Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  The long-awaited sea battle for Cuba was about to begin.

  46

  A Storm of Steel and Lead

  Off the Santiago Coast, Cuba

  Sunday Morning, 3 July 1898

  FOURTEEN MINUTES LATER, the Spanish ships had executed a perfect right turn and were still in column-ahead formation, now settling on a westward course along the cliff-lined coast. More impressive, they did it while under heavy gunfire.

  Within thirty seconds of the first two American rounds, a profusion of airbursts, near misses, and direct hits exploded among the Spanish cruisers. The sea around them erupted in geysers of water, and shrapnel clanged against their armor. The leading ship, Admiral Cervera’s Infanta María Teresa, was soon alight and smoking heavily along her weather decks. The initial range between the fleets was short—three or four miles at most—and closed rapidly as the American warships turned west in pursuit.

  The Spanish shore batteries, including Melgar’s ancient cannons at El Morro, did their best to help their naval brothers, but they didn’t seem to be scoring many hits on the American ships. From my previous intelligence work on Spanish military capabilities, I knew Spain’s modern ammunition was bad and the ancient stuff was a joke. We had discovered numerous official complaints from Spanish commanders that powder charges had been shorted, and even that sawdust had been found inside the shells delivered to Cuba. Unscrupulous contractors were not only an American curse.

  Freed from the confines of the channel, Colón and her sisters steamed even faster as they raced along the coast. The close formation loosened as some ships made better speed than others. From now on it would be every ship for herself. Dense black smoke poured from every funnel. Gray smoke belched from every gun that bore on the Americans. Our ship—yes, I strangely thought of her as such—was speedier than those ahead and began drawing up to them. The last two Spanish vessels in line, the diminutive torpedo boat–destroyers, veered off to the west upon emerging from the bay, then began a circle. I thought it a tactical mistake that would end badly, but I kept silent.

  “We have high-quality Cardiff anthracite coal for our fuel,” explained Díaz-Moreu to me. “I think today we shall show what this fine ship can do.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything, Captain,” I commented. “Proper planning is crucial.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot accept your kind accolade, Captain. Fortune alone favored us in our acquisition of such fine fuel, not any decision on my part. And under the present perilous conditions in which we find ourselves,” he added, “as a brother naval captain of previous acquaintance, I insist you call me Emilio. After all, we are in the same boat, as they say.”

  I held out my hand. “Very well, Emilio. I am honored. Please call me Peter.”

  He gripped it strongly. “May we both survive to someday enjoy rum and brandy, Peter.”

  As if to mock our mutual amity, at that point Colón became a main target of the Americans. A storm of flying steel and lead pounded against our armored citadel. Everyone inside the armored wheelhouse instinctively ducked away from the slits—except Díaz-Moreu.

  “Bring the course left ten degrees!” he ordered firmly with his face pressed to a slit. “We will go past the admiral and Vizcaya on their port sides.”

  I peered out the slit closest to me. Up ahead on the starboard bow, the Spanish flagship was completely engulfed in fire and was altering course to starboard, toward shore. Beside us, Vizcaya also had explosions rippling along her decks from the American gunfire. A detonation somewhere aft suddenly rocked Colón.

  “Damage report?” demanded Emilio. “And pass the word to the engineers to disregard normal pressure limits and make all speed possible.”

  It appeared the Spanish ships had concentrated their initial fire on Schley’s Brooklyn. I could see she was hit, with flames and smoke billowing from among her secondary guns. But she had not stopped or even slowed, and kept on coming at us. Other American ships were now behind or beside us, shifting their fire from María Teresa and Vizcaya to Colón.

  As we passed the two lead Spanish ships, someone shouted, “We can outsteam the yanquis! We are gaining distance from them.”

  A cheer erupted in the confined space. Díaz-Moreu smiled. “Of course we can, men. It is a chase now, and our engineers will be the heroes.”

