By: Lieutenant Colonel Andrew S. Rowan - 1923 Continued...
Hitherto
there had been danger; from this time on there would be more. Spanish
troops mercilessly hunted down Cubans and small mercy was shown by the
forces directed by Weyler, the "butcher," to men found in arms, or
outside the concentration camps, even though they might be unarmed. The
remainder of the journey to Garcia was fraught with many dangers and I
knew it, but this was no time to consider them; I must be on my way!
The
topography of the country was simple enough; a level strip of land
extending a mile or so inland toward the north, covered with jungle.
Man's handiwork had been confined to cutting paths, and the network
could be threaded only by the Cubans reared in this labyrinth. the heat
soon became oppressive and caused me to envy my companions, none of
whom were burdened by superfluous clothing.
Soon we were on
the march, screened from the sea and the mountains, and indeed, from
each other, by the denseness of the foliage, the twists and turns of
the trail and the torrid haze that soon settled over everything. The
jungle was converted into a miniature inferno by the sun, although we
could not see it through the verdure. But as we left the coast and
approached the foothills the jungle began to give way to a larger and
less dense growth. We soon reached a clearing where we found a few
bearing coconut trees. The water fresh and cool, drawn from the nuts,
was elixir to our parched throats.
But not long did we tarry
in this pleasant spot. A march of miles lay before us and a climb up
steep mountain slopes to another hidden clearing must be made before
nightfall. Soon we had entered the true tropical forest. Here traveling
was somewhat easier, for a current of air, hardly perceptible, but a
current of air nevertheless, made breathing less of a task and, by far,
more refreshing.
Through this forest runs the "Royal Road"
from Portillo to Santiago de Cuba. As we neared this highway I noted my
companions one by one disappearing in the jungle. I was soon left alone
with Gervacio. Turning to him to ask a question I saw him place a
finger on his lips, mutely sign to me to have my rifle and revolver in
readiness and then he too vanished amid the tropical growth.
I
was not long in ascertaining the reason for this strange conduct. The
jingle of horses' trappings, the rattling of the short sabers carried
by Spanish cavalry and occasionally a word of command, fell on my ear.
But for the vigilance of those with me we should have walked out on the highway just in time to encounter a hostile force!
I
cocked my rifle and swung my Smith & Wesson into position for quick
action and waited tensely for what was to follow. Every moment I
expected to hear reports of firearms. But none came and one by one the
men returned, Gervacio being among the last.
"We
scattered in order to deceive them in the event we had been discovered.
We covered a considerable stretch of the road and had firing been
commenced the enemy would have believed it an attack in force from
ambush. It would have been a successful one too," Gervacio added with
an expression of regret, "but duty first and," – here he smiled –
"pleasure afterward!"
Beside the trails along which insurgent
parties usually passed, it was the custom to build fires and bury sweet
potatoes in the ashes. There they roasted until a hungry party should
pass. We came upon one of these fires during the afternoon. A baked
sweet potato was passed out to each of the party, the fire covered
again and the march resumed.
As we ate our sweet potatoes I
thought of Marion and his men in the days of the revolution, who fought
their battles on a like diet, and through my mind flashed the idea that
as Marion and his men had fought to victory, so also would these
Cubans, who were inspired by a desire for liberty similar to that
actuating the patriot fathers of my own country, and it was with a
feeling of pride that I recalled that my mission was to aid these
people in their efforts by communicating with their general and making
it possible for the soldiers of my nation to do battle in their behalf.
Arriving at the end of the journey for the day, I observed a number of men in a dress strange to me.
"Who are these?" I inquired.
"They
are deserters from the army of Spain, Senor," replied. "They have fled
from Manzanillo and they say that lack of food and harsh treatment by
their officers were the reasons for their leaving."
Now a
deserter is sometimes of value, but here in this wilderness I would
have preferred their room to their company. Who could say that one or
more of them might not leave camp at any time and warn the Spanish
officials that an American was crossing Cuba, evidently bound for the
camp of General Garcia? Would not the enemy make every effort to thwart
him in his mission? So I said to Gervacio: "Question these men closely
and see that they do not leave camp during our stay!"
"Si, Senor!" was the reply.
