Homeland

by John Jakes

  “This is another of our volunteers, Miss Willis Fishburne,” Lesser said as he made the rounds between the cots. “Willis, this is Major Lagarde, chief surgeon in Siboney.”

  Lagarde shook her hand primly. “Miss Fishburne. My pleasure. It’s amazing what you and the other ladies have done here in a very short time.”

  Willis took a tobacco sack and a paper from her apron. “Damn shame your doctors think we’re unfit to offer the same help to American boys.”

  Dr. Lesser rolled his eyes behind the major, who was apologetic. “Yes—well—possibly—steps will be taken to correct that error.”

  Yes, and we’ll have a snowfall by noon, too, she thought as she went out to smoke. She was astonished when Clara came dashing in about five o’clock that afternoon, highly excited.

  “Ladies, attention. Tomorrow we begin cleaning and tending the American house. Major Lagarde just issued the order. Dr. Winter is preparing a written apology.”

  Early on Tuesday, June 28, Clara Barton and her women invaded the American house. The routine was much the same. Sweep, tack up screens, wash down walls, scrub floors, set up cots, burn filthy blankets, cook, pass drinking water. They were able to devote more time to the tasks than they had in the Cuban house because there were several Army surgeons handling the medical chores, assisted by orderlies. Willis noticed that the men guarded their responsibilities jealously, leaving only the dirtiest jobs to the nurses and volunteer helpers. It irked her no end, but Clara said nothing, so she didn’t either.

  Dr. Winter, a large jowly man, tended to snarl when he asked any of the women to do something. He’d been strongly reprimanded, and he resented it as he resented the presence of women in his little domain. But he didn’t try to impede their work in any way. He was merely a cross, curt, self-important son of a bitch at all times.

  Throughout the day they heard occasional news from officers and noncoms coming and going. The campaign against Santiago had bogged down while men and supplies were moved forward over a single rutted road which had once borne the proud name Camino Real. There was an almost lighthearted air in Siboney; a great deal of bragging and boasting about the Las Guásimas victory, as though that were the whole war.

  By Tuesday evening, three days of unremitting work began to tell on Willis. She had spells of double vision and severe aches in her finger joints, knees, and back. Even so, she decided she should familiarize herself with the names of the patients. Until now they had been merely faces.

  “That one is a civilian?” Willis said, studying a roster blotted and stained in many places.

  Hester Huff, one of the trained nurses, said, “Yes, he’s listed as a camera operator. There are several with the Army, I understand.”

  “What in the world is a camera operator?”

  “He photographs those motion pictures they show at variety halls. Have you ever seen any?”

  “Once, at Hammerstein’s in New York. Pretty trivial stuff. It’s a novelty. Won’t last.” Hester agreed. “What happened to the young man?”

  “A Mauser bullet hit him in the back. Dr. Winter said he was lucky, it passed through, only breaking two ribs. He’s already protesting that he has to leave.”

  At the moment he wasn’t protesting but sleeping, on his side, one bare shoulder showing above the sheet. The boy had a muscular build and a lot of unkempt brown hair, long and shaggy at the back. Willis said, “I’ve noticed he has quite a few visitors, including that brigadier with the beard.” She tilted the roster in the direction of a flickering kerosene lamp. “What’s his name? I can’t read it.”

  “Paul Crown. He’s General Joe Crown’s nephew.”

  In the small hours of Wednesday morning, he awoke. He called for a drink. Willis had been waiting for the moment all night, her stomach hurting from nervous excitement.

  She’d been in and out of the house many times, rolling and smoking too many cigarettes, pacing up and down the beach, unable to relax, or even contemplate sleep. Surely it was the same one. Surely it wasn’t merely a coincidence of names. Another physician, Dr. Burmeister, had confirmed that Brigadier Crown came from Chicago.

  “Here you are, young man.” Willis handed the tin cup to the sleepy patient. Then she put down the stool she’d carried to his cot. Across the aisle, a wounded Rough Rider sobbed in his sleep. The kerosene light on a crate by the door was trimmed low; the room was quite dark.

