“Well, Bucky O’Neill and I walked about and counted eleven Spanish dead on the field. I’ve no accurate idea how many were wounded.”
“What about the Cuban army regiment out on the end of the right flank under Colonel Clavel? Have you heard anything?” I asked. “You may remember we were over there with them before your regiment arrived. I sent Major Fortuna and Noveno with a message to them.”
“I heard they provided scouts to our regiments along the road but did no real fighting in large formation. You know, Peter, I am beginning to have doubts as to the Cubans’ abilities in a stand-up fight against the Spanish.”
I didn’t argue the obvious—that Clavel’s original plan would have been far more successful and without the heavy losses the Americans had suffered. It wasn’t the time or place.
“Our dead are buried,” Roosevelt murmured. “Chaplain Brown is doing a service at sunrise. Good man, Brown. Even the troopers respect him, a rarity among cowboys.”
Theodore paused, poking a glowing ember with a dry papaya leaf. The leaf flared into flame as he continued in a respectful tone. “I must say we are also quite fortunate to have Doctor Church as our regimental surgeon. He and his assistants performed tirelessly today. They’re still at it. His little field hospital is filled with our brave wounded.”
He glanced up at me, the mist in his eyes reflecting the firelight. “Have you heard what my wounded men did while I was visiting them at the hospital?”
I gestured that I hadn’t. Taking off his spectacles to wipe them, he said, “They sang ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’ And the ones who could, stood up at attention. Not a single man among them—not a single one of them, Peter—was complaining, though their plight is dreadful due to the Army’s appalling incompetence on all matters of supply, even desperately needed medicines. What splendid soldiers these brave American men are. How honored I am to serve with them.”
There was a contemplative silence until Rork offered, “Aye, sir, an’ the lads’re lucky as hell in havin’ you an’ Colonel Wood for their regimental officers. You take care o’ your men, an’ they see that. They trust you.”
“Thank you, Rork. Yes, I believe they do trust Colonel Wood and me—a blood bond that will last forever. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, so said the Bard of England three hundred years ago.”
Trying to change the maudlin atmosphere, I interjected, “So Theodore, you just came back from brigade headquarters—what’re the new orders for your regiment?”
Given the losses of the day and Shafter’s desire not to move his force forward until all was ready, either along the coast or up this road, I guessed there would be several days of recuperation ahead while the support functions prepared. Rork and I, old men that we were, could certainly use the rest.
Theodore had been quiet for a time after my question, evidently reflecting philosophically on the day’s events. Now the old resolute Roosevelt returned. His jaw tightened, his fists clenched, and behind the spectacles those piercing eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. A stranger might think he was about to attack someone. “We are to sit and we wait until reinforcements arrive and the divisions are built up in this area,” he growled. “Then, when all is finally judged ready, the corps will advance up this road to the city. I find such inertia frustrating. We should be pressing the enemy now!”
His reply was final confirmation that Shafter had changed his plan of attack. The assault on Las Guasimas was no longer a feint or probe on the right flank—it was now the axis of the general advance. The Army would fight inland, without naval gunfire support.
I didn’t share Roosevelt’s zeal. “Just be thankful for the opportunity to let your men rest, Theodore. They need time to recuperate from their first action. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for more shooting and dying.”
He didn’t answer, just wagged his head and dug back into his beans. Roosevelt and his exhausted men got their chance to recuperate that evening, but such luxury was short-lived for Rork and me. Two hours after my conversation with Theodore, Shafter sent orders for me and my assistants to return to Siboney immediately. There, we were to rejoin General García, who was arriving on the transports from Asarradero with four thousand men. The Cubans would then become the extended right flank of Shafter’s grand campaign across the hill country toward Santiago.
My stomach and bowels, already weakened by dysentery, rebelled as we began the walk. I had to stop and deal with it, restarting our band’s journey twenty minutes later. A mile down the road it started to rain. I had to stop in the bushes again. This time so did Rork.
When we resumed the march, Rork said to no one in particular, “I hate this place.”