Well
for me and the success of my errand that I had give out such
instruction. My thought that one or more deserters might leave to
apprise the Spanish commander of my presence proved to be the correct
one. Although it is not fair to presume that any knew my mission, my
being there was sufficient to arouse the suspicions of two who proved
to be spies and also nearly resulted in my assassination. These two
determined to leave camp that night and plunge through the thickets to
the Spanish lines with the information that an "officer Americano" was
being escorted across Cuba.
I was awakened some
time after midnight by the challenge of a sentinel, followed by a shot,
and almost instantly a shadowy form appeared close by my hammock. I
sprang up and out on the opposite side just as another form appeared
and in less time than it takes to write it the first one had fallen as
the result of a blow from a machete, which cut through the bones of his
right shoulder to the lung. The wretch lived long enough to tell us
that it was agreed if his comrade failed to get out of camp, he should
kill me and prevent the carrying out of whatever project I was engaged
in. The sentinel shot and killed his comrade.
Horses and
saddles were not available until late next day, at an hour that made it
impossible to proceed. I chafed at the delay, but it could not be
helped. Saddles were harder to secure than horses. I was somewhat
impatient and asked Gervacio why we could not proceed without saddles.
"General
Garcia is besieging Bayamo, in Central Cuba, Senor," was his reply,
"and we shall have to travel a considerable distance in order to reach
him."
This was the reason for the search for "monturas," the
saddles and trappings. One look at the steed assigned me and my
admiration for the wisdom of my guide mounted rapidly and increased
noticeably during the four days' ride. Had I ridden that skeleton
without a saddle it would have meant exquisite torture. However, I will
say for the horse, that with his "montura" he proved a mettlesome
beast, far superior to many a well-fed horse of the plains of America.
Our
trail followed the backbone of the ridge for some distance after
leaving camp. One unaccustomed to these trails must surely have been
driven desperate by the perplexity of the wilderness, but our guides
seemed to be as familiar with the tortuous windings as they would have
been on a broad high road.
Shortly after we had left the
divide and had begun the descent of the eastern slope we were greeted
by a motley assembly of children and an old man whose white hair
streamed down his shoulders. The column halted, a few words passed
between the patriarch and Gervacio, and then the forest rang with
"Vivas," for the United States, for Cuba and the "Delegado Americano."
It was a touching incident. How they had learned of my approach I never
knew; but news travels fast in the jungle and my arrival had made one
old man and a crowd of little children happier.
At Yara, where
the river leaves the foothills we camped that night, it was brought to
me that we were in a zone where danger lurked. "Trincheras" or trenches
had been built to defend the gorge should the Spanish columns march out
from Manzanillo. Yara is a great name in Cuban history, for from the
town of Yara came the first cry for "liberty" in the "Ten Years' War"
of 1868-78. I was asked to swing my hammock behind the trinchera,
which, by the way, was not a trench at all, but a breast-high wall of
stones,
and I noticed that a guard, recruited from some unknown source, was posted and kept on duty all night.
Gervacio intended taking no chances on my mission being a failure.
Next
morning we began the ascent of the spur projecting northward from the
Sierra Maestra, forming the east bank of the river. Our course lay
across the eroded ridges. Danger lurked in the lowlands. There was the
possibility of ambuscade, fire and the chance of being cut off by some
mobile party of Spaniards.
Here began a series of ups and
downs across the streams with vertical banks. In my career I have seen
much cruelty to animals, but never anything to equal this. To get the
poor horses down to the bottom of these gulches and out again involved
forms of punishment beyond belief. But there was no help for it; the
message to Garcia must be delivered, and in war what are the sufferings
of a few horses when the freedom of hundreds of thousands of human
beings is at stake? I felt sorry for the brutes, but this was no time
for sentiment.
It was with great relief that after the hardest
day of riding I had ever experienced we halted at a hut in the midst of
corn patches near the edges of the forest, at Jibaro. A freshly killed
beef was hanging to the rafters, while the cook in the open was busy
preparing a meal for the "Delegado Americano." My coming had been
heralded and my feast was to consist of fresh beef and cassava bread.
Hardly
had I finished my generous meal when a great commotion was heard,
voices and the clatter of horses' hoofs at the edge of the forest.
