I agreed. Rork in particular needed nourishment. But I hadn’t seen much around us. Scavenging for food among the relinquished Spanish fortifications had become the main endeavor for everyone on the trench line. Pretty much everything edible or useful had already been taken. I wondered what Roosevelt intended us to eat but was too polite to ask.
Theodore’s abode wasn’t quite as civilized as Rork predicted, but he did have some decent food. His orderly’s search had yielded tinned peaches from Georgia, of all places. He’d found ten cans of them in a Spanish officer’s abandoned trunk and presented them to his colonel. Roosevelt gave all but three to stretcher-bearers to take back to the brigade’s field hospital.
Dr. Church arrived at our little circle, and Theodore called upon him to examine me. The doctor, who looked about ready to drop from exhaustion himself, briefly looked me over and pronounced, “Nicely scarred, but fit for duty.”
I had him look at Rork. Church did a quick once over and said, “Probably heat prostration. Good thing you were cooled down straight away, Rork. That saved your life. You must get rest tonight. Prognosis: unscarred, and fit for duty—tomorrow.”
That got a chuckle from Theodore. I gave Rork an I-told-you-so expression, which he acknowledged with a smiling nod.
“Oh, I’ll be owin’ you a decent drink for savin’ me life, sir. Never worry, though. Sean Aloysius Rork pays his debts.”
Health concerns alleviated, we ate. The five of us sat in a circle, eating the remainder of the peaches along with other spoils of war: three bananas, two mangos, and four slivers of sugarcane stalk. The meal was accompanied by Spanish red wine, also courtesy of the Spanish army, albeit somewhat soured in its flagon. We also had enough Spanish coffee for a cup each. The entire repast did the trick, raising our spirits enormously.
After dinner, Roosevelt took me aside and quietly suggested, “I think it best you and your men retire here for the night, Peter. Get up early and find the Cubans at dawn. Getting shot in the dark by nervous sentries is a bad way to go. García will understand.” He nodded toward Rork and said, “And our friend desperately needs the rest.”
“Thank you. We will.”
After we returned to the fire, Theodore regaled us with a stirring account, complete with darting eyes, stabbing fingers, and flashing teeth, of how the cavalry brigade had stormed up the hill, met up with our infantry on the left, and together had defeated the enemy at the top. The assault’s success was all due to Parker’s Gatling guns, he declared, adding that he heard they had fired an incredible 18,000 rounds in the first 8 minutes, overwhelming the Spanish soldiers and allowing the American advance to reach the top. Parker’s guns had also defeated an attempted Spanish counterattack and now formed the strongest point in the American line. Everyone wanted to be near those Gatlings.
“I’ve seen the reinforcements coming up to the line, Theodore, but what about supplies? Have we enough to hold out?” I asked.
“We’ve received some ammunition and water, but no heavy cannon or additional machine guns yet. What I would give for three more Gatling guns! After we captured this trench line, a few of the generals, who shall remain nameless, thought we were too weak here to hold the place. They even thought we should withdraw back to Kettle Hill.”
Roosevelt grew agitated at the thought. “Well, you can imagine how that notion sat with us. We’d fought our way up here and weren’t in any mood to give it back! When General Wheeler returned to the fight from his sickbed and resumed command of the division awhile ago, he ended any such talk of retreat.”
“The men need food, though,” opined Dr. Church, sipping some coffee. “The bungling fools sent us no food in the supply column. We’ve only what we can find in the captured Spanish stores.”
Roosevelt pounded his fist on his knee. “Quite right, Doctor! The stupidity of the supply situation is astounding. These brave men are famished, but we are reduced to eating the enemy’s leftovers!”
He snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait, I almost forgot one other thing they did send us. For some unfathomable reason, an hour ago we got mail for the first time since we landed in Cuba. Can you imagine that? Mail but no food!”
Theodore leaned over toward me. “My darling Edith wrote me all’s well at home and to say hello to you. The children are fine. She says everyone back there is working hard to support our success down here by sending what we need.”
