Never was control of the sea-lanes more important than at the end of the nineteenth century, when industrial production in many Western countries threatened to outpace consumption, forcing those countries to turn outward for markets and resources. To the list of familiar rivals Britain and France, there was now added Germany and, significantly, the rising continent of “Asia,” whose commercial ambition remained yet unmitigated by Christian values. Though the nineteenth century had seen advances in international law designed to curb global conflict, law remained, according to Mahan, an inadequate resource in a competitive environment whose ultimate arbiter was force.
Complicating matters immensely for the United States was the prospect of a new canal across the Isthmus of Panama. The Caribbean Basin and Pacific islands were already “dangerous germs of quarrel,” Mahan observed. Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific, Europe and Asia, the opening of an isthmian canal promised to convert a “now comparatively deserted nook of the ocean” into something “like the Red Sea, a great thoroughfare of shipping” sure to attract “the interest and ambition of maritime nations.” In its current state of “military and naval preparation,” Mahan warned, the “piercing of the Isthmus” by rival powers could be “nothing but a disaster.” America had neither the navy nor the coastal defense proportional to its interests in the region. Nor did it have, as others had, “positions, either within or on the borders of the Caribbean, which not only possess great natural advantages for control of that sea, but have received and are receiving that artificial strength and armament which will make them practically impregnable.”
68
More than America's well-being was at stake here. Mahan thought of the world's oceans and sea-lanes as a global “commons,” over which spread the blessings of prosperity, liberty, and Christianity. As a nation
whose shores were washed by two of these great seas, and which sat just north of the prospective isthmus, the United States had the responsibility to maintain public order. The commons needed a policeman, and the United States was the only country qualified geographically, politically, and racially for the job. First, Americans would have to get over their hang-up about overseas possessions. Americans could acquire such possessions “righteously,” Mahan felt sure, but acquire them it must. And not just a few but many. Only under U.S. control could an isthmian canal “knit together the whole system of American states,” thereby advancing “by thousands of miles the frontiers of European civilization.”
69
Â
How different seems this body of thought from the candid desire for land and plunder that sped Massachusetts recruits to Guantánamo more than a century and a half earlier. The philosophical roots of the ideology of liberal empire precede Vernon's trip to Cuba. But the ideology coalesced in the aftermath of the American Revolution, as the nation's founders worked to reconcile the ideals of liberty and self-government with the imperative of imperial expansion.
By the end of the nineteenth century, the United States and Spain looked to be on very different historical trajectories. Beginning in the late eighteenth century and continuing through the nineteenth, Spain suffered loss after loss of its once vast colonial possessions, so that by the end of the nineteenth century, Spain had only Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, and a few insignificant Pacific island chains left. The chipping away of Spain's global empire coincided with a century's political upheaval during which Spain endured occupation, restoration, and revolution, culminating in fragile constitutional reform. It did not take the fall of Cuba and the final remnants of empire in the summer of 1898 to inspire soul-searching among Spanish writers and artists, but the cultural movement that blossomed in late-nineteenth-century Spain would be forever stamped
la generación noventa y ocho
(the Generation of '98). The work of this generation is distinguished by, among other things, candor and introspection. Far from bemoaning the loss of imperial status, Spain's writers and artists welcomed the opportunity for reflection and self-criticism.
There were voices of candor and introspection among America's
generación noventa y ocho
, too. But they tended to be drowned out by louder voices touting the arrival of a powerful new nation on the block. Cut from imperial cloth, the United States has been an empire from its inception. British subjects such as Lawrence Washington and Thomas Jefferson's father, Peter, took for granted the colonists' expansion across the North American continent and understood its global implications. Still, if steeped in empire, late-nineteenth-century Americans sensed that they were on the brink of something new. A youthful nation stood poised to take its place among the company of men, and there was no shortage of chest pounding and triumphalism on the part of U.S. political, cultural, and religious leaders.
Â
For centuries the Spanish Crown had ignored calls by local Cuban authorities to populate and fortify Guantánamo Bay. When, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, French refugees from Santo Domingo combined with a few enterprising natives of Catalonia to establish a town on their own, the Crown finally recognized it. But as before, it did nothing to prepare the bay to withstand an enemy attack. And so it happened that four centuries after Columbus turned up his nose at Guantánamo Bay, Captain George Watson Sumner, commander of a U.S. Navy vessel fittingly named after Genoa's first son, entered the bay in early February 1895 to conduct a geological survey. The USS
Columbia
would remain in Guantánamo for daysâcompletely without permission or, apparently, even the knowledge of Spanish officials. And this in the first days of what would become the Cuban War of Independence. Meanwhile, as the
Columbia
's engineers went dutifully about the task of measuring the bay, her officers began a tradition that would extend until the coming of Fidel Castro: they went on liberty to the home of an American sugar baron up the Guantánamo Basin.
