Cowboy Christmas Homecoming June

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Also by June Faver
Dark Horse Cowboys
Do or Die Cowboy
Hot Target Cowboy
When to Call a Cowboy
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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2019 by June Faver
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Kris Keller
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
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embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing
from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their
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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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 Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11
Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Excerpt from Do or Die Cowboy

About the Author

Back Cover
To my dear friend Stephanie Cover, former firefighter, EMT, and
paramedic.
Steph is truly a hero, an inspiration, and deserving of her HEA.
 Chapter 1

It was late November when he found the envelope.

Big Jim Garrett held the letter for a while before opening it. It was
from his sister-in-law, Adele, who now lived over in Fort Worth.
There was a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, but from what he
could tell, it was made up mostly of Christmas cards. He would leave
those for the others in his household to open, but this letter was
addressed to him personally with no “and family” tacked on.
What’s going on with Adele? After Big Jim’s brother had died, Adele
had sold their land and moved to Fort Worth, where she had some
relatives.
Big Jim’s back teeth ground together as he recalled how she had
fallen way behind in property taxes and was forced to sell off the
property and stock. The woman had always been headstrong and
shortsighted, to his way of thinking. No business sense, and she
hadn’t come to Big Jim until it was too late.
He took a seat at the counter separating the kitchen from the
dining area. Tearing the envelope open, he slid out a single sheet of
notepaper.

Dear Jim,

I’m writing to let you know that Zachery is home from his
second tour of duty with the U.S. Army. He intends to return to
 Langston and hopes to find employment. I hope you can help
him get settled.
I feel really bad that I had to sell the ranch, but I just couldn’t
manage everything by myself. I’m so worried. Zach just doesn’t
seem the same as when he left. I’m hoping he can find himself
when he goes home.
Best ever,
Adele
Big Jim carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.
His nephew, Zach, had grown up with Big Jim’s own three sons.
They had been like a pack of puppies, inseparable and carefree.
After graduating from high school, Zach had enlisted, while his own
sons, one by one, had gone to college and returned to the land. The
land that Big Jim would never sell under any circumstances.
He was more than a little peeved that Adele had sold off the land
his brother had worked so hard for and that he must have thought
would go to Zach someday.
Big Jim shook his head. Sad. But of course he would try to help his
nephew settle in and find his place now that he was a civilian—a
rancher—again.
Ranchers. The Garretts were ranchers. It was part of their genetic
makeup.
Even his rebellious middle son, Tyler, now a country-western singer,
had returned to his roots. Of course, he had returned with his bride,
Leah, and her daughter, Gracie. He had built a home for his new
family right there on the sprawling Garrett ranch. Big Jim knew that
Tyler would always return to the place he called home, no matter
where his musical career might take him.
Big Jim’s oldest son, Colton, had also married and was in the
process of building a home for his bride, Misty, and her younger
brother, but the snow had hindered their progress. For now, they
were living with Big Jim at the Garrett ranch house, happily making
preparations for their first Christmas as man and wife.
His youngest son, Beau, had gotten back with his high school
girlfriend, Dixie, and their beautiful daughter, Ava. Now, reconciled,
they were happily remodeling Dixie’s ranch house and getting it
ready for their own Christmas celebration.
But now the Garrett Christmas celebration would include Zach
Garrett.
Big Jim had made a passionate and somewhat irritable vow to his
deceased brother that he would do everything in his power to
ensure that Zach would be welcomed and know that he always had
a place here with the rest of the Garrett family.
He tucked the letter in his pocket and headed out to the stables.
Saddling up his favorite stallion and letting that horse run free would
help shake off his own demons. “Bah! Humbug,” he muttered.

***

The countryside whizzed by, but Zach Garrett paid no attention. He

felt nothing. Only the passing of time.
It was cold, but he was well insulated. Nothing could touch him.
The sprawling metropolitan Dallas–Fort Worth area made him feel
claustrophobic, but now that the bus was speeding along the
highway, he could breathe at least.
He wore his uniform because he’d left his civilian garb at home—
the home his mother had packed up and sold. She told him all of his
belongings were carefully stowed in the two-car garage of the house
she’d purchased in a nice, quiet neighborhood. But he hadn’t opened
even a box.
 Maybe his past was in there, along with his dad’s. Maybe he would
be able to open the boxes someday, but now all he wanted was to
get back to Langston, the last place he had been happy. He wanted
to see his cousins, the crazy guys he had grown up with. Most of all,
he wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere.
Zach heaved a sigh. It must have been loud because the old lady
across the aisle from him looked him over. It’s okay, Grandma. I’m
just the remains of Zachery Garrett…his outer shell.
He hoped to find something to stuff himself with. Something with
feelings. Something strong that could withstand whatever was to
come next.
The old lady was still staring.
He shifted in his seat, turning his wide shoulders to the window.
He tried to focus on the images as they passed. Mostly pastureland,
cattle grazing in the distance. He tried to identify the breeds.
Hereford, Black Angus, Charolais…there were some Brangus, an
interesting cross-breed of Angus and Brahman.
Another huge sigh escaped.
He’d always thought he would come home to his family’s ranch, to
the snug ranch house with barn, stables, and outbuildings. He
wondered who was living there now.
Zach snapped out of his trance. His fists were clenched. Every
muscle in his body was tensed, and he wasn’t sure why. Is this
anger? He wasn’t sure what anger felt like any longer. He had felt
anger in Afghanistan. Rage, in fact. Intense loss and fury over the
unfairness of life…and death.
It was better to feel nothing.
Be alert for danger, but feel nothing.

