Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  When they were still twenty yards away, Rork and I popped up over the edge of the ravine and let loose with our shotguns. Ducking back down, we followed after Law, who had opened fire from farther down, giving the appearance to the enemy commander of a much larger opponent than he’d originally estimated.

  The ravine was getting shallower and more serpentine. As it curved around to the west, away from the tracks, I could see a tree line in the distance. We climbed out of the ravine and headed for that, forgoing further gunfire so as to continue confusing the Spanish as to our whereabouts and strength. This tactic seemed to work, for no more volleys were fired at us. I heard the enemy in the ravine behind us discussing who we were and where we were headed. An older voice, perhaps a sergeant, suggested we were probing their defenses to the west. A younger and more uncertain voice averred the patrol had scared off the intruders, who had fled east, toward the protection of the yanqui lines.

  After running for another couple of minutes, we stopped and took a breath, listening for the Spanish. The railroad tracks were some thirty or forty yards ahead.

  Rork tapped my shoulder and pointed to something on the track. “Do me eyes deceive me, sir, or did the Spaniardos leave their rail handcar transport out in the open? A bit stupid, that.”

  He was right. Handcars were not just left out in the open in wartime Cuba. This one must belong to the Spanish army patrol we had just encountered. It looked big enough to carry several people—probably the officer in charge, a couple of privates to work the motive levers, and some light supplies.

  It was also blessedly perfect for our purposes.

  It took but a few seconds to arrive at the contraption and clamber on board. None of us had ever operated a handcar, but how hard could it be? It wasn’t as if you had to steer the damned thing.

  Law and Rork began to work the seesaw levers. I kept a lookout ahead and astern as we began to roll northwest. Unfortunately, this was an ancient mechanical beast. Clearly, it hadn’t had an effective greasing in quite some time. The wheels began to squeak. The faster we went, the louder the squeaking got.

  An angry voice shouted in Spanish from the spot from where we’d spied the handcar. They must have followed our footprints then heard the car. Shots, at first ragged, then more regulated, began heading in our direction.

  I joined in pumping the lever. The rail track was on a loose bed, and the car swayed like a boat in a beam sea. As we pushed and pulled on the lever, I felt the tracks ascending slightly. Pumping became far more arduous. At last, gasping for breath, we topped a rise and began to coast downward. This allowed us to rest, but I realized I didn’t know how to stop or slow our beast. While I was looking for the handbrake, Law spotted a line across the horizon and brought it to our attention.

  “I think it’s the Morro road,” I replied. “The intersection should be just before those hills far on the starboard bow. That puts El Morro only about two and a half miles to our port side.”

  Somewhat needlessly, Law added, “Except for that patrol, this area looks wide open, sir.”

  Rork noted, “Aye, that it is, sir. But this thing’s squeakin’ like a pig in a lion pit, so those buggers back there’ll know right where the hell we are. We’ve got the lay o’ the land now, so perhaps we should get off the car here an’ go on foot. We can set a southerly course for a mile across this farm country an’ then veer to port a bit an’ make our way east. We’ll reach Bates’ division in plenty o’ time to report the good news to General Shafter. It’s gettin’ late, an’ remember, he wants it by midnight.”

  We were rolling faster now, but there was an incline ahead where we could coast to a stop. I was on the verge of agreeing with Rork’s idea when a loud thud jolted us. The handcar tilted up and off the rails, careening over onto the track bed to the left and throwing us off into the bushes. For several seconds there was silence, then our muffled cursing as we checked for cuts and breaks. Miraculously, none of us was pinned beneath the handcar.

  While Law and Rork searched for our weapons, which had been flung somewhere into the bushes along with the seabag, I looked at the railcar, then the track, to confirm a suspicion. There it was—an iron bar wedged into the track at an angle between two track ties. The track had been sabotaged. An ambush? At first I thought the Cuban rebels had done it to hinder the Spanish, but that notion was soon dispelled.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I am Comandante Alberto Marino of His Catholic Majesty’s Forces in Cuba. Please do not resist me or my soldiers, for it would be a great pity to kill you now that your war is over.”

