Just before the appointed hour, General Shafter’s ship, the Ward liner Seguranca, steamed up and stopped a couple of miles away. She was escorted by Gloucester, a sleek little gunboat. Up until three months prior, Gloucester had been the yacht Corsair II, prized possession of financier John Pierpont Morgan until he sold her to the Navy for war duty. Since then she’d done fine work raiding Spanish ships and positions along the Cuban coast. My friend Richard Wainwright, whom I’d last seen on Maine the February night she exploded in Havana, was now in command of her.
At 2:07 p.m. an armada of small boats approached the beach from the liner. First to arrive was a launch full of stern-faced Marines, who scrambled out and trotted up to dry sand. They formed up in a double line at port arms, their bayoneted rifles loaded and ready for action. I noticed Lieutenant Law watching their technique with a critical but approving eye.
Next came a boatload of chattering correspondents, who targeted the most impressively uniformed Cuban in sight, apparently in the belief he was General García. He wasn’t. He was the sergeant of the color guard and was visibly confused by the sudden attention. Fortuna quickly straightened out the misidentification and told the newsmen to stand in a group off to the side. None of them did.
Two boats of armed sailors and Marines arrived and drifted just off the beach, ready to come ashore if needed. The fourth boat contained the usual hangers-on in the general’s staff, along with two foreign military attaché observers and the reporter I’d last seen at the Army headquarters in Tampa, Joseph Herrings. The boat grounded a few feet from the dry sand, and Cuban soldiers rushed out to carry the passengers to shore. The visitors stared at the strange scenery and inhabitants, their faces not reflecting admiration of what they saw. I remembered several of the staff officers from the Tampa Bay Hotel, including the idiot colonel who’d spilled the beans on my secret assignment. He was the picture of misery as he and the others were carried through the shallows on the backs of the grinning black Cuban soldiers.
Herrings waded ashore by himself, looked around at the spectacle, and began noting it all in his little book. He didn’t look impressed.
After this vanguard was ashore, the launch with the admiral and general came in. When the boat crunched on the sand bottom, most of the crew went over the sides and waded up to the beach, where they stood in a line opposite the Marines. Sampson, who has always been trim and light of build, walked forward, stepped up onto the launch’s bow, and jumped off into the ankle-deep water. He was followed by his chief of staff, Chadwick, an old naval intelligence colleague of mine, and a staff lieutenant. That left the general and the coxswain still in the boat.
General Shafter stood up, giving a casual wave to the onlookers. A hush fell over the crowd as they took in his immense size. I doubted if any Cuban had ever seen a man that large. There were no fat men in the Cuban Liberation Army; everyone, from García down to the lowest private, was perpetually on the verge of starvation.
Fortuna gasped in horror. Turning to me, he quietly said, “Sir, as you know, it is over a mile to our headquarters camp, and a thousand feet up. Please excuse me, but I have to find a bigger mule.” Then he was gone. Beside me, Law struggled not to react. Rork muttered under his breath something very obscene about the U.S. Army.
Shafter looked from the gunwale to the shallows, obviously perplexed as to how he was going to get ashore. Simply stepping up onto the gunwale and jumping down into the water was out of the question for him, as was the option of scampering up to the bow and leaping off as Sampson had. He conversed quietly with the equally perplexed coxswain, who I saw respectfully shake his head. Shafter turned his eyes toward Sampson on the beach. For a fleeting moment the admiral’s face betrayed no acknowledgment of Shafter’s plight, and I got the sense he didn’t like the general. Then Sampson looked expectantly at me.
Using my Spanish for the first time on this mission, I asked a nearby Cuban colonel to get some of his men to carry the boat into shallower water. In a flash, orders were bellowed and a mob of half-clothed Cuban soldiers and U.S. sailors in white uniforms splashed out to the boat. I nodded to Rork, who went in the water too, calling for the sailors in the boats floating off the beach to come in and help.
