by John Jakes
Michael struggled to his feet but he was clearly shaken. Silence rippled out to all corners of the cantina. “I do not suffer insults to my person,” von Rike said. He drew little circles in the air with the jagged end of the bottle. “Not quite as fine as a saber, but it will serve. I hope your loved ones will recognize you again.”
“Captain, stop!” Paul exclaimed, on his feet now, behind the attaché. Desperately, he looked for help. Crane was too drunk to intervene, Peterman too frightened. The American officers and men were still confused about the nature of the fight. The proprietor was moving from the bar with a shotgun, but not fast enough. Von Rike drew his arm back, preparing to lunge at Michael. Paul jumped him from behind and held him by the elbows.
“Take the bottle away from him, Michael.”
Michael seized von Rike’s arm with both hands and banged it over his knee. The bottle neck dropped and rolled.
Paul let go of von Rike. “Captain, I think it would be best for all if you left. We didn’t come to this island to fight each other.”
“Oh, I’m quite willing,” Michael said, “now the odds are equalized. Want to step into the street, my fine Prussian knight?”
Von Rike had his temper under control. He straightened and brushed his tunic. He picked up his cap and wobbled toward the door. Michael righted his overturned chair.
“Gentlemen,” he said, sitting down. “I fear we just looked into the face of the future. Not too pretty, is it?”
Peterman sank into his high collar with nothing to say. Crane looked like a mourner at a funeral. “Landlord,” he called, “put that fucking shotgun away, we definitely need more drinks over here.”
The noise level in the cantina returned to normal. Paul refused more beer. Burned into his mind were the fanatical blazing eyes of Captain von Rike, of the new Germany.
On Monday of the last week in July, General Nelson Miles led five thousand men into Porto Rico, a second bastion of Spanish resistance. Within days, Santiago heard that Miles was overrunning the enemy almost as fast as Shafter had in Cuba.
Meanwhile, the SS State of Texas had at last been permitted to dock. The civilian refugees had returned, some of them finding their homes looted by American soldiers, all of them discovering a lack of food. Miss Barton’s shipboard crew quickly off-loaded large quantities of rations, and soon there were temporary kitchens serving gruel and soup and bread. The State of Texas steamed back to an offshore anchorage, observing self-imposed quarantine to protect those left aboard. It was the fever season.
Paul was walking near the waterfront when he suddenly spied Julie’s aunt. She was working at a long trestle table set at one side of the street, under a canvas tarpaulin. Behind her, two other women were cooking over charcoal braziers.
Miss Fishburne finished serving soup to three ragged men, saw she had no more customers, and stepped back to wipe her forehead with her apron. Paul was shocked by her haggard and sickly appearance.
“Miss Fishburne!”
“Paul!” She leaned across the table and threw her arms around him. “You came through.”
“All the way up San Juan Hill with the first charge. I shot some fine film, if it comes out.”
“How is your wound?”
“Healing. It hurts some. But when I’m busy I forget it. I looked for you in Siboney and couldn’t find you.”
“We went to the front in two wagons commandeered from the Army and got to where we were needed, the First Division Hospital—three canvas pavilions with open sides and some of those field tents they call dog kennels. My God, what a sight. Eight hundred wounded already there, and more coming in. Men lying naked in the tall grass because the shelters were full. Clara was furious about it, and about the filth, the lack of supplies—and the number of casualties. She blamed them on officers sending men against rapid-fire guns.”
“We had four of our own. Terrible weapons.”
“Yes, I know. It does us no credit. We set up our tarps and braziers and unpacked our food cartons. At night the surgeons worked by moonlight for fear of snipers. Once or twice when they felt safe, they lit candles. Hundreds of candles, gleaming in the dark within sight of the sea—it was beautiful, but it was terrible, too. It made Clara very sad. She said it reminded her of the night after the battle of Antietam, the single bloodiest day in the Civil War. That night both sides used candles to search for their dead. She said—Paul, I’ll never forget this. She took my hand and said, ‘Willis, it’s the same old story. What gain has there been in thirty years, for women or for human kind?’ ”
Miss Fishburne gave a kind of shiver, throwing off the memory. “I’m an old woman, I talk too much. Let’s get to the important question. Are you going to go in search of my niece?”
