A Bright Tomorrow (8 page)

After Sparks left them, Nick was apologetic. “Well, sorry I blew my top, Amos.”

“It's okay, Nick. I—I can see what you mean. And the guy seems pretty regular to me.”

“What he said about the girls, it's on the level.” Nick nodded, then laughed. “I tried to buddy up to the little blond with the green dress, and it was no sale!”

Amos finally managed to pry Rose away from Nick, who said it was too early to go home. Finding a cab, they rode through the dark streets, saying little. When the cab stopped in front of the house, Amos jumped out and helped Rose down. She stood there as he paid the driver, then the two of them climbed the steps.

“I'm so tired,” Rose murmured, “but it's been a wonderful evening, Amos.” She turned to face him, and the silver of the moon was reflected in her eyes. “Everything seems so…strange.”

Amos stood close enough to smell the fresh scent of her hair and to catch the glints of light in her green eyes. A silence lay over the street. Only the faint echoes of the horse's hooves floated on the night air. “You look very pretty tonight,” he said softly.

Rose touched his cheek and smiled again without answer. And then Amos reached out with both hands and cupped her shoulders. Her eyes flew open, but before she could speak, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Rose, taken totally off guard, did not resist. As his lips fell on hers and his arms tightened around her, she felt a sharp pang of fear. But her anxiety quickly fled in the gentleness of his embrace, and she sensed a strange security such as she had never known before. His lips were firm, and she found herself responding to his kiss. For a long moment they stood there, holding each other. Finally, one of them, and they never knew which one, broke away.

“Rose,” Amos whispered huskily, “I never knew a girl could be so sweet.”

Rose was glad the night was dark, so that Amos could not see her cheeks, for she felt them grow warm. “I–I must go in,” she murmured, but before she stepped inside, she gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you for taking me out, Amos.”

She moved quickly into the house, went at once to the room she shared with Anna, and tried to get undressed and into bed without waking the woman. When she lay down and pulled up the warm covers, Rose lay still for a brief time, thinking of the evening. But sleep came quickly, for she was exhausted, and her last impression before she drifted off was Amos Stuart's kiss.

The next day was Sunday, and Rose was strangely quiet, having almost nothing to say to the children or to Anna. Anna, of course, noticed, quickly dismissing her silence as the result of too little sleep the night before.

But the next morning, when Anna came to awaken Rose, she was shocked when the girl sat straight up in bed, a determined expression on her face.

“Anna, I'm not going to work at the bottle factory!” When Anna stared at her, disbelieving, Rose tried to explain. “I can't stand it anymore!” She hesitated. “Maybe Nick told you about the job at the restaurant.”

Anna shook her head firmly. “That's-a no good, Rose! No young girl can stay nice in a place like that!”

But Rose had made up her mind. She waited until noon, walked into town, and found Eddy Sparks rehearsing a song. “Why, it's you!” Getting up from the piano, he raised one eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”

“Y–yes, I have.”

Sparks was a kindly man, and he knew the girl was nervous. “Well, sit down and we'll see what we can do.”

An hour later Rose left Charlie's Place and went to the Castellano house. “Anna, I'm moving,” she said. “This place is too far from the restaurant. Mr. Sparks fixed it so I could room with one of the other girls in the company.”

Anna saw there was little she could do to persuade the girl differently. “I hope you come and see us often, Rose.”

Rose gathered her few belongings, and when she left, gave Anna a tremendous hug, then fled from the house.

“I gotta pray for that girl,” Anna vowed. “She's gonna need it, I think.”

A clear starry night with a moon hanging overhead like an immense yellow globe—that was the setting in the harbor of Havana, Cuba, on Tuesday, February 15, 1898. The U.S. battleship
Maine
hung motionless on her anchor, her great bulk shrouded in darkness. Officially she was on a “goodwill” visit, but everyone knew she had been sent by Washington to show this country's readiness to protect American lives and property, by force, if necessary.

The crew was asleep, except for a few on watch. Captain Charles D. Sigsbee was at his desk, writing a letter to his wife. The Marine bugler began taps…and the captain paused to listen.

