I Can Be Your Hero - Part 4

The cruiser Brooklyn surged forward, her blue-jacketed crew piped to their battle stations, eyes fixed on the ominous silhouette of El Morro castle ahead and anxiously waiting for the moment they had all been trained for. She steered directly for the harbor entrance, followed by the battleship, Massachusetts, with her heavier guns.

From the bridge of the Brooklyn, Admiral Schley looked over his ship and crew with satisfaction. By God, they’re ready, he thought. Let’s not disappoint them.

“Ring up more speed, Graham!” he instructed. “Let’s have a look inside that harbor, eh?”

“All ahead, two-thirds speed!”

The deck began to tremble faster beneath them as the ship’s big propellers churned the sea. Soon the hull would pick up speed.

“Bring us right down their gullet, helmsman,” Schley ordered. “Then be ready for a quick turn to starboard. I want that channel entrance on my port beam.”

“Aye! Aye, sir!”

The beat of the engines further increased in tempo as they continued to pick up momentum; the other ships keeping their position in line behind them, speeding up as well.

“Steady as she goes.”

Schley put his glass on the fort of El Morro. Knowing it should only take a few minutes for the Spanish to man their guns, his squadron should soon fall within easy gunnery range of their cannon. There would be underwater minefields ahead as well. The tension in the crew rose.

Yet, as it had previously done for the Marblehead, the fort stood strangely silent as they approached, and Schley now hazarded a guess as to why. Either the fort was desperately short of ammunition and must make every shot count, or...

"The Spanish want to lure us onto a minefield!" he realized. "Hard starboard rudder!"

That should make their turn away from the Spanish fort at three thousand yards, the same distance the Marblehead had without striking a mine. Therefore, he reasoned, neither should their Brooklyn.

The bridge went silent. All ears listened in the dreaded expectation of hitting a mine. The eerie quiet dragged on, each second an eternity. All eyes prayed for no underwater explosions.

“Graham, what is the range?” Schley abruptly asked. His eyes now searched the water for the unseen menace below.

“Thirty-five hundred yards and closing, Admiral.”

Almost point blank, Schley realized. Yet still not a shot fired from the Spanish fort. There had to be mines! The Spanish were trying to lure them onto them. Why else hold their fire?

José Muller watched the steady approach of the American ships with a feeling of helplessness. His men stood at their two-hundred-year-old guns and waited for his order to fire, confident in his abilities. Yet he issued no such order. The ancient cannons could manage but an eight-hundred yard range, and the enemy stood off at nearly five times that. He had to wait for them to come closer.

The Brooklyn was slow to come about, a problem common to big warships, and she crossed another five hundred yards before making her full turn. Schley waited for the fort’s fire or, worse, for the sound of mine explosions under her keel that could cause him to lose his ship. Yet nothing happened.

“There she is!” Graham pointed at the harbor mouth.

Yes, indeed! There she was. Sitting at anchor perhaps a half mile down the channel and lying across it, bold as can be, was a Spanish warship. Schley put his binoculars on her modern lines as Graham pointed. He recognized she was not of the Vizcaya class. She must be the new Cristobal Colon. If so, he had trapped her like a bird in a cage.

He set the glasses down and grinned triumphantly at Graham.

“We’ve got them now, Graham!” he announced. “They’re in there and they’ll never go home!”

Within the harbor, the afternoon sun was beating down on the cabin tops of the Teresa as Captain Concas climbed the iron steps leading from the bridge up to the signal deck. He could feel the sun’s warmth on the handrail as he reached the deck and knocked on the admiral’s cabin door. He noticed the portholes of the cabin were all opened with their mosquito screening in place. It was a sign of a ship lying in port too long.

“Come in,” Cervera’s voice responded.

Concas opened the iron door and found the admiral at his desk penning a cable.

“Yes, Captain?” the admiral asked.

“The Americans,” Victor Concas reported, “just completed an inspection of the harbor and they know we are here.”

Admiral Cervera’s initial response was a slow nod of his head.

“I see,” he finally said as he returned to his cable. “It is something we both knew eventually had to happen. I suppose, though,” he added, “that given my choice of where I was to be blockaded, it would be here.”

“I believe that is an opinion shared by Captain Eulate as well,” Victor dryly observed. “However, now that it has occurred, we must assume that the Americans will pursue the most logical course of action available to them. They will starve us out.”

“Yes.” Cervera nodded in agreement. “I shall order all ships to be put on half rations.”