  Incredibly, it seemed true. Brooklyn had veered away from a near collision course with María Teresa and was completing a 270-degree turn. The unexpected maneuver forced Texas to slow down to avoid Schley’s ship. Meanwhile, Iowa was steaming parallel to the Spanish ships on their port quarter, firing at us. Farther astern I could see Oregon, her bow wave white against the blue-green sea, heading right for us.

  Emilio ordered the entire portside secondary battery to fire into Iowa. Several rounds hit her on the main deck and the waterline. Iowa slowed, and Colón forged ahead, now in front of everyone, Spanish and American.

  “Infanta María Teresa is out of the fight and heading for the beach, sir,” reported an officer at 10:20. Only half an hour after the first shots of the battle were fired, Cervera’s flagship was a burning hulk.

  Emilio seemed almost to ignore the report, instead ordering, “Alter course five degrees to port. Steer for that headland in the distance—Cameroneito. We will pass very close by it.”

  “Mother of God, no!” someone cried, to an accompanying chorus from the after end of the wheelhouse. We turned around in time to see a large explosion erupting on the ship behind us. She veered quickly toward the rocky shore.

  “Poor Oquendo,” said an officer. “She is gone.”

  The litany continued. This time it was the Spanish destroyers. “Look, Furor is sunk!” “Pluton is beaching herself.”

  Colón was hit twice more, aft and amidships. The gunnery officer reported all secondary 6-inch guns on the port side—the side engaging the Americans—were out of commission, except one. It still exchanged fire with the American ships, but the increase in range diminished the accuracy on both sides. In another few minutes our guns stopped firing. The Americans stopped wasting ammunition too.

  By 11 a.m. Colón had been racing at full speed for more than an hour. The engineering reports every fifteen minutes were full of warnings about extreme boiler pressures, overheating bearings, and coal consumption. Díaz-Moreu told them to keep on pushing as hard as they could, for they were increasing the distance from the American ships. That observation was no hyperbole for morale, for Colón was actually pulling off the impossible. The lone Spanish hare was escaping the entire pack of yanqui hounds.

  Schley in Brooklyn was six miles astern and dropping farther back. Oregon, which had been farther east and therefore had to steam much farther than Brooklyn, was proving herself the fastest American ship in the fleet. Racing along on Schley’s starboard quarter, she was starting to catch us, slowly but surely. Brooklyn’s 8-inch guns couldn’t accurately hit us anymore at the current range, but we would soon be well within range of Oregon’s forward 13-inch main guns. My heart pounded—that was my son’s battery.

  And what of the rest of the American fleet? Far behind the two leaders were Indiana, Iowa, and Texas. Next came Sampson’s New York, rushing west from Siboney past the slower ships. All of them were out of the real race, though. It was now down to Colón versus Oregon and Brooklyn.

  “Vizcaya just blew up, sir,” an officer reported to Díaz-Moreu at five minutes past eleven. “They are beaching the wreck.” It grew quiet in the wheelhouse.

  The Spanish captain’s voice was like iron. “Gentlemen, our comrades are gone. We are the only ones left to uphold the pride of Spain. We have outrun every enemy ship except Oregon. Now Colón must outrun her. Our freedom lies beyond that headland to the west.”

  For another hour the three ships plunged westward through the ocean swells.

  Although the men around me were the enemy, that appellation didn’t come immediately to my mind as I watched them. I found myself wanting these brave men to live through their def
eat.

  Emilio ordered the armored ports on the unengaged starboard side opened to ventilate the wheelhouse, then invited his American prisoners to take a stroll with him around the upper deck. I was embarrassed by my sloppy appearance, but not so much that I declined an opportunity to escape the citadel’s coffin-like interior. I wanted to gain an unobstructed view of the overall situation unfolding along the coast and see how Colón’s crew was coping with battle conditions.

  We descended the starboard ladder to the boat deck and walked aft, trailed by my subordinates and two Spanish sailors as guards. We were interrupted by a messenger from the bridge who handed his captain a note. Emilio read it, then turned aft to study Oregon for a moment with those hooded eyes. He dismissed the messenger with no reply.

  He looked me and dispassionately stated, “We have run out of our Cardiff anthracite coal, Peter. So we must use Cuban bituminous from here onward. Not as efficient, as you know, but one must make do with what one has at hand.”

