All that was too much to explain right then, so I simply said, “Uncle Sean and I got captured by the Spanish at Santiago, son.”
“You were captured by the Spanish navy?” As he realized what had happened, his expression changed from surprise to horror. “Good Lord, you were prisoners on Colón!”
“Yes, we were. It’s a long story, which I’ll tell you later when we have more time. By the way, you did fine today, son.”
It was my son’s turn to be overcome. He couldn’t take his eyes off the wreckage that was Colón. Dwelling on what might have happened wouldn’t do any good, so I changed the subject to more pressing matters.
“Sean, I see New York is arriving now. I need to report to Admiral Sampson and get an important message back to General Shafter. Can you get me out to the admiral?”
He snapped back around to me. “What? Oh, sorry, Dad, I was just thinking about what could’ve …”
“All’s well that ends well, son. Don’t get into the what-ifs. They’re a waste of time. Now, how about that ride out to New York?”
“Right. Of course, Dad.” Then, with a shy, apologetic grimace, he converted from my son back into a naval officer. “Ah, I mean aye, aye, sir.”
Edwin Law, Sean, and I sat in the stern as Oregon’s steam launch chugged out to the flagship. Once I was sure my reconnaissance report was headed for Shafter, I would somehow get to Maria. I desperately needed to be alone with her, to hold her and have her hold me.
“Any word from Maria?” I asked my son.
“Oh, hell! Sorry, Dad. I should’ve told you right away, but seeing you here shocked me out of my wits. Yes, I got a short note from Maria yesterday. She’s been ordered to Seneca, a converted Ward Line passenger ship taking our wounded back home. She wasn’t sure when they were getting under way or for which port.”
Seneca? The one they were loading with wounded when I left Maria? That ship and her master, Captain Decker, were familiar to me. She’d run the Havana route for many years before the war. Maria and I’d even sailed on her from Key West to New York. Three months earlier, when I was commanding the Special Service Squadron on its ill-fated mission, the Navy had obtained Seneca and turned her into a troopship. I’d last seen the vessel in June. With the rest of the transport fleet, she was lying off Siboney waiting to disembark her seasick soldiers and pack animals.
This, at long last, was good news about Maria. She was leaving Cuba. My spirits lifted. As soon as I reported to the admiral, I’d find my wife before she departed for the United States.
Up in the bow, Rork sat on the forward thwart. His queue had come loose, and his long gray hair was tangled and flying about in the wind. Beside him was his false hand and its prosthetic base. Swaying easily with the motion of the boat, he was slowly massaging the stump of his left arm. Periodically, especially in the humid tropics, he rubbed talcum powder on the stump to prevent rashes, but he’d run out in Cuba.
The saltwater and jellyfish stings made it worse. His arm was red and swollen. I knew he was in pain. I’d also noticed him limping on the trail. That old right foot injury was acting up, too. He stopped his massaging and dipped his arm into the bow wave. Then he brought it up and vacantly stared aft at Cuba. The eyes had no twinkle; the mouth no ready smile. His frame was slumped. The brave façade was gone.
My oldest and dearest friend looked worse than exhausted. We were all exhausted. But for the first time since we’d met thirty-five years earlier, Sean Rork looked physically and mentally weak. He’d never recovered from his heatstroke in the battle two days earlier, and now I saw the stark reality of his health. Rork was an old man. He would never recover from all the wounds and ailments he had accumulated during his long, hard life.
Back at San Juan Heights, I’d thought it was time for him to go on leave and rest. I acquiesced when he put up a vigorous argument. But now I knew it was time for him to retire. I considered ordering him to go home on Maria’s hospital ship. It would anger and embarrass him, but I was ready to endure his resentment to save my friend’s life.
Seeing me studying him, the old goat quickly went back into his usual persona. He sat up straighter on the thwart and strapped on his marlinespike appliance. The rubber hand was still on the thwart. The marlinespike, that stealthy weapon he’d carried for fifteen years, gleamed in the sun as he inspected it.
The old devilish smile returned as he glanced at me. “Well, sir, seems we cheated death one more bloody time.”
