The three Cuban officers went into a discussion of suitable landing places. Cubans speak Spanish rapidly. With several talking at once, it was too much for me to follow. All I was able to catch was a debate over the merits of places called Siboney, Juraguá, and Daiquiri, none of which I knew a thing about.
The general ended the discussion abruptly and returned his attention to me.
“Captain Wake, the possible landing places will be examined tomorrow by officers of my staff. They will have a recommendation for you tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, sir. If I can assist in any way, please let me know.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, you have done enough for now. You need rest, for when your general and his soldiers arrive, you will be very busy.”
García said his next words slowly, his tone more emotional, more deliberate. I didn’t need Fortuna’s translation to understand him. “Captain Wake, what I see in your eyes supports what I have heard about you. I know of your personal friendship with our martyred apostle of freedom, José Martí, may he rest in peace; of your designation as a ‘friend of Freemasons,’ of which I am one; of your long battle against Colonel Marrón’s secret police in Havana; of your championing of our cause for years in Washington, to the detriment of your career; of your charming Spanish-born wife; and of your hard-fought victory over the Spanish at Isabela two months ago. I thank you, on behalf of all Cubans.”
If he knew that much about me, he also knew I spoke a bit of Spanish, something I had taken care not to divulge so far while inside Cuba. I found it intriguing that he never mentioned it in his recital of my past and decided to maintain my pretense.
The general continued, “And now, Captain Wake, you, Major Fortuna, Mr. Law, and Mr. Rork will be my guests for dinner. Allow me to show you the hospitality of my country.”
García’s eyes softened for the first time. With a mischievous twinkle in them he asked me, “As you and Mr. Rork are sailors, may I presume you do not mind beginning with a taste of our Cuban rum?”
I was still recovering from the drinking bout two nights earlier, but Rork raised a hopeful eyebrow. He’d been at sea for a very dry month. “Thank you, General,” I said. “We would be delighted to have a taste of Cuba’s rum, sir.”
The rum arrived, and I stood to offer the first toast. “To the Republic of Cuba. Soon she will finally, and forever, be free of oppression!”
The general raised his glass in approval, tossed down his rum, and said in halting English, “I know your blood is not Cuban, but I think your heart is. You are one of us, Peter Wake, and we are glad to have you here.”
I’d passed the test of trust, upon which everything in the future rested.
13
Decisions of War and Love
Asarradero, Cuba
Saturday, 18 June 1898
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, the general and his staff headed off to inspect the Cuban units in the mountains north and west of Santiago. He was true to his word, though, and set the reconnaissance of the beaches into motion. Using couriers and signal lamps he sent word to a Cuban officer stationed on the eastern side of Santiago who had been a topographic engineer in civilian life and was trained to examine land for potential uses. By dawn the next day the engineer was surveying potential sites. I found it an amazing demonstration of communications.
We caught up with García and his staff at 10 p.m. west of the city near the coastal village of Asarredero. The journey was an exhausting twelve-hour-long circumnavigation of the Spanish defenses at Santiago, mostly on those damned ponies.
As we finally trudged into García’s headquarters I surveyed what I could see of the locale. The camp was on the side of a mountain overlooking Asarradero a thousand feet below next to a tiny beach. To the south there was nothing but the black expanse of the wide Caribbean. Eighteen miles to the east, out of sight behind our mountain, the U.S. fleet waited in front of Santiago Bay.
After we set up our tent, Fortuna was summoned to the general. He returned an hour later with the report that Daiquiri, about twenty miles east of Santiago, was recommended as the best landing place. It had a small pier and beaches with an easy slope, and there were only about three hundred Spanish infantry in the general area. A narrow road wound inland to the coastal road that led to Siboney, where a main road led inland toward Santiago. Farther west along the shoreline from Siboney the coastal road paralleled the small railroad track García had mentioned, and both turned northwest toward Santiago close to the harbor entrance forts. Siboney was deemed the second landing location. It had the same basic characteristics and included a more substantial pier.
