Homeland

by John Jakes

  While he lay gasping, trying to gather strength, Jimmy scooped up the gold teeth and stuffed them in his pockets. He snatched the canvas bag and jumped through the break in the barbed wire. Paul tolled on his side and watched him cross the trail and plunge into the brush. Jimmy was stupidly fleeing inland, toward the road where the regulars were still exchanging fire with the enemy. Perhaps the fight had disoriented him.

  Why in hell had he taken the film magazines? Paul wondered as he staggered up. They weren’t worth anything. No, that was wrong, Jimmy would get satisfaction from stealing and destroying what Paul needed. He ran through the break in the barb wire, giving chase.

  On the other side of the trail the grass sloped away toward coconut palms scattered through the chaparral. Paul ran hard, his arms pumping. Twice he heard the buzz of Mauser bullets close by. Clouds of powder smoke hung above the Santiago road, but there were no similar clouds above the fortifications on the ridge, nor anything to reveal the location of a single Spanish sharpshooter.

  The nearer Paul came to the road, the louder grew the gunfire. Weaving between trees, he lost sight of Jimmy. Then he heard a cry, and a crashing in the underbrush. He’s fallen!

  Paul ran harder. He burst from the chaparral onto the sloping bank of one of the lagoons seen before. Jimmy had slipped in the mud; Paul came on him as he was struggling to his feet, his hands and shirt coveted with black muck.

  Jimmy saw Paul and threw the canvas bag at him. Paul ducked; the bag sailed into the tall grass. Jimmy ran to the right, along the bank. Again his feet went out from under him. Yelling, he landed on his rump in the shallows.

  Jimmy’s hair straggled over his forehead. His eyes glared in a dull, bestial way. How did the world create someone so willful, venal, cruel? For a moment, Paul wanted to run down the bank and finish him—rid the earth of him. But he only stood there, his fists trembling a little. A smile flickered on Jimmy’s filthy face. “Come on, come on—what’s stopping you? Yellow? Sure. Yellow.” Jimmy laughed at him.

  With a chug, a Mauser bullet hit a palm tree behind Paul; splinters stung his neck. Scruples had undone him and Jimmy knew it.

  On the ridge line beyond the Santiago road, one conical sombrero poked up, then immediately vanished again. Paul walked unsteadily to the canvas bag, pulled it out of the high grass and dropped to his knees. He had the magazines, there was no more reason to fight. He fumbled at the knot in the drawstring.

  Jimmy came bounding up the bank with wrists crossed and both hands on the chain of the holy medal. Before Paul could defend himself, Jimmy dropped the chain over his head. “Now,” he said, pulling hard as sweat rivered off his face, “now I got you. Guess my old man was smarter’n yours. He was a gent, but he taught me how to fight. Didn’t he? Didn’t he, you son of a bitch?”

  Caught on his knees, Paul couldn’t stand up. He tore at the constricting chain. The big links cut into his neck. Blood began to seep between them. Jimmy grunted as he pulled the chain tighter. His hate-twisted face swam above Paul; he had the advantage, there was no way to defeat him with cleverness. If he could be defeated at all. Paul’s strength was sapped. Everything seemed to be darkening.

  Jimmy grunted like a man sunk in sexual pleasure—“Uhhh, uhhh”—each grunt a savage two-handed yank on the chain. Blood ran from under the chain in half a dozen places, streaking Paul’s throat, staining his shirt collar. Jimmy was going to kill him.

  He refused to let it happen. Not here, not this way. He seized Jimmy’s belt with both hands and pulled hard. Jimmy fell against Paul and they rolled down the slope into the shallows. Jimmy’s left hand let go of the chain.

  Paul pounded his fist into Jimmy’s gut, knocking him sideways, flailing and splashing. Tiny insects darted away over the surface. Paul hit again. Jimmy’s right hand tore away from the chain.

  Dizzy to the point of sickness, Paul somehow got to his feet. He moved backward up the bank, one step, two, lifting the bloody chain over his head. He threw it on the ground and stamped on it repeatedly, churning the mud until the chain was buried. Jimmy watched him from the shallows like some animal wounded and maddened by tormentors. He managed to lurch out of the water and stretch out his hands, as if to choke Paul again. Paul turned his body sideways, waiting. When Jimmy came a step closer, he kicked Jimmy’s crotch again.