Colonel Castillo of the staff of General Rios had arrived. He welcomed
me in the name of his chief, who was due to arrive in the morning, with
all the grace of a trained staff officer; then mounting his steed with
an athletic spring, put the spurs to his mount in frenzied fashion and
was off, as he came, like a flash. His welcome assured me that I was
making headway under a skillful guide.
General Rios came next
morning and with him Colonel Castillo, who presented me with a Panama
hat "made in Cuba." General Rios was "the general of the coasts." He
was very dark, evidently of Indian and Spanish blood, with springy,
athletic step. No Spanish column ever made a sortie in his district and
found him unprepared. His sources of information and his intuition were
uncanny. It was no small task to move hiding families and provide for
their maintenance, but he did it and, as may be supposed, advance
information of enemy movements was imperative. The Spanish methods were
to enter the forests, scour them and, in default of prey, lay the
districts in waste. Meanwhile General Rios would conduct matters in
guerilla fashion and his forces were continuously taking pot shots at
the Spanish columns, sometimes doing terrible execution.
General
Rios added two hundred cavalrymen to my escort. As we marched single
file we would have presented a formidable appearance had there been
anyone to see us.
I could not help observing that we were
being led with remarkable skill and speed. We had entered the forest
again and were hiding in the evergreen dress of the Sierra Maestra. The
trail was comparatively level, but crossed at intervals by water
courses with steep banks. The paths were so narrow we were constantly
running afoul of tree trunks, barking our shins and dislodging the
impedimenta from the backs of our horses. Still the guide held to a
steady gait that caused me to marvel. My usual position was near the
center of the column, but I wanted to be near this centaur who was in
the lead and at the next water course crossing I rode forward to
observe him. He was a coal black Negro, Dionisito Lopez, a lieutenant
in the Cuban army. He could trace a course through this trackless
forest, through the tangled growth, as fast as he could ride. His skill
with a machete was amazing. He carved a way for us through the jungle.
Networks of vines fell before his steady strokes right and left; closed
spaces became openings; the man appeared tireless.
The night
of April 30 brought us to the Rio Buey, an affluent of the Bayamo
River, and about twenty miles from the city of Bayamo. Our hammocks had
scarcely been swung when Gervacio appeared, his face aglow with
satisfaction.
"He is there, Senor! General Garcia is in Bayamo
and the Spaniards are in retreat down the Cauto river. Their rear-guard
is at Cauto-El-Embarcadero!"
So eager was I to get in
communication with Garcia that I proposed a night ride, but after a
conference it was decided that nothing would be gained.
May-day,
1898, is "Dewey Day" in our calendar. As I was sleeping in the forests
of Cuba, the great admiral was feeling his way past the guns of
Corregidor into Manila Bay to destroy the Spanish fleet. While I was on
my way to Garcia that day he had sunk the Spanish ships and with his
guns was menacing the capital of the Philippines.
Early that
morning we were on our way. Terrace by terrace we descended the slope
leading to the plain of Bayamo. This great stretch of country, laid
waste for years, was now as if man had never been. At the black remnant
of the hacienda of Candalaria, mute evidence of Spanish methods of
warfare, we passed into the plain. We had ridden more than one hundred
miles through a wilderness with hardly a habitation to show that man
had ever lived in one of Nature's most favored spots across a tropical
garden gone to weeds. Through grass so high that our column was hidden
from sight, through burning sun and blistering heat, we traveled, but
all our discomforts were forgotten in the thought that our destination
was at hand; our mission nearly ended. Even our jaded horses seemed to
share in our anticipation and eagerness.
At the erstwhile
Peralejo, the scene of the attack by Maceo on the column of General
Campos, we struck the royal road to Manzanillo-Bayamo and encountered
joyous human beings in rags and tatters, all hurrying toward the town.
The chatter of these happy groups reminded me of the parrots that had
shrieked at our passage through the jungles. They were going back to
the homes from which they had been driven.
