Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  The Spanish sailors were mystified. We weren’t deserters. We weren’t even their countrymen. We were, in fact, quite the opposite. The bedraggled derelicts they’d fished on board were actually the dreaded yanqui enemy! But how had we gotten there?

  The coxswain, recognizing my senior rank, was at a loss for what to say to me. Like most veteran petty officers in such a predicament, he straightened up and saluted me. Not to be outdone by this show of chivalry, I straightened up, returned the salute, and introduced myself in Spanish.

  “Captain Peter Wake, United States Navy. Thank you for the ride to the ship, Coxswain. My compliments on your fine steam launch. It is much better than our last one from the port captain’s office.”

  My Spanish is not without considerable defect, but I can be understood. The coxswain seemed to appreciate my attempt at dry wit. It also got his crew chuckling, leading to a general calming of tension and the trembling trigger finger. Rork gauged the moment right and made a self-deprecatory comment in Spanish about our obvious lack of warlike skills.

  The Spaniards thought him sincere and assured us our capture was merely bad luck. The sailor who thumped him apologized for roughing him up. The sailor holding the pistol wagged his head in sympathy, allowing the muzzle to drop a bit. The stoker even patted Rork on the shoulder.

  I knew Rork’s intent was to lull them into complacency as he inched aft toward our bag of weaponry. My impression was cemented when I spotted a malevolent glint in his eye when he glanced at the sailor who’d bashed him. To be sure, a plan for retribution was brewing in that Gaelic brain.

  Rork’s opportunity for revenge came to naught, though, for the Spanish coxswain was a wily old salt himself and was not deceived one whit by our affable behavior. He watched our every move like a hawk, never allowing us to edge close enough to our seabag or get into a position from which to jump the crew. The crew was admonished to stay alert and act professional. Thus thwarted, our pretended conviviality faded as we went into captivity for the second time in less than twelve hours.

  “Ah, friggin’ bad Irish luck again,” lamented Rork to the sky. “I’m so bloody tired o’ this place …” He let out a long, sad sigh.

  “Steady on, Rork. We’re not dead yet,” I reminded him gently.

  We came alongside the moving cruiser, and as the boat was being hauled up to the main deck the coxswain excitedly shouted up at the junior officer of the watch, “Sir, the men hiding in that tree are yanqui naval officers!”

  Before the astonished lieutenant could reply, a deep baritone boomed out from the bridge in Andalusian Spanish. “Bring them to me!”

  I knew that voice.

  44

  A Choice of Deaths

  Santiago Bay, Cuba

  Sunday Morning, 3 July 1898

  I’D FIRST MET Emilio Díaz-Moreu y Quintana at a diplomatic reception in Cádiz, Spain, back in 1885. I was on a port visit there with our Mediterranean squadron. He was a lieutenant commander in the Spanish navy and about to begin a period of convalescence at Alicante, across the country on the central Mediterranean coast of Spain, for some undisclosed illness. He didn’t look ill to me at the reception. In fact, I was surprised to hear of the man’s intention, for his large physique was imposing, his wit was acerbic, and his eyes were unnervingly penetrating. I immediately sized up Díaz-Moreu as a man to watch for in the future and predicted his recuperation would be quick.

  I met him again in 1894 at Málaga, on the southern coast of Spain, at yet another of the innumerable soirées American officers had to suffer through ashore when serving in Europe. In addition to his naval status Díaz-Moreu was well known by then as a member of the Cortes, Spain’s parliament. He had recently expressed his candid, and somewhat unpopular, assessment of Spain’s navy to Prime Minister Sagasta’s government in Madrid, insisting the navy should be modernized.

  The cocktail conversation at that party had him destined for higher rank and command. I heard from other Spanish naval officers not only that he was a respected captain and staff officer but also that his combat exploits during the recent Rif War in North Africa had garnered him notice in royal circles.

  By 1895 I heard a rumor from British acquaintances that Díaz-Moreu would be getting command of one of the much-coveted large cruisers Spain was buying from foreign yards in Europe. It turned out to be correct. The following year he was sent to Genoa, Italy, and given command of Colón even as she was being completed at the yard.

