Merline Lovelace (16 page)

With shivers of sheer excitement darting up and down her spine, Victoria scribbled furiously in her notebook. She couldn’t believe she was here, witnessing this historic moment, capturing the sights and sounds and searing, steamy magnificence of it for the
Tribune
’s readers.

At that moment, she felt as though she’d not only earned her spurs, she was truly wearing them.

After the formal ceremony concluded, the commanders gave the order to break ranks. The troops mingled about in the plaza, savoring their victory. Victoria wove her way through the crowd in search of Sam and the First Volunteer Cavalry. She wanted
to record their sentiments on this momentous occasion.

She was halfway across the plaza when war suddenly, and without warning, broke out once more.

Apparently hoping to bury the hatchet amid the joyousness of the moment, Harry Scoval approached Shafter. The general was in no mood to bury anything. Bellowing with rage, he unleashed a barrage of uncomplimentary remarks about journalists in general and Scoval in particular. As angry now as Shafter, the reporter shot back that he had no right to use such language to someone who’d come under fire alongside his troops.

“Shame on you, sir!” he snapped at the general. “Shame on you!”

To everyone’s complete astonishment, the three-hundred-pound Shafter hauled back and swung at the
World
correspondent. To the general’s complete astonishment, the correspondent returned the punch. Mere seconds later, Scoval was on his back on the cobbles, surrounded by two dozen U.S. Marines with fixed bayonets pointed at his throat.

Slack-jawed with amazement, Victoria almost dropped her pencil and notebook.

“I’d better fetch Frances,” Davis muttered. “She’s going to have the devil of a time getting Harry out of this one.”

Only after Scoval had been marched off under guard did Victoria recover from her astonishment
enough to jot down a hasty note. How odd, she wrote. How very, very odd. The only instance of hand-to-hand combat she had personally observed during the war with Spain occurred between the conquering hero and a member of the press.

She was still musing over the irony of it when Sam found her and passed on a bit of news that disconcerted her almost as much as the unseemly brawl. Slipping a hand under her elbow, he guided her through the throng to a quiet spot in the shade of the cathedral.

“Although it’s not for public knowledge just yet, General Wood’s to be appointed military governor of Santiago. He’s asked Captain Max Luna from the New Mexico contingent to act as his interpreter. He wants me to serve on his staff as provost marshal.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave the Rough Riders?”

“I’ll be detached from them, yes.”

“I see,” Victoria murmured, although she really didn’t. It hadn’t occurred to her that Sam might stay behind when the main body of the army moved on.

“How long do you think you’ll remain in Santiago?”

“I don’t know. Until the war’s over, anyway, and a Cuban government takes over administration of the island.”

“But that could take months.”

“Or years,” he said with a wry grimace.

The lingering excitement of witnessing the Stars and Stripes rise above the governor’s palace fizzled and died on the spot. Belatedly, Victoria realized that fighting constituted only part of winning the war. After the battles came the task of governing captured territories. And Sam, apparently, had been tapped to help with that task.

“Have you decided where you’ll go from here?” he asked quietly. “I’ll admit I don’t care for the idea of you going off to Puerto Rico or the Philippines.”

To be honest, Victoria didn’t particularly care for it, either. Not if Sam wouldn’t be there.

“I don’t know where I’ll go,” she admitted. “Home, probably. I really haven’t planned that far ahead.”

“I was thinking…” he said slowly. “Perhaps you could stay in Santiago for a few weeks, until the rainy season sets in.”

“Stay here?”

“You said you wanted to write more about Miss Barton and her volunteers. You might also find any number of stories in the occupation and administration of a conquered province.”

“Well, I— I—”

“I’ll have a house in town,” he said while she struggled to gather her whirling thoughts. “Nothing grand, I imagine, but surely more comfortable than
the quarters you’ve occupied up to now. You could stay there, make it your temporary headquarters while you write your stories. And we could get to know each other.”

Her breath caught. Smiling at her wide-eyed surprise, he brushed his gloved hand down her cheek.

“I realize now you were right. I barely knew the girl I asked to marry me back in Cheyenne. The woman she’s become is even more of a mystery. Shall we start again, Victoria? Get to know each other? Will you spend the next few weeks with me?”