***
“I can’t wait to meet your friend, Colt.” Misty Garrett sat in the
passenger seat of the big silver double-dually truck. Her twelve-year-
old brother, Mark, sat behind her playing a handheld video game.
“He’s my cousin. I hope you like Zach. Sometimes, he was more
like a brother to me than my own brothers.”
“The two of you were the same age. It’s natural you would be
close.”
Colt snorted. “Probably, but we had so much in common. We were
in the same grade and played all sports together.” He gave Misty a
pat on her thigh. “We showed calves and later bulls at the area fairs.
We just had a natural interest in the same things.”
He recalled the hot summer days when they would go to the creek
to cool off, sometimes trying to ditch the younger boys. Usually his
mother would insist he take his little brothers along and be
responsible for watching out for them…a task shared by his cousin,
Zach.
Now, as Colt drove to Amarillo to meet his cousin’s bus, he was
excited. He hadn’t seen Zach since the day he had enlisted. But he
was sure his best friend, from childhood through high school, felt the
same way.
He couldn’t wait to show off Misty. Glancing at his bride, he was
filled with a sense of pride and emotion. He knew the love they
shared would last forever. As long as we both shall live…
Maybe Zach had somebody special in his life. Colt hoped so. He
knew his own life had taken on a whole new dimension since Misty
had become a part of it.
As they rolled into Amarillo, Mark chattered about his game, and
Misty made complementary comments.
When he parked beside the bus station, Colt realized he was
wearing a broad grin. “Hang out here while I try to find Zach.” He
swung out of the truck, leaving the motor running with the heater
on.
A blast of cold air hit him full force. He zipped his down jacket and
held onto his Stetson. He couldn’t let that fly off his head. Once
inside the bus station, he stopped, his back against the wall, to
search for his friend. Colt was as tall as his father, Big Jim. At six-
foot-plus, he could easily scan the room, but it just took one sweep
to find Zach, still wearing his camouflage gear and clutching an
enormous duffel bag.
Colt swallowed hard.
Zach didn’t appear to be really focused. Perhaps he was tired from
all the traveling.
Colt called his name and started across the width of the bus
station. But Zach snapped to and rose to greet him. The two
embraced and slapped each other on the back.
“Damn, Colt. You’re looking great.” Zach was staring at him as
though he was looking for changes.
This was only fair because Colt was doing the same thing.
“Thanks, bud. You look…different. It must be the hair.”
Zach ran his fingers over his buzz cut. “Or lack thereof.”
Colt hefted the duffel onto his shoulder and motioned for Zach to
follow. “Let’s get into the truck and on the road. Dad and the guys
are waiting for you at the house.”
A look of sadness flashed across Zach’s face. “Um, yeah. I can’t
wait.”

***

Zach followed Colton outside to the parking lot. Colt had always
been tall, but over the years, he had beefed up considerably. He was
built like a Mack truck, effortlessly lobbing the heavy duffel bag into
the bed of a big silver truck. There was a sign on the door with
Circle G Ranch emblazoned across it. It had an image of the big
horseshoe-shaped arch over the entrance to the ranch.
Zach felt as if he had been sucker-punched. Here was his best
friend, living the life he could have been living. Colt was a bigger-
than-life cowboy, with a family full of cowboys, born to raise cattle
and work the land.
Zach swallowed hard. It was over for him. There was no land or
cattle. His home was gone. Someone else owned it now, so he
should just turn the page and move on.
He opened the passenger door and stepped up into the cab,
surprised to see two other people in the vehicle. A very attractive
young brunette woman sat in the backseat along with a dark-haired
boy.
She grinned and waggled her fingers in a wave as Colt climbed in
front in the driver’s seat.
“Zach, this is my wife, Misty, and her brother, Mark.” He started up
the truck. “Sorry you missed our wedding.”
“Um—congratulations. Sorry I missed it too.”
“Hi, Zach,” Misty said. “Colt has told us so much about you. I’m
happy to get to meet you finally.”
“Thanks… I—I’m happy to meet you.” Zach was stunned. It was
reasonable that Colt would get married, but the reality was staring
him in the face. Another way in which Colt had moved on, while
Zach was living like a rat in the desert, in a place where he couldn’t
tell enemy from noncombatant. In a place where the enemy wired
their own children with explosives to use them as weapons against
those they considered infidels.
“Hey, Zach. Are you all right?” It was Colt who nudged him out of
his trance.
 “Yeah, I’m great. It’s great to be here. Everything’s great. Thanks
for picking me up.”
The expression on Colt’s face could best be described as uncertain.
The drive to the Garrett ranch was uneventful, with sparse
conversation. Zach wasn’t able to manage small talk.
Eventually, Colt slowed and turned in at the horseshoe arch with
the name Circle G overhead, the tires bumping over the cattle guard.
This jarred Zach physically and emotionally, as he recalled all the
times he had bumped over the same cattle guard and into the same
comfortable world where he knew all the players.