The New York Times
could barely conceal its delight at this breach of Spanish security. The Crown itself was not amused. The
Columbia
's visit did not bode well for Spanish defenses supposedly in a state of “unusual watchfulness.”
70
What were the Americans doing there? They did not say. Instead, the U.S. State Department told Spanish officials that a telegrapher's
cipher error had brought the
Columbia
to Guantánamo; the ship was supposed to have been plumbing the waters of Bluefields Harbour, Nicaragua, some five hundred miles away. The
Columbia
would depart immediately and all would be rectified. Rectified, perhaps, but not redeemed. Captain Sumner left Guantánamo with more than fond memories of smooth rum and sweet cigars. Detailed drawings and measurements of the bay accompanied the
Columbia
's return to the United States. These drawings and measurements came in handy three years later when, in June 1898, the Americans arrived off the mouth of Guantánamo Bay and fired the shots that announced the nation's arrival as an imperial power.
INDEPENDENCE DAY
Camp McCalla, Guantánamo Bay, June 11, 1898. The U.S. occupation is going swimmingly. Some of the marines are on the beach taking a bath. Yesterday's landing was “as easy as placing a Sunday school picnic,” reports
The New York Times
. Twenty-four hours later and still no enemy in sight. Which comes as a relief to Lieutenant Colonel Robert W. Huntington, who commands the first American troops to set foot on Cuban soil in over a century. Huntington has been ordered to seize and hold Guantánamo Bay. The navy wants it as a coaling station to support its blockade of Santiago Harbor. The army wants it as a beachhead for a ground assault on Santiago itself. In the absence of an enemy, Huntington may be excused for giving his troops a break before fully digging in. They've been trolling the Florida Straits for over a month, beneath a blistering sun, clad head to toe in wool, surviving on hardtack and stale water, and sleeping in quarters so rank they may fairly be compared with stables. Truly these men deserve a dip.
But Huntington has left the camp exposed, and a fury of gunfire erupts from thickets surrounding the U.S. position. The so-called picnic comes to a crashing end, along with the lives of two young Marines and the innocence of an entire battalion. Fortunately, reports the
New York Journal
, Huntington's recruits respond like veterans. “Up from the sea came running a line of naked men, grabbing their carbines and falling into place as Colonel Huntington issued his orders.” Together
with the rest, the bathers sprawl on the ground, then plunge downhill in the direction of the Spanish fire. “There was no fun in this for the naked men,” the
Journal
allows, “but they held their places and charged away with the others, the bushes scratching them and the insects festering their nakedness.” With the Spaniards on the run, the bathers return to fetch their clothes.
1
Spain has made its presence known and for the next three nights will test the resolve of the intruders as it has seldom been tested before. Of all the battles of this war, journalist Stephen Crane will later recall, “none were so hard on the nerves, none more strained the courage so near the panic point, as those swift nights in Camp McCalla.” By now the marines had thrown up breastworks, but they remain pinned down with their backs against the sea. The ensuing standoff generates a hideous cacophony as U.S. pistols, rifles, field guns, and ships' cannon combine with the malignant howl of the Spanish Mauser. Huntington and his lieutenants recognize an untenable situation. When Cuban scouts report that the Spaniards are operating from a base at Cuzco Well, two miles over the hills along the Cuban coastline, a call goes out for volunteers to take the battle to the enemy. The response is overwhelming. Scores of marines are turned away.
2
The next morning, two hundred marines led by fifty Cubans disappear into the chaparral. The procession advances without incident, as if undetected by the Spanish host. But the Cubans know otherwise. Those melodic “coos” come not from doves but from enemy pickets tracking the intruders' progress toward Cuzco Well. There the Spaniards lie in wait, locked, loaded, and concealed in underbrush as the raiding party appears over a nearby ridge. The Mausers uncork, and the marines hit the dirt, guns blazing. Once more fire and brimstone choke the air as the barranca succumbs to a stupefying roar. At first the Spaniards benefit from their position. But the marines enjoy a boon the Spaniards lack: six huge guns mounted atop the USS
Dolphin
, which has paralleled the procession up the coast. A little artful signaling on the part of a U.S. soldier is all that separates the Spaniards from their doom. Up pops a young marine whose job requires only that he stand astride the ridge, his form and flag outlined against the sky, gesturing to the
Dolphin
while the pride of Spain unloads on him. Courage, heroism, sacrifice, valorâthese are the common currency
of war. This signalman's act requires a language all its own. The
Dolphin
's gunners take their mark. The Spaniards are blown to pieces. The U.S. occupation of Guantánamo Bay begins.
