An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  She was about to cry. This was a deep personal hurt. She must have gotten more letters from her sons. They resented her decision to marry me.

  “Letter from Francisco or Juanito?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the same message? Get your marriage annulled and come home to Spain and the Church?”

  She shook her head slowly, trying to stay calm. “No, Peter. They are well beyond that point. It is a letter from them both, for Juanito was transferred to Havana last month. A letter of final goodbye. They called me one of Spain’s enemies, and one of the Church’s enemies, and therefore, an enemy of the Maura family.”

  I tried to keep the anger from my voice. “May I see the letter?”

  She took it from her skirt pocket. I examined the envelope and letter for forgery, but I recognized her sons’ handwriting. The note was only a few blunt lines, the meaning of which could not be misinterpreted: by voluntarily joining the barbaric norteamericano culture, marrying into the military of Spain’s foe, deciding to become a heretic from the True Faith, and after ignoring repeated pleas from her sons to return to her senses, they had come to the realization their mother had intentionally turned her back on their family, faith, and country. Above their signatures were none of the usual words of affection and hope. They had simply written “adios.” Goodbye.

  It was appallingly cruel, especially for educated modern Christian men: a Franciscan priest and a foreign ministry official. My instinctive reaction was to hurt them for causing my wife this incredible pain.

  Maria knew me well. She murmured, “Please do not do anything about this, Peter. I know you love me and want to protect me, but you cannot mend this wound. I cannot either. My sons are surrounded by political men with souls of stone. Only God has the power to change Francisco and Juanito’s hearts. I will ask Him every day to bring compassion to them, and to us. They are my babies, not the enemy. Right now I need to know you love me, because you are all I have left in my life.”

  I calmed down. She was right. “Maria, I do love you. You saved my life when you married me, and you are everything to me. I will leave the navy tomorrow to bring you happiness and repair your broken heart, if that is what you need. Tell me.”

  Her tone grew determined, a certain sign her spirit was returning. “No. I do not want you to quit your work. It would bring you despair, and thus me also. This is not about you and me, Peter. It is about my sons and me.”

  “Your sons love you. They do, despite what you read. Their emotions overcame their wisdom and even their compassion. I am sure they are probably filled with regret.”

  Those indigo eyes penetrated my core as she asked, “Will they be safe when the war comes? They are good men of peace, not warriors. Peter, I will not be able to live sanely if they are harmed or killed.”

  I wasn’t so sure about their safety. Many of the Spanish army’s chaplains were Franciscan, and many of the younger government officials held reserve commissions in the army. Given the fervor common at the outbreak of war and their obvious loyalty to the Spanish cause, both sons might well volunteer their services and end up in harm’s way.

  But this wasn’t the time for equivocation. I pulled her chair close to mine and put my arms around her. “They will be safe, Maria. You raised decent men. I am convinced someday we will all be reconciled and sitting at the same table, enjoying a meal such as this, as a family.”

  “I’ve lost my sons for now, and I am afraid I am losing my husband.”

  “You’ll never lose me, my love.” I kissed her lips softly and assured her, “I’ll be back, Maria. This assignment will be over soon.”

  She didn’t reply, but clung to me tightly. We sat there silently, until I suggested, “Come on Maria, let’s get some rest.”

  Taking my face in her hands, she kissed me tenderly and sighed. “We have each other here tonight, Peter. We can face the world tomorrow.”

  15

  A Man Named Rooster

  Canasí, Cuba

  Tuesday morning

  18 January 1898

  By way of a Cuban fishing smack skippered by a nasty-tempered little runt called Gallo, Rork and I sailed from Key West to Cojimar, just east of Havana. Gallo is the Spanish for “rooster,” and I’ve known many men in Latin America who preferred it for their moniker—most of them had been criminals. Thus forewarned, I kept a close eye on Capitano Gallo and his crew. I ended up thankful I did.