***

Stephanie Gayle looked at the check. “Oh, Big Jim. This is so

generous. You’re going to make sure the children have a nice
Christmas.”
Big Jim shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for those poor kids.” He
looked around the room, his gaze falling on a little red-haired girl
and a blonde girl maybe a little older. “I think all children need to be
loved.”
“I feel the same way.”
Big Jim’s face morphed from sentimental to grim. “How are those
two kids you saved? The ones whose mother got killed.”
Stephanie tried to control the tremor in her voice. “They—they’re
still at the children’s center. They don’t have any family members
willing to take them in.”
“Well, that’s a damned shame.”
She nodded. “Rafe Neeley, the stepfather… He’s been arraigned
and bound over for trial.” The image of Rafe’s angry face as he
screamed threats made her shudder.
 “Good,” Big Jim pronounced. “I hope that sumbitch gets what’s
coming to him. I can’t imagine a man hurting a woman or a child…
much less murdering the woman you’re married to.”
Stephanie’s throat tightened. “Hope they put him away for a
hundred years. The children…they witnessed their mother being
murdered. They—they were so traumatized.”
Big Jim let out a snort and reached in the back pocket of his
Wranglers. He produced a worn leather billfold and pulled out a
couple of hundred-dollar bills. “Here ya go. Buy them two angels a
little something special…and let me know what happens to them. I
hope they wind up with some good family.”
She swallowed hard. “Thanks, Big Jim. I’ll find something special
for them.” The words some good family stuck in her craw.
“Come have a cup of coffee, Stephanie.” Big Jim motioned her into
the kitchen.
Stephanie took a seat at the counter while Big Jim filled two cups
with coffee. He set one in front of her and leaned on the other side
of the counter.
That was when Colt’s voice could be heard from the front of the
house. “Hello! Where is everyone? I brought my brother from
another mother.”
“Back here,” Big Jim called.
Misty and Mark led the way, both grinning. “We got him,” Mark
announced.
Colton came next, followed by a tall, muscular man wearing
camouflage gear. This guy appeared to be on edge, like he’d just
been plucked from a battleground. His gaze took in the entire
interior and everyone in the large kitchen. When he locked eyes with
Stephanie, she felt a jolt like an electric shock. He was a Garrett.
 It was the Garrett eyes. Those amazing, smoky-turquoise eyes,
ringed with black lashes. They held her in thrall for a moment before
releasing her.
Big Jim let out a yelp. “Zachery Garrett! Come here, boy!” Big Jim
held out a hand, and when the newcomer reached for it, Big Jim
dragged him closer and clasped him in a man hug. “Dang! It’s been
a long time…and look how you’ve grown.”
“Yes, sir. It’s been forever.”
Big Jim pounded him on the back and then pulled back to look at
him. “I’m glad you’re here, son. We all are. Just in time for
Christmas.”
“Glad to be here, sir.” His gaze flicked back to Stephanie.
“Where are my manners?” Big Jim asked. “This fine young man is
my nephew, Zach Garrett. He’s just been discharged from the U.S.
Army.”
Stephanie smiled. Nephew, huh? Garrett through and through.
Big Jim gestured toward her. “And this lovely young lady is
Stephanie Gayle. Believe it or not, she’s a firefighter.”
Stephanie gave a one-sided grin and rolled her eyes. “Why do
people always find it difficult to think of me as a firefighter?”
“Because we always think of firefighters as big burly men,” Misty
said. “One has to see you in action to know what a badass you are.”
This caused a round of laughter, all except from this Zach guy. He
just continued to stare at Stephanie as though he was committing
her to memory, molecule by molecule. It was unsettling, to say the
least, but there was something else…something simmering just
below the surface.
Stephanie swallowed hard. It felt like a roll of razor wire at the
back of her throat. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to be
intimidated by his scrutiny. Who is this guy anyway?
 “Good to meet you, ma’am,” Zach said.
Ma’am? She nodded and offered a hand, which he wrapped with a
large baseball mitt–size paw that was warm and very rough.
Colton slapped Zach on the shoulder. “C’mon, bro. Let’s get you
settled in.” Colt shouldered the huge duffel bag and headed off
toward the room where he planned to settle Zach.
Zach hit her with his laser-beam eyes again and gave a little nod
before turning to follow his cousin. Misty and Mark trailed after
them.
“He’s had a rough time,” Big Jim said. “My brother died while Zach
was deployed, so he never got to say goodbye to his father.”
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Stephanie said.
“He’s a good boy. He’s going to be just fine.”
Stephanie agreed. Fine. That pretty much summed up the hottest
guy she had laid eyes on in a long time…and she worked with the
hottest men in the county.

***

Colt heaved the duffel on the bed and stepped back. “What do you
have in that thing, Zach? Dumbbells?”
Zach managed a laugh. “Just what’s left of my life.” He opened the
zipper and then began pulling things out and spreading them on the
bed.
“Buddy, we gotta show you that there are other colors in the
rainbow. Not everything is U.S. Army green.” Colt gestured to the
uniforms.
“Those are my ACUs—Army Combat Uniforms.”
Colt shook his head. “Surely you have some other clothes.”
That claustrophobic sensation wrapped around Zach and squeezed
tightly. He had trouble drawing a deep breath. “Um—nope. My mom
took the property I left at home to Fort Worth, and I didn’t want to
go through everything in her garage to find my stuff.” He shrugged,
trying to appear casual. “I figured if I hadn’t needed it for the past
ten years, I didn’t need it now.”
“Guess you’re right. You can borrow anything you need from my
closet, and we can go shopping anytime you like.”
“That sounds good. I have plenty of money saved up. Nothing to
spend it on.”
Colt shook out the ACUs. “Do we put these on hangers?”
“Aw, just leave them rolled up and stick ’em in a drawer.” Zach
reached for his collection of olive-drab T-shirts.
“How about Stephanie?” Colt asked. “I’ll bet she’s the hottest girl
you’ve seen in a while.”
Zach quirked his head to one side. “No argument there. She’s a
babe, but a firefighter? C’mon. She must be the mascot or
something.”
Colt let out a hoot of laughter. “Don’t let her hear you say that.
She’s a lot tougher than she looks.”
Zach made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “You must
have forgotten the meaning of the word tough. Army Rangers are
tough. Cheerleader-type chicks are not tough.” He raised his brows.
“No matter how hot.”
Colt’s joking demeanor suddenly changed. “Seriously, Zach. That
pretty little thing has a spine of pure steel. When Misty was in
trouble, Stephanie went down into an abandoned well to rescue her.”
A muscle beside his mouth twitched as though the memory haunted
him. “And then she went back down to rescue an old man who had
been shot and dumped there. I could have lost Misty that night if it
weren’t for Stephanie Gayle.”
 Zach tried to visualize this but couldn’t. “Sounds like she knows
what she’s doing.”
“Thank God!” Colt said fervently. “Stephanie had some specialized
training where she learned to work in small spaces.” He paused.
“She’s a part of the confined space team.”
“That sounds about right,” Zach said. “She’s not all that big.”
“She’s almost as tall as Misty,” Colt said. “Besides, you’re huge
now. You really have bulked up.”
Zach made a scoffing noise. “You, too, Colt.” He shrugged. “When
we were eighteen, we were a couple of tall, skinny dudes, but I’ve
been gone for ten years. We’ve both filled out a little.”
“Ha!” Colt pounded him on the shoulder. “Bigger is better, right,
bud?”
“As far as I’m concerned.”
“Let’s get you squared away and get back to the others. I’m pretty
sure Dad has some steaks he’s planning on grilling to celebrate your
homecoming.”
Homecoming? Zach’s mouth went dry. But I have no home.
When they returned to the kitchen, Big Jim was placing thick-cut
steaks on a platter that he covered with plastic wrap.
A pretty blonde woman was puttering around the kitchen. When
she turned to face Zach, he could see that she was extremely
pregnant. “You must be Zach,” she said.
Big Jim turned with a wide grin. “Zach, this pretty little woman is
my daughter-in-law Leah, and her young clone is sitting at the
table.” He pointed to a blonde girl, probably in grade school.
“Wait! I thought you were married to Misty.” Zach looked at Colt for
confirmation.
Colt met this comment with a loud guffaw. “Misty is my bride. Leah
is married to Tyler. Remember my bratty middle bro? He scored the
two blondes.”
Zach tried to wrap his head around this. “Ty is married?”
Leah turned around, showing off her rotund physique. “And very
happily married, I might add.”
Zach rubbed his palm over his buzz cut. “I see.”
“This is my daughter, Gracie. Say hi, honey.” She pointed to the
table where the girl was working on something with crayons and
paper. The girl smiled prettily and raised her hand to wave.
Zach recalled Ty Garrett as being about sixteen when he had
enlisted. He couldn’t fathom that the guitar-strumming kid had
grown up to become a responsible husband and father. He surveyed
the room, filled with happy, loving family, but he felt distant, as
though he were viewing the scene through an electronic device…
spying on the normal lives of normal people.
He looked around again, wondering where the beautiful firefighter
chick had gone.
As if reading his mind, Colt asked, “Where is Stephanie? She’s not
staying for dinner?”
“Nope,” Big Jim responded. “Miss Gayle is devoted to those
orphans. I gave her a little donation to try and help make their
Christmas a bit better.”
“Orphans?” Zach frowned. He had encountered enough orphans in
Afghanistan to last a lifetime.
“Social services has a place for orphans and kids who have been
removed from their parents for various reasons. Stephanie rescued a
couple of young children, and she seems to feel responsible for
them.” Big Jim’s fierce brows drew together. “Steph is a good girl.”
Images of orphans crowded Zach’s head.
 Chapter 2