And then it happened.

A thundering explosion shook the
Maine
from bow to stern. Many smaller jolts followed as the ship's ammunition caught fire and exploded. The shells went off one after another, spraying red-hot splinters in every direction. Lights went out, and clouds of black, suffocating smoke filled the spaces below decks. The vessel listed to port and began to sink. Within seconds her dying noises were intermingled with the sounds of dying men. Captain Sigsbee groped his way through the blackness. Coming out on the main deck, he saw that nothing could be done to save the
Maine
and gave order to abandon ship.

Daylight revealed the destructive scene. The
Maine
had settled into the harbor's muddy bottom, leaving only a mast and part of her upper deck exposed. Smoke still curled from the wreckage, and there was a strange gurgling sound—air bubbles escaping from the flooded compartments. Of the 350 officers and men aboard, more than 260 were killed by the explosion or drowned in the aftermath.

America went mad with fury over the sinking of the
Maine
, encouraged in this fierce anger by the scorching stories reported in the
New York Journal.
William Randolph Hearst saw that his hour had come, and his flaming editorials created a spirit of aggression across the country.

On the night the
Maine
blew up, Amos was at Charlie's Place, watching Eddy Sparks's show. To be more specific, he was watching one member of the show. He came in most nights, and had for over a month, ever since Rose had joined Sparks's company.

On that night after the show, he took Rose out for a late supper, and when they had eaten, the two of them walked the streets. Finally they went back to Rose's hotel, and when they got to the entrance, Amos said with some agitation, “Rose, I've got to talk to you.”

She hesitated, then relented. “There's a parlor on the second floor. Nobody is ever there this time of night.” She led him up the stairs and as soon as they were in the parlor, Amos turned her around to face him. “Rose, I don't know but one way to say this.” She had never seen him so flustered. Finally he blurted it out. “I want us to get married!”

Rose stood there in shock. His proposal had been totally unexpected, and she began to tremble. “But, Amos, we've known each other such a little while—”

“Does that matter?” Amos demanded. He grasped her arms, and pulled her close. “Ever since the first time I kissed you, I haven't been able to think of anything but you!”

Rose stood helplessly in his grip, her mind spinning. She liked him so much, and he had been so kind to her. They had seen each other four or five times a week since she had moved uptown, and yet, she could not give him an answer.

“Amos, I don't think we're ready for marriage…at least,
I'm
not.” She spoke quickly, but when she was finished, she saw that he was not deterred.

“Think about it, Rose,” Amos said. “I know it's sudden, and I know we'll have to wait a long time. But if I just knew you'd be mine someday I could do
anything
!”

He left then, and went home to bed, though neither of them slept much that night. They were so young, and neither of them had any real experience in love. Rose was very much afraid and she had no one to turn to, no one to advise her. Amos was afraid, also, but he was an intense young man, knowing only one method to get what he wanted—to strive for it with all his might.

Amos Stuart never knew what might have happened if the
Maine
had not been sunk. He often wondered about it in the years that followed. What he did know was that he was called into the office of William Randolph Hearst two days after the sinking of the
Maine
for an unexpected interview.

His heart began to beat like a drum when his editor gruffly said, “Come along, Stuart. Mr. Hearst wants to see you.”

“I suppose you're wondering why I want to see you?” said Hearst, when Amos stood before the publisher.

“Well, sir, I can't think you'd go to all this trouble to fire me,” Amos replied, licking his lips nervously. “So you must have an assignment for me.”

Hearst was not a jovial man, but he allowed himself a slight smile. “Yes, I do. You understand there's going to be a war with Spain?”

“Yes, sir. No way to avoid it.”

“All right, here's what I want,” Hearst said crisply. “I want one of my reporters in the ranks. Not as a reporter…as a soldier, telling what the war looks like to him.”

“That's a great idea, Mr. Hearst…and I'll do it!”

Hearst was caught off guard by Stuart's swift acceptance. “Now, hold on. It's going to be a
real
war, Stuart. You could get killed.”