  Jimmy’s eyes glazed. Paul put all his remaining strength into a right-hand punch that lifted Jimmy and hurled him back into the lagoon with a great splash.

  Jimmy showed no sign of wanting to rise from the shallows, where he was bracing himself on his hands. He looked whipped, but Paul took no pleasure from it. Look for the bag. See if the magazines are all right. He turned away from the lagoon, walked a few steps along the bank. He heard the buzz of the Mauser bullet just before he felt it strike his back.

  When he came to his senses, his nose was resting in the mud. He’d been hit about halfway down his back, the right side, behind his ribs. It hurt like the very devil; agony.

  He watched Jimmy slog up from the shallows, a grin breaking over his filthy face. “Well, I guess I win the pot in this game, huh? Anything you want me to tell Shadow and the folks in Chicago? No? All right, then I’m going. You have a good time, you and your friends.” He grabbed Paul’s hair, lifting his head. “I hope they take hours to kill you, you fucking kraut know-it-all. I hope they take forever.”

  He pushed Paul’s face into the mud, then threw his head back and laughed. He disappeared in the direction of the trail. He was so happy, he forgot the canvas bag, if he’d ever really wanted it.

  Above the noise of gunfire, men shouting orders beneath the blanket of smoke on the road, Jimmy’s merry laugh drifted out behind him. As it faded, Paul heard another sound. His eyes grew huge.

  He tried to get up; couldn’t. He lay bleeding and staring into the long grass that grew around the bank. The long grass full of rustlings and clickings …

  The first land crab sidled out of the grass, pincers waving, little round stalk eyes quivering in the air. Its horny maw opened and shut, opened and shut. Another one followed, and another, and more after that.

  The largest crab, the one nearest Paul, stopped a moment, and Paul fancied he could see in those stalked eyes some vicious and hungry demon relishing the meal to come. He dug his fingers into the mud. Pushed up, then fell back, too weak.

  Working its mandibles, waving its pincers, the crab sidled next to his cheek.

  Climbed onto his face.

  Clicking, rustling, the other crabs converged. Two of them nipped at Paul’s head. He felt others on his bare arms; on his legs; in his groin. He shut his eyes and bit on his lower lip. They’ll kill me, tear me to pieces. He had no more courage, it was all drained by the fight, the bullet wound, now this …

  A claw nipped his cheek half an inch below his left eye. He screamed.

  The crabs seemed to sense his weakness; his helplessness. They began to pluck and tear at his face, his hands lying beside his bleeding body. The pain really wasn’t so bad. No more than a sharp peck, like a bird’s beak. But what it represented broke him. He cried.

  He wasn’t ashamed of his terror because he was no longer even aware of it. Blood trickling from beneath his eye mingled with spittle trickling out of his mouth. Gradually his sobbing stopped and he droned, “Finish it, finish it, finish, finish.”

  He heard a thrashing and crashing in the long grass. Mein Gott, what next? …

  “Lord, Roy, looka them damn things.”

  “Kick ’em off, don’t stand there, they’s ’bout to eat his eyes.”

  A rifle butt flicked a crab from Paul’s face. The pincer tore his nose as the crab let go. The rifle butt swept back and forth, broomlike. In the glaring sky Paul saw a black balloon floating.

  A round black face, bright with sweat.

  He saw a hat, a blue shirt, a scarlet bandanna. Where had they come from? Up the trail from the rear, to relieve Wood’s command? The first black soldier shouted, “Some of you niggers get up here an’ hel
p me, this boy’s ’bout to bleed to death. He may be gone a’ready.”

  A second dark face appeared in the sky, and then a third, impossibly ugly.

  “Let me lift him up, I’ll carry him to the rear.”

  “Ott, you can’t, you half sick with the fever.”

  “Get out of my way, I said I’ll carry him and I mean to do it.”

  Paul’s eyes lost focus, the sun darkened, and that was the end.

