“So you will take me across the mountains?” I asked her.
She bristled visibly at the incredulity in my voice, but then got down to business. “We will talk about that later. There is no time now. When the lookout post never checked in on their telephone line an hour ago, the Spanish garrison sent a patrol to their location. Now there are patrols everywhere. One of them is a kilometer away and heading here. Climb down from the tree. We are leaving now.”
The woman started walking off, trailed by her companions. I misjudged the height and dropped down, landing with a grunt and falling over to the ground. They didn’t even look back. Miraculously, nothing was broken or sprained other than my pride. I didn’t dawdle, however, and ran to catch up with my strange new protectors.
8
The Society of the Night
Tánamo, Cuba
Sunday, 12 June 1898
I HAD YET TO SEE A WEAPON among them, but I had no doubt they carried concealed blades and probably pistols. My new acquaintances didn’t give me their names or speak among themselves. They made their way quietly and deliberately along the trail as it ascended into some hills. Each constantly surveyed a different sector of the surrounding terrain. Such extraordinary operational discipline made it obvious these were veterans.
It was an odd feeling to be old enough to be “Isidro’s” grandfather, not to mention a senior naval officer, and yet take orders from this unusual young lady. Her male subordinates complied with her few directions without hesitation or complaint. Whatever her real identity might be, she was a remarkable leader in a very dangerous environment.
Our route stayed away from the main roads, never going in or near a village. She knew the landscape as well as how to organize a transit through enemy territory. One of her men was fifty yards out in front, one an equal distance to the rear. When we crossed open fields she sent the other two out to the flanks, quietly but repeatedly admonishing them to be alert.
I thought about trying to gain more understanding of her circumstances through conversation, but her demeanor didn’t invite unnecessary chatter. It’s a trait I usually appreciate, but my increasing curiosity, in addition to the fact my life was in her hands, made me want to know more about this woman who was much younger than my daughter.
By midafternoon we were several hundred feet up in the high foothills of the Sierra de Cristal mountain range. The coastline spread behind us to the north, with the many coves of Tánamo Bay branching out to small villages, most of which weren’t on my map. Ahead of us to the south, everything looked to be uphill—not an inviting sight for me.
Happily, the rain had ended, or the trek would have been even more arduous. As it was, we stopped every hour for exactly ten minutes, each of us getting a large bite of cold stew (sugarcane, chicken, beans, and rice), a swig from a gourd of rum-laced water, and the chance to lie down. The woman was the last to sit down and the first to get up, displaying a fortitude bordering on either obsession to dominate us or fear of the enemy—I never determined which.
The sun was behind a nearby mountain when she called a halt at 5:21 p.m. We were on a narrow animal trail near a tall jacaranda tree, its delicate lavender blooms strewn around us. Our leader went off alone, climbing rock to rock up the steep slope beside the trail. A hundred feet above us she called down for us to follow. The others made it look effortless. I was gasping for air the whole way. When we got up to her position, she informed us we would remain there until my contact arrived.
My contact? This was news to me. Though she’d never answered my original question on the subject, I’d had the impression since then that she was my contact and guide for the journey across the mountains to General García’s army. Annoyed, I asked what else was in store for me.
Ignoring my attitude, her reply contained only the minimum information. “When the sun’s rays leave the top of Loma Quemada, our task is done and we will leave you. Your walk into the high mountains will be with someone else.” She nodded toward a conical peak, taller than our own, several miles to our east, the upper tip of which was still bathed in light from the sinking sun. I calculated it would be only a few minutes before the entire hill was in shadow.
We waited in silence for whoever was coming. Sure enough, when the last shaft of sunlight disappeared, a birdcall screeched out from someplace below us. The woman—I cannot bring myself to use a male alias for someone so lovely—echoed the call. After a few minutes I heard rocks falling and people scrambling below us. The sounds grew closer until the head of a disheveled black peasant carrying a shotgun appeared before us. The leathery face told me he was at least seventy, maybe more, but his physique was thin and strong.
