My first view of General Calixto Garcia was a disappointing one. For some reason, probably from the reports I had heard concerning his bravery, I had expected to see a man of great proportions and commanding aspect. Instead, I saw an elderly gentleman of fair figure, with mild eyes and almost white mustache and beard, the latter trimmed close. But the eyes, though mild, were searching, and as he turned them upon me I felt he was reading me through and through.
He was evidently surprised to see a boy, and an American at that. He spoke but little English, but an interpreter was close at hand, who immediately demanded to know who I was, where I had come from, and what I wanted.
“My name is Mark Carter, and I have journeyed all the way from Santiago de Cuba,” I replied. “I heard that my father and his friend, Señor Guerez, had joined General Garcia’s forces.”
“You are Señor Carter’s son!” exclaimed the Cuban officer, and turned quickly to General Garcia. The two conversed for several minutes, and then the under-officer turned again to me.
“General Garcia bids you welcome,” he said, and at the same time the great Cuban leader smiled and extended his hand, which I found as hard and horny as that of any tiller of the soil. “He knows your father and Señor Guerez well.”
“And where are they now?” I asked quickly.
“They were with the army two days ago, but both went off to escort the ladies of Señor Guerez' family to a place of safety. The señor was going to take his wife and daughters to an old convent up a river some miles from here.”
This was rather disheartening news, yet I had to be content. I asked if my father was well.
“Very well, although hardly able to walk, on account of a leg he broke some time ago.”
“And have you seen Alano Guerez? He is about my own age, and was with me up to this morning,” I went on, and briefly related my adventures on the road, to which the officer listened with much interest.