Cuba Libre by Elmore Leonard
Dinner being over, the curandera, a woman who looked about a hundred years old, fixed Virgil a plate at Islero's table: calalfi, which was cornmeal and pork, and masango, boiled corn. She liked Virgil and would pat his shoulder acting motherly, saying what sounded like "Good boy," when he cleaned his plate. Neely Tucker came over while he was eating.
Neely agitated, sitting down on the bench across from Virgil and then getting up to pace back and forth by the table. What was upsetting him: "First Islero says he's gonna attack Matanzas, time it for when the New York starts shelling the fort."
"Yeah...?"
"Now he says they can't count on the fort being shelled. And if it isn't, his men will be at the mercy of a superior force and get cut to pieces. But the real reason, he wants that hostage money more'n he wants glory. So he's playing the sure thing; and maybe for his own benefit, if you know what I mean."
This was something Virgil already knew, what Amelia Brown suspected and Tyler had mentioned to him. So he said, "Yeah...?" not yet seeing the point. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Go to Matanzas with me," Neely said. "Help me cover the biggest engagement of the war."
"It only started two days ago."
"And already we're in action," Neely said. "The New York will have gunboats with her, most likely a torpedo boat, maybe even a monitor. I need to witness the event from shore, see what the Spanish do. And then H1 have to leave Cuba in order to file my story."
"How you gonna do that?"
"Signal a gunboat to pick me up. Tyler was telling me you know semaphore, how to wave flags to send a message?"
"He told you that?"
"Said in prison you spelled his name for him."
"Yeah, but what you're talking about--Jesus Christ, a battle's going on. You think a ship'll come in under enemy fire to pick you up?"
"An American on Cuban soil," Neely said, "with a story to tell the people back home. How our navy, our fighting marines, are on the attack and by God nothing's gonna stop them. Isn't that worth a try, Virgil?"
By mid-afternoon of the twenty-sixth, Tavalera's 2d Corps was manning the San Severino ramparts facing the American ships: three of them now, one identified as the armored cruiser New York, another said to be the Puritan, a monitor with a giant smokestack and four 12-inch rifles. The ships were somewhat eakt of the fortress, lying off the Punta, where artillery was still being moved into place.
Late that evening Tavalera left the fortress and rode a short distance to a cottage only a few blocks from the south shore in a poor section of Matanzas known as Pueblo Nuevo. A mulatta he called Isabela Catelica, his black queen, lived here awaiting his visits to the city, to pour his whiskey, to make love to him, to listen as he told her secrets from his soul he told no one else.
"In the morning an emissary of the governor will take a launch out to the American flagship to ask if they intend to bombard the city. If it is their intention, the emissary will ask for time to evacuate noncombatants, the terror-stricken people hiding inside their homes. The American commander will say no, no, we only intend to destroy your fucking gun emplacements and your fucking historic fortress and kill as many of your fucking soldiers as we can." He said to his mistress, "So in the morning, early, leave here."
The mulatta asked when she would see him again and he said perhaps never.
"We are certain to lose this war, one I've been waiting for; and yet I don't want to go to the fortress tomorrow. I'm not afraid to die; understand that. But I don't want to be killed by a gun fired at me from six thousand meters. When I die I want the opportunity first to kill the one who kills me and when I fail, I fail and that's the end of it. So I have a choice to make."
The mulatta caressed him in her arms and tried to soothe him saying he should close his eyes and sleep, not drink more of the whiskey.
He said, "The train coming here stopped at Benavides and I saw an American I know, a very rich planter. He told me the captain of his Volunteers, a fine young man named Raft Wasquez, was killed this morning by an American cowboy who took the boots and pants from Raft's dead body and also killed two of his men. He shot the horse of one that fell on its rider and crushed him to death. I know this American who killed them, his name is Tyler. He and others killed eight of my men escaping from prison." Tavalera said to the mulatta, "Do you know what I think? It would be better to find this Tyler and kill him than to be killed myself at San Severino by sailors I would never see. I think this cowboy is going to be waiting for a train tomorrow." He took a sip of whiskey and said, "Find your brother for me."
