The Rough Rider (25 page)

Roosevelt had been marching back and forth on the crowded deck, fuming at the delay. Finally, he obtained a little ship and a pilot, and the disembarkment began. Aaron and Lewis were in the third boat and Isaiah Wilson was with them. “I sure do hate to see dem good horses and mules drowned,” Isaiah muttered. He caught the side of the boat as it rose and fell with a whumping sound on the water. “Never did like boats much,” he said, his face grayed with the strain of the ordeal.

The boat moved in close, and the men all were wearing their full marching gear. They were weighed down with blanket rolls and cartridge belts around their waists, not to mention
their heavy rifles. As they approached the beach, the men prepared to leave the bouncing craft. Aaron bent down and was tying his shoe when he heard Lewis cry, “Look out—!”

Aaron straightened up at once, just in time to see Isaiah fall over the side. At once, he tossed his rifle down, threw his bedroll off his shoulder, and kicked off his boots. The soldiers were shouting at him, but he paid no attention. All he could think of was Isaiah. He went over the side head first, hoping he would not hit anything that would knock his brains out. The water was shockingly cold and he went down deep, moving his arms and feeling for the body of the man. The current was strong and turned him upside down so that he lost his equilibrium for a moment. The pull of the current was frightening. He began to fight his way, his clothes weighted with water dragging him down. Suddenly, he struck his head on a steel object and knew he’d hit the steel hull of the boat. Pain shot through him and he shoved away, forcing himself to the surface. He heard the cries of men and looked around wildly. He saw Lewis, his face pale, and yelled, “I couldn’t get him! I’ll try again!”

“You can’t do it! The current’s too swift.”

A lieutenant screamed, “Get on board, Winslow! He’s gone!”

Aaron hesitated, not wanting to give up. But the current was sucking him under, and there was danger of being crushed against the side of the steel hull. With the minutes that had already dragged by, Aaron knew in his heart that there was no hope in finding Isaiah. Resigned to the loss of his ebony friend, he took several strokes and headed toward land. Soon his feet touched ground, and he waded ashore, falling on the sand, sick and dismayed. He shut his eyes and seemed to see the cheerful face of Isaiah, and the black soldier’s words came to him:
Oh, the Lawd’s gonna watch out for ol’ Isaiah, ain’t no question about dat!

As the boat reached the beach, the landing was chaotic. The troops came stumbling in, and Lewis, stunned at the death of
his friend, moved like a man in a dream. It was Aaron who said roughly, “He’s gone, Lewis. There’s nothing we can do about it.” The tragedy of it hit both men hard. Death by an enemy bullet was something they’d thought about—but this was as if a gigantic hand had reached out of the sky and taken a life. They’d grown very fond of the cheerful black man, and to have that familiar voice stilled so suddenly forced them to consider their own mortality. In Lewis’s pale face, Aaron saw that his brother recognized at last that this was no charade or mere game that they were involved in, but that good men would die—and the first death had been a well-loved friend. One who had promised them some real good cooking back in Georgia. That would never be, now.

“Come on, let’s see what’s up there.” Aaron had been looking at a Spanish blockhouse that loomed up on the hill against the sky. Roosevelt had watched it too, thinking it might be full of Spanish soldiers ready to open fire on them. To their fortune, the place turned out to be empty. Some of the Rough Riders made their way up the slope with an American flag and fastened it to a pole. When the soldiers on the ship caught sight of the flag unfurled in the wind, drum rolls occurred at once, and the sounds of “The Star-Spangled Banner” reached the soldiers’ ears.

That landing at Daiquiri was the beginning of a few days of utter disorganization. It was as if no one was in charge, and every man did that which was right in his own eyes. Six thousand troops, almost half the American expedition, landed on the beaches that day. The following morning, the landing resumed and two regiments of the Second Division made their way down a narrow jungle trail that led to Siboney. Roosevelt spent the time supervising the unloading of the regiment’s equipment and soon received orders from General Wheeler to join him at Siboney. Wheeler had already arrived there and met a strong resistance from a large Cuban force. The Cubans had overtaken the retreating Spanish, and
needing reinforcements, Wheeler had sent word to bring the Rough Riders.