Fortuna showed me a Spanish government map of the coastal area along with the engineer’s detailed sketch maps of each location. Neither showed the depth of water or type of bottom, but I was assured there was enough water for small boats and barges to land at both places. In the absence of contrary evidence, I decided the Cubans’ assessment was right and informed Fortuna of my agreement with the selection, and he in turn departed to tell the general.
Elements of the Cuban Liberation Army would move toward those locations and await word from Shafter to secure them. The American landing would begin at Daiquiri. Siboney would be taken after that by the forces moving overland from Daiquiri and others coming directly ashore. From there the Americans would march along the coastal rail and vehicle roads toward the coastal fortifications at Santiago, capturing them under the cover of direct naval gunfire support. Control of the forts would enable the U.S. fleet to neutralize the mines and enter the bay, where they would eliminate the Spanish warships hiding inside.
While Fortuna was off with the staff, I took the opportunity to make a more in-depth assessment of the Cuban soldiery camped around us, which I put into a memorandum for Shafter’s eyes. He needed to understand his new allies.
The famous Mambi soldiers had been with García from the beginning and were a grim-looking lot. Most were peasants of various dark skin shades and ethnicities. Many walked with a slight stoop, as if their bodies were molded by a life of heavy labor. They kept their eyes cast impassively downward when carrying a burden yet were keenly watchful of all around them when on patrol or attack. Their short, thin frames were deceptively strong, able to carry impossible loads for long distances. For packs they carried bags made of palm burlap, into which went their ammunition, food, and few personal possessions. Most looked and smelled like they hadn’t had a bath for a year.
Every man carried the ubiquitous cane knife, or machete, and was an expert with it. Most but not all had old family shotguns or rifles captured from the Spanish. Their marksmanship was not all that precise, but they seldom fired unless in close range anyway. These men preferred the blade on their rope belt. Interestingly, I never saw them engaged in an internecine fight in camp. When they got orders to attack the Spanish in battle, though, they were absolutely fearless, almost crazed.
At the mess tent, actually a hastily set up lean-to, I got half a boiled potato and a slice of mango, both of which were well past ripe. This was a veritable feast, made available to me only because of my rank and nationality. Normally I would shun such favoritism, but right then my morals took second place to my hunger. I consumed it in an instant and was damned grateful for the chance.
Here and there around me, groups of weary Mambi warriors sat by small fires. They kept their voices low. Their talk was short-winded, peppered with foul words. There was no music, no laughter, no reminiscences from the march.
No one had the energy left for light-hearted banter. Dragging mules, equipment, field artillery, supplies, and your own gear up and down mountains in the tropical summer heat and humidity saps the spirit of the strongest man. These men had just done it from Holguín, across 2,000- and 3,000-foot mountains to Alto Songo, then onward to Asarradero—110 miles in all.
I’d seen tough soldiers at war in Africa, Asia, and South America, but none were tougher than the Mambis of Cuba. After weeks of such toil, humans become mac
hines. Their emotions fade into a colorless resignation to their place in life. Time becomes irrelevant, for the next hour and day and week will bring nothing but the same. The astonishing thing for me was that the Cubans weathered it all without signs of mutiny—even after the Spanish offered them amnesty if they surrendered. Was it any wonder their enemy spoke of them with respect?
As I passed each small fire, something extraordinary happened. The huddled men straightened up with pride and greeted me as if I was a valued comrade. I was merely a symbol of the rich yanqui colossus just to the north, of course, but that was something new and encouraging for them. I was the first of the long-hoped-for norteamericano reinforcements. Many of the Cubans thanked me for being there alongside them. Word had spread. I was proof the rumors were true. They weren’t alone anymore. The end was in sight, and the dream of freedom would soon become a reality.
These simple displays of gratitude made a great impact on my heart. I hoped our soldiers would stand up to these expectations, but my experience in Tampa had jaded my opinion of the U.S. Army’s efficacy. Not because of a lack of fighting spirit in the men, but because the senior officers were so ill prepared and lacking in skill.
