Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  By the third day of this misery my clothing was sopping wet, sprouting mold, shredded by the thorns, and impregnated with slime. Boils and sores were popping up everywhere on my skin, including the most sensitive areas. Chigger bites festered. None of these minor wounds showed signs of healing. Without an antiseptic they would change from minor annoyances to potentially deadly sources of infection. Internally, even worse signs began, for my stomach and bowels were showing the unmistakable symptoms of dysentery. But the most distressing factor was my fading mental acuity. Making the simplest decision became a supreme, demoralizing effort.

  Late on the night of the fifteenth, when Acera estimated we were eight miles from the village of Jamaica, Velez called a halt. We had crossed through the highest passes of the mountain range the night before. We were still up in the foothills on the southern side but were steadily descending. At that point we reached the very edge of Abakuá territory, beyond which they would not go.

  Velez informed us his word had been upheld. They were going home now. Before heading off, Velez leveled a warning gaze at me. He cautioned us in Spanish against divulging details of any of themselves, their secret routes through the mountains, or their stopping places. My earnest pledge to obey Velez’s command seemed to mollify the Abakuá men. Within seconds they melted into the tangled forest as wordlessly as they had first appeared and were gone. Even in this memoir, written so many years later, I have kept my word, providing only a general narration without details of the men or route. In truth, I could not do much more because of the state of my mind at the time.

  Peering ahead through yet another torrential rain shower, Acera informed me there was a road leading to Jamaica, but it would be deep in mud. He knew a much faster way to get where we needed to go. Our destination was a farm outside the village belonging to a friend. Our route of descent to Jamaica would be by water, he explained, and set off without offering further details.

  The other two fellows and I followed Acera through the black night to a rampaging creek. I heard it before I saw it. Acera grabbed a small log from the debris on the bank, thrust it into my hands, and gave me a somewhat reassuring pat on the back. Then he grabbed another log and held it to his chest. He announced in Spanish he would go first, then me, then the others. I was not to worry, he promised, for it would be a very short ride and he would be there at the end to pull me out. I was to hold tightly onto my log and keep it pointed in front of me because there would be many rocks.

  Acera stepped off into the watery turmoil and was instantly whisked away into the darkness. The older of his men, who evidently didn’t get the order of precedence, stepped in front of me clutching his log and jumped into the turbulence.

  That was fine with me, for I was still adjusting my grip on the damned log, which seemed a bit too small to carry both me and the seabag tied to my left wrist. With no warning, Acera’s other man, the young toothless gent, shoved me into the rapids and splashed in after me. I barely held my grip on the log as I tried to keep my head above water while smashing into rocks, tree limbs, and the seabag. I lost all my senses in the watery blackness except for repeated jabs of pain while desperately trying to get a gasp of air into my lungs. This torture seemed to go on for miles.

  How I emerged from this unique version of hell I do not precisely know. I regained my wits on the bank with one of Acera’s fellows, the same bastard who’d pushed me in, kneeling over me and tapping my face. Helping me sit up, he pointed toward a faint radiance not far away. My eyes finally recognized it as the glow of a lantern. It was coming through a window of a home, the first real dwelling I’d seen since my ordeal through the mountains began.

  The intoxicating scent of cooking food, real civilized food, wafted over us and energized me enough to stand up. I took stock of my surroundings while Acera explained we were at our destination: a fruit farm two kilometers north of Jamaica. The town of Guantánamo was another fifteen kilometers to the south, and the bay of the same name was twenty-two farther. He also announced it was safe to approach the cabin because two goats were tethered to a fence in front, the signal no enemies were around. The four of us trooped toward the house, my every step hurting, but not enough to stop me from getting to that food.

  Five minutes later, as I limped onto the front porch of the tiny wood-frame home, Acera introduced me—as an American warrior sent to help liberate Cuba—to the ancient mulatto couple who owned the place, Arnoldo and Olga. After that description, which I knew my ragged appearance didn’t support, I was immediately the man of the hour and treated accordingly.

