The Arrow Keeper’s Song (16 page)

“Well, then,” Philo said, nodding to Tully, who flicked the reins and started the team of reluctant mules back toward the road. “Let's get on to Tulsa.”

“The devil, you say,” Tom Sandcrane quietly added, his eyes on the distant storms. Let them come and do their worst. “On to Cuba.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
UBA, THE PEARL OF THE
A
NTILLES
,
COVERED EIGHT HUN
-dred miles from east to west. In width the island varied from twenty to one hundred miles. Most of the terrain was made up of rolling plains and fertile, rich valleys, a chain broken by mountainous ridges and rough terrain that could easily swallow an army in its winding passes and hidden arroyos. The southeastern part of the island was dominated by the Sierra Maestra range, which featured some of the loftiest peaks in the West Indies.

The American expeditionary force could have sailed into any of the numberless bays, lagoons, and coves offered by the broken, irregular coastline. But the military minds recognized Santiago, in the shadow of the Sierra Maestra range, as the key to taking the island. Here the Spanish forces were at their strongest, and yet the most vulnerable. If the harbor could be blockaded and the fortifications stormed, the back of the Spanish military would be broken. Victory was a laurel to those who moved swift and sure. One bold sweep along the base of the mountains might win the war. Young American officers, eager for excitement and glory, were worried the Spaniards might not even make a fight of it.…

Cuba, June 21, 1898

Captain Diego Zuloaga sat among the palms atop Widow's Hill and finished his noonday meal while watching what seemed an endless stream of men and equipment disembark from the American transports that clogged the southern shore. He ate quietly, spooning chunks of moray eel, cooked plantain, and pineapple from the bowl on the small wooden table that also held a recently uncorked bottle of rum, the crusty remains of a flat, round loaf of bread, and a silver carving knife bearing the crest of his family, a relic of his forefathers' faded glory.

Diego's elder brother, after inheriting the family estate on the outskirts of Barcelona, had squandered the family fortune and impoverished his wife and children. He came to a sorry end, hanging himself from the bough of an oak tree in a garden he no longer owned. It was a tragic waste whose cloud had cast a shadow over Diego Zuloaga all his days and left him with deep and abiding bitterness.

The captain of the Lion Brigade dabbed the juices from his carefully trimmed mustache and goatee. Throughout his thirty years, an innate sense of contempt for those around him had charted Zuloaga's destiny. He had learned, however, to disguise his true feelings of superiority with displays of affection toward those who professed their loyalty to him. And the men of the lion Brigade were absolutely devoted to the officer. Under the captain's leadership, the brigade was the only Spanish-cavalry unit to have any kind of success against the Cuban rebels. But such victories were Pyrrhic at best, much to Zuloaga's chagrin; they had not stalled the growing resistance nor resulted in the capture of Antonio Celestial, the one thorn in the Spanish side whom Diego Zuloaga had personally sworn to extract. For more than a year Celestial's rebels had carried out their partisan campaign, a reign of terror among the Spanish troops. Patrols disappeared. Soldiers were found beheaded or disemboweled, killed in the most brutal ways to strike terror into the hearts of the Spanish recruits. War had wrought its changes on Diego Zuloaga, turning a vain but basically decent man into a merciless and implacable foe who considered the Cuban insurgents as little more than savage brutes.

“Captain Zuloaga, when do you think they will attack?” asked the captain's aide, a headstrong young lieutenant named Emilio Garza. It was obvious the junior officer was eager to meet the Americans in battle and was confident of driving them into the sea.

“Who can tell? I doubt their own officers know.” Zuloaga covered his eyes with binoculars and studied the silvery-white beach and the collection of thatch and mud-walled huts that made up the abandoned shore settlement. Daiquirí, and indeed, much of the shore, were becoming increasingly crowded with cavalry, infantry, horses, mules, and wagons. The harbor was already littered with the contents of overturned johnny boats used to ferry the troops and supplies to shore. The entire affair was unfolding with a great amount of confusion and loss of equipment.

“The Americans lack discipline,” said Garza with an impudent sniff. He removed his narrow-brimmed hat and smoothed his sandy-blond hair. The trace of a lisp could be heard in his speech, indicating his Castilian origins.