  The genteel voice in perfect English came from a nearby stand of palm and papaya trees, accompanied by the sound of at least twenty rifle bolts ramming home in preparation to shoot us. Other forms rose up from the bushes a few yards away—the soldiers were in a classic L-shaped ambush. They kept their distance at five yards, too far away for us to jump them and cause confusion. These were not amateurs. Marino issued orders in Spanish. He spoke rapidly, like a Cuban. From Havana or Matanzas, I guessed.

  Not having found our shotguns and rifle yet, we had no choice but to raise our hands in surrender. Rork muttered an indelicate phrase in Gaelic as Law, who seemed to be losing his normal reserve, followed suit in English. The Spanish troops said nothing, their faces grimly watching us. Yanquis were known to be tricky.

  Marino stepped toward me, came to attention, and saluted, complete with clicking heels. After I tardily returned the salute, not clicking, he said, “I see by your gold sleeve lace that you are a senior naval officer, sir. Would you be so kind to inform me whom I have the pleasure meeting on this beautiful evening in Oriente?”

  Damnation. They had us, pure and simple.

  “Captain Peter Wake, United States Navy. This is Lieutenant Edwin Law, United States Marines, and Chief Boatswain’s Mate Sean Rork, United States Navy.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is a great honor to have you all as my prisoners. You will be well taken care of as our professional guests and also kept safe from harm. And now, we shall take you to Colonel Melgar at El Morro. He will also be quite pleased to meet you, I am sure.”

  I have been a “professional guest” of my opponents several times over the years. One of the most useful strategies in that event is to establish a personal rapport with your wardens. It helps to disarm their wariness.

  “Your English is very good, Comandante. Where did you learn it?” I asked.

  “I am very proud to say I became conversant with the language of Shakespeare at the Yale School of Fine Arts, class of ’93,” he said. “In normal life I am a painter. But alas, these are not normal times.”

  “Did you know a Cuban engineer named Alfonso Fortuna during your time at Harvard? You both graduated the same year.”

  His face light up in the moonlight. “Why, yes, I did! Alfonso is a fine man. We first met at a sporting event and occasionally met afterward to partake of refreshments in New Haven and Cambridge. I last saw him at Santiago in ’95. Regrettably, Alfonso joined the side of the enemies of Spain in this sad war. I, of course, was duty bound to support my sovereign and my country. If you know him, please present my felicitations the next time you see him, though that may be quite a while.”

  “Sorry to tell you this, but Alfonso was killed in the recent battle at San Juan Heights.”

  Marino shook his head mournfully. “A tragic, senseless waste.”

  A sergeant cleared his throat pointedly, bringing the comandante back to the present. The soldiers still had their rifles aimed at our hearts. Marino nodded to the sergeant, who told his men to search us. Their examination of me was cursory, and though they took Law’s and Rork’s big Navy Colt revolvers, they missed the smaller revolver hidden inside the front of my waistband.

  “It is now time for us to go, Captain Wake,” Marino said pleasantly. “We have a wagon on the road, so the journey will not be so arduous for you and your companions. I am glad your war is over and you will not face its terror and death anymore.”

>   Rork’s eyes met mine. I knew he was thinking the same as me. Marino was a bon vivant, not a warrior, whom societal and familial expectations had thrust into the most uncivilized experience of his life. In peacetime we’d be drinking together, discussing art and history and women. But it wasn’t peacetime. Marino was unprepared and sloppy, the enemy’s weakest link.

  Killing him was going to make me sad, but it was necessary.

  34

  An Exquisitely Pleasant Failure

  El Morro de Santiago, Santiago Bay, Cuba

  Saturday Night, 2 July 1898

  ONCE WE REACHED THE seaside ridge along the coast, I noted a fortified battery of four modern field artillery pieces. They appeared to be Model 1895 Krupp 75s, a rapid-fire light fieldpiece with a range of two miles. Their muzzles were pointed inland. Rork and I exchanged worried glances at that development.

