by John Jakes
Contemplating the increasingly hopeless situation, the military commander at Santiago, General Arsenio Linares, instructed General José Toral to commence negotiations for a surrender with honor.
The first meeting between American and Spanish officers was held July 13. Discussions went smoothly and rapidly. With terms agreed upon, all that remained was the transfer of power. It was scheduled for noon on Sunday, July 17. General Shafter would enter the city then.
While this was going on, Joe Crown lay in the field hospital; Paul visited him every day or so. Paul had no more film and was exceedingly anxious to get out of Cuba. Joe was fascinated by his nephew’s passion for his work, although he still considered it a raffish trade and could see no real worth in it, nor any future. Nevertheless, he would honor his promise to attend the first showing of Paul’s pictures in Chicago, if there was one.
By the end of the week Joe was on his feet again. The wound still hurt unmercifully, but he could hobble about with the aid of a stick with an L-shaped handle. His orderly, Corporal Willie Terrill, had cut and shaped the stick from a single piece of tough cieba wood. When the victory procession assembled on Sunday morning, Joe was present in full uniform.
He surrendered the crutch stick to Corporal Terrill and, with considerable pain, put his left boot in the stirrup. Corporal Terrill understood the difficulty. He put his hands on the general’s buttocks and boosted. Joe was white around the lips. But he sat his saddle with correct posture.
General Shafter led the advance into Santiago, astride a huge powerful cavalry horse which nevertheless looked swaybacked, and occasionally whinnied pitifully to protest its mountainous burden. Joe rode beside Fighting Joe Wheeler. The long column of American officers was trailed by a band of reporters walking or riding horses and mules. Paul was back there, on foot, carrying a soiled valise. Joe had seen him earlier in the morning; he was disheveled, as usual. He was also thin from too little food. He wore a polka-dot bandanna tied around his head, pirate fashion. At least it hid his uncombed hair. His camera and film were being looked after by someone reliable, he said.
The ride wasn’t a particularly happy one. Talk was minimal, voices subdued; many men held handkerchiefs over their mouths. The Spanish dead had been thrown in shallow mass graves, covered with just a few inches of dirt. Carrion birds had clawed their way to the corpses, ravaged them, and left the remains to rot in the sun. Dead Spanish horses, still saddled and covered with maggots, were decomposing all along the road.
In Santiago, to their great surprise, the Americans found whole companies of bedraggled Spanish soldiers crowding the stoops, alley entrances, balconies, for a view of their conquerors. Faces showed curiosity; even, occasionally, friendliness. Joe saw little overt hostility.
There were tiny children on the cobbled streets, too. Children with bloated stomachs pushing out the fronts of coarse smocks or dresses made from old sugar sacks. Santiago was starving. It confirmed what Joe had learned in the Ohio 5th Volunteer Cavalry, long ago. There might be certain accomplishments in war, certain brief celebrations. But there was no real joy. None.
In the broad and handsome plaza, an enormous crowd waited, pressing against the buildings on all sides. There was no cheering, no shouting, virtually no talking as the conquerors rode in. The hoofs of Shafter’s laboring horse rang sharply on the cobbles.
The American officers dismounted, save for General Shafter, who had previously advised the Spanish high command that he would not dismount at any of the treaty ceremonies, since, without his special set of stairs, it would be impossible for him to remount.
The bell in the tower of the old cathedral clanged twelve times. A Spanish color guard marched to the flagstaff and hauled down the red and yellow banner of Spain. An American color guard smartly raised the red, white, and blue. Joe Crown felt no thrill of pride, merely watched, expressionless, until the flag reached the top of the pole, where it hung limp; there was no wind.
Behind him, a regimental band struck up “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Joe stood with perfect military correctness. But he wept inside.
Ilsa, I’m tired of war. I want to come home to you. I want to bring Paul back to us, heal our family, find our son if it’s humanly possible.
Ilsa, I love you. I have made so many mistakes. I am so very tired.
113
Dutch
BETWEEN THE BATTLE ON July 1 and the cavalcade to Santiago sixteen days later, Paul enjoyed visiting Uncle Joe in the field hospital behind the lines. His uncle was mending well; impatient to be up and doing.