  Arnoldo and Olga were the salt of the earth. He had a farmer’s lean build and weathered face. He moved with the quiet dignity of an old soldier, which Acera said he was, having fought for Cuban freedom as a sergeant with Céspedes’ original band of men back in ’68. Arnoldo walked with a slight drag of his left foot, a wound from those days, and also bore a scar on his arm from a wound picked up in 1880 while he was a lieutenant during the second war for freedom. The wounds were badges of honor among his fellow Cubans.

  Rotund little Olga was sweetness personified, everyone’s vision of an angelic grandmother. In the age-old Cuban manner of hospitality, which is unequaled in the world, she took every care for me, fussing continually over my comfort.

  Embarrassed by our decrepit condition, the four of us shed most of our mud-stained rags, keeping on only what was needed for modesty. Far too tired and sore to converse, we dropped our sick, starving bodies onto the boxes and chairs arranged for us on the tiny porch. At last, Olga came out and announced in graceful Spanish that dinner was ready, with an added apology that their home’s table seated only two.

  Acera’s men went in first and wolfed down their food. Acera and I were next, our hosts insisting they would eat last. The simple feast of rice, cassava, and beans, accompanied by coffee with a stick of sugarcane, tasted better than any spread I’ve had in the fanciest dining rooms of Washington.

  Touching the fresh abrasions on my face and arms and the older wounds on my cheek, which had reopened, Olga clucked her concern, declaring I would have a bath after dinner. I was astonished to find the bathtub in their back room was a real ceramic one, not the horse trough I expected. After much dashing about on Olga’s part, it was filled with steaming water from the stove, made fragrant by floating jasmine and gardenia flowers and enhanced by a bar of actual Spanish milled soap on a side table.

  Once shed of my remaining rags and immersed in the fragrant, soapy water, I let out a sigh that could’ve been heard in far-off Havana as my skin and muscles untensed. Initially, my wounds hurt even more, but then the soapy water worked its magic. The pain and inflammation lessened, then disappeared.

  Arnoldo removed my filthy rags and spread out the contents of my seabag near the tub to dry, instinctively knowing I wanted to remain in sight of my weaponry. He returned with a set of his own clothes for me to wear while the indefatigable Olga laundered my spare set from the bag. During the journey, my frame had lost all of its excess weight, so I surmised that though they might be tight, skinny Arnoldo’s clothes would probably fit.

  Lastly, my new friend brought me Olga’s finest possession, an intricately stemmed glass of green crystal filled with Matusalem sipping rum, a bottle of which had been hastily obtained from a more affluent neighbor half a kilometer away. This pure nectar was the perfect culmination of my recuperation regime. My body began to feel human again. My mind started functioning normally. Self-confidence began to regenerate. Yes, I told myself, I will hold Maria again. I felt a smile form on my face.

  As I was basking in my resurrection, a commotion erupted out in the main room. I heard a stranger’s voice, deep and insistent. I reached for my revolver on the chair beside me and had it in hand when the door opened.

  Acera leaned in and declared, “Cuban Liberation Army officer here now, Hermann. My work done. I go home now.” He then cheerfully included, “My name no Jorge Acera, like you no Hermann Jacobsen. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo.”
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br />   He came over and shook my hand, then went out the door and back to his life. As was true of so many I encountered on this odyssey, we never met again. I have often wondered about him.

  Seconds later, my newest Cuban liaison entered my bathing room. This one was completely different from Acera in every way. A serious-faced fellow, he marched in wearing the neat butternut-colored uniform of a staff officer in the Cuban Liberation Army. The small aiguillette draped from the left shoulder indicated that he was aide-de-camp to a very senior general.

  Middle-aged, trim, short, with a pencil-thin mustache and European-style goatee, he was the opposite of the hulking, slow-moving Acera. His shiny onyx eyes were piercing, his chin and nose refined, and his manner confident. Even before he spoke, I knew he was a man used to making decisions and expecting them to be carried out. Looking down at me in the tub, he surprised me with effortless English spoken in a clipped New England accent.

