We departed the magnificent fortress as the night guards were calling out their midnight checks. I began surreptitiously scrutinizing our wagon, the driver, Comandante Marino, the extra cart, and the mounted escort for any opportunities. The escorts were regulars led by a veteran sergeant. They would be difficult to surprise and overwhelm. On the other hand, I had six bullets in my hidden revolver and another six in my pocket.
I decided on a plan to overpower the Spaniards on our wagon as soon as we reached the intersection of the road and the railroad tracks. I would shoot as many of the cavalrymen as I could while Rork and Law leaped on the second wagon to retrieve the seabag and our long guns. We’d then commandeer three horses, shoot the others to preclude pursuit, and ride at full speed to the east along the trail paralleling the tracks to gain the American lines.
If even one of the three of us could make it back, our report would be two or three hours late but still important. Shafter would know the Spanish had left the area vacant of sizable forces but maintained numerous patrols. The attack would shorten the war if there was still time enough to implement his attack plan before the Spanish realized their error and reinforced the area.
My hastily concocted scheme didn’t come to fruition, however. As we approached the intersection, Marino and his men got edgy, drawing their weapons and looking keenly about for any ambuscade. After all, it was the area where they’d captured us, and they didn’t know if more Americans were lurking. The sergeant watched me in particular, his carbine laid across the saddle, muzzle pointed in my direction.
When we reached the junction with the railroad, instead of continuing straight along the road toward Santiago, as I expected, the driver took a sharp left onto the rough trail alongside the railroad tracks. We were now headed west toward the shoreline of the bay, away from the American lines. Marino offered no explanation for the detour.
I soon realized this deviation had a potential silver lining. We were no longer headed to the city center by the usual direct route, but by a longer one, nearer the bay. Were we to be turned over to Admiral Pascual Cervera, commander of the Spanish fleet in Santiago Bay? Any route close to water was preferable, for water of any kind is a place of relative safety for a sailor. Also, the trail alongside the tracks was much higher and drier than the rutted Morro road, making for far more comfortable riding.
We reached the top of a hill, from which I saw the city to the north and the bay to the west. Visible in the moon-washed darkness was the line of forts and blockhouses arrayed along the edge of the suburbs. Fort Horno was nearest the bay, Fort Benefico farther east. Farther inland to the right was Fort Cañadas. Interspersed between them were smaller blockhouses and trenches.
The trail took a broad right curve to the north, rising in elevation. The bay was only a quarter mile below on our left now. I could see warships at anchor, the famous Spanish fleet. Those ships could devastate the eastern seaboard of the United States within days if they escaped from Santiago. Neither the U.S. Navy nor the U.S. Army had sufficient assets to protect every port from Maine to Texas. I was looking at the primary reason the Americans had even come to Santiago.
A roadblock was ahead, with earthworks and barricades extending to either side. It was one of the few entrances through the city’s defense perimeter. There were too many soldiers at the roadblock for us to try anything there. Our opportunity would have to be farther up the track, before we entered the city itself.
I glanced at Rork as we stopped while an officer examined Marino’s papers. They exchanged greetings in a friendly manner. The soldiers at the post were chattering as they studied the yanqui prisoners. Rork shrugged slightly and mouthed the words “not here.” Law was lying on his side, apparently passed out.
Before waving us through, the roadblock officer offered Marino congratulations on his wedding the next day. My Spanish is less than fluent, but I got the gist. Marino sheepishly thanked him, adding he was the luckiest man in the world.
Rork forced a cough, looking at me with eyebrows raised. Neither of us had wanted to kill Marino before, and now those sentiments were deepened. Law sat up, sensing something was about to happen, and I realized he’d been shamming the drunken demeanor. His eyes darted between Rork and me, signaling he was ready for whatever we came up with.
The column got under way again. The city and its vital defense line were a half mile ahead. A spur line branched off the railroad to the left toward a large pier on the bay, only two hundred yards away. We passed the side path alongside the spur line leading to the pier, ending my hope of being taken out to the Spanish flagship as Admiral Cervera’s guest. The main tracks ended a short way beyond, but the road continued toward the city.