“About once a day he tells us how we should conduct our business,” a surgeon confided outside the tent. “Then he catches himself and withdraws the comment. Or he calls it a suggestion, merely a suggestion.”
Paul’s wound hurt less every day. The Army doctors insisted on changing the bandages for him when he visited Uncle Joe. Someone had passed the word. “General Crown’s nephew.” He was amused.
He put his camera in the care of an accommodating quartermaster captain who had seen flicker pictures in New York City, and liked them. He hitched a ride on a freight wagon over the rough trail to Siboney, collected his valise from the cantina, and went searching for Miss Fishburne.
She was gone. The SS State of Texas had put to sea and was standing off Santiago, awaiting permission to dock with bedding, clothing, and food for the civilian refugees from the town. But Miss Fishburne wasn’t aboard the ship. In the days immediately after the fighting at the San Juan Heights, General Shafter had begged Miss Barton to move some of her staff to the front lines. They had set up an aid station in the jungle but according to reports were no longer there. Left behind in Siboney were two nurses and the other civilian volunteer, Mrs. Olive Shay, who related all this to Paul.
From the tiny office used by the correspondents to file their stories, he sent a collect cable to Shadow.
RETURNING SOON AS POSSIBLE WITH MANY EXCITING WAR SCENES IF FILM SURVIVES INTENSE HEAT AND DAMP. REGARDS DUTCH.
He found some discarded Army documents and a pencil and took them to the cantina to which he’d gone with Michael. A glass of warm beer at his elbow, he used the backs of the sheets to write a three-page letter to Wex Rooney at the Nu-Age Photograph Salon in Charleston, West Virginia.
He told Wex he’d been wounded, and had found his uncle serving as an Army brigadier, a great surprise. They had effected a reconciliation of sorts. He believed his uncle still disapproved of his chosen craft.
He described some of his adventures on the battlefield. He said that in determining what to film, he had tried to fulfill Wex’s charge that pictures should tell the truth. He hoped Wex would be able to see his films someday, and closed with a wish that his mentor was still enjoying the company of the boardinghouse proprietress, whose name he couldn’t remember. He folded the sheets carefully and tucked them in his valise. He’d buy an envelope and stamp and mail the letter in the States.
Doing all these things, he still had trouble keeping his mind off Julie. He knew he shouldn’t build up false hopes, but how could he prevent it? The war was virtually over, everyone said so. He’d be going home within a month, to see whether his film survived, then to search for her.
No, put that in reverse order. He’d search first. The film would keep a little longer.
He ran into Billy Bitzer and talked it over with him. Yes, Bitzer thought the Biograph laboratory in New York might process Paul’s negatives as a courtesy, provided Bitzer set it up first. He promised to telegraph the company from Florida. Everyone assumed they’d be returning to Key West or Tampa, and Paul intended to be on the first transport carrying civilians. In Florida he’d exchange his return ticket to Chicago for a ticket to New York. London was there in case everything Miss Fishburne said proved wrong. London was his escape hole.
On the night of the surrender ceremony in Santiago, when he was thoroughly tired of bloodshed, and delay, and hungry for a little ease, some good companions, he ran into Michael. Michael’s suit
was miraculously white again. He was still hatless, and sunburned.
Grinning, he said he’d discovered a cantina whose proprietor was ignoring God’s ordinance about Sundays and keeping his doors open while there were Yankee dollars to be made. He took Paul there just at dark. The cantina was on a crooked street, and packed with men drinking at tables in smoky lamplight.
Five minutes after Michael and Paul sat down, Crane walked in. Unfortunately, five minutes after that, so did Sylvanus Peterman. All four sat at a round table with two chairs vacant.
After they’d ordered, boots came thumping across the grimy floor. “Oh God,” Crane groaned under his breath. The German military attaché clicked his heels and bowed.
“Meine Herren. May I join you? My usual drinking companion, Commander Lieutenant Paschwitz, attaché of our Imperial Navy, is indisposed.”
