who commanded the troops was to stand back of the line, frenziedly beat his machete through the air, and incredible rapidity howl: “Fuego! Fuego! Fuego! Fuego! Fuego!” He could not possibly have taken a breath during the action. His men were meanwhile screaming the most horrible language in a babble.
At last it was over. The marines advanced, forcing the enemy to retreat into the far-off hills. The next day the Texas, Marblehead, and Suwanee shelled the coastal towns still holding out. The marines established a permanent base on a low hill, naming it Camp McCalla in honor of the commander of the Marblehead.
The Stars and Stripes were raised over Guantanamo Bay—and the first blood of Americans in the Spanish-American War had darkened the soil.
****
General William Rufus Shafter studied the city that seemed to rise from the sea, taking in the long avenues of black and gray buildings topped by smoking chimneys. He glanced back over his shoulder at the blockading warships, the group transports, and water tenders. He calculated the eight hundred and nineteen officers, fifteen thousand enlisted men, thirty clerks, ninety newspaper correspondents, and added to that the two thousand two hundred ninety-five horses and mules that pulled artillery batteries, the wagons, the ambulances, and the single observation balloon. Besides this, there were ten million pounds of rations.
General Shafter looked back at the rugged coastline and studied the wall-like bluff that stood above the beaches to the east of Santiago Bay. He knew that a road ran from a small village called Daiquiri. The information indicated that in order to reach Santiago, he had to land there to use the road from Daiquiri. Finally, he nodded and said firmly, “The landing will take place at Daiquiri. We’ll begin at dawn.”
All the next day, rain squalls and rough seas soaked the vessels and scattered the transports. The landing was postponed until the following morning. But at daybreak on the twenty-second, the transports all moved in toward Daiquiri.
General Joseph Wheeler, the ex-Confederate Cavalry Commander, put it in his journal:
With the aid of our glasses we could see the town of Daiquiri, the place selected for our landing. The place has no harbor, but it was a shipping point for iron ore. General Shafter and the naval officers concluded we could safely land the army by the use of small boats belonging to the fleets and transports. A strong iron pier extended out some distance from the shore, but we found it could not be used by us. It extended very high above the water, constructed for the purpose of dumping iron ore from the cars into ships. It was therefore evident that we would be obliged to land on the beach.
The landing turned out to be a complete fiasco. A bombardment began at 9:40, and Aaron and Lewis watched the turrets bursting in the vast bellows of smoke. They could see the shells burst in the jungle, and after thirty minutes, the fleet ceased firing.
“I guess we’re going in,” Aaron said rather nervously.
“It looks like it,” Lewis nodded.
Soon the sea was dotted with rows of white boats filled with men. They each had white blanket rolls and their rifles pointed all angles as they rose and fell in the water. Lewis remarked, “You know, it looks a little bit like a boat race.”
“Look at that!” Aaron said quickly. When Lewis turned, Aaron pointed. “Look! They can’t get the horses and mules in the boats.”
“What are they going to do, then? They’ve got to have horses and mules to pull the guns!”
Aaron’s jaw tensed. “Going to make them swim in, I suppose.” They watched as the frightened animals were led to a cargo port and shoved overboard. From where they stood, they could hear the loud braying of the mules. Some of the horses had spooked so that they were kicking in every direction. Officers were whipping them to force them over the side and into the choppy water. The beach was half a mile away, and it was either sink or swim.
“It’s not going to work,” Aaron muttered grimly. “Some of them are going out to sea.”
Lewis stared at the pitiful sight. The water was churning with the kicking and thrashing of hundreds of horses and mules. He hated to see them suffer, and the cries of the terrified animals raked across his nerves. He could not stand to watch those headed out to sea. The ocean soon was dotted with the bodies of drowned horses and mules.
