Men? There were more than Rork? My bewilderment cleared when I became aware of a young man standing in the shadows by the door in the dusty brown and blue fatigue uniform of a U.S. Marine. He stepped forward to the foot of the bed and came to attention. In his right hand was a Navy Lee rifle, which he stamped down to the dirt floor to the position of order arms. His wide-brimmed slouch hat was tucked under his left arm.
“Second Lieutenant Edwin Law, United States Marines, reporting in as your aide-de-camp, sir. Commander McCalla sent me and Chief Rork from Guantánamo Bay to assist you.”
This was new. Rork and I were used to working alone. Well, Lieutenant Law looked intelligent and fit. Maybe having him along might work out. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Law. Do you speak Spanish?”
“No, sir. But I am picking up some of the basic lingo from Chief Rork.”
I glanced at Rork, whose face was impassive. “I imagine anything Rork has taught you is not meant for polite company, so be careful using it. Listen, I need you to keep watch around us as we progress on this mission. If you see something that appears threatening, let Chief Rork or me know immediately. Be prepared for action at all times.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied in a matter-of-fact way.
I turned to Rork. “So, Bowman’s down there at Guantánamo Bay?”
“Aye, sir, the legendary Commander Bowman McCalla himself, in the flesh. He’s in charge o’ the shore party o’ sailors an’ Marines, just like those ol’ days at Panama. This time, he’s been kickin’ the Spaniardos out o’ the area at the mouth o’ the bay. The good lieutenant here was in the thick’uv it all. ’Twas a dicey deal, but that fine anchorage is ours now, sir. Our ships don’t have to go to Haiti for calm water to re-coal or resupply anymore.”
It suddenly struck me Rork shouldn’t be there. “Wait a minute, Rork. I thought you were serving in Oregon, with my son. Why were you ashore at Guantánamo?”
“Aye, I was in Oregon, sir, an’ glad to say me godson, young Lieutenant Sean Wake, is doin’ us both proud in that grand ship. They made a hell’uva dash around the Horn to get here. O’ course, that was afore I joined her at Key West.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Rork. Oregon’s blockading the harbor over at Santiago where the Spanish fleet is, so how the hell did you end up ashore here?”
“Well, sir, that’s a bit’uva tale. But the short story is this: I was mindin’ me own business with the lads in Oregon’s goat locker when a chief yeoman said somethin’ about the admiral’s orders to Commander Bowman to go raid Guantánamo Bay an’ secure it as a Navy anchorage. What’s this, I think? Sounds like some fun. Battleships can be a bit dull, don’t you know. No real action most o’ the time. So I got meself volunteered by Oregon’s captain to go over to Marblehead, Commander McCalla’s ship. Pretty soon we were ashore at Guantánamo Bay an’ hip deep in Spaniardos. Nary a dull moment!”
He paused and I glowered, for I knew there was more to it. “And?”
“And then last night durin’ a poker game, me ears happened to hear a Marine sergeant say that the good lieutenant here was bein’ sent inland to meet a Yank Navy captain who’d snuck ashore to be the liaison with the Cuban army. Well, only one man in all’uv Uncle Sam’s Navy fits such a description—an’ that’s you. Had a gam with Commander McCalla, an’ he thought it a capital idea for me to come along an’ lend a hand. He said to remind you about the drink you’ve owed him for two years.”
The comment was pure Bowman McCalla. “And I seem to recall he owes me about five.”
“Aye, an’ I’m thinkin’ the both o’ you owe me a whole cask o’ the good stuff. Heard it was a hell’uva a walk you had to get here. It’s good to be back together, sir.”
Rork innocently lifted an eyebrow as he rubbed his left wrist. “An’ even though we’re lucky to have Mr. Law along on this risky caper, we just might be needin’ some o’ me own special assets as well.”
Confusion flashed across Law’s face. I could see the lieutenant wondering what he’d gotten into, and who the hell he’d gotten into it with.