  I glanced aloft. Colón’s exhaust smoke was no longer dark gray from the cleaner-burning anthracite. It was now black. It could only be a matter of time before Colón began to slow.

  Seizing the moment, I tried to convince him to yield to reason. “Emilio, you and your men have done all, and even more, than could ever be expected of you. The honor and bravery of the Spanish navy has been unquestionably proven today. There is no shame in ending this now, my friend, without further loss of life.”

  “No, not yet, Peter. We are not beaten yet. In fact, we are still winning the race.”

  And with that said, Emilio changed into a sociable mood. As if to displace the ugly reality around us with professional camaraderie, he showed me various appliances and equipment on deck, introduced me to his officers, and discussed the diverse duties involved in captaining a warship. Walking behind us, Law and Rork stayed dutifully silent, their faces showing no emotion as Emilio and I carried on about the common burdens of naval command. It was a surreal experience for me, all this unanticipated friendliness in the midst of a life-and-death struggle.

  From therein came a peculiar conversation, the likes of which few warriors have experienced.

  47

  The Ultimate Irony

  Off the Santiago Coast, Cuba

  Sunday Morning, 3 July 1898

  THE GENERAL MELEE BEHIND us now, a curious normalcy descended upon the ship. While the occasional ranging shot was still fired unsuccessfully at them, Colón’s crewmen partook of their usual noonday meal and rum ration as we walked aft among them.

  Since the ship was at battle stations and the galley fires were out, the only food was stale bread and congealed rice and beans. Their real sustenance was the pure rum in their cups, a serious temptation for Rork. I had to glower severely to prevent him from trying to make off with some of the stuff. We needed our wits about us, for the worst was surely still to come.

  Even though they’d already had a double tot that morning, I saw no drunkenness or false bravado among the Spanish enlisted men as they took their rum—the day had progressed far beyond such empty rhetoric and gesture. I also noted no despair. The sailors were as personally composed, and as professionally determined, as their officers. I heard one of them tell another the situation wasn’t hopeless yet, suggesting what a fine tale they would have when they escaped and made it home. I noted he said “when,” not “if.”

  As we went around, Emilio inspected the battle damage, spoke encouragingly with his men, and inquired of his officers about their guns’ readiness and their men’s well-being. At each interview he introduced me as their “honored prisoner” and allowed me to hear their reports. I was profoundly touched by the gesture but couldn’t help wondering why. Would I do this? No.

  I grew more and more impressed with Díaz-Moreu. He was a rare example of a true natural leader, one who instinctively understands and can motivate his men. He knew how to focus their attention and efforts with positive comments that applied specifically to them. Several times he urged the sailors not to look aft at the fleet chasing them but to keep looking forward to the west, toward the empty horizon and freedom. They seemed to be heartened by his words. Even the grizzled old petty officers, who knew the odds better than anyone, visibly appreciated his efforts.

  Heading aft past the second funnel, which had smoke escaping from shrapnel holes all over it, we reached the mangled after end of the boat deck. Below us was the main deck where the secondary 6-inch guns were emplaced along both sides of the hull. Several on the port side were wrecks, their barrels askew.

  On the boat deck, where the smaller-caliber guns were located, I saw three or four guns damaged beyond repair, with pools of blood where their gun crews had once stood. A bloodied sailor, his arm in shreds, was brought past us on a stretcher. He had been trapped in the wreckage and just then freed. Emilio called him by name and touched his good shoulder, thanking him for helping to keep the enemy at bay long enough for Colón to escape.

  Near the mainmast boat booms amidships, Emilio once again checked Oregon’s position. I could tell he was estimating the rate of closure between the ships by the relative bearings.

  “Peter, would you happen to know the captain of Oregon?” he suddenly asked me. “I believe his name is Clark, is it not?”

  “Yes, I know him. Charles Clark is a decent man, an excellent seaman, and a veteran warrior. Fought at Mobile, back in ’64. Like you, he’s respected by his officers and men.”