Her brother Osma, who in another time was a hunter of runaway slaves; now he hunted mambis.
"Tell him to come here tomorrow, early."
Tyler's problem, he couldn't find a bank.
He spent half the day working his way down through the range of hills south of Matanzas. From up there it looked like it would be easy to find his way around. There it was, laid out in a grid of streets, two rivers, the Yurumi and the San Juan, running through the city to the harbor. But once he was down there it became narrow little streets one after another, and Tyler had no idea where he was going. He didn't expect the city to be this big, even though some of the old patriots at the Morro were from here and loved to talk about their city, how beautiful it was. If he'd known then, he could've asked them where a goddamn bank was. Another problem was keeping out of the way of Spanish soldiers, though most of them seemed in a hurry with a lot on their mind. From up in the hills he had noticed the road lined with trees that went along the east side of the harbor to a fort like the Morro, out on a point of land: Down closer he saw troops and equipment moving up the road, horses pulling artillery, everybody going to the fort and nobody coming back. Tyler came down through outcrops of rock to a limestone quarry, deserted, and rode past farmhouses made of palm bark without seeing anybody around. Finally when he got to the Yurumi River he asked an old man scraping the bottom of his skiff where he could find a bank, a banco. The old man said he didn't know. Tyler asked another man down the way who said he didn't know of any banks. Not, he didn't know where one was, he didn't know if there even was a bank. Tyler felt people watching him. Not any he saw, but knew there had to be people in these houses and stores, and if they heard him clopping along the street would look out the window. What he'd better do, Tyler decided, go back to the quarry, about a mile up the hill, and hide out there till dark. Then come down and roam the streets till he found a bank, get one located, and come back in the morning.
That's what he did. Sat waiting for dark in an empty office down in the quarry, thinking about his night with Amelia Brown, hearing her say, "Do you love me, Ben?" And his own voice in the dark saying, "Yes, I do." And then Amelia asking, "Can you say it?" Something he'd never done in the thirty-one years of his life. He had shot four menmno, five--had taken their lives, but had never said "I love you" to a girl. Or to anyone.
"Do you love me, Ben?" "Yes, I do. Very much." "Can you say it?"
He whispered it against her cheek. "I love you." Hearing it again in his thoughts it didn't sound too bad.
The mulatta served them coffee in the early morning of the twenty-seventh, the two leaning on the table to conspire: her lover in his uniform talking, talkingmit was what he did--and her brother listening, Osma the slave hunter resting on his thick arms, Osma nodding, Osma raising the cup to sip coffee through his beard. The mulatta hated her brother. No longer a hunter he murdered people for the Guardia, performed whatever obscene work they gave him. She listened, refilling their cups, to her lover telling about a train coming from Havana. Mambis wanting to stop it. Perhaps blow up the tracks. Her lover asking Osma to follow the tracks this afternoon and find this place where it could happen. With luck be a witness to the assault, and if the mambis are successful, follow them. Look for something wrapped in a hammock. Look for an American, a cowboy. Perhaps a woman will be there, too, and perhaps Victor Fuentes.
"They have something you want?"
"Why else
Osma left and the mulatta watched her lover button the neck of his tunic and strap on his pistol. She said, "You've changed your mind. You're going to the fortress to die."
"I have to see for myself," Tavalera said, "if American gunners are able to kill me."