“Some heavier artillery would be nice,” grumbled Rork.
“I heartily agree, Rork. But first we need food for the troops. And not that canned poison they issue, either. Say, let me fetch my orderly and have him see if there’s any mail for any of you naval gentlemen.”
Surprisingly, there was. The orderly returned with two letters for us that had been put in the cavalry division’s mailbag with the thought they might be passed on to the Cuban headquarters. One tattered envelope was for Law, a letter from his parents. I had one from Maria in Tampa, scented with her jasmine perfume. Poor Rork had nothing.
Law made a sympathetic comment, but Rork shrugged it off. “Nay, Mr. Law—no one to pity here. I’m used to no one writin’ me. Uncle Sam’s blessed Navy’s been me home an’ me family for a long time.”
Law held his letter up near the campfire light, sniffling as he silently read through the pages. Everyone looked away, giving him some privacy. Roosevelt went off to check his lines and guard posts. I walked off with a dim Spanish lantern to read Maria’s letter alone.
I found a safe spot in a shell hole behind a rock where I could be alone with her, even if only figuratively. Longing filled me as I traced her beautiful cursive script slowly with my finger, for feminine softness was only a memory now. The mere sight of her lovely writing nearly reduced me to tears.
19 June 1898
My dearest Peter,
Here is a quick note to tell you two things. First, I miss you and worry about you terribly. I won’t even ask you where you are, knowing you will be where the armies are fighting.
I beg you take care, darling, for you solemnly promised to come home to me. Do you remember that? I simply cannot live without you, so you must live and return to my bosom—or my heart will fail.
Please give Sean Rork an embrace for me. Bring him home, too. I miss his laughter. No one laughs around here anymore unless they are drunk. There are too many fears of the future, too much sorrow for the past, to be lighthearted when sober. I’ve had no wine, nor rum, since your departure—there seems no point in it without you.
My second bit of news is more momentous. I have had the honor to be asked by Miss Barton herself to accompany Red Cross nurses to Cuba. As you know, Clara is a wonder of energy and skill and decisiveness. She well knows the situation inside Cuba from her time helping the Cuban sick at the Spanish re-concentration camps last year. Even the Spanish governor appreciated her work and begged her to continue. Then the war started, changing everything.
Since starting my work in Tampa, Clara and I have become dear friends. Still, you may wonder why she asked me, one born into the enemy’s culture, to go to Cuba with her. Though I am not a trained nurse, she said my organizational skills and fluency in Spanish are greatly needed in Cuba. Her insistence was so intensely sincere that I agreed to the request. I have tremendous respect for this indomitable seventy-seven-year-old lady. How could I say no?
We are due to depart Tampa this very morning on a hospital ship called the State of Texas. They are taking us to Oriente Province, where the news correspondents write there will be a battle to capture the city of Santiago de Cuba. The Red Cross officials say we should arrive there in ten days. Once ashore, we are to organize a hospital on the coast to support the military doctors who will set up regimental hospitals closer to the fighting. We have been warned that the Army will resist our efforts, since they believe women cannot endure in such a place. Miss Barton will prove them wrong, as she has at every war where she has provided comfort and treatment for those in need.
I will admit part of my agreement to g
o to Cuba was motivated by my desperate hope to see you, if only for a brief moment. Please understand, Peter, and do not be angry with me. I need to touch you, darling. To have you hold me, to feel your strength, and to look into your eyes. I have gone too long without the touch of your hand, the sweetness of your kiss. My heart and my very soul feel so empty without you near me. I pray we will see each other and have a moment of privacy.
With all my love, your adoring wife,
Maria
Only three weeks had passed since I’d last held her in Tampa, but it seemed a year. Suddenly, something struck me. Her letter was written on the nineteenth. Ten days from the nineteenth of June meant she’d been ashore in Cuba for several days already, probably near the main Army hospital at Siboney.
My God, that’s only fifteen miles away! The realization was like a jolt of electricity. My mind began conjuring ways to get to Siboney.
