The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,118
Rafael after he leaves us, but the war in Cuba occupies all of my time as we work on our stories, our efforts focused on producing the best newspaper we can.
At the beginning of July, there’s another battle to cover and we once again stop at our headquarters in Siboney and pick up fresh horses to carry us the rest of the way. We find space on a veranda and try to sleep, our rest occasionally interrupted by mosquitoes swarming around us.
Despite the rough conditions, though, Hearst looks as if he could be walking down Fifth Avenue, dressed in elegant black clothes and a felt-brimmed straw hat with a red hatband and a matching tie.
We saddle up, Hearst leading our party to the battlefield.
The road from Siboney is swampy; insects and strange odors surround us as we head toward the Fifth Army’s position a few miles from Santiago.
We join the American troops at El Pozo, but our appearance draws the notice of the Spanish, bullets flying disconcertingly close to us, and many of the Rough Riders tell us to dismount as we’re drawing attention on horseback.
I accompany Hearst and some of the others to the village of El Caney, east of Santiago, which has been fortified by the Spanish. Creelman can’t resist the urge to thrust himself into the battle, whereas Hearst hangs back at a respectable distance, watching the whole thing unfold.
The heat is nearly unbearable.
At six thirty in the morning, the Americans open fire on El Caney.
I watch the battle, trying to make out the figures in the distance, but it’s impossible to recognize anyone in the melee.
“Should we get closer?” Hearst shouts.
“Maybe best that we don’t,” I call back.
I understand Creelman’s desire to immerse himself in the fighting, but we’ve already been admonished once by the military for drawing enemy fire on horseback.
“There’s a spot over there.” I gesture to a position several hundred yards away from us. “That looks like a good place to observe the battle. Perhaps if we dismount, we won’t arouse the notice of the Spanish.”
Hearst nods.
Once we’re in position, I pull out my notepad and begin writing, although quickly both pen and paper are abandoned.
The impressions I had of war at the battle of Las Guasimas hardly prepared me for this.
Today is far, far worse.
When the gunfire clears, reports start coming in from our correspondents, and we meet with some of the army officers, getting updates on the wounded and deceased.
Hundreds died in battle today, hundreds wounded. Including one of our own—
“Creelman’s been shot,” Hearst announces, not looking particularly troubled about it.
“Will he be all right?”
“He should be. They’re taking him to be cared for now.”
“Was anyone else wounded?” I ask carefully, my heart in my throat.
“No one else from our party,” Hearst replies.
Relief fills me, and still—it’s a somber affair.
We mount our horses once more to file our stories, and as we leave El Caney we ride past refugees pouring out of the surrounding towns, women and children who look as though they’ve lost everything. They’re sickly and thin, the toll of war etched on their faces.
Some of them appeal to the American soldiers for help along the way, but soon enough one of the commanders puts a stop to it, as though he’s concerned that whatever maladies plague these people will transfer to his men, too.
The Red Cross is on the battlefield tending to the wounded, some helping the refugees as they leave their homes that have now been destroyed. Between the countryside that had already been ravaged by the revolutionaries and the Spanish, and now the destruction war has wrought to the cities and towns, it is impossible to imagine it will be an easy recovery when this is all over.
As horrifying as the battle scenes are, watching men lose their lives before our very eyes, there’s another cost of war that is right in front of us and somehow even more horrific.
How much have these people endured for years? Is this what our push to war has wrought? Have we further destroyed their home, or have we helped them, as Hearst truly believes?
I don’t know. I thought coming here would give me the answers I sought, but I’m left with more questions than anything else.
* * *
—
After the battle at El Caney, we board the Sylvia and sail to rendezvous with the American naval ship, the Texas, in anticipation of an impending battle between the Spanish and American navies.
“How do you propose getting past the blockade?” I ask