  “Good evening, Captain Wake. Welcome to Free Cuba. I am Major Alonso Fortuna, aide-de-camp to General Calixto García, commander of the Cuban Liberation Army of the East. I have been given the honor to be your liaison officer. General García sends his compliments, sir.”

  A bit overwhelmed by his unexpected and impressive entrance, and my own less than formal situation, I blurted out, “Well, thank you, Major. Ah, it’s an honor for me too, though I fear you have me at a disadvantage regarding attire.”

  He looked away, embarrassed. Clearly, my inane comment wasn’t the right way to start a military campaign, so I quickly followed up with something more appropriate. “Forgive my befuddled mind—it’s been a long journey. Please sit down in this chair, Major. I’m sure you had a difficult trip here, too. I must say that it’s a distinct privilege to be the U.S. liaison with the legendary General García. But before we go into that, I must first ask: Harvard, Yale, or Dartmouth?”

  He grinned. “Does it show? Harvard University, sir. Class of ’93. Civil engineering.”

  Hmm. Men trained in construction also understand the principles of demolition—a skill that might come in handy. Aloud I said, “May I offer you a glass of this excellent Matusalem?”

  “You may, sir. Thank you very much. It is one of Cuba’s very best rums.”

  Another, less ornate, glass was procured and filled. Fortuna sat in the chair near the tub. After the obligatory toast of “A una Cuba libre,” I inquired, “When do I meet with the general?”

  “We will leave in the morning, sir, after your aide-de-camp arrives from the U.S. Marines at Guantánamo Bay. I do not know his name. I have been told he should get here about dawn.”

  I digested that tidbit. A Marine aide-de-camp? Why? That wasn’t in the plan. And the Marines are at Guantánamo Bay? That wasn’t in the plan either.

  “Major, you mean the Marines have landed at Guantánamo? The invasion has already started?”

  “No, sir. Not a full invasion. Only six hundred Marines and sailors from three of your warships. Once ashore, they united with some of our forces, and together they have been fighting the Spanish to secure Guantánamo Bay to be used by your fleet as an anchorage and coal depot. Last night the enemy was finally defeated and has retreated inland.”

  “Where is our fleet now?”

  “The main U.S. battle fleet is still off Santiago blockading the Spanish ships inside. We have not yet seen any U.S. transport ships carrying invasion troops.”

  This wasn’t the plan I’d heard at V Corps. The effect of the rum and my exhaustion faded. I needed immediate information on the situation around Santiago, and I had to assimilate it calmly, understanding the possibilities for action. There was no time to wait.

  “Let me get dressed, Major. Then you will give me a detailed situation report about everything going on ashore and afloat in this region.”

  Once we had settled ourselves on the porch, Fortuna began his briefing with a description of the Spanish army’s order of battle in the Santiago area—around 17,000 men. Another 40,000 soldiers were scattered within 200 miles, throughout the eastern half of the island. Then he described Santiago’s defensive positions, which included concentric rings of recent earthworks, modern fortifications, and older forts, augmented by both modern and ancient artillery. Next came information on the enemy’s ammunition supplies, provisions, communications, and transport.

  Last came the most important part, the personalities of the Spaniards’ commanders. The men in charge were smart, battle-hardened professionals who had arranged formidable defenses. They would use every asset and man to defend Santiago, making the Americans and Cubans pay in blood for each yard gained toward the city. It would take a large army to capture the ancient city and then destroy the Spanish fleet—the main reason for this campaign—at anchor in the bay.

  Next, Fortuna summarized the order of battle for the Cuban forces. It was a depressing contrast. They numbered fewer than half the Spanish forces, were lightly armed, and lacked modern auxiliary support. The Cuban Liberation Army relied on the local people and the land for supplies and provisions, plus what they could capture from the Spanish for weaponry, ammunition, and equipment. They controlled the countryside but weren’t strong enough to attack the fortified city.

