Homeland

by John Jakes

  Paul said, “We saw him leave.”

  “I’m not surprised he wants to see for himself, he’s a fire horse. Been moaning and cussing all day because Shafter’s kept the cavalry in the rear, behind Lawton’s regulars and Bates’s volunteers. But I think something’s dawned on old Joe. The elephantine one is still rolling around out there on the ocean. Until he lands, General Wheeler is senior commander ashore. If he moves fast enough, he may call the tune. He may get what he wants.”

  Michael leaned over the table. “You mean a bit of a go?”

  “Exactly.” Crane sipped his whiskey. “Holy heaven. This is swill.” He took a healthy swallow anyway. “Getting anything good with your camera, Dutch?”

  “Yesterday I filmed parts of the landing. I also have footage from my transport. There is a lot showing Colonel Roosevelt.”

  “Always ready to pose, Teddy. You don’t know it, but you may already be part of the election campaign of the next governor of New York.”

  “What I want most are scenes of combat.”

  “Then take my advice. Follow Joe Wheeler. Except for those two colored gentlemen who met their maker yesterday, this war has been God damn sanitary. From here on I think we’ll see blood.”

  Crane was right about Wheeler’s moving fast to take advantage of temporary seniority. After dark, with ship searchlights raking the beach and hundreds of men bathing nude in the glare—one of the most unlikely sights Paul had ever witnessed, and one he photographed with no hope of Shadow’s distributing it—there came word of an early-morning march. The objective was the Spanish defense line guarding the main Santiago road where it joined, a lesser one at an abandoned village, Las Guásimas, named for a species of tree growing there. The Spanish were entrenched on hilltops above the road. General Wheeler, General S. B. M. Young, and General J. E. Crown were to advance along the main road with eight troops of regulars: four from the 1st Infantry, four from the dismounted 10th Cavalry. Taking a roughly parallel route on a foot trail which wound through the hills closer to the coast, Wood’s Weary Walkers would march toward the same objective—the junction at Las Guásimas.

  Because Uncle Joe’s command would advance on the Santiago road, Paul decided to accompany the Rough Riders on the coastal trail, assuming they’d allow it. He still wanted to avoid his uncle. He wasn’t sure how he’d react, what he’d say, if they met. His impulse to hurt Uncle Joe with an announcement about London had passed; making the decision and informing Michael had purged it somehow. But he’d have to tell his relatives. If not in person in Cuba, then by letter when they returned to America. He owed them that much consideration, especially Aunt Ilsa. The whole matter induced a weighty fear that Uncle Joe wouldn’t care.

  He washed his dirty clothes in the surf, and himself as well. All along the beach, huge bonfires were blazing. Naked men knelt at the water’s edge, doing their laundry. Other men, naked, danced goatishly around the fires, bobbing, shouting, singing. You might have thought them pagan priests of old until you identified the songs. “The Animal Fair.” “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.”

  Periodically, raffish bands of Cuban irregulars galloped their starved ponies along the beach. They fired volleys at the sky, surely heard by the Spaniards in their works not three miles up the main road. Some jumped their ponies over the lounging Americans, hooting at the joke. The searchlights swept back and forth, lighting the way for crowded longboats hurtling shoreward on the whitecapped rollers. Before the boats could beach properly, many a soldier jumped fully clad into the shallows, splashing a comrade or dumping hatfuls of water on his own head. Altogether, it was hard to imagine a more bizarre spectacle. Paul thought of it as a military Walpurgisnacht.

  He laid the washed clothes near the flickering fire they’d coaxed from some soft wood. He hoped everything would dry by morning, so that he could store the clothes in his grip, which he intended to leave at the cantina. He had one dry shirt and pair of pants left in the bag; they smelled moldy when he pulled them out.

  Jimmy sat close to the fire. The camera and canvas bag were just behind him, protected by a large piece of oil-cloth. Jimmy’s beard was a grimy stubble reaching halfway up his sallow cheeks. At his open collar, the heavy chain of his holy medal showed. He drew the edge of his machete lightly back and forth over his thumb, occasionally wetting the thumb with his tongue.

  “So tomorrow’s when we get shot, huh?”

