A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Sparks intervened. “Hey, don’t get mad, okay?” He smiled at Rose. “Miss, if you want to try it, I’ll give you a couple of days to think it over. I’d like to have you…but you might as well know that acting is a hard world. Lots of fellows will promise you you’ll be a star, but you probably won’t. Too much competition. This job here isn’t like trouping all over the country, though. Home every night…and no funny business with my company,” he added, looking meaningfully at Amos. “I’m a happily married man, and I don’t allow my people to fool around.” He bowed. “Good to meet you both. Come and see me if you change your mind.”

  After Sparks left them, Nick was apologetic. “Well, sorry I blew my top, Amos.”

  “It’s okay, Nick. I—I can see what you mean. And the guy seems pretty regular to me.”

  “What he said about the girls, it’s on the level.” Nick nodded, then laughed. “I tried to buddy up to the little blond with the green dress, and it was no sale!”

  Amos finally managed to pry Rose away from Nick, who said it was too early to go home. Finding a cab, they rode through the dark streets, saying little. When the cab stopped in front of the house, Amos jumped out and helped Rose down. She stood there as he paid the driver, then the two of them climbed the steps.

  “I’m so tired,” Rose murmured, “but it’s been a wonderful evening, Amos.” She turned to face him, and the silver of the moon was reflected in her eyes. “Everything seems so…strange.”

  Amos stood close enough to smell the fresh scent of her hair and to catch the glints of light in her green eyes. A silence lay over the street. Only the faint echoes of the horse’s hooves floated on the night air. “You look very pretty tonight,” he said softly.

  Rose touched his cheek and smiled again without answer. And then Amos reached out with both hands and cupped her shoulders. Her eyes flew open, but before she could speak, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

  Rose, taken totally off guard, did not resist. As his lips fell on hers and his arms tightened around her, she felt a sharp pang of fear. But her anxiety quickly fled in the gentleness of his embrace, and she sensed a strange security such as she had never known before. His lips were firm, and she found herself responding to his kiss. For a long moment they stood there, holding each other. Finally, one of them, and they never knew which one, broke away.

  “Rose,” Amos whispered huskily, “I never knew a girl could be so sweet.”

  Rose was glad the night was dark, so that Amos could not see her cheeks, for she felt them grow warm. “I–I must go in,” she murmured, but before she stepped inside, she gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you for taking me out, Amos.”

  She moved quickly into the house, went at once to the room she shared with Anna, and tried to get undressed and into bed without waking the woman. When she lay down and pulled up the warm covers, Rose lay still for a brief time, thinking of the evening. But sleep came quickly, for she was exhausted, and her last impression before she drifted off was Amos Stuart’s kiss.

  The next day was Sunday, and Rose was strangely quiet, having almost nothing to say to the children or to Anna. Anna, of course, noticed, quickly dismissing her silence as the result of too little sleep the night before.

  But the next morning, when Anna came to awaken Rose, she was shocked when the girl sat straight up in bed, a determined expression on her face.

  “Anna, I’m not going to work at the bottle factory!” When Anna stared at her, disbelieving, Rose tried to explain. “I can’t stand it anymore!” She hesitated. “Maybe Nick told you about the job at the restaurant.”

  Anna shook her head firmly. “That’s-a no good, Rose! No young girl can stay nice in a place like that!”

  But Rose had made up her mind. She waited until noon, walked into town, and found Eddy Sparks rehearsing a song. “Why, it’s you!” Getting up from the piano, he raised one eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”

  “Y–yes, I have.”

  Sparks was a kindly man, and he knew the girl was nervous. “Well, sit down and we’ll see what we can do.”

  An hour later Rose left Charlie’s Place and went to the Castellano house. “Anna, I’m moving,” she said. “This place is too far from the restaurant. Mr. Sparks fixed it so I could room with one of the other girls in the company.”

  Anna saw there was little she could do to persuade the girl differently. “I hope you come and see us often, Rose.”

  Rose gathered her few belongings, and when she left, gave Anna a tremendous hug, then fled from the house.