  I also noticed that sentries along this bumpy road had called ahead, presumably by telephone line, relaying that a high-ranking American prisoner was coming. No one seemed surprised to see us. Many stared with open curiosity. After an hour or so we arrived at the torch-lit entry of El Morro’s outer defenses on the inland side.

  El Castillo San Pedro de la Rocha, commonly known as El Morro, was an imposing sight with its parapets outlined against the moonlit sea and sky. For more than two hundred years it had kept Santiago safe. For the previous ninety years it had also served as an infamous prison for those considered disloyal to Spain—and now would do so for three foreign prisoners of war.

  When the wagon stopped and we disembarked, we were met with solemn pomp and ceremony. A guard of honor was drawn up, and the commander, introduced only as Colonel Melgar, clearly a gentleman of the highest caliber, met us in full dress uniform. He pronounced it an honor to receive such brave warriors of a noble foe. Once this public display was completed, he quietly bid me to enter his private apartments. His invitation included the offer of a cognac, an 1869 Rémy Martin. Taken aback by such hospitality, I found it difficult to remember I was a prisoner of war. I accepted the invitation with sincere gratitude.

  Melgar and I strolled sociably through the zigzagged outer walls and over the large drawbridge spanning the twenty-foot-deep and forty-foot-wide dry moat surrounding the main castle. Once through the main gate and inside the massive walls, under the eyes of Spanish soldiers the entire time, we descended some stairs to a small plaza, across which a working party was lugging powder charges to some cannon emplaced on the seaward parapet that were at least a century old.

  Melgar saw my reaction and laughed. “For close-in defense. The modern long-range guns are in our accompanying fortifications.”

  He led the way up another three flights of stairs to his personal quarters. I was drawn immediately to the private patio overlooking the Caribbean. I stood there for a moment, savoring the sight of our inner night patrol of gunboats and light cruisers a mere three miles away, the battleships farther offshore.

  “They come in closer at night and return farther out at sunrise,” said the colonel, gauging my mind. “But I must tell you they won’t be able to come in and rescue you. Our big guns and sea mines worry them.”

  “Prudent precautions,” I replied. “But I must admit, Colonel, that I am of no consequence to the war effort. They have lots of time to wait for your fleet to come out to them. Ships in a harbor are useless in war.”

  “I agree with your opinion of the American and Spanish fleets but must disagree on your opinion of your worth. Full naval captains do not wander through the night in enemy territory by mistake or for their pleasure. Your excursion was for a profound military purpose.”

  He chuckled and motioned to a chair, as if we were old friends, a disarming gesture. We relaxed on the butter-soft leather in the warm glow from wall sconces. Paintings by Spanish artists lined the walls, and intricately patterned Moroccan rugs covered the stone floor. The cognac was proffered and accepted, and tasted damn good. A silent orderly served Galician empanadas that proved to be a marvelous pairing with the Rémy. I felt my mood mellowing.

  I hasten to add that this unexpected luxury, so vastly different from our recent war experiences, was not limited to me alone. Rork was whisked away to the senior sergeants’ quarters for congenial refreshments involving copious amounts of rum. Mr. Law was taken to the junior officers’ mess for refreshments that included wine. Admittedly, we had failed in our mission to bring back information to the commanding general by the appointed hour of midnight. But as military failures go, this was turning out to be an exquisitely pleasant one.

  A gentleman and epicure of the highest order, Colonel Melgar engaged me for more than an hour in amiable conversation about all manner of things—family, cuisine, travel, spirits—everything except war. Of my family I was circumspect, for reasons the reader well understands. To my immense relief, the colonel didn’t seem to have prior knowledge about my marital connection to Spain.

  In fact, I can honestly say Colonel Melgar was the most generous prison host I’ve known during my long career. This is no idle accolade, for I’ve met an extensive catalogue of prison wardens on six continents.

  Of course, all this conviviality was by design. Lubricated by the cognac and the sudden release of anxiety over whether I would be shot as a spy, I relaxed. As the third glass eased the atmosphere, Melgar adroitly turned the conversation to the cultural aspects of the island of Cuba. I could tell he was pleased with his performance and his apparent growing rapport with his prisoner.

