The officer of the deck approached me with a puzzled look. “Sir, I have a letter for you. It’s not from home; it just arrived in the Army mailbag from Siboney for the admiral. It’s addressed to you, marked general delivery to the fleet.”
I tore open the envelope and read the note inside.
7 a.m., 4 July 1898
Darling Peter,
I am leaving this morning on the hospital ship Seneca to help care for the sick and wounded who are being taken home. They say we’re heading to a special quarantine camp at Long Island, which may be near Theodore’s home.
You were right. This hospital and the war have been too much for me. I have done my duty in Tampa and here, but I am going home now. You and I will be grandparents soon, and I want to help bring that wonderful new life into the world and nurture it. I am so tired of insanity and misery and death.
You may hear that I am ill. Please don’t worry. It is only the dysentery everyone here has, and with rest and the proper diet I will be fine. The best medicine I could hope for would be seeing you come through the front door of our home. I pray for it each day. I live for it.
Come home as soon as you can, darling.
Your loving wife, Maria
My mind raced with the salient question of whether Maria’s ship had already departed. I hadn’t seen Seneca, but the anchorage was so crowded I might have missed her.
“Ah, excuse me, sir?” the officer of the deck repeated himself.
I looked up from the note. “Yes?”
“The launch to your ship is standing by alongside the quarterdeck, sir. Your gear and Chief Rork are already in it.”
“Be right there,” I replied and headed down to the main deck.
It took more than half an hour to chug out to my new command. The ship was stationary, rolling back and forth on the swells. As we approached, Rork stood by the coxswain and held up four fingers, signifying to Dixon’s boatswain of the watch that an officer of the rank of captain was about to come on board. Then he let them know I was an unattached captain, as yet, by shouting, “Captain Wake.”
I could hear the boatswain of the watch growl at somebody, “Ah, hell, he’s early. Quick, tell the lieutenant the new captain’s here! And for God’s sake, make sure word gets topside to the Old Man.”
I knew there would be consternation on Dixon, from the deck watch up to the captain, at what some would consider my rudeness. I wasn’t expected to arrive and begin the process for taking command for another hour. The timing didn’t matter to me. I was beyond caring what they thought. I just needed to get away from Cuba, away from the staff politics of the flagship, and back into the well-ordered and logical life of a navy warship captain.
55
The Woman in White
Cruiser Dixon, off Siboney, Cuba
Monday, 4 July 1898
I’D BEEN ON BOARD ONLY two hours. During that time the captain and I had agreed to delete some parts of the traditional change-of-command procedures and accelerate the legally required ones. Fortunately, the captain being relieved understood my insistence and acquiesced with my unusual request. It helped that he was an old ONI friend. He was also anxious to get away from Cuba’s heat, up to Washington for his promotion, and out to his new command on the Pacific Coast.
However, I could see the alterations were confusing some of the officers and senior petty officers. The Navy is bound by tradition, and deviation from it invites concern. There was no luncheon with my predecessor, no preceremony inspection tour of the ship, no hours-long study of readiness reports and personnel evaluations. I had no doubt the mess decks, gunroom, and wardroom were abuzz with discussion about this strange new commanding officer with the scarred and swollen red face.
At 11:20 a.m., more than two and a half hours earlier than planned, hundreds of officers and crew mustered by divisions in their best dress whites on the foredeck. By naval regulation, they had to witness the legal transfer of command. The outgoing captain dutifully read aloud his orders of detachment from Dixon from Rear Admiral Sampson. I then read aloud my orders from Sampson to take command of Dixon.
My predecessor saluted me and announced, “I am ready to be relieved, sir.”
I returned the salute and stated, “You are relieved, sir.”
At that instant I became captain of Dixon and assumed total responsibility for everything about her and the men on board. The national ensign was broken out from the masthead, ending the ceremony. I dismissed the crew. Ten minutes later, after we shook hands on the quarterdeck, Dixon’s previous captain departed to begin his new chapter in life.
During this entire time, Dixon had been loitering offshore. I passed the word to prepare the ship for getting under way. There wasn’t much time for what I had in mind.