  Close-reaching fast with a southeast wind, we arrived a little before one in the morning on the eighteenth of January. A waning crescent moon was still large enough to highlight the lines of gentle surf rumbling along the coast. The coconut palm-shrouded village along the western side of the small cove was asleep. No sound was heard or light seen. The ancient Spanish fort on the point seemed deserted. You would never know the island was at war. Indeed, it was an idyllic vista—in any other endeavor it would be romantic. Rork, whose Gaelic background includes many superstitions, opined it a positive omen for our entry into the land of the Spanish foe.

  Cojimar was not where I wanted to enter the island, for it was too close to Havana. Rork and I were remembered, and not fondly, by the authorities there, chief among them Colonel Marrón and his henchmen. But Gallo insisted, saying he had friends in the village, knew the reef well, and would go nowhere else with a load of illegal yanquis. Since time was of the essence and Gallo was the only Cuban fisherman at the dock in Key West, I agreed. Two hours later, we departed.

  Approaching the coast, Rork did what he is uniquely equipped by size and strength to do. He scowled at the skipper and his gang, making a point of standing close beside Gallo at the roughhewn tiller. This was to let them know we weren’t without the ability for revenge, should things go wrong for us.

  All went well, though, and we sailed without incident into the gap in the surf line. As we prepared to climb down into the dinghy from the starboard shrouds, wearing nondescript clothing and burdened by a sea bag of our weaponry, a pouch of gold coins, a valise filled with fake business documents, and two small ditty bags of extra clothing, I spied a movement on the western horizon.

  It was a low, wispy dark cloud blocking the stars. It hadn’t been there seconds earlier. Soon I could see a more tangible form beneath it, and a second later, a speck of white at the bottom of the form. I knew immediately it was the bow wave of a Guardia Costa cutter, heading right for us.

  I turned toward Gallo at the stern. He was watching it too, but instead of alarm, he was faintly smiling. Not a good reaction on his part, I realized, then wondered what or who was hidden in the shadows ashore. Before our departure, Gallo’d had more than enough time to use the Key West-Havana telegraph cable to alert the Spanish coast guard.

  Rork, busy with our heaviest gear, hadn’t seen any of this, so I quietly called his attention to the new developments. He had one foot lowering to the dinghy, the weapons bag already having descended.

  “It’s a trap, Rork. Look west about four miles. There’s Guardia Costa cutter headed full speed for us. We need to take over and get out to sea.”

  There was no time for further discussion. I pulled my .44 caliber Merwin-Hulbert revolver with the “skull-crusher” frame, strode aft, and put the muzzle right into Gallo’s sneering mouth. No longer sure of himself, his hands went straight up as I guided him down to the deck with the revolver.

  Meanwhile, Rork pulled his Navy Colt and had only to growl something Irish at the three-man crew for them to get the message. They all went up and sat at the bow as he prepared the sheet lines to tack the sloop. I turned my attention to the course and helm. She went around on the tack, and I settled her on a course out to sea.

  Once we were moving well, I leaned over and suggested to Gallo in Spanish that he return our money. He did so without protest, but with a quick glance to the west. I knew he was mentally gauging the interception probabilities. Normally, they would be in his favor. Bu
t one factor which he hadn’t considered was our faded sails were no longer perpendicular to the cutter and easily seen. They were eased out on a broad-reach, and therefore edge-on to the cutter, making them much harder for the Spanish to see us in the night.

  It’s an old blockade-runner trick I learned the hard way, during the war in Florida thirty-five years earlier. Back then, I was the one on the cutter, so I knew exactly what they were now seeing, or not seeing. I imagined they thought the fishing smack had continued into the cove and would be docilely awaiting their triumphant arrival, which wouldn’t be long at their speed. With the prize a pair of yanqui spy-filibusterers, there would be a medal in it for them, and a promotion for the commanding officer. My assessment was validated by the cutter’s course, still straight for the cove.

  Gallo’s obvious fright deepened with his next glance westward. The cutter was approaching the cove, not heading out after us. I could well imagine his deductive processes: Gallo knew what he would do with useless prisoners when running for his life.

