Camp Columbia, Cuba
September 12th, 1906
Nate Kirby lifted the heavy bat from his shoulder and squinted, winnowing the well-worn column of ashwood and taunting the dark-skinned pitcher to send the baseball right down the middle of the pillow-buckle base.
“Alright, you black son-of-a-bitch, throw that curve again.”
The abandoned field was situated on the edge of a humid, sun-beaten isthmus that the locals called Playa Baracoa. They built their whitewashed stone houses right to the rocky edge of the ocean, stuck between shelves of frothing gulf stream and a mosquito-ridden lagoon. It was only by the providential initiative of some enterprising Cubano in a forgotten chapter of Playa Baracoa’s history that the grassy lot was cleared of the tens of thousands of craggy, sea-tossed rocks that bastioned the northern coast Cuban soil like a barreled basement.
In the shade of arcing palms that rose like watchful elders from the rocky earth, Company C of the First Battalion, 11th Cavalry Regiment hooted and whistled at their lieutenant, clinking bottles of label-free beers in the hot sun with their fatigue jackets tossed carelessly into the grass. One poor, lone fool was left in his fatgiues with his rifle to watch the gear and horses, and there was a vague sense among the thirty or so men that there was some official duty to be done—but it was as if no one could remember what it was.
Lieutenant Nathaniel P. Kirby was tall and skinny—like a palm three—and his long arms were flecked from years under the sun. He had a harsh, mid-Virginian accent that was suspect in his unit of primarily New York and Massachusetts men, and one could not tell from the grime and mud on his striped trousers if he was an officer or a clerk.
The white men of Company C jawed from the shade of the trees, watching as the Las Gorras Negras of the independent West Havana affiliate attempted, for the fourth time this afternoon, to prevent their commander from scoring.
William Maria Rodriguez-Gonzalez was large, even for a pitcher. He had thrown his share in La Liga Nacional before the instability of 1906 forced the season to end after just four games. Beyond his prime, he was still a large and imposing pitcher, eyes all full of cannonfire when he heaved back for the toss, and he released a low and outraged cry upon each heave of the ball. It was altogether an imposing and unfamiliar act to the soldiers of Company C and there back-alley style of silent, nimble baseball.
The catcher, a fat and sarcastic old thumper called simply El Burro, beat a fist against his black-stained mit and cursed up to the clouds as Gonzales shook away three signs in a row.
“That’s right,” Nate taunted, still spinning his bat. “Make my day, amigo.” He dug in.
Inhaling, Gonzalez widened his eyes, threw his long arms up over his head, and cried out as he hurled a blazing fastball toward the makeshift pillow plate. Nate kicked his front leg high in the air, like a cat preparing to lunge at a bird, and threw his arms out at the hard-thrown ball.
The time-polished bat slapped the worn, brown cowskin ball with a satisfying “thonk” followed by a crack that seemed to echo over the coastal rocks. El Burro groaned. Gonzalez let out a howl of rage. The ball sailed like Sisyphus toward the sun, out beyond the white rocks of the shore, and was swallowed by the gem-blue ocean. The boys of company C erupted in cheers. Nate took his trot around the brown, mudstained bases, saluting Gonzalez with two fingers. Despite himself, the old pitcher smiled, shaking his large head and wiping his brow. He returned the salute.
Waiting at Homeplate, to some surprise, was an officer in full uniform, sweating in the midday sun, his arms folded neatly behind his back. The cheering had died down, and the ballpalyers of Las Gorras Negras looked on curiously at the man disturbing their exhibition match.
“You are Lieutenant Kirby?” The Major asked, his long face looking Nate over with a neutral expression. He wore a spotless colt .45 revolver in a brown holster with his campaign boots pulled high up to his knees.
“That’s me.” Kirby accepted a brown bottle of dark beer from one of his men and pulled from it, catching his breath. He rendered a pathetic salute. The Major frowned.
“Does this company not have orders to seek out saboteurs around the Havana rail line and guard the coal trains?”
“I’ll let you know when I see any saboteurs,” Nate answered flatly, holding to cool bottle to his neck, “or coal trains.”
Unperturbed by the lack of decorum, the Major withdrew a folded letter from his breast pocket. “Compliments of General Winfield Garrison,” he said flatly, nodding his head. “Nice hit, Lieutenant.”
Smirking as the Major spun on a heel and marched off, Nate unfolded the letter. One of his sergeants wandered over, a curious expression. “We in trouble, sir?”