“As soon as there’s a ship, I’ll be on my way.”
“Bless you—oh, bless you!”
She saw a ragged family bearing down on the table. “I must go to work again. We have hundreds of these poor starving people to feed three times a day.”
She blew him a kiss and drew her ladle from the kettle. When she spoke to the family in halting Spanish, she smiled; she had a wonderful smile, Paul thought. Immersed in her work, the years seemed to slough away and he glimpsed the handsome young woman she must have been long ago. He liked her very much. He waved and went on.
By August 7, Sunday, negotiations were under way between the United States and Spain for a permanent peace protocol. Early that morning, Paul and his uncle walked down the Alameda, Santiago’s waterfront promenade. Paul kept the pace slow, because Uncle Joe was still hobbling. He went everywhere with the L-handled crutch stick.
Paul and his uncle were discussing Bismarck. The former chancellor had passed away on July 30. Paul described some of von Rike’s remarks before the fight. Uncle Joe responded sharply. “And after the French were defeated in ’seventy-one, who does he imagine kept the peace in Europe all these years? Bismarck was devious, but not in a catastrophic way. The Kaiser is devious, and a war monger to boot.”
Ahead of them, at the dock, the chartered transport Miami swayed gently on her mooring lines. Paul could hardly contain his excitement, or believe his fantastic luck. Miami, the first vessel to carry American troops home from Cuba, would sail on the evening tide. She wasn’t going to Florida but straight to the eastern tip of Long Island; a place called Montauk Point, where an emergency quarantine camp was being built for those among the returning troops who had been stricken with yellow fever.
When Paul heard of the ship’s leaving, he had gone immediately to his uncle. Explained to him that it was important to rush his film magazines back to Chicago the fastest way. “I don’t need a berth, I can sleep anywhere. I’m desperate to see whether there are pictures, or whether every frame is fogged. If I got anything at all, Pflaum’s will want a showing soon, before it’s all stale.”
He wanted to tell Uncle Joe about Miss Fishburne, and what she’d said about Julie. He didn’t because he didn’t know how his uncle would feel about his attempting to steal another man’s wife. If indeed she was there in Southampton, waiting to be stolen.
Uncle Joe had worked through Fighting Joe Wheeler, who intended to travel on Miami to carry his report, and others, to Washington. Day before yesterday, Paul had learned there’d be a place for him on the transport. Elated, he sent another cable.
MRS. W. ELSTREE
“BELLE MER”
SOUTHAMPTON,
LONG ISLAND
NEW YORK USA
URGENT I SEE YOU ON A MATTER OF OLD BUSINESS. WILL ARRIVE SOON. YOURS VERY SINCERELY. P. CROWN.
Paul and his uncle neared the ship. The Rough Riders were already queued up at two gangways. Most of them wore new khakis; old uniforms and bedding were being burned outside of town. The noxious smoke drifted everywhere.
There were wounded going aboard Miami. Some of the wounds were permanent. The Californian, Hugh Johnson, had taken a hit at El Caney, and the surgeons had amputated his right foot. Paul had seen Johnson in the
field hospital where he’d visited Uncle Joe. Johnson was being fitted with a new foot made of cork.
“Could we go a little more slowly, Paul?”
“By all means. Take hold of my arm.” Soon they were standing in the shadow of Miami’s great iron prow.
“Well, Nephew, best I leave you here so you can join one of those lines. Your gear’s aboard?”
Paul nodded. “My camera and canvas bag. Last night.”
Uncle Joe tucked his crutch stick under his arm to free both hands. “We’ll meet again soon. I will manage to get a message to your aunt. She’ll be overjoyed. I confess to the same feeling.” They embraced. “Wiedersehen, mein—no, I can’t call you a boy any longer, can I? Auf Wiedersehen, lieber Paul.”
“Wiedersehen, Onkel.”
“Chicago,” Joe Crown said.
“Chicago.”