Taking charge of the operation by using the crude Spanish curses he knows, as well as a few in English, Rork quietly suggested to Shafter, “Mornin’ sir. Perhaps it’d be best for you to be seated ’til we get the boat up to the beach.”
The coxswain, receiving a curt nod from Rork, jumped into the water to join the crowd of men along the sides of the boat. Rork then got all the Cuban soldiers and American sailors lifting and pushing together on the count of three. With loud grunts and curses the heavy launch lifted and lurched forward until the forward half was dropped on dry sand and the deed was done.
Then the commanding general of all American Army forces in Cuba, which at that point numbered about five staff officers, stepped ashore on the island he was supposed to liberate from Spanish oppression. A wave of lackluster applause came from the still gaping Cuban throng. Someone shouted, “Viva los norteamericanos.” But it came out sounding rather perfunctory. No one echoed it.
After wringing out his handkerchief, Shafter mopped his brow. In an uncertain gait he made his way through the soft sand past the saluting American Marines and sailors to Admiral Sampson. Once together they headed for the official Cuban reception party, led by Major General Rabí and Brigadier General Castillo. On the eastern side of this group stood the Cuban honor guard and the American press, one of whom was trying to set up a camera tripod to record the moment for posterity. On the western side were Shafter’s staff, Lieutenant Law, a soggy Chief Rork, and me.
Shafter and Sampson stopped a few feet short of the Cuban generals. Someone shouted out an order in Spanish, and all the Cubans on the beach came to attention, as did the gathered Americans, rather belatedly. The U.S. Marines, of course, accomplished the drill magnificently, snapping their rifles into present arms in unison, the sling buckles and hand slaps providing a nice percussion to each movement of the evolution. The performance openly impressed the Cuban soldiers.
About this time, a harried-looking Fortuna reappeared, slipping through the crowd to stand beside and translate for Rabí. Castillo, who had lived in the United States and was fluent in English, stood on the other side of Rabí. The Cuban generals, both of whom were combat veterans and war heroes, stepped closer to Rear Admiral Sampson and Major General Shafter and rendered a perfect hand salute. The American admiral reciprocated. Shafter switched the handkerchief to his other hand, straightened a bit, and offered a quick return salute.
More orders were shouted, a drum rolled, and the Cuban honor guard presented arms—not as well as our men but better than I thought they could. The flags of Cuba and the United States were brought forward, and several bugles sounded a salute of sorts to the colors. Afterward, Rabí and Shafter gave mercifully short speeches containing nothing of substance.
I was hoping for a moment to advise Shafter on the situation, but the only interaction between us was a polite exchange of greetings—once I reminded him of who I was. He appeared not to remember my mission either, so I reminded him of that as well.
I thought that would spark some interest on his part, but he merely said, “Yes, well, Wake, please let my staff know what you’ve learned about the situation around here. They’ll factor it into the plans.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said as he turned away toward a beckoning staff officer.
The gathering turned into a procession, with senior officers of both armies mounting mules for the ascent up the mountain. The mule Fortuna had arranged for Shafter was the largest I’d seen in the camp but still nothing near the size of the usual American mule. The general looked at the creature doubtfully. A stump was brought over for him to step on while mounting the crude saddle. The agony in the mule’s eyes incited pity even from me, a sworn enemy of the genus. For my money, that damned beast deserved a medal, sainthood, and full pensio
n for the rest of his life for carrying that horrific load more than a mile and a thousand feet up in elevation.
Our caravan moved at a slow pace along the trail. All the American officers on muleback were led by grooms; the Cuban officers handled their own mounts. Right behind us, the Marines ascended the mountain on foot. The entire route was lined with Cuban soldiers, who brought rifles, shotguns, or whatever weapon was in hand to the present arms position as General Shafter passed them. There was pride and determination in their eyes, but I could tell the sweltering American officers never noticed it. All they saw were black-skinned natives in rags.