Roosevelt had been marching back and forth on the crowded deck, fuming at the delay. Finally, he obtained a little ship and a pilot, and the disembarkment began. Aaron and Lewis were in the third boat and Isaiah Wilson was with them. “I sure do hate to see dem good horses and mules drowned,” Isaiah muttered. He caught the side of the boat as it rose and fell with a whumping sound on the water. “Never did like boats much,” he said, his face grayed with the strain of the ordeal.
The boat moved in close, and the men all were wearing their full marching gear. They were weighed down with blanket rolls and cartridge belts around their waists, not to mention their heavy rifles. As they approached the beach, the men prepared to leave the bouncing craft. Aaron bent down and was tying his shoe when he heard Lewis cry, “Look out—!”
Aaron straightened up at once, just in time to see Isaiah fall over the side. At once, he tossed his rifle down, threw his bedroll off his shoulder, and kicked off his boots. The soldiers were shouting at him, but he paid no attention. All he could think of was Isaiah. He went over the side head first, hoping he would not hit anything that would knock his brains out. The water was shockingly cold and he went down deep, moving his arms and feeling for the body of the man. The current was strong and turned him upside down so that he lost his equilibrium for a moment. The pull of the current was frightening. He began to fight his way, his clothes weighted with water dragging him down. Suddenly, he struck his head on a steel object and knew he’d hit the steel hull of the boat. Pain shot through him and he shoved away, forcing himself to the surface. He heard the cries of men and looked around wildly. He saw Lewis, his face pale, and yelled, “I couldn’t get him! I’ll try again!”
“You can’t do it! The current’s too swift.”
A lieutenant screamed, “Get on board, Winslow! He’s gone!”
Aaron hesitated, not wanting to give up. But the current was sucking him under, and there was danger of being crushed against the side of the steel hull. With the minutes that had already dragged by, Aaron knew in his heart that there was no hope in finding Isaiah. Resigned to the loss of his ebony friend, he took several strokes and headed toward land. Soon his feet touched ground, and he waded ashore, falling on the sand, sick and dismayed. He shut his eyes and seemed to see the cheerful face of Isaiah, and the black soldier’s words came to him: Oh, the Lawd’s gonna watch out for ol’ Isaiah, ain’t no question about dat!
As the boat reached the beach, the landing was chaotic. The troops came stumbling in,
and Lewis, stunned at the death of his friend, moved like a man in a dream. It was Aaron who said roughly, “He’s gone, Lewis. There’s nothing we can do about it.” The tragedy of it hit both men hard. Death by an enemy bullet was something they’d thought about—but this was as if a gigantic hand had reached out of the sky and taken a life. They’d grown very fond of the cheerful black man, and to have that familiar voice stilled so suddenly forced them to consider their own mortality. In Lewis’s pale face, Aaron saw that his brother recognized at last that this was no charade or mere game that they were involved in, but that good men would die—and the first death had been a well-loved friend. One who had promised them some real good cooking back in Georgia. That would never be, now.
“Come on, let’s see what’s up there.” Aaron had been looking at a Spanish blockhouse that loomed up on the hill against the sky. Roosevelt had watched it too, thinking it might be full of Spanish soldiers ready to open fire on them. To their fortune, the place turned out to be empty. Some of the Rough Riders made their way up the slope with an American flag and fastened it to a pole. When the soldiers on the ship caught sight of the flag unfurled in the wind, drum rolls occurred at once, and the sounds of “The Star-Spangled Banner” reached the soldiers’ ears.
That landing at Daiquiri was the beginning of a few days of utter disorganization. It was as if no one was in charge, and every man did that which was right in his own eyes. Six thousand troops, almost half the American expedition, landed on the beaches that day. The following morning, the landing resumed and two regiments of the Second Division made their way down a narrow jungle trail that led to Siboney. Roosevelt spent the time supervising the unloading of the regiment’s equipment and soon received orders from General Wheeler to join him at Siboney. Wheeler had already arrived there and met a strong resistance from a large Cuban force. The Cubans had overtaken the retreating Spanish, and needing reinforcements, Wheeler had sent word to bring the Rough Riders.
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