Homeland

by John Jakes

  Paul laughed, but he couldn’t say a word; Michael’s idea was too new and startling.

  They were at Yucatan’s gangplank. Soldiers crowded the rail high above. Jimmy was squeezed in among them, motioning for Paul to hurry. Hands were scurrying all over the ship, readying her for departure. Her whistle blasted.

  Michael laid his elegant stick on Paul’s shoulder and gave it a tap. “Think about it! It could be a fine opportunity. Solve all your problems. Give you a fresh start. If you’re interested, I’ll pop off a cable or two. Assuming we all get out of the bloody Cuban jungles alive.”

  He strolled away swinging the cane. The filigreed gold crutch handle winked in the sunlight like some priceless nugget, some promised treasure, of a new Eldorado.

  Yucatan’s lines were cast off, her engines started. She warped away from the pier, maneuvering slowly until she was in the channel. There she anchored to await orders to form the convoy.

  The ship rode low in the water. She was rated to carry six hundred men, but she’d boarded almost a thousand: all the Rough Riders, two companies of 2d Infantry regulars who’d managed to squeeze past Roosevelt’s barricade, and their band.

  Jimmy and Paul went below to inspect their quarters—two bunks among hundreds. The stench from oil and horse shit and sweating bodies was overwhelming.

  “I’m not sleeping in this rat hole,” Jimmy snapped.

  “I don’t like it either. I heard we’re allowed to camp on deck if we can find room.”

  “Let’s go. If we can’t find room, I’ll make some. Throw a couple of these farm boys over the side.”

  It wasn’t necessary. The deck was filling up fast, men spreading blankets, pinning the corners down with gear, but Paul and Jimmy found two places up near the anchor hawser. It reminded Paul of his days and nights on Rheinland.

  The ship stank all the more when the evening’s ration was served. It consisted of biscuits, canned beans, canned tomatoes, and the malodorous “canned fresh beef” purveyed to the Army. There were loud, profane complaints, and many rations thrown into the bay.

  As the sun set, a better mood prevailed. The band from the Second set up on the wooden cover of a cargo hatch and played “The Star Spangled Banner.” The bay sparkled with silver highlights. Fluffy tropical clouds tinted orange lazed in the western sky.

  Jimmy wandered off in hopes of finding a dice game. Paul leaned on the grayed teak rail, watched the clouds and pondered Michael’s proposition. It was startling, but far from absurd.

  Think about it!

  Indeed he would.

  When dark descended and the hazy stars shone, Paul settled himself on his blanket with his head resting on his valise. He expected to be asleep when the convoy sailed.

  He awoke with the morning sun in his face. Jimmy was next to him, snoring. The ship wasn’t moving.

  He picked his way among sleeping men until he found an officer of the Second leaning on the rail, forlornly gazing at the water of Tampa Bay. The Bay looked gray and greasy; garbage floated everywhere.

  The officer said that during the night, sailing orders had been canceled. Washington had received a signal about two warships sighted in the Nicholas Channel, off the north coast of Cuba. The ships flew Spanish colors. Although the convoy would have a United States Navy escort for the last part of its voyage, the War Department refused to risk an attack on unarmed transports. The ships would stay in Tampa Bay until Washington said the danger was past.

  While they rode at anchor, Colonel Wood enforced strict discipline in his regiment. Daily inspections were held at seven in the morning and five in the afternoon. Gambling was banned. Even so, Jimmy managed to find a game of craps or euchre every night, and win some money.

  One evening he found Paul smoking a cigar at the rail. Jimmy was flushed and excited; he’d won fourteen dollars. “Say, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.” He knelt over his grip, opened it, and pulled a long, thin box from the bag. “Put your lamps on this, pal.”

  He snapped the box open, revealing a velvet lining and a gold-plated necklace from which little imitation rubies and emeralds dangled.

  “Beautiful,” Paul lied. “Did you get it in Tampa?”