Roosevelt was electrified at the prospect of entering the fray. He at once called for his officers, and soon bugle calls were rallying the men into marching order. Aaron found himself trudging through a jungle with Lewis right behind him. It was late in the afternoon, and the men were tired, for they already had been aboard a crowded ship for many days. They had suffered patiently the heat of Tampa, and now they were on their way to do what they had come to do. Long after midnight, they tracked through the darkness till they reached Siboney. There they cooked a hasty meal of coffee, pork, and hardtack, while a drenching two-hour thunderstorm poured the heavens down upon them. As they were eating, Roosevelt got orders from Wheeler to attack the following morning.

“I guess we’d better get some sleep,” Lewis said. He was huddled in his wet blanket, the water running off his hat. He stared at Aaron, who looked as miserable as he felt.

“I don’t see how we’re going to get any sleep in this downpour.” Exhausted from the trek through the tangled jungle, they stretched out, and the rain drummed into the mud and made a soothing sound.

Finally, Lewis lifted his hat and peered at Aaron, who was sitting upright staring into the darkness blindly. “I sure do miss Isaiah,” Lewis whispered. “I thought he’d be with us. He was such a happy fellow—and a good man, too.”

“Yes, he was,” muttered Aaron, his heart still aching from the death of his friend.

Lewis thought hard for a moment, then lay back, but not before he said, “He knew the Lord, Aaron. He’s in heaven now.”

Aaron looked over at Lewis and said nothing. The rain continued to beat down on the troops, and the heavens were completely hidden by black thunderclouds. He thought of the cheerful smile of Isaiah Wilson, and a heavy gloom settled
upon him. Finally he lay back and shut his eyes, trying not to think what would happen when dawn came.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Battle Cry

William Randolph Hearst had decided to “visit” the Spanish war zone. He had a proprietary attitude toward the war, bearing in his mind the grandiose notion that he had been instrumental in causing it. He had plastered the words “How Do You Like The
Journal
’s War?” on the front-page banners of his newspaper, and stated proudly, “It is a satisfactory thing to be an American and to be here on the soil of Cuba at the threshold of what may prove to be the decisive battle of the war.”

Actually, he was not on the
soil
of Cuba, but stood on the deck of the
Sylvia
as he dictated these words to his personal secretary. He’d donated his yacht, the
Buccaneer,
to the navy for conversion into a gunboat, so he had chartered the
Sylvia,
a large steamer belonging to the Baltimore Fruit Company, and fitted it out with offices, a printing press, and even a darkroom fully stocked to develop the action shots he wanted for his feature stories. Firmly convinced that the war was his personal property, he led an army of reporters, artists, and photographers to the front.

He was determined to take advantage of the situation. All America and even the nations of Europe were watching to see the outcome. Hearst was going to make sure this kind of news was in his New York and San Francisco newspapers. He had even brought a staff prepared to distribute a Cuban edition of the
Journal.

Now as he stood looking out over the rolling sea, he felt
pleased with his prodigious efforts. He had come early, in time to interview Admiral Sampson: “A quiet, conservative man with thin features and melancholy eyes.” He had been pleased with the impressive appearance of the commander, General Shafter: “A bold, lion-headed hero, and massive as to body—a sort of human fortress in blue coat and flannel shirt.” And he had described General Garcia, who had led the rebel troops for years, as: “A splendid old hero in spotless white linen from head to foot.”

Not far from Hearst’s “press” ship, another civilian vessel swung at anchor. The
State of Texas
had been chartered to carry food, medicine, and other relief supplies to aid the Cuban rebel forces. The Red Cross expedition was led by a woman committed to helping the Cuban people.

Even as Hearst was staring from the deck of the
Sylvia
at the outlines of Santiago, Clara Barton was on her way to the shore. She sat in the stern of the small boat as upright as a soldier, her eyes searching the buildings that lined the beach. As soon as the prow of the skiff nudged into the sand, she rose and stepped ashore. Pulling herself up to her full five-feet height, she took in the soldiers scrambling ashore, the frantic horses and mules that had been shoved overboard, and the disorder along the beach as screaming officers and non-coms tried to get their men into some sort of order. As calmly as if she were strolling along the streets of Boston, she picked her way through the masses of men and animals. For several minutes she walked along the streets of the miserable village, then approached a grizzled sergeant, who stopped shouting at his men long enough to stare at her curiously.

“I’m looking for the medical facilities, Sergeant.”