Next issue: How I carried A Message to Garcia, Part 8 of 9
Humberto
Rodriguez, CLU is a writer, author, programmer, marketer, insurance and
financial consultant. Webmaster of several sites, he teaches you how to
develop, publish and market your own website. Subscribe to his free
newsletter:
http://HRFinancial.com/
Hitherto
there had been danger; from this time on there would be more. Spanish
troops mercilessly hunted down Cubans and small mercy was shown by the
forces directed by Weyler, the "butcher," to men found in arms, or
outside the concentration camps, even though they might be unarmed. The
remainder of the journey to Garcia was fraught with many dangers and I
knew it, but this was no time to consider them; I must be on my way!
The
topography of the country was simple enough; a level strip of land
extending a mile or so inland toward the north, covered with jungle.
Man's handiwork had been confined to cutting paths, and the network
could be threaded only by the Cubans reared in this labyrinth. the heat
soon became oppressive and caused me to envy my companions, none of
whom were burdened by superfluous clothing.
Soon we were on
the march, screened from the sea and the mountains, and indeed, from
each other, by the denseness of the foliage, the twists and turns of
the trail and the torrid haze that soon settled over everything. The
jungle was converted into a miniature inferno by the sun, although we
could not see it through the verdure. But as we left the coast and
approached the foothills the jungle began to give way to a larger and
less dense growth. We soon reached a clearing where we found a few
bearing coconut trees. The water fresh and cool, drawn from the nuts,
was elixir to our parched throats.
But not long did we tarry
in this pleasant spot. A march of miles lay before us and a climb up
steep mountain slopes to another hidden clearing must be made before
nightfall. Soon we had entered the true tropical forest. Here traveling
was somewhat easier, for a current of air, hardly perceptible, but a
current of air nevertheless, made breathing less of a task and, by far,
more refreshing.
Through this forest runs the "Royal Road"
from Portillo to Santiago de Cuba. As we neared this highway I noted my
companions one by one disappearing in the jungle. I was soon left alone
with Gervacio. Turning to him to ask a question I saw him place a
finger on his lips, mutely sign to me to have my rifle and revolver in
readiness and then he too vanished amid the tropical growth.
I
was not long in ascertaining the reason for this strange conduct. The
jingle of horses' trappings, the rattling of the short sabers carried
by Spanish cavalry and occasionally a word of command, fell on my ear.
But for the vigilance of those with me we should have walked out on the highway just in time to encounter a hostile force!
I
cocked my rifle and swung my Smith & Wesson into position for quick
action and waited tensely for what was to follow. Every moment I
expected to hear reports of firearms. But none came and one by one the
men returned, Gervacio being among the last.
"We
scattered in order to deceive them in the event we had been discovered.
We covered a considerable stretch of the road and had firing been
commenced the enemy would have believed it an attack in force from
ambush. It would have been a successful one too," Gervacio added with
an expression of regret, "but duty first and," – here he smiled –
"pleasure afterward!"
Beside the trails along which insurgent
parties usually passed, it was the custom to build fires and bury sweet
potatoes in the ashes. There they roasted until a hungry party should
pass. We came upon one of these fires during the afternoon. A baked
sweet potato was passed out to each of the party, the fire covered
again and the march resumed.
As we ate our sweet potatoes I
thought of Marion and his men in the days of the revolution, who fought
their battles on a like diet, and through my mind flashed the idea that
as Marion and his men had fought to victory, so also would these
Cubans, who were inspired by a desire for liberty similar to that
actuating the patriot fathers of my own country, and it was with a
feeling of pride that I recalled that my mission was to aid these
people in their efforts by communicating with their general and making
it possible for the soldiers of my nation to do battle in their behalf.
Arriving at the end of the journey for the day, I observed a number of men in a dress strange to me.
"Who are these?" I inquired.
"They
are deserters from the army of Spain, Senor," replied. "They have fled
from Manzanillo and they say that lack of food and harsh treatment by
their officers were the reasons for their leaving."
Now a
deserter is sometimes of value, but here in this wilderness I would
have preferred their room to their company. Who could say that one or
more of them might not leave camp at any time and warn the Spanish
officials that an American was crossing Cuba, evidently bound for the
camp of General Garcia? Would not the enemy make every effort to thwart
him in his mission? So I said to Gervacio: "Question these men closely
and see that they do not leave camp during our stay!"
"Si, Senor!" was the reply.