Novis Crowe boarded the 8:30 train to Matanzas at the Regla station, took his seat in the first-class coach and sat with the rolled hammock across his lap, his hands folded on it. He hadn't actually seen Mr. Boudreaux put money inside, but believed he must've; he'd gone to the bank the day before yesterday with. a briefcase and was in the office of the bank president a long time. Mencoming along the aisle would look at Novis like they knew what he had. He could tell the businessmen. Some others he could tell by their mustaches and the way they carried themselves were Guardia Civil, even though they weren't in uniform. A couple, he noticed, brought leather gun cases aboard. Oh, going out for some bird shooting? Bullshit, these boys only shot people. Novis had a Colt revolver on him. He wouldn't mind if there was trouble. Hell, 'specially if he was the one caused it. The cane seat was comfortable enough. The windows had shutters on them you could raise or lower to keep out the sun. He sat on the side of the train that would face north this trip, out of the sun. He was sweating in his wool suit. One thing you could say for the greasers, they knew how to dress for this weather, damper'n Newerleans. About 8:45 he said to the conductor going by in his white coat, "Hey, what're we waiting on?" The conductor said the train would be delayed an hour, perhaps for repair of the tracks, the usual reason.
It gave Novis some more time to look at his situation. There was no way he could have a plan. Not with those Guardia people in the same car. But if something did happen--six Guardias and he had six rounds in his Colt, didn't he--he'd have to be ready to take it. Walk off with forty thousand smackers.
Yeah, if that's what was in here.
The bank Tyler located was on Salamanca, three blocks from the Yurumi River and across the street from a park full of palm trees--one old man sitting on a bench. Tyler stepped from his horse and dallied the reins to a young tree at the street edge of the park, across from the Banco de Comercio. Tyler remembered Fuentes in Galveston saying the name of Boudreaux's bank in Havana, so this was a branch of it. Fine. He crossed the street with saddlebags over his shoulder and entered the bank, the place quiet and dim, the only sound coming from a ceiling fan, no lights on, no customers either. Tyler crossed the marble floor to a teller's window in a partition of dark wood and ornamental glass. He said good day to the teller, lifted the saddlebags from his shoulder and shoved one of them across the counter. The teller, a little baldheaded gink, looked at it and then up at Tyler.
"Yes, may I help you?"
Tyler said, "I'm withdrawing forty-five hundred dollars from Mr. Roland Boudreaux's account," and waited as the teller looked at the saddlebag again, his expression pleasant enough."
He said, "You have authonzanon?"
Tyler said, "Right here," and produced a.44 Russian he pointed at the teller, the butt resting upright on the counter.
The teller, the poor guy, looked like he couldn't believe his eyes.
"You robbing the bank?"
Tyler shook his head. "I'm robbing Mr. Boudreaux. Debit his account and tell him the next time he's in."
The teller stood so still he appeared dipped in starch.
Tyler asked him, '"What're you waiting for?"
The teller answered, "I don't have American money here. I have to get it."
He was lying. Tyler saw his eyes shift and heard a voice behind him say in Spanish, "Close the bank." Tyler home red the revolver, lifted the saddlebags and hung them over his left shoulder. He turned to see two Guardias with carbines as one of them was saying, again; "Close the bank. The Americans are coming."
The second Guardia said, "One is already here."
Tyler understood them. He said, "I'm not a soldier."
The second Guardia said, "What are you?
The teller answered, calling to them, "He's robbing the bank!"
Now the first Guardia approached Tyler, looking him in the face, holding his gaze as he pulled Tyler's revolver from its holster and stepped back, the second Guardia saying, "I ask you again, what are you?"
Tyler hooked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the teller. "He doesn't comprehend what I want. There is no problem here, no problema. Here, let me show you," Tyler said, with his left hand lifting the flap of the saddlebag hanging in front of him. "No, I didn't take anything from him." Now he slipped his right hand into the bag saying, "Here, look," and brought out the matching.44 Russian, cocking it in the first Guardia's face, giving the man no chance to use the revolver he had taken. Tyler put his hand out and the Guardia returned the revolver. Now with a.44 in each hand Tyler told them to unload their weapons and throw them out the door. When this was done Tyler told them if they came outside he'd shoot them. He walked out of the bank past the two carbines lying in the street, telling himself they weren't armed now, they weren't carrying pistols, so he could mount and ride out maybe with the two shouting after him, but that'd be all.... Unless there was a gun in the bank, and in that moment thinking it became sure there was.