“On the other hand, sir,” Amos shot back, “if I don't get killed, I may get some great stories for the
Journal
.”

The publisher and the editor exchanged brief nods. “All right, now here's what I want you to do. The secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt, is going to get into this thing. He wants to be president of the United States, and the best way to do that is to become a war hero. You join his outfit. It'll be in the thick of things.”

“I know the secretary slightly, Mr. Hearst,” Amos said, enjoying the surprise on the publisher's face. “You may have forgotten my part in Miss Powers' interview with Mr. Roosevelt.”

“I
had
forgotten!” Hearst exclaimed. “Would he remember you?”

“Oh, yes.” Amos nodded. “He came back to ride at Greenlee Stables a few times, and I always saddled up for him. He teased me a great deal about Miss Powers.”

“Get into his outfit,” Hearst said instantly. “I'd think he'd choose cavalry, fancies himself some kind of cowboy. He knows you're good with horses, so he might take you. That way, we could get the stuff straight from the top.”

The three men planned their strategy for over an hour, and when Amos left, Hearst shook hands with him. “My niece thinks you're quite a fellow, Stuart,” he said. His cold eyes fixed Amos firmly. “Do a good job on this one…and we'll see what we can do for you.”

But Amos did not leave New York the next day. Nor the next week…nor even the next month. He waited until Theodore Roosevelt issued a call for his Rough Riders, and then sought an audience with the secretary. It was a short interview.

Amos offered his services, and Roosevelt, desperately in need of all the experienced help he could get, accepted him on the spot. “Capital!” he exclaimed. “I must have Prince, and you'll take care of the horses for all our officers. It'll be
Sergeant
Stuart now!”

Amos went at once to Hearst, who was delighted beyond bounds, then he sought out Rose.

“I'll be leaving soon, Rose, to go to the war,” he said. “Won't you say you'll marry me when I come back?”

“Oh, Amos…I can't!”

Nevertheless, when Amos left New York on May 7, 1898, with the Rough Riders, Rose could not bear it. She clung to him, weeping, and promised, “I'll marry you when you come back, Amos…if you still want me to!”

And Amos Stuart rode off to war, with the memory of her kiss, and knew that he would not get killed, for he had too much to live for!

N
ever had so many hare-brained schemes for winning a war surfaced than after the sinking of the
Maine
! Buffalo Bill Cody, the old Indian fighter and showman, promised to kick the Spaniards out of Cuba with thirty thousand “Indian braves.” Frank James, who'd ridden the outlaw trail with his brother Jesse, offered to lead a regiment of cowboys. The Sioux nation announced that they were ready to go on the warpath and take Spanish scalps. Mrs. Martha A. Shute of Denver, Colorado, wanted to form a troop of cavalry made up entirely of women. And William Hearst suggested a regiment of all-star athletes—prizefighters, wrestlers, baseball players, football players, rowers, runners, gymnasts. Our athletes, he boasted, were practically bulletproof. They would “overawe any Spanish regiment by their mere appearance. They would scorn Mauser bullets!”

President McKinley ignored these goofy schemes, calling instead for 125,000 volunteers. He could have asked for a million, for at least that many flocked to the recruiting office. In one of his early stories, Amos explained why so many young men sought so desperately for a chance to die:

The last sentence was stricken by William Randolph Hearst, who did more than any other single man to bring on the war. When Frederick Remington had first been sent to draw scenes of the conflict, he'd found little to sketch and had wired back to Hearst, “There is no war!” Hearst had fired right back, “You furnish the pictures and I'll furnish the war!” Even after the sinking of the
Maine
could not be proven to be the act of an enemy, but an internal explosion, Hearst ignored that fact and continued to beat the drums for war.

Of the thousands of young men who volunteered, the luckiest were accepted into the First United States Volunteer Cavalry Regiment, more commonly called the Rough Riders. Theodore Roosevelt was invited to command, but he refused, claiming lack of military experience. Colonel Leonard Wood thus became the official commander of the Rough Riders, but everyone in the country knew that Roosevelt was its true leader.