There was no sign of recognition or dialogue between the man and my female guardian. He simply looked around and then sat down, cradling the weapon, his ancient eyes studying me. Two more men arrived. One was very dark skinned, big boned, and young, a ferocious-looking brute whose gaping mouth showed few teeth. The other was teak colored, dressed a bit better than his cohorts, and obviously better fed. He acknowledged me with a cordial nod. Once he sat nearby, the woman got up and, without a word of farewell, led her comrades down the slope to the trail.
I watched them descend, intrigued by the mystery woman. I deduced that she was a person of privilege and education, and her manner indicated she was used to demanding respect and commanding servants. She was no stranger to the countryside, perhaps the daughter of a rich plantation family. Surely she was no criminal, so how did she know the Professor? Was she a rebel doing her bit for the cause of independence? Perhaps. But why? Not many plantation owners were supporting the revolution, which was likely to damage their prospects if successful. Was it for revenge, money, lofty ideals, love? I never discovered the slightest clue. In all my clandestine undertakings around the world, she was the most remarkable contact I’ve ever had, man or woman. The enigma of her background and motivation remains unsolved to this day, for I never saw or heard of her again.
“I am Jorge Acera. I take you across mountains,” my new keeper declared once the previous crew had disappeared from sight. He didn’t bother to introduce the other two. Acera was a large, muscular mulatto man in his early forties sporting an imposing mustache; his English wasn’t fluent or school-taught but was easy to understand nevertheless. I surmised he’d learned it in commerce with Americans, perhaps in Havana or Santiago.
“Good to meet you,” I said. In a flash of inspiration, I picked my own pseudonym. “My name is Hermann Jacobsen.”
He gave a speculative look to show me he knew it was an alias, then said, “We must go now, Hermann, to meet people to protect us on journey.”
“More people? I thought you were my protection.”
“I am your guide. They will stop problems.”
Stop problems? He didn’t elaborate. “How far will that be?” I asked.
“Long walk,” he said impassively, clearly tired of my questions.
Jorge’s description understated both the distance and the difficulty. I guessed it at ten miles consisting of a tough ascent through thick scrub to a jagged ridgeline running east and west. I was offered assistance on carrying the seabag but followed my rule of keeping its contents close to me, even though the weight was staggering. For the hundredth time since I’d landed in Cuba I wished Sean Rork was with me. He is immensely strong with the enviable ability to bear any fatigue with humor. My own sense of humor deserted me about a mile into the “long walk.”
During this hike, no one spoke. I was glad of it. The conditions demanded far too much respiratory effort to talk and mental power to even think. Much better to disengage my mind, plod one foot in front of the other, and thus lose track of time and distance. Eventually I would either get there, somebody would tell me to stop, or I would die. After a while, it mattered not which.
The only positive developments were the altitude’s cooler temperature, drier air, and lack of biting insects. My rough estimation was around 1,200 feet. At the top of the first rid
ge, I saw much higher ridges in front of us. Not another soul was in sight the entire time, though in the dimming light several thin smoke plumes could be seen rising from the jungle valleys.
At a little after 9 p.m. Acera held up his hand. We stopped in the pitch-black jungle; or rather we collapsed in individual heaps on the trail. With perverse satisfaction, I saw the others were also exhausted, though their burlap sacks of provisions were far lighter than my burden. We set up no lookouts, perimeter guards, fire, or tent. I thought this imprudent but hadn’t enough energy to complain to our taciturn leader.
Starshine provided just enough light to make out forms close by, as long as I didn’t stare at a single spot for too long. A sliver of moon came up after we stopped, greatly enhancing visibility and depth perception. It was then I noticed a circle of yellowish mud smeared on a tree next to the trail. Our stopping point was not randomly chosen.
After resting for some time, the three Cubans abruptly sat up. Acera quietly mouthed to me, “They are around us now, Hermann. Stay calm.”
Sensing nothing, I sat up too, and whispered back, “Who are you talking about, Jorge?”
“The Abakuá,” he said reverently.
