by Colonel Andrew Summers Rowan
How I Carried The Message To Garcia
"Let us both small and great push forward in this work,
in this pursuit, if to our country, if to ourselves we would live dear."
— Horace
"Where," asked President McKinley
of Colonel Arthur Wagner, head of the Bureau of Military Intelligence,
"where can I find a man who will carry a message to Garcia?"
The reply was prompt. "There is a young officer here in Washington; a lieutenant named Rowan, who will carry it for you !"
Andrew Summers Rowan
[ROU
un] was an American Army officer and graduate of West Point class of
1881. After his service in the Spanish American War, he served in the
Philippines and posts in the United States, retiring in 1909. He died
in 1943 .
Rowan
The setting of the account is the year 1898 during the Spanish-American War in Cuba.
Calixco y Inigues Garcia was a Cuban revolutionist and a leader in the Cuban insurrection
against Spain (Ten Years War 1868-78). He was captured and imprisoned
for his activities until its end in 1878. After his release he was
again arrested. In 1895, he came to the United States and as the leader
of the Cuban Insurgents, played an important role in the United
States war with Spain. He died in Washington, D.C. in 1898 while there
as part of a committee to discuss Cuban affairs with President McKinley.
Calixco y Inigues Garcia
Rowan
"Send him!" was the President's order.
The United States faced a war with Spain. The President was anxious for
information. He realized that success meant that the soldiers of the
republic must cooperate with the insurgent forces of Cuba. He
understood that it was essential to know how many Spanish troops there
were on the island, their quality and condition, their morale, the
character of their officers, especially those of the high command; the
state of the roads in all seasons; the sanitary situation in both the
Spanish and insurgent armies and the country in general; how well both
sides were armed and what the Cuban forces would need in order to harass
the enemy while American battalions were being mobilized; the
topography of the country and many other important facts.
Small wonder that the command, "Send him!" was equally as prompt as the
answer to his question respecting the individual who would carry the
message to Garcia.
It was perhaps an hour later, at noon, when Colonel Wagner came to me to
ask me to meet him at the Army and Navy Club for lunch at one o'clock.
As we were eating, the colonel – who had, by the way, a reputation for
being an inveterate joker – asked me: "When does the next boat leave for
Jamaica?"
Thinking he was making an effort to perpetrate one of his pleasantries,
and determined to thwart him, if possible, I excused myself for a minute
or so and when I had returned informed him that the "Adirondack," of
the Atlas Line, a British boat, would sail from New York the next day at
noon.
"Can you take that boat?" snapped the colonel.
Notwithstanding that I still believed the colonel was joking I replied in the affirmative.
"Then," said my superior, "get ready to take it!"
"Young man," he continued, "you have been selected by the President to
communicate with – or rather, to carry a message to – General Garcia,
who will be found somewhere in the eastern part of Cuba. Your problem
will be to secure from him information of a military character, bring it
down to date and arrange it on a working basis. Your message to him
will be in the nature of a series of inquiries from the President.
Written communication, further than is necessary to identify you, will
be avoided. History has furnished us with the record of too many
tragedies to warrant taking risks. Nathan Hale of the Continental Army,
and Lieutenant Richey in the War with Mexico were both caught with
dispatches; both were put to death and in the case of the latter the
plans for Scott's invasion of Vera Cruz was divulged to the enemy.
There must be no failure on your part; there must be no errors made in
this case."
By this time I was fully alive to the fact that Colonel Wagner was not joking.
"Means will be found," he continued, "to identify you in Jamaica, where
there is a Cuban junta. The rest depends on you. You require no
further instructions than those I will now give you." which he did, they
being essentially as outlined in the opening paragraphs. "You will
need the afternoon for preparation. Quarter-master-General Humphreys
will see that you are put ashore at Kingston. After that, providing the
United States declares war on Spain, further instructions will be based
on cables received from you. Otherwise everything will be silence. You
must plan and act for yourself. The task is yours and yours only. You
must get a message to Garcia. Your train leaves at midnight. Good-by
and good luck!"