We would have to make our move soon. The driver and Marino were up on the box seat forward. The three of us were sitting on the cargo bed behind them Indian fashion. Two horsemen were out ahead, and two were directly behind the wagon, their carbines unholstered and ready for service. Astern of those two fellows was the cart with our seabag, driven by a shriveled man with a sickly wheeze. The other soldiers were riding as a rear guard behind it.
I mentally went over my plan. I would leap upon the driver and Marino, knock them off the wagon, then turn aft to shoot the two soldiers closest to us. I knew—after working with a man for thirty years you are instinctively certain what actions he will take in an emergency—Rork would go for the cart and retrieve our long guns, thence to fire at the rear guard. Lieutenant Law was in the stern of the wagon bed, and I trusted him to help Rork when the time came. Though our route of escape to the American lines was cut off, we could get to the bay and escape that way.
If this notion seems impossible to the reader, it sounded equally absurd in my brain. Given the dire situation, though, it was the best I could come up with.
As we got to the midpoint between the outer and inner defense lines, I slowly shifted my position into a kneeling crouch, ready to spring forward. It was now or never. Rork loosened his false left hand, the better to quickly employ the marlinespike concealed therein, and also drew his legs beneath him. I glanced meaningfully at Law and then aft at the cart following us. He followed my eyes and nodded his understanding.
It was time. My hand slowly moved to the sideboard in order to steady my leap upon Marino and the driver.
Suddenly, from a path on the right came the rumbling sound of many hooves. Seconds later, forty horsemen appeared through a fruit grove, loping in a column toward us. The officer at the front hailed Marino with something I couldn’t make out as we passed them. The cavalry column wheeled to their right onto the road behind our rear guard, joining the procession toward the city. There were now fifty Spanish soldiers within twenty yards of the wagon.
“Luck o’ the ever-bleedin’ Irish,” growled Rork under his breath.
The city itself and another army checkpoint were directly ahead. Beyond the inner defense works I saw the twin-spired cathedral in the city’s center, which I recognized from my last visit inside Santiago de Cuba twelve years earlier. A large building, the city gasworks, was visible closer to us, standing out against the silhouettes of other structures behind it. The sight jogged my memory, sparking an idea.
“Rork,” I said barely audibly, so as to not alert our guardians. “Do you remember our time here back in ’86?”
“Aye, sir, that I do. Hated every bloody bit’uv it,” he huffed back in a whisper. “Except for me little romp at Clara’s place, o’ course—the one pleasure for me durin’ the whole affair. An’ then, just when things were goin’ grand you came along an’ dragged me out o’ there. Damned inconsiderate of ye, not to mention bad timin’. Was in me glory, I was, or damned near.”
Fortunately, Marino was bantering with the driver about the joys of love, marriage, and having lots of children, and thereby missed his prisoners’ discussion. Law, however, was listening intently. For his benefit I briefly recounted that earlier night in Santiago.
“Now, Rork, you seem to have forgotten you were dru
nk at a whorehouse when you were supposed to be with me, meeting our operative at the Royal Theater. In your absence I had to face some rather irate fellows on my own. But never mind that, it’s ancient history and beside the point, which is that the brothel is somewhere near the gasworks, right?”
Instantly catching my intent, Rork cheered up. “Nay, sir, it’s in the middle o’ town. Why’d ye ask?”
“I’m drawing a blank on the exact location of Clara’s place. Can you remember any landmarks?”
“Well, sir, truth be told, that night’s a bit’uv a blur. There was considerable drinkin’ goin’ on.” His face furrowed in concentration. “Ah, but I’ve a foggy recollection o’ passin’ the cathedral on the way. Aye, an’ beyond that, I passed a taverna full o’ Spaniardo soldiers. Gunners, if me memory serves, an’ drunk as coots, they were. Trod carefully when goin’ by that place, let me tell ye.”
That rang a bell. I remembered the soldiers’ tavern. It was near the artillery barracks, about two blocks east of the cathedral on the main street from the central plaza.