  “I gotta pray for that girl,” Anna vowed. “She’s gonna need it, I think.”

  A clear starry night with a moon hanging overhead like an immense yellow globe—that was the setting in the harbor of Havana, Cuba, on Tuesday, February 15, 1898. The U.S. battleship Maine hung motionless on her anchor, her great bulk shrouded in darkness. Officially she was on a “goodwill” visit, but everyone knew she had been sent by Washington to show this country’s readiness to protect American lives and property, by force, if necessary.

  The crew was asleep, except for a few on watch. Captain Charles D. Sigsbee was at his desk, writing a letter to his wife. The Marine bugler began taps…and the captain paused to listen.

  And then it happened.

  A thundering explosion shook the Maine from bow to stern. Many smaller jolts followed as the ship’s ammunition caught fire and exploded. The shells went off one after another, spraying red-hot splinters in every direction. Lights went out, and clouds of black, suffocating smoke filled the spaces below decks. The vessel listed to port and began to sink. Within seconds her dying noises were intermingled with the sounds of dying men. Captain Sigsbee groped his way through the blackness. Coming out on the main deck, he saw that nothing could be done to save the Maine and gave order to abandon ship.

  Daylight revealed the destructive scene. The Maine had settled into the harbor’s muddy bottom, leaving only a mast and part of her upper deck exposed. Smoke still curled from the wreckage, and there was a strange gurgling sound—air bubbles escaping from the flooded compartments. Of the 350 officers and men aboard, more than 260 were killed by the explosion or drowned in the aftermath.

  America went mad with fury over the sinking of the Maine, encouraged in this fierce anger by the scorching stories reported in the New York Journal. William Randolph Hearst saw that his hour had come, and his flaming editorials created a spirit of aggression across the country.

  On the night the Maine blew up, Amos was at Charlie’s Place, watching Eddy Sparks’s show. To be more specific, he was watching one member of the show. He came in most nights, and had for over a month, ever since Rose had joined Sparks’s company.

  On that night after the show, he took Rose out for a late supper, and when they had eaten, the two of them walked the streets. Finally they went back to Rose’s hotel, and when they got to the entrance, Amos said with some agitation, “Rose, I’ve got to talk to you.”

  She hesitated, then relented. “There’s a parlor on the second floor. Nobody is ever there this time of night.” She led him up the stairs and as soon as they were in the parlor, Amos turned her around to face him. “Rose, I don’t know but one way to say this.” She had never seen him so flustered. Finally he blurted it out. “I want us to get married!”

  Rose stood there in shock. His proposal had been totally unexpected, and she began to tremble. “But, Amos, we’ve known each other such a little while—”

  “Does that matter?” Amos demanded. He grasped her arms, and pulled her close. “Ever since the first time I kissed you, I haven’t been able to think of anything but you!”

  Rose stood helplessly in his grip, her mind spinning. She liked him so much, and he had been so kind to her. They had seen each other four or five times a week since she had moved uptown, and yet, she could not give him an answer.

  “Amos, I don’t think we’re ready for marriage…at least, I’m not.” She spoke quickly, but when she was finished, she saw that he was not deter
red.

  “Think about it, Rose,” Amos said. “I know it’s sudden, and I know we’ll have to wait a long time. But if I just knew you’d be mine someday I could do anything!”

  He left then, and went home to bed, though neither of them slept much that night. They were so young, and neither of them had any real experience in love. Rose was very much afraid and she had no one to turn to, no one to advise her. Amos was afraid, also, but he was an intense young man, knowing only one method to get what he wanted—to strive for it with all his might.

  Amos Stuart never knew what might have happened if the Maine had not been sunk. He often wondered about it in the years that followed. What he did know was that he was called into the office of William Randolph Hearst two days after the sinking of the Maine for an unexpected interview.

  His heart began to beat like a drum when his editor gruffly said, “Come along, Stuart. Mr. Hearst wants to see you.”

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I want to see you?” said Hearst, when Amos stood before the publisher.

  “Well, sir, I can’t think you’d go to all this trouble to fire me,” Amos replied, licking his lips nervously. “So you must have an assignment for me.”

