The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(79)
The story has dominated newspapers and public conversation for over a week, spurred on by the unearthing of a book de L?me published decades ago where he was critical of American women and our American customs.
President McKinley has yet to act, but he has to realize public opinion—including that of Congress—is pushing heavily for war with Spain, and he is a man who cares very much for what the people think.
Whether de L?me’s letter proves to be the tipping point that thrusts us into war remains to be seen, but at the moment, it’s done much to fire up support for the revolutionaries, and once the letter’s authenticity was confirmed by de L?me, even the most cautious couldn’t ignore its damning nature.
And while it is de L?me’s harsh criticism of the president that has drawn the most ire, his letter to Canalejas and the private words contained there have also made it clear that despite Spain extending a limited degree of autonomy and home rule to Cuba in an attempt to end the war, they have no real intention of granting independence, and that the Spanish will cling to their last vestiges of empire until someone wrests them away from them.
“How’s the article going?” Brisbane asks me, gesturing to the typewriter before me.
“Well enough.”
“You’ve done good work lately. Your writing has been particularly sharp after working on the Evangelina story.”
“Thank you.” I can’t help but ask the question that’s been plaguing me for so long now. “Where do you think the end is in all of this? We publish these articles, and people become angry, but little truly changes. It’s been years since the war for independence began.”
“Weyler’s gone, at least. I imagine we have Miss Cisneros partly to thank for that.”
“What have you heard of Weyler’s successor, General Blanco?”
I’d hoped to ask Rafael about his impressions of Blanco, but I haven’t seen him since New Year’s Eve.
“Blanco seems interested in keeping friendly ties with the American press,” Brisbane answers. “I imagine he saw what happened to Weyler and how damaging public opinion was to his career and hoped to learn from his predecessor’s imbroglios. He had Scovel and the wife round for dinner a few months ago.” He winks at me. “Maybe we’ll send you down to Cuba.”
My heart pounds at the possibility there. Hearst’s foreign war correspondents are becoming legends. I would give anything to join their ranks.
“Is that story almost ready?” he asks.
“Almost.”
I bend over the typewriter and get to work.
* * *
—
The quietest moment in the newsroom is right before dawn, when the editors have put the early edition to bed. I’ve been assigned the long watch, a great way to get a little bit of extra money as I stay in the newsroom after my story has gone to print, waiting for any last-minute information to come in.
Suddenly, one of the other editors bursts into the room.
“We just received an Associated Press bulletin. The USS Maine has blown up in the Havana Harbor.”
My jaw drops. “Call Hearst.”
Thirty-Three
Marina
Bodies float in the water, the immense Maine nearly destroyed. Pieces of her remain above the sea—the mast and some of her forward parts—but the majority of her and the over two hundred and fifty souls on board rest at the bottom of the harbor. The American sailors have taken to hanging wreaths from the ship’s mainmast, which sticks out from the water, the American flag flying at half-mast on the Maine and other American ships.
People come by to pay their respects to the dead and to gawk at the scene before them. It’s as though the entire city holds its breath waiting to see what the Americans will do in response. Some think the Americans bombed their own warship as an excuse to insert themselves into our war with Spain, others blame the Spanish, and some don’t care what caused the explosion as they hope that this will soon be the solution we desperately need: the hope that the Americans will defeat Spain and free Cuba once and for all.
I don’t know what I believe in this strange world filled with never-ending tragedies.
The Spanish seem to realize how dangerous the situation has become. Spain has already stopped feeding and paying many of their soldiers, and the men now desert to the countryside by the hundreds, and then thousands, switching sides and joining the revolutionaries after likely realizing their country has abandoned them.
The Maine is all anyone talks about in the city, and as much as I struggle to glean any information about what will happen next, who is responsible for the explosion, and how it will affect the Cuban cause, I have dire concerns of my own to worry about.
Since I took her to my parents’ home, Isabella is much improved, but Luz has become ill now.
I return to the camp from dropping off some laundering to check on Luz. She’s sleeping in one of the beds they’ve made her, her skin pale.
“How is she?” I ask one of the nurses.
The American Red Cross has sent workers, led by their founder seventy-six-year-old Clara Barton, to care for the ill and infirm in the camps, and to distribute aid and relief throughout the island.
“She isn’t doing well,” the nurse says. “Her fever has gotten worse.”