Ventura Hernandez glanced outside and beckoned for Morgan and Olga to come in. Batista’s men had camped just miles away, and the Rural Guard had been prowling the area, dragging the guajiros from their bohíos to find out who had been helping Menoyo.
In the middle of the mess, Hernandez and other farmers were just trying to live their lives. The Second Front rebels had been their saviors. No unit did more for the Escambray, protecting the people from the dreaded soldiers. For months, Hernandez had helped the Second Front, sneaking them bananas and coffee, warning them about trouble in the valley.
He turned to Olga and Morgan standing in the middle of his stone-and-wood farmhouse. “I will be your witness,” he said.
Hernandez would prepare the documents for them to be married and seal them: “The free territory of the Escambray.” But before the ceremony, he instructed his daughters to take Olga down to the creek that meandered through his small farm. “Be careful,” he told them.
His girls grabbed a towel and soap and led Olga down the hill. The sun was setting over the mountain as they reached the end of the trail. The creek bubbled up at the end of the small road. The girls led Olga to a bend where the water was rushing over stones and branches and a nearby waterfall cascaded down from a ledge. One of the girls told Olga that she could bathe here.
As she slipped off her shirt and slowly removed the rest of her clothes, the girls huddled around her, giggling. Olga slipped into the water, first to her knees, then her waist, and finally she immersed herself.
“Oh my God,” she said aloud. It had been months since she had had a full bath.
She stared up at the sky, a cool breeze blowing across the valley, the tops of the trees waving as if they were moving just for her. She thought about all that had happened: her escape, the war. If she could stop time—now—just the way it was . . .
“We should go,” said one of the girls. They worried that the Rural Guard could be coming.
The Hernandez daughters shielded Olga as she stepped from the water. Shivering in the cool air, Olga followed them to the trail. Each walked next to each other to make sure no one could ambush them from the brush.
At the door, Morgan met Olga, still wrapped in the towel, her hair cascading down. For a moment, he stood and stared. She had never looked so beautiful. Morgan, too, looked different. While Olga was gone, he had gotten a pair of scissors and cut off his beard. She had never seen his full face. Even his eyes seemed different.
Hernandez had decorated the table with a vase of wildflowers and a bowl of bananas, oranges, and mangoes. Olga knew he didn’t have much. Hernandez’s wife had walked out on the family one day, but the girls stayed with their papa. He worked the land mostly by himself, making sure they had enough to eat and sell at market.
Through the door came Onofre Pérez, a big round man with thick forearms, who served as one witness. Francisco “Panchit” Léon, an aging, gray rebel twice as old as the others, would be the other.
Hernandez quickly stood up. “We must start,” he said. But first he asked that one of his daughters take Olga into a bedroom.
When Olga walked in, she saw that they had laid out a blouse along with a floral skirt and a pair of shoes. “You can wear them,” said the farmer.
Olga was speechless. She had never been treated so kindly since arriving in the mountains. For this family to do this for her—they didn’t even know her. She slipped into the clothes, careful not to crease the fabrics.
Hernandez wasted no time. He handed Morgan and Olga their vows on a piece of paper. As Morgan read his lines, tears welled in Olga’s eyes. She couldn’t believe it. She lost her family in Santa Clara when she fled to the mountains. She might never see her mother or sisters again. But here—now—she had gained a new family, William Morgan—someone she would hold in her heart for the rest of her life.
“I love you,” she told him.
They kissed, and then looking up, everyone clapped.
Morgan and Olga in the Escambray mountains, with assault rifles, smiling lovingly into each other’s eyes Courtesy of Morgan Family Collection
Pérez had spent weeks with Morgan in the mountains but had never seen his comandante so much at peace. Hernandez offered the group a pitcher of punch made of homemade rum and fruit juice. Everyone took turns toasting the happy couple.
Morgan put his arm around Olga and motioned for her to walk outside. In the darkness, they walked down near the river, the moon casting shadows on the ground below. Twigs snapped under their feet as they found a quiet corner of the farm.
Morgan reached into his pocket and took out a present: a jar of cream—a luxury in the mountains during a war. Olga smiled. Even when she lived in Santa Clara, she hadn’t received a gift like this.
“I don’t have anything to give you but my love,” she said.