Michael became absorbed with the ceiling. Paul studied knife marks on the table. Crane wasn’t happy about the visitor, but decency forced him to wave him to an empty chair. “Vielen Dank.” Von Rike pulled the chair out, then bent to brush off the table before placing his cap on it. He bowed a second time. Snapped his fingers. “Bier, bitte! Cerveza! Schnell!”
With the surrender consummated, there was a convivial air in the cantina; a great deal of shouting, singing, joking. Paul and the others at the table proceeded to drink rapidly, and in quantity. It seemed a happy, relaxing thing to do.
Before long, they were all drunk. Michael, Peterman, Crane, Paul, the attaché.
They were drunk on Cuban whiskey (“There is either cayenne or cat piss in this,” Crane said while drinking it as fast as possible), or local beer—really not half bad, Paul thought, if you drank enough, and forgave the Cubans for calling it Cervezo tipo Pilsen, lager, when it was the color of molasses. To supplement the drinks they had Cuban cigars, dirt cheap at the bar and magnificent to smoke. Like slightly warm melted silver in the mouth.
“We’re going to acquire new territory, we deserve it,” Sylvanus Peterman said vehemently. He reached for his brown beer bottle. Over a dozen empties littered the table. “The world is ours now. Time, events—almighty God—have put on us the responsibility to reform, educate, civilize, backward societies. Heathen countries. It’s a mighty burden, but we’re up to it. You’ve heard Colonel Roosevelt—”
“Endlessly,” Michael said.
“The new century that’s coming belongs to America.”
“I beg your pardon,” von Rike said, turning away from Peterman and swilling beer like any commoner.
“Jingo, jingo, jingo,” Crane sang tunelessly. He waved his empty glass to keep time. A brown hand took the glass to refill it.
“What do you think of this war, Radcliffe?” von Rike asked. “As an Englishman.”
“Piss on Englishmen. I speak for myself. I think this war’s venomous. Disgraceful. Nationalism is in the air, and never more so than in America at this moment. Still, you won’t hear me condemning the Yanks to the exclusion of others. Given the slightest evil pretext, everyone’s for patriotism—”
Von Rike was starting to look offended. Paul was drinking and smiling because Michael’s pronunciation and diction were unbelievably British-Oxford-Cambridge-upper class; flawless.
“—and patriotism is a banner in which callous old men wrap strong young men so the strong young men will happily become cannon fodder in service of the slogans manufactured to hide corrupt motives. Don’t believe me? Why are we here, my good lads? To cover a patriotic crusade!”
Peterman said, “I never saw you anywhere up front covering anything.” Von Rike snickered.
“The crusade of the jingoes,” Michael went on. “It’s nonsense. But countries are all the same. Men are all the same. Never learn.”
Crane toasted him with his whiskey. “I knew I liked you.”
Von Rike said, “I beg to differ with your cynical and rather insulting remarks, Radcliffe. In my nation there is a new moral strength inspired by high goals which would undoubtedly earn a sneer from you.”
“There is also a plan for Germany’s next war, the Schlieffen Plan of ’ninety-five, do you deny it?”
“Of course I don’t deny it, Count von Schlieffen is an astute and patriotic chief of our general staff, he wouldn’t sit idly by watching traditional enemies conspire against us.”
“Who does he mean?” Peterman asked Paul.
Paul said, “France and Russia,” rather loudly.
“Exactly,” von Rike said. “Traditional enemies of Germany sliding into an unholy embrace.”
“Enemies you propose to defeat by attacking France first, through the Low Countries, subduing her, then rushing your armies across Germany by means of your fine railways to open a second front against Russia.”
“You know a great deal about the Schlieffen Plan, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“You Germans hardly keep it a secret, Captain von Rike.”
“Railways?” Paul said, a little behind the conversation because of drinking.
“Not for nothing did they study Buffalo Bill’s Wild West train,” Michael said. Von Rike was startled, and puzzled.
“Look here,” Crane said to the attaché, “do you deny Germany has global ambitions? You study Admiral Mahan, don’t you?”
“Indeed yes. The Influence of Sea Power Upon History is a work that will reshape the world. The Kaiser admires it so much, he provided a copy for every officer of the Imperial Navy. Also selected Army officers, I am proud to say. To reach its goals the fatherland must have a two-ocean navy, the newest coal-fired battleships, and a global network of stations to refuel them.”