When I got back to our part of the camp, Law was asleep. Rork sat alone next to the red glowing coals from our dinner fire. I hadn’t seen him since we first arrived at the Cuban headquarters camp because he’d been out searching for kindling for the fire. He looked more than tired, as if in the grip of melancholia.
“Aye, you’re back. They figure out a landin’ place yet?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Yes. It’ll be Daiquiri. Gentle beach, small boat pier, road inland that meets the coastal road, relatively remote, with few of the enemy about. Siboney is the second landing place. How are you feeling, Sean? You look really worn out tonight.”
“Ooh, indeed, sir. These ol’ bones’re achin’ up a storm. The friggin’ pony rides don’t help any. Me backside feels like it’s been keelhauled. An’ me head’s still gettin’ past that soiree last night with the general. The ol’ sod can really put ’em away. Hell’uva drunk, it was.”
There was something else bothering him, though. I could tell by the way he’d avoided looking me in the eye since we were reunited back at the farmhouse at Jamaica. His usual humor, always present even in the direst of situations, was lacking too. Rork could be reticent in revealing his wounds, both physical and sentimental. I guessed the reason but waited for him to tell me. Meanwhile, I looked up at the constellations, clearly visible now that the rain clouds had cleared away.
When Rork did open up, it came as a murmur. “Ah, well, there’s somethin’ needin’ to be said by me, sir. Been weighin’ heavy on me mind.”
Only two coals were still red hot. As Rork poked at them with a stick, I said, “Out with it, my old friend. Sean to Peter, with no rank. We’re too old to beat around the bush.”
“Aye, Peter, that we are. Well, been meanin’ to apologize for me behavior back at Tampa in May. But we’ve not been alone for me to speak me mind. Truly sorry for leavin’ you in the lurch after readin’ that letter from me Minnie. Truly thought she was the one, an’ had me heart set on finally bein’ happy like you an’ dear Maria. Had the weddin’ set an’ all, or so I thought.
“That damned letter got me feelin’ so bloody empty an’ full o’ tears, I just couldn’t face anyone, not even you, me own best friend. Left that wee note for you an’ took French leave right then an’ there for the fleet at Key West. Had to get out to sea an’ away from the whole bleedin’ mess.”
“Sean, I got your note and also heard about the letter from your fiancée. I understood immediately, and I probably would’ve done the same. Hell, I was impressed at how you ended up in Oregon just when she became the most famous ship in the Navy.”
He exhaled deeply, as if ridding himself of guilt. “Thanks for understandin’, Peter. Aye, Captain Clark got me in Oregon an’ set me straightaway to work. There was a fair amount to be done after that 14,000-mile voyage, let me tell you. An’ seein’ young Sean doin’ so well as an officer took me mind off me own heartache.”
“Your heart’ll mend, Sean. The right lady will come along one of these days when you least expect it.”
“Aye, they say hope springs eternal, so maybe there’s a woman out there for me. She’ll have to be half blind, o’ course, to face the likes o’ me every mornin’, but all she’ll really need is a good heart an’ soul.”
He yawned. “Well, I’ve had me say, an’ now me ancient bones’re tellin’ me ’tis time for us ol’ men to be turnin’ in, Peter. God only knows what the hell we’ll face in the morn.”
That night sleep once again eluded me, for my mind was preoccupied with all that was happening. The Cuban Liberation Army had been in communication with Admiral Sampson in the battleship New York since the fourteenth, providing intelligence on the enemy’s ships, forts, and regiments at Santiago. In addition, the Cuban army’s requests for arms, ammunition, medical supplies, and uniforms were approved and fulfilled immediately, delivered by USS Suwanee, a 165-foot lighthouse tender brought into the Navy for the war.