Sowieso, für ein bisschen Zeit …
For a little while, anyway.
The next week or two—Long Island—would determine the rest of his life.
With a regimental band playing her out of port, Miami left Santiago in a glorious sunset. She rode low in the water, so overcrowded was she. Most of the officers, including Roosevelt, had created temporary hutches for themselves on deck. Paul didn’t even have that much shelter. He curled up on the riveted iron plates with his camera beside him and his canvas bag for his pillow. Rheinland once again. Somehow it made him smile.
Miami docked in Fort Pond Bay on the south shore of Long Island on Monday morning, August 15. A quarantine officer held the vessel offshore overnight, for reasons never clear to the men aboard. Finally, about half past ten next morning, the engines rumbled again, and she proceeded to the pier. Paul could see a crowd, waving hats and small American flags on sticks. The band on board crashed out “Rally Round the Flag, Boys.”
Hawsers were thrown to the dock and tied. Colonel Roosevelt and frail Joe Wheeler were on the bridge with the captain. Both waved to the crowd, but Roosevelt did it boisterously, grinning to show all those white teeth. A man on the dock cupped his hands and yelled, “Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt, our next governor! How are you, Teddy?”
Roosevelt leaned over the rail. “I had a bully time and a bully fight. I feel as big and strong as a bull moose.”
More cheering.
Paul was shoved and buffeted toward the gangway by impatient soldiers. Though it was a fine day, sunny, with a balmy Atlantic breeze, the land beyond the pier looked uninviting; sandy, scrubby. Paul asked a man on the dock if he knew a place to rent wagons and buggies. “Bennett’s Livery. That road, ’bout a mile.” With his tripod on his shoulder and his canvas bag and valise in his other hand, Paul set out at a rapid walk.
He rented an ancient piano-box buggy with a seat whose upholstery was torn, and paint that hadn’t been touched up in years. The plodding old mare would go only so fast. It was late afternoon by the time Paul negotiated all the rutted roads, passed through tangled woods, and reached the village of Southampton.
Every store owner displayed flags or bunting, to celebrate the official Spanish surrender two days ago; those aboard Miami had heard about it during a brief stop at Jersey City.
He tied the buggy in front of Denny Brothers Hardware, having glimpsed a tall, middle-aged woman wielding a broom inside. He vaulted over the hitch rail and darted through the door.
“Ma’am, I am a visitor, can you give me directions to the Elstree house?”
“Belle Mer.” The tall woman pointed. She had white hair center-parted and done in a single thick braid at the back. “First Neck Lane to the shore, left on Dune Road. It’s the only house there.” The woman was courteous to Paul despite his accent and raffish appearance.
“Thank you so much.” He hurried out. Her voice caught him on the plank walk:
“No one there but the caretaker. All the servants were sent back to Chicago.”
“I thought rich people stayed in summer homes until September.”
“You aren’t from around here, are you? Bill Elstree was shot and killed a few weeks back.”
Terror …
“Who killed him?”
“Some woman he kept in the city.”
Relief.
“And the widow? Where is she?”
His intensity, the strain in his voice, made the woman suspicious.
“I don’t know as I should go telling just any stranger.”
“Please, it’s very important. I—” Think. Quickly! “I have a message to deliver. From someone in Germany who is quite close to her. I absolutely must find Mrs. Elstree. You can trust me.”
“Maybe.” The woman pointed to the buggy. “What’s that queer thingamajig on legs?”
“My camera. I am a camera operator. Have you heard of living pictures?” She had. “I was sent to photograph Colonel Roosevelt and his Rough Riders.” True enough, but it was in Tampa, and Cuba. “I have just come from the transport on which he arrived, now I must deliver my message.”
“The living pictures. Fancy that.” Obviously no one in these remote parts could invent something so outlandish. “I hope you made good pictures of Roosevelt because you’re out of luck with the other part. Mrs. Elstree left a week ago.”
“For Chicago?”
“Why, she didn’t stop around to share that information with me.”
“You say the caretaker’s at the house?”