I silently agreed.
22
The Road to Santiago
Oriente Province, Cuba
Late June 1898
THE AMERICANS’ DIFFICULTIES continued to increase in the days after the battle at Las Guasimas. Major General Wheeler was laid low by illness and replaced as the cavalry division’s commander by General Sumner of the 2nd Brigade. Sumner was a respected regular with a calm demeanor. Many officers saw the replacement as an improvement. Colonel Wood took over as brigade commander, also viewed as a good thing. Thus, command of the 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment devolved entirely upon Theodore Roosevelt.
My friend was ready. He’d used his two months as Wood’s number two learning how to command hundreds of men. The fight at Las Guasimas had given him invaluable tactical experience. The men had always respected his brains; now they respected his bravery. I had no doubt the regiment was in capable hands with Roosevelt in charge.
However, I did have misgivings about one salient issue. After only a week in Cuba, the dismounted cavalrymen’s physical condition was deteriorating rapidly. It wasn’t only them. The entire Army corps was in similar shape.
This drastic downturn was due to the climate and, most egregiously, the Army’s supply problems. Ammunition, water, and thousands more infantry had arrived—and were still arriving—at the front line; the essentials to keep them healthy had not. Tents, dry-bulk foods, equipment, heavy artillery, and medicines were somewhere within the mound of cargo boxes, barrels, and bales piling ever higher back on Siboney’s beach. Some of the supplies were still moldering in the ships’ beastly hot cargo holds offshore.
The road transport situation from Siboney to the front was ridiculous. Shafter’s revised plan ignored the coastal rail and road route of advance and instead relied on the inland route, in complete defiance of the weather, logic, and my recommendation. Now, the only supply line to the front was a narrow, rutted road that the daily rains and thousands of boots had turned into a muddy morass. Two days after the Americans began using it the road became impassable. In addition, mules and vehicles to carry supplies from the coast were unobtainable locally in the war-ravaged area, and few had been landed from the ships.
And for the wounded and sick? Amazingly, only five ambulances had been allocated for the entire army. Only four of those were ashore. No one knew the location of the fifth. The regiments were running out of medicines, for most of the regimental medicine cabinets were still on board ships. There weren’t enough doctors to handle the patients, and there were pitifully few medical orderlies and only a handful of Red Cross nurses.
Once back at Siboney, I rejoined General García. He greeted me heartily and insisted that I accompany him during the march forward to the front line, which was delayed by supply issues. When García’s Cuban forces finally plodded up the road from Siboney through Sevilla to Los Mangos, they turned right and headed for their position on the right flank. As we passed the 1st Volunteer Cavalry’s bivouac, I received permission from García for a brief reunion with Theodore.
Unlike most of his troopers, who by then had shed their absurd woolen uniform coats, heavy packs, and blankets, Roosevelt maintained his professional military appearance as best he could. He was determined to serve as an example of self-discipline to others, as had his mentor Leonar
d Wood. The men tolerated this eccentricity, for they genuinely admired his fortitude.
After more than a week in the jungle, however, Theodore’s uniform was far from immaculate. Mud, sweat, and the dark brown stains of others’ blood splotched the sleeves. That dangling saber, elegant but worthless, had been discarded. He still wore the military tunic, a ridiculous vanity, but the choker collar was unbuttoned. He looked thinner and more haggard, and I worried about whether he had dysentery yet. Rork and I certainly did.
In my conversation with Roosevelt that evening I noticed that the famous voice was quieter, slower. The usual impatient staccato insistence had faded. He displayed a more paternal understanding for disappointing answers. The ready smile and laugh weren’t so ready anymore, either. His well-known humor sometimes sounded forced.
That transformation is normal for a new commander after his first battle—I would wonder about any man who didn’t show it. But with Theodore, I felt something more was amiss. I soon heard the explanation.
