Morgan eased his Jeep up to the side of the towering Havana hotel, checking for any security breaches. After a long, winding drive from Cienfuegos, Morgan and Olga arrived at the Capri to size up the hotel as a temporary home. Weeks earlier, hotel managers thought it a good idea to open their doors to the rebels after Batista fled, so they invited the guerrillas to stay as long as no one trashed the place.
His Sten slung over his shoulder, Morgan walked into the lobby, taking in the smooth tile floor and the sun shining through the tinted glass. No one doubted the elegance of the nineteen-story edifice with glass chandeliers hanging over white-linen-covered tables and a plush casino.
But Morgan wasn’t concerned with luxuries. He wanted to make sure that he, Olga, and his men would be safe. The place had plenty of doors and access points in each direction for his men to come and go. The fact that the high-rise had balconies with thick concrete floors gave them an advantage if they had to defend themselves.
Bankrolled by Tampa crime boss Santo Trafficante Jr., the hotel featured a pool on the roof and stood a few blocks from the Malecón, the main road along the harbor. Some of the rebels fanned out around the grounds, scouting the hotel’s proximity to the closest major streets in the Vedado neighborhood: Avenida 23 and La Línea. They weren’t expecting imminent attacks on the Second Front. After all, Fidel Castro’s government was still solidifying its position. But Che and Raúl were taking control and pinpointing their enemies.
As the rebels headed to their rooms, a familiar figure walked through the entrance. Menoyo had waited anxiously for the men to arrive. He wanted the Second Front all together. He was especially glad to see Morgan. Weeks had passed since the two had seen each other.
After greeting everyone, he pulled Morgan aside. “We need to talk,” he said.
Menoyo was clearly tense. The angry exchange with Che had stuck in his craw, and by all accounts, it wasn’t over. The Second Front continued to feel pressure to disband, he told Morgan. As long as they all wore their uniforms and carried their weapons, they were going to be targets.
Menoyo was most concerned about Che and Raúl. “I don’t trust them,” he said. If Che had his way, he was going to ram his agrarian “reforms” down the throats of the Cubans. “He is a Communist,” Menoyo said.
Publicly Fidel Castro had denied that he was a Communist, saying that he was going to allow elections. But even with those statements, Menoyo was still wary. Castro wouldn’t rest until the one rebel force still standing in his way was gone.
Beyond the front doors of the Capri, the black and red flags of the 26th of July Movement hung from balconies along La Rampa, the main drag. Outside the stores and nightclubs along the busy street, men wearing 26th of July armbands clenched their guns.
Morgan turned a corner and came to a stop. As he and Olga sat in the Jeep, he noticed that people in cars were pointing to them. Morgan thought maybe it was the rebel fatigues. But even when they returned and walked through the Capri entrance, it was the same. Other rebels were coming and going in the lobby without attracting attention, but everyone was looking at Morgan.
Finally, one of the bellboys came up to him. “Ju are Weel-yam Morgan?”
Morgan nodded.
He wasn’t just another barbudo. For days, the newspapers in Havana had been telling the story of the Americano. The Associated Press had just run a lengthy article about Morgan and his leadership of the Segundo Frente through more than a dozen battles. But Morgan remained oblivious to the publicity.
Olga heard people whispering his name as they passed. As he stood near the elevator, a hotel worker asked for his autograph. After signing his name, he and Olga went to their room on the fourteenth floor.
Inside, Olga looked ashen. “I worry about you,” she said.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said. “We have nothing to worry about.”
Morgan signing autographs Courtesy of Morgan Family Collection
But she wasn’t concerned about the public. Most Cubans in the 1950s had a fondness for America even if they didn’t always express it. Many had grown up watching black-and-white movies starring James Cagney and John Wayne. They read about American baseball teams like the New York Yankees. In many ways, Morgan represented the American archetype: a rugged, handsome gunslinger who fought for the Cuban people.
No, Olga worried about Guevara, the Castros, and the Cuban Communist Party reading the stories. Even some Directorio members had trashed the Second Front.
“These people are beyond anything you know,” Olga said. “You don’t know my people like I do.”
No one despised Americans more than Che and Raúl. In his own way, so did Fidel. America was the bogeyman. They blamed the United States for every social and economic ill inflicted on the Cuban people. Nor was it a new stance. Anti-Americanism had been a side note of Cuban politics for generations. “The Colossus of the North” was the familiar name for the United States. Now Morgan was in their midst. The more they heard about him, the less the leaders of the 26th of July Movement liked him.
Raúl Castro ushered the men into the meeting room. He had been waiting for Menoyo and Fleites to arrive. The new government saw the Second Front everywhere. They had camped at the high school in Vedado. They had camped at Menoyo’s family home. They had camped at the Capri hotel with William Morgan.
“What are you doing?” Castro asked. Menoyo had failed to understand there was only one revolutionary army, and it fell under the direction of the new government, Castro stated. There was no need for a Second Front anymore.
Before Menoyo could respond, Che jumped into the fray. First, he said, the Second Front needed to merge with the Revolutionary Army, but he wasn’t sure which rebels were worthy. There were so many comandantes running around that he didn’t know if the Second Front even had any foot soldiers.
“That’s none of your concern,” Menoyo said, trying to stay calm. “Why don’t you meddle with your own people and leave mine alone.”
Che raised his voice and kept going: The Second Front had preyed on the guajiros, he said. They had forced the farmers to buy raffle tickets and had taken the people’s money as a tax. “You corrupted the people,” Che said.
Menoyo had watched his unit get pushed out of any role in the new government, but he wasn’t going to allow Che to fabricate vile stories about the Second Front. He pushed away from the table and pulled out his submachine gun, pointing it at Che. “You are a liar,” he said.
To the surprise of everyone in the room, Che ripped open the top of his shirt and displayed his bare chest. “Go ahead!” he screamed. “Shoot me!”
At that point, “everyone pulled their guns,” recalled Fleites.
Castro needed to think fast, otherwise he was going to be presiding over a bloodbath. He jumped up on the table, putting himself between everyone, Fleites remembered.
“This meeting is over!” Castro shouted. “Everyone out!”
Menoyo and Fleites put down their guns, turned around, and, without saying another word, walked out the door.