SIXTEEN

Neely Tucker was never sure when Islero told him something if it was the truth or if the old warrior was kidding with him. He said they had a game called "the cracker" and asked Neely if he'd like to play. He said you put four or five hard salted crackers on a board and you hit them with your rniernbro viril-honest to God, your peter-and the one who broke the most crackers was the winner. One evening Neely did see the game played, the contestants betting money on their prowess, but that didn't make whatever else Islero said true.

He said they never took prisoners. Oh, they kept them a few minutes, until they made them kneel down and chopped their heads off with a machete, one blow, his people experts at this. Neely hadn't seen it done and didn't want to, either.

Islero said his father was Lucumi, originally from western Sudan in Africa. But could he actually know this? He said Lucumi was born rascals, the most rebellious of the people brought here as slaves, and the bravest.

The old man's ebony face always bore a gray stubble, about a week's growth of whiskers; he always wore a panama on the back of his head and a sagging, threadbare white suit. The only thing military about him were his boots and a pistol he wore on his hip. Sometimes the old man cooked. His men all cooked for themselves or in small groups, two meals a day. Whenever lslero invited a few of them to dine with him, they'd jump at the chance. All except Neely. He'd suffer from indigestion any time he ate yany6, Islero's red-hot gumbo, or obatalfi, the black-eyed pea stew. Islero would say don't worry, the curandera will make you a remedy from cow patties. You boil the dry patty and strain it through a fine cloth. Two dozen will fix you up. And Neely would say cow shit as a remedy? Thanks anyway.

Islero told him he had over four thousand men. Neely had never seen more than a few hundred in camp at one time. It was an orderly, fairly military camp-which surprised Neely-with a bugler to wake the boys up and sound retreat in the evening; silence after 9:00 V.M. The boys slept in hammocks in their drawers; whereas the dons slept fully clothed and with their horses saddled. Neely had observed this firsthand.

The old arrior said he kept his people here and there out in the country, most of them off burning cane fields, but all would return in time for the attack on Matanzas. Neely said, "Matanzas-you're joking." The old man said no, it was true, the time had come.

If it was and it came off, an insurgent offensive against the second largest city in Cuba, the event would give Neely the biggest story of the war, an exclusive for sure-if he could get his report to Key West and from there by wire to Chicago.

He would not only scoop the big New York papers, there would be an ironic twist to his eyewitness account: the armored cruiser New York taking a vital part in the offensive. The ship, already in Cuban waters, was on its way to Matanzas to blockade the port and shell San Severino, the old fort protecting the harbor. The way this information reached Islero: some of his scouts had made contact with an American gunboat prowling the north shoreline, its mission, to locate any Spanish warships U.S. Naval Intelligence might have missed. They believed that by now most of the Spanish fleet, outgunned and in hiding out at Santiago de Cuba, was way off on the southeastern edge of the island.

Islero's plan: Wait for the American fleet to shell the fort, blow it to dust with its big guns, and when the Spanish came pouring out, Islero's people would cut them down. He had an old Krupp fieldpiece in this camp-in the wooded hills south of the rail line, between the villages of Ceiba Mocha and Benavides-only ten miles from Matanzas. He had his scouts spotted along the coast, waiting to report the coming of the big American cruiser bristling with guns. He told Neely to be ready, the New York should be off the coast by April 27.

Was he ready to scoop the world and make a name for himself? He'd better be. Neely sat beneath a shade tree on the edge of Islero's camp to study his notes, see what he had on Matanzas he could use to open the piece. His long-range description wasn't bad:

The city enclosed by verdant hills on three sides, the open view a prospect of the lush, emerald (?) countryside that seemed an abode of pastoral well-being.

Features of the city in a closer look. He had those notes somewhere. Don't panic. The population figure he remembered, fifty-four thousand. A center of commerce, but a shallow harbor. Lighters used to unload ships.

Has become known as the Birthplace of Independence. That was better than calling it a Nest of Rebellion.

War comes. A prosperous metropolis is rendered helpless, infirm (?). Sapped of its life by the cruel domination of Spanish rule.

Get to the policy of reconcentrating the population. Thousands brought to Matanzas from the countryside died: 10,000 in a period of only two months, 23,000 all told. Many starved to death. No money, no way to earn it. Rice, their staple, sold for 75 cents a pound. Bodies taken to San Severino " s infamous "shark hole," where the victims of Spanish malevolence were fed each night to the ravenous sharks.

A transition here might be from the sharks in the water to the armored cruiser New York steaming toward the port, its screws churning the water-what he needed were the horsepower figures-churning the water and creating, even for sharks, a terrifying disturbance the likes of which…

This thought was in his mind, hearing the word disturbance, in the same moment he heard gunfire and voices raised-amazing, the coincidence-and saw a number of Islero's boys running through the trees toward the south side of the camp, a couple of them firing their weapons in the air.

Tyler, bringing up the rear, had a good seat for their reception at the camp. Four mounted insurgents had met them on the road below. Once they'd greeted Fuentes, one of them led the parade up a switchback trail worn into the slope and across a high meadow toward a stand of trees on the other side. Now figures in white began to appear, coming out of the gloom.

One of them raised a pistol, fired into the air and pretty soon others were shooting, giving them a loud welcome. Now Fuentes was off his horse embracing an old man in black riding boots, the two of them grinning, patting each other, Tyler taking the one in boots to be Islero. He sure didn't look like any kind of plague. Jesus, and there was Neely Tucker waving a notebook, running to Amelia, hugging her as soon as she was down. Now Virgil had dismounted and was stretching as he looked around at the commotion, all the little fellas in white making a to-do over their arrival. Tyler stepped down and looked off to the south at the patchwork of fields he'd studied all the way up the switchbacks: too far off to make out the crops, some burned black, but something familiar about the lay of the land, soft and warm in the glow of late afternoon.

There was so much to talk about. Neely hoped they'd all sit down together so he could ask questions and take notes; but having them all in one place didn't happen until suppertime.

Islero took Fuentes off to the big shebang he used as his headquarters: a roof of palm fronds over a wood framework and canvas sheets that rolled down to keep out the weather.

He did get Amelia aside long enough to hear about their visit to Atarosmmy God, Amelia relating the gruesome details so calmly she seemed like a different person. Not so animated. And she looked different. She'd cut her lovely auburn hair, hacked it off so short it barely covered her delicate little ears. Why? She said, fluffing what was left up there with her fingers, a drawing room hairdo was too much trouble out here, adding, "Ben likes it"-Ben Tylermwhich struck deeply into Neely's heart. He watched her stroll off with Tyler to the south edge of the camp where they stood talking, Tyler pointing into the distance.