Crane said, “To what goals do you refer, Captain?”
“Lebensraum,” Michael intoned in a mocking way. “Weltmacht.”
“What’s he saying?” Peterman asked, jerking on Paul’s arm.
“Living space,” Paul said.
“Snatched from others,” Crane said.
“World power,” Paul said.
“Well,” Peterman said, “Uncle Sammy may have a thing or two to say about that.”
“Then there’ll be a mighty collision,” Michael said.
“Drinks here, God damn it,” Crane shouted.
“I’ve seen the ships building,” Michael said. “I’ve seen the rifled cannon.” Paul remembered the Krupp gun. “Armageddon in our lifetime. And the number of the army of the horsemen were two hundred thousand thousand. And the nations were angry. And there were lightnings, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail. And the cities of the nations fell—”
“What claptrap is that?” von Rike said.
“Revelations of St. John the Divine.” Around the table several eyebrows rose. “You’re surprised a villain like me knows his Bible? Some of the wisest words in all of human history. Pity they’re religiously ignored. Tell me, mein Kapitän. Has the dear old fatherland really got the balls for what I just described?”
“Rubbish. St. John the Divine—pfaugh! We draw our character and strength from our leader—”
“Answer my question.”
“—you know perhaps that his was a breech birth. After many hours of labor by his mother Princess Victoria, he was extracted by forceps, which permanently injured his left arm. Many people know that.”
“It’s the reason his left hand’s always on his sword hilt in pictures,” Paul said. “The left arm is shorter.” He drank a third of a new bottle of beer.
“What many people don’t know is this. The birth injury deprived the young crown prince of his sense of balance. He could never play games properly. Most important, he could not ride a horse, which his mother considered essential for a monarch. She instructed the boy’s tutor as to what to do. His Majesty was put on a pony in the riding ring. Of course he fell off. He was put on again, he fell again. Over and over, he fell, they put him on. He wept from shame. Some called him the weeping prince. Days, weeks, months—they put him on the pony no matter how he wept, no matter what his pain. Out of that pain there came accomplishment. Th
ere came pride, and strength. His Majesty learned to ride. He also learned the power of the will.” Von Rike showed them a clenched fist. “Anything is possible when the will sets the course.”
“Shit yes,” Crane said. “The Kaiser and his will got rid of the man who practically created your fucking empire single-handed.”
“Bismarck,” Paul said to Peterman.
“Do you think I’m some schoolboy? I know that,” Peterman spat back.
Michael said, “Arguably the most important man on the world scene in this century, excepting perhaps the runty Corsican who lost his mind and most of his army when he attempted to conquer my motherland. I was born in Russia.”
“Probably a yid, too,” Peterman said.
“Peterman.” Crane leaned forward. “You’re a fucking little worm.” He almost slid off his chair. “More whiskey here!”
“Bismarck had to be thrown out,” von Rike said. “For years he deceived those he was supposed to serve. He pursued his own schemes and visions. When our traditional enemies were constructing or expanding significant colonial empires, Bismarck opposed a similar expansion of German sovereignty. When he was finally forced to reverse course, what colonies were left for us to acquire? South West Africa. East Africa. Togo. A collection of worthless shit-holes unfit for human habitation. Further, Bismarck continually spoke against a two-ocean navy even though our new Kaiser endorsed it. The damned old bastard played Europe like a chessboard, according to his personal design. A secret treaty here, a secret treaty there—even with the slimy treacherous Russians—”
Michael said, “I remind you I was born in Russia.”
“—and those fornicating Engländer.”
Michael said, “England is now my adopted country.”
Von Rike leaped to his feet. “Then you’re twice ein dumm anmassender Schweinehund!”
“Which translates as stupid sneering bastard,” Michael said as he jumped up. He came around the table and hit von Rike in the jaw, slamming him down into his chair. Von Rike lurched up again and grabbed the nearest brown bottle. After two blows on the edge of the table, the bottle broke. Michael stepped away, backward, and fell over an empty chair at the next table. The privates and corporals around the table were goggling.