Well
for me and the success of my errand that I had give out such
instruction. My thought that one or more deserters might leave to
apprise the Spanish commander of my presence proved to be the correct
one. Although it is not fair to presume that any knew my mission, my
being there was sufficient to arouse the suspicions of two who proved
to be spies and also nearly resulted in my assassination. These two
determined to leave camp that night and plunge through the thickets to
the Spanish lines with the information that an "officer Americano" was
being escorted across Cuba.
I was awakened some
time after midnight by the challenge of a sentinel, followed by a shot,
and almost instantly a shadowy form appeared close by my hammock. I
sprang up and out on the opposite side just as another form appeared
and in less time than it takes to write it the first one had fallen as
the result of a blow from a machete, which cut through the bones of his
right shoulder to the lung. The wretch lived long enough to tell us
that it was agreed if his comrade failed to get out of camp, he should
kill me and prevent the carrying out of whatever project I was engaged
in. The sentinel shot and killed his comrade.
Horses and
saddles were not available until late next day, at an hour that made it
impossible to proceed. I chafed at the delay, but it could not be
helped. Saddles were harder to secure than horses. I was somewhat
impatient and asked Gervacio why we could not proceed without saddles.
"General
Garcia is besieging Bayamo, in Central Cuba, Senor," was his reply,
"and we shall have to travel a considerable distance in order to reach
him."
This was the reason for the search for "monturas," the
saddles and trappings. One look at the steed assigned me and my
admiration for the wisdom of my guide mounted rapidly and increased
noticeably during the four days' ride. Had I ridden that skeleton
without a saddle it would have meant exquisite torture. However, I will
say for the horse, that with his "montura" he proved a mettlesome
beast, far superior to many a well-fed horse of the plains of America.
Our
trail followed the backbone of the ridge for some distance after
leaving camp. One unaccustomed to these trails must surely have been
driven desperate by the perplexity of the wilderness, but our guides
seemed to be as familiar with the tortuous windings as they would have
been on a broad high road.
Shortly after we had left the
divide and had begun the descent of the eastern slope we were greeted
by a motley assembly of children and an old man whose white hair
streamed down his shoulders. The column halted, a few words passed
between the patriarch and Gervacio, and then the forest rang with
"Vivas," for the United States, for Cuba and the "Delegado Americano."
It was a touching incident. How they had learned of my approach I never
knew; but news travels fast in the jungle and my arrival had made one
old man and a crowd of little children happier.
At Yara, where
the river leaves the foothills we camped that night, it was brought to
me that we were in a zone where danger lurked. "Trincheras" or trenches
had been built to defend the gorge should the Spanish columns march out
from Manzanillo. Yara is a great name in Cuban history, for from the
town of Yara came the first cry for "liberty" in the "Ten Years' War"
of 1868-78. I was asked to swing my hammock behind the trinchera,
which, by the way, was not a trench at all, but a breast-high wall of
stones,
and I noticed that a guard, recruited from some unknown source, was posted and kept on duty all night.
Gervacio intended taking no chances on my mission being a failure.
Next
morning we began the ascent of the spur projecting northward from the
Sierra Maestra, forming the east bank of the river. Our course lay
across the eroded ridges. Danger lurked in the lowlands. There was the
possibility of ambuscade, fire and the chance of being cut off by some
mobile party of Spaniards.
Here began a series of ups and
downs across the streams with vertical banks. In my career I have seen
much cruelty to animals, but never anything to equal this. To get the
poor horses down to the bottom of these gulches and out again involved
forms of punishment beyond belief. But there was no help for it; the
message to Garcia must be delivered, and in war what are the sufferings
of a few horses when the freedom of hundreds of thousands of human
beings is at stake? I felt sorry for the brutes, but this was no time
for sentiment.
It was with great relief that after the hardest
day of riding I had ever experienced we halted at a hut in the midst of
corn patches near the edges of the forest, at Jibaro. A freshly killed
beef was hanging to the rafters, while the cook in the open was busy
preparing a meal for the "Delegado Americano." My coming had been
heralded and my feast was to consist of fresh beef and cassava bread.
Hardly
had I finished my generous meal when a great commotion was heard,
voices and the clatter of horses' hoofs at the edge of the forest.