  The young man made a small sound of discomfort as he hitched onto his hip and braced on his elbow to drink. Over the cup’s rim his friendly blue eyes traveled from her face to the stool, curious. Willis said nothing.

  He drained the cup and returned it. It was easier now that she was seated. “Thank you very much.” A German accent. Oh, God, there could hardly be any doubt …

  She pulled her stool closer. “Young man, my name is Miss Fishburne. I understand yours is Paul Crown?”

  “That’s right.” They both spoke softly.

  “Where are you from, Paul?”

  “The company I work for is located in Chicago. I have lived there since I emigrated from Berlin.”

  Willis ran her tongue over her lips, which were unexpectedly dry. “Are you by any chance related to a Chicago brewer named Joseph Crown?”

  A wariness sprang into his eyes. “Yes, he’s here, with the Army. General Crown. I am his nephew. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally. But I know you. You’re the one. You are the one.”

  “What do you mean?” Paul strained up, as if by sitting, bringing himself closer to her, he might understand. “I’m sure we’ve never met before.”

  “That’s true. Lie back, rest—I have things to say to you.” Gently, she pushed him down again.

  “There’s a girl named Julie Vanderhoff, you know her, don’t you?”

  “I do. I mean I did.”

  “So do I. She’s my niece. My first name is Willis.”

  He gasped. “She talked about you, often. Very fond of—agh!” He’d pushed up again; the exertion wrenched something. He fell back, breathing hard. Willis ran her hand over his forehead. Cold and damp.

  “Listen to me,” she said softly. “You know Julie’s married. Elstree, the department store heir. Her mother, my dear considerate sister, forced her into it. Julie detests her husband, and rightly so. I visited her in March, in Chicago. I was introduced to Elstree for the first time, and within five minutes I wanted to kidnap her from his clutches. He’s a wastrel, and arrogant. What’s more, he’s a notorious philanderer. I know this for a fact because I had him investigated by a detective agency when I got back to New York. Mr. Elstree spends time with prostitutes and kept women nearly as often as you and I brush our teeth. Julie could find enough evidence to divorce him and fourteen others, why the devil she hasn’t, I don’t know.”

  He was too stunned to speak. Willis was able to take a deep breath.

  “This is the long and short of it, Paul. Julie’s miserable. It’s you she loves, no one else. She told me so in Chicago. I’m positive she’d leave Elstree in a moment if you asked her. As soon as you set foot in the States again, you go to her. Steal her away from that immoral bastard, damn the divorce laws. Go to her the minute you’re back. If you don’t, both of you will regret it the rest of your lives.”

  Reflecting the kerosene light, his blue eyes had a feverish gleam. “Where can I find her, Miss Willis?”

  “She spends summers on Long Island. Southampton. Elstree has a mansion on the ocean. Belle Mer is its name …”

  111

  Dutch

  ON THE FIFTH DAY after the Las Guásimas fight Wednesday, June 29, 1898—Paul walked out of the American hospital house shortly after sunrise.

  On the freshly swept stoop, Miss Fishburne hugged him to her flat bosom, kissed his cheek, and once more charged him to find Julie as soon as possible. He promised.

  Dr. Winter appeared in the doorway and once again warned him that he wasn’t recovered, and was ignoring the best medical advice, at his peril. Sick of the man
and his pomposity, Paul said, “Yes, Doctor, if I die I’ll remember that. Thank you for your good care.”

  Winter glowered. Paul hobbled away in the ankle-deep sand, his taped bandages itching under his shirt, his back wound still hellishly painful. His head was awhirl with all that had happened while he lay on his cot. Julie … did he dare believe there was a chance?

  Not yet. He’d tell no one. Not Uncle Joe, and certainly not Michael. He would heed Miss Fishburne’s charge and investigate, swiftly, the moment he was back. But he wouldn’t—daren’t—expect a happy outcome, much as he longed for it. He mustn’t even try to imagine what it would be like.

  One more heartbreak would be too much.

  He visited the cantina. Yes, his grip was safe. He paid the proprietor another dollar to continue to guard it, fortified himself with a cerveza, and set out for the lagoon where he’d fought with Jimmy. Reaching it would require a hike of two or three hours, very hard in his weakened state. He never for an instant entertained a thought of not going.