Rork was referring to his “appliance.” Though it appears real, his left hand is actually made of India rubber that is configured in a permanent grip. It allows him to use the hand to hold an oar, a belaying pin, or a bottle. Every year the hand is finely repainted, complete with faked hairs and freckles, by a lady friend of Rork’s who works on the street outside the Washington Navy Yard. You have to be very close to the hand to realize it is a replica. If you are a foe, by that time you are far too close and it is far too late, for there is a silent and very deadly weapon inside the hand.
Underneath the rubber exterior is a five-inch-long marlinespike protruding from a wooden base. It is mounted at the end of a soft leather sleeve strapped down over the stump of Rork’s amputated left forearm. That wound was incurred in 1883 from a sniper at the Battle of Huế in the empire of Vietnam. Rork’s life was saved, and his appliance constructed, by surgeons and metalsmiths on board a nearby French warship. Rork misses his left hand, but he also relishes his appliance, which can be removed in seconds to expose the spike.
I heard Olga sputtering protests out in the front parlor, then a Cuban soldier arrived in my room, escorted by one of Major Fortunas detail. After a rapid-fire dialogue between them, Fortuna received a page of notepaper. It had hieroglyphics across it that I recognized as a Masonic cipher. Many of the Cuban rebel leaders were Freemasons. Presumably, so was Fortuna.
The major turned to me. “This man is a courier from General García, sir. The general is moving his personal body of four thousand troops from Holguín toward Santiago, where they will unite with the five thousand in that area. The message states the general is nearing Alto Songo, north of Santiago. He will expect us there late tomorrow night for a meeting.”
“How far away from here is Alto Songo?”
“Because we must go around the town of Guantánamo, which is still controlled by the Spanish, the journey will be about seventy kilometers, some of it on good roads and some on rough ground. There are trails through the rough areas. By using fresh horses at intervals we can ride the entire way and make it in time.”
Horses? I didn’t like the sound of that. Rork looked as apprehensive as I felt. Like many sailors, we are not versed in equestrian skills and have little trust in the beasts. On several past missions, horses and mules proved a constant bane to us while our comrades riding alongside had no trouble. For some reason, the damned creatures never follow my orders.
Fortuna extracted a topographical map from inside his tunic and unfolded it for us, tracing the route we would take. The map was crowded with elevation lines depicting mountains. The only alternative to horseback was walking up and down hills all the way to Alto Songo. The very thought of it made my knees hurt.
My old friend was grimacing at the map, so I tried to cheer him up. “Well, Rork, looks like you joined this shindig just in time to enlist in the cavalry. Aren’t you glad you volunteered?”
“Oh joy, sir …”
12
The Great Man Himself
General García’s Headquarters, Northwest of Alto Songo, Cuba Friday Evening, 17 June 1898
WE GOT TO THE GENERAL’S temporary headquarters late at night, after the predictably painful cross-country ride on diminutive Cuban ponies. We exchanged them for different ones every twelve kilometers or so, but the entire bunch proved that our equestrian luck hadn’t changed. Each set of steeds was as unhappy with Rork and me as we were with them, and they let us know it for the entire route. Wandering off to sniff a bush, refusing to budge, or whirling about in a fit, they were the most cantankerous beasts I’ve ever sat on anywhere in the world. The war elephants I rode in Cambodia were easy compared with these delinquents.
Our Cuban comrades, naturally, got along easily with their mounts and barely contained their mirth at our incompetence. They repeatedly reminded us of our good fortune at having this luxurious mode of transport, for horses were getting scarce in t
he rebel army. Feelings of gratitude escaped me when painful saddle sores overcame all my other senses. Before the first hour had elapsed, I was seriously considering shooting the damned pony, burning the leather thing atop it, and walking.
By the time of our arrival I was in a deeply foul mood, bowlegged, and chafed beyond belief. Rork was in the same shape, but young Edwin Law looked none the worse for wear. He prudently kept quiet on the subject.
The man I had come all this way to see was spending the night in an old farmhouse similar to Arnoldo and Olga’s, but García’s hideout was pockmarked with bullet holes. The nearby barn was a pile of charred ruins. It was sadly typical of the entire area, devastated by both sides in the previous three years of warfare. The smell of burned sugarcane hung funereally in the air. There was no fruit on the trees, no livestock in the fields.