We shook hands.
As Colonel Wagner released mine he repeated: "Get that message to Garcia!"
Hastily, as I set about to make my preparations, I considered my
situation. My duty was, as I understood it, complicated by the fact
that a state of war did not exist, nor would it exist at the time of my
departure; possibly not until after my arrival in Jamaica. A false step
might bring about a condition that a lifetime of statement would never
explain. Should war be declared my mission would be simplified,
although its dangers would not be lessened.
In instances of this kind, where one's reputation, as well as his life,
is at stake, it is usual to ask for written instructions. In military
service the life of the man is at the disposal of his country, but his
reputation is his own and it ought not be placed in the hands of anyone
with power to destroy it, either by neglect or otherwise. But in this
case it never occurred to me to ask for written instructions; my sole
thought was that I was charged with a message to Garcia and to get from
him certain information and that I was going to do it.
Whether Colonel Wagner ever placed on file in the office of the
adjutant-general the substance of our conversation I do not know. At
this late day it matters little.
My train left Washington at 12:01 a.m., and I have a recollection of
thinking of an old superstition about starting on a journey on Friday.
It was Saturday when the train departed, but it was Friday when I left
the club. I assumed the Fates would decide that I had left on Friday.
But I soon forgot that in my mental discussion of other matters and did
not recall it until some time afterward and then it mattered nothing,
for my mission had been completed.
The "Adirondack" left on time and the voyage was without special
incident. I held myself aloof from the other passengers and learned
only from a traveling companion, an electrical engineer, what was going
on. He conveyed to me the cheerful information that because of my
keeping away from them and giving no one any information as to my
business, a bunch of convivial spirits had conferred on me the title of
"the bunco steerer."
It was when the ship entered Cuban waters that I first realized danger.
I had but one incriminating paper, a letter from the State Department
to officials in Jamaica saying that I was what I might represent myself
to be. But if war had been declared before the Adirondack entered Cuban
waters she would have been liable to search by Spain, under the rules
of international law. As I was contraband and the bearer of contraband I
could have been seized as a prisoner of war and taken aboard any
Spanish ship, while the British boat, after compliance with specified
preliminaries, could have been sunk, despite the fact that she left a
peaceful port under a neutral flag, bound for a neutral port, prior to a
declaration of war.
Recalling this state of affairs, I hid this paper in the life preserver
in my stateroom and it was with great relief I saw the cape astern.
By nine the next morning I had landed and was a guest of Jamaica. I was
soon in touch with Mr. Lay, head of the Cuban junta, and with him and
his aids planning to get to Garcia as soon as possible.
I had left Washington April 8-9. April 20 the cables announced that the
United States had given Spain until the 23 to agree to surrender Cuba
to the Cubans and to withdraw her armed forces from the island and her
navy from its waters. I had in cypher cabled my arrival and on April 23
a reply in code came: "Join Garcia as soon as possible!"
In a few minutes after its receipt I was at headquarters of the junta,
where I was expected. There were a number of exiled Cubans present whom
I had not met before and we were conversing on general topics when a
carriage drove up.
"It is time!" some one exclaimed in Spanish.
Following which, without further discussion, I was led to the vehicle and took a seat inside.
Then began one of the strangest rides ever taken by a soldier on duty or
off. My driver proved to be the most taciturn of Jehus. He spoke not
to me, nor heeded me when I spoke to him. The instant I was shut in he
started through the maze of Kingston's streets at a furious pace. On
and on he drove, never slackening speed, and soon we had passed the
suburbs and were beyond all habitations. I knocked, yes, kicked, but he
gave no heed.
He seemed to understand that I was carrying a message to Garcia
and that it was his part to get me over the first "leg" of the journey
as speedily as possible. So, after several futile efforts to make him
listen to me, I decided to let matters take their course and settled
back in my seat.
Four miles farther, through a dense growth of tropical trees, we flew
along the broad and level Spanish Town road, until at the edge of the
jungle we halted, the door of the cab was opened, a strange face
appeared, and I was invited to transfer to another carriage that was
waiting.
