Homeland

by John Jakes

  In spite of the light and the noise, the heat and the damp, Paul drifted off. He woke violently, to Jimmy’s screaming:

  “Jesus, what is it? Mother of Christ, get it off me!”

  Paul bolted up. The hat fell from his face. By moonlight he saw Jimmy lying on his back, batting at something on his chest. Something large, round like a saucer, with flailing appendages.

  Something crawled on Paul’s leg. He looked down and yelped. The same kind of creature was marching up his pant leg toward his belly where his shirt had come loose, exposing his skin. In the grass all around, he heard rustling and clicking.

  Paul struck the crab off his leg. It was a hideous thing, with two long, waving pincers, two round eyes on stalks. It had a mouth of sorts; the lips were like horny beaks. As he watched them open and close, open and close, a paralyzing terror took hold of him. It was the terror of a child’s nightmare, when you were helpless in the dark, the demon was all-powerful, and there was no one to aid you.

  He was trembling how; unable to move. Another crab crawled onto his thigh. Around his boots, half a dozen more waved and clicked their pincers. Jimmy was still yelling and hopping from foot to foot, though he’d flung off the crab that woke him. Similar disturbances had broken out among the shelter tents of the regiment.

  Jimmy jumped over near Paul and began to stamp on the crabs. Their shells cracked loudly. They emitted faint sounds oddly like a piteous crying. A sergeant ran up as Paul tottered to his feet. He recognized the lanky Rough Rider from California, Johnson. “Land crabs,” he exclaimed. “A whole damn army of ’em.”

  Jimmy gasped, “I woke up with one crawling on my face, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Colonel Wood said the crabs aren’t really dangerous ’less a man’s wounded. What they want is bloody meat. He said they’ll come for that by the hundreds.” Johnson tromped on another crab and ran off to alert someone else.

  Still shaking, Paul said, “Help me pick up the gear. We’re moving.”

  “What good’ll that do? They’re all over this fucking field. One of those crabs gets me, or some greaser’s bullet, it’s all over. I should have left before now. Shouldn’t have come at all. Maybe I’ll give you notice right here.”

  “Jim, we’re going on. We have a job. You aren’t going to quit on me. That would be the act of a coward.”

  “You son of a bitch. You call me a coward—you so much as think it—I’ll chop your fucking head off.” He grabbed the machete, whirled and slashed at some tall grass. The stalks fell soundlessly on the broken shells of the crabs. Out in the dark, hundreds more were rustling and clicking …

  “Jim, calm down. I didn’t call you a name, I just said that if you left now—”

  “Shut up, I heard you.”

  They stood glaring at one another in the moonlight. Suddenly exhaustion took the starch out of both of them. Paul said, “All right. Truce. Let’s move.” Jimmy snatched the rubber sheet from the ground, and they shifted their gear to a new location on the flat. But every time they settled down, the sounds of the land crabs intruded, and they both jumped up and thrashed about in the grass, Paul with his hat, Jimmy with his bush knife, to drive the creatures away. There was constant noise and shouting in the shelter tents of the Rough Riders too; the tents afforded little protection from the invaders. For everyone camped on the flat that night, sleep was elusive.

  In the morning, bleary and miserable, they ate hardtack and drank tin cups of lukewarm coffee. Then they set out for Siboney, speaking only when necessary. Ahead lay seven miles of a rank green purgatory.

  The trail was choked with heavily burdened soldiers, teamsters fighting their wagons up and down the grades, strings of mules laden with provision sacks, water casks, wooden ammunition boxes, pieces of dismantled Hotchkiss guns. Hanging vines repeatedly knocked Paul’s hat off or snagged the camera on his shoulder. Twice, the dirt of the trail crumbled or sank from under his boots and he fell. Each time, he twisted onto his back to cushion the camera. Even with their difficulties, they made better progress than did most of the soldiers.

  They came upon a large wagon piled with crates, all with the same black stenciling. PROPERTY AMERICAN BIOGRAPH CO. NEW YORK USA. The wagon was mired in mud. Paul recognized the houndstooth cap of the driver. “Billy!”

  “Hallo, gents. Hell of a mess here.”