“Yes,” she got out when she could breathe again. “I believe I will.”

O
n the day following Santiago’s formal surrender, the Spanish government forwarded a message to President McKinley asking for a suspension of hostilities and the start of negotiations to end the war. The U.S. ground forces in Cuba went into bivouac in the hills around Santiago while their commanders waited for a decision as to where and how they would next be deployed.

As Sam had predicted, General Leonard Wood was officially named military governor of Santiago. The former commander of the Rough Riders wasted no time setting up operations in the Spanish governor’s palace and assembling his staff. Their job, as he explained in his clipped, humorless way, was to restore order to the town and surrounding countryside, while ensuring that citizens still loyal to Spain didn’t rise up against their new masters.

Sam and Captain Maximillian Luna of the New
Mexico Rough Rider contingent were assigned quarters just off the main plaza on Calle San Giorgio. Formerly occupied by a Spanish general and his family, the low, rambling house boasted a courtyard filled with a riot of flowers, creaking wooden ceiling beams in every room and a staff that included a cook, a housekeeper, two maids and a stable boy.

“They don’t speak a word of English,” Sam warned as he carried in Victoria’s mud-stained valise. “But Max has explained to the housekeeper that you’re promised to me, and Señora Garcia’s agreed to act as a duenna of sorts.”

“So we’re to continue the pretense of an engagement, then?”

He glanced down at her. “Unless you find it irksome.”

“No, not irksome.”

Just…strange. As though they existed in some in-between land. Everyone from the Rough Riders to Richard Harding Davis and her acquaintances among the press assumed Victoria belonged part and parcel to Sam. Only the two of them knew that the truth was something else again. At this point, however, neither one of them could say exactly what that truth was.

Leading the way down a long, tiled hallway, Sam showed her to a spacious bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting. An
ornately carved mahogany clothespress stood against one wall, while the other was taken up by a dressing table topped by a wavy mirror. Green shutters filtered the light, while thick adobe walls stuccoed in pale cream kept out most of the heat.

“I think you’ll be comfortable here,” Sam said, depositing her valise beside the clothespress.

“I should think so, indeed!”

Enchanted, she peered around. A forgotten hat cockade and an ivory hair comb lying on the floor under the dressing table gave evidence of the previous occupants’ hasty departure. A twinge of guilt at displacing the Spanish general and his family from their home attacked her momentarily. But only momentarily. The Cuban people had suffered too long and the Americans had fought too hard for the victors to as yet feel sympathy for the defeated Spanish.

Besides, she’d just discovered that the wooden screen in the corner shielded a tin tub.

“Sam! A hip bath!” Her eyes sparking, she spun around. “I can’t remember the last time I soaped down in something other than a cold stream, wearing all my clothes.”

Sam started to reply that she could now soap down wearing nothing at all, but the very vivid image of Victoria doing just that gave him a sudden jab square to his middle. Luckily, she was too de
lighted with the prospect of a real bath to notice his swift, in-drawn breath.

“I’ll send Señora Garcia to you on my way out.”

“Are you going back to the palace?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I must. General Wood has already declared that administering a conquered city is more of a challenge than commanding a regiment composed of cowboys and Fifth Avenue swells. Every man, woman and child in Santiago seems to have a petition or grievance that requires his—or his staff’s—personal attention.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’ve exchanged some American dollars for Spanish,” he told her, digging a roll of colorful bills out of his pocket. “Fresh vegetables and meat are still hard to come by, but we expect supply ships by tomorrow or the next day. In the meantime, Señora Garcia can help you purchase whatever you might need in the way of personal items at the local market.”

Whatever she might need? Good heavens, what
didn’t
she need? Victoria’s mind immediately began spinning out a long list.

“I recommend you take her or one of the others with you if you decide to roam about,” Sam cautioned. “There are parts of town it’s best you don’t stray into just yet.”

“I understand.” Tucking the thick roll of notes into her skirt pocket, she made a mental note to
reimburse him later from the funds she’d brought with her.

“So I’ll see you when I see you, then?”