But the strangeness of it all! The order in which everything appeared
to be arranged! Not an unnecessary word was indulged in, not a second
of time was wasted.
A minute later and again I was on my way.
The second driver, like the first, was dumb. He declined all efforts
made to get him in conversation, contenting himself by putting his
horses to as swift a pace as possible, so on we went through Spanish
Town and up the valley of the Cobre river to the backbone of the island
where the road runs down to the ultramarine waters of the Caribbean at
St. Ann's Bay.
Still not a word from my driver, although I repeatedly endeavored to get
him to talk to me. Not a sound, not a sign that he understood me: just
a race along a splendid road, breathing more freely as the altitude
increased, until as the sun set we drew up beside a railway station.
But what is this mass of ebony rolling down the slope of the cut toward
me? Had the Spanish authorities anticipated me and placed Jamaica
officers on my trail? I was uneasy for a monument as this apparition
came in sight, but relief came when an old Negro hobbled to the carriage
and shoved through the door a deliciously fried chicken and two bottles
of Bass' ale, at the same time letting loose a volley of dialect,
which, as I was able to catch a word here and there, I understood was
highly complimentary to me for helping Cuba gain her freedom and giving
me to understand that he was "doing his bit" with me.
But my driver stood not on ceremony, nor was he interested in either
chicken or conversation. In a trice a new pair of horses was relayed on
and away we went my Jehu plying his whip vigorously. I had only time
enough to thank the old Negro by shouting: "Good-by, Uncle!"
In another minute we had left him and were racing through the darkness at breakneck speed.
Although I fully comprehended the gravity and importance of the errand
in which I was engaged, I lost sight of it for the time in my admiration
of the tropical forests. these wear their beauty at night as well as
by day. The difference is that while during the sunlight it is the
vegetable world that is in perennial bloom, at night it is the insect
world in its flight that excites attention. Hardly had the short
twilight changed to utter darkness when the glowworms turned on their
phosphorescent lights and flooded the woods with their weird beauties.
These magnificent fireflies illuminated with their incandescence the
forest I was traversing until it resembled a veritable fairyland.
But even such wonders as these are forgotten in the recollection of duty
to be performed. We still coursed onward at a speed that was limited
only by the physical abilities of the horses, when suddenly a shrill
whistle sounded from the jungle!
My carriage stopped. Men appeared as if they had sprung from the
ground. I was surrounded by a party of men armed to the teeth. I had
no fear of being intercepted on British soil by Spanish soldiers, but
these abrupt halts were getting on my nerves, because action by the
Jamaica authorities would mean the failure of the mission, and if the
Jamaica authorities had been
notified that I was violating the neutrality of the island I would not
be allowed to proceed. What if these men were English soldiers!
But my feelings were soon relieved. A whispered parley and we were away again!
In about an hour we halted in front of a house outlined by feeble lights
within. Supper waited. The junta manifestly believed in liberal
feeding.
The first thing offered me was a glass of Jamaica rum. I do not recall
that I was tired, although we had traveled about seventy miles in
approximately nine hours with two relays, but I do know that the rum was
welcome.
Following came introductions. From an adjoining room came a tall, wiry,
determined-looking man, with a fierce moustache, one of his hands minus
a thumb; a man to tie to in an emergency, to trust at any time. His
eyes were honest, loyal eyes that mirrored a noble soul. He was a
Peninsula Spaniard who had gone to Cuba, at Santiago had quarreled with
the rule of Old Spain,
hence the missing thumb and exile. He was Gervacio Sabio and he was
charged with seeing that I was guided to General Garcia for the delivery
of my message. The others were the men employed to get me out of
Jamaica – seven miles remaining to be traveled – with one exception, one
man was to be my "assistente," or orderly.
Following a rest of an hour we proceeded. Half an hour's travel from the
hut we were again halted by whistle signals. We alighted and entered a
cane field through which we tramped in silence for about a mile until
we came to a coconut grove bordering a plaything of a bay.