“Something we have in abundance,” Zuloaga admitted. He was solid and dark looking, his black mustache and goatee flecked with silver, the hair beneath his cap graying at the temples. The captains complexion was that of rusted iron, his features seamed and weathered by the Caribbean sun. “However, in everything else we are outnumbered many times over. They have more men, more horses, mules, guns, heavier cannons, more ammunition.”

“Our victory will be all the greater,” the aide proclaimed, shifting his stance. He overturned a rock with the toe of his boot, and a five-inch centipede scuttled out from underneath, only to perish beneath the lieutenant's heel, reduced to a brown smear. The analogy wasn't lost on Zuloaga. But the American army, however disorganized, was hardly an insect to be ground beneath boots of Spanish leather. Zuloaga might be disdainful of the invaders, but he was no fool. He chuckled, poured another measure of rum into his cup, and handed the drink to Garza.

“Here, my young friend, drink this. Perhaps it will clear your senses. Cuba is lost to us. Our discipline will only make the inevitable more costly in American lives. But be assured, Emilio, our generals will most certainly meet defeat with honor.” Zuloaga carefully dusting his uniform, walked out of the shade of the palms and stood with his hands clasped be-hind his back. He was ever the figure of unperturbed authority. It was this cool resolve in the face of adversity that had won him the respect of his command.

Garza motioned for Alfonso Ramirez, a portly trooper who served as cook, to come clear the table. Farther back in the shade of the palm grove, thirty Spanish cavalrymen dressed in tan coats and trousers with bandoliers slung across their chests lounged around their cook fires, enjoying the afternoon's inaction and finding respite from the heat of the noonday sun. At the center of the brigade sat a ragged Cuban youth, one of a pair of rebels the brigade had intercepted on his way toward the coast, no doubt, the captain assumed, to join the Americans. The youth's companion had managed to escape the clutches of the Spanish under cover of night.

Zuloaga and his lieutenant wore much the same uniforms as the men of the brigade, though the officers' tunics boasted epaulets and extra brass buttons down the chest. Captain Zuloaga fancied a pale-yellow silk scarf knotted at the throat and tucked inside his shirt. His stern, arrogantly handsome features appeared etched in granite beneath the cap's leather brim as he surveyed the chaotic onslaught of American forces onto Cuban shores. He stood there for several minutes, un-moving, as if he had taken root in the rocky slope. Then, without warning, he spun on his heels and started back along the trail toward the palm grove. Lieutenant Garza hurried to join the captain on the path. And behind the two officers Ramirez followed, his belly jiggling as he trotted along with the captain's table folded flat beneath his arm.

“Captain Zuloaga, will you lead us against the Americans?” Garza asked, still anxious for a fight.

“Do not worry, my young friend,” Zuloaga replied. “You'll have your fill of fighting. But the Americans can wait. Before we are driven from this island, there is one thing I must have. And time is running out.” The Spanish cavalrymen saw him coming and began to empty their coffeepots onto their cook fires and rise from their bedrolls. Zuloaga continued through the ranks of his men until he stood at the center of his command. He waited for them to quiet down, and when he spoke, they hung on his every word. “The Americans are be-low, on the shores of Daiquirí Cove. But we have other prey, my lions. And we will not be denied. From now on we hunt only the ghost of the Sierra Maestra. The deaths of our comrades at arms weighs heavy on my heart. Before I leave these mountains, I will have the head of Antonio Celestial!” The men around him cheered, and several fired their Mausers into the air as they hurried off toward their startled horses.

“But, Captain, is this the wisest course?” Lieutenant Garza complained, risking Zuloaga's displeasure. Celestial was a will-o'-the-wisp, while the Americans at Daiquirí were within striking distance. All he wanted was one brief foray to put fear in their hearts, a single sudden attack, quick as lightning, for the honor of Spain. “We have searched the mountains before and never even found a trace of the rebels.”

“You make an excellent point, Lieutenant. But you see, we never had a guide before.” Zuloaga squatted down by the prisoner, a dark-haired thirteen-year-old boy with a sullen, yet defiant, expression. “What is your name?”

The young rebel refused to answer.

