The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(93)
My eyes widen slightly at the invitation there. Now that I’ve had him, known him in that way, I don’t think I’ll ever hear his voice and not be transported back to the intimacy of this moment, the two of us in his cabin, the sheets on the bed tangled from the night we spent together.
Even after we finally fell asleep, he didn’t let me go, holding me close to the curve of his body, his strong arms wrapped around my torso.
“I could get used to waking up to you,” he adds. “Though, perhaps, in a more relaxed fashion.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. As much as I enjoyed myself last evening, and even though I don’t regret it, things are so complicated right now.
“I’ll sneak out,” I say, once I’ve put my nightgown on, slipping on my robe and tying it tightly at the waist. “I need to go back to my cabin and get ready to ride out with everyone.”
Rafael takes my hand, linking our fingers. “I want you to know that last night meant something to me. Something important. Now isn’t the time to be making promises. I know that. I might not even come back from this battle. But I want you to know that I care for you. Deeply. If anything happens to me—”
I cut off his remaining words as I stand on my tiptoes, leaning up and pressing my lips to his. He groans against my mouth, tightening his grip around me, deepening the kiss.
“Whatever you have to say to me, save it until we both survive this. We have to go,” I whisper.
He leans into me, resting his forehead against mine. It’s the only private good-bye we’ll get before we revert to the roles we must play in the company of others.
Rafael sighs. “I know.”
He releases me, and I walk over to his cabin door and open it a sliver of the way, glancing out.
The hallway is empty.
I cast one last look at him before I step out into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind me.
* * *
—
Before the sun is up, we all race to Siboney, leaving the Wilson sisters and the Sylvia behind. Hearst’s enthusiasm to scoop everyone else is infectious even as the battle wears on all of us, the effects of the evening weighing us down. Hearst’s friend, Follansbee, has parted from the group, leading some soldiers to search for stray Spaniards from the battle.
Rafael joins us, set to rendezvous with the rest of his military unit when we reach Siboney.
Our headquarters in Siboney have been converted to a hospital to treat the soldiers coming back from the front lines. Clara Barton and the rest of the Red Cross workers are there when we arrive, the sounds of the wounded soldiers in pain a sobering reminder that despite last night’s respite, we are at war.
As soon as we arrive, Rafael leaves us to meet up with his men, and I am left once more staring at his retreating back, wondering if I will ever see him again.
Forty-Two
I have no news from Rafael after he leaves us, but the war in Cuba occupies all of my time as we work on our stories, our efforts focused on producing the best newspaper we can.
At the beginning of July, there’s another battle to cover and we once again stop at our headquarters in Siboney and pick up fresh horses to carry us the rest of the way. We find space on a veranda and try to sleep, our rest occasionally interrupted by mosquitoes swarming around us.
Despite the rough conditions, though, Hearst looks as if he could be walking down Fifth Avenue, dressed in elegant black clothes and a felt-brimmed straw hat with a red hatband and a matching tie.
We saddle up, Hearst leading our party to the battlefield.
The road from Siboney is swampy; insects and strange odors surround us as we head toward the Fifth Army’s position a few miles from Santiago.
We join the American troops at El Pozo, but our appearance draws the notice of the Spanish, bullets flying disconcertingly close to us, and many of the Rough Riders tell us to dismount as we’re drawing attention on horseback.
I accompany Hearst and some of the others to the village of El Caney, east of Santiago, which has been fortified by the Spanish. Creelman can’t resist the urge to thrust himself into the battle, whereas Hearst hangs back at a respectable distance, watching the whole thing unfold.
The heat is nearly unbearable.
At six thirty in the morning, the Americans open fire on El Caney.
I watch the battle, trying to make out the figures in the distance, but it’s impossible to recognize anyone in the melee.
“Should we get closer?” Hearst shouts.
“Maybe best that we don’t,” I call back.
I understand Creelman’s desire to immerse himself in the fighting, but we’ve already been admonished once by the military for drawing enemy fire on horseback.
“There’s a spot over there.” I gesture to a position several hundred yards away from us. “That looks like a good place to observe the battle. Perhaps if we dismount, we won’t arouse the notice of the Spanish.”
Hearst nods.
Once we’re in position, I pull out my notepad and begin writing, although quickly both pen and paper are abandoned.
The impressions I had of war at the battle of Las Guasimas hardly prepared me for this.
Today is far, far worse.
When the gunfire clears, reports start coming in from our correspondents, and we meet with some of the army officers, getting updates on the wounded and deceased.