The news began filtering over the airwaves: Batista’s rein over Cuba had ended.
The reaction began with shots fired into the air. Car horns echoed down the long boulevard leading to the plaza. The people of Cienfuegos had never experienced anything like it. Overlooking the plaza, they draped Cuban flags over their balconies and waved to pedestrians below. A crowd gathered in José Marti Park and shouted in jubilation to passing cars.
Morgan motioned for his men to gather around. They were in control. They would be moving into the naval base. But that’s not why he was calling them together. In a few minutes, the city was going to erupt, and there was no police force to control the chaos. The rebels who had fought in the mountains for the past year were about to become the local police.
The men were exhausted. They hadn’t slept in days. They hadn’t washed. Some hadn’t even eaten. But in minutes, they were going to be the law of the land.
The young barbudos had never been put in this position, but there was no other way for the transition to begin. Looting would start, and some would try to shoot the Batistianos, those loyal to the old regime. The rebels had to guard every section of the city and, if need be, commandeer cars without hurting anyone. They had to remember that they weren’t in the mountains anymore but watching over women and children.
Holding their guns tightly, the men split into teams and disappeared beyond the first row of buildings. Morgan strapped on his Sten and started walking toward the naval base. Within moments, people on the streets overwhelmed him. Some reached over to hug him. Others kissed him.
“¡Americano! ¡Americano! ” they shouted as he made his way down to the main bridge.
Some Cuban cities still supported Batista, but Cienfuegos wasn’t one of them. Batista had ordered so many crackdowns here. Airplane bombings a year earlier had killed four civilians and injured twenty others. The rebels were a welcome sight.
Morgan never could have dreamed about this happening a year ago. A man running from his past, he had arrived in Cuba with little more than the clothes he was wearing. Now the people were mobbing him on the streets, hailing him as a hero of a revolution that was about to change the course of history.
Menoyo had no time to celebrate. He had just received word: Batista was gone, but the military was still in control in the capital.
It was impossible to predict how it would end. The crowds had erupted in Havana. The Directorio had taken over the Ninth Street police precinct, and some of Batista’s police were shot dead in the streets. The new dawn for Cuba was already turning violent.
The grab for power was under way even before the bodies were buried. Menoyo learned that Che was rushing to Havana. So was Camilo Cienfuegos. Even Rolando Cubela and the Directorio were hightailing it on the Central Highway to the capital. This wasn’t necessarily good. There was bound to be more bloodshed. Batista’s soldiers were still in Camp Columbia. They were also at La Cabaña, the military prison fortress. Thousands of government troops were still camped in three other provinces.
“It’s time for us to go to Havana,” Menoyo told Morgan.
The groups heading to the capital either were going to form a provisional government or were going to kill one another. Castro had a plan. Cubela and the Directorio had their plan. The interim government left by Batista was in chaos. All that the Second Front had fought for, all they had died for, their entire future lay at stake.
Menoyo needed to make a stand.