  Hearst was not a jovial man, but he allowed himself a slight smile. “Yes, I do. You understand there’s going to be a war with Spain?”

  “Yes, sir. No way to avoid it.”

  “All right, here’s what I want,” Hearst said crisply. “I want one of my reporters in the ranks. Not as a reporter…as a soldier, telling what the war looks like to him.”

  “That’s a great idea, Mr. Hearst…and I’ll do it!”

  Hearst was caught off guard by Stuart’s swift acceptance. “Now, hold on. It’s going to be a real war, Stuart. You could get killed.”

  “On the other hand, sir,” Amos shot back, “if I don’t get killed, I may get some great stories for the Journal.”

  The publisher and the editor exchanged brief nods. “All right, now here’s what I want you to do. The secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt, is going to get into this thing. He wants to be president of the United States, and the best way to do that is to become a war hero. You join his outfit. It’ll be in the thick of things.”

  “I know the secretary slightly, Mr. Hearst,” Amos said, enjoying the surprise on the publisher’s face. “You may have forgotten my part in Miss Powers’ interview with Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “I had forgotten!” Hearst exclaimed. “Would he remember you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Amos nodded. “He came back to ride at Greenlee Stables a few times, and I always saddled up for him. He teased me a great deal about Miss Powers.”

  “Get into his outfit,” Hearst said instantly. “I’d think he’d choose cavalry, fancies himself some kind of cowboy. He knows you’re good with horses, so he might take you. That way, we could get the stuff straight from the top.”

  The three men planned their strategy for over an hour, and when Amos left, Hearst shook hands with him. “My niece thinks you’re quite a fellow, Stuart,” he said. His cold eyes fixed Amos firmly. “Do a good job on this one…and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

  But Amos did not leave New York the next day. Nor the next week…nor even the next month. He waited until Theodore Roosevelt issued a call for his Rough Riders, and then sought an audience with the secretary. It was a short interview.

  Amos offered his services, and Roosevelt, desperately in need of all the experienced help he could get, accepted him on the spot. “Capital!” he exclaimed. “I must have Prince, and you’ll take care of the horses for all our officers. It’ll be Sergeant Stuart now!”

  Amos went at once to Hearst, who was delighted beyond bounds, then he sought out Rose.

  “I’ll be leaving soon, Rose, to go to the war,” he said. “Won’t you say you’ll marry me when I come back?”

  “Oh, Amos…I can’t!”

  Nevertheless, when Amos left New York on May 7, 1898, with the Rough Riders, Rose could not bear it. She clung to him, weeping, and promised, “I’ll marry you when you come back, Amos…if you still want me to!”

  And Amos Stuart rode off to war, with the memory of her kiss, and knew that he would not get killed, for he had too much to live for!

  8

  SAN JUAN HILL

  Never had so many hare-brained schemes for winning a war surfaced than after the sinking of the Maine! Buffalo Bill Cody, the old Indian fighter and showman, promised to kick the Spaniards out of Cuba with thirty thousand “Indian braves.” Frank James, who’d ridden the outlaw trail with his brother Jesse, offered to lead a regiment of cowboys. The Sioux nation announced that they were ready to go on the warpath and take Spanish scalps. Mrs. Martha A. Shute of Denver, Colorado, wanted to form a troop of cavalry made up entirely of women. And William Hearst suggested a regiment of all-star athletes—prizefighters, wrestlers, baseball players, football players, rowers, runners, gymnasts. Our athletes, he boasted, were practically bulletproof. They would “overawe any Spanish regiment by their mere appearance. They would scorn Mauser bullets!”