  The Santiago road was choked with six-mule wagons hauling supplies to the forward positions around Sevilla, or returning empty to Siboney for new cargo. The daily downpours had flooded several creek crossings and turned the Camino Real to mire. A stalled driver told Paul the supply convoys had been moving up and down the road since Saturday. He began to tally the evidence, counting wagons abandoned because of broken axles or other mishaps. He got tired of counting when he reached twenty-five. Finally he was able to veer off the road and into the tall grass, where he’d chased Jimmy.

  The sight of the lagoon, the memory of what nearly happened to him there, sent awful shivers up and down his back.

  He began to search the surrounding grass. He found the canvas bag almost at once. It lay where it had fallen.

  Mold covered the bag, and beetles had crawled inside. Very likely the exposed magazines were ruined, but at least he could take them back to Shadow as proof that he’d tried. He slung the bag over his shoulder and went in search of the bivouac of the 10th Cavalry.

  The first sergeant of Ott Person’s troop turned him away brusquely:

  “Ott ain’t here. He’s bad sick. Night before last they took him to the yellow fever camp.”

  A spur of the old railway to Santiago ran up into the foothills of the Sierra Maestra. The fever camp had been established at the end of the spur, because of the convenience of shipping patients there on open flatcars pulled by a small switch engine. On Wednesday evening, exhausted though he was from all his walking, Paul rode the train to the camp.

  He sat on a flatcar with his legs dangling down. He was the only passenger, traveling with eight pine coffins held in place with chains.

  In the jungle on either side of the track, tropical birds whistled and cawed. It was almost dark, the air heavy with humidity. He constantly slapped insects. His bandages had started to smell. Miss Fishburne would change the dressing tomorrow.

  He had talked with her about yellow fever late that afternoon. There was no defense against the disease, she said. You either caught it or you didn’t. She described the symptoms. A furry tongue, constipation, sometimes nausea and vomiting, and, always, a sudden high fever. Paul remembered Ott’s rubbing his sweaty face when he visited on the coolest evening.

  Severe prostration, headache, and muscle pain were followed by the final symptoms of jaundice, poisoned urine, and what Miss Fishburne called hematemesis. “In soldier’s terms, the black vomit. Blood coming up. A few recover at that stage, but most don’t. The doctors have no idea of the cause of yellow fever.” He wondered whether he was risking himself with this excursion. Well, it didn’t matter, he had to see about Ott’s condition.

  The little train slowed. A low-hanging palm frond brushed his cheek, like the tickling hand of death. Ahead he saw lanterns, blurred splotches in the night. The switch engine’s drivers gave a long squeal as the train reached a rusty turntable at the end of the spur. Paul jumped down and walked toward the lanterns. One hung over the door of a guard booth, the others above a new gate of unpainted lumber. Beyond the gate, lamplit tents were scattered on the hillsides. Here and there a solitary figure moved among them.

  When he reached the gate he was able to read the sign over the entrance. The legend was painted in large red letters.

  WARNING

  —QUARANTINE CAMP—

  U.S. Army Medical Corps

  No Admittance Except by Authorization

  Not far inside the gate stood a wagon piled with white sacks. Their size and shape registered belatedly; each held a body.

  He walked to the wooden guard booth. The sentry stepped out with his hand on the butt of his revolver. Paul tugged off his straw hat so the lantern shone on his face. Before he could speak, the guard said, “No civilians allowed here. You’ll have to go right back.”

  “I came to ask about a friend. Corporal Person, 10th Negro Cavalry.”

  The sentry reached inside the booth for a stack of loose sheets held together by a spring clip. He leafed to the second page and tilted it under the lamp. “Othello Person. You’re a tad late. He died this morning. He’s in one of those bags on the wagon. I can’t let you any closer. You have to go back. Sorry.”

  Paul turned around and stumbled toward the switch engine. Ott’s eyes seared his memory. Ott’s face; and his entreaties.

  Ain’t no place on God’s earth won’t disappoint you sometimes, Heine.

  I don’t know of a better country, and I’ve read on the subject.