Roosevelt had tremendous influence, of course, and within two weeks the regiments received the best of everything. Whole trainloads of supplies were rushed to its training camp in San Antonio, Texas. There were plenty of horses and the men were issued the Krag, the best rifle of the day.

Roosevelt wanted the regiment to represent the “best” elements in American life, which meant two types of people. The first he termed the “gilded gang”—men like himself, who were wealthy and educated, eager for a good fight in the service of their country. A list of their names read like the Social Register, many of them graduates of Harvard and other Ivy League schools. Some were bankers and stockbrokers and lawyers, and their number included a world-champion polo player and a national tennis champion.

The backbone of the regiment, however, was the kind of men Roosevelt had known during his ranching days—westerners, sons and grandsons of the pioneers. A colorful lot, they went by such names as “Cherokee Bill,” “Happy Jack,” “Dead Shot Jim,” “Lariat Ned,” “Rattlesnake Pete,” “Weeping Dutchman,” “Prayerful James,” and “Rubber Shoe Andy.”

They came from the Rockies and the Dakota Badlands, from Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado. The regiment boasted eight sheriffs, seven army deserters, and an unreported number of outlaws. Most of them were bowlegged and all were more comfortable on horseback than on foot.

A week after Roosevelt arrived in camp, he could call the name of every man in the regiment. He'd sit atop his favorite horse, Little Texas, his high-pitched voice rattling the horses and confusing their riders. But the men loved him! When he appeared, they didn't cheer or applaud. They blazed away with their six-shooters, causing a stampede.

By the end of May, Roosevelt had forged them into a real fighting force. And the troopers showed their affection for Roosevelt by calling themselves “Teddy's Terrors,” “Teddy's Texas Tarantulas,” “Teddy's Rustler Regiment,” and “Roosevelt's Rough 'Uns”…but in the end, they were the Rough Riders.

When the regiment left for Tampa, Florida, on May 28, Amos, like all the rest of the men, was at a fever-pitch of excitement. They traveled south in seven flag-draped trains, and were greeted by large crowds all the way to Florida. At one of the stops, a young man named Faye O'Dell nudged Amos. “Come on, Amos, let's let them gals have their way. They wanna kiss some real heroes!”

Amos grinned, liking the young man very much. The two of them got off the train where townspeople were handing out watermelons and buckets of iced beer. The local drum-and-bugle corps made a racket loud enough to raise the dead, and as O'Dell had said, the pretty girls in their straw hats and bright gingham dresses were ready to greet the heroes. One of them, a very pretty redhead, threw herself into Amos's arms, kissed him firmly, then began to work her way through the crowd of yelling soldiers.

O'Dell, an undersized product of New York, grinned and winked at Amos. “Hey, this sure beats workin', don't it, Amos?” He snatched a chubby girl, kissed her noisily, then as the call from the sergeant came, reluctantly let her go. As the two of them climbed back onto the coach, he said regretfully, “Sure wisht this war had come along sooner, Amos. I been wastin' my life up till now!”

But O'Dell wasn't so exuberant after a few days in Tampa, a small, dusty, Gulf Coast town. As Amos wrote in a story:

As Amos half-expected, Hearst sent back a biting comment on his piece: “Stuart, either tell the story of this glorious war in a positive manner, or don't bother to send any more stories!”

Amos showed the wire to Colonel Roosevelt, who was always interested in the public relations of the war. “Hearst doesn't give a continental for this country!” Teddy snapped, his smallish eyes blazing with anger. “All he wants is to sell more newspapers.” But then he grinned at Amos. “You write it as you see it, Sergeant! When we swing into action, you'll be the most famous correspondent in the country!”

But Amos knew he could not afford to write it as he saw it, not if he wanted to keep his job as a reporter for the
Journal
. Hearst was a tyrant, firing men for far less than that.