  Fortuna’s summary was bleak but not unexpected. So far, it was a stalemate. The only new development was the U.S. Marine incursion at Guantánamo Bay. The combined forces had come close to defeat several times over the previous five days, but the situation now appeared much better, due primarily to the incredible determination of the Marines, sailors, and Cuban soldiers. I knew Guantánamo Bay had good potential as a sheltered support base for naval operations, but still, the victory there was a minor show compared with overcoming the strong Spanish defenses at Santiago.

  Four hours later we were done. Fortuna slept on the floor in the front room. I was given the only bed in the dwelling, located by the sole window in the back room. I accepted without protest and fell into it gratefully. I was also grateful for the mosquito net draped over the bed. The dinner, bath, rum, clean clothes, and bed were heaven sent. My last conscious thought was self-congratulatory—I’d made it back to civilization.

  Albeit in the war zone …

  11

  Reinforcements

  Jamaica, Cuba

  Thursday, 16 June 1898

  I WAS DREAMING OF MARIA. But why was she speaking in an Irish brogue? No, not Maria. Someone else. I couldn’t make out what he was saying at first, then I heard it again. This time I could make out the words clearly, along with the mocking attitude.

  “Damn if he don’t smell like he drowned in a distillery, God bless his heretical soul. Not good at all for one o’ the senior officers’uv Uncle Sam’s navy. Lollygaggin’ about like a drunken lout. Why, it ain’t proper nor fair, especially when me own throat’s as parched as a Baptist’s.”

  Intense pain filled my head. Then I recalled the reason—I’d had a lot of rum the previous evening, somewhere around four full glasses of it. Or was it more? Warily opening my left eye, I registered that the room on that side of the bed was lit by a lantern. It was held by the master of the house, who looked perplexed. Beside him was Major Fortuna, concern clouding his face.

  From elsewhere in the room the same scolding voice intruded again as a wave of warm, stale breath washed over me. “’Tis an idle bugger you’ve become. Whatever would hizzoner Admiral Sampson say if he saw you now?”

  The major glanced nervously at the right side of the bed, where the voice was coming from. I opened my right eye and found a big, beaming face inches from mine. I knew the leathery mug well, for it belonged to none other than my best friend, Sean Aloysius Rork, Chief Petty Officer, U.S. Navy. He chuckled at my discomfort. I winced in cranial agony.

  “Damn glad you’re here, Rork,” I moaned. “I presume you’re my new aide-de-camp. Now go away. It’s not sunrise yet.” I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

  He didn’t go away. “Well now, ain’t that a fine welcome aboard from me old shipmate an’ be
st pal in the whole world? The very same man whose miserable life was saved by none other than the likes o’ me, right there in the scorched desert sands o’ Africa. To think he treats me in such a manner. Makes me feel a bit … unwanted.”

  Then the insensitive scoundrel started shaking my ankle. “Aye, boyo, ’tis time to shake a leg an’ get that rum-soaked carcass o’ yours under way in proper naval fashion. There’s a war to fight, laddie. An’ we’re just the men to do it.”

  I wasn’t impressed. “It’s dark outside. The war will wait until daylight.”

  He shook my shoulder next, the one he knew still throbbed from a wound in Indochina years before. “Up an’ at ’em tiger, lazy days’re over!”

  I was getting really irritated by all this and about to let him know it in no uncertain terms until I heard Arnoldo and Fortuna conversing worriedly in Spanish. For some reason that touched a nerve, having an audience to my weakness and Rork’s sarcasm was too much to ignore.

  I slowly sat up. Piercing the others in the room one by one with a nasty glare, I stated, “All right you heartless sonsabitches, you got me up. What the hell time is it, anyway, Rork?”

  “Already gettin’ late in the day, sir. Three bells in the mornin’ watch. An’ the lovely lady o’ the house is makin’ us a breakfast fit for an archbishop. Aye, that’ll get rid o’ the Devil’s work in your head.”

  Five-thirty in the morning? I’d had only two hours’ sleep. I studied Fortuna more closely. The major didn’t even have the decency to look hung over. Of course, he was at least fifteen years younger than me, but still, he shouldn’t look so damned chipper.

  The Cuban officer straightened. “Sorry for waking you this early, sir, but your men got here earlier than expected.”