I didn’t yet know the name of any officer or man in Dixon’s crew, other than the second in command, Cdr. John Belfort. We’d not met before my arrival, but I noted with appreciation that he did not appear ruffled by my unorthodox first couple of hours.
“Steam is up, the watch is standing by, and the ship is ready for sea in all respects, sir,” Belfort reported as we stood on the starboard bridge wing under the hot Caribbean sun in our dress whites. “Standing by for orders, sir.”
Just as I was about to provide orders to get under way, the foremast lookout called down from above. “Lookout to bridge! Hospital ship Seneca in sight two points off the port bow—a mile off. She’s outward bound to the southeast, sir.”
I let out a long breath. We were in time. Prior to the change-of-command ceremony, while still a guest officer on board, I’d made a request to the captain for the lookouts to notify me if they spotted Seneca. By now, everyone in Dixon knew the new captain’s wife was a nurse on the hospital ship. I guessed this was courtesy of Rork, who let it slip in a conversation with me that the boat coxswain overheard on our way out to the ship. Such is the way of a small community of men at sea. There are damn few secrets.
I brought the long telescope to my eye. The ship was Seneca, all right. She was slowly steaming out from behind several other ships on the far side of the anchorage. A large white flag with a red cross flew from her main gaff.
“Kindly get Dixon under way, if you please,” I told Commander Belfort. “Steady on course zero-five-zero. Make revolutions for ten knots. We will intercept Seneca as she emerges from the anchorage and turns eastward.”
As convention and efficiency required, my subordinates on the bridge echoed my orders exactly. Dixon’s bow turned to the northeast and steadied on a point a mile offshore of Punta Berracos. Seneca turned, steering for the same area. I did some quick calculations. We’d intercept her in thirteen minutes.
When we’d reached half a mile distance from her I said to Belfort, “Please signal to Seneca this message: Godspeed on voyage home with wounded. Captain Peter Wake.”
Seconds later the signalmen hoisted the code flags up into the rigging above us. I could hear them snapping in the breeze, and soon colorful flags appeared on Seneca’s halyards. Some were the usual number and letter code, but there were several others, evidently spelling out words not in the standard naval code. I watched as Dixon’s senior signalman wrote down the flags in his notebook, then stopped and peered at Seneca again. He called for the naval signal book, skipping rapidly through the pages. Softly whistling in amazement, he slid down the ladder and approached me on the bridge wing.
Standing at attention, the first-class signalman cleared his throat and drily announced the other ship’s message. “Sir, Seneca signals to Captain Wake: Thank you.” Then he nervously cleared his throat and added in a lower tone. “Ah, sir, the message then says, Maria sends her love.”
I couldn’t help grinning at his embarrassment. I knew “Maria” and “love” were the words he’d had to double-check and spell out. “Thank you. Send this reply to Seneca: Please advise Maria: both Seans and I are fine.”
The signalman raced up the ladder to send the message. Moments later Seneca acknowledged.
I was suddenly aware that the main deck below us was filled with off-watch men. They were studying Seneca, occasionally looking up at me. When we were only a hundred yards from Seneca’s starboard side, I reduced Dixon’s speed to match the other ship’s, altering course to steam parallel eastbound. Belfort and I went out on the bridge wing.
Hundreds of soldiers lined the rails of the hospital ship, some in bandages, but I saw no woman. Then a slender form in a white smock came out on Seneca’s promenade deck. She gripped the railing, her eyes scanning Dixon. Beside her, an officer pointed to our bridge.
Dixon’s crew buzzed with excitement at the sight of the lady in white, their heads swiveling between her and their new captain. The men on the bridge grew quiet. Belfort backed away to give me some privacy.
My heart was thrilled at seeing her, at letting her know I was alive and well. Energy raced through me. Then I saw that Maria’s smock was discolored across the front. Bloodstains. Her beautiful long hair was done up severely in a tight bun. She looked thin, almost frail. Tears formed in my eyes. I tried, but I couldn’t hold them back. I waved to her.