  President McKinley ignored these goofy schemes, calling instead for 125,000 volunteers. He could have asked for a million, for at least that many flocked to the recruiting office. In one of his early stories, Amos explained why so many young men sought so desperately for a chance to die:

  Twenty-five years ago such a call would not have worked. At that time the Civil War had only been over for eight years. Memories of the struggle were still vivid, and only lunatics dreamed of repeating such an ordeal. But time has passed and the memories of the horrors of that war have faded. Veterans, eager to recapture their youth, look back on it as an adventure filled with romance and glory. Our young men, raised on heroic war stories, long for adventures of their own, and so they flock into the recruiting stations, many of them trying anything to pass the physical. One man drank a gallon of water to meet the minimum weight requirement. Another, undersized by three-eighths of an inch, lay in his bed for three days in the hope of “lengthening” his body. It didn’t help—and in years to come he may well be glad of it, for he may be living instead of a few dried bones covered by a blanket of sand in Cuba!

  The last sentence was stricken by William Randolph Hearst, who did more than any other single man to bring on the war. When Frederick Remington had first been sent to draw scenes of the conflict, he’d found little to sketch and had wired back to Hearst, “There is no war!” Hearst had fired right back, “You furnish the pictures and I’ll furnish the war!” Even after the sinking of the Maine could not be proven to be the act of an enemy, but an internal explosion, Hearst ignored that fact and continued to beat the drums for war.

  Of the thousands of young men who volunteered, the luckiest were accepted into the First United States Volunteer Cavalry Regiment, more commonly called the Rough Riders. Theodore Roosevelt was invited to command, but he refused, claiming lack of military experience. Colonel Leonard Wood thus became the official commander of the Rough Riders, but everyone in the country knew that Roosevelt was its true leader.

  Roosevelt had tremendous influence, of course, and within two weeks the regiments received the best of everything. Whole trainloads of supplies were rushed to its training camp in San Antonio, Texas. There were plenty of horses and the men were issued the Krag, the best rifle of the day.

  Roosevelt wanted the regiment to represent the “best” elements in American life, which meant two types of people. The first he termed the “gilded gang”—men like himself, who were wealthy and educated, eager for a good fight in the service of their country. A list of their names read like the Social Register, many of them graduates of Harvard and other Ivy League schools. Some were bankers and stockbrokers and lawyers, and their number included a world-champion polo player and a national tennis champion.

  The backbone of the regiment, however, was the kind of men Roosevelt had known during his ranching days—westerners, sons and grandsons of the pioneers. A colorful lot, they w
ent by such names as “Cherokee Bill,” “Happy Jack,” “Dead Shot Jim,” “Lariat Ned,” “Rattlesnake Pete,” “Weeping Dutchman,” “Prayerful James,” and “Rubber Shoe Andy.”

  They came from the Rockies and the Dakota Badlands, from Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado. The regiment boasted eight sheriffs, seven army deserters, and an unreported number of outlaws. Most of them were bowlegged and all were more comfortable on horseback than on foot.

  A week after Roosevelt arrived in camp, he could call the name of every man in the regiment. He’d sit atop his favorite horse, Little Texas, his high-pitched voice rattling the horses and confusing their riders. But the men loved him! When he appeared, they didn’t cheer or applaud. They blazed away with their six-shooters, causing a stampede.

  By the end of May, Roosevelt had forged them into a real fighting force. And the troopers showed their affection for Roosevelt by calling themselves “Teddy’s Terrors,” “Teddy’s Texas Tarantulas,” “Teddy’s Rustler Regiment,” and “Roosevelt’s Rough ’Uns”…but in the end, they were the Rough Riders.

  When the regiment left for Tampa, Florida, on May 28, Amos, like all the rest of the men, was at a fever-pitch of excitement. They traveled south in seven flag-draped trains, and were greeted by large crowds all the way to Florida. At one of the stops, a young man named Faye O’Dell nudged Amos. “Come on, Amos, let’s let them gals have their way. They wanna kiss some real heroes!”

  Amos grinned, liking the young man very much. The two of them got off the train where townspeople were handing out watermelons and buckets of iced beer. The local drum-and-bugle corps made a racket loud enough to raise the dead, and as O’Dell had said, the pretty girls in their straw hats and bright gingham dresses were ready to greet the heroes. One of them, a very pretty redhead, threw herself into Amos’s arms, kissed him firmly, then began to work her way through the crowd of yelling soldiers.