“I’ll try to join you for dinner tonight.” A rueful smile entered his eyes. “I still plan to use this time together in Santiago to our advantage. I only hope General Wood cooperates.”

“I hope so, too,” she murmured as he strode down the tiled hall.

Victoria spent two hours that afternoon with Señora Garcia at the local market, which had sprung to life again in the main plaza.

As Sam had warned, there was little food available. Not surprising given the disruption caused during the past decade by the forcible relocation of hundreds of thousands of peasants from their farms. A few green, stringy plantains cost dearly, and black beans went for a shameful price. Señora Garcia haggled ferociously for what the seller swore was a plucked quail, but looked suspiciously like pigeon to Victoria.

In contrast, clothing and personal items abandoned by the Spanish who’d fled the city had already flooded the market. Victoria purchased embroidered linens of the softest cambric, a rustling taffeta underskirt and a ruby-red dinner gown that clashed horribly with her hair but was so beautiful she couldn’t resist it. With vigorous gestures and
enthusiastic nods, Señora Garcia insisted Victoria also acquire a tall comb and exquisite black lace mantilla.

The roll Sam had given her was considerably slimmer when the two women returned to the house on Calle San Giorgio. The heat and walk from the market took more of a toll on Victoria than she’d anticipated. With black spots dancing before her eyes, she used pantomime and hand signals to express her fervent desire for a bath.

The long, sybaritic soak was heaven. With her legs draped over the front edge of the tub and her head resting against its high, sloping back, Victoria lolled in blissful abandon while her skin wrinkled to a prunelike consistency. She felt very much herself again after washing her hair, brushing it dry and dressing in her new finery for dinner.

Dinner had to be put back twice before Sam and Maximillian Luna returned to the house. Scion of a distinguished Spanish family that had settled great tracts of land around Santa Fe, Captain Luna exhibited all the grace and sophistication of his heritage. His dark eyes gleamed as he took in Victoria’s gown and the black lace mantilla draped over her clean, shining hair.

“So this is the intrepid Miss Parker I’ve heard so much about.” Bowing, he brought her hand to his lips with Old World charm. “May I say you’re every bit as beautiful as you are adventurous?”

“You may indeed, sir.”

Smiling, Victoria couldn’t help but marvel at how strange it felt to dress in silks and engage in polite banter once again. The hospital at Siboney might have been a thousand miles away instead of a mere eight.

Another twinge of guilt attacked her at the thought, much fiercer than her brief bout of sympathy for the previous occupants of this house. Here she was, clean, cool and about to sit down at a real table to dinner, while Mary still labored in the contagion ward.

“Have you had word from Siboney?” she asked Sam when they’d settled in at the table. “Is Mary well?”

“She was the last I heard.” His jaw took on a grim cast. “But the number of yellow fever cases is mounting. The Red Cross intends to help by taking some of the spillover from Siboney. They’re setting up a temporary hospital here in Santiago.”

“Miss Barton’s here?” Victoria asked, her eyes brightening.

“She arrived this morning. She’s taken over the boathouse down by the harbor as a hospital.”

“She and her volunteers will soon have their hands full,” Max Luna put in. “General Wood expects the worst once the rains come down in earnest. Although,” he added with a grimace, “I don’t see how they can get much worse than they are
now. I’ve never missed Santa Fe’s dry, blistering heat as much as I have this past month.”

“You’ll miss it more in a few weeks,” Sam warned. “I understand it pours all day, every day, from August through October.”

“At least we have a roof over our heads. The poor troops steam like lobsters in their tents.”

“When they’re not swimming in mud.”

Shaking his head at the plight of his men, Sam told Victoria that General Shafter had already petitioned Secretary of War Alger for permission to redeploy the army to higher, drier ground.

“Or better yet, take them back to the States until we see whether or not the peace negotiations bring an end to the war. Alger will have to decide where to move them, and soon.”

His brown eyes met hers across the table. She read the message in them with a little skip of breath. She, too, would have to decide where she’d go from here. And soon.

As if reading her mind, Sam confirmed that the other journalists were already deserting Cuba. Richard Harding Davis had taken ship that morning. Scoval would leave as soon as his wife could convince Shafter to release him.