Zuloaga motioned for Ramirez the cook to bring him the silver carving knife that was the captain's link to a vanished social station. He held up the blade to the youth's left eye and softly repeated the question as the lad recoiled in horror. “You know that raid in Santiago when you and your amigos blew up the warehouse? Some of my men were inside. I sent them there for supplies. Some were killed. I found one man, not much older than yourself, blinded by the blast, eh? His face all bloody. Well, enough of those painful memories. What is your name?” Zuloaga passed the knife back and forth, the blade drawing closer to the youth's left eye.

The young Cuban's choice was obvious—cooperation or blindness. To the thirteen-year-old the latter was unbearable, despite his hatred of the Spanish.

He muttered a name.

“What? I did not hear.” said Zuloaga.

The young rebel cleared his throat and spoke again. “Mateo. My name is Mateo.”

“And what was the name of the lad who escaped, eh?”

“Enrico.”

“Hmm, I think you lie.”

“No, Captain, I swear it, on my mother's life.”

“Ha. I do not think you had a mother unless she ran loose in the jungle and kept to the pack.” The troopers within earshot laughed, their hearts hard as stone toward the prisoner.

“And you can take us to Antonio Celestial?” Zuloaga asked.

Again silence, as Mateo struggled with his own conscience and loyalty—but this time his hesitation bore a price. A flick of the wrist, the silver knife jabbed forward, and blood spattered the orchids, while parakeets with iridescent plumage rose from the treetops, riding a horrid, high-pitched scream of pure and utter agony into the cobalt sky.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

F
OR
S
ERGEANT
T
OM
S
ANDCRANE
,
THE BEAUTY AND WONDER OF
being at sea had worn off after the second day of internment in the foul-smelling bowels of the
Baltimore
. Fortunately, the entire First Volunteer Cavalry had managed to secure a release from quarters, and they spent the remainder of the voyage on the decks of the cruiser until the mountainous coastline of Cuba appeared like some wonderful reward, the promise of paradise floating on an aquamarine sea.

The
Baltimore
was one of the first cruisers to disembark, on the twentieth of June, permitting Tom and the First Volunteer Cavalry to discover for themselves the dark underside of the paradise they had glimpsed from afar. A day later, and Cuba had yet to offer the men from Indian Territory anything but mud, mosquitoes, and misery. Throughout the morning and afternoon of the twenty-first, johnny boats foundered or cap-sized, and equipment, men, and animals were lost in the bay. The air was still and laden with moisture, humidity that sapped a man's strength and made even the simplest task drudgery. The volunteers from the arid plains of the South-west and Indian Territory especially suffered. They were accustomed to the prairie, where the dry wind stirred the buffalo grass and leached the perspiration from the air.

Headquarters for the expeditionary force was established at an abandoned sugar plantation whose hacienda was the only stone structure near the village. Topping a knoll overlooking the settlement, the once ostentatious household had been plundered by either rebels or Spanish troops in its owner's absence. But several pieces of furniture remained, and the American officers were grateful just to have a solid red-tile roof over their heads. Thatch huts and canvas tents would have to do for the common soldiers.

Daiquirí's once sparkling stretch of white beach had been churned into a quagmire from all the traffic. As the afternoon waned and the sun seemed to melt into the western horizon, swarms of tiny gnats and mosquitoes descended on the soldiers, biting and stinging and leaving tempers so frayed that fistfights erupted at the slightest provocation. It was not bravery but desperation that led Tom to volunteer for a forward position on the densely wooded hillside overlooking Daiquirí. Whatever danger the foothills of the Sierra Maestra might hold, they could present no greater threat than the miserable life to be found on the shore.

Although horsemanship and skill with a rifle won Tom a uniform and a place in the Volunteer Cavalry, it was his education, the ability to read and write, that brought him the rank of sergeant. Soon after Tom's enlistment Philo Underhill had lost his stripes for starting a drunken brawl in a Tulsa whorehouse and been reduced to private, the humble equal of Tully Crow, who delighted in needling his friend over his misfortune. Neither of the men appeared to resent Tom's advancement, however, and during the tedious weeks of training, the two Creeks had come to be his loyal if somewhat irascible friends.