Nate read the message over three times, working his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Something like that.” He crumpled the letter up.
“They transferring you?” The sergeant frowned. “Shit, sir, we play Havana Central next week—”
“All good things come to an end, Sarge.” Nate fetched his jacket from the grass and buttoned it up as the Cuban players left the field.
“Where they sending you? Tell me it ain’t headquarters.”
“Worse,” Nate answered with a smile, running his fingers through his dark hair and slinging his Springfield rifle across his shoulder, “the Richmond Rifles.”
U.S. ARMY HEADQUARTERS, CAMP COLUMBIA, CUBA
Winfield Garrison poured three fingers of brandy from a glistening crystal decanter and slid it across the polished oak table to Nate. A loud, chirping grandfather clock chattered from somewhere in the lavish apartment, which apparently was to be theoretically labeled as an Army headquarters. Nate thought it looked more like a Richmond mansion.
“You know, Lieutenant Kirby,” the old General said casually, pouring his own glass and gently resting the stopper back over the neck. He had a gentle and articulate accent of the Virginian aristocracy–quite in opposition to Nate’s harsh and working class diction. “A different commander of the expeditionary force might find the flouting of orders in favor of a baseball game to lack good order and discipline.”
Nate shrugged, gathering the tumbler and pulling deeply from the brandy. “Half my outfit fought in the Philippines. We know the difference between a war and parlor party.”
Amused, General Garrison took a seat across the young officer and sighed. “Yes, I cannot say I long to return to combat action, but there is a certain sense of disappointment when one sails from their homeland to fight an enemy that does not seem to, in fact, exist.”
Nate raised his glass with an ironic sense of gravity. “To military intelligence, General.”
“How’s your brother, Nate? I haven’t seen him in, oh, six or seven years.”
Nate shrugged again. “Hell if I know. Robbing normal folks blind on behalf of some fatass in Washington. Whatever it is lawyers do there.”
“You aren’t close? That’s a shame. You were in your youth, if I recall.”
“You sent me up here in the bottom of the seventh against Havana Black-Caps to reminisce, General?”
With a long, thoughtful look, General Scott looked with pity at Nate. “I assume you read your father’s telegram.”
“That I did.”
“Quite the proposal.”
“I’m not doing it.”
General Garrison raised an eyebrow. “You’d turn down a chance to be the youngest professional General Manager in baseball history?”
“I have a job already.”
General Garrison laughed out loud. “Yes, that you do. And if there was any sense of equality in today’s army you’d be court-martialed a dozen times over.”
“Ain’t that a crying shame.”
“I’m quite serious, Nate. I’ve known you since you were a small boy. You have one of the best baseball minds of your generation. You’re a damned good ballplayer. But you’re a damned shitty soldier.”
Nate studied General Garrison with a distrusting eye, drinking again from the tumbler. “I don’t see why this concerns you one way or the other.”
Garrison smiled. He rose, folding his arms behind his back and pacing over to the large windows. He looked down at the courtyard below, where a few boys in straw hats tossed a ball back and forth across the cobblestones. “Perhaps you recall I was among the Legacy Baseball League’s founders.”
“Yeah, I seem to remember you losing your job to that communist carpetbagger from Missouri.”
Garrison chuckled. “Jacob Parker’s a fine man—if somewhat misguided. But at least he loves the game. That’s enough for me.” He sighed. “Your father loves the game too, Nate. Probably more than most. I can count on one hand the number of Virginia men with the vision and passion required to forge a culture of baseball in the south. And if you don’t take on the Richmond Rifles, Michael Monroe will use his purse strings to gut the team for whatever profit he can recover and spread the virus of his obsession with capital across the league. The game will be surrendered to the money-worshipping clutches of the north, forever.”
“It ain’t my problem.”
“I’m making it your problem.” Garrison spun around to face Nate. “I’ve arranged your passage to Florida on the next transport. Nice cabin, private latrines. Then a train to Richmond. You’ll meet your dying father, you’ll accept his nomination as his replacement, and you’ll receive the honorable discharge I’ve prepared for you within the year.”
Beside himself, Nate stared at the General, working his jaw.
“You are like a grandson to me. I will not let you spoil your future on account of some petulant lack of ambition.” The old General walked back over to the table, bearing down on Nate with a somber expression and draining the rest of his glass. “Your father has a dream that is Libby Hill, Nate.” He slammed the glass on the table. “You will do your duty as his son and steward that dream, or so help me god, I will have you court-martialed.”