“Stephen Crane leaves tomorrow. He came by the palace and said to tell you he’d be happy to carry dispatches back to Key West for you.”

“Crane interviewed Colonel Roosevelt this af
ternoon,” Max put in. “I can imagine the dispatch he’ll file when he gets back to Key West.”

Inevitably, the talk turned to the experiences the two officers had shared under Roosevelt’s command. They regaled Victoria with accounts of the more farcical aspects of the Santiago campaign, which she solemnly swore not to include in her dispatches. Although fascinated, she was drooping with fatigue when Sam escorted her to her room.

“I can’t imagine why I’m so tired,” she said, unsuccessfully hiding a yawn.

“The past weeks are catching up with you.”

With a little wave of her hand, she indicated her new finery. “And here I thought to sparkle for you tonight.”

“You can sparkle tomorrow night. Max has to interpret for General Wood at a banquet he’s giving for the local dignitaries.”

That caught her attention. “So Captain Luna won’t be joining us?”

“No, it will be just the two of us.” Smiling, he dropped a kiss on her mouth. “Sleep well.”

With the prospect of a night alone with Sam hovering in her mind, Victoria sat down at the dressing table and forced herself to record her impressions of a city under military occupation. Freed of the hundred-word restriction, she let the adjectives flow.

The next morning, she stuffed the pages in an envelope and took them down to the harbor to search out Stephen Crane. She found him just about to board ship. The journalist’s hand shook when he accepted her pages. Alarmed, Victoria noted that his normally pale face was ashen and dewed with sweat.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s this damned malaria. I’m afraid I’m coming down with another bout of it. I had the devil of a time convincing the captain it’s not yellow fever, I can tell you. The bastard— Pardon me. The wretch almost refused to take me aboard.”

Tucking her envelope into his pocket, he made for the gangplank. “I’ll put these on the wires for you as soon as I reach Key West.”

“Thank you.”

That task taken care of, Victoria made her way along the quay. The tall royal palms lining the harbor rustled gently in the breeze. Out in the bay, the remains of the Spanish fleet sunk while trying to escape Santiago gave grim evidence of the battle waged for the city. The navy would be some time clearing the wreckage, she guessed.

The large wooden structure Miss Barton had appropriated for the Red Cross was, for reasons Victoria had yet to discover, known locally as the English Boat Club. It was built out over the water on stilts and connected to the shore by a wooden
bridge. Surrounded entirely by a veranda, the large, airy structure had shutters instead of walls to let in the sea breezes.

Already, the overflow from Siboney had filled the makeshift hospital to capacity. General Wood had supplied it with cots, sheets, blankets, clean pajamas and mosquito netting, Miss Barton informed Victoria, but they had no trained nurses and only the services of General Wood’s staff surgeon to assist them. Even Callie May Morgan had been promoted from laundress to medical attendant. Cradling the sick in her big, muscular arms, she fed and changed and bathed them with damp cloths when the fever gripped them.

As she had at Siboney, Victoria offered her services. To her surprise, Miss Barton declined them.

“I’m not saying we couldn’t use another pair of hands,” she admitted, “but you’re doing far more good for these patients with your writing than you could ever do in wards.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, my dear! The Red Cross has been besieged with volunteers who’ve read your stirring stories, particularly your piece about Callie May. I received a cable just this morning that another ship carrying immunes will dock in Santiago tomorrow.”

Her dark eyes twinkling in her sparrow’s face, she patted Victoria’s hand.

“Keep writing, Miss Parker. That’s the most vi
tal service you can render our gallant men in uniform.”

When Victoria related the extraordinary conversation to Sam later that evening, he agreed. They were alone, as he’d promised. Candles flickered in their holders, bathing the table in a small circle of light. Lingering over rich, flavorful coffee after a late supper, she expressed her admiration for Miss Barton and her volunteers.

“They profess to be quite ordinary,” she murmured, stirring her coffee with her spoon. “Yet they’ve performed the most extraordinary deeds.”

“So have you,” Sam pointed out. “With your efforts at Siboney. And with your stories bringing readers’ attention to their service.”