When I returned to the campfire, Law was still staring at his letter, unaware of those around him. At the edge of the firelight, Rork snored softly. Roosevelt had returned from his inspections and was stretched out on his back contemplating the nearly full moon rising fast over Grand Piedra Mountain to the east. From the west came sporadic gunfire from the Spanish, sounding almost halfhearted after the massive volleys that day.
Along the mountains to the north of us, lightning flashed inside a wall of translucent clouds. A storm had formed and was heading toward us rapidly. I could already smell its moisture in the wind. We would be wet soon. The few men with canvas or blankets began propping them up into lean-to shelters.
“While you were gone, a messenger arrived for you with a verbal message,” Roosevelt informed me while still staring upward. “Captain Peter Wake and his staff must report immediately to General Shafter at El Pozo. And it seems you won’t be alone. Leonard Wood told me General Shafter has summoned all division commanders to come to a conference tonight on what to do next. García will be there, so you can rejoin him then.”
I had no idea why Shafter wanted me. Maybe he was dissatisfied and planned to return me to the naval effort. That possibility made me smile, for it would take me through Siboney. Catching a whiff of her perfumed letter in my pocket, I imagined holding my darling Maria.
“We’d better get under way now, then. Thank you for the hospitality, Theodore.”
He jumped to his feet and favored me with the famous grin. The firelight glinting off his spectacles made him look particularly mischievous. “Mi casa es su casa, amigo. Sorry you couldn’t get some rest, but I’m glad Chief Rork got a little. Say, maybe it’s good news for you at Shafter’s headquarters and you’re going back to sea, where the food is better!”
I sighed at the thought. “Oh … a clean bunk and decent food. I can only hope.”
I nudged Rork awake. Law shouldered the seabag. Shaking hands, Theodore and I wished each other luck. Then I led my men out of the camp and along the crest toward the hated road to the rear.
By the time we reached the road, thick clouds covered the moon. Moments later a wave of cold rain swept down over us. The Spanish fired several random artillery rounds to harass the American positions behind us, their concussions mixing in with the thunder.
“Hope we can get back to a ship, sir. Any bloody ship. That’s where the likes’uv us properly belong,” declared Rork as he sloshed forward in the dark. “Don’t fancy livin’ in the mud even a wee bit longer.”
“My sentiments exactly, Rork,” I replied, then slipped in the mud.
30
A Glorified Lackey
El Pozo Hill, Cuba
Saturday before Dawn, 2 July 1898
AFTER HALF AN HOUR the downpour slowed to a drizzle. The road, which had been merely muddy following the dry day, was now liquefied into an ankle-deep canal of thick soup. Forgetting the decorum expected of my rank, I gave loud and vulgar vent to my opinions each time I fell. Even Edwin Law, to date usually quite disciplined in his words and gestures, gave in to his frustration.
We had ample reason. The road was crowded with men, mules, and wagons, all struggling in the wet darkness to go west toward the front lines. We continued our way east in the pitch-black night. After managing to cross the two rivers, now swollen and raging, we reentered the jungle portion of the road. There, the westbound vehicles weren’t able move at all, mired to their hubs or higher. But the men kept wading. The oncoming soldiers filled not only the roadway but every bit of higher ground on either side as well, forcing us to push our way through them instead of detouring around.
At last we ascended El Pozo Hill, the location of Shafter’s forward headquarters. It was still drizzling when we finally found a staff tent at 1 a.m.—having taken three hours to make two miles—and reported our arrival to a surprised minor aide on Shafter’s staff. That tired soul looked at us as if we were from another planet. He’d never heard of me and didn’t know there was a naval contingent that far inland.
We were politely told to stay there because the general would be arriving soon. We found a large laurel tree that provided some shelter from the rain. Sitting with our backs against the trunk, we waited. The release of the aching tension in our bodies was a bit too relaxing, though, and within minutes each of us was blissfully insensible with sleep.
At 3 a.m. we were awakened by the same lieutenant, who explained the general wasn’t, in fact, coming to El Pozo. He was still at his main command post, a house near Los Mangos. I was to report to him there.