  “Yep. Cost me eleven bucks. For the first time, Jimmy Daws, esquire, pleads guilty to being a chump over a girl. Wasn’t for Honey, I’d have bought a return ticket long about the time we hit Atlanta.” He put the necklace back in its case and slipped the case into his grip. Then he leaned over the rail, hands clasped as he gazed at the rippling scarlet water. “This is gonna be my first and last war. I’m going home and set myself up as my own boss.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Making money. But I haven’t done too bad down here. Better’n I expected.”

  “You made money in Tampa? How?”

  “Oh, different ways. Cards. Craps. You know.”

  Yes, Paul thought, I think I do. But he didn’t call Jimmy a liar. He would need Jimmy’s help in Cuba. Even if he was a thief.

  Paul couldn’t imagine a group of men more interesting than the 1st Volunteer Cavalry. The regiment included cowboys from the wild West and star athletes from the finest Eastern colleges. Roosevelt told him that Sergeant Ham Fish, a college man who rowed for Columbia, was the grandson of President Grant’s secretary of state. Private Charlie Younger’s father was Bob Younger, who’d ridden with the James gang. The commander of “A” Troop, Captain Bucky O’Neill, was the current mayor of Prescott, Arizona. He was also a former lawman and reformed gambler, nicknamed Bucky for “bucking the tiger” in high-stakes games.

  It was a curious mixture, and the senior officers were visibly proud of that. It was also a regiment without horses for the enlisted men. One evening Roosevelt said in a jocular way that he’d just heard a new name for the regiment. Wood’s Weary Walkers.

  Paul laughed but Roosevelt grew sober, gazing at the ships at anchor with their cabin windows glowing, their running lights twinkling. “This is a momentous expedition, Dutch. I thrill to be part of it. If we succeed—the Spaniards can’t prevent it, only the incompetence of our own high command—we’ll score the first great triumph in what will be a world movement toward democracy.”

  Paul said nothing. He still had no clear and certain opinion of this burly socialite. Roosevelt loved sweeping pronouncements. He wanted personal publicity. Yet he seemed honest; and no snob. Which of several Roosevelts was the real one?

  The colonel took off his spectacles and polished them with his polka-dot bandanna. “While we have a moment, permit me to ask a question that’s been nagging me.”

  Paul knew what it was. He was instantly tense.

  “Are you in any way related to General Crown of division staff? I suppose two men having the same name can’t be considered a great coincidence. But two men from Chicago with the same name and German backgrounds? That’s stretching it a bit.”

  Paul watched a gull sweep over copper-colored wavelets. The sun dropped under the horizon and there was that startling flash of green he’d seen before. The silence lengthened.

  “Well, Dutch, what about it?”

  “Colonel, I’ll tell you the truth. I am related. But my uncle and I are estranged. I’ve not informed him that I’m traveling with the expedition, and I don’t believe he knows. Please keep that a confidence, between us.”

  “I know better than to mix in family spats. Hate to see this one, though. You and your uncle are both fine chaps. But have no fear, I’ll respect your wishes. Your secret will be safe.”

  During the days of delay, the temperature soared to nearly a hundred. Men snarled and pushed in the narrow companionways, and came close to exchanging blows over the most trivial disputes.

  Shortly after Saturday’s five o’clock inspection, Paul was sitting in a hot patch of deck shade amidships, reading a newspaper, when he was startled by a yell. “Watch out, that piece is loaded!”

  He jumped up to see an infantryman swaying unsteadily in the shadow of the bridge. The man swung a
revolver back and forth in a woozy arc. “He’s drunk, where’d he get the stuff?” someone asked. Half a dozen men near the soldier began backing away. No one answered the question.

  The soldier was young, towheaded, naked to the waist and covered with sweat. Behind Paul, Jimmy whispered, “Better get ready to dive for the deck.”

  One of the soldiers shifted position slightly, provoking a scream from the towhead: “Stand still! First one who moves, I shoot.”

  Suddenly, boots hammered the iron deck; Colonel Roosevelt strode by Jimmy and Paul. He pushed through the small group of onlookers caught within range of the revolver and stopped ten feet from the drunken man.