  “Tomorrow is the day we film some fighting, if we are lucky. I am going to ask permission to go with the Rough Riders.”

  “I wouldn’t cry if they told you to go to hell.”

  Paul walked to the Rough Riders bivouac; the regiment had come over the trail from Siboney in the late afternoon. The first person he recognized was Hugh Johnson, the leathery Californian with the cold green eyes. “What’re you up to, Dutch?”

  “I want to go with your unit if Wood and Roosevelt will allow it.”

  “Talk to Wood, Teddy’s spitting nails. Has been ever since they drowned his horse Rain-in-the-Face at Daiquirí. Good luck.”

  Paul went on to Wood’s tent, glancing up as a few fat warm raindrops splashed him. While he stood outside the tent, waiting, it began to rain in earnest, raising steam clouds from the ground. When his turn came, he was shocked by Wood’s appearance. The sturdy and vigorous colonel of the 1st looked pale and spent. He sat with his elbows on a packing crate desk, slowly rubbing his fingers up and down his temples while Paul stated his request. At the end, Wood frowned; Paul feared he’d say no. The man was a calculating professional; the soldiers called him Ice-box.

  “Davis is coming with us, and Mr. Marshall of the New York Journal. I suppose we can’t very well deny equal treatment to you and Bitzer. Paley is in the hospital. God only knows how Mr. Bitzer will keep up, hauling all those storage batteries. Do you have a lot of gear?”

  “Some, sir. My partner and I can carry it easily.”

  “All right, permission granted. But you must stay at the rear. You must clear the trail instantly if someone orders it. If you don’t, we’ll run over your equipment, and we’ll run over you.”

  “Understood,” Paul said.

  “I’ll tell you what I told Davis and Marshall. Tomorrow won’t be a Sunday stroll in the park. You’ll smell powder before the day’s done. It’s likely some men will die. You could be one of them.”

  “Even so, sir, I want to go.”

  “Then be ready to move at 3 A.M. We’ll start as soon as we can thereafter. Pass that along to Bitzer if you see him.”

  Paul thanked Wood and left quickly. He searched for Bitzer for half an hour but couldn’t find him, so he gave up. It wouldn’t be hard to be ready at three. With the warm rain falling steadily, there’d be no sleeping on the beach at Siboney.

  Friday, June 24; half past five in the morning. Wood’s command was assembling at the foot of the trail.

  Only a few men had horses: Davis and Marshall, the correspondents; two of Wheeler’s aides; Colonel Wood; Major Alex Brodie, a tough little Army veteran who led the 2d Squadron; and Lieutenant Colonel Roosevelt, commanding the 1st Squadron. Roosevelt rode Little Texas, the second of two mounts he’d brought.

  Most of the soldiers were in good spirits, even though they’d camped in the rain and now stood shivering in wet clothes. Richard Harding Davis looked typically dry and neat in his familiar dark blue coat, high collar, cravat, and a flat-crowned felt hat with puggaree trailing behind. He introduced Paul and Jimmy to the other journalist, Marshall, whose long white duster was spotless. How the reporters stayed so clean, Paul couldn’t imagine. He and Jimmy were a pair of muddy scarecrows.

  They waited with camera and canvas bag at the rear of the column. There they fell into conversation with a bow-legged private who introduced himself as Jerry Pruitt. He had a slow, drawly way of speaking; said he hailed from Texas, where he worked as a cowhand on a huge ranch called Main Chance.

  Among the Rough Riders Paul heard a good deal of discussion about the guns they lacked. Th
ey were supposed to march with a dynamite gun and two rapid-fire Colt’s machine guns, but all three pieces were lost in the confusion of ordnance wagons at Daiquirí or Siboney. It seemed to create apprehension, as did speculation about the weapons of the Spaniards—Mauser rifles, with smokeless powder. “I hear them Mauser bullets can go nine, ten inches deeper into a block of yellow pine than these Krag rounds we got,” Jerry Pruitt said dolefully.

  At five forty-five the column began its advance, four abreast. Paul shouldered the camera, Jimmy the canvas bag. Jimmy had left his jacket and suitcase with Paul’s valise at the cantina; he was down to his shirtsleeves, rolled above the elbows. The machete rode in his belt.