She touched her heart and waved back. The sailors on Dixon’s deck erupted in cheers. The soldiers on Seneca echoed them.
Rork suddenly materialized beside me with a speaking trumpet. As he put it in my hands, he quietly said, “Thought you might want this, sir.”
Without another word, he went down the ladder, back to his watch station on the foredeck. Ignoring the men around me, and those over on Seneca, I lifted the trumpet.
“I … love … you, … Maria!”
She shouted something I couldn’t hear and waved madly. From Seneca’s bridge came the disembodied voice of Captain Baker through his trumpet.
“Must go now, Peter. No more time to yarn. Good luck.”
With a belch of smoke, Seneca picked up speed. Maria turned away and went back inside the ship. For several minutes I stood there watching the hospital ship steam away.
Then I returned to the scene around me. The show was over. Belfort reappeared at my side. Dixon’s men began to disperse. Naval routine returned. The oncoming bridge watch took charge of the ship in the time-honored ceremony. It all had a reassuring predictability.
I was back at sea, where I belonged.
Acknowledgments
I’ve wanted to tell this story for many years. It took a lot of research, which led me to Washington, Tampa, Havana, and eastern Cuba. After five years of research and writing, and a lot of help along the way, it is finally finished, and I want to say thank-you to some wonderful people, without whom it wouldn’t have happened.
First and foremost, I thank my brilliant wife, Nancy Ann Glickman. In addition to being my morale and welfare officer when the bureaucratic and logistical odds get overwhelming, she is also my business manager, publicist, lecture/book tour facilitator, and critical reader. Her invaluable influence is evident throughout this book.
I am so blessed to have my worldwide team of volunteer researchers (the legendary Subject Matter Advance Research Team, or “SMART Wakians”). In America, Randy Briggs and Rich Rolfe helped me find and understand academic research on Germany’s role in Cuba in 1898. I am also indebted to Mario Cano and Chaz Mena of Miami for historical insights and academic research information from both the Spanish and the Cuban sides of this story.
The staffs and websites at the U.S. Naval Institute, Michigan State University Library, Theodore Roosevelt Association, U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command, Library of Congress, Port Tampa Library, University of Nebraska, and Dr. Antonio Rafael de la Cova’s Latin American Studies Project at Indiana University are invaluable resources for historical facts about the Spanish-American War. They have my congratulations and appreciation.
In Havana, un mil gracias to Roberto Giraudy (Ministerio de Cultura), Ela López Ugarte (Centro de Estudios Martíanos), Dr. Justin White (professor of Spanish linguistics in Florida and coordinator of my readers’ tours in Cuba), Victor Avila (director of the Museum of the Grand Masonic Lodge of Cuba), and George Fernandez (historical guide in Havana). They have become far more than professional colleagues who have helped my understanding of Cuban history. They are dear friends.
Through the kind introduction of my aforementioned friends I was fortunate to meet with some renowned historians at Santiago de Cuba: Dr. Miguel Ronald Moncada (who spent days with me in various offices and also out in the field), Dr. Omar López Rodriguez (Oficina del Conservador de la Ciudad de Santiago), Dr. Olga Portoundo and Juan Manuel Reyes (Oficina del Historiador de la Ciudad de Santiago de Cuba), Juan Antonio Tejera Palzado (president of the Asociación de Cine, Radio y TV), and Dr. Carmen Montalvo Suárez (director of the Centro Estudios Antonio Maceo Grajales). All these talented people helped me understand not only the historical facts of 1898 but also the unique cultural flavor of the area and the people of Oriente.
My driver in Oriente, Antonio “Tony” Tejeiro Montesino, was nothing short of amazing. He somehow got our little expedition up 3,500-foot mountains, down potholed backcountry roads in the jungle, around ubiquitous mule carts and sudden goat herds, and through roadblocks and narrow city streets, all of which was accomplished in a 1952 Chevy sedan! My hosts in Santiago’s Reparto Vista Alegre, the Tejera family, welcomed my fellow explorers and me into their home, a wonderful refuge of comfort, tranquility, and magnificent breakfasts.