This entailed walking another mile east along the road, which at that elevation was at least drier than the portion down in the jungle. At the crossroads known as Los Mangos we headed north on a path for a hundred yards, where we found another group of staff tents near the dilapidated farmhouse where the general had his headquarters.
As another rain shower swept over us, I found a bedraggled officer who led me to the conference in the largest tent set up for the staff officers in the front yard. It was a chaotically urgent scene—the complete opposite of the Tampa Bay Hotel a month earlier.
It seemed not much was going right. The place was jammed with men. A sergeant in the corner of the tent was explaining to a major that the telephone connection to El Pozo was broken, as was the line back to Siboney. A lieutenant announced that the regimental medicine chests had just arrived ashore—a week late—but there was no transport to get them forward. Right after that, another lieutenant piped up with a message from General Kent demanding more food. A leak in the center of the canvas poured water down into an overflowing bucket on the canvas floor.
I spotted Miley, now a captain, shaking his head at it all. At the allied commanders’ conference at García’s mountaintop camp a week ago he’d been the very epitome of a diligent staff officer in a starched uniform, handling the military minutiae of the campaign for the great man. When I saw him in the midst of the San Juan Heights battle he was far less spit-shined. He was impressive, darting here and there to deliver commands from Shafter to the brigade and division commanders. Now, Miley looked just how I felt. Exhausted, filthy, and frustrated.
With a weary nod and mumble he suggested I see the staff adjutant, a colonel seated ramrod straight behind a table at the far end of the tent. I headed over and stood before the table. The colonel, it was clear to see, was a recent arrival to the campaign in Cuba. From boots to shoulders, his uniform had a parade-ground sheen without a hint of dirt or dampness. There were actual creases in the sleeves and legs. It was a marvel, that uniform. I had the burning temptation to ask him how the hell he managed it. You couldn’t walk ten feet outside without splattering your shoes and trousers with mud.
But I didn’t ask, for right then he raised his attention from the report he was studying to the naval officer before him. Before I could introduce myself, he announced, in an unambiguously chastising tone, that the general had been expecting for me for hours. He added I’d best not keep the general waiting any longer. This greeting was accompanied by a minute inspection of the mud-caked, stubble-chinned naval
intruder from head to toe. His wrinkled expression of disdain and prolonged sniff made it manifestly apparent that I didn’t pass muster.
Miserably uncomfortable and borderline mutinous at the colonel’s rudeness, I declined to render any of the usual courtesies and instead turned and plodded out the tent to the front door of the farmhouse. The guard stood to attention, bringing his rifle to present arms. After returning his salute, I leaned through the doorframe and peered inside.
The main room of the house was plainly furnished. A pair of lanterns sat on a large table with a cloud of swirling bugs around each. Seated in an oversize folding canvas chair at the table, Shafter was reading some paperwork. His uniform coat and hat were flung on a cot in the corner along with several rucksacks and a raincoat. Two steamer trunks were next to the table, one opened to reveal toiletries and large tins of food.
The adjutant colonel marched briskly by me in the doorway, leaving a trail of strong cologne behind him, and entered the house. I looked down and saw mud on his shoes, which brightened my mood. Without so much as a hello, the colonel placed another pile of papers on the corner of the general’s table, which was already covered with neatly organized maps and reports.
“That naval officer has finally arrived, sir,” he stated to the general, who vaguely acknowledged the information without looking up. I walked inside and stood before the table as the colonel threw me a smug look on his way out. The fervent hope flashed through my mind that a Spanish sniper was somewhere close by looking for colonels to shoot.
For a brief moment I regarded the man in charge of the entire American operation ashore. The sight wasn’t reassuring, for William Rufus Shafter didn’t look well at all. His straw-colored hair was in disarray. Massive sweat stains spread out from his armpits across his shirt. His face was bathed in glistening perspiration, with rivulets streaming down his nose and chin. The small eyes squinted. His breathing was audible and labored. Does he have the fever now in addition to his previous ailments? Probably, I decided.
Honoring the Enemy Page 19