  Just as the march started, Bitzer and his partner Len arrived with their bulky camera and several storage batteries packed into a mule cart. There was no room for the Biograph men in the cart; one walked on either side of the mule. Paul dropped back to say good morning.

  “So you got the word. I’m glad. I searched for you last night with no success.”

  “Thanks.” It sounded hollow. Bitzer eyed the trail. “With this load we’ll be lucky to keep up. Anyway—stay safe.”

  “You too, Billy.”

  The first part of the advance was arduous, up the steep trail that snaked across the hills behind Siboney. Very quickly, the trail narrowed, squeezing the four-abreast formation to single file. There was no cadence; the Rough Riders moved as fast as the terrain would allow, each man watching his footing, jumping rain-carved ruts or thick creepers. Every step left an imprint in the earth. Despite the thick umbrella of trees, Paul knew the sun was up; he felt the heat.

  The heavy jungle made it impossible to send out flankers. That increased the sense of danger; vulnerability. Bitzer’s mule cart fell behind. Every few minutes Paul looked back to check on it; the fourth time, it had disappeared behind one of the humps in the trail. He felt bad for the Biograph men. On the other hand, competition was competition; he wasn’t unhappy to be in the lead.

  In about an hour the column crossed the last ridge and headed down into more open country. For a while the trail was relatively steep. Then it leveled, meandering between small round hills; walking was easier.

  The sky was brilliant blue and cloudless. The march was already producing casualties. Paul counted more than a dozen men sprawling or sitting in the grass, overcome by the heat. Those who had fallen out avoided the eyes of those passing. Jimmy said the stragglers were the smart ones.

  To their left lay rolling fields of tall yellow grass, separated from the trail by five-strand barbed wire. Quite a few cuts had been made in the wire; by the Spaniards moving through, Paul presumed. On the right the ground sloped gently down toward the unseen main road, where Uncle Joe and the other senior officers would be advancing with their commands. Paul’s column was too far away for a clear view of the Spanish works, although it was possible to glimpse one small blockhouse on the hilltops above the road junction.

  Between the trail and the road, the terrain consisted of tall grass, dense stands of chaparral, and scattered clumps of coconut palms whose trunks slanted up at angles of forty-five degrees. Some of the low trees and shrubs forming the chaparral showed blossoms bright as a flame. Here and there a scummy lagoon glinted. Two buzzards with hooked beaks and leathery wings circled above, waiting.

  By half past seven the men were sweating hard and grousing about the heat. Colonel Wood halted the column and an order was passed back. “Fill your magazines and stop your talking.” The men readied their Krag-Jorgensen rifles. Unlike the rest of the Army, the Rough Riders had smokeless powder. Wood and Roosevelt and Brodie had demanded it.

  Jimmy sat down on someone’s discarded blanket roll for a smoke. Paul lit one of his small cigars. He noticed that wear and dampness had cracked the tips of his boots.

  He shielded his eyes and again scanned the ground between the trail and the enemy fortifications. He’d studied a picture of Spanish uniforms; peaked straw hats were standard issue in the tropics. He saw none. He heard no firing. He commented about it to Private Pruitt, who shrugged.

  “Mebbe they pulled back a’ready.” Somehow Paul doubted it.

  The heavy air was alive with the hum of insects. The ominous calm made him nervous. He kept scanning the hills. There wasn’t a sign of the enemy.

  Jerry Pruitt offered his canteen to Paul and Jimmy. Jimmy snatched it; drank long and greedily. Finally he passed it to Paul, who shook it. Very little was left. Jimmy had held water in his mouth. He spat it onto a handkerchief to wipe his neck and cheeks.

  The march resumed at a slow pace set by those in the lead. Presumably General Wheeler’s men were moving forward in similar fashion on the inland road. At 8:15 a sudden boom startled everyone. “Hotchkiss gun,” said an officer. “Got to be one of Wheeler’s.”

  Over toward the road, a cloud of white smoke arose. Paul set the tripod in the grass but before he could turn the crank, the smoke dissipated. Then came a crashing volley of rifles; not from the road, but directly ahead—the front of the column, where Cuban scouts and men of L Troop had taken the point. Krag-Jorgensens began to return fire. Paul’s heart pounded. “Here we go.”