15
Council of War
Asarradero, Cuba
Monday, 20 June 1898
WHEN WE FINALLY reached the top, everyone dismounted. Many of the American officers rubbed their backsides and complained about the small size of the Cuban mules and the discomfort of the rudimentary saddles. Shafter led the grumbling. As the general unburdened the mule, he looked disdainfully at the lean-to huts of the Cuban generals.
I was standing close by him when he quietly muttered to one of his staff, “Humph, this place resembles Indian cantonments I’ve seen, but with even more disorder. I suppose they can put it up in an hour and vacate it in a minute.”
The foreign military observers went even further in denigrating the camp. They dismissed in racial terms the probable fighting qualities of Cuban soldiers based on what they’d seen of the men and their camp. They were ignorant of what the Cubans had actually accomplished, which was nothing short of astounding.
True, the Cubans weren’t European parade-ground puppets—they were combat-hardened jungle fighters who survived on wild fruit, greens, and a little rice. It was all I could do to remain polite in the face of such sneering arrogance by my fellow Americans and the foreign officers. As I was trying to think of something positive to say, I heard cheers emanating from another trail on the northeast side of the mountain. Major General García was returning at last from his inspection tour of the frontline brigade.
Unlike the visiting dignitaries, he was not in full uniform. Instead he was in his usual long-sleeved working rig—a faded blue uniform fastened up to the neck, with two buttons undone in the middle exposing his under vest. He wore neither rank insignia nor sidearm. Beside the resplendent American admiral and general and their staffs, García looked like an elderly servant, even though he was no older.
Fortuna translated as the Cuban general embraced his friend of one day, Admiral Sampson, then gravely saluted General Shafter. “Welcome to Free Cuba and my humble campaign headquarters, gentlemen. Forgive my late entrance, but when I learned of General Shafter’s sudden arrival I was many kilometers away inspecting a brigade that has seen heavy fighting this last week. They won the fight but took many casualties.”
Shafter offered polite congratulations on the victory and in the next wheezing breath suggested they get on with the council of war. Accordingly, García, Sampson, and Shafter adjourned to the thatched hut belonging to Major General Rabí, a veritable palace compared with the other huts nearby. They sat on empty ammunition crates arranged in a circle around a rough table. Fortuna brought in a topographical map of the area along with the survey sketches of Daiquiri and Siboney. García motioned for me to enter also, but the other staff stayed outside looking in at us.
García began, with Fortuna translating. “General Shafter, I want to start by saying the Cuban Liberation Army will do all in our power to assist your army. All Cubans are very grateful to the United States. I hereby place myself and my forces at your disposal. We will ensure a safe landing for your men and equipment. Together we will then execute an advance on Santiago. Let me add my appreciation for the excellent work of your liaison, Captain Wake. His insight has been invaluable.”
“Yes, well, thank you for your generous offer of support, General García. I am quite favorably impressed by your élan. And, ah, yes, Wake is a good man,” Shafter rattled off vacantly. “As for you being subordinate to me, I do not have authority to order it. But if that is your wish, so be it. I am sure there are many functions your people can fulfill.”
Fortuna was translating, but García clearly caught Shafter’s negative tone even before the words were put into Spanish. He nodded politely anyway.
Because of their ability in English, Castillo and Fortuna then explained to Sampson and Shafter the latest details of the Spanish order of battle. Each subject was covered concisely. Shafter listened intently, asking some pertinent questions on enemy logistics. I was pleased to see that, for it’s the sign of a good commander.
When the briefing ended, Shafter thanked Castillo and Fortuna, then turned to General García. “Now, I need to address the initial war operations. General García, where do you suggest we land our troops?”
“Daiquiri first, then Siboney.”
García nodded to Castillo, who explained the reasons for recommending Daiquiri and Siboney. Fortuna took over with a detailed description of the coastal terrain and roads, particularly the railroad line and adjacent road that ran west along the shoreline toward the Spanish fortresses at the mouth of the bay. He continued with details on the inland approaches to Santiago from that section of the coast, referring to sketch maps of each location. During the entire time, Sampson observed everything closely but contributed neither question nor suggestion. His lack of engagement puzzled me, but then again, this was primarily an Army show.