Stephanie was driving her twenty-year-old Ford truck—a well-known

vehicle in the area. She’d had it painted bright fire-engine red with
ornate gold curlicues, and the fire chief had let her install a siren and
flashing lights. It wasn’t an official vehicle, but whenever they called
her in, it was because she was desperately needed.
Today, her bright-red truck contrasted with the snow-covered
surroundings. The radio station out of Amarillo played nonstop
Christmas carols, which she found quite cheering.
And she was eager to see Cody and Ivy, the children she was
devoted to. As she drew closer to the state-run children’s home, her
heart felt lighter. She would cash the check and then make sure
there was a special present for each child at the home. It was very
nice of Big Jim to give her an extra two hundred dollars for Cody and
Ivy. The kids had nothing.
Of course, Stephanie wanted to give them everything. When she
looked at their little faces, her heart ached to give them love and
security. She wanted to provide them with a safe haven…a home.
“Yes, Stephanie Gayle, notorious single woman, wants to be a
mother.” Saying it aloud made it real. She had an appointment to
talk with the social worker tomorrow. She felt pretty positive about
the meeting, certain that Miss Lorene Dyer, Licensed Social Worker,
would immediately recognize Stephanie’s desire to adopt the
children. Surely she would appreciate the stable home life Stephanie
could offer them.
True, she lived in a small apartment over a bookstore, but she had
savings and could make a tidy down payment on a decent house
with a fenced yard and trees to climb.
Stephanie turned on the defroster and swiped the back of her
gloved hand over the windshield. The glass cleared quickly, giving
her a view of the countryside. The flat, snow-blanketed pastureland
was punctuated by fence posts and not much else. Miles and miles
of nothing but miles and miles.
She slowed and made the turn leading to the children’s center, only
then letting her thoughts settle on Colt Garrett’s handsome cousin,
Zach.
Although she was surrounded with great-looking men at work, the
Garretts’ cousin was hard to ignore. Firefighters tended to be in
great shape, and for some reason, most of them were calendar
material, but there was something about Zach. She couldn’t put her
finger on it, but something about him reached out to her.
She laughed and shook her head. Wishful thinking.
But maybe she would see him again. Maybe he was thinking about
her.