I vaguely knew of them. “The Ñáñingo Society of the Night? I thought they were mainly around Havana, Regla, and Matanzas over in the western end of the island.”
He hesitated, evidently surprised by my knowledge, then said, “Yes, in slave days. Most are still there. Some escaped western plantations and came to high mountains here. They live free in mountains, far from Spanish. Not trust white men.” Acera was watching me intently, gauging my reaction. “The Abakuá live in the old African ways. They mixed with Haitian slave people here. All of same tribe in Africa long time ago.”
“Descendants of the Igbo and the Efik people of Nigeria,” I whispered. Instantly, the terror of that night with the Bizangos in Haiti returned to me. I tried not to show my dread in front of Acera. The Professor’s warning pounded in my brain: They will remind you of your painful experience in Haiti and bring back your fears. If you allow them, those fears will consume you. Do not let that happen.
“Yes,” Acera replied. “Not many white people know of the Night Society. Show respect to these men. They own our lives.”
“I understand,” I said as a chill wind ruffled the trees above us. The roaring sound of a squall quickly got louder until the storm was upon us. Icy rain poured down on us and swept down the mountainside.
I sat there shivering in the dark.
9
Africa
Sierra de Cristal Mountains, Cuba
Late Sunday Evening, 12 June 1898
WE WAITED FOR THIRTY silent minutes. The sky cleared enough for me to see my companions in the silvery moonlit gloom. They didn’t seem frightened but rather intensely alert, waiting for the inevitable.
Then the faces of twenty men materialized in the bushes nearby. They stepped forward without a sound and encircled us closely, eyeing us with undisguised scrutiny. The Abakuá were dressed in faded gray or white clothing. Most carried a large knife or machete. Several wore blue rayadillo cotton Spanish army tunics that still showed the bloodstains of the former owners. Many of them carried feathered or furry talismans. One of them was dressed in red and was more assertive than the rest. The others kept one eye on him.
I sat without moving, my right hand on the revolver in my pocket and my left hand on the shotgun inside my seabag. Acera and his two companions did not appear defensive, however. Each stood and bowed his head in respect to our new friends. Or was it submission? Releasing my grip on the shotgun but keeping my hand on the pistol, I followed suit.
The Abakuá man in red ignored the others and jutted his chin at me. I realized he was studying the scars on my face. Then, in a deep, rumbling, accusatory tone, he said, “Entemio macarará, aguerise?”
It wasn’t Spanish, Haitian Kreyol, or anything else I recognized, and the tone wasn’t friendly. Acera quietly explained. “He talks in Abakuá words, saying: ‘White foreigner, what your name?’ You must answer him.”
I looked at the Abakuá headman and said, “Hermann.”
The Abakuá thought about that before nodding to his assistant, who walked over and looked into my seabag, touching the pistol and shotgun within but not removing them. He uttered to his boss, “Etombre, cananasú.”
“Efembe,” was the answer I heard, followed by a fast gibberish to Acera, whose multilingual skills were far superior to mine.
“They like pistol and shotgun, and you,” announced Acera.
The boss next spoke to Acera in a strange version of Spanish I also couldn’t understand. Acera translated for me. “He knows you here to fight Spanish. He likes that. His Spanish name is Felipe Velez. He take us across mountains to Jamaica.”
Jamaica? That makes no sense. Was there some sort of miscommunication of my needs between the Professor, Isidro, and Velez?
I was about to speak up, but I held my tongue when I saw Acera didn’t seem fazed by the news. He bowed again, saying to Velez in Spanish I could understand, “Thank you, sir. We respect your Abakuá fraternity of brothers and appreciate your help in taking us to Jamaica. The second donation to your community is ready. It will be delivered upon my return.”
Velez nodded at Acera, then locked eyes with me and pointed to the ground. He spoke slowly in Spanish for my benefit. “You sleep now. We leave before the sun rises.”