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What began as the Cuban War of Independence ended a few short years later as the Spanish-American War. The Cuban dream of “Cuba Libre”âa Cuba free and independent of outside ruleâfueled the insurrection. But Cuba Libre did not sit well with many Americans. For over a century, U.S. officials had looked on Cuba as a “natural addition to its system of states,” as Thomas Jefferson put it back in 1823. Americans had resisted the temptation to seize Cuba, confident that Spain was capable of maintaining law and order conducive to U.S. commercial exploitation of the island. Most Americans had no faith that Cuba could govern itself. When the battle against Spain appeared to be turning Cuba's way, the United States hastily intervened, promising to grant Cubans the independence they had all but won themselves.
Like most wars, the Cuban War of Independence had its proximate cause in a previous conflict, in this case the Ten Years' War against Spain (1868â1878), which came to an end with the controversial Pact of Zanjón (named after a town in eastern Cuba). By the terms of the pact, Cuban separatists agreed to lay down their arms in exchange for the promise of liberal reforms and amnesty for all who had taken part in the insurgency. Many separatists violently opposed the peace agreement. Those who endorsed it did so only out of grudging acknowledgment that their current campaign was unlikely to succeed. Few saw the settlement as a long-term solution. Barely had the pact been signed when separatist general Calixto GarcÃa, exiled in New York, devised plans for a new invasion of Cuba. Like its predecessor, La Guerra Chiquita (or the Little War, 1879â80), as GarcÃa's latest uprising became known, did not achieve its ends. But GarcÃa's labor was not in vain. Cuba Libre needed political as well as military organization, and with the help of a young maverick named José MartÃ, GarcÃa established the Cuban Revolutionary Party, which imbued the movement with the nationalist vision and organizational discipline it previously lacked. With Martà as its guiding light, and taking advantage of an economic downturn in the mid-1880s, the Cuban Revolutionary
Party galvanized disgruntled Cubans (at home and abroad) into a formidable political and military coalition. When liberal reforms and economic recovery in the early 1890s yielded to political reaction and more economic hardship, Martà and his followers struck, declaring Cuban independence in
el grito de Baire
(the shout of Baire) on February 24, 1895.
3
“REVOLTS IN CUBA,” proclaimed
The Philadelphia Inquirer
three days later. “SEVERAL REVOLUTIONARY PARTIES ON THE ISLAND HAVE RISEN IN ARMS.” U.S. readers followed the insurrection with rapt attention. Cuba's governor-general declared martial law; leading separatists and conspirators were arrested throughout the island; other separatists fled to the United States; Spain patrolled the Cuban coastline searching for filibusters; suspicious activity was reported in Tampa and Key West.
4
U.S. newspapers had covered Cuban insurrections before. But this one seemed to be broader based and, in the words of the
Sioux City
(Iowa)
Journal
, promised to be “THE BLOODIEST YET.” Few papers expected the insurrection to succeed, but many noted its careful orchestration, as well as the talent of the charismatic Martà and general Máximo Gómez, a native of Santo Domingo and veteran of the Ten Years' War. The previous month, Martà had left New York for Santo Domingo, where he met up with Gómez before heading for Cuba in the wake of three thousand trained and armed men. As a symbol of their confidence, the revolutionaries launched the latest uprising simultaneously in Santiago province, near Guantánamo Bay, and in Matanzas, just east of Havana.
5
For tactical reasons, Gómez, MartÃ, and their lieutenants did not arrive in Cuba until April, leading newspapers skeptical about an independent Cuba to doubt the insurrection's odds.
The New York Times
went so far as to mock its leadership. “CUBAN REBELS PENITENT,” ran a column out of Havana. “Those Who Were Fierce in New-York Are Like Doves Elsewhere.” “GOMEZ AND MARTI ARE INVISIBLE.” With insurgent troops “fleeing from the military,” the
Times
concluded, Cuban independence didn't “stand a chance.” Over the ensuing months, the
Times
drew on evidence channeled by Spanish authorities to confirm the revolution's demise. “CUBAN INSURGENTS SUBDUED,” the paper announced in early March. “The military commander of Guantánamo reports that several members of [Cuban general] Pedro Perez's
band have surrendered to the authorities. The officials of the district assert that the rebel force there numbers 180 men, who are poorly armed, and are unable to do much fighting.”