  “Ah, yes, with the respect of his men, a captain and his ship can achieve wonders. I have noted Oregon’s gunners must be well trained, for they have been quite successful in their work this morning.”

  Emilio surveyed the shoreline then pointed at a beach. “Ah, we are already passing Asarradero. I think we have made very good speed for a ship with a foul bottom, encrusted boiler tubes, overworked bearings, and funnel damage; sixteen or seventeen knots, maybe a little bit more. But, oh, you should have seen her when she was new—four knots faster.” His face brightened at the memory, then fell. “But times changed. We could not maintain her, just as we could not maintain Cuba.”

  He motioned toward another section of the shore. “Look over there. I think the Cubans are cheering, and not for us.”

  A thousand yards to starboard was the same beach with hot, white sand where Shafter had come ashore to meet García for the first time. It was crowded with Mambi warriors, my allies, watching the sea chase. In the bright sunlight and sea breeze, Cuban flags flapped from bamboo poles in the village behind the beach.

  I could see the trail winding up the hill to the plateau above and remembered the poor mule struggling to carry an American general who outweighed him. The tall, green ridges of the Sierra Maestra came right down to the sea on this stretch of the coast, covered everywhere with primordial jungle. It struck me that the terrain must have looked the same to Christopher Columbus, namesake of this ship, four centuries earlier.

  Emilio broke into my thoughts.

  “Our speed has diminished because of the change in coal. Oregon is closing the range. Her big guns will fire at us very soon. From what I have already seen of her gunners, they will eventually hit us.”

  He said it without rancor or fear. It was a professional observation, a fact. They would open fire with individual ranging shots within minutes. Those would be followed by volleys.

  I imagined my son at his battle position that very moment—receiving reports from his gun captains, chief loaders, and the chief petty officer of the forward magazine. Sean would be busy double-checking the range to Colón through his new Fiske optical sight, calmly gauging the pitch and roll of the ship for the optimal firing moment. Then he would call into his communication tube to the ship’s gunnery officer, who would pass along to the executive officer on the bridge the report that Oregon’s forward main guns were loaded, locked, laid on target, and ready to fire. Captain Clark would then give the order.

  Since it was a moot point anyway, I decided to enlighten Emilio about the u
ltimate irony of the day. “I suppose you might as well know about a rare paradox today, Emilio. My son is Oregon’s assistant gunnery officer. He commands her forward main battery.”

  His eyes opened wide in shock. “Peter, I am stunned. This is terrible. You must not be subjected to gunfire from your own son! I cannot permit it. I am sending you forward to the armored bridge, where there is more protection from Oregon’s shells. I must return to my position there now anyway. Follow me.”

  He was already striding forward as I mentioned to Rork behind me, “It really would be ironic if my own son ended up—”

  Bright white light and a deafening crack took the words from my mouth. I was flung backward off my feet, my spine smashing into what felt like an iron cliff. Everything went black as a wall of water inundated me.

  48

  Two Degrees

  Off the Santiago Coast, Cuba

  Sunday, 3 July 1898

  I CAME TO A MOMENT later crumpled sideways around a main ventilator cowl. Rork and Law were sprawled on the deck by the mainmast. I saw them moving hesitantly, then getting up. Díaz-Moreu wasn’t in sight. Nor were our sailor guards. The buzzing in my ears was so loud that the voices of the Spanish crewmen yelling nearby sounded faint. Rork, Law, and I cautiously stood.

  I looked around for major structural damage, expecting to find part of the ship gone from the blast. But Colón was still steaming forward on a level keel. There was damage, however. A gale of shrapnel had punctured hundreds of holes everywhere along the deck. A six-inch-long jagged gash was ripped into the ventilator about a foot above where I had collided with it.

  Two sailors lay on the deck, doubled over and cursing in pain. I went over and knelt to help them. Blood poured from their wounds, and I started binding a handkerchief around one man’s shredded hand. Rork said something I couldn’t hear, then touched my face. I felt liquid coursing down my cheeks. Damn it, not again! The splinter wounds were pouring blood.