  “What’s going on here, soldier?”

  “I can’t stand it down below no more, it’s so hot your brains fry. I’m going over the rail and I’ll kill any son of a bitch who tries to stop me.”

  “Calm down, calm down. Tell me your name.” Silence. “Soldier, that’s an order.”

  The towhead almost stammered. “T—Tom Strawbridge. Second Regiment. What the hell’s it matter?”

  “It matters quite a lot, Tom. To you, to me, and to all these men. I want you to grasp that revolver by the barrel. I will then step forward and stretch out my arm. You lay the gun in my hand.”

  “Go fuck yourself, four-eyes.”

  Roosevelt stiffened, but that was the only hint of anger. He dabbed his chin with his bandanna. Plucked at the sweat-darkened front of his khaki blouse. “Tom, listen to me carefully. I am going to walk over to you and take that gun. You are not going to shoot me. You know what the consequences will be if you do. Prison for the rest of your life. You don’t want that.”

  He started walking.

  “Surrender the gun and there’ll be no charges, you have my word on it. Everyone’s upset by this heat, no one’s going to blame you or punish you, so long as you give me the piece.”

  He moved forward slowly as he talked. He was within a yard of Tom Strawbridge. The soldier’s hand trembled dangerously. Suddenly Strawbridge grimaced, clasped the butt with both hands and pointed the revolver at Roosevelt’s head.

  Men behind the colonel gasped and ducked, but Roosevelt stepped in fast, one long stride. He shoved the muzzle upward with his left hand, tore the weapon away from Strawbridge with his right.

  The colonel and the private stared at each other. A man said, “Shoot the crazy bastard.”

  “No. I gave my word. Some of you fellows lead him to his bunk. Give him coffee, let him sober up. And keep this away from him.” He slapped the revolver into the palm of the nearest soldier. Three others surrounded Strawbridge, who broke down suddenly and cried.

  Those few moments of danger cleared away Paul’s doubts about the colonel. He might be a zealous self-promoter, but he was a cool head, and a brave man.

  On Sunday afternoon, Colonel Roosevelt arranged a demonstration for the Luxograph camera. He brought out a soldier Paul had previously seen around the ship, a man in his forties who was trying to look younger by putting blacking on his crinkly hair. The man was tall, stringy, plain-faced; but he had arresting green eyes. He dangled a lariat from his hand.

  “Dutch, allow me to introduce Sergeant Hugh Johnson. We have one hundred and sixty certified cowboys on our roster, and he’s one. The sergeant hails from Riverside, California. He’s prepared to show you some fancy tricks with his lasso.”

  Johnson said little, but his exhibition for the camera was exceptional. He whirled the rope up and down from his head to his ankles, then jumped in and out of the spinning loop. Even Jimmy was impressed. Paul filmed two and a half minutes of Sergeant Johnson doing rope tricks. He was amused because Roosevelt edged forward to a position behind Johnson; he was prominently in the picture, waving his hat, clapping, and grinning.

  “This will put the Rough Riders on at least forty screens in the Middle West, Colonel,” Paul said when they were through.

  “Then you’ve done yeoma? service for the regiment. Here’s a small token of appreciation.” Roosevelt handed him a clean polka-dotted Rough Rider bandanna.

  Paul broke into a big smile. “Colonel—sergeant—thanks very much, both of you.”

  “Put it on,” Johnson said.

  “No, no, I’ll save it. It’s a fine souvenir. Perhaps very valuable someday.”

  He folded the bandanna into a square, folded it a second time and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Colonel Roosevelt and Sergeant Johnson exchanged perplexed looks.

  The band from the 2d Regulars played every night at twilight. The men who gathered to listen had one predictable request. Paul was heartily sick of it. But it followed him as he wandered away toward the stern on Sunday evening.

  “I went to the animal fair,

  The birds and the beasts were there.

  The big baboon by the light of the moon

  Was combing his auburn hair …”

  They sang it boisterously, booming it over the water. Paul leaned on the rail, pondering Michael’s words on the pier.