“Henry Prince. One of the Shinnecocks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Shinnecock Indians. The tribe living along the shore. One more thing I can tell you,” she said as he swung up in the buggy. “The place is already for sale. They say Mrs. Elstree’s never coming back.”
He raced the mare down the sandy lane as fast as she’d go, and had no trouble finding the mansion. A semicircular drive of white sand and oyster shell had been raked smooth; the buggy wheels disturbed it. Two large marble urns flanking wide stone stairs were tied with yards of black crepe, tattering in the weather. When the mare stopped, the click of hedge shears could be heard.
Paul followed the sound to the east face of the mansion. There he found a small, stocky, black-haired man at work. “Are you Henry Prince?”
“I am.” The man lowered the shears, taking Paul’s measure.
“My name is Paul Crown. From Chicago. I am an old friend of Mrs. Elstree. In the village I was told she’s not here. Can you tell me where to find her?”
“I can’t. I don’t know. She showed me steamship folders a few days before she left. We talked about places. Paris, the Greek isles, Egypt—”
“She has relatives, maybe they know.”
“They don’t. Least, her uncle in the city, Mr. I. W. Vanderhoff, doesn’t. He telephones every day or two, asking if I’ve heard from her. She has an aunt somewhere but the woman moves around.” And Paul didn’t have Willis Fishburne’s address. Julie had given it to him in Chicago, but he’d thrown it away, considering it useless. Foolishly, he hadn’t thought to ask for it in Cuba.
After another speculative look at Paul, the caretaker went on, “Guess there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you my opinion. I think Mrs. Elstree disappeared because she wanted to disappear. Went away to heal herself. Don’t know whether she’ll be able to do that. She’s one of the best people I ever met, but she was hurt bad. Mostly by him.”
“Her husband?”
The caretaker nodded. Tapped the point of the shears against the wall. “Lot of sorrow in this house. Got into her like a sickness. And that mother of hers!”
“Also from Chicago—”
“She was here only one time. Mean, spiteful woman. You could spot it in a minute. Sorry I can’t help more.”
Paul thanked him and left. His sole hope now was Mrs. Vanderhoff, in Chicago.
In New York City he found a cheap hotel. Early next day he called at the American Biograph offices at 841 Broadway, sixth floor. He introduced himself as a friend of Billy Bitzer, who had not yet returned. Bitzer had, however, telegraphed, as promised. For a price
, the owners would be happy to develop Paul’s negatives and strike prints. Paul telegraphed Colonel Shadow for authorization of the expense and got it.
All the magazines were ruined, fogged, except the last. That four hundred feet was mottled and streaked. There were sudden white flares in the frame. But the images were spectacular. As he sat in the dark and watched the print projected, he decided it should be called “Conquest of the San Juan Hill.” He thought Wex Rooney might admire it.
“Great stuff,” said the projectionist when he emerged from his cubicle at the end. “Were you turning the crank?”
“Yes.”
“Looks damn dangerous.”
“Yes.”
The projectionist shook his head enviously; he was about Paul’s age.
A front-office man saw Paul to the door with his ruined negatives, the good one, and two prints. “Tommy says the footage you shot down there is sensational. Might be a spot for you with Biograph. Billy’s telegraph was mighty high on you.”
“Your offer is generous, I appreciate it. But I wouldn’t be able to take a job in New York, I will either stay with Colonel Shadow or leave the country. Thank you for your kind assistance.”
He rode an overnight train to Chicago. His camera was tagged and stored in the baggage car. He kept the canvas bag of film between his feet.
The car was second-class; smelly and uncomfortable. He stared at the passing night without seeing anything. He could pay for a Pullman, but that would be a waste. He knew he couldn’t sleep.
The train chugged into the Dearborn Street depot at half past twelve in the afternoon. Paul hired a cab, and ordered the driver to go directly to the Vanderhoff mansion.
When they arrived on Prairie Avenue, the driver said, “Shall I wait, sir?” Paul stood frowning at the house. Every window on every floor was curtained.
“I think you’d better.”
The cold and craggy servant who opened the front door refused to let him step in. Paul craned to see past the man. Sheets hid the furniture.