My gratitude and respect go to the proficient and pleasant team at the Naval Institute Press who got this book launched: Director Rick Russell, Senior Acquisitions Editor Jim Dolbow, Senior Production Editor Emily Bakely, and copy editor Mindy Conner.
I cannot end the acknowledgments without expressing sincere gratitude to my readers around the world, the famous Wakians. There are a lot of frustrations in the book-writing profession, but for the last seventeen years you have inspired me to never give up my quest to illuminate the crucial events that long ago shaped our current world. You are also great fun to be with at our many Reader Rendezvous around the world!
Onward and upward, my friends, toward those distant horizons.
Robert N. Macomber
The Boat House
St. James, Pine Island
Florida
Sources and Notes by Chapter
Chapter 1. The Hotel
The Tampa Bay Hotel building is now the iconic centerpiece of the University of Tampa, with a section of the building beautifully restored to its 1890s opulence. The hotel is described in The Assassin’s Honor and An Honorable War. It is well worth a visit. See www.ut.edu/plantmuseum.
Joseph Herrings wrote a book, Kuba und der Krieg (Cuba and the War), in 1899 about his observations during the war. It described the disciplinary problems, lack of preparedness, and general lack of efficient equipment but also commented on the bravery of the American soldiers.
Wake’s exploits at the beginning of the Spanish-American War are depicted in An Honorable War.
Chapter 2. The Army
William Rufus Shafter (1835–1906) was born in Michigan and was a career Army officer from 1861 to 1901. In 1895 he was retroactively awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions at the Civil War battle at Fair Oaks, Virginia. After the Civil War he served in Indian campaigns, making brigadier general in 1897. At the beginning of the Spanish-American War he was in very bad physical condition, weighing in excess of three hundred pounds and suffering from severe gout and other ailments. He died in California five years after his retirement in 1901 and is buried at San Francisco National Cemetery. Fort Shafter in Hawaii is named for him.
Chapter 3. Breakfast with a Hero
Leonard Wood (1860–1927) was born in New Hampshire, educated in Massachusetts, got his medical degree from Harvard, and became an Army doctor in 1886. Awarded the Medal of Honor for his heroic actions in commanding an infantry unit whose officers had all been lost during an 1886 battle against Apaches, he subsequently d
ecided upon the career of combat soldier. His distinguished career included service as physician to President Grover Cleveland and President William McKinley, regimental and brigade commander in Cuba, combat commander in the Philippine Moro Insurrection, and chief of staff of the Army from 1910 to 1914. He retired in 1921, becoming the governor-general of the Philippines until 1927. He died at Boston in 1927 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri is named for him.
Theodore Roosevelt and Peter Wake became friends in 1886 at a political dinner in New York City. Wake was twenty years older and thus became a mentor to Theodore. They remained close friends for the reminder of Wake’s life. This friendship is depicted in The Darkest Shade of Honor, Honor Bound, Honorable Lies, The Assassin’s Honor, and An Honorable War.
During the 1890s in Cuba, the pro-Spanish Cuban militias were known as guerillas. The pro–Cuban independence rebels were known as insurrectos.
Col. Michael Woodgerd, a former U.S. Army officer-turned-mercenary, and Wake became friends in Italy in 1874. Since then they’ve encountered each other in various dangerous corners of the world, as depicted in An Affair of Honor, Honor Bound, and An Honorable War.
Chapter 4. The Spreading of Joy
Lafayette Street in Tampa is now Kennedy Boulevard. The original bridge has been replaced.
Barbancourt is still Haiti’s finest rum. I spent a wonderful afternoon at the Barbancourt distillery in the mountains outside Port-au-Prince thirty-five years ago.
Colonel Isidro Marron, head of the Spanish secret police in Cuba, was Peter Wake’s mortal enemy since their initial confrontation in 1886. Read The Darkest Shade of Honor to see how the hatred between them began. Read An Honorable War to see how it ended.
Honoring the Enemy Page 31