Concas nodded in agreement. “It will be the typhoon season if we can last through the end of the month.”

“Which will put the Americans in the position of either having to leave here to save their ships or attempt to force the harbor entrance,” Cervera finished for him.

“They will use force first rather than simply leave,” Concas stated.

Cervera did not argue. The course of action available to the Americans was obvious, as was his own. It was now out of his hands. Their fate was sealed. He sighed again.

I saw this coming for months. Did everything I could—and yet, here we are. Trapped, as much by our own plans as theirs.

“I assume then,” Concas was asking him, “that the sortie scheduled for today is canceled?”

“That is self-evident.”

“I agree. It would be foolhardy,” ventured Concas, with the air of a man offering an unwelcome remedy. “May I suggest instead that we consider shore leave for the crews? If we must starve here, perhaps we should take the time to enjoy the life Santiago offers us?”

“What?” Cervera raised his head, his expression incredulous. “Are you serious—with the Americans right outside the harbor? Absurd!”

“I would advise it. Yes,” Concas replied. “It would be wise for us to put in an appearance at the Nautico Officers Club. It would do the populace good to think we are unconcerned about Schley’s presence. You may recall General Linares made a point of telling us of the low public spirits. If we and the community’s citizens are to starve together, let us do so in high spirits.”

True. General Linares had stated the citizens suspected the squadron of cowardice.

Admiral Cervera, though, was unconvinced, asking, “And what if the Americans attacked while we were ashore on leave?”

“A very unlikely situation, Admiral,” Concas answered. “We have already agreed their first course of action will be to blockade and starve us out. They will only attack when the typhoon season forces them to. Their position is as obvious as ours.”

“But what if they attack anyway as a means of testing our defenses?” Admiral Cervera challenged with a wave of his hand. “Where would we be, then?”

“We would be a mile from our ships at the club,” Concas admitted. “However, you need not release the entire crews, if that is your concern. A display of the officers is all the populace requires. I suggest we make our appearance ashore after dusk, the least likely time for their attack. The risk, Admiral, is negligible.”

Cervera did not disagree, but he still did not yet approve of the plan.

“Won’t Schley be tempted to attack us on his own before Sampson’s arrival?” he asked.

“Almost certainly that thought will cross his mind,” his captain agreed. “However, Schley would never initiate a full scale attack without Admiral Sampson’s approval and Sampson will never give him that approval so long as he is not here to take full credit for the result.”

Cervera raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so confident of that?”

“Sampson has shown his hand already, Admiral. He would refuse Schley permission because he seeks the glory of our defeat for himself." Concas steadfastly held his gaze. "Consider his actions, Admiral. While he has blockaded Havana, bombarded San Juan, and laid other traps for us at God knows where else, what position has he assigned Schley? Cienfuegos! He has done so on purpose."

Cervera provided his understanding. "Admiral Schley is to have no part in the victory. Sampson has reserved that for himself."

"My guess is that Admiral Sampson is steaming, hell bent to get here, in the fear Schley will start the battle without him.”

“But then wouldn’t it actually be to Schley’s political advantage to attack now before he arrives?” Cervera countered.

“And be court-martialed by Sampson if he failed?” Captain Concas replied. “No. Schley is a conservative man. He has demonstrated no audacities yet. His tarrying at Cienfuegos and slow arrival here is evidence of that. Even if he should attack, it should be during daylight hours. It’s the only time when he can see and then we will be at our guns.”

Cervera leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

“You make a good case,” he said. “I imagine that now is the best time to order shore leave before Admiral Sampson’s arrival. Once he has arrived, the opportunity for shore leave then will be lost to us. It seems now is the best time to go ashore.”

“Should I make plans for that then, sir?” Concas asked.

“Not you personally, I’m afraid, even though it is your idea,” Cervera offered apologetically. “You will stay aboard in case something should happen while Bustamanté and I attend the Nautico Club. Captain Moreu shall also stay with his ship, as he is closest to the harbor entrance. The same goes for the torpedo boat officers, except for Admiral Villamil. He will attend the shore leave with me. The rest of the captains shall go ashore from dusk until midnight. Have Captain Bustamanté arrange for their credit at the club.”

“If I might add,” Concas suggested, “It might be wise to word that in the form of an order, otherwise Captain Eulate will likely refuse to attend. I know that officer and he will not put a foot ashore while any danger threatens his ship.”