  With your experience, I’m sure a place could be found.

  I can assist you with contacts. Pop off a cable or two.

  Why not? One place is as good as another …

  Think about it!

  If he let Michael help him, if he established a base in London and lived in rented quarters wherever the picture assignments took him, it would be an admission that the baker of Wuppertal had told the truth about America; that it wasn’t the perfect place many imagined and hoped it would be, and Paul would discover this, and leave again. But it was more than a general disillusionment tempting him to listen to Michael. It was rejection by his family. The crushing loss of Julie …

  Tampa Bay had a strange, almost sinister look this evening. Small silvery swells rolled in from the Gulf. To the northwest, a rampart of black cloud was rising swiftly. A crooked thread of lightning dropped from the clouds to the horizon, where the sky glowed an eerie dark green. The wind was stronger.

  “The monkey, he got drunk,

  And sat on the elephant’s trunk.”

  He saw a tug making its way from ship to ship. A naval officer balancing himself on the tilting deck shouted through a megaphone. The tug was too far away for the officer to be heard.

  “The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees,

  And that was the end of the monk,

  the monk …

  That was the end of the monk.”

  The tug headed for a transport anchored astern of Yucatan. The wind churned the bay, sending waves over the tug’s bow. Thunder stuttered. The tug swung past the transport on the starboard side, then plowed toward Yucatan. The black clouds rolled above the anchored vessels.

  Yucatan pitched in the whitecapped waves. Lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder seemingly right overhead. There was a brassy smell of burning in the air. Then the tropical rain began to pour.

  The concert ended in a melange of sour notes. Men scrambled for cover. Paul could now read the name of the tug, Lizzie C. She rolled and pitched wildly; men on her deck used boat hooks to keep her from smashing against Yucatan’s iron hull.

  The drenched officer with the megaphone was calling to the bridge. Soaked by the rain, Colonel Wood and Colonel Roosevelt were at the rail amidships, trying to hear. Wood cupped his hands around his mouth. “What’s that? What did you say?”

  “There are new orders,” blared the voice from the tug. “You are to make ready to sail.”

  Early on the morning of June 14, Tuesday, pillars of black smoke rose from the stacks of all the transports. After a week of delay, they were almost ready. Fine weather had returned; sparkling sunshine, indigo water, a fresh breeze.

  Paul scanned the shore with borrowed binoculars. The piers were almost deserted. Some ragged black youngsters were playing tag while waiting for the ships to leave. Among huge middens of paper and broken glass, one last saloon keeper and two of his whores were loading canvas into their wagon. Yards of red, white, and blue crepe paper floated in the water, bleeding
out colors.

  Paul and Jimmy set up the camera in Yucatan’s bow. Jimmy cranked to film a panorama of the harbor as signal lights blinked, sailors with red and white semaphore flags sent messages between ships, torpedo boats and cutters sped about boarding last-minute complements of men and provisions.

  The armada sailed that day. It consisted of more than eight hundred officers and more than fifteen thousand men. There were four hundred stevedores, teamsters, and clerks aboard. Nine hundred and fifty horses and thirteen hundred mules; ammunition, foodstuffs, and dismantled wagons; artillery that included seven-inch howitzers, five-inch guns, field mortars, and the four Gatlings. The largest military expedition ever sent outside the United States was under way beneath fair skies. Its goal was clear.

  So was his, perhaps.

  Think about it …

  There was a sense of a burden lifting. Couldn’t he just imagine Uncle Joe’s reaction when he heard about his nephew going to London? Paul relished the imaginary scene. Germans are great grudge-holders, you know.

  He was at the bow rail again, alone, the warm breeze blowing against his face, tossing his unruly hair. He’d gone to his grip, dug to the bottom, and found the badly bent stereopticon card. He remembered a significant moment before he left Berlin. A picture card showing the Kaiser and his family torn in half; left behind to cast away the old, as a gesture toward the new. In meeting the transformed Mikhail Rhukov, listening to his encouragements and offers of help, Paul thought he’d come to such a moment again.