This support had cemented my status with García’s staff and soldiery. Upon my arrival at Asarradero I began sending my own messages to Sampson, including intelligence assessments and a suggestion for a preinvasion meeting ashore between General García, Shafter, and Sampson. Indeed, Sampson immediately proposed meeting General García that very day, Sunday the nineteenth. When García agreed, the admiral steamed New York to the coast in front of Asarradero late that afternoon. García, Fortuna, and I were brought out to her in the ship’s steam launch. Law and Rork stayed on the beach with orders to keep watch on everything happening around them.
The general, rigged in his best uniform for the first time since we’d met, was given the full display of ceremonial naval pageantry and treated with the utmost respect by all on board. He and Sampson got along well from the start. Afterward, Sampson confided in me that he was truly moved by García’s professionalism. There was nothing of the sycophant about him. He was a soldier’s soldier, just as Sampson, one of the smartest officers in the Navy, was a sailor’s sailor.
Sampson also favored me with congratulations for my work inside Cuba, adding that he wished I would be commanding one of his cruisers when he had to fight the Spanish fleet but knew my present mission could help make the overall American operations in Cuba far more successful. After an hour and a half on board, the Cuban general and I left the clean, ordered, and well-fed world of an American warship and returned to the filthy squalor of an army camp in the jungle.
Leaving that ship took all my willpower.
14
Find a Bigger Mule
Asarradero, Cuba
Monday, 20 June 1898
IT WAS BARELY LIGHT the following morning when the cry of a messenger woke my entourage and me. The message had come down from the Cuban army lookout post atop 3,600-foot-tall Loma del Gato, just to our east, via relay runners. Emerging from our tents, we heard cheers breaking out through the camps before we heard the news. A great armada of thirty-seven American troop transports had arrived in the night and was covering the sea beyond Admiral Sampson’s blockading battle fleet.
An hour later I saw a Navy steam launch down at the beach. In another hour a breathless naval lieutenant arrived at the top of the slope looking for me. He handed me a dark blue envelope sealed with gold wax. My companions gathered around at a respectful distance as I read the message inside from Admiral Sampson.
7 a.m., 20 June 1898
Captain W,
The army has arrived. I will be meeting with Gen S on his ship at 10 a.m. There, I will suggest a conference later today with him, Gen G, and myself at your location. Confirmation and details on time will be sent to you after my 10 a.m. mtg with S. Please advise your principal and make necessary arrangements. Send confirmation of receipt of this message, with concurrence by your principal.
W.T.S.
This was
exactly what I had proposed from the beginning. The American general and admiral needed to come ashore, away from their comforts, so they could see and feel the challenges of the terrain and climate. They also needed to understand the strengths and deficits of their Cuban allies.
It was by then almost 9 a.m. Fortuna and I went straight to General García to tell him the news. To our great surprise, we discovered he was not there. Not knowing when Shafter would actually arrive, he’d gone to inspect a brigade that had recently been in battle and was several miles away in the higher mountains.
I uttered a very blue oath at my bad luck as Fortuna set out to find Major General Jesús Rabí, the second in command. Rabí beamed in delight when he heard Sampson’s message. He immediately issued orders for the reception of the American commanders and sent out several officers to locate García and get him back as soon as possible.
With my aides, I descended to the beach and gave my simple written reply of acknowledgment to the lieutenant. There was no wind and not a cloud in the sky that day, the sun making the place a humid oven. In spite of the heat, the Cubans on the beach were far more optimistic than I’d ever seen them, for somehow word had spread about the meeting. My companions and I waited in the shade of a coconut palm for Sampson’s next communication while we studied the transports milling about offshore. In these temperatures, we knew it would be hellish belowdecks in the transports for Theodore Roosevelt’s men, and even worse for the horses.
Sampson’s next message arrived at noon and simply said, “2 p.m.” Fortuna passed the word to his superiors. Soon the beach was filled with Cuban officers and men practicing formations of long-forgotten, if ever learned, ceremonial drills. It was decidedly not their forte.
Honoring the Enemy Page 8