  Next he segued into empathy for Cuban independence, respect for the goals of the Americans in Cuba, and regret for the carnage both sides were sure to suffer in the event of an assault on Santiago. To his subtle but insistent queries I pleaded ignorance, maintaining my diminishing masquerade as a mere squadron staff sailor lost ashore who turned in the wrong direction on his way back to the coast and the fleet.

  Melgar didn’t believe my story in the least, but he never said so, always hoping for a tidbit of information that might prove useful. This gentle inducement and parrying continued for two amiable hours. The level in the bottle had lowered considerably when he mentioned he was now sending my companions and me to the area’s commanding officer in Santiago, Major General José Toral. Ignoring the ominous implications of my change in address, I decided to get some intelligence of my own.

  Expressing surprise that Toral was now in command, I asked about Lieutenant General Arsenio Linares, the acknowledged supreme commander of eastern Cuba. Without letting on his view of the developments, Melgar explained Linares had been badly wounded in the fighting at Santiago and his survival was in doubt. This was a hitherto unknown piece of information for me and, I surmised, would be for Shafter as well. It cast a different light on the future of the campaign for Santiago. Linares was known as a soldier’s soldier, a man who could and would fight. He was highly respected among the senior Americans. Toral was largely an enigma to us. I decided to wax philosophical.

  “My dear Colonel Melgar,” I said pleasantly, the cognac slurring my words just a bit. “I do hope General Toral understands the futility of further Spanish bloodshed from the American onslaught. I’m certain a respectable armistice could be arranged, one that would satisfy Spanish honor, along with transport for your army back to Spain. In fact, my friend, we could write the document ourselves now, here in his parlor. After all, I see there is still some cognac left. We could have the entire thing done by sunrise and save thousands of lives.”

  “Surrender?” Melgar’s congenial expression instantly hardened into a stone-cold stare, which said it all. I had been an unappreciative and rude guest, divulging no intelligence, drinking his fine cognac, and making a mockery of his interrogation. The faux friendship was over.

  The colonel stood and said, “Spaniards do not surrender.” And with that he departed.

  I was left alone in the room, but not without diversions. Realizing things were most likely about to get far worse, I had another glass of his excellent cognac while analyzing the
situation.

  We would be transported a fair distance through the night to our new prison inside the city of Santiago. This was an opportunity, for it is far easier to escape from a wagon than from the inside of a cell in the center of a 280-year-old fortress.

  When they came for me a few minutes later, the last of Colonel Melgar’s Rémy Martin was gone.

  35

  Memories of Santiago

  The Morro–Santiago Road, Santiago, Cuba

  Saturday Night after Midnight, 3 July 1898

  COMANDANTE MARINO appeared at the doorway with Rork and Law, both of them glassy-eyed with drink. Rork sniffed the air, spotted the decanter of cognac, and edged toward it. When he saw it was empty he sighed his disappointment.

  I wasn’t worried about my companions divulging secret information. Rork can be falling-down drunk and not let go of his inner faculties, at least where secrets are concerned. Law was young but not naïve, and I’d seen him handle rum well. Besides, neither of them knew the entirety of Shafter’s possible secret alteration to the grand campaign plan, for I’d followed orders and kept it to myself. I’d told them that our mission was only a local probe along the river, and that I had to report our findings by midnight. Though he didn’t let on, I was sure Rork surmised the real reason for our exploration when we ended up so far beyond the American lines.

  Marino was far more subdued now, almost embarrassed, as he silently led us across the drawbridge back to the outer gate, where the same wagon awaited us. No pomp attended our departure, only sullen looks. This time the entourage included an additional cart, in which I saw our seabag with our weapons along with some large boxes and a small barrel. Marino explained the seabag had been found and the contents examined. He added that each item was carefully returned to the bag afterward, including the weapons, for General Toral’s personal inspection. There was also a mounted escort of half a dozen cavalrymen, their well-groomed horses glistening in the torchlight.