The launch’s crew, who had been watching Rork adjust his wicked-looking strap and spike, broke into grins at his performance. I’ll admit it worked on me, too. Maybe I misjudged his condition and he really is just a bit tired. That’s what I desperately wanted to think.
“Down but never out!” Rork growled to the waves as he squinted into the sunlit horizon. It was the old Rork. Law looked over at me and grinned.
In that instant I made the decision—knowing it would haunt me for the rest of my life. “Aye, Bosun, and damned lucky at that, I say!” I shouted back over the roaring boiler and clanking piston as we charged along.
He retorted as I knew he would. “Lucky hell, sir! We’re the most cold-hearted sea-goin’ bastards who ever trod a deck! Enemies tremble at our name!”
By this time everyone was laughing, and I yelled out my part in the running joke we’d had for more than thirty years. “That they do, Rork! But we can’t quit now, can we? There’s more enemies to be vanquished, ladies to be loved, and wrongs to be righted!”
Rork stood up in the bow, swaying with the swells, and raised his unsheathed marlinespike toward the flagship. “Aye, sir! An’ all done in proper naval fashion!”
Everyone in the launch, officers and men, cheered a lusty, “Aye!” in answer. Rork showed the merest flicker of self-satisfaction as he sat down. He sat there, nonchalantly watching the closing gap to the giant warship as if nothing had just transpired. He knew he didn’t have to say anything more.
Chief Boatswain’s Mate Sean Rork, U.S. Navy, had once again made his point, loud and clear.
53
Living in the Mud No More
Flagship New York
Sunday, 3 July 1898
THE FLAG LIEUTENANT announced my arrival to Admiral Sampson. I stepped past the Marine sentry in the passageway and into the admiral’s opulent day cabin. Now that the ship was no longer cleared for action, the space looked more like a society parlor than a commander’s spartan quarters. The ports were open, but in the midday of a Cuban summer the cabin still was oppressively hot, no matter how luxurious the fixtures.
Sampson was in shirtsleeves. He looked up from his desk, a genuinely happy grin on his usually taciturn face. “Dear Lord, is that really you, Peter? I heard the news but couldn’t believe it! You look awful. We’ll get the doctor in here to look at those wounds on your face. And that rash!”
The admiral threw a questioning glance at the lieutenant, who quickly disappeared to find the staff surgeon.
“It is indeed me, sir,” I said. “Sorry about my appearance. I haven’t had a chance to find new uniforms for myself or my men, or to bathe. My wounds are negligible—just old ones that have reopened. And the rash is from last night when we got stung by jellyfish, of all things, while floating in Santiago Bay.”
“Well, first and foremost, you need some medical attention.”
“Please don’t worry about me. I fully understand you’re overwhelmed with responsibilities right now, so I won’t intrude for long. Just needed to report to you and make sure that my reconnaissance report gets to General Shafter as soon as possible. It’s important, and he’s been expecting it since midnight last night.”
Sampson motioned to the chair by his desk. “Reconnaissance? Peter, please sit down. Twice in the last week I’ve heard the wildest gossip about you being killed on some sort of skullduggery ashore. Now I’m hearing you were a prisoner on Colón during the battle.”
It hasn’t taken long for that to get around. Probably from Rork visiting his cr
onies up in the CPO mess.
“Well, yes, we did have some trouble ashore, sir, but we got through it. And yes, we were captured while we were trying to swim past Colón to the American fleet and ended up on board her during the battle. A very long story.”
He shook his head in wonder. “I imagine it is a long story. Obviously, we need to get you back in Uncle Sam’s Navy before you get yourself killed for real!”
“No arguments from me on that, Admiral. About the report for General Shafter, sir. He’s been waiting for it since last night, but I was prevented from getting it to the American lines. Once I got on board New York I took the liberty of asking your flag lieutenant to have it typed up. It’s right here, sir. And this is your copy.” I handed both to him. “He didn’t want an extra copy made, but I think you should see it since you need to know the situation ashore too.”