“Yes, I agree.” Cervera nodded with a frown. “Eulate will refuse shore leave when his first duty is to his ship. And he’s more important to have there than anyone else. He’s a national hero. The public has read of his heroics and daring in both New York and San Juan. They believe he can beat the American navy singlehandedly. So he must be there. Heroes are to be publicly seen so that others might emulate them. See to it, he knows it’s an order. Have him brought under guard if necessary.”

"It will be."

Cervera nodded. Indeed, it was absolutely imperative Eulate be there. His reputation demanded it. Courageous, self-sacrificing people like Eulate set examples for all of us. Everybody loves a hero. People line up to see them, cheer them, and call out their names. They’ll tell others how they stood in the rain for hours just to get a glimpse of one. Everyone wants to be like their hero and Eulate was everyone’s hero—even for the Americans. Heroes teach us how to hold on a little longer, even under a blockade. There’s a Don Eulate in all of us when we’re not too frightened to let him out. It is the Captain Eulates that keep us honest, give us strength, make us noble, and finally even allow us to die with pride when facing the enemy, even though sometimes we have to give up the one thing we want the most.

Yes. Captain Eulate must be there, relaxed and enjoying himself, that others might also relax and enjoy themselves.

“Just make sure that he is there and has a good time. Put him where everyone can see him,” Cervera added.

“Agreed, Admiral,” Concas bowed slightly. “I hope you have a good evening. My best wishes shall go with you. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go find Captain Bustamanté to have him inform the local press of your social intentions.”

Within Santiago's Ayuntamiento, the smell of cigar smoke mixed with humid air of General Arsenio Linares's office as he met with Colonel Florencio Caula, an officer of the Corps of Engineers. The two were huddled over a map table showing his Fourth Army’s dispositions.

“As you no doubt are aware,” Linares began, “the American fleet has arrived off our harbor in force today. Their appearance for us, I fear, shall have ominous consequences.”

The bearded Caula chose merely to nod in agreement and wait for the general to come to his point.

“Any attempt by the Americans to capture this city will almost undoubtedly include a land assault.” Linares went on. “As the designer of our city’s defenses, I’m sure you are aware of that. I have discussed this matter with my senior officers and we are all in unanimous agreement.” He brought his finger down on Guantanamo Bay, just to the east of Santiago on the map. “This is my Achilles heel! Here, our defenses are weakest to attack. I believe the Americans will recognize this bay as being the best sheltered location from which to launch an overland ground attack against us.”

“I know the area,” Caula stated with a reluctant frown. “The village of Siboney is located there. A trail leads here from Siboney the Americans could use,” he offered before looking at Linares. “Is it your intention that I fortify this area?”

“No,” Linares said, his voice heavy with a quiet inevitability. He traced a finger over the map, the calloused tip lingering over the weak point as if it might change the truth of their situation. “That would be asking too much. The bay is too large to defend its beaches and I have no cannon to offer you. Wherever the Americans choose to land, their navy can bombard the area with impunity.”

“Did you wish me to construct positions in the jungle, then?” Caula asked. “So that you can launch counter attacks on the American bridgehead?”

“No,” Again, Linares shook his head in answer. “Positions in the jungle would be a disaster. Yellow fever would kill more of my men than the Americans. I intend to let the Americans contend with that disease instead as they march up the trail from Siboney.” He paused and then pointed to the hills above the city. “I want two things of you. First, do not let the Americans capture the high ground here to the city’s east. Stop them short of it. It would provide them with an artillery platform of sufficient elevation to bombard the city.”

“I should think their moving artillery up there would be a difficult feat,” Caula observed.

“But not impossible,” Linares stated. “My second purpose for you involves what happens after you stop the Americans short of the hills. I want the American troops and their supplies to bivouac here in these foothills.”

“I see,” Caula nodded in agreement. “In the very heart of the jungle? Very clever! The waters there are tainted. If the Americans drink from them—”

“Then they shall also add dysentery to their ills of malaria and yellow fever,” Linares finished for him.

"They shall die like flies," Caula concluded, imagining it. Not a pleasant death, but it would do.

“Prepare your defenses so that they do. We shall use sickness and disease as our artillery. Also,” Linares pointed to the hills again, “Position our snipers so that we can keep them pinned beneath the trees.” he straightened. “In three days’ time, I shall convene a meeting with my staff to review your plans. Be ready to show us your defensive intentions by then.”

"With how many men do you expect the Americans to land?"

"With more than we have."

Caula’s frown deepened. "And a landing date?"

"Too soon." Linares turned away, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always too soon.”