The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,41

though, if Ruiz’s death is enough to prompt the American government to action. Congress has passed a resolution asking for more information on the case and voted to demand the release of other American prisoners in Cuba.

Hearst has arranged for Mrs. Ruiz and her five children to come to Washington D.C. to meet with President McKinley and Secretary of State Sherman. Hearst is pressing for our stories to lead the public to the decision that war is inevitable, demanding we report on the news and shape it in a way I’m not entirely comfortable with, even if the urgency of the situation demands action.

And still, when the government fails to act, who should fill that void? Is it the people? And are we truly, as Hearst says, the voice of the people? Or are we too motivated by our need to boost circulation, by the agenda we all intrinsically possess?

The estimated death count in Cuba has reached three hundred thousand, and the fear is that if Spain continues on this trajectory, they might eliminate the island’s entire population.

I take notes on the meeting; there’s nothing really new on the Ricardo Ruiz situation, although some of the Junta’s talking points are nearly identical to the articles we’ve published on the subject, and it’s clear that in this we are merely regurgitating the facts they have given us.

I turn to leave, and I collide with a warm body and a familiar voice says—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

* * *

—

Rafael walks beside me as we exit the Junta meeting, and when I turn to say my good-byes, he tells me he’s headed to the Journal offices to see Will and doesn’t mind accompanying me on the journey.

“So, what did you think of the meeting today?” he asks. “You’re becoming quite the regular.”

It’s impossible to miss the hint of teasing in his voice, and I realize that to him I must very much seem as though I am playing at the Cuba issue, as are so many of us. After all, no matter how much we speak of war or condemn the Spanish, it isn’t really our struggle, is it? There’s a difference between writing about atrocities happening to other people and experiencing them ourselves.

“I wouldn’t count a few meetings as making me a regular,” I reply. “I’m still trying to learn as much as I can about the conflict.”

“Considering the misinformation that gets published on a daily basis, you’re in good company. The need to learn more about the conflict hasn’t stopped many of your colleagues from covering it.”

I can’t argue with him there.

“Interesting how we should run into each other again at a Junta meeting,” I reply. “For someone who claims to not be a revolutionary, you participate in enough of their meetings.”

“I told you—my sister is the one with the revolutionary aims. I’m merely protecting my interests.”

“Oh, I believe you’re protecting your interests, just not that they’re as pecuniary as you pretend them to be.” I pause. “I haven’t seen you around since we ran into each other at Delmonico’s. Where have you been?”

He grins. “Why? Did you miss me?”

“Hardly.”

“I was in Florida.” He says it carefully, his usual devil-may-care attitude suspiciously absent.

And then it clicks into place, the conversations surrounding the Junta, the articles we’ve worked on.

“You’re involved with the filibusters, aren’t you?”

The filibusters are private shipping expeditions that bring arms and recruits to the revolutionaries, frequently leaving out of ports in Florida. According to the Neutrality Act of 1895, military aid to the revolutionaries is illegal. Many of the filibusters sink or are intercepted, although the United States has been criticized for quickly releasing detained men and not enforcing the Act as stringently as they should.

“Are we off the record?” Rafael asks.

“Yes.”

His gaze is searching, and then, surprising us both, I think, he says, “Then, yes, I am.”

“I can understand why you would support the filibusters, but why do you go to Florida yourself?”

“My boats, my business.”

“Does Hearst know?”

“No.”

I’m surprised he would share this information with me and not with his friend, and I can’t help but feel a stab of guilt at the realization that he’s taking me into his confidence whereas I betrayed his by telling Pulitzer about the Arango story.

“The risk you take—”

“Isn’t so bad. You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. The Spanish navy might say they control the waters surrounding Cuba, but it’s surprisingly easy to evade them if necessary. The most dangerous part is the landing,” he admits. “The revolutionaries try to