“Ain’t any,” the sergeant grinned. He nodded impatiently toward his left, adding, “Doc Burns—he come ashore. Down that way, I reckon.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Five minutes later Miss Barton walked up to a man, asking, “Are you Dr. Burns?”

David was dripping with perspiration, and he took time to wipe his eyes before he answered. “Yes, I’m Burns.”

“My name is Clara Barton.”

Deborah had been picking up a wooden box filled with medical supplies, but she set it down instantly, her eyes wide with astonishment when she heard the woman’s name. Coming to stand beside David, she said, “Miss Barton! I’m Deborah Laurent, one of Dr. Burns’s nurses.” She gave a half laugh, then added, “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

A glint of humor appeared in the eyes of Clara Barton. “Most people think I’m dead,” she laughed. She was seventy-seven years old, and her hair, which was still brown, had been combed into a bun on the back of her head. Her face was round, with a wide mouth and expressive dark brown eyes. She wore a gray dress with black bands down the front and high on the arms—much like the ones she had worn on the battlefields of the Civil War.

David smiled wearily, but managed to show a touch of chivalry. “I’m an old admirer of yours, Miss Barton,” he said. “Your fieldwork during the Civil War was splendid. I’m glad you’re here.” As Gail emerged from the weatherbeaten building, David turned and introduced her as well. Then he asked Miss Barton, “What are your plans?”

“We landed at Guantanamo,” Miss Barton said, “and tried to get some of our supplies overland—but it was very difficult. I thought it best to come here.” She looked up at the brooding hills, then added, “I suppose the fighting will be there.”

“I think so,” Burns nodded. “We’ll be following the troops, but I found this empty building and simply started moving our supplies in.”

“We’ve managed to make some sort of order—a place to sleep, anyway,” Deborah said quickly. “If you’d like to stay with us, it would be an honor.”

“That’s most kind of you, Miss Laurent.” A thoughtful expression crossed the face of the famous nurse, and she appeared to make an instant decision. “The supplies will be
coming ashore soon. I’ll have to find room for them. But I’d rather stay ashore than on the ship.”

All afternoon the three women and the doctor worked hard to make the building ready to receive the wounded. After a search, they found another empty building for Clara Barton and the Red Cross supplies. The sun was sinking into the copper sea when Gail came to announce that a meal was ready. “It’s not much,” she warned the others as they came inside and sat around a wobbly table. “But we all need to eat.”

“Why, this is fine, Gail!” Burns exclaimed, looking down at the food she had prepared. “I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather.” He waited until the three women were seated, then sat down carefully on a wooden packing crate. He bowed his head and asked a blessing, then smiled at his companions. “No haggis, but I suppose we can’t have everything.”

“What’s
haggis?
” Gail inquired as she spooned stew from a large bowl into her U.S. army-issue tin plate.

“Sheep stomach,” David grinned.

Gail halted midair with her spoon, stared at him, then laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t find any of
that!
You’ll have to be satisfied with stew, potatoes, and army-issue bread.”

As they sat on crates, enjoying their simple meal, they speculated about the battle that was to come, and Clara Barton seemed placid. She ate well, asking for a second helping of canned peaches. When a cup of coffee was put before her, she drank it and asked for another. “A fine meal, Miss Summers,” she smiled. “I wish I could have fed the troops as well at Bull Run.”

Deborah leaned forward, her eyes alive with interest. “I’ve read about your work, Miss Barton,” she said. “But I’d like to hear what it was like.”

“It was worse than it will be here, Miss Laurent.” Taking a sip of the coffee that she’d laced with canned cream, her deep-set eyes grew thoughtful. She began to speak of her early days, and they could all see that the difficulties she’d encountered were like a barb in her soul that still rankled her
otherwise calm demeanor. She related how she’d gathered supplies for the soldiers, but had not been permitted to go to the front.

“Finally I went to Colonel Daniel Rucker, head of the Quartermaster Depot in Washington City,” she murmured, and a smile touched her broad lips. “I was so bashful in those days, and when the colonel snapped, ‘Well, what do
you
want?’ I just burst into tears! He was really a gentle man, but was terribly worried about our wounded. He asked me to take a seat and got me calmed down. Finally I told him I wanted to go to the front. He just stared at me saying, ‘The front? Why, that’s no place for a lady! Have you got a father or sweetheart there?’ I told him I had nobody, but that I had three storehouses full of food and hospital supplies and that I needed a pass and some wagons.”