***

Zach sat at the long dining table surrounded by the Garrett family.
He had been seated next to Big Jim, who presided over the meal as
host. At the other end of the table, a small elderly woman was
seated, with Leah and her daughter, Gracie, and a very jovial Tyler
surrounding her. The elderly woman, Zach had learned, was Leah’s
grandmother, and she lived in the new house Tyler had built for his
family there on the Garrett ranch. But, apparently, they spent a great
deal of time at the original Garrett homestead.
“Did I get your steak right, Zach?” Big Jim asked. He looked
concerned, and Zach realized he had not yet cut into his meat.
“Um—yes, sir. It’s perfect.” He sliced into the thick slab of beef and
stabbed it with a fork. The steak was medium rare and quite tasty.
The concern on Big Jim’s face cleared to be replaced by a wide grin.
He then dug into his own steak.
Colton and Misty sat across from Zach, with her younger brother
beside her. They were having a conversation, but every now and
again, Colt addressed a comment to Zach.
“Where’s Beau?” Zach asked. When he had enlisted, Beau had
probably been in middle school, maybe fourteen or so.
“Beau is with his wife and daughter,” Colt said. “You remember that
little red-haired girl who was always with him?”
Zach tried to recall someone with red hair, but mostly he was
stunned that Beau, who he still thought of as a child, was married
and had a kid. “He has a daughter?”
“That he does.” Big Jim beamed from ear to ear. “And she is
absolutely cuter’n just about anything. Red hair like her mother.”
Zach scooped mashed potatoes into his mouth to prevent any
expectation that he would comment. He was blown away that all
three brothers were not only married but had families of their own.
Somehow, the taste of his food flattened out in his mouth, and he
found himself chewing without pleasure. He swallowed and reached
for his tea, washing it all down and hoping to clear his mind.
How had his boyhood pals moved forward so quickly when he felt
he had just been treading water? Slowly, he looked around the table,
checking out each person. They all looked happy. Happy together.
Happy to be a part of this family.
 He was stunned that all this had been evolving while he had been
deployed.
Big Jim was looking at him again, so he picked up his knife and
fork to slice off another bite of meat. He made an appreciative noise
and nodded at his uncle, which seemed to satisfy him.
After dinner Mark went to the den to watch a Christmas cartoon
special on television. Big Jim shooed Leah, her daughter, and Tyler
out the door, saying they needed to get home before it snowed
more. By that time, Colt and Zach were clearing the table and
loading the dishwasher.
Big Jim returned to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “Just like old
times, boys.”
Zach remembered how often he had enjoyed dinner with his
cousins, and afterward, all four boys had jumped up to clear the
table and wash up. The Garrett brothers had been trained to show
appreciation for the meals their mom slaved over by immediately
pitching in to clean up and put away leftovers. Zach had always
joined in, enjoying being a part of the family.
Big Jim opened the refrigerator and took out three longnecks,
lining up two on the counter and popping the lid off the one he
raised to his lips. “Good job, boys. Now let’s retire to the den and
see if there’s a game on.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing on TV but Christmas specials.”
Big Jim grunted. “Well, that’s fine. I’m pretty sure we three can
enjoy a little male bonding.”
Zach picked up one of the beers and flipped the cap off. He clinked
the bottle against the one Colt grabbed and followed Big Jim to the
den.
Much later, Zach was alone in the guest room. He peeled off his
uniform, thinking how much his life had changed in the past week.
He still felt like the odd man out around the Garrett estate, but his
uncle and cousins were doing their best to make him feel at home. It
will just take a little time.
He tried to put things in order before he turned off the light.
Moonlight streamed in through the window, giving him plenty of light
to see his way to the bed. He pulled back the covers and climbed in
before pulling the handmade quilt up under his chin.
He realized his entire body was rigid. All of his muscles were
tensed. He made an effort to take a deep breath and hold it for
twenty seconds before releasing it. One by one, he consciously
relaxed each part of his body. His feet and then his ankles and
calves. Working his way up his body, he accompanied his freeing of
tension with slow, even deep breathing.
Staring up at the ceiling, he tried to disengage from all the events
of the past few weeks. He was no longer a soldier. He couldn’t call
himself a rancher, since the ranch he had anticipated returning to
had been sold without him being consulted. Now he had nothing.
Well, not quite nothing. He had managed to save a significant
amount of money over all the years he’d been enlisted. He hoped he
could get a job in the area. Maybe he could save up more money
and find a little bit of land he could buy. He didn’t have any other
dreams or aspirations other than to be a rancher. It was what he
was born to do.

***

Stephanie had spent time with Cody and Ivy as well as the other
children at the facility. It was unthinkable that so many children were
without loving families, especially at this time of the year. Christmas
was a family event, but these poor kids were alone.
 Her visit had been depressing, to say the least. To see the drab
facility hung with shabby and tattered Christmas decorations cast a
pall over the whole visit.
Ivy had clung to Stephanie when she went to leave. Cody pulled
Ivy away, taking responsibility for his younger sister. At four years
old, he was used to a hard life. The social worker said he was “wise
beyond his years.” Stephanie hated that epithet. She wanted him to
be a kid without the heavy burden he was carrying.
Now, tucked in at her apartment, she had showered and pulled on
a pair of ridiculous flannel pajamas. They were red…with candy
canes plastered all over. After she brushed her teeth, she retired to
her living room to watch the news and brush her long chestnut-
brown hair.
The apartment was cool. She liked it that way. But she also had an
electric blanket on her bed and a ceiling fan overhead, both in
operation in anticipation of retiring for the night.
She flipped on the television and pulled on a pair of wool socks.
Her grandmother had knitted a whole drawer of socks for her. It was
their thing. Stephanie wore the cotton socks inside her boots in
summer and the wonderfully warm wool socks in winter. “Keep your
feet warm, Steph,” her grandmother would insist. “Mind you don’t
take a cold.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stephanie whispered aloud.
A breaking-news banner flashed across the television screen.
Stephanie turned up the sound.
The news anchor announced that a prison bus transporting
accused murderer Rafe Neeley had been run off the road and the
prisoner had escaped. He’d been on his way from the county jail in
Amarillo to prison to be held until his trial.
 Stephanie’s chest tightened. She could feel her heart trying to beat
its way out of her rib cage as the image of Rafe Neeley’s angry face
appeared on the screen.
She couldn’t hear the rest of the news anchor’s alert. His words
seemed to be jammed together, but she gathered he was issuing a
warning to the community to be on the lookout for this criminal,
presumed to be armed and dangerous.
The hairbrush dropped onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to be
able to retrieve it.
Her stomach churned as the horror of the situation unfolded before
her. The man who had murdered his wife, in front of his
stepchildren, was no longer in custody. The vicious and abusive man
was at large where he posed an imminent threat to the two children
who had witnessed his crime. A threat to the little boy who had been
recorded describing the horrific events he and his sister had
witnessed. His recorded testimony was slated to be shown at
Neeley’s criminal trial.
Cody was a boy too young to be so old.

***

The dream again…

It was nighttime, and Zach was on patrol. Jeb was on point, and
Leon was on his six. Zach couldn’t see the rest of the team, but he
knew they were there, alert and ready.
His hearing was super acute, every sound magnified a thousand
times. The men’s footsteps told him where each of them was located
as the team policed the area. They were about three kilometers from
camp when the first bullet was fired, taking out Leon, and then the
next got Ray. Jeb discharged a burst of fire in the direction of the
shooter.
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country was thrown on the defensive. On the east the possession of
Montreal or Kingston would cut off all Canada above from support
by the sea, which would be equivalent to ensuring its fall. “I shall
continue to exert myself to the utmost to overcome every difficulty,”
wrote Brock, who gave such emphatic proof of energetic and
sagacious exertion in his subsequent course. “Should, however, the
communication between Montreal and Kingston be cut off, the fate
of the troops in this part of the province will be decided.”[93] “The
Montreal frontier,” said the officer selected by the Duke of
Wellington to report on the defenses of Canada, “is the most
important, and at present [1826] confessedly most vulnerable and
accessible part of Canada.”[94] There, then, was the direction for
offensive operations by the United States; preferably against
Montreal, for, if successful, a much larger region would be isolated
and reduced. Montreal gone, Kingston could receive no help from
without; and, even if capable of temporary resistance, its surrender
would be but a question of time. Coincidently with this military
advance, naval development for the control of the lakes should have
proceeded, as a discreet precaution; although, after the fall of
Kingston and Montreal, there could have been little use of an inland
navy, for the British local resources would then have been
inadequate to maintain an opposing force.