  Now, four years after Emilio Díaz-Moreu and I shared polite cocktail conversation at a boring social affair filled with international poseurs of every class and type, I was a prisoner on his ship. By then the cruiser had completed her 360-degree turn and was following the other ships out the channel.

  Once we were brought to the main deck, a junior officer and guard detail hurried us up several sets of ladders to the portside bridge wing. Inside the wheelhouse, an officer was calling out to the helmsman to straighten the rudder and follow the ship ahead. Status reports, acknowledgments, and observations were being reported in preparation for the battle.

  It all stopped cold when they saw me. Someone belatedly announced, “The yanqui officers have arrived.”

  Officers and petty officers cleared the space around me as if I had a contagious disease, or perhaps because I was dripping seawater. Rork and Law waited at the open hatchway to the outside ladder. Behind them were two armed guards.

  Law looked anxious. Rork appeared calm, almost glum, as he stood at parade rest. But he cast a slight sideways look, moving his eyes from me down to the water, and I read his meaning—Do we jump for it once we’re out of the bay?

  My shrug was equally slight. Maybe. We’ll see.

  Attired in his dress uniform, Díaz-Moreu entered the crowded wheelhouse from the starboard wing, and everyone, including me, came to attention. Among the baubles on his chest I saw the Grand Cross of the Naval Order of Maria Cristina, the Grand Cross of Military Merit, and several other prestigious decorations and awards. If he lived through the day ahead, I imagined another medal would join them and his future as a political and naval leader in Spain would be assured.

  Díaz-Moreu’s strong nose, thick moustache, and imperiously arched eyebrows were the same as I remembered, but his hair was grayer and thinning. He’d also gained a bit of weight, which showed in his jowls and waist. I recalled he once said something about being born in 1846, seven years after me, but standing there on the bridge the man looked older than his early fifties.

  Diaz-Moreu was the very beau ideal of his nation’s naval manhood, ready and willing to defend the honor of Spain against the upstart gringos. Those dark, evaluating eyes silently studied the soggy wreck of a naval officer, complete with jellyfish-burned face, before him. Would he remember me?

  When Díaz-Moreu spoke, it was with the same self-assurance I’d noted years before. Unlike our previous encounters, this time he spoke in very good English. I mentally awarded him a point, for his fluency was such that he must’ve had it before. Excellent tradecraft for cocktail parties.

  “I am Captain Emilio Díaz-Moreu y Quintana, commanding officer of this ship. Allow me to welcome you aboard the armored cruiser Cristóbal Colón of His Catholic Majesty’s Navy. You are Captain Peter Wake, of the American Navy. We have met twice before in Spain. You were quite highly regarded in naval intelligence work, as I recall.”

  I bowed slightly. “Yes, sir. We did indeed meet many years ago in your wonderful country. As for my reputation and work, I am but a humble servant of my nation, Captain, as you are of yours. Though I must admit you are far more professionally successful.”

  He bowed slightly at my compliment. I continued.

  “May I introduce my subordinates standing behind me? They are Lieutenant Edwin Law, U.S. Marines, and Chief Boatswain’s Mate Sean Rork, U.S. Navy. We thank you for your remarkable hospitality. As fate has made me a prisoner of war, I am greatly honored to be a prisoner of one of the most highly regarded naval officers in Europe.” />
  “Thank you, Captain Wake. We will endeavor to make you as comfortable as we can, given our current circumstances. And I must congratulate you on gaining access into the interior of Santiago’s defenses. It was no small accomplishment.”

  His next comment was accompanied with a chuckle. “I understand you even captured a brothel.”

  Oh, so he knows about that, does he? What else does he know? The Spaniard was clearly enjoying the repartee, so I countered in like vein. “It’s amazing what you can learn in the enemy’s brothels. But I must ask, how did you know I was at Clara’s? I don’t remember seeing any Spanish naval officers there.”

  “I should hope not. We have much higher standards! I had breakfast ashore this morning with a friend in the army. He told me the tale of your escape and refuge at Clara’s notorious house of ill repute, all of it en voce sotto, of course. The army is embarrassed, to say the least. They very much wanted to recapture and execute you as a spy and attempted saboteur.”