Fifty yards off shore a small fishing boat rocked softly on the water.
Suddenly a light flashed aboard the little craft. It must have been a
time signal, for our arrival had been noiseless. Gervacio, apparently
satisfied with the alertness of the crew, answered it.
Following some conversation during which I thanked the agents of the
junta, I climbed on the back of one of the boat's crew who had waded
ashore and was carried to the boat.
I had completed the first part of the journey to Garcia.
Once aboard the boat I noted that it was partially filled with boulders
intended for ballast. Oblong bundles indicated cargo, but not
sufficient to impede progress. But with Gervacio as skipper, the crew
of two men, my assinstente and myself, the boulders and the bundles,
there was little room for comfort.
I indicated to Gervacio my desire to get beyond the three-mile limit as
soon as possible, as I did not want to impose upon the hospitality of
Great Britain longer than necessary. He replied that the boat would
have to be rowed beyond the head lands, as there was not sufficient wind
in the small bay to fill her sails. We were soon outside the cape,
however, our sails caught the breeze and the second stretch of the trip
to the strife-torn objective was begun.
I have no hesitation in saying that there were some anxious moments for
me following our departure. My reputation was at stake if I should be
caught within the three-mile limit off the Jamaica coast. My life would
be at stake if I should be caught within three miles of the Cuban
coast. My only friends were the crew and the Caribbean sea.
One hundred miles to the north lay the shores of Cuba, patrolled by
Spanish "lanchas," light-draft vessels armed with pivot guns of small
caliber, and machine guns, their crews provided with Mauser rifles, far
superior – as I afterward learned – to anything we had aboard; as motley
a collection of small arms as could be picked up anywhere. In the
event of an encounter with one of these "lanchas" there was little to
hope for.
But I must succeed; I must find Garcia and deliver my message!
Our plan of action was to keep outside the Cuban three-mile limit until
after sunset, then to sail or row in rapidly, draw behind some friendly
coral reef and wait until morning. If we were caught, as we carried no
papers, we would probably be sunk and no questions asked. Boulder-laden
craft go to the bottom quickly and floating bodies tell no tales to
those who find them.
It was now early morning, the air was deliciously cool and, wearied with
my journey thus far I was about to seek some rest in sleep when
suddenly Gervacio gave an exclamation that brought us all to our feet. A
few miles away one of the dreaded lanchas was bearing directly toward
us.
A sharp command in Spanish and the crew dropped the sail.
Another and all save Gervacio, who was at the helm, were below the gun
wale, and he was lounging over the tiller, keeping the boat's nose
parallel with the Jamaica shore.
"He may think I am a 'lone fisherman" from Jamaica and go by us," said the cool-headed steersman.
So it proved. When within hailing distance the pert young commander of the lancha cried in Spanish: "Catching anything?"
To which my guide responded, also in Spanish: "No, the miserable fish are not biting this morning!"
If only that midshipman, or whatever his rank, had been wise enough to
lay alongside, he surely would have "caught something," and this story
would never have been written. When he had passed us and was some
distance away, Gervacio ordered sail hoisted again and turning to me
remarked: "If the Senor is tired and wants sleep, he can now indulge
himself, for I think the danger is past."
If anything occurred during the next six hours, it left me undisturbed.
In fact, I believed that nothing except the broiling heat of the
tropical sun could have drawn me from my rocky mattress. But it did for
the Cubans, who were quite proud of their English greeted me with:
"Buenos dias, Meester Rowan!" The sun shone brilliantly all day.
Jamaica was all aglow, like some mighty jewel in a setting of emerald.
The turquoise sky was cloudless and to the south the green slopes of the
island were blocked off in large squares, showing to great advantage
the light verdancy of the cane fields alternating with the deeper hue of
the forests. It was a splendid and a magnificent picture. But
northward all was gloom. An immense bank of clouds enshrouded Cuba and,
watch as keenly as we might, we saw no sign of their lifting. But the
wind held true and even increased in volume during the hours. We were
making good progress and Gervacio at the tiller was happy, joking with
the crew and smoking like a "fumarole."