Results of the Northern Campaign

[While control was more vital and the forces stronger on Lake
Ontario than on either Erie or Champlain, no naval action of
consequence occurred there in 1813 or in fact throughout the war.
Yeo, the British commander, was enjoined by Admiralty orders to
take no risks; and the American Commodore Chauncey, with no such
justification, adopted a similar policy. Hence the important fleet
actions of the war were in other waters—Perry’s victory of September
10, 1813, on Lake Erie, and Macdonough’s victory on Lake
Champlain a year later. The first sentence in the paragraph following
refers to a raid on Buffalo, December 30, 1813.—Editor.]
With this may be said to have terminated the northern campaign
of 1813. The British had regained full control of the Niagara
peninsula, and they continued to hold Fort Niagara, in the State of
New York, till peace was concluded. The only substantial gain on the
whole frontier, from the extreme east to the extreme west, was the
destruction of the British fleet on Lake Erie, and the consequent
transfer of power in the west to the United States. This was the left
flank of the American position. Had the same result been
accomplished on the right flank,—as it might have been,—at
Montreal, or even at Kingston, the center and left must have fallen
also. For the misdirection of effort to Niagara, the local commanders,
Dearborn and Chauncey, are primarily responsible; for Armstrong[95]
yielded his own correct perceptions to the representations of the first
as to the enemy’s force, supported by the arguments of the naval
officer favoring the diversion of effort from Kingston to Toronto.
Whether Chauncey ever formally admitted to himself this
fundamental mistake, which wrecked the summer’s work upon Lake
Ontario, does not appear; but that he had learned from experience is
shown by a letter to the Secretary of the Navy,[96] when the squadrons
had been laid up. In this he recognized the uselessness of the heavy
sailing schooners when once a cruising force of ships for war had
been created, thereby condemning much of his individual
management of the campaign; and he added: “If it is determined to
prosecute the war offensively, and secure our conquests in Upper
Canada, Kingston ought unquestionably to be the first object of
attack, and that so early in the spring as to prevent the enemy from
using the whole of the naval force that he is preparing.”
In the three chapters which here end, the Ontario operations have
been narrated consecutively and at length, without interruption by
other issues,—except the immediately related Lake Erie campaign,—
because upon them turned, and upon them by the dispositions of the
government this year were wrecked the fortunes of the war. The year
1813, from the opening of the spring to the closing in of winter, was
for several reasons the period when conditions were most propitious
to the American cause. In 1812 war was not begun until June, and
then with little antecedent preparation; and it was waged half-
heartedly, both governments desiring to nip hostilities. In 1814, on
the other hand, when the season opened, Napoleon had fallen, and
the United States no longer had an informal ally to divert the efforts
of Great Britain. But in the intervening year, 1813, although the
pressure upon the seaboard, the defensive frontier, was undoubtedly
greater than before, and much vexation and harassment was
inflicted, no serious injury was done beyond the suppression of
commerce, inevitable in any event. In the north, on the lakes
frontier, the offensive and the initiative continued in the hands of the
United States. No substantial reinforcements reached Canada until
long after the ice broke up, and then in insufficient numbers. British
naval preparations had been on an inadequate scale, receiving no
proper professional supervision. The American Government, on the
contrary, had had the whole winter to prepare, and the services of a
very competent naval organizer. It had also the same period to get
ready its land forces; while incompetent Secretaries of War and of
the Navy gave place in January to capable men in both situations.
With all this in its favor, and despite certain gratifying successes,
the general outcome was a complete failure, the full measure of
which could be realized only when the downfall of Napoleon revealed
what disaster may result from neglect to seize opportunity while it
exists. The tide then ebbed, and never again flowed. For this many
causes may be alleged. The imbecile ideas concerning military and
naval preparation which had prevailed since the opening of the
century doubtless counted for much. The entrusting of chief
command to broken-down men like Dearborn and Wilkinson was
enough to ruin the best conceived schemes. But, despite these very
serious drawbacks, the strategic misdirection of effort was the most
fatal cause of failure.
There is a simple but very fruitful remark of a Swiss military
writer, that every military line may be conceived as having three
parts, the middle and the two ends, or flanks. As sound principle
requires that military effort should not be distributed along the
whole of an enemy’s position,—unless in the unusual case of
overwhelming superiority,—but that distinctly superior numbers
should be concentrated upon a limited portion of it, this idea of a
threefold division aids materially in considering any given situation.
One third, or two thirds, of an enemy’s line may be assailed, but very
seldom the whole; and everything may depend upon the choice made
for attack. Now the British frontier, which the United States was to
assail, extended from Montreal on the east to Detroit on the west. Its
three parts were: Montreal and the St. Lawrence on the east, or left
flank; Ontario in the middle, centering at Kingston; and Erie on the
right; the strength of the British position in the last-named section
being at Detroit and Malden, because they commanded the straits
upon which the Indian tribes depended for access to the east. Over
against the British positions named lay those of the United States.
Given in the same order, these were: Lake Champlain, and the shores
of Ontario and of Erie, centering respectively in the naval stations at
Sackett’s Harbor and Presque Isle.
Accepting these definitions, which are too obvious to admit of
dispute, what considerations should have dictated to the United
States the direction of attack; the one, or two, parts out of the three,
on which effort should be concentrated? The reply, as a matter of
abstract, accepted, military principle, is certain. Unless very urgent
reasons to the contrary exist, strike at one end rather than at the
middle, because both ends can come up to help the middle against
you quicker than one end can get to help the other; and, as between
the two ends, strike at the one upon which the enemy most depends
for reinforcements and supplies to maintain his strength. Sometimes
this decision presents difficulties. Before Waterloo, Wellington had
his own army as a center of interest; on his right flank the sea,
whence came supplies and reinforcements from England; on his left
the Prussian army, support by which was imminently necessary. On
which flank would Napoleon throw the weight of his attack?
Wellington reasoned, perhaps through national bias, intensified by
years of official dependence upon sea support, that the blow would
fall upon his right, and he strengthened it with a body of men sorely
needed when the enemy came upon his left, in overwhelming
numbers, seeking to separate him from the Prussians.
No such doubt was possible as to Canada in 1813. It depended
wholly upon the sea, and it touched the sea at Montreal. The United
States, with its combined naval and military strength, crude as the
latter was, was at the beginning of 1813 quite able in material power
to grapple two out of the three parts,—Montreal and Kingston. Had
they been gained, Lake Erie would have fallen; as is demonstrated by
the fact that the whole Erie region went down like a house of cards
the moment Perry triumphed on the lake. His victory was decisive,
simply because it destroyed the communications of Malden with the
sea. The same result would have been achieved, with effect over a far
wider region, by a similar success in the east.
 27. Lessons of the War with Spain[97]