“Yes, and the brothel was in a side alleyway about two streets east of the tavern and four streets south. Then I turned left and the alley was off to the left, halfway down the street. Correct?”
“I think so, but me memory o’ that night’s mush.”
“Understandable, Rork. I was regrettably sober that night. You were regrettably not. The place wasn’t much to look at, pretty run down.”
“Aye, ’twas a nasty-lookin’ place on the outside, but ooh, on the inside it was a veritable palace o’ love an’ comfort for a lonely soul. Clara her own self met me at the door, an’ a true lady she was. From a Spanish colony in North Africa. Melilla, I think. Skin a bit on the dark side. Hell’uva girl, though. I wonder if she’s still there …”
Up front on the driver’s seat, Marino was still in an animated discussion, but the topic had switched to rum. The prisoners’ talk among themselves, clearly sprinkled with humor, appeared to generate no worry or interest for our Spanish guardians. After all, we were surrounded and well behind enemy lines. What could we possibly do?
I leaned over and said, “Rork, I really hope you left a good and long-lasting impression on Clara.”
He snorted indignantly. “O’ course I did, sir! There’s nary a cheap bone in me body. Got to maintain me reputation with these lasses, for ye just never know when you’ll be needin’ their attention next time in port.”
Then he caught the hidden meaning of my query. “Oohee, what devilish scheme’s brewin’ in that head o’ yours?”
“I think we’ll be needing Clara’s attention tonight.”
Lieutenant Law smiled.
36
The Wedding Present
Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Saturday Night after Midnight, 3 July 1898
THE GUARD POST OF THE city’s inner defense perimeter on the shoreline road was manned by Cuban militia reservists grudgingly serving their required time in the Spanish army. They were considerably less diligent in their duties than the regulars on the outer defense line. It was late on a Saturday night, and they probably had their minds on more pleasurable endeavors than the subjugation of their rebellious fellow islanders. The dreaded yanquis were still well outside town. Following a perfunctory check of Marino’s papers, the lieutenant gave a sloppy salute and waved us forward. The whole thing took a mere thirty seconds.
We rolled on, passing by the gasworks, with its uniquely malevolent smell. Seconds later we went over an equally odorous drainage creek and entered the great city itself. One hundred yards into the city the dirt road became a paved street, the Calle de Cristina. This main waterfront thoroughfare of the city was named for the regent queen mother of the current twelve-year-old king of Spain, Alfonso XIII. Four blocks onward, the cavalry troopers turned to the right up Calle de Santa Lucia toward their barracks on the eastern edge of the city.
At this hour the streets were deserted and dark except for some weak streetlamps. The steady clip-clop of our horses echoed off the centuries-old walls, sounding loud and funereal in the still air. According to the Cuban rebels, many civilian inhabitants had fled Santiago. Those who remained were starving. Few were out in the streets.
I surveyed our remaining escort, now slumped in their saddles. They looked bored. Their carbines were secured in their saddle scabbards. We were in a heavily protected space now, our destination only a quarter mile away. Even Marino had nothing more to say to the driver and had lapsed into a pensive state. I could guess his thoughts. Soon he would be rid of his yanqui charges and could begin his wedding leave.
This moment was our last chance.
The driver’s and Marino’s silence meant they could hear what was happening directly behind them. Our whispered conversations were at an end. Communication would have to be by gesture and expression, and there wasn’t much time.
Catching Rork’s eye, I touched my chest and canted my head toward Marino and the driver. Rork’s chin bobbed slightly in acknowledgment. I slowly turned my gaze behind us to the cart and the rear guard, then returned it to Rork, giving him a questioning glance. He twisted his false hand for an answer. We both looked at Law, who had been watching our pantomime. I stretched my elbow back at the cart and the rear guard sauntering along behind it. Law took a deep breath and gravely nodded.
It was time. I held up three fingers, then two, then one.
