Jaruco.
It was a clear warm day. I had retired early to be ready for a five o’clock start for the town of Jaruco, some twenty miles away. It was as dark as night when we stepped into the carriage to go to the ferry and the train—damp, heavy, just a morning for chills. Some members of the committee joined us at the train, and as daylight and sunrise came, the sight, in spite of neglect and devastation, was magnificently lovely. The stately groves of royal palms looked benignly down on the less pretentious banana and cocoanut, each doing its best to provide for and keep life in a starving, dying people. Nine o’clock brought us to the town, where we were met and right royally welcomed by its leading people. The mayor took us in his carriage to the church, followed by a crowd of people that filled its centre. The plain, simple services told in repeated sentences the heart gratitude of a stricken people to God for what he had put into the hearts of America to do. She had remembered them when all was gone, when hunger, pain and death alone remained to them; and when that assemblage of pale, hollow faces and attenuated forms knelt on the rough stone floor in praise to the Great Giver, one felt if this was not acceptable, no worship might ever hope to be. From the church to the house of the mayor, the judge, the doctor and other principal men of the town. It now remained to see what we had “gone for to see.” Two hours’ wandering about in the hot sunshine from hovel to hovel dark and damp, thatched roof and ground floor, no furniture, sometimes a broken bench, a few rags of clothing; some of the people could walk about, some could not, but all had something to eat. Thank God, if not all their lean bodies might crave, still something, and while they showed their skeleton bodies and feet swollen to bursting, they still blessed the people of the country that had remembered them with food.
The line of march was long and weary, and ended with the “hospital.” What shall I say of it? If only a sense of decency were consulted one would say nothing; but truth and facts demand a record. We tried to enter, to reach a poor, wretched looking human being on a low cot on the far side of the room, but were driven back by the stench that met us, not alone the smell one might expect in such a place of neglect, but the dead had evidently lain there unremoved until putrefaction had taken place. There were perhaps four wrecks of men in the various rooms, doubtless left there to die. Like a body of retreating soldiers, driven but not defeated, we went a few rods out and rallied, and calling for volunteers and picked men for service, determined to “storm the works.”
Jaruco is one of the great points of devastation; it is said that more people have died there than the entire town numbers in time of peace; it is still almost a city of reconcentrados.
Naturally, the inhabitants who survive have given all they had many times over in these terrible months. Everything is scarce and dear; even water has to be bought. This was the first point of attack. Twenty good soldiers, with only dirt and filth as enemies, can make some progress. Water by the dray load, lime by the barrel, brushes, brooms, blue for whitewash, hatchets, buckets and things most needful, made up the equipment; and late in the afternoon, when Mr. Elwell, who might well be termed the “Vigilant,” returned to look after the work, preparatory to leaving for home, he found the four poor patients in clean clothes, on clean beds, in the sunshine, eating crackers and milk, the house cleaned, scrubbed, limed, and being whitewashed from ceiling to floor.
It will be finished to-morrow. Sunday and to-day (Monday), we ship cots, blankets, sheets, pillow-slips, all the first utensils needed to make a plain hospital for twenty-five, to be increased to fifty—the food to go regularly. The sick, lying utterly helpless in the hovels, to be selected with care and sent to the hospital, a nurse placed with them, the doctor already there in Jaruco to attend them, and send frequent reports of condition and needs. In two weeks time we may hope to see, not only a hospital that may bear the name, but progress of its patients that may be noted.
I am writing this at length, because it is the first of hundreds that should follow throughout the island, and a type of what we shall endeavor to accomplish.
It will naturally be asked if we expect the Spanish authorities to permit us to do this. Judging from to-day, we have reason to expect every co-operation. The commandant of the town was one of the men who welcomed us; and so far as they had the materials desired, offered them for our use; it was very well, as there were some we could get in no other way.
The crowd that followed us was bewildering—the little children in pitiful proportions. We had prepared ourselves for this by a large invoice of five-cent scrip. An intimation of our desire to the priest arranged the matter quickly. All under, perhaps, six to seven years old, were sent into the church to come out at a side door, with Mr. Elwell and myself on each side as doorkeepers. Every pale passing hand took its scrip, and the gladness that beamed in their little wan faces was good for angels’ eyes. They rushed into the street, romping and tumbling like actual live children, which they had no longer seemed to be.
There was but one more feature to mark this memorable day. After leaving the hospital we were told that a deputation of ladies desired to call on us. We were in the house of a naturalized American citizen, and prepared to receive them. They entered slowly and reverently, the leader bearing a deep plate of choice flowers. As she handed them to me, I perceived in the center a large envelope with a half-inch border of black, and a black ribbon with a tied bow encircling it. The envelope was addressed to me. The first sentence, with tender, trembling voice, told the purport of it all: “For the dead of the Maine.”
The crowd, full of hope and blessing, followed us to the train, and as we passed on, gentle, tender-eyed women came down the banks from their cottages with little baskets of flowers to be passed into the carriage—and ever the black-bordered tribute:
“To the dead of the Maine.”
It was long after dark when we reached our new home, and we were weary enough to find it welcome; but glad of our day’s work, as a type of many more which we confidently expect will follow.
In our banking operations I learned the full address of our excellent hostess, which she had been too modest to name to me:
“Senora Serafina Moliner de Jorrin.”
Titles: “Eccelentisima.” “Ilustrisima.”
We have always had occasion to feel those titles to be well deserved.
Indeed, in groping our way among the poor and helpless, we have found that Cuba is not without its diamonds of worth, nobleness and culture.
We were still searching diligently for a suitable location for the orphanage which I had been requested to open.
Through the social relations of Senora we were immediately put into communication with Senor José Almagro on Tulipan street, who placed at our disposal his own private residence, a charming house with large gardens, stables, swimming baths, fruit and flowers.
Members of the staff, Drs. Hubbell and Egan, together with Dr. and Mrs. Lesser, had meanwhile arrived by steamship from New York.
The diary goes on to say in regard to the orphanage, its location and surroundings:
“It seems to lack nothing. Large, commodious, healthful, easy of access, beautiful to elegance, with tropical gardens, royal palms, swimming baths, and capable of caring for two hundred children, either well or sick,—and for all this the modest, little rent of one hundred and two dollars per month. Attention was first directed to this piece of property on Saturday, February 27. At night the contract was made and signed. On Sunday—“tell it not in Gath”—oh, Christian world, be gentle in your judgment, if a few men, rather than stand about the streets, hunger-stricken, waiting for the crust that came not, earned a few welcome dollars on its frescoed walls, stained glass windows and marble floors.
“On Monday seventy-five new cots, blankets, pillows and sheets adorned its spacious rooms. On Tuesday, March 1, Mrs. Dr. Lesser, our practical “Sister Bettina,” who had taken the superintendence, made the necessary outfit,—food and medicine from the warehouse; and from Los Fosos, that terrible den of suffering, the pale lifeless, helpless, starved little creatures to fill the waiting cots—a few good nurses to lift the heads that could not lift themselves and fill the mouths that had scarcely ever before been filled.”
This, then, was the orphanage. May I be pardoned for saying reverently, we looked on our work and found it good, and felt that we might now leave the little, tired creatures to rest in the faithful hands that had so lovingly and intelligently taken them up, while we turned away to other fields.