About four o'clock in the afternoon the clouds broke away and the Sierra
Maestra, the master mountain range of the island, stood in the golden
sunshine in all its beauteous majesty. It was like drawing the curtain
aside and placing on view a matchless picture by an artist monarch.
Here were color, mass, mountain, land and sea blended in one splendid
ensemble, the like of
which is found nowhere else, for there is no place on earth where a
mountain height of 8000 feet, its summits clothed in verdure and its
great battlements extending for hundreds of miles!
But my admiration was short lived. Gervacio broke the spell when he
began taking in sail. To my question he replied: "We are closer than I
thought. We are in the war zone of the lanchas, high seas or no high
seas. We must stand well out and use the open water for all it is
worth. To go closer and run the risk of being seen by the enemy is
merely to run an unnecessary risk."
Hastily we overhauled the arsenal. I carried only a Smith & Wesson
revolver, so I was assigned a frightful looking rifle. I might have
been able to fire it once, but I doubt if it would have been of further
service. The crew and my assistente were provided with the same
formidable weapons, while the pilot, who from his seat looked after the
jib, the only sail set, drew close to him the other weapons. The real
serious part of my mission was now at hand. Hitherto everything had
been easy and comparatively safe. Now danger menaced. Grave danger.
Capture meant death and my failure to carry my message to Garcia.
We were probably twenty-five miles from the coast, although it seemed
but a span away. It was not until nearly midnight that the jib-sheet
was let go and the crew began sounding the shallow water with their
oars. Then a timely roller gave us a last lift and with a mighty effort
shoved us into the waters of a hidden peaceful bay. We anchored in the
darkness fifty yards off shore. I suggested that we land at once, but
Gervacio replied: "We have enemies both ashore and afloat, Senor; it is
better that we stay where we are. Should any lancha endeavor to pry us
out she would likely land on the submerged coral reef we have crossed
and we can get ashore, and from the obscurity of the grape entanglements
we can play the game."
The tropical haze which ever hangs mist like at the meeting of the sea
and sky in low altitudes began to lift slowly, disclosing a mass of
grape, mangrove thickets and thorn-set trees, reaching almost to the
edge of the water. It was difficult to perceive objects with
distinctness, but as if declining to puzzle us further as to the nature
of our surroundings, the sun rose gloriously over El Turquino, the
highest point in all Cuba. In an instant everything had changed, the
mist had vanished, the darkness of the low-lying thicket against the
mountain wall had been dissipated, the gray of the water breaking
against the shore had been transformed as if by magic to a marvelous
green. It was one splendid triumph of light over darkness.
Already the crew were busy transferring luggage ashore. Noting me
standing mute and seemingly dazed, for I was thinking of the lines by a
poet who must have had a similar scene in mind when he wrote: "Night's
candles are burnt out and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain
tops," Gervacio said in a low tone to me: "El Turquino, Senor" — the
Tutor.
As I stood there drinking in the glory of that marvellous morning,
little did I dream that I was standing within a stone's throw, almost,
of what was soon to be the watery sepulchre of the mighty "Colon," a
great battleship, then first in her class and bearing the name of the
greatest of all admirals, Christopher Columbus, the discoverer of
America, this great ship having already been selected by the Fates to be
destroyed by our own warships in the sea fight off Santiago.
But my reveries were soon ended. The freight was landed, I was carried
ashore, the boat dragged to a small estuary, overturned and hidden in
the jungle. By this time a number of ragged Cubans had assembled at our
landing place. Where they came from, or how they knew that our party
was a friendly one, were problems too deep for me. Signals of some sort
had doubtless been exchanged and they had come to act as
burden-bearers. Some of them had seen service, some of them bore the
marks made by Mauser bullets.
Our landing place seemed to be a junction of paths running in all
directions away from the coast and into the thicket. Off to the west,
seemingly about a mile away, little columns of smoke were rising through
the vegetation. I learned that this smoke was from a "salina," or pan
where salt was being made for the refugee Cubans who had hidden in these
mountains after fleeing from the dreaded concentration camps.