  To pre-empt any desperate action on his part, I explained we would let him go—if he remained calm and did not make me nervous. Then I told Rork in English to kill them all if he even thought they were about to try something. Gallo and his crew got the gist of the order loud and clear.

  The Gulf Stream flows from west to east at about three knots in that vicinity. My plan was to head north until the mountains of the coast were below the horizon and I could feel the Stream through the different wave pattern. Then we’d alter course to ride the current for thirty miles before turning south again. We’d find some small place, get ashore, make our way to the railroad line, and get out of the area by sunrise.

  Behind us, the cutter entered Cojimar cove, her searchlight reflecting among the few stone buildings. A few minutes later she reappeared, stabbed her light in an arc across the sea, then headed to the west, toward Havana. Gallo looked almost grief stricken.

  Several hours later we sailed into a dimple in the coast which I recognized. The tiny Canasí River runs out between two rocky headlands, and inside the shoal mouth, there is no harbor or village, only a couple of fishermen’s huts with small boats on the beach. Two miles inland is the town of Canasí, a village of seven hundred farmers and a few shops, perched along the railroad line, just south of the coastal wagon road.

  I woke Gallo rudely and told him we were near Escondido, which in actuality is another tiny village four miles east. Then, using a crude version of Spanish, I carefully informed him of two things he should bear in mind for a long time: Rork and I were dear friends of the famous General Gómez of the Cuban Liberation Army, who would have anyone hurting or harassing us shot immediately. But infinitely far worse, we were also brotherly friends with a unit of Gómez’s black mambi warriors, and Gallo and his men would be dead by a thousand machete cuts, the first of which would be to his most valued parts, should anything ever happen to us.

  Gallo understood completely, and assured me in impressive detail that the entire evening’s adventure was no longer in his memory and, but of course, he had always been a supporter of freedom for Cuba, the famous Gómez, and equality for his black Cuban compatriots. Having concluded that unreliable arrangement, Rork and I got the fishing smack hove-to, commandeered her dinghy, and set off into the inky darkness.

  We ran the dinghy into the rocks on the east side of the inlet, out of sight from the huts. Scrambling ashore, we were confronted by a densely wooded steep hill behind and it took a while to make the top. As the first light showed on the eastern horizon, we followed a trail along the east bank of the river, which was really little more than a shallow winding creek. Trudging at least three miles, we finally reached the railroad where it makes a sharp bend outside of the village. There, we hid in a weedy bush and supplied blood to a swarm of voracious insects. Luckily, the wait for a train was only fifteen minutes.

  Our transport was a ramshackle sugar hauler of ten cars pulled westbound by an ancient locomotive puffing a prodigious trail of thick smoke. Slowed down by the curve and a wooden bridge across the creek, we had an easy time clambering aboard the next to last car and hiding ourselves inside the stack of sugar stalks. Within minutes we had succumbed to exhaustion.

  So far, our plan had unraveled. That was to be expected, however. They always do.

  16

  The Ditch

  Near Jibacoa, Cuba

  Tuesday

  18 January 1898

  Because events were changing more rapidly than anticipated, the plan to secretly enter Cuba and make contact with our network had been formulated in ad hoc fashion. Secrecy was paramount. Besides Rork and me, only one other man knew the details. Agent R7 had been in my employ since 1884 and was my most trusted operative inside Cuba. The reason for my unqualified confidence in the man, a rarity in the world of spies, shall soon be apparent to the reader.

  We were to meet R7 at five o’clock in the morning of January eighteenth under the railroad bridge where it crosses the third culvert east of Jibacoa, a peasant village of thatched huts, which turned out to be about six miles west of where we had gotten aboard the train. It would have been relatively easy if we’d been ashore earlier, but as things turned out, we weren’t.

  Having missed the initial rendezvous time, we resolved to hide out until the secondary meeting time, eleven o’clock that very evening, in the palm grove on the northwest side of the intersection where the Aguacate-Santa Cruz Road crosses the tracks just west of Jibacoa. This required disembarking the train before it arrived in the village, where I assumed the train cars would be unloaded at the regional sugar mill.