  The near front wheel was sunk halfway to its hub. Sleeves rolled up, Billy Bitzer was quirting his two mules while his assistant Len dragged on their headstalls. “You’re welcome to ride along if we can get out of here,” Bitzer said.

  Paul and Jimmy fell to, straining to turn and lift the sunken wheel. Bitzer applied the quirt and Len pulled from the front. Sweating heavily, Paul yelled, “It’s coming, a little more, we’ve almost—” Suddenly the wheel rose and the wagon lurched forward, on solid ground again.

  “Damn fine work,” Bitzer said, hugely pleased. “Stow your camera and gear and let’s go.”

  Paul laid the Luxograph on top of the considerably larger Biograph camera, in a space between Bitzer’s crates of storage batteries. He climbed up beside the cameraman. Jimmy chose to walk in front with Len. The going was slow, but Paul was glad to ride for a while.

  “Say,” Bitzer said abruptly. “You won’t like this much, but I’d better tell you. Your uncle, the general—he knows you’re here.”

  “How?”

  “I met him on the beach. He recognized me from Tampa. He asked about the other picture crews. I kept my mouth shut but—” He nodded to his assistant out in front. “Len spilled it. Your name. He didn’t know he was doing wrong.”

  With a grim look Paul said, “He wasn’t. But now I’ll have to face my uncle sometime, it’s inevitable. I can’t hide and do my job too.”

  After traveling half a mile, they discovered another foundered wagon. Both of its near wheels were completely off the trail. The wagon was tilted at an angle of about thirty degrees. Wildly waving his arms, the portly driver called, “Lads! Hello! Help me here, won’t you?”

  “My God, it’s Paley.” Bitzer reined the mules; he and Paul jumped down.

  Paley of the Eden Musée looked dreadful. His fine striped trousers were torn and smeared with dirt. His white linen shirt was ripped at the shoulder and stuck to his body like a wet rag. He lurched up to them. “Fellows, I’m sick. I have a raging fever. And now the rear axle’s cracked. Help me, won’t you? We’re all in the same profession, aren’t we?”

  “Today we’re all in the same profession,” Bitzer muttered to Paul. To Paley he said, “Out of the way, I’ll have a look.”

  Bitzer knelt behind the wagon and reached under to grasp the axle. Paley was swaying erratically and mopping his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Can it be fixed?”

  “Well, it’s pretty badly damaged. Let me look again.”

  Bitzer’s hand disappeared under the wagon. There was a sudden crack; the back wheels tilted inward and the rear of the wagon bed dropped. Bitzer pulled his hand away just in time.

  “It isn’t cracked, it’s broken clean through the middle. Tough luck.”

  “For God’s sake, boys—I must get to the front! Is there room in your wagon?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Then find someone to assist me, won’t you?”

  Bitzer fanned himself with his cap, pious as a funeral mourner. “I’m sorry, Paley, I don’t have much influence, I’m just a nobody, remember? Dutch Crown here, he’s just a nobody too. But if we run into General Shafter or General Wheeler, we’ll see if they can spare a squad to come back and help you out. So long.”

  They left William Paley clutching the side of his wagon; he appeared to be crying. Paul didn’t want to laugh at Paley’s misfortune, but something in him took a keen delight in the repayment of snobbery. When they were safely away, he said, “Billy, you are a wicked fellow. You broke the axle.”

  “What d’ya mean? All I did was touch it. Do unto others the same way they did to you! Let the arrogant bastard sit there and ba
wl. He’s the competition. This is war.”

  Shortly after noon, the wagon rolled down a hill near the village of Siboney. At the foot of the trail they came upon two land crabs devouring the remains of a rat. Their bodies were an orchid color, with splotchy markings of black, orange, and light yellow. They waved their pincers and turned their little stalked eyes toward the noisy wagon. The mules didn’t like them, and brayed.

  Paul had never encountered anything, anywhere, that filled him with such a complete and consuming fear. The wagon creaked on but he shuddered for minutes afterward.

  Bitzer let them off at the edge of Siboney. Paul sensed that professional rivalry was taking over; the Biograph team wanted to proceed on their own. That was fine; so did he. He thanked Bitzer, shook his hand, and waved as the Biograph men drove away.