6
Like U.S. journalists, the Spanish government did not expect much from the latest violence. In Washington, D.C., the Spanish ambassador told New Orleans's
Daily Picayune
that Spain's thirty thousand troops in Cuba were “sufficient to meet any probable emergency.” He also suggested that Spain would exploit U.S. business interests in Cuba to quash American support for the insurrection. U.S. businesses had just begun to benefit from relaxed duties on U.S. goods bound for Cuba, he observed; surely they would persuade the American government to stem the flow of money and arms to the rebels from Cuban sympathizers in the United States.
7
In Cuba itself, the latest uprising was greeted with equanimity. Boston planter Edwin Atkins, for one, regarded the violence as a mere escalation of the banditry that had plagued planter communities since the economic downturn a decade earlier. A Bostonian by birth, Atkins was the largest American landlord in Cuba. He owned a vast sugar plantation in south-central Cuba named Soledad, near the port of Cienfuegos. Soledad functioned as a sugar
central
, grinding cane not only from its own fields, some of which were farmed by tenants, but also from the fields of neighboring farmers, to the tune of 120,000 tons of cane per year. In high season, 1,200 employees (“specimens from fifteen different countries,” in Atkins's words) worked the Soledad estate, its 12,000 acres knit together by 22 miles of private railway.
8
A little over half of Soledad's land was devoted to sugar production, the rest to raising cattle. Soledad was by no means unusual in the capital-intensive sugar industry of late-nineteenth-century Cuba. By the early 1890s it was surrounded by American-owned estates sprinkled throughout Cienfuegos and neighboring Trinidad provinces. The Americans comprised quite a “colony,” Atkins wrote in a reminiscence of life in Cuba; they “liked to meet at Soledad where they knew they could find rooms and were sure of a welcome.”
9
Atkins came to Cuba to make money. Like many in the planter community, he was frustrated by Spain's erratic trade policy, which made it hard to run a business. When war erupted, Atkins declared himself “autonomist”âthat is, in favor of political and economic rights
for Cuba within the umbrella of the Spanish empire. In the initial months of the conflict, Atkins attempted to steer a middle way between the insurgents and Spanish authorities. For a while, such a way seemed possible, as neither side stood to benefit from alienating American interests. After the initial flare-up in Matanzas, the violence retreated east, and by April 1895, journalists across Cuba were declaring the insurgency all but over. Only “small bands” of “mostly negroes” with “very poor” arms and “utterly incapable leaders” continued to fight on,
The New York Times
reported. In June, a planter friend wrote Atkins that as far as he could “judge, the war on this island will be of no consequence, and will soon come to an end.”
10
But the war did not come to an end. Led by deceptively capable leaders, the insurgents weathered Spain's initial counterattack, and as the insurrection lasted, enthusiasm mounted in the United States, where friends of Cuba Libre continued to recruit troops, raise money, and funnel weapons to Cuba. So great was pro-Cuban support in towns and cities up and down the American seaboard that even the
Times
acknowledged what amounted to a popular mobilization in the United States. “Steamships leaving [Havana] for Key West, Tampa, New-York, New-Orleans, and Mexico are crowded with passengers,” the paper noted. “Many young men of the best families are joining the insurgents, and students are leaving college for the same purpose.”
11
By June 1895 evidence of private American interference in Cuba had become so overt that President Cleveland felt obligated to denounce it. After all, the president chided, Spain was “a power with which the United States are and desire to remain on terms of peace and amity.”
12
It was one thing for the American government to imagine a Cuba free of Spanish rule; it was another thing entirely for the Cubans to want to govern the island by themselves.
Emboldened by success at home and sympathy abroad, the insurrection swept out of the east in the summer of 1895. That July an incendiary announcement from Liberation Army headquarters sent Atkins and other planters scurrying to beat their plowshares into swords. “Whereas all exploitations of any product whatsoever are aids and resources to the Government that we are fighting,” General Gómez announced, “it is resolved ⦠that the introduction of articles of commerce, as well as beef and cattle, into the towns occupied by the enemy,
is absolutely prohibited. The sugar plantations will stop their labors, and whosoever shall attempt to grind the crop notwithstanding this order, will have their cane burned and their buildings demolished.” Those who thought “to profit from the present situation of affairs ⦠shall be considered as an enemy, treated as a traitor, and tried as such in case of his capture.”