As the days rolled on, Amos grew glum, not only because of the tight-rope he was walking with his news stories, but because of the disturbing letters he was receiving from Rose…or
not
receiving. At first she had written regularly, but after a letter in which she told him that Eddy Sparks had left Charlie's and she was out of a job, she wrote less often. Two weeks later, he heard from her again. “I've got a job with a stage company,” she reported. “It means going on the road—like Lylah. The manager agreed to give me a trial, so I'll have to do good to stay with the company—” From that point on, her letters almost stopped.

He got only three more before leaving for Cuba—one from Detroit, one from Cleveland, and one from Atlanta. All were brief and factual, giving only the bare details of her travels and her work. In the last one Amos received, she wrote:

“Amos, I am not sure about our getting married. We haven't known each other very long, and we're both young. You may be gone a long time…though I hope not. Let's think about it and when you get back, we'll see.”

It was a blow to Amos, and Faye O'Dell took note. “What's wrong with you, Amos?” he asked a few days later. “You look like you lost your best friend.”

“Oh, just worried about the war, I guess,” Amos replied, not wanting to share his news with anyone.

“Well, looks like we'll see the elephant pretty soon,” Faye said, his homely face aglow with excitement. “Everybody says we'll ship out this week.”

The rumors, for once, were right. While inspecting the horses, Roosevelt told Amos personally, “Stuart, get the animals ready for a sea voyage.” His big teeth gleamed as he grinned. “We'll ship out on Saturday—and about time, I say!”

Amos worked hard preparing the stock and seeing to the food and equipment necessary to care for so many animals. But on the day before they boarded ship and cleared the harbor, he got a letter from Nick which troubled him. Nick wrote in his atrocious hand:

Amos wrote at once to Rose, but he had no time to do more than scribble a few lines, for the army was on the move. Everything was confusion. The ships would hold only sixteen thousand of the twenty-seven thousand men, so entire regiments had to stay behind, and there was a scramble for places among those who did go.

The Rough Riders, not to be denied their chance at glory, simply hijacked a steam launch. Tired and hungry, to them the ship seemed like heaven. And when an officer from another regiment came along a few minutes later to claim it, Roosevelt flashed his best Toothadore smile. “Yours, you say? Do tell. Well, we seem to have it, don't we?”

On the evening of June 14, thirty-two transports blew their whistles, weighed anchor, and began to move. They carried the largest military force that had ever left American shores. Once clear of the harbor, they were joined by fourteen warships, where the flotilla formed three columns and steamed southward under a canopy of stars.

“I don't care if I get shot by a greaser,” Faye O'Dell moaned. “That couldn't be no worse than this blasted boat!”

Amos was inclined to agree. The two of them had come topside to lean on the rail, sick of the stifling hold where they slept in bunks three levels high. Most of the men had been sick since leaving America, and there was no way to clean anything. “It's like living in a heated sewer,” Amos had written in one of his stories. There were twelve toilets for twelve hundred men, no water for drinking and none for washing. Richard Harding Davis, the most famous correspondent of the day had reported, “The ship's water smells like a frog pond or a stable yard, and it tastes like it smells!”

Amos tried to comfort O'Dell. “We'll land day after tomorrow. It'll be better then.”

But it was not, for on June 22, the landing at Daiouirí, eighteen miles east of Santiago, proved to be as unpleasant as the voyage.

Amos scrambled over the side of the transport into a waiting longboat. Like bucking broncos, the small boats bounded and rolled in the waves. Several men jumped too soon and crashed when the boat lurched upward, while others waited too long and dropped into the trough between the waves.

When they were fully loaded, several of the longboats were roped in line and towed by a Navy steam launch. The journey was wet and choppy, and the wind-tossed spray soaked Amos and O'Dell to the skin. O'Dell turned gray, and vomited all over himself, and he was not alone.

Upon reaching the shore, they had to wait for a wave to lift the boat level with the rotting wooden pier, then leap across. It was dangerous business, and Amos saw two black cavalrymen drown when they missed the wharf. Horses and mules were pushed overboard to find their own way ashore, and the first thing Amos did when he landed was to gather Roosevelt's mounts, Prince and Little Texas before they followed the lead of several others who swam out to sea and drowned.