Half an hour later, Poyo left on his part of the mission.
35
Without Explanation or Dignity
Garcia Plantation
Outside Cojímar, Cuba
5:22 a.m., Wednesday morning
16 February 1898
I knew Maria would be irresistible bait for Isidro Marrón. On the way to the shed, he would be imagining his own vile pleasures with her—after he’d ordered Bolita and his men to give him privacy for a “special interrogation.”
I knew his psyche because I’d been his prisoner in 1886. I had vivid memories of the lust in his eyes as he showed me the surgical tools he would use on me to convince me to talk. He slowly turned them over so I could see each probe, blade, and pincer. Marrón’s sweaty brow and heavy breathing betrayed his enjoyment of the terror in my eyes.
I escaped his dungeon before he could use his tools on me, but it wasn’t long before his tentacles reached into my home and family at Patricio Island. It was personal between us. A team of his henchmen were sent to kill us. They didn’t. In 1888 and in 1893, Marrón sent others, but each time they failed, as I did with him in Havana.
Monsters like Marrón never change. Understanding this can be an asset for those among us who must fight them. Once you ignite the lust which dominates them, any shrewdness or caution in their mind evaporates. Their grotesque behavior becomes predictable.
Rork and I were hiding in a banyan tree near the tool shed when Sergeant Poyo and Marrón arrived on horseback. The moon was barely visible in the increasingly cloudy night, and the wind carried smoke from Maine, four miles to the west.
Sergeant Poyo did his job well when they dismounted, explaining he wasn’t allowed in the shed, per Lieutenant Bolita’s orders. The tenor of his words implied the officer didn’t want any witness to see the condition of the female prisoner. Poyo gestured for the colonel to enter and then stood at parade rest, as if he would wait outside until he received further orders. Ten seconds after Marrón went inside, Poyo mounted his horse and trotted off toward his barracks.
I could hear Marrón in the shed, asking for the lieutenants. His manner changed quickly from pleasant curiosity to anger. The shed was empty, the few rusty old scythes and cane knives having been removed by Rork and myself. The colonel realized he had been tricked. When he stormed out of the front door with pistol in hand, his solar plexus was crushed by a perfectly placed round house blow with a curved limb from the gumbo limbo tree beside the shed.
Marrón staggered backward before doubling over and falling down, clutching his chest and gasping for air. It wasn’t difficult to remove the pistol from his hand as he peered up at his executioners.
He asked me who I was. “¿Quién es usted?”
“Justicia,” I replied.
He knew what was coming. In a strangely detached manner, he asked why. “¿Por qué?”
“Para Cuba . . .”
Unlike with his victims, the end was quick, by way of Isidro Marrón’s own pistol.
His remains were dragged to the bank of a creek close by, where Marrón’s kindred reptilians lurked, their red-eyes reflecting in a shaft of moonlight which had beamed down seconds earlier. One by one, the crocodiles responded to their primordial instincts and slithered over to the clump on the bank of the creek. The first of them nudged the body several times, then took a bite. Others followed. The scene soon became an orgy of violence.
It was done in seconds. All traces of the beast who had targeted my family, and thousands of Cubans, literally vanished, without explanation or dignity. I knew then the tide had turned against the henchmen of the Special Section, for the very mystery of Marrón’s disappearance would lead to quiet terror among them. Who would be next? When?
For me, the long haunting nightmare of Marrón hurting my family was over. Rork and I were free to return home.
At Cojímar, we found a fisherman willing to sail us to Key West the next night for twenty Morgan dollars. This man was no pirate, offering us rest and food until the journey. After resting in the man’s hut during the day, we got under way an hour after sunset, just another fishing boat heading out to work. The Spanish sentries at the ancient fort on the point never even challenged us. Soon we were surging along on a broad reach across the Straits of Florida under all sail and a clearing sky. It felt gloriously refreshing—the very best medicine for our recuperation.
Rork and I stretched out on the foredeck, silently contemplating, each lost in our thoughts. Ahead lay the thin dark line of the Florida Keys and safety. To starboard, Jupiter was rising yet again in the east. Far astern was Cuba.
I knew I’d be back.
36
Mightily Envied
Navy Department
State, War, and Navy Building
Washington D.C.
7 a.m., Monday morning
21 February 1898
Assistant Secretary of the United States Navy Theodore Roosevelt was clearly loving every moment of it, now that his position had transformed from predicting war to running one. Bent over the large globe in his office, he stood muttering to himself as his fisted hand pounded the Philippines. His expression was the most intense I’d ever seen on his face. With eyes narrowed to mere slits, brow wrinkled in decision, jaw clenched in determination, and teeth bared in disgust of the enemy, he was the picture of righteous malevolence.
Then Theodore looked up and saw Rork and me in his doorway. His face went blank. For the first time in the twelve years I’d known him, the man was speechless.
I saved him the effort. “Yes, I know. We’re both supposed to be dead. That’s what the Marine guard, the receptionist, and your personal secretary all said when we arrived this morning.”
Roosevelt is as quick with his mind as he is with his judo, and he recovered swiftly. “You two are—were—dead. I saw your names on the list. So much for official reports!”