  “Jesus and Mary,” Jimmy said in a tremulous voice. He crossed himself. He was pale as the belly of a fish.

  Firing quickly became continuous. It crackled on the distant road as well as on the trail. Mingled with rifle volleys was a stuttering Paul took to be machine guns.

  He ran part way up a low hill on his right. From there he saw Roosevelt’s squadron breaking toward the road, in what must be an attempt to link up with Wheeler. Roosevelt’s men plunged off the trail with machetes and sabers swinging, clearing the heaviest brush in front of them. Major Brodie’s squadron continued the forward advance; presumably Brodie would flank the enemy at the Las Guásimas junction.

  Paul ran down the hill and hoisted the tripod to his shoulder. The weight tortured the raw place under his shirt. Early this morning the broken skin had been oozing pus.

  “Jimmy, let’s go forward.”

  Jimmy was squatting on the ground. From under the brim of his derby, he eyed his partner.

  “Jim, what’s wrong?”

  “Not a damn thing. This is where I stop. I ain’t catching any spic bullets this morning.”

  “I can’t carry the camera and that bag too.”

  “You don’t need the bag, you got enough film. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Hot, tired, and not a little frightened by the sounds of battle, Paul lost patience again. “I’m sure Honoria Fail will be proud of your heroism.” Jimmy grabbed the machete lying in the grass; started to scramble up. Paul shouted at him. “Sit down, shut up, you and I are finished as partners.”

  “We were finished a long time ago, you snotty kraut bastard. Go on, get your ass shot to pieces.”

  Red-faced, Paul spun around and rushed forward with the camera. Firing was steady as he followed the red and white guidons of the 2d Squadron through the low hills to the edge of a level area. At the other side stood a number of sand-colored buildings with red tile roofs and several large, irregular holes in the walls. What was it, an abandoned ranch? From the way the front ranks were pumping rounds into the buildings, it was clear that Spanish troops were laid up there, raking the level area with their fire. But there were no puffs of black powder smoke to reveal their positions.

  The Americans advanced across the level area with dogged steadiness. One section of the line would rise up, run eight or ten feet, drop down, and shoot. Then another section would run up past them, establishing a new forward line. Men cried out, pitched over with terrifying suddenness. Still the line advanced, Wood and Brodie in front, leading. To the credit of the volunteers, you couldn’t tell them from those few who were regulars.

  On the right flank, similar lines from Roosevelt’s squadron were moving through stands of palm and coconut, toward the unseen road. Paul glimpsed Roosevelt on horseback, brandishing his saber. Beyond him, the Spanish works were at l
ast clearly visible: bastions of flat stones piled up on the ridges above the road, and at least three small blockhouses. Poking above the stone breastworks were a few pointed crowns of straw hats.

  Paul carried the camera close to the rear of the American line. He jammed the tripod in the grass, preparing to crank. He heard a noise near his ear; instinctively ducked. The air was full of that sound, something between a bee’s buzz and the hum of a twanged wire. Mauser bullets …

  He happened to glance forward and to the left, where he saw Pruitt. As if his attention had willed a tragedy, Pruitt’s hands suddenly flew into the air. His rifle fell at his feet. His body seemed to fold to the ground like a discarded rag. Hunched down, Paul ran across the level area to reach the private from Texas.

  Jerry Pruitt was sitting up, kneading the front of his khaki shirt with both hands. The shirt was soaked with blood that leaked through Pruitt’s fingers and over his wrists. Pruitt’s eyes were glazed but somehow he recognized Paul. He tried to speak through clenched teeth. Paul shook his head to show he didn’t understand.

  Pruitt closed his eyes. A peaceful expression relaxed his face. Very slowly, he fell backward, away from Paul. He settled gently in the grass. Sunlight played on his smooth-shaven left cheek, where a huge blue fly landed and walked around.

  Paul stood up. The firing remained loud, yet he heard a new sound, quite distinct in the taller grass behind Pruitt. A rustling; a clicking …

  “Medical corpsman?” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Where’s the surgeon?” But neither a corpsman nor Lieutenant Church, the regimental surgeon, was within earshot.