The Possibilities of a “Fleet in Being”

[Admiral Cervera left the Cape Verde Islands on April 29, 1898. After
touching at Martinique on May 11, he coaled at Curaçao on the 15th,
and entered Santiago on the 19th.
On news of Cervera’s arrival at Martinique, Sampson’s squadron
from Porto Rico and Schley’s Flying Squadron from Hampton Roads
converged on Key West. Sampson had his full strength in the
approaches to Havana by the 21st and Schley was off Cienfuegos, the
chief southern port of Cuba, on the 22d.
“We cannot,” writes Admiral Mahan, “expect ever again to have an
enemy so entirely inapt as Spain showed herself to be; yet, even so,
Cervera’s division reached Santiago on the 19th of May, two days
before our divisions appeared in the full force they could muster
before Havana and Cienfuegos.”[98]—Editor.]
As was before said, the disparity between the armored fleets of the
two nations was nominally inconsiderable; and the Spaniards
possessed one extremely valuable—and by us unrivalled—advantage
in a nearly homogeneous group of five[99] armored cruisers, very fast,
and very similar both in nautical qualities and in armament. It is
difficult to estimate too highly the possibilities open to such a body of
ships, regarded as a “fleet in being,” to use an expression that many
of our readers may have seen, but perhaps scarcely fully understood.
The phrase “fleet in being,” having within recent years gained
much currency in naval writing, demands—like the word “jingo”—
preciseness of definition; and this, in general acceptance, it has not
yet attained. It remains, therefore, somewhat vague, and so
occasions misunderstandings between men whose opinions perhaps
do not materially differ. The writer will not attempt to define, but a
brief explanation of the term and its origin may not be amiss. It was
first used, in 1690, by the British admiral Lord Torrington, when
defending his course in declining to engage decisively, with an
inferior force, a French fleet, then dominating in the Channel, and
under cover of which it was expected that a descent upon the English
coast would be made by a great French army. “Had I fought
otherwise,” he said, “our fleet had been totally lost, and the kingdom
had lain open to invasion. As it was, most men were in fear that the
French would invade; but I was always of another opinion, for I
always said that whilst we had a fleet in being, they would not dare to
make an attempt.”
A “fleet in being,” therefore, is one the existence and maintenance
of which, although inferior, on or near the scene of operations, is a
perpetual menace to the various more or less exposed interests of the
enemy, who cannot tell when a blow may fall, and who is therefore
compelled to restrict his operations, otherwise possible, until that
fleet can be destroyed or neutralized. It corresponds very closely to “a
position on the flank and rear” of an enemy, where the presence of a
smaller force, as every military student knows, harasses, and may
even paralyze, offensive movements. When such a force is extremely
mobile, as a fleet of armored cruisers may be, its power of mischief is
very great; potentially, it is forever on the flank and rear, threatening
the lines of communications. It is indeed as a threat to
communications that the “fleet in being” is chiefly formidable.
The theory received concrete and convincing illustration during
the recent hostilities, from the effect exerted—and justly exerted—
upon our plans and movements by Cervera’s squadron, until there
had been assembled before Santiago a force at once so strong and so
numerous as to make his escape very improbable. Even so, when a
telegram was received from a capable officer that he had identified
by night, off the north coast of Cuba, an armored cruiser,—which, if
of that class, was most probably an enemy,—the sailing of Shafter’s
expedition was stopped until the report could be verified. So much
for the positive, material influence—in the judgment of the writer,
the reasonable influence—of a “fleet in being.” As regards the moral
effect, the effect upon the imagination, it is scarcely necessary more
than to allude to the extraordinary play of the fancy, the
kaleidoscopic effects elicited from our own people, and from some
foreign critics, in propounding dangers for ourselves and ubiquity for
Cervera. Against the infection of such tremors it is one of the tasks of
those in responsibility to guard themselves and, if possible, their
people. “Don’t make pictures for yourself,” was Napoleon’s warning
to his generals. “Every naval operation since I became head of the
government has failed, because my admirals see double and have
learned—where I don’t know—that war can be made without running
risks.”
The probable value of a “fleet in being” has, in the opinion of the
writer, been much overstated; for, even at the best, the game of
evasion, which this is, if persisted in, can have but one issue. The
superior force will in the end run the inferior to earth. In the
meanwhile, however, vital time may have been lost. It is conceivable,
for instance, that Cervera’s squadron, if thoroughly effective, might,
by swift and well-concealed movements, have detained our fleet in
the West Indies until the hurricane of September, 1898, swept over
the Caribbean. We had then no reserve to replace armored ships lost
or damaged. But, for such persistence of action, there is needed in
each unit of the “fleet in being” an efficiency rarely attainable, and
liable to be lost by unforeseen accident at a critical moment. Where
effect, nay, safety, depends upon mere celerity of movement, as in
retreat, a crippled ship means a lost ship; or a lost fleet, if the body
sticks to its disabled member. Such efficiency it is probable Cervera’s
division never possessed. The length of its passage across the
Atlantic, however increased by the embarrassment of frequently
recoaling the torpedo destroyers, so far overpassed the extreme
calculations of our naval authorities, that ready credence was given
to an apparently authentic report that it had returned to Spain; the
more so that such concentration was strategically correct, and it was
incorrect to adventure an important detachment so far from home,
without the reinforcement it might have received in Cadiz. This
delay, in ships whose individual speed had originally been very high,
has been commonly attributed in our service to the inefficiency of the
engine-room force; and this opinion is confirmed by a Spanish
officer writing in their “Revista de la Marina.” “The Americans,” he
says, “keep their ships cruising constantly, in every sea, and therefore
have a large and qualified engine-room force. We have but few
machinists, and are almost destitute of firemen.” This inequality,
however, is fundamentally due to the essential differences of
mechanical capacity and development in the two nations. An