“Thank you. I’m heading for a meeting with Shafter later, but we’ll get his copy of your report to him straightaway. And we’ll keep my copy confidential. Now, I want to hear what’s going on ashore—after our doctor looks you over. And we’re getting new uniforms for you and your men. Can’t have you looking like vagabonds on the flagship, can we?”
Sampson called for the lieutenant, gave him the original of the report to have taken ashore, and told him that he didn’t wish to be disturbed for an hour. Then he leaned back and said, “Peter, I haven’t seen you since the meeting with García. I want to hear everything.”
Strengthened by Navy coffee and leftovers from the admiral’s pantry, I began with my liaison with the Cuban and American armies. At Sampson’s insistence I included my impressions of the personalities and geography of the fighting ashore.
The doctor, a disagreeable sort with tiny eyes set far back in his head, arrived as I was relating the battle at Kettle and San Juan Heights to Sampson. The physician poked about my body as I continued, interrupting with harrumphs about the jellyfish stings, my facial and torso wounds’ appearance, lack of hygiene, bad breath, and the ragged appearance of several very old scars. When Sampson asked about my overall condition, the doctor admitted that I was in no grave danger of death—somewhat disappointedly, I thought. Before departing, he prescribed a bath for the hygiene, a cream solution for the rash and wounds, and bed rest.
Funny how I keep hearing that. At some point, maybe I can do all those things.
Once Sampson and I were alone again, I conveyed the details of my reconnaissance mission at Santiago and subsequent captures by the Spanish army and navy. I also explained the reason for my urgency in getting the report to Shafter: the intelligence I gained could shorten the land campaign.
After I concluded my recitation, Sampson, who had been a rapt audience the entire time, gave me his view of the American strategic situation. “Your assessment of the enemy’s position seems spot on, Peter, but the strategic significance of Santiago has been superseded by today’s events. Now that the enemy fleet is destroyed, the Army’s campaign has been rendered moot.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” I said, thinking bitterly about the men I’d seen die ashore and afloat, on both sides. Still, as callous as Sampson’s statement was, I saw his point. The Spanish fleet was always the nemesis at Santiago, for it alone could attack the United States. The U.S. Army and Navy were now freed for action elsewhere.
Sampson continued, “General Shafter’s plan will probably change from an attack to a siege of the city. And not a long one. Troops en route for him will no doubt be sent to other campaigns. Washington wants Puerto Rico as the next target.”
It was the first I’d heard of it. “To capture San Juan?”
“Yes, in an overland flank attack from Fajardo. But Puerto Rico isn’t the only possible target. The capture of Havana, maybe even a naval raid on the coast of Spain itself, are also being discussed in Washington. All these potential fights require me to be ready for any eventuality.” He looked down at his desk for a moment before continuing.
“Therefore, I need more ship captains to command the dozens of ships being procured for the Navy. I need experienced men I can trust to make spontaneous and correct decisions—like you. Peter, you’re going back to sea in command of a ship.”
The admiral paused, his attention narrowing on me again. “That’s why your days of living in the mud are over, Peter. As I have complete command over all naval personnel in this theater of the war, your orders as liaison to the Army are hereby rescinded. A message to that effect will be sent to General Shafter and to General García.”
It was great news. But there were other factors. That won’t bother Shafter, but I’m not exactly loved in Washington. Some folks up there won’t like my getting a ship.
Sampson must have seen a wary look on my face, for he said, “I don’t care what enemies you have in Washington. I need an experienced ship commander, and you’re getting command of the cruiser Dixon. Her captain is slated for a flag posting back in the States.”
It was hard to keep the astonishment out of my voice. “Dixon, sir? The old Morgan liner the Navy bought in April?”
“Yes, the very same,” he said with a grin. “She’s large and relatively fast. The Navy has fitted her out as a large auxiliary cruiser with two 6-inchers, ten 3-inch gun mounts, plus several smaller rapid-fire guns. She’s screening the transports at Siboney now, which is what you’ll do for the invasion at Puerto Rico. I think you may have a fight there with Spanish torpedo boats, but Dixon should be able to deal with that menace.”
“Thank you, sir. When?”
“Tomorrow morning, after you get some rest. And yes, you can take that old reprobate Rork with you. How is he?”