  Although Siboney was slightly larger than Daiquirí, it was just as poor and shabby. Huts and flimsy houses straggled down the sides of a gulch running from the foothills to the shore. At the far end of a curving beach, drab fishing boats were tied at a dilapidated pier. Transports anchored offshore were disgorging men into chains of longboats; there were at least six thousand more troops to be brought in.

  All along the beach, naked soldiers swam and splashed in the surf. The sight produced a rare smile from Jimmy. “Let’s set up the camera. Wouldn’t the girls in Chicago love all those dicks in the wind?”

  “Somehow I don’t think Iz Pflaum would love it.” Tired, Paul put down his gear and sat on an abandoned sack of coconuts. He held out his hand. “Borrow that?” Jimmy surrendered the machete with a show of reluctance. Paul nicked a coconut and sucked out the milk. It was sweetish; he didn’t care for it. Still, it surpassed the foul water they’d been drinking.

  Paul and Jimmy found a campsite among the hundreds of men who’d put up shelter tents or simply squatted in the open. The site was exposed to the wind, and made rough by broken shells in the sand, but Paul hoped the absence of long grass would mean fewer land crabs.

  He wandered the beach until he found an officer who knew something about the creatures. The officer said the crabs were scavengers and lived in fields, swamps, and mangrove thickets for a distance of eight or nine kilometers inland. Although more numerous at night, daylight didn’t frighten them. Remembering the rat on the trail, Paul said, “That I know.”

  As he returned to the campsite, he began to limp. His feet were blistered. His legs ached from ankle to hip; his back hurt from carrying the camera. The tripod had worn raw welts on both shoulders under his shirt; the one on his left shoulder was oozing blood. He peeled off his shirt, clenched his teeth, and washed the welt in salt water from the surf.

  Jimmy had disappeared on another of his mysterious excursions. Let him rob half the population, I don’t care, Paul thought wearily. He found an Army private reading a magazine and sunning himself and gave him fifty cents to watch their gear. Then he set out for the center of the village.

  Siboney was crowded with armed Americans ready to fight. Every minute or so Paul had to jump out of the way of a mounted courier riding at the gallop. He spoke to several noncoms and officers, but none of them knew when the advance would begin. Turning away from the last of these futile encounters, he was looking directly into the sun. He threw his hand in front of his eyes and stepped into the shadow of a shanty. When he lowered his hand, there was Michael Radcliffe. As if by magic.

  Michael was swinging the heavy knob-headed walking stick he’d carried in Ybor City. He looked cool and dry and clean in a straw boater, fashionable suit of lightweight white flannel, pointed shoes of black leather offset by vamps of white canvas. His single concession to the heat was an open shirt without cravat.

  “Greetings, my friend. You look totally at sea.”

  “Like everyone else, Michael. Do you know how or when the campaign will go forward?”

  “Absolutely not. It really doesn’t matter to me, I’ve set up my base and shall report all the action from a table in a convenient cantina, just there.” He pointed with the stick.

  Paul was ready with a jibe, but a clatter of horses distracted him. A party of officers was trotting out of the village in the direction of Santiago. He recognized General Wheeler’s white beard. He stiffened when he saw the rider immediately behind Wheeler. Observing the reaction, Michael said, “Which one is your uncle?”

  “The second one.”

  “I’ve seen him before. Strikes me as a tough bird.”

  “Definitely.”

  “But you don’t want him to discover you, isn’t that so? You don’t want to speak to him.”

  A part of him wanted exactly that; yearned to approach his uncle. But he said, “No, why the devil should I?”

  Michael pondered a moment. “Considering all you told me about your banishment from his house, I reckon that’s a reasonable question. You’ll hear no more about it from me. Care to join me in the cantina for a smoke and a drink?”

  As they walked, Paul said, “Have you met Captain von Rike, the attaché from the German Army?” Michael said he had. “Don’t you remember him?”

  “Should I?”

  “He was in the rail yard in Berlin seven years ago, the first time you popped out of nowhere and sneered at my art. He was with the group of officers timing the unloading of the Buffalo Bill train. He was a lieutenant then.”

  “And only a captain now? Well, advancement is never rapid in a peacetime army. People swear that they detest war but secretly they adore it. So many benefits. Field promotions. Fat supply contracts. The chance to bed some lovely creature on short acquaintance because she’s mad to show her devotion to the brave lads in uniform … von Rike, eh.”