  I smiled. “Actually, we weren’t really going to blow up anything. I was just checking on how Spanish morale was doing.”

  He laughed. “Yes, of course. I hope you found it high. I think the army made up that part to make you sound more formidable and difficult to recapture. But, luckily for you, it was our navy who got you. Disguised as a floating tree, no less! Well done, Captain Wake—a glorious way to end your active participation in this war. If I somehow live through the battle today, I shall dine out on this story for a long time.”

  One can’t help but smile under such circumstances, and I did so while replying, “Thank you, sir. I hope the soldiers don’t get in trouble because of our escape. One of them was getting married today.”

  “Oh, I think they are very much in trouble, having vastly outnumbered you. Now, as to the matter at hand for us. In a few minutes we will be confronting your magnificent American fleet, which has us outnumbered and outgunned. There is every chance we will all die within the hour, and this beautiful ship will sink to the bottom of the Caribbean Sea.

  “Therefore, I have a decision to make about my newly arrived prisoners. Do I lock you below in our ship’s jail, or do I grant you parole under your word of honor not to escape or to hinder the operations of this ship and allow you to stay here to observe the battle? There is not much time for deliberation, Captain Wake. Which do you prefer?”

  What he didn’t say was that if we were locked below, we’d never get out when the ship sank. If we were standing on the bridge under parole, we stood every chance of dying by the shrapnel or concussion of American high explosives.

  It was merely a choice of deaths.

  45

  Sunday Routines

  Santiago Bay, Cuba

  Sunday Morning, 3 July 1898

  I TOOK THE OBVIOUS OPTION. “Captain Díaz-Moreu, you have our word of honor as naval officers and a naval petty officer. We will abide by the internationally accepted norms of parole and not hinder the ship, harm your men, or attempt to escape.”

  He shook my hand again, his eyes suddenly somber. “Then it shall be so. You and your companions will stand in the after starboard corner there, where you can watch everything. I truly hope you will survive, Captain Wake, for someday I would enjoy relaxing with you over bottles of decent Cuban rum and Spanish brandy. We can discuss our careers, our women, and our children. I venture to say we would discover some interesting commonalities.”

  I replied, “I would like that also, sir,” but he had already turned and was issuing orders to his executive officer. In an instant the wheelhouse returned to systematic commotion. Last-minute preparations were completed, commands were acknowledged, armored hatches were clanged shut, and viewing ports were lowered with massive thuds. Instantly, all air circulation ended. Two battle lanterns and flat shafts of eerie light from the observation slits provided the only light inside the armored citadel. The scene of tense faces and hushed voices was almost surreal.

  Through the viewing slits I could see the Spanish ships in line ahead. The lead position was occupied by the armored cruiser flying Admiral Cervera’s flag, Infanta María Teresa. She had a main battery of two 11-inch guns forward and another ten 5.5-inch guns around her upper decks. Teresa was also rated at twenty knots, but her top speed was closer to sixteen or seventeen, as I knew from an espionage operation I had directed the year before.

  Second was her sister ship Vizcaya, also slower than advertised. Colón was third, the sole cruiser capable of nearly the design speed, followed by another slow sister ship of the flagship, Almirante Oquendo. Bringing up the rear of the line were two lightly armed torpedo boat–destroyers, Furor and Pluton. They were designed for twenty-eight knots but could do twenty-two at most.

  We steamed seaward with increasing velocity, passing Cayo Smith to starboard, surging past Fort Estellas on the eastern shore to port. Next, to starboard, were the Socapa batteries. At the narrow mouth of the bay loomed my temporary abode the previous night, El Morro. Ahead of us was the blue Caribbean Sea, its waves glittering in the intense morning sunlight.

  It was a vision of endless beauty, except for the menacing black shapes scattered across the horizon. Squinting through the forward viewing slits I tried to make out the number and type of ships in the American fleet. From where I stood I couldn’t see any details, much less identify my son’s ship, Oregon.