Major General Calixto García emerged from the house as we rode up. Having changed an hour before, Rork and I were in uniform, the first time for me since Key West. General García was not in military garb, attired instead in a white linen suit with long riding boots, and bareheaded. He was an impressive sight nonetheless.
I knew him to be two months younger than my age of fifty-eight. But thirty years of war had aged his face and hair enough to make him appear ten years older. Still, he was no doddering old man. Clearly, García was every inch the officer in command. From his tall, well-built frame to his august manner, Calixto García created a memorable first impression. His tanned face was topped by snowy hair. An enormous white mustache effectively concealed any smile or frown. A bullet scar formed a small depression in the center of his forehead. But of all his stark features, even the scar, his intimidating eyes were the most arresting. That was where his emotion could be readily gauged. As I came to see over the ensuing days, those eyes could be evaluating, skeptical, and sometimes pitiless.
As Fortuna dismounted to introduce me, torchlight illuminated the famous general. I noticed his dark eyes carefully appraising my inept riding style, clumsy dismount, and labored approach through his guards and staff. Among these veteran soldiers I felt every inch the foolish yanqui sailor.
Calixto García didn’t have time for fools, yanqui or otherwise. Second in command of the entire Cuban Liberation Army, he specifically commanded the Eastern Department, which occupied the entire eastern half of Cuba. This department was composed of the First Corps (two divisions of six brigades comprising thirteen regiments) and the Second Corps (four divisions of eight brigades comprising eighteen regiments) in Santiago Province. He also had under his personal command the Third Corps (two divisions of four brigades comprising eleven regiments) in Puerto Principe Province. His command covered three hundred miles of the length of Cuba, a massive responsibility that he had shouldered for years.
To accomplish this García had about 20,000 men deployed throughout the eastern part of the region, supported by a population filled with supporters of the rebel cause. He had lost thousands of men to combat and disease since the 1895 start of the latest “hot war”—the third such period of open warfare during the thirty-year struggle for independence. But amazingly, even though outmanned and outgunned by the Spanish, the Cubans never gave up, even when offered amnesty.
When I met him, García controlled several small cities in addition to the countryside as a whole. At Santiago, he had the Spanish forces mostly bottled up behind their fortifications, able to make only an occasional patrol outside their lines. The Cubans were winning the war the slow way, through incessant attrition. It was a case of which side could outlast the other.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Wake,” García said in Spanish, translated by Fortuna.
The major translated my reply into Spanish as I spoke. “It is a long-awaited honor for me to meet you, sir. I am here to serve you as the United States’ liaison. Please allow me to introduce my aides. Lieutenant Edwin Law of the United States Marine Corps, and Chief Bosun Sean Rork of the United States Navy. And thank you for sending me Major Fortuna, a first-rate officer.”
García glanced at the major and nodded. “Yes, he is. Your country has many also. More than a month ago I had the pleasure to meet one of them, a lieutenant in your Army who brought me a message from your president in Washington. The lieutenant’s name was Andrew Rowan. Do you know him?”
“No, sir, I do not know Lieutenant Rowan, but I was apprised of his mission to let you know we would support your army as soon as we had mobilized our own invasion force. I have confidential information of my own, sir. May we speak in private?”
We went inside to a tiny, windowless room in back, passing by a young colonel whom I later discovered was García’s son Calixto Junior, already a blooded veteran of combat. Fortuna came in and translated while Law and Rork stood at parade rest inside the doorway, watching outside for any signs of trouble. The general, Fortuna, and I sat at a small table. An oil lamp supplied a modicum of radiance to the stifling room, along with some putrid smoke.
Never taking his eyes off mine, García nodded for me to begin.
“Sir, I have been assigned to facilitate the interaction between our two forces. I was sent on this mission by Major General William Shafter, who commands the 17,000-man Army corps assembled at Tampa for the invasion of Cuba.”
García showed no reaction, so I went on. “General Shafter presents his respects for the courage and skill of your men. He is looking forward to meeting you in person and serving alongside you in this great cause. The invasion is planned for this area of Cuba.”
