Page 28 of Two Wars and a Wedding

No sooner had we returned to the State of Texas than word was brought to us of a terrible battle fought on the road to Santiago. . . .

—Miss Katherine Carson for the St. Louis Star Ledger, June 25, 1898

* * *

Siboney, Cuba

June 24, 1898

“Have you ever seen a less inspiring sight than those sentinels?” Paul yawned broadly, cracking his knuckles over his head as he stretched. Reveille had sounded at half past three in the morning and as the sky began to lighten over the fishing village of Siboney, the Rough Riders were still bleary-eyed over their campfires. “I’ve seen scarecrows better dressed.”

Holt glanced over to the guerillos who had been loaned to their regiment by the local Cuban commander. The light of the campfires gave them the chiaroscuro look of Caravaggio saints, all sharp lines and hollows. Neither had a shirt. Their trousers hung off them in peeling patches of fabric.

He took a gulp of what passed for coffee. “Given that they’ve kept hundreds of thousands of professional soldiers on the run for the past three years with minimal support, I’d say their attire is hardly of primary importance.”

“Tatterdemalions,” said Paul, oblivious to Holt’s tone. “That’s what Lieutenant Roosevelt calls ’em. Look at that rifle that man’s holding—that has to be, what? Thirty years old, at least. And the other one—he’s just got one of those knife thingies.”

“A machete,” bit off Holt. “It’s called a machete. I should think that would make it even more impressive. Give them their due. Neither of us could do what they’ve done.”

Holt should know. He’d spent his childhood in a form of guerilla warfare. It wore on you, being constantly on alert, always knowing that the other side had the advantage. The only thing to do was survive. Survive long enough that hopefully the tables would be turned.

But Paul wouldn’t understand that.

Holt shrugged, leaning over to roll up his bedroll, still sodden from last night’s heavy rains. “Give us a few months in these jungles and we won’t look much better.”

They didn’t look so great now. Even Paul’s face had hollowed out. Weeks crammed into fetid transports with inadequate rations had left them wobbly. It had been six days before they’d finally sailed from Port Tampa, and then another week before they’d made land at Daiquirí, on a ship designed to hold half the number of men, provisioned for a single day’s sail. The men who’d had the sense to buy extra rations before leaving had become very popular—and very wealthy. For the others, there was bully beef, in tins that exploded when they were opened, revealing slimy, odorous contents that some swore they’d starve rather than eat.

The forced march from Daiquirí to the village of Siboney hadn’t helped either. They’d scarcely had time to get their land legs before General Wheeler had them on the move, a group of cavalry without horses, staggering with their packs in the tropical heat on legs more used to riding than walking. The trail behind them was littered with bedding, books, clothes, and cookpots jettisoned on the road. Technically, General Shafter held command. But with Shafter, uncomfortable in the tropical heat, still on board the ship Seguranca, it was General Wheeler who was the senior officer.

There were times when Holt wasn’t entirely sure that General Wheeler remembered they were meant to be fighting the Spanish. A Confederate veteran, Wheeler had a disconcerting habit of forgetting his enemy wasn’t the Yankees. Or his fellow commanders.

The objective, as Holt understood it, was to take the city of Santiago, and Wheeler was determined that his men would get there first, whatever the cost. Men were already dropping: from heat, from food poisoning, and from fever. But they’d done what General Wheeler wanted; they’d made it to Siboney before General Lawton’s infantry and parked their camp that little bit closer to the enemy, closer to glory.

“Join me for breakfast?” Ham Fish hailed them from a neighboring campfire, where smells of food that actually smelled like food were emerging from a tin cooking pot. “I salvaged some cans of tomatoes. We’re liable to all be killed today, so we may as well have enough to eat.”

“Thanks,” said Holt drily.

“Wait, what?” said Paul, who wasn’t the swiftest in the morning. “What’s that about being killed?”

Fish tapped the side of his nose. “Secret orders. There was a powwow last night. Overheard it. That’s how I know.” Fish still smelled strongly of the sweet Spanish wine he’d been knocking back the night before. The scion of an old New York family, Fish was an amiable alcoholic. “The Cubans skirmished with the Spanish yesterday at some crossroads or other. There’s about fifteen hundred of them, they say. We’re to hit ’em from one side, and Young’s men’ll hit ’em from the other.”

“Are we supposed to know this?” asked Holt.

“No,” said Fish. “But we’re due to find out eventually, aren’t we?”

There was no refuting that logic.

“Are those tomatoes?” Thede Miller, one of Paul’s many Yale classmates, plunked himself down next to Holt. He looked sideways at Holt, squinting at him in the half-light. “I keep thinking we’ve met before.”

They had.

“You’ve probably seen his picture in the papers,” said Paul, who seemed to have appointed himself Holt’s press agent. “How’s Teddy?”

Their fellow Yalie, Teddy Burke, had stumbled in after dark, delirious with fever, mumbling about a polo match. Thede had made the rounds of the campfires, looking for wine to doctor him, not realizing most available potables were already inside Ham Fish. Holt was shamefully relieved by the change of subject.

Thede grimaced. “Still convinced he fell off his polo pony. I covered him up with a rubber sheet last night, but it didn’t do much to keep the rain off. Anyone want to help me move him into one of the huts? I know we’re not supposed to but he’s in no shape to come along with us, and I don’t want to just leave him out in the open.”

“You don’t want to risk the land crabs.” Holt’s voice came out even more gruff than usual. That was the effect of sleeping in the rough. Or trying to be the person that Paul thought he was.