  Our country needs folks like you. Don’t run off and leave everything to the mean ones, that fat-faced sarge and bastards like him.

  Don’t turn your back. Please don’t …

  In sorrow and confusion, Paul let the tears come.

  That night he made his bed in the sand, against the wall of the Cuban hospital house, covered by a blanket Miss Fishburne brought to him. When he awoke in the morning, he was surprised at how deeply he’d slept. Perhaps it was to escape thoughts of Ott.

  It was Thursday, the last day of June. Siboney was a ghost camp. Since Saturday, nearly fifteen thousand men had been moved forward beyond Las Guásimas. In the tent where he waited for Lieutenant Frank Criswell, a garrulous sergeant said the supply wagons had gotten so bogged down, cavalrymen had been leading trains of pack mules back and forth from Siboney. General Shafter still insisted he had to resupply the troops by any available means, even though it cost precious time. Time the Spaniards could use to prepare their rifle pits and trenches, barb wire and breastworks and blockhouses around Santiago.

  “Grapevine says there’s a Spanish relief column,” the sergeant told him. “Near on to four thousand men, marching from Manzanillo. And ever’ day we waste means one more day for rain, and the fevers. Mighty nasty things are bein’ said about Pecos Bill ’cause of the delay. Some are callin’ him plain incompetent. So now he’s in a big damn hurry to attack.” Lieutenant Criswell walked into the tent, inducing a sudden reticence in the sergeant.

  With Criswell’s help, Paul wrote his deposition, and signed it. “We had another signal from Key West,” Criswell said then. “The provost court convened yesterday. Daws will be sent back to Illinois for trial.” Criswell held up the limp foolscap sheets. “This should guarantee he’ll go to prison.”

  A chapter closed. Paul was grateful.

  He stood up too quickly. Criswell’s face swam out of focus. He grabbed a tent pole and held tight. The dizziness passed.

  “Lieutenant, if that’s all—”

  “Yes, we’re finished. Where are you going now?”

  “To load my camera with my last magazine, then walk up to the front.”

  “Better hurry. Word’s out that the attack will be made tomorrow morning. After all the delay, Shafter wants to go against everything at once—the San Juan Heights and the fortifications at the village of El Caney, farther inland.”

  “Where is General Shafter’s field headquarters?”

  Criswell unrolled a map and pointed out a sp
ot immediately north of the main road, between the village of Sevilla and a hill marked El Poso. “They carried the general up there in a huge chair like a throne, God knows where they found it. They fixed poles to it, and eight men hoisted it on their shoulders. Shafter looked like a rajah. I saw it and I’ll never forget it. Thanks for helping me do my job, Dutch. Good luck with those pictures.”

  Travel to the forward area was hard; everything was moving that way—infantry, cavalry, artillery caissons drawn by sweating horses. In the distance, above the trees, floated a large football-shaped object, bright yellow; below it hung a basket gondola with many ropes dangling from it. It was the Signal Corps observation balloon, positioned somewhere over the Santiago road. Paul had heard about it but not seen it before.

  He had one last magazine, four hundred feet, carefully loaded into the Luxograph with a prayer that the climate hadn’t fogged it. If there was to be fighting, he must have pictures. He had to concentrate, forget Ott’s death if he could, and Julie, and Uncle Joe. This was the moment when he was called to do his job.

  He reached the headquarters about one in the afternoon. Tables and chairs were set out beneath trees festooned with Spanish moss. There was constant commotion; couriers leaving and arriving on foot, horseback, muleback. Officers arguing over maps. Paul assumed the largest white tent belonged to Shafter, who was nowhere in sight.

  He unfolded his tripod about twenty feet from the conference tables. He got some stares, but no one interfered. At least not for five minutes. Then a balding officer with thick spectacles and pale pinkish skin stomped toward him. The officer had doffed his blouse in favor of a limp white shirt with sleeve garters.

  “I’m Major Gilyard, what the devil is that contraption?”

  “A moving picture camera.” Paul’s dislike of the man was instantaneous. “You haven’t seen one before?”

  “Back home I go to church, mister, I don’t hang out in the tenderloin. What’s your purpose here?”