None of the sentiments I attributed to Shafter was true. Shafter had told others he considered the Cuban rank-and-file soldiers a bandit rabble, like the Indians he fought for years out west. But in the Hispanic culture, mutual respect is the foundation of relationships. I had to establish it at the outset, even if it involved some invention on my part.
García cut through it. “Only 17,000 men to invade Cuba?” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “When are these men arriving?”
“They are only the first formations that will be arriving, sir. One hundred thousand additional troops are being assembled around our country right now. They will reinforce General Shafter’s men. Another 50,000 men will be sent to occupy the Philippines.”
“Captain Wake, the Spanish have 240,000 men under arms across Cuba. The usual ratio of attacking force against fortified defenders is five to one. You have a country of millions, and yet it sends only 17,000 to attack the Spanish at Santiago?”
He was right. Seventeen thousand was far too few according to accepted military doctrine. I dared not tell him the entire U.S. Army had consisted of only 28,000 men until March, and I certainly remained mum about the quality of the new volunteer units. Instead I mentioned the one force we had that was ready. “Yes, sir. But in addition to our soldiers there is our famous fleet, sir. The U.S. Navy’s guns will provide very effective support to the Army operations along the shoreline. Combined, the forces of freedom will win.”
García’s doubts continued. “We heard the norteamericanos would invade at Havana a month ago, before the fever season. The fevers will start here in the middle of July. For foreign troops it will be a deadly disadvantage. Why invade here, and why now?”
I couldn’t tell him the real reason for the change of strategy, or my role in it. In February, while I was in Havana on a clandestine intelligence mission, my operatives had given me the Spanish defense plans for the city. They showed the defenses were far too strong for an untried American Army of volunteers to subdue. By the third week of May, a month after war had been declared, my report and the opinion of other senior officers had finally convinced those in charge in Washington of the sheer folly of their notion of attacking Havana. This and, most important, the arrival of the powerful Spanish fleet at Santiago had shifted the invasion scheme eastward to Oriente Province.
All of this was highly guarded information and not to be shared, even with an allied army commander. The Spanish still didn’t know we had their defense plans
for Havana—very few American Army or Navy officers did either—hence the need for utmost secrecy cloaked in plausible falsehoods.
“Yes, sir, originally, the invasion was to be near Havana, but it is now thought better to come in near Santiago, with the objective of destroying the coastal forts to enable us to eliminate the minefield at the entrance to the harbor. Then we can destroy the Spanish fleet inside. After that, the city will fall. From Santiago we will march west together to liberate the length of the island and capture Havana. The invasion force will arrive offshore any day now—many transport ships.”
“Where will they come ashore?”
“A location has not been chosen yet, sir. Before the U.S. forces come ashore, General Shafter desires a meeting with you and Admiral Sampson, who commands the naval force blockading the Spanish squadron inside the harbor at Santiago. General Shafter wants your opinion of where to land and also needs the help of your men to clear that landing place of any Spanish troops, so his men and supplies can get ashore.”
“The Spanish defenses around Santiago are very strong. It will have to be away from the city. What kind of area do you want for this landing place for your soldiers?”
“It will have to be a gentle beach, sir, with little or no surf. And it needs to be near a road leading to Santiago through relatively flat terrain.”
He took a moment to think. Then, looking at me but speaking to Fortuna in Spanish, he said, “It has to be east of the city, then, where the beaches are less rocky, the land is flatter, and my regiments have more control. The Juraguá Iron Company has a small rail line along the coast there leading from its open pit mines to its pier inside Santiago Harbor. The railroad is not in good condition because of the war, but it could be useful. To the west of Santiago the land is very mountainous and difficult for a large army to traverse, with few beaches and no pier, except for Cabañas Bay, which is heavily guarded by Spanish troops and guns.”
After Fortuna had translated that for me, the general raised a finger to make his next point. “However, I would suggest the proposed meeting with your general and admiral be made far west of the city, at Asarradero. We have control of that area. It is closer to my main headquarters in the Sierra Maestra. Meeting there will also serve to divert Spanish attention away from the true landing place east of the city. We must keep the enemy deceived as long as possible to preserve surprise for the invasion.”
Honoring the Enemy Page 7