He was angry. Not at the enemy but at his own superiors. He wasn’t alone. The entire V Corps was angry. They’d waited in bivouac on the roadside for six days. During that time the nightmare I had long cautioned about finally arrived—the rain and fever season. The climate had taken over the war zone. I knew it would exact a far greater toll on the Americans than the Spanish would.
Without tents the men had no protection from the sun or the daily deluge. By early afternoon every day, the densely humid air reached a vitality-sucking 100 degrees, a fact confirmed to me by a journalist from Maine who had a pocket thermometer. Even the strongest men fell unconscious to the ground from sunstroke. Every day in the late afternoon a gushing downpour arrived, turning the camp into a soupy mess. After hours of rainfall, the land steamed until midnight, the air so hot and thick you felt as if you were asphyxiating.
Between dawn and midnight, physical exertion had to be done in small increments. Men panted for breath as they cursed Cuba, the generals, and the politicians who had sent them here. Day after day they sat in the mire, slapping mosquitos, trying to keep their weapons and ammunition clean, and waiting for battle orders.
Food, weaponry, ammunition, supplies, uniforms, medicines, firewood, maps and reports, personal belongings—everything—was damaged or destroyed by Cuba’s rain, heat, mud, insects, and humidity. Roosevelt continually reminded all to keep the regimental area and themselves orderly and sanitary, another lesson of Wood’s indomitable leadership. But the climate always won.
The inevitable medical consequences began to spread. Dysentery or malaria or sunstroke had already rendered a tenth of the men unfit for service. The percentage was growing every day.
I left Theodore’s camp that evening worried by everything I’d seen. At the time of the Las Guasimas fight, 4,000 Americans were ashore. Six days later, 15,000 U.S. soldiers were sitting in the mud along the road to Santiago, along with more than 4,000 of García’s Cuban soldiers. All of them were dependent for supplies on that one damned road out of Siboney. The coastal rail line and vehicle road sat unused. I thought it madness.
Time had run out for Shafter. He faced a terrible dilemma, caught between the growing debilitation of his force and the time needed for his army’s supplies and artillery to be brought forward so he could attack. The general had to decide between waiting for supplies before attacking Santiago or attacking the formidable defenses while he still had some effective soldiers. He made his decision on the twenty-ninth of June.
Later that evening, my little team and I were with García’s forces in the woods southeast of El Caney, a Spanish hilltop fortification on the northeastern side of Santiago. We stopped for the night on the far right of the campaign front. My assistants were off on a reconnaissance, so I dined with García’s staff. After a dinner of mango and plantain, I was about to leave the Cuban officers to their conversation and find a place to lie down for the night when I received a surprise.
General García arrived in camp and called me over. He addressed me in rather good English. “Belated happy birthday, Peter. I understand you turned fifty-nine years of age on this last Sunday, the twenty-sixth. Oh, do not look so surprised, mi amigo. Yes, I speak a bit of English, but I choose not to use it except for special occasions. As for knowing of your birthday, the Mambi army may not look as grand as the Spanish, but our intelligence is much better. I bring you sincere felicitations from your Masonic friends in Cuba and elsewhere. They think highly of you.”
“Thank you, sir. I am honored to be considered their friend.”
“And they yours as well, Peter. Regrettably, we were not able to celebrate the occasion on the proper day in grand style. Perhaps next year, when Cuba is free and at peace. But I do have some Matusalem to share with you as a present. Yes, I even know your preference for that rum! So, would you grant me the distinction of your company as I inspect the night guard of my regiments?”
His servant arrived with two glasses of rum, and García and I walked slowly, he puffing away on a cigar, and each of us enjoying our drink. As we looked over at El Caney a mile away in the darkness, the Cuban commander expressed his concern to me—politely worded, naturally—about the inertia of Shafter’s army.
“My conference with General Shafter this morning was most pleasant. We will execute our orders to protect his army’s northern flank with élan during the coming attack. But I have a worry …”
“What is that, sir?”