Colonel Castillo of the staff of General Rios had arrived. He welcomed
me in the name of his chief, who was due to arrive in the morning, with
all the grace of a trained staff officer; then mounting his steed with
an athletic spring, put the spurs to his mount in frenzied fashion and
was off, as he came, like a flash. His welcome assured me that I was
making headway under a skillful guide.
General Rios came next
morning and with him Colonel Castillo, who presented me with a Panama
hat "made in Cuba." General Rios was "the general of the coasts." He
was very dark, evidently of Indian and Spanish blood, with springy,
athletic step. No Spanish column ever made a sortie in his district and
found him unprepared. His sources of information and his intuition were
uncanny. It was no small task to move hiding families and provide for
their maintenance, but he did it and, as may be supposed, advance
information of enemy movements was imperative. The Spanish methods were
to enter the forests, scour them and, in default of prey, lay the
districts in waste. Meanwhile General Rios would conduct matters in
guerilla fashion and his forces were continuously taking pot shots at
the Spanish columns, sometimes doing terrible execution.
General
Rios added two hundred cavalrymen to my escort. As we marched single
file we would have presented a formidable appearance had there been
anyone to see us.
I could not help observing that we were
being led with remarkable skill and speed. We had entered the forest
again and were hiding in the evergreen dress of the Sierra Maestra. The
trail was comparatively level, but crossed at intervals by water
courses with steep banks. The paths were so narrow we were constantly
running afoul of tree trunks, barking our shins and dislodging the
impedimenta from the backs of our horses. Still the guide held to a
steady gait that caused me to marvel. My usual position was near the
center of the column, but I wanted to be near this centaur who was in
the lead and at the next water course crossing I rode forward to
observe him. He was a coal black Negro, Dionisito Lopez, a lieutenant
in the Cuban army. He could trace a course through this trackless
forest, through the tangled growth, as fast as he could ride. His skill
with a machete was amazing. He carved a way for us through the jungle.
Networks of vines fell before his steady strokes right and left; closed
spaces became openings; the man appeared tireless.
The night
of April 30 brought us to the Rio Buey, an affluent of the Bayamo
River, and about twenty miles from the city of Bayamo. Our hammocks had
scarcely been swung when Gervacio appeared, his face aglow with
satisfaction.
"He is there, Senor! General Garcia is in Bayamo
and the Spaniards are in retreat down the Cauto river. Their rear-guard
is at Cauto-El-Embarcadero!"
So eager was I to get in
communication with Garcia that I proposed a night ride, but after a
conference it was decided that nothing would be gained.
May-day,
1898, is "Dewey Day" in our calendar. As I was sleeping in the forests
of Cuba, the great admiral was feeling his way past the guns of
Corregidor into Manila Bay to destroy the Spanish fleet. While I was on
my way to Garcia that day he had sunk the Spanish ships and with his
guns was menacing the capital of the Philippines.
Early that
morning we were on our way. Terrace by terrace we descended the slope
leading to the plain of Bayamo. This great stretch of country, laid
waste for years, was now as if man had never been. At the black remnant
of the hacienda of Candalaria, mute evidence of Spanish methods of
warfare, we passed into the plain. We had ridden more than one hundred
miles through a wilderness with hardly a habitation to show that man
had ever lived in one of Nature's most favored spots across a tropical
garden gone to weeds. Through grass so high that our column was hidden
from sight, through burning sun and blistering heat, we traveled, but
all our discomforts were forgotten in the thought that our destination
was at hand; our mission nearly ended. Even our jaded horses seemed to
share in our anticipation and eagerness.
At the erstwhile
Peralejo, the scene of the attack by Maceo on the column of General
Campos, we struck the royal road to Manzanillo-Bayamo and encountered
joyous human beings in rags and tatters, all hurrying toward the town.
The chatter of these happy groups reminded me of the parrots that had
shrieked at our passage through the jungles. They were going back to
the homes from which they had been driven.
Next issue: How I carried A Message to Garcia, Part 8 of 9
Humberto
Rodriguez, CLU is a writer, author, programmer, marketer, insurance and
financial consultant. Webmaster of several sites, he teaches you how to
develop, publish and market your own website. Subscribe to his free
newsletter:
http://HRFinancial.com/
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