The second "leg" of the journey was completed.
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 Gervacio.
"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.
It was but a short ride from Paralejo to the banks of the eastern side
of the river to the town, once a city of 30,000, now a mere village of
perhaps 2000. It was surrounded by a row of blockhouses the Spaniards
had built on both sides of the stream. These little forts were the
first objects to be seen and their prominence was emphasized by the
flames and smoke still rising as we came into view. The Cubans had set
them on fire when they entered the former metropolis of these once
flourishing valley.
We soon lined up on the bank, and after Gervacio and Lopez had talked to
the guards, we proceeded. We halted in midstream to allow our horses
to drink and to store up a little energy for our final dash into the
presence of the officer in charge of Cuba's military destiny east of the
Jucaro-Moron trocha.*
*(I quote from the newspapers of the day: "The Cuban generals say the
arrival of Lieutenant Rowan aroused the greatest enthusiasm throughout
the Cuban army. There was no notice of his coming and the first seen of
Lieutenant Rowan was as he galloped up Calle Commercial, followed by
the Cuban guides who accompanied him.")
In a few minutes I was in the presence of General Garcia.
The long and toilsome journey with its many risks, its chances of failure, its chances for death, was over.
I had succeeded.
As we arrived in front of General Garcia's headquarters the Cuban flag
was hanging lazily over the door from an inclined staff. The method of
reaching the presence of a man to whom one is accredited in such
circumstances was new to me. We formed in line, dismounted together,
and "stood to horse." Gervacio was known to the general, so he advanced
to the door and was admitted. He returned in a short time with General
Garcia, who greeted me cordially and asked me to enter with my
assistente. The general introduced me to his staff — all in clean white
uniforms and wearing side arms — and explained that the delay was
caused by the necessary scrutiny of my credentials from the Cuban junta
at Jamaica, which Gervacio had delivered to him.
There is humor in everything. I had been described in letters from the
junta as "a man of confidence." The translator had made me "a
confidence man."
Following breakfast we proceeded to business. I explained to General
Garcia that my errand was purely military in its character, although I
had left the United States with diplomatic credentials; that the
President and the War Department desired the latest information
respecting the military situation in Eastern Cuba. (Two other officers
had been sent to Central and Western Cuba, but they were unable to reach
their objectives.) Among matters it was imperative for the United
States to know were the positions occupied by the Spanish troops, the
condition and number of the Spanish forces, the character of their
officers; especially of their commanding officers; the morale of the
Spanish troops; the topography of the country, both local and general;
communications, especially the conditions of the roads; in short, any
information which would enable the American general staff to lay out a
campaign. Last, but by no means least, General Garcia's suggestions as
to a plan of campaign, joint or separate, between the Cuban armies and
the forces of the United States. Also I informed him, my government
would be glad to receive the same information respecting the Cuban
forces, or as much as the general saw fit to give. If not incompatible
with his plans, I would like to accompany the Cuban forces in the field
in such capacity as he might see fit to assign me.
General Garcia meditated for a moment and then withdrew with all the
members of his staff excepting Colonel Garcia, his son, who remained
with me. About three o'clock the general returned and said he had
decided to send three officers to the United States with me. These
officers were men who had passed their lives in Cuba; were trained and
tried; all knew the country, and in their particular capacities could
answer all questions likely to be propounded. Were I to remain months
in Cuba I might not be able to make so complete a report, and as time
was the important element, the quicker the United States government got
the information the better it would be for all concerned.
He went on to explain that his men needed arms, especially artillery,
important in assaulting blockhouses. In ammunition he was very short,
and the many rifles of varied calibre used made it difficult to get an
ample supply. He thought it might be better to re-arm his men with
American rifles in order to simplify that question.
General Collazo, a noted figure; Colonel Hernandez and Doctor Vieta, a
valued relative who was familiar with the diseases of the island and the
tropics generally, and two sailors, both familiar with the north coast,
would go with us; they might be useful on the return expedition in case
the United States should decide to furnish the supplies he wanted.