“General Shafter has waited too long, Peter,” he said, the concern on his face visible in the light of a nearby campfire. “The Spanish have been allowed to get into their trenches and fortifications. It will take heavy artillery and cost many men to dislodge them, and yet the siege cannons are not ashore. In addition, thousands of Spanish reinforcements are en route from Manzanillo, and I hear that the fevers are beginning to cripple General Shafter’s army.” García woefully shook his head. “The hard lesson of 1741 still applies.”
I knew that lesson well and had already shared it with General Shafter, who’d made no comment afterward. British major general Thomas Wentworth had invaded Cuba at Guantánamo Bay in the summer of 1741, and his army had made the fifty-mile march toward Santiago through the same jungle where the Americans currently waited. Wentworth brought four thousand men ashore, but by the time he was halfway to Santiago he had lost more than half of them to disease. He never attacked the city. Instead he was forced to withdraw the survivors from Cuba and suffer the humiliation of defeat. It was an accurate and demoralizing analogy to what I was seeing unfold around me.
I could only say, “General Shafter knows about Wentworth’s fiasco, sir. He knows he has run out of time and must capture Santiago immediately. Everything hinges on this battle.”
General García didn’t seem encouraged and changed the subject. For the rest of our walk we spoke only of our children and wives, ignoring the impending clash of 40,000 men. We parted with an embrazo, the Cuban embrace between men, and sincere wishes for good luck in the impending fight. I did not see Calixto García again before the battle.
At dawn the next morning, 30 June, García sent orders, via Fortuna, for me to go to Shafter’s headquarters, which was now ashore near Sevilla, to procure medical supplies and ammunition for the Cuban forces. Fortuna explained I would be far more successful in dealing with the overwhelmed American staff officers than the Cuban officers had been. As the campaign went on, they had been met with growing resentment by the supply officers, especially if there was a dark hue to their skin. I was told General García considered this assignment a priority. So off I went with my band of followers, back over the same route we’d already endured several times in both directions, to connive or coerce more supplies for the Cuban troops on the front line.
It turned out to be a fateful assignment.
23
A Lovely View of Santiago
El Pozo Hill, Cuba
Friday Morning, 1 July 1898
ON OUR RETURN TO García’s command post the ne
xt morning, my men and I were stopped at El Pozo Hill, the forward extent of the American advance. With incredibly bad luck, we had managed to arrive at the very place from which the main attack on Santiago was being launched—right then. The road was crammed with troops lined up in column, all anxiously facing west. The road and side paths leading off it were full of Americans. All were waiting for the people in front of them to move. Officers conferred, sergeants growled, and privates quietly grumbled.
My companions discussed how to extricate ourselves from this mass of soldiers and make our way north to García. Fortuna suggested avoiding the roads and going cross-country behind the lines. Law suggested we find a senior officer and get a written pass. Rork thought we should pull our weapons and barge through. I was leaning toward Rork’s idea. Noveno just stood there and watched us with an expression of bemused resignation.
As sunrise lightened the sky behind us and I contemplated what to do, Theodore Roosevelt emerged from a cluster of cavalry officers and strode over to us. “The Navy’s here! Are you coming with us on the attack?”
I explained that was the furthest thing from my intention. I was trying to get back to the right flank and the Cuban troops facing El Caney Hill.
“Well, it is patently obvious you can’t get back to General García’s command post now, Peter,” said Theodore Roosevelt, flashing his famous grin. His contemplative mood of last night had been replaced by sheer energy this morning.
“Doesn’t matter, Theodore. I need to return to the Cubans because—”
But I never got the chance to explain, for the old Theodore was back, and his raring-to-go confidence was on full display. “Impossible! Things are in motion! The roads are filled with soldiers heading for Santiago—that’s the crucial fight, and it’s where you should be.”
He waved away my impending comment. “Besides, Lawton and García have already started their attack over there on the right flank. Once they capture El Caney they’ll reinforce us at Santiago. I really think it best you come along with us. Once we cross the river in front of yonder heights, you can head off to the right and find García’s command as they come over to join us. It’ll be a shorter route, anyway.”
Honoring the Enemy Page 14