That having been said, we made camp for the night. Acera’s men laid down under a bush while their boss had another discussion with Velez. I found a place under a palmetto frond that kept some of the intermittent rain from my face. Half the Abakuá men disappeared, presumably on guard or scouting duty. The others set up a crude shelter framework of vines about fifty feet from us and quickly wove banana leaves over it, then sat under the shelter in a tight circle. No fire could be made, but the wet weather didn’t stop them from a jolly discussion of something in their lingo.
“Jamaica is village north of Guantánamo on coast, Hermann,” explained Acera when he returned and stretched out beside me under his own palm frond.
Then he added an admonition. “Do not go where Abakuá sit. Private—not for you. They celebrate good fortune of my money. They ask spirits for protection on the journey. Do not worry, Hermann. They do not think you are enemy. Abakuá leopard warriors of the night give word of honor to protect us.”
I was still fighting off memories of Haiti, so I fervently hoped Acera was right. In a few moments the Abakuá men began chanting, accompanied by half a dozen small, homemade instruments. Several of the men left the shelter and began dancing, their shadowy figures scarcely perceptible in the dark.
The resulting rhythm and melody were undiluted echoes from Africa reaching deep into the human soul. Even without knowing the Abakuá language I understood the meaning—not aggression but rather contentment.
Acera explained about the music. “Very old, from Congo and Niger people. Here in Cuba called Changüí. The box is marimbula, gourd is güiro, the little drums bongós de monte, and small guitar is tres. The song is Bantu words of Igbo people. Only Abakuá know.”
“When will they sleep?” I asked, wondering what those fellows were drinking.
“They dance with ancestors in Africa now,” explained my teacher. “No need sleep. They have strength of Mokongo, warrior spirit of Abakuá people.”
With that, my lesson ended and he turned over. Inside of five minutes Acera and his men were snoring. Such trusting repose did not come to me, though I certainly needed it. Instead, I passed the night listening to the sounds of Africa, remembering the horror of Haiti, and thinking about how far I had come since my morning arrival in Cuba.
In my quest for sleep I tried to force my mind onto pleasant subjects, visualizing Maria and me enjoying breakfast at our hilltop home on Patricio Island. But it was all to no avail. My mind kept reverting to the myriad details of the impending operation. Aside from my unsettling location and companions, I antici
pated many difficulties to contend with once I reached García’s army. If I did.
The entire situation was depressing. I’d been traveling for six days after leaving Tampa but wasn’t even close to my ultimate destination. Once I arrived, I had a daunting list of tasks but little time to accomplish them. The invasion force was to have sailed from Tampa on the eighth and was expected to land on a beach somewhere near Santiago on the sixteenth.
I had only three days left to cross the mountains, find General García, coordinate a meeting between him and Shafter, and get the Cubans to displace the Spanish from wherever the Americans were coming ashore. But instead of beginning to accomplish my tasks, I was stuck in the middle of Oriente’s mountains, completely at the mercy of savages.
As I lay there on the mountain, chilled in my wet clothes and surrounded by frightening alien sights and sounds, the entire mission seemed damned impossible.
10
Civilization
Jamaica, Cuba
Wednesday, 15 June 1898
FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS the Abakuá held themselves aloof from the rest of us. We, especially I, were considered mere cargo to be safely delivered to a place. Beyond that goal, they cared not a bit about us.
The Abakuá insisted on maintaining a brisk pace all day and well into each night, with periodic stops to lie on the ground and rest our muscles. The slopes were brutally steep, the jungle thorns impossible to avoid. All took a toll on me. The pace of the column necessarily slowed as my constitution faded. I was discouraged and embarrassed, but the going was extremely difficult and I just couldn’t keep up. No one said a negative word to me, but their condescending manner spoke volumes. Eventually, my strength declined to the point where I even gave up carrying the seabag. I did manage, however, to insist that Acera’s man lugging it stay right in front of me.
Our provisions during this ordeal were primitive, to say the least—a bite and a gulp at each stop. The food was an unrecognizable mush of fruit, vegetable, and some sort of roots, carried in sacks and scooped out into our hands. The drink was rainwater carried in a gourd and dosed with rotgut aguardiente, cane liquor.
Honoring the Enemy Page 5