  We rolled off the cane car as it slowed on a bend east of Jibacoa, and struck out across the farm country for a two-mile hike around the town, keeping to the hedge rows of bamboo and areca palms which divided up the muddy fields. It was slow going in the soft ooze. We reached the place I had in mind near noon, a woefully bedraggled pair of sailors. Once there, we collapsed under palmetto bushes along a drainage ditch at a spot a quarter mile from the rendezvous location, yet close enough to observe any troops arriving prior to the meeting. Fully expecting a crocodile to protest our incursion into its swampy domain, I took the first watch as Rork, who has the enviable ability to nod off anywhere, anytime, snored softly.

  When nightfall arrived, we set out from our lair and crept around the perimeter of the area, trying to ascertain the lay of the land and where any possible foes might conceal themselves. There were three threats which could prove fatal to us.

  The first was the pro-Spanish local Volunteers (Los Voluntarios, sometimes known as Los Guerrillas), a militia which roamed the night looking for anyone out of place, the penalty being non-judicial execution, as they say in an American court of law, otherwise known as lynching. Frequently, their morale is fortified by copious amounts of rum before heading out for evening patrol, thus lowering their reasoning or common decency. You could not talk your way out of a confrontation with these fellows.

  The second hazard, equally perilous, was encountering grim-faced pro-independence Cuban insurgents (Los Insurrectos), peasants who could only dream of getting enough money for a proper drunk like their enemies did—insurrectos were paid haphazardly, if at all. These fellows waited in the night for Spanish army or pro-Spanish volunteer columns to walk into an ambuscade. They didn’t lynch, they decapitated with a machete.

  Our final worry was the regular Spanish Army. They were well armed and led by gentlemen, mostly. But many of their rank and file were reluctant conscripts from Spain, and they seldom left the barracks at night. The nearest one of those was five miles away at Santa Cruz on the coast.

  Based upon what I’d seen of the area so far, I assumed there probably would not be much traffic on the road that night. I was wrong.

  No fewer than three noisy voluntario units, two far more stealthy insurrecto groups, along with various farmers with cane knives stuck in their rope belts, en
ded up stimulating us seven times into hiding further inside the bug-infested jungle. The seemingly desolate countryside was teeming with armed men!

  I am embarrassed to report they were not the only impediment to our progress. We also got slightly lost, for the map I carried didn’t have a lot of detail. In addition, recognizable landmarks were few and hard to discern in the starlight before moonrise, and our impromptu detours avoiding detection only complicated my task. Eleven o’clock arrived, but our precise location was still undefined, a failure which lay squarely upon me. Although, in fairness, I did have it narrowed down to somewhere within a mile. Or so I thought.

  Since both of us were getting a bit cranky, I ventured a whispered morale-building comment for the benefit of the sole member of my crew. “Well, we’re late, but don’t worry. Our man will wait for an hour. Now that we’ve thoroughly confused the enemy as to our position, it’s time to find R7.”

  Such quips had worked in Africa, Indochina, and South America, when we found ourselves in the heart of enemy territory and surrounded by people determined to kill us. But this time Rork was not at all amused and let me know it.

  “Methinks we’re well an’ truly buggered in this friggin’ hellhole o’ an island! We should’ve killed them piratical scum in that boat before leaving it. Now this mess. Not lookin’ good at all. Maybe we’re just too damned old for this stuff anymore. Me own solution is to call a spade a spade, steal some rum an’ a boat, an’ head back to Key West afore the next disaster hits.”

  Loath to give up the humorous high ground, I quietly countered with a quaint old Cuban saying that usually got a laugh out of him. “Ah, but Rork, remember, in Cuba, for every solution, including yours, there are a hundred problems. Maybe a thousand, these days. No, it’s too early to quit now. We’ll keep looking for our man for another hour. If by then it’s no go, we’ll head southerly, away from the coast, until dawn. Then we’ll head east toward our other contact at Sagua.”