Shafter asked his Cuban counterpart, “General, when do you propose we do this?”
“Very soon, General Shafter,” García replied. He gestured toward me as Fortuna put it in English. “Perhaps Captain Wake has an opinion, for he is the one man who best knows the military and naval capabilities of everyone involved—the Americans, Cubans, and Spanish.”
It was my first inclusion in the discussion. All eyes turned to me—the Cubans expectantly and the Americans somewhat warily. The latter’s expressions indicated they thought of me merely as a sailor interfering with Army operations who had perhaps “gone native” and was overly enamored of the Cubans and their cause. I did have the reputation in Washington as a supporter of Cuban independence, so their apparent attitude didn’t surprise me. In any event, in that hut on the mountain in Cuba, I was well past caring what an American general and his staff thought of me.
“We need to start landing troops within two days at the most, sir,” I said. “There are only a few feasible landing places, and the Spanish have detachments watching each of them. The Cubans can secure Daiquiri and block the Spanish from reinforcing their outpost there, but they only have enough ammunition, supplies, and food for a couple of days of fierce fighting on a large scale. If the enemy realizes our planned landing location and puts it under a major attack of three or four thousand men, the Cubans will need American relief within three days. Naval diversions along the coast will help confuse the enemy, but not for long.”
Shafter’s eyes hardened as he asked the next question in a low voice. “Captain Wake, as General García has said, you know the Cuban and Spanish culture, as well as the local situation and forces. You know them better than any of my officers, which is why you were sent inside Cuba ahead of us.
“I expect your candid answer to my next question before I commit the lives of 17,000 American men to this enterprise. If I accelerate the campaign and begin landing two days from now on the twenty-second, do the Cubans actually have the strength and skills to hold Daiquiri and Siboney long enough for us to land all our troops and equipment? If the Cubans fail and the Spanish get through, my men will be caught in a bloodbath on the scale of Fredericksburg.”
Fortuna’s translation into Spanish for García was far less pointed, but everyone there sensed that Shafter’s thinly veiled real question was whether the Cubans would fight a toe-to-toe battle with the Spanish. It was a valid point that needed answering.
“General Shafter, during the last three years the Cuban Liberation Army has repeatedly overcome daunting odds against a mod
ern European army. They’ve done it all on their own with little outside help due to the U.S. arms embargo, which ended only recently when we got in this war. The Cuban people have been struggling for this moment for thirty years. These men around you may not look like much, but they are no strangers to combat and death. They know their own people are watching what will happen here. This place and time will determine their future freedom. It is now or never.”
I paused to let the meaning of my preamble resonate, then emphasized, “I have absolutely no doubt that General García’s soldiers will clear and hold Daiquiri, and Siboney also, for three days or until every single one of them is dead. For our part, we Americans need to strike hard and strike fast, before the Spanish can react in force from Santiago.”
For the next few seconds, the only sound in the hut was Shafter’s breathing. Fortuna translated my words verbatim for García, who grimly nodded his concurrence to the mammoth blond American general, the outsider to whom he had pledged everything.
Shafter pounded a fist on his knee. “Very well, then. I concur. Our invasion force will land the day after tomorrow at Daiquiri. Once ashore, they will move west and meet our reinforcements as they land at Siboney, then consolidate and move west toward Santiago. And now, we need to get the details of the naval diversions and actual landing decided, for this will be a complex movement involving Cuban troops, American warships, and my army.”
Other staff officers were brought in. Available manpower, transport, provisions, ammunition, diversions, and communications were analyzed. When it came out that the Cuban forces were starving, which was why García offered no refreshments other than coffee to the distinguished American visitors, Shafter summoned a colonel and ordered him to get two thousand U.S. Army rations ashore by sunset. García couldn’t hide his surprise at the American general’s ability to do such a thing and expressed his sincere appreciation. Outside the hut I heard the joyous word spreading—food was coming.
Honoring the Enemy Page 9