Could I proceed that day — hoy mismo?
Could I ask more?
Could I ask more? I had been continuously on the move for nine days in
all kinds and conditions of terrain. I would have liked to have had a
chance to look around me in these strange surroundings, but my answer
was as prompt as his question. I simply replied: "Yes sir!"
Why not? General Garcia by his quick conception and speedy acceptance
of conditions had saved me months of useless toil and had given my
country the means of obtaining as minute information of the existing
situation in the island as that possessed by the Cubans themselves;
certainly as good as the enemy had.
For the next two hours I was the recipient of an informal reception.
Then a final meal was served at five o'clock, and at its conclusion I
was told that my escort was at the door. When I reached the street I
was surprised not to see my former guide and companion in the column. I
asked for Gervacio, and he and the others of the contingent from
Jamaica came out. Gervacio wanted to go with me, but Garcia was
adamant; all were needed for service on the south coast and I was to
return by the north. I expressed to the general my appreciation for the
services of Gervacio and his crew, and the column drafted from the
fastnesses of Sierra Maestra. After a real Latin embrace I broke away
and mounted. Three cheers rang out as we galloped northward.
I had delivered my message to Garcia!
My journey to General Garcia had been fraught with many dangers, but it
was, compared with my trip back to the United States, by far the more
important, an innocent ramble through a fair country. Going in there
had been little to contend with, for the voyage from Jamaica had been on
pleasant waters, while on the way to the Cuban commander I had been
well guarded and well guided. But war had been declared and the Spanish
were alert. Their soldiers patrolled every mile of shore, their boats
every bay and inlet, the great guns of their forts stood ready to speak
in no uncertain tones to anyone violating the rules of warfare. To all
intents and purposes I was a spy within the enemy lines! Discovery
meant death with one's face to the wall. Nor had I thought of reckoning
with the angry elements of sea and air, which soon were to convince me
that success is not always a matter of fair sailing.
But the effort must be made and it must be successful, otherwise my
mission had been fruitless. On the happy termination of it might
depend, in a large measure, the carrying to victory of the war.
My companions shared with me the apprehensions that naturally arose, so
it was with great caution that we proceeded across Cuba, northward,
going around the Spanish position at Cauto-El-Embarcadero, head of
navigation on that river, at least for gunboats, until we came to the
bottle-shaped harbor of Manati, where, on the side opposite, a great
fort, bristling with guns, guarded the entrance.
If only the Spanish soldiery had known of our presence! But perhaps the
very audacity of our undertaking was our salvation. Who would have
suspected that an enemy on a mission such as was ours, would select such
a place from which to embark?
The boat in which we made the voyage was a cockleshell, "capacity 104
cubic feet." For sails we had gunnysacks, pieced together. For rations
boiled beef and water. In this craft we were to sail, and we did sail,
150 miles due north to New Providence, Nassau Island. Think of putting
to sea on hostile waters, patrolled by swift, well-armed lanchas, in a
vessel like that!
But "needs be when the devil drives!" It was our only method of fulfilling the full measure of duty.
It was at once apparent that this boat would not hold the six of us, so
Dr. Vieta was sent back to Bayamo with the escort and the horses, while
five of us prepared to run the gauntlet of Spanish guns and outwit
Spanish gunboats with a craft not much larger than a skiff and with
sails of gunnysacks!
There was a storm raging at the time we had fixed upon for our departure
and we could not venture on the water while the waves were rolling so
fiercely. Yet even in waiting there was danger! It was the time of the
full moon and should the clouds dissipate with the passing of the gale
our presence might be detected.
But the fates were with us!