“Sorry about that, sir. It was a simple ruse de guerre, which I judged useful for us. We weren’t aboard when Maine exploded and we never checked in with the consulate afterward. It helped us get some things done.”
I went on to explain that, not knowing if our new orders might require anonymity or a rapid departure again, Rork and I had kept incommunicado during the long journey back to Washington. We never checked in to the naval station at Key West, used a fishing smack to get to Tampa, used aliases for the northbound trains, and upon arrival at the capital went directly to Roosevelt’s office. I never even sent a telegram to Maria.
“Bully fine discipline!” Roosevelt said. “Maria will understand, I’m sure.”
“No, sir, she won’t. I have no intention of telling her I came to the office first.”
He held his belly and laughed. “I understand that! To paraphrase Congreve back in 1695, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Edith is the same way, Peter. Now, before I send you home to a joyous reunion, I want to hear all about your adventure!”
He shouted to his secretary to clear his appointments, and for the next hour I explained all we had learned and experienced inside Cuba. The sole omission in the recital was my final interaction with Marrón. I simply said we escaped the island through Cojímar.
Roosevelt informed us Captain Sigsbee’s cabin safe containing the stolen Havana defense plans had survived the blast and had been delivered two days before our return. He was “dee-lighted” the navy now had a clear understanding of what they were up against at Havana. In fact, the plan showed Spanish defenses had been reinforced so much that landings close to Havana were deemed too risky and were cancelled. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of American lives were saved.
Roosevelt’s proposal for an American invasion at Isabela and Sagua Grande, was also cancelled. Instead, the U.S. Army decided to land only in eastern Cuba. The Spanish defenses were thought to be weaker in the east, and their overland communication and supply lines to and from Havana were ex
posed to depredations from Gómez’s Cuban rebel army.
Isabela and Sagua Grande was chosen as the landing place for a battalion of Cuban exile reinforcements bound for General Gómez’s western forces. They would be escorted by the American navy, which would also neutralize Spanish defenses in the port. The Cuban exile unit was being assembled throughout the southern states and would embark on a steamer in Florida.
Theodore stood up and marched over to the chart table, beckoning us to follow. “And that brings me to your next assignment, or should I say adventure! I know you’ll both think it a capital idea! I hinted at it in my message to you in Havana.”
The two of us joined Roosevelt at the table, where a chart of Cuba’s island-studded northern coast was spread out. Part of the central coast was delineated by a red pencil line.
“Did one o’ the cruiser commands open up, sir?” asked Rork hopefully. I shot him a disapproving glance.
Roosevelt waved his dismissal of the cruiser idea. “No, not that, Rork. Those boring commands have all gone to others who don’t have the skills you and Peter have. No, my dear fellows, this is tailor made for the two of you.”
He straightened up and paused for effect, then proudly announced, “It’s nothing less than command of the composite squadron we envisioned. A commodore’s pennant, Peter! Rork, you’ll be his senior petty officer aide, of course.”
When we didn’t gush in proper appreciation, he didn’t miss a beat and gushed in exclamation.
“Forget commanding a single ship and steaming around offshore, tethered to some hidebound old admiral and hindered by the slowest ship in the group. No! You’ll have an entire squadron of small, fast, well-armed, ships. You’ll be close to the enemy and the sound of the guns, with lots of opportunities for innovation and independent action!”
I was about to ask a rather important question, but he started thumping the coast of Cuba with his fist. “It is a grand assignment, is it not? Other officers will be jealous of you, but I’ll handle them.”
No, they won’t. They’ll pity me, I thought.
He thumped the coast of Cuba again. “Now, to the meat of the matter! Your ships will be covering the inshore waters along a sixty-mile stretch of the northern coast of Santa Clara Province, from Sierra Morena in the west to Caibarien in the east. You’ll attack Isabela on the coast, and assist getting the Cuban exile patriots ashore and inland to Sagua Grande, afterward establish a close blockade. Naturally, you’ll be free for anything else you two can cook up in those fertile minds to harass and confound the enemy. Oh, how I envy you both mightily!”
When he finally took a breath, I seized the opportunity to make an important observation. “But we aren’t at war, sir. Rork and I thought we would be when Maine blew up, but when we reached Key West, we found out we aren’t. According to the newspapers on the trains up to Washington from Tampa, Congress hasn’t declared war. The president says he doesn’t want war. The Spanish haven’t declared war and say it must have been an accidental explosion. Even Captain Sigsbee has counseled everyone not to jump to conclusions about what caused the blast.”
Theodore didn’t want to hear any of it. With pursed lips he cleared his throat, removed his spectacles, and said, “You are correct, Peter. War has not been declared by either side yet, and the official naval inquiry has not been concluded . . . yet. I have no doubt, however, the inquiry will decide Maine was destroyed by a naval mine, an act of war! We are still burying our dead, and you saw the funerals at Key West, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The country saw them too, in the pages of the press, and our people are at long last emerging from their slumber and are angry! They are ready to prepare for conflict, even if some of the more jellyfish-spined politicians in Washington are not. And when it does come, you and your ships will be in the thick of the fight!”
“I see, sir. About this composite squadron of . . . special . . . ships, where do I join it?”