  “Yes. I didn’t like him then, I don’t like him now.”

  “Better get used to him. He and his army colleagues are the new Germany, along with the German Navy, and the Kaiser. An unholy trinity if ever God made one.”

  The cantina was small and relatively clean. The portly proprietor sold Paul a half dozen short cigars for a few pesos. The beer served couldn’t rival Crown’s, but it was cool, and he was thirsty. Michael said his gin was “barely palatable.” Paul lit one of the little cigars. It was strong, but he enjoyed the taste.

  Michael asked the proprietor whether women were available in Siboney. The proprietor said most certainly, he would be happy to make arrangements. “Later,” Michael said, waving him off. He started to drink. “Why the devil are you looking at me that way?”

  “Just curious. Do you worry about your wife when you’re away from home? I mean do you worry that she might behave the way you do?”

  Michael wasn’t offended; amused, rather. “Cecily? Never. She’s an honorable woman. She also has a regular companion for the theater and social affairs.”

  “A man?”

  “Indeed. Anthony Albert Parsons. Actor. Positively the handsomest, most rugged chap you ever saw. If I had his looks, they’d be queued up for a quarter of a mile at the footboard of my bed. Anthony happens to prefer his own gender. In the vernacular, he’s a poof. Probably knock you silly if you said it to his face. Damn shameful waste, if you ask me. But he doesn’t. Cecily adores Tony. I like him awfully myself.” Michael sighed as tie laid his stick on the table. “Selling out must make a chap soft. There was a time when I loathed every living creature.”

  “I think I remember,” Paul said. They both laughed.

  After a silence, Paul drew a deep breath.

  “Michael.”

  “Sir?”

  “I would like to take you up on your offer of help in England.”

  “Capital! I’ll write a cable to my father-in-law instanter. Pop it onto one of the dispatch charters to Key West, it will be sent from there. They’re laying cable from the States to Cuba, but I understand it’s to be restricted to military chatter. The yellow king, Mr. Hearst, must have had inside information. He sent his own yacht and a small fleet of dispatch boats to carry copy.”

  He leaned back in his chair; stroked his chin. “I am absolu
tely delighted you’ve abandoned your starry visions of America. You have passed through the gates of wisdom. Congratulations,” he said as he offered his hand.

  A moment later a shadow fell between the squeaking half-doors of the cantina. Crane sauntered in, a flat leather dispatch pouch hanging over one shoulder. A notebook bulged the pocket of his tan hunting suit, which was stained with the dirt of the trails and camps. His smile was amiable, but Paul had the same impression as before: his eyes held too much sadness for a man not yet thirty.

  “Stephen, sit down,” Michael said. “You always know more than any of us, though God knows how, since I only encounter you in places like this.”

  Crane took a seat and called for a Kentucky bourbon. “Cubano whisky único, señor,” the fat proprietor advised him. “No americano, yo sentira.”

  “Then the local stuff will have to do.” The proprietor waddled away. Crane unsnapped the dispatch case and threw some yellowing sheets on the table. “Newspapers, boys? There’s half a Tampa Times, a two-page weekly rag from Key West, and a New York World ten days old. I gathered them up on the beach.”

  Michael picked up the New York paper and started. “Ugh. What’s this filthy stain, blood?”

  Crane was amused. “A topkick had a can of tomato soup in his kit. There was some sort of squabble for possession. I lifted the paper while the pugilists were going at it.”

  Disdainful, Michael dropped the World on the table. “Tell us what you know, Stephen. I’ll pay for the drinks.”

  “You may be getting a bad deal, but I accept.” The proprietor delivered the whiskey. Crane licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips together as he looked at it. “Here’s all the information I have at the moment. Up in the hills, the Spaniards are holding a strategic road junction. Some of General Castillo’s infantry probed up that way, got into a heavy skirmish, and came hightailing back. We’ll have to force the junction to reach Santiago. Beyond the junction on a flat plain, there’s a little burg called Sevilla. Castillo’s scouts claim its the best campsite, if not the only one, between here and the objective. I understand Wheeler’s gone up the road to reconnoiter the Spanish position.”