Leaping forward, I used every ounce of my strength to push the driver across the box seat into Marino. Both men sprawled overboard to starboard with arms flailing and landed on the hard road with a thud. Turning aft, I pulled my Merwin-Hulbert revolver, momentarily closing my right eye to preserve night vision but keeping my left open. I fired two shots toward our immediate rear guard of two cavalrymen, the flash and sound shattering the night. The first target, the sergeant, was hit high in the chest and fell backward in the saddle as his horse veered off to the right. The other shot missed, but the soldier was so startled he bungled drawing his own carbine. He fell from my third shot.
I climbed onto the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins, whipping them down on the horses’ rumps to make them go faster. By this time Rork and Law had jumped off the wagon, bounding two strides before springing up on the flustered old cart driver. Rork managed to grab his arm and fling him off. Law sprang up to the driver’s seat and seized control of the confused pony, accelerating the cart up toward the wagon. While all this was happening, Rork jumped up into the bed of the cart and grabbed his shotgun from the bag. Thankfully, it was still loaded. Blasting two shells of double-aught buck astern into the last Spanish mounted troopers who were trying to aim and fire, he knocked down two. The others fired back, then sheered off to starboard, escaping down a side street.
In this sudden pandemonium, the wagon’s horses went beyond reason or control, bucking and swerving from one side of the street to the other. It became impossible for me to steer the wagon or return fire astern. The issue was settled when Law brought the cart up alongside to port. Law being clearly more adept at driving, I decided to jump ship to the cart. My leap of faith landed me atop Rork, pushing him backward and damn near overboard. Just then the horsemen reappeared astern, riding full speed for us. Rork threw some cargo boxes at them. One of the Spanish troopers loosed off a round that nearly did me in. The gunfire had the effect of escalating the cart pony’s abject fear, and the little devil did his best to flee the scene, outracing the newly vacated wagon.
Off we went, clattering north along Calle de Cristina past a row of dockside warehouses. Behind us, the wagon’s terrified horses, now freed from my attempts to drive them, frantically swung to the right to get away from the commotion. The wagon heeled over to port, capsizing an instant later atop a pile of thrashing hooves. The crash blocked the path of the cavalrymen and forced them to a scrambling halt as we raced away.
I heard Marino’s angry shout come up the street. “Shoot them! Shoot the damned yanquis!”
In the insanity of
the moment I yelled back, “Happy wedding, my friend! Your life is my wedding present to your fiancée!”
There was no answer. A hundred yards ahead we faced another danger. The guards at the Spanish navy’s shore headquarters had rushed out into the street to ascertain the nature of the miniature battle they were hearing. In seconds we were among them. Shots were fired by both sides to no obvious effect, but fifty feet dead ahead, an officer had a rifle leveled at me.
Law swerved the cart right onto the most famous street in Santiago, Calle de Catedral. We bounced our way east up the relatively steep incline through the center of the city. Behind us, the cavalrymen had gotten past the wrecked wagon and reached the turn. They fired up the street at us, the shots ricocheting off the walls close around us.
Lamps flared alight in windows. Shouts and police whistles came from every direction. Figures emerged from doorways then ducked back inside. I concentrated on recalling the city’s geography, navigating for Law as Rork continued to send blasts of buckshot at our pursuers.
At Calle de San Juan, only a block away from the cathedral overlooking the central Plaza de la Reina, we veered to the right again and raced south for three blocks. This street changes name to Nepomuceno and narrows as you go south. I quickly realized we were heading away from Clara’s, or where I thought Clara’s was, and back toward the city’s inner defense perimeter. That wouldn’t do at all, so when we reached Calle de Santa Rita I had Law make an abrupt right turn. Once through the turn, all hands jumped overboard while the cart and pony rumbled down the sloping street toward the bay.
Though bruised and battered from landing on the cobblestones, we had no time to waste. We hobbled toward a narrow alleyway, where we hid behind a stack of empty orange crates. As we regained our breath I took stock of our condition. None of us was hit by the gunfire. We still had the seabag containing our shotguns and ammunition. We were only a few streets from the brothel. Once we got there we could hide until the streets calmed down.
Honoring the Enemy Page 23