Almost to the other side of the street he turned to see the Guardia in the bank doorway aiming a pistol at him, firing as Tyler fired, hit him with a.44 round and the Guardia went down. But now the second Guardia was taking the pistol from the first one's hand. Watching him Tyler thought the man must be crazy. Why would he think he had time? Tyler yelled at him, "Put it down!" knowing he wouldn't, saw the pistol come up and fired twice this time, blowing the man back into the bank, leaving the two lying dead.
He rode north on Salamanca, a deserted street, no one watching or yelling after him, no sounds from anywhere, the green range of hills waiting for him, and the explosions began.
Loud and not far away. Tyler looked back knowing it was artillery fire, and the answering thunder broadsides from the American ships, the war creeping up behind him.
]eely got one of Islero's scouts, a kid named Emilio, to act as their guide and take them to the coast just west of Matanzas. Virgil thought the squirt looked about twelve, his rifle way too big for him, and asked how old he was. Emilio said sixteen.
"What do you know," Virgil said, "my same age when I joined the Marines."
In sight of the coast they left their horses in a thicket and struck out afoot, Virgil carrying his Krag and semaphore flags he'd made tying cloth from worn out clothing to a couple of cane stalks three feet long, the flags rolled together and stuck in his belt. He said if he got hungry he could eat them.
Neely was puffing to keep up with their kid guide. Once they reached the shore Emilio scooted through sea grape and palmetto, all kinds of vegetation, no trouble at all. He'd stop now and again to hack a path with his machete and it would give Neely a chance to catch his breath. He never complained though, Virgil would give him that. They were in the scrub when the firing, commenced, that ka-boom of long guns opening up, giving Virgil a thrill knowing it was the U.S. Navy, here to settle the dons' hash.
They crept up to an open view, on the west side of where the harbor narrowed and met the sea. There was the mighty fortress across the way and, through a haze of smoke, American warships no more than two miles out in the stream. Busy, their long guns blazing away with port broadsides, fire shooting out of their big muzzles to raise a wall of smoke. Virgil, Neely and Emilio lay on their stomachs watching the guns making direct hits on the fortress, chunks of it blowing up in the air, and on the earthworks, mounds of sand they could see on the high ground just beyond.
"Them're ships of the North Atlantic Squadron under Admiral Sampson," Virgil said, pride in his voice. "The one in the middle's the New York, the flagship. The one with the rigging? It should be the Cincinnati, another cruiser. And the one leading the parade is the Puritan, the biggest monitor in the fleet with four 12-inch rifles. You punch an electric firing key and"--just then one of
A Spanish battery dug in on this side of the narrows--only a couple hundred yards from the three lying there in the brush--opened up on the monitor, the cannon firing one after the other. The Puritan turned her forward turret on the site. Flame and smoke shot out of her rifles and the dug-in battery was blown to pieces. "Gone from this earth," Virgil said.
Neely, watching the monitor, said, "She sure is low to the water," thinking: A raft whose guns belch fire and white-hot hell to bring death to the Spaniard.
"Her deck's barely three feet above the waterline, but her stack towers, don't it? She's sweet-looking, but don't give me no part of monitor duty in a high sea."
"She's coming in," Neely said. "Taking rifle fire now, from the fortress. Watch yourselves, lads, don't get too close."
The Puritan let go with one of her long guns, threw a shell into the fort, exploding, and the rifle fire stopped.
Virgil said, "Boy, I wouldn't want to be in there. Would you, Emilio?"
The kid said, ""Cdmo?""
Neely's gaze was still on the monitor. "She's coming in awfully close."
"Looking for targets," Virgil said.
Neely pushed up to his knees. "What's the matter with memI said don't come too close? What is she now, about two hundred yards out?"
"Less," Virgil said.
Neely reached over to pat Virgil's shoulder. "Get out your flags. That's the ship will take me home."
"What do I say?"
"Welcome to Cuba. From Neely Tucker of the Chicago Times."