“As incorrigible as always, sir, but damned handy to have around when things get rough. He’s enjoying the hospitality of your chief petty officers’ quarters right now. What about the Marine assigned to me, Lieutenant Edwin Law? Good man. I’d like to take him with me to Dixon.”
“Sorry, but with so many Marines busy ashore at Guantánamo we’re short of them out here in the fleet. He’ll be going to one of the battleships.”
I was about to ask for more details on Dixon when the flag lieutenant returned to the cabin and handed the admiral a message from the bridge. Sampson’s face darkened as he read it.
“Peter, I’ll have to get this idiocy sorted out, and then I’ll be right back.”
As the admiral stood to go, he explained briefly, “It appears an Austrian cruiser, Kaiserin Maria Teresa, entered our area of operations. That was no error, I’d wager. But one of our ships mistook her for a Spanish battleship headed in to sink our Army transports at Siboney. They’re just about to engage her. I don’t have time for an accidental war with Austria on top of everything else!”
I waited an hour. The admiral never did return from his efforts to prevent another war. Since I heard no gunfire or alarm, I presumed he was successful. And probably sidetracked by some other problem. Finally, I headed off for my assigned cabin, which had been vacated by some unfortunate commander.
The admiral’s steward showed up, saying Sampson was still up on the bridge and had ordered him to prepare me a bath in the admiral’s private tub. I didn’t hesitate one second. In a flash, I returned to the wonderfully luxurious world of an admiral to let my aching body soak away the pains and tension of Cuba. Unfortunately, unlike the bath at Olga’s home, there was no rum on the side table. After my soaking I donned my newly arrived uniform and enjoyed a sumptuous late lunch in the empty wardroom.
As New York steamed east toward Santiago, I succumbed to the soft berth waiting in my cabin. The effect was instantaneous and total.
For the next ten blissful hours I dreamed of being home with Maria.
54
A Pretty Morning
Off Siboney, Cuba
Monday, 4 July 1898
AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT with the battle fleet off Santiago, New York arrived at the transport fleet’s crowded anchorage off Siboney just after dawn. She slowly threaded her way among the tugs, water hoys,
barges, freighters, transports, tenders, and gunboats sitting off the Army’s tent city ashore.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the slanting rays of the rising sun brought out the water’s palette of jade and aqua, blue and purple. A gentle sea breeze from the southeast kept the stench of the Army’s latrines and hospital away from us. No sounds of battle were in the air anymore. It could’ve been a peacetime fleet visit if you didn’t look at the military mess ashore.
Standing on New York’s boat deck, I spotted Dixon in the distance. She was by herself, well offshore to the south. At over 6,000 tons she was larger than most of the ships, and the newly installed gun mounts were clearly visible along her main deck. Smoke drifted from her after funnel as she slowly steamed back and forth guarding the transports from a surprise Spanish attack. The Austrian warship was nowhere to be seen, having been warned off the previous evening. I wondered if the Austrians knew how close they’d come to dying from American guns.
I went up to the bridge. Borrowing a set of binoculars, I searched for Maria’s ship. I found State of Texas, the Red Cross’ chartered hospital ship, her hull painted with large red crosses, anchored close in to the beach. But there was no sign of Seneca.
My worry mounted. Had Maria heard the same rumors Sampson mentioned about my death ashore at Santiago? Was she already grieving? After the loss of her son in the war and the horrors of the field hospital, I feared it might be too much for her heart.
As we passed each ship, the officers on their bridges saluted the flagship, calling out effusive congratulations on the great victory. Deck crews added gutteral praise to their usual insults to their counterparts on New York. Commodore Schley’s Brooklyn steamed in after us, also receiving cheers.
New York stopped a mile off the beach, thunderously letting go her anchor and chain in a cloud of rust. Simultaneously, the admiral’s gig, a nicely trimmed-out little steam launch, was swayed out from the starboard side. When she reached the water, her tiny stack was already puffing, ready to convey Admiral Sampson ashore for his meeting with General Shafter. The ship’s accommodation ladder was lowered down to the gig. No swaying Jacob’s ladder for the admiral.
Honoring the Enemy Page 30