  105

  The General

  HEADQUARTERS 2D CAVALRY BRIGADE, U.S.A. Camp Near Santiago de Cuba, June 25, 1898

  ADJUTANT-GENERAL CAVALRY DIVISION:

  SIR: By direction of the major general commanding the Cavalry Division, I have the honor to submit the following report of the engagement of a part of this brigade with the enemy at Guásimas, Cuba, on the 24th inst., accompanied by detailed reports from the regimental and other commanders engaged, and a list of the killed and wounded …

  Leading from Siboney there are two roads, or, more properly, trails, one to the eastward, the other to the westward of the little town …

  After having carefully examined the enemy’s position, I prepared to develop his strength. Canteens were ordered filled; the Hotchkiss Battery was placed in position in concealment at about 900 yards, and Bell’s squadron was deployed, with Norvell’s in support …

  The Spanish forces occupied a range of high hills in the form of obtuse angles, with the salient toward Siboney. On discovering the enemy, I sent a Cuban guide to warn Col. Wood. Knowing that his column had a more difficult route, and would require a longer time to reach the position, I delayed the attack some time in order that the development of both flanks should begin simultaneously. During this delay Gen. Wheeler arrived, and was informed of my dispositions, plan of attack, and intentions. After examination of the position by him, and his approval of my action, I ordered the attack. It was executed by officers and men in a manner which won the admiration of the Division Commander, and all present who witnessed it …

  It was impossible for the troops to keep in touch along the front, and they could only judge the enemy’s position from the sound and direction of his fire. The fighting on the left flank was quite remarkable and, I believe, unprecedented, in volunteer troops so quickly raised, armed, and equipped. Both Col. Wood and Lt. Col. Roosevelt disdained to take advantage of shelter or cover from the enemy’s fire while any of their men remained exposed to it—an error of judgment, but happily on the heroic side …

  The chief results following from this action with the Spaniards are: A test of the valor of the opposing forces; the spirit of superiority I believe it has fixed in our own; the opening of the way to Santiago de Cuba; and the gaining of a beautiful camping-ground for our Army on the heights over-looking that city, which can now easily be taken at our leisure.

  Very respectfully,

  Jos. Crown,

  Brigadier General, U.S. Vols.

  106

  Willis

  ON SATURDAY, JUNE 25, the day that Joe Crown wrote his report, the chartered Red Cross ship SS State of Texas was anchored in Guantánamo Bay. She was carrying rations, blankets, medicines, and bandages for the rebels in the interior. Clara Barton and the volunteers with her were expecting to accompany the supplies overland.

  After the ship dropped anchor, they were informed this was impossible because the head of the bay was still in Spanish hands; the Red Cross could do nothing at Guantánamo for the time being.

  About midday, there came telegraphed news of the Las Guásimas fight. The previous day, General Joe Wheeler’s command had overcome a Spanish force and sent it into retreat toward Santiago. Like all such victories, it was not without cost. Sixteen Americans killed, and fifty-two wounded.

  Miss Barton held a hasty meeting with her volunteers, and spoke to the ship’s captain. She told him there were wounded men only forty miles to the west. Steam was up by two o’clock in the afternoon. The State of Texas sailed for Siboney.

  At twilight the relief ship anchored in the midst of warships, transports, steam cutters, lighters scattered in a huge half-moon around Siboney.

  On the trip from Guantánamo, Willis had been told Siboney had no proper harbor, nor any pier large enough to handle oceangoing vessels. Now she saw it for herself, standing at the rail smoking her tenth hand-rolled cigarette of the day. The Cuban tobacco from Tampa was strong and probably bad for her, like a thousand other things in her life, from pastries oozing cream filling to liaisons with younger men who always left for perfectly logical reasons, or were snatched away by fate. So far she had survived it all. And she would continue. But as she grew older, it grew harder.

  A short distance from Willis, Clara Barton was watching a longboat struggle to put out from a temporary pier built by Army engineers. By mutual consent, Clara and Willis separated when Willis wanted to smoke. They were dear friends, but Clara abhorred tobacco in any form.

  Clara was just five feet tall, but her powerful presence made her seem larger. She was incredibly energetic for a woman of seventy-seven. She could work eighteen or twenty hours without a complaint, a yawn, or any more nourishment than a cup of strong tea. Her features were hawkish, her eyes brown, missing nothing. Her hair, worn in a grandmotherly bun, showed no gray. She traveled with a wardrobe of nearly identical calico dresses and gingham aprons. She said it saved time otherwise wasted on deciding what to wear.