At 11 o'clock we embarked. With only five aboard the boat was well down
in the water. The ragged clouds rushed like mad things across the face
of the moon, alternately hiding and disclosing us, while four tugged at
the oars and a fifth steered a course. We could not see the fort as we
passed, and that perhaps was the reason we were not seen, but it
required no great stretch of imagination to picture the frowning muzzles
of the great guns and we toiled on, expecting at any moment to hear the
boom of a cannon and the scream of a shot. Our little craft reeled and
tossed like an eggshell and many times we were on the point of
capsizing, but our sailors knew the course, our gunnysack sails stood
the test and soon we were making headway "across the trackless green."
Weary with the unwonted toil and with nothing to break the monotony of
riding first one wave crest and then another, I fell asleep sitting bold
upright.
But not for long. An immense wave hit us, nearly filling our boat with
water and almost capsizing us. From that time on there was no sleep for
anyone. It was bail, bail, bail the long night through. Drenched with
brine, weary and worn, we were glad enough to get a glimpse of the sun
as it peered through the haze on the horizon.
"Un vapor, Senores!" (a steamer) cried the steersman.
A feeling of alarm agitated every heart. Suppose it should be a Spanish warship? That would mean short shrift for all of us.
"Dos vapores, tres vapores, Caramba! doce vapores!" cried the steersman, my companions echoing his cries.
Could it be the Spanish fleet?
But no, it was the battleships of Admiral Sampson, steaming eastward to attack San Juan del Puerto Rico!
We breathed easier!
All that day we broiled and bailed, bailed and broiled. Yet no one
slept or relaxed his anxious outlook. Despite the presence of the
United States warships a gunboat might have escaped their vigilance and
if so might overtake and capture us. Night fell on five of the most
tired men that ever lived. We were almost worn out with fatigue, but
for us there could be no rest. With the darkness came the wind again
and with the wind the mighty waves and again it was bail, bail, bail, to
keep the little vessel afloat. It was with feelings of intense relief
that on the next morning, May 7, at about 10 o'clock, we sighted the
Curly Keys at the southern end of Andros Islands of the Bahamas group
and right gladly did we land there for a brief rest.
That afternoon we overhauled a sponging schooner, with a crew of
thirteen Negroes, who spoke some outlandish gibberish we did not
understand, but sign language is universal, and soon we had made
arrangements for a transfer. This schooner carried a litter of pigs for
food and an accordeon. I never want to hear an accordeon again. Tired
almost to the point of utter exhaustion, I vainly sought sleep but the
shrill notes of that instrument prevented it.
Next afternoon we were captured by quarantine officials as we turned the
east end of New Providence Island, and were incarcerated at Hog Island,
the fiction of yellow fever in Cuba having given them the excuse.
But next day I got word to the American consul general, Mr. McLean, and
on May 10 he arranged our release. May 11 the schooner Fearless drew
near the wharf and we went aboard.
We had got in behind Florida Keys when luck deserted us. The wind went
down and all day May 12 we lay becalmed, but at night a breeze came up
and on the morning of May 13 we were in Key West.
That night we took a train for Tampa and there boarded a train for Washington.
We arrived on schedule time and I reported to Russel A. Alger, secretary
of war, who heard my story and told me to report to General Miles,
taking General Garcia's aids with me. After he had received my report
General Miles wrote the secretary of war: "I also recommend that First
Lieutenant Andrew S. Rowan, 19th U.S. Infantry, be made a
lieutenant-colonel of one of the regiments of immunes. Lieutenant Rowan
made a journey across Cuba, was with the insurgent army with
Lieutenant-General Garcia, and brought most important and valuable
information to the government. This was a most perilous undertaking,
and in my judgement Lieutenant Rowan performed an act of heroism and
cool daring that has rarely been excelled in the annals of warfare."
I attended a meeting of the cabinet a day or so after my return, in
company with General Miles, and at the close I received President
McKinley's congratulations and thanks for the manner in which I had
communicated his wishes to General Garcia and for the value of the work.
"You have performed a very brave deed!" were his last words to me, and
this was the first time it had occurred to me that I had done more than
my simple duty, the duty of a soldier who: "Is not to reason why," but
to obey his orders.
I had carried my message to Garcia.
http://www.foundationsmag.com/rowan.html