“Your love is more than enough for me,” he replied. “When your country is free, we will be very happy and love each other more.”
Above the mountains, the stars shone brightly, lighting up the black sky. They embraced, kissing, slowly sliding down to the ground and rolling on the grass. They didn’t care that it was cold or that the others were nearby.
In the darkness, Menoyo and his men crept past the row of faded pastel storefronts, lights flickering inside. One more block, and they would stand within reach of the garrison.
Trinidad had dozens of neighborhoods. A virtual maze of concrete blocks with barrel tile roofs lining narrow cobblestone streets covered the center of town and offered plenty of hiding places. Even with two hundred soldiers running around the city, the rebels could find plenty of spots where no one would find them. For most of the afternoon, they had been filtering quietly into the city and then ducking into the homes of supporters who had been waiting to host them.
To keep a low profile, Menoyo had split the Second Front into strike teams, the same strategy as in the mountains. Each would converge on the garrison from a different street. He motioned for his men to gather at the block just beyond the target. They had just seconds before their actions drew the guards’ attention.
Menoyo had reviewed the attack plan for weeks with his commanders, each group taking a post fewer than fifty yards from each corner of the building. It was no different than positioning themselves for an ambush in the bush, taking the high ground behind thick brush and ridges.
Menoyo and his men crouched down and positioned their rifles. Taking aim at the looming stone structure, Menoyo eyed the windows, the doorway, the guards. Then he threw up his hand: “Fuego! ” he shouted.
The men squeezed the triggers of their rifles, bullets flying into windows and the yard around the structure. They took turns, careful not to expend all their ammo, trying to make each shot count. Menoyo fully expected a return volley from the soldiers in the garrison. But what he didn’t expect—what he didn’t rehearse while planning the attack—were gunshots in the distance.
The soldiers weren’t just in the garrison. They were in the street, just beyond the plaza, firing at his men. The strike team led by Anastasio Cárdenas Ávila had started to bolt from the buildings to join the main unit, but these soldiers had surprised them. Men in uniforms jumped out from the buildings, firing into the street. Others seemed to come from nowhere.
What the rebels didn’t know was that Batista’s commanders had just sent 150 reinforcements before they arrived. Add that to the 200 soldiers entrenched in the garrison, and they were up against a group the size of the entire Second Front.
The rebel who was most in trouble was Cárdenas, pinned down with his men on a street called La Reforma. They tried to escape but couldn’t. One of his men, Hector Rodriguez, was clutching a .12-gauge shotgun that protected him but split in two when hit with enemy fire. Cárdenas wasn’t as lucky. He died, along with five others. The other guerrillas tried to help, but the soldiers fired on Cárdenas and his men, riddling their bodies with bullets.
Across town, Menoyo was beside himself. He grabbed the twenty-pound bomb that he and the others had built from sticks of dynamite. He lit the fuse and heaved it into the side of the barracks. The sticks exploded, tearing a giant hole in the side of the wall and sending chunks of cement flying across the street.
But the soldiers didn’t let up. With all the ammo that money could buy, they kept firing into the rebel groups from all directions. The rebels didn’t have a choice: They had to retreat.
Menoyo pulled the radio close, calling the other teams. It was time to pull out, he screamed. Pronto. Each team knew what to do. Some converged at the north side of town where they had parked the trucks borrowed from the farmers. Some of the men jumped into the vehicles, while others bolted into the brush beyond the outskirts of town. But the army wasn’t done. The soldiers gave chase, firing at the rebels on foot.
Morgan kicked into gear. He could see that the others were in trouble, and he ordered his men to set up their own counterattack.
Gripping his Sten, he stood as the soldiers were charging and fired into the unit, unflinching. He didn’t give a damn how much ammunition he expended. He needed to hold back the soldiers.
Keep firing, he yelled to his men. Don’t stop. After several minutes, the soldiers were forced to run for cover and halt their pursuit. Menoyo and the others had a clear road.
The Second Front lost six men, including Cárdenas, one of its comandantes. Eight other rebels were shot up, but still breathing. They had less ammunition than before and were retreating. But they had done something that no one—not even Castro—had accomplished. They had entered a major city and boldly inflicted casualties on Batista’s army. Dozens of soldiers lay bleeding in the streets. Morgan in the rear guard ensured that most of the rebels stayed alive.