  At last the longboat got under way in heavy swells. No fool about the attitudes of men, Clara had declined to be the first ashore, sending instead her chief physician, Dr. Anton Lesser, to deal with the Army medical officers. Dr. Lesser had gone to offer the assistance of the entire volunteer staff of the Red Cross ship—physicians, five trained nurses, and two skilled helpers, Willis and a widow named Mrs. Olive Shay.

  Fighting an onshore wind, the longboat took thirty minutes to reach the ship. Short of breath and looking over-heated in his tan duster and souvenir planter’s hat from Tampa, Dr. Lesser joined Clara Barton on the deck, forward of the wheelhouse. Willis threw her cigarette over the rail and quickly moved toward them.

  “Do you see those two houses, just there on the beach?” Lesser pointed them out. The houses, both dilapidated, were separated by about fifty feet of sand.

  Clara nodded. “Which house belongs to the Americans?”

  “The one nearer the pier. The other’s full of Cuban boys. Both houses are absolute pigstys—no one’s cleaned them. There are no blankets, no pillows, the wounded just scattered about on the floor higgledy-piggledy. I stepped on roaches, swatted flies—and they’re supposed to be hospitals!”

  “We’ll clean them, Anton,” Willis said.

  “Did you tell them that?” Clara asked the doctor. “Did you tell them we have buckets and brooms? Brushes, disinfectants—and more than a hundred folding cots?” Mrs. Shay joined the group, together with one of the trained nurses. Dr. Lesser looked distraught.

  “I told them. I spoke personally with the Army surgeon in charge of American casualties on the beach, a Dr. Francis Winter. He and I didn’t hit it off at all. I recognized his type. Reads the Army rule book once and likes it so much he memorizes it. Dear ladies—he said our help wasn’t wanted and wouldn’t be accepted.”

  Clara rocked on her heels. “Are you joking?”

  “I regret to say I am not.”

  Mrs. Shay, a petite redhead, was outraged. “He refused the help of the Red Cross?”

  “He did. Emphatically.”

  Willis said, “Why the hell would he be so stupid?”

  “He cited Army policy. Women don’t belong in a war zone. They’re not as qualified as male doctors and orderlies. They should stay safely at home. Those are a few samples of his claptrap.”

  “And it comes from the topmost office in Washington,” Clara said. “Surgeon General Sternberg himself. I know, because my home is only seven miles from the capitol, and I hear things. Sternberg insists female nurses can’t be trusted in the field. He uses words like ‘skittish’ and
‘flighty.’ It’s the same ridiculous song the Army medical department sang in the Civil War. Great heavens—thirty years, and we’re still fighting for acceptance.”

  Lesser nodded gloomily. “You’re right, Winter’s only reflecting the policy of his superiors. But he has authority on the beach.”

  Willis smacked the rail. “Let me go in and talk to the bastard, I’ll straighten him out.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Fishburne,” Lesser exclaimed, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You are refreshingly forthright, but Winter’s exceedingly pompous. I fear candor would only worsen matters.”

  “Well,” said Clara Barton, “if the American doctors won’t accept our help, perhaps the Cubans will.”

  “Certainly a possibility,” Lesser agreed.

  “Then we shall land as soon as it’s light in the morning, and offer our services. At the same time, Anton, you and I will go over the head of this Dr. Winter, to the chief Army surgeon. I can’t imagine that all the medical officers in General Shafter’s command are idiots.”

  Willis wouldn’t have wasted five cents on that wager. But she didn’t say it.

  107

  Dutch

  HE AWOKE IN SOME kind of house, within sound of the surf. The room was filthy and dimly lit.

  He lay on a hard floor. He had never hurt so much. He felt as if his whole body had been punished with flails, but especially his back, midway between shoulder and hip on the right side. With every breath, a fierce pain stabbed him there.

  To his left, illuminated by kerosene lights, two men in bloody smocks worked over a soldier lying on a table. One of the men was suturing the patient’s thigh. Paul was mesmerized by the glitter of the big half-moon needle. The doctor swooped the needle into the patient’s leg and pulled it out again, trailing bloody catgut. The patient screamed.