  The officer of the watch passed along to Díaz-Moreu a signal flag report to the Spanish fleet from the lookouts at El Morro. Three American ships—the battleship New York, Admiral Sampson’s flagship; the battleship Massachusetts; and a small auxiliary vessel, Suwanee—had departed the blockade. They were a couple of miles east of the main fleet and steaming toward Siboney. The fortress then reported the remaining U.S. ships on the blockade line. In a monotone the officer listed them in order, from west to east.

  The first was the yacht-gunboat Gloucester. The next in line were an auxiliary ship, Resolute, and two battleships, Indiana and Oregon. My heart skipped a beat.

  The officer went on with his recital. Although the men on the bridge spoke Spanish rapidly, I was able to follow without too much difficulty. In the center of the line, directly opposite the mouth of Santiago Bay, was another battleship, Iowa. The eastern side of the American line consisted of the battleship Texas, the cruiser Brooklyn, the small yacht-gunboat Vixen, the torpedo boat Ericsson, and the yacht-gunboat Hist.

  Díaz-Moreu peered through a forward slit during the report, then turned to me. “It certainly appears Admiral Sampson has tried to even the contest. How very generous of him to depart the scene just as we are coming out to do battle. But it is odd, do you not agree?”

  “Probably had a luncheon engagement with General Shafter,” I quipped, while wondering that very thing myself.

  I wasn’t worried. In the absence of Admiral Sampson, Commodore Winfield Scott Schley in Brooklyn was the senior officer in command of the blockade. Like Sampson, he had a reputation as a fighter. Even without Massachusetts and New York, Schley had enough firepower and speed to destroy all the Spanish ships.

  Colón and the other Spanish ships were charging at full speed past the headlands now, giant gold-and-red battle flags streaming aft from their masts. Only three hundred yards separated each Spanish vessel in the line, an impressive show of seamanship. They presented a brave and thrilling sight—until I thought of the imminent cost of their glorious act. The clock on the bulkhead above me read 9:35 when a speaking tube whistled.

  The officer of the watch announced that the masthead lookout reported Brooklyn had run up a signal in her halyards. Within seconds the American ships were turning toward the entrance to the bay.

  “Ah, I expected that much sooner,” said Díaz-Moreu. “They are late in recognizing our sortie from Santiago.” He motioned for me to come and stand beside him. When I did so, he beckoned me to view the American fleet close up through the forward slits. Huge plumes of smoke were beginning to roil up from their stacks. The entire fleet had turned toward us.

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nbsp; “Do you know, Captain Wake, why we chose this time and date?” Díaz-Moreu asked while I searched for Oregon. There she was, five miles away. The sight of her so far away from the scene of battle was a relief—maybe my son would miss the worst of it.

  “Because you know tomorrow is our annual Declaration of Independence celebration and you wanted to participate?” was my sarcastic answer. I was tired of his genteel banter. The man was just too composed for me. He didn’t even seem nervous, much less fearful.

  He merely laughed at my acerbity. “Oh, no, but what a good idea! No, we chose this moment because in the thirty-three days you Americans have been waiting offshore here we have studied your naval routines, which are followed to the minute. So we know your crews are preparing for Sunday church service at this very time. Almost all the men on your ships are mustered aft on the main deck in their best white uniforms, ready in their minds for peaceful worship, not for war. We thought this would give us an advantage in beginning the chase. We are sure God will understand this transgression of the Sabbath—he is, after all, on our side.”

  Though he said the last without conviction, and theological appropriateness aside, I had to admit Admiral Cervera had brilliant timing. The surprise would gain the Spanish only a few minutes at most, but when dealing with complicated machines of war at sea, sometimes that’s enough.

  My reply, which was intended to be a compliment on the Spanish navy’s tactical surprise, was interrupted by a column of water erupting dead ahead of us, followed by a distant boom. It was a ranging shot, soon followed by another.

  Rork and I both looked at the clock. It had taken the U.S. Navy eight and a half minutes from warning signal to main batteries firing—a very respectable period of time to man battle stations for men beginning church service. The Spanish element of surprise was over.