His reply began with yet another dismissive wave of the hand. “Well, it’s not fully formed yet. The funds are pending Congressional action, and I have it on good authority Congress will be seeing to that quite soon, within two weeks. Once done, you will procure, arm, and man the ships in your command and steam thence toward Cuba. In the meantime, I want you to set into action the clandestine surveillance project on the Spanish Navy we discussed, report to me on that man Holland’s submarine boat project, and review the list of yachts offered to us by owners on the east coast.”
With a mock serious look which quickly morphed into a grin, Theodore added a further command. “However, first things first. You are both hereby placed on leave for one week, effective immediately. Come back next Monday morning ready get to work and make those reports, then to get your squadron commissioned and ready to fight this war!”
As Rork and I left the building a few minutes later to head for our respective abodes, I saw he was uncharacteristically pensive. Before parting, we stopped at the bottom of the marble steps and I asked him, “Well, old friend, what do you think?”
He shot me a sarcastic look. “You’re wantin’ me opinion o’ dear Theodore’s pipedream about the squadron? Well, methinks this about that: we’ll have the element o’ surprise, that’s for sure, `cause nobody’s ever tried turnin’ a bunch o’ fancy thin-skinned yachts into warships an’ sendin’ `em into battle. Hell, it was a daft notion when we were talkin’ months ago, an’ it didn’t improve a whisker with age. Only bright side may be those Spaniardo bluejackets laughin’ so bloody hard at us, they’re not able to shoot straight. `Tis damned embarrassin’ for a man in me own position to be associated with such a thing. Not to mention you, a senior officer. You rate better than this foolishness.”
I tried to be optimistic. “Hey, at least the accommodations should be nice. After all, she’ll be a yacht!”
As usual, Rork got in the last word. “Only for the officers . . . sir.”
With that depressing note, we parted ways, Rork to the Washington Navy Yard, and myself home to Maria in Alexandria. I couldn’t even consider what Roosevelt had told me. My mind was on what I would say to Maria. There was no easy way.
Her heart was about to be broken.
37
Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant
Woodgerd Cottage
Old Fort Hunt Road
Alexandria, Virginia
Monday evening
21 February 1898
From the moment we first held each other, Maria and I pretended the outside world didn’t exist. All bundled up against the cold air and wet ground, and fortified by mugs of hot chocolate, we took a long stroll in the snow-carpeted forest. The trail led over the low ridge to the east, through bare oaks and maples patiently waiting for spring to return them to their splendor. On the nearby Potomac, a lone steamer chugged upriver, not another vessel in sight.
Later, as we lunched on sandwiches in front of the roaring fireplace, we spoke of our children’s accomplishments and our hopes for them. She wanted Francisco and Juanito to be happy and productive, the priest to someday be a bishop and the bureaucrat to someday marry and have her grandchildren. I almost told her then, but she was so blissful I couldn’t spoil the moment.
After dinner, we drank the last of the Spanish wine in the cellar as I lay back on the sofa and she played her guitar. Maria sang the old Spanish laments of loves dreamed and lost. I can still hear them, floating like wisps of smoke in the night in her hauntingly crystal clear voice. It was an exquisitely intimate time, refilling us with a sense of joy and closeness.
I knew Maria sensed I was there when Maine exploded. She could tell I had seen the unimaginable, endured the unrepeatable. But she never asked me and I was grateful. Not only was I incapable of describing what happened, I just didn’t have the strength. Instead, we spoke only of the love in our lives. We reveled in silly giggles and affectionate cuddles, letting them linger, sa
voring them, appreciating how very precious they are.
I waited until quite late, when we’d retired to bed to do what I dreaded, but knew I must. Turning down the bedside oil lamp to a pale dim glow, I held my wife tightly.
Maria suddenly tensed. I knew she had somehow felt the anguish in my heart, before I could even begin to say the words I’d been rehearsing since Havana.
“I have something terrible to tell you, Maria. It’s about Francisco.”
In an instant, Maria, my feminine tower of strength and accomplishment, became a frightened girl, unable to speak beyond a single word.
“How?”
I respected her too much to prolong the agony with hollow consolations. She needed to know the core truth of what had happened. She would want or tolerate nothing less from me.
“Colonel Marrón had him arrested on the eleventh and interrogated. Rork heard about it afterward from a priest, whose brother is a soldier. He is also a devout Catholic and knew Francisco. The soldier brother saw his remains at Cabaña Fortress and recognized them. He told his brother the priest the next day.”
She gasped in horror. The rage would come later. It was an emotion I was well acquainted with. But right then, Maria had only emptiness, and it echoed from her.
“They killed my boy, a man of God. Why?”
“Because he dared to be compassionate to Cuba. Marrón was terrified of what would happen if a priest like Francisco became an example of gentle tolerance and reconciliation between Spain and Cuba.”
“My son preached love, as Jesus did. You heard him at the luncheon.”
“Yes, I did, Maria. You can be proud Francisco actually lived the morals he had learned from you and his teachers at the seminary. He taught by doing, as he lived. He loved you very much. I saw it in his eyes that day.”
An Honorable War Page 17