amusing story was told the writer some years ago by one of our
consuls in Cuba. Making a rather rough passage between two ports,
he saw an elderly Cuban or Spanish gentleman peering frequently
into the engine-room, with evident uneasiness. When asked the
cause of his concern, the reply was, “I don’t feel comfortable unless
the man in charge of the engines talks English to them.”
When to the need of constant and sustained ability to move at high
speed is added the necessity of frequent recoaling, allowing the
hostile navy time to come up, it is evident that the active use of a
“fleet in being,” however perplexing to the enemy, must be both
anxious and precarious to its own commander. The contest is one of
strategic wits, and it is quite possible that the stronger, though
slower, force, centrally placed, may, in these days of cables, be able to
receive word and to corner its antagonist before the latter can fill his
bunkers. Of this fact we should probably have received a very
convincing illustration, had a satisfactory condition of our coast
defenses permitted the Flying Squadron to be off Cienfuegos, or even
off Havana, instead of in Hampton Roads. Cervera’s entrance to
Santiago was known to us within twenty-four hours. In twenty-four
more it could have been communicated off Cienfeugos by a fast
despatch boat, after which less than forty-eight would have placed
our division before Santiago. The uncertainty felt by Commodore
Schley, when he arrived off Cienfuegos, as to whether the Spanish
division was inside or no, would not have existed had his squadron
been previously blockading; and his consequent delay of over forty-
eight hours—with the rare chance thus offered to Cervera—would not
have occurred. To coal four great ships within that time was probably
beyond the resources of Santiago; whereas the speed predicted for
our own movements is rather below than above the dispositions
contemplated to ensure it.
The great end of a war fleet, however, is not to chase, nor to fly, but
to control the seas. Had Cervera escaped our pursuit at Santiago, it
would have been only to be again paralyzed at Cienfuegos or at
Havana. When speed, not force, is the reliance, destruction may be
postponed, but can be escaped only by remaining in port. Let it not,
therefore, be inferred, from the possible, though temporary, effect of
a “fleet in being,” that speed is the chief of all factors in the
battleship. This plausible, superficial notion, too easily accepted in
these days of hurry and of unreflecting dependence upon machinery
as the all in all, threatens much harm to the future efficiency of the
navy. Not speed, but power of offensive action, is the dominant
factor in war. The decisive preponderant element of great land forces
has ever been the infantry, which, it is needless to say, is also the
slowest. The homely summary of the art of war, “To get there first
with the most men,” has with strange perverseness been so distorted
in naval—and still more in popular—conception, that the second and
more important consideration has been subordinated to the former
and less essential. Force does not exist for mobility, but mobility for
force. It is of no use to get there first unless, when the enemy in turn
arrives, you have also the most men,—the greater force. This is
especially true of the sea, because there inferiority of force—of gun
power—cannot be compensated, as on land it at times may be, by
judiciously using accidents of the ground. I do not propose to fall
into an absurdity of my own by questioning the usefulness of higher
speed, provided the increase is not purchased at the expense of
strictly offensive power; but the time has come to say plainly that its
value is being exaggerated; that it is in the battleship secondary to
gun power; that a battle fleet can never attain, nor maintain, the
highest rate of any ship in it, except of that one which at the moment
is the slowest, for it is a commonplace of naval action that fleet speed
is that of the slowest ship; that not exaggerated speed, but uniform
speed—sustained speed—is the requisite of the battle fleet; that it is
not machinery, as is often affirmed, but brains and guns, that win
battles and control of the sea. The true speed of war is not headlong
precipitancy, but the unremitting energy which wastes no time.
For the reasons that have been given, the safest, though not the
most effective, disposition of an inferior “fleet in being” is to lock it
up in an impregnable port or ports, imposing upon the enemy the
intense and continuous strain of watchfulness against escape. This it
was that Torrington, the author of the phrase, proposed for the time
to do. Thus it was that Napoleon, to some extent before Trafalgar,
but afterward with set and exclusive purpose, used the French Navy,
which he was continually augmenting, and yet never, to the end of
his reign, permitted again to undertake any serious expedition. The
mere maintenance of several formidable detachments, in apparent
readiness, from the Scheldt round to Toulon, presented to the British
so many possibilities of mischief that they were compelled to keep
constantly before each of the French ports a force superior to that
within, entailing an expense and an anxiety by which the emperor
hoped to exhaust their endurance. To some extent this was Cervera’s
position and function in Santiago, whence followed logically the
advisability of a land attack upon the port, to force to a decisive issue
a situation which was endurable only if incurable. “The destruction
of Cervera’s squadron,” justly commented an Italian writer, before
the result was known, “is the only really decisive fact that can result
from the expedition to Santiago, because it will reduce to impotence
the naval power of Spain. The determination of the conflict will
depend throughout upon the destruction of the Spanish sea power,
and not upon territorial descents, although the latter may aggravate
the situation.” The American admiral from before Santiago, when
urging the expedition of a land force to make the bay untenable,
telegraphed, “The destruction of this squadron will end the war;” and
it did.
 28. The Santiago Blockade[100]

Our battle fleet before Santiago was more than powerful enough to
crush the hostile squadron in a very short time if the latter attempted
a stand-up fight. The fact was so evident that it was perfectly clear
nothing of the kind would be hazarded; but, nevertheless, we could
not afford to diminish the number of armored vessels on this spot,
now become the determining center of the conflict. The possibility of
the situation was twofold. Either the enemy might succeed in an
effort at evasion, a chance which required us to maintain a distinctly
superior force of battleships in order to allow the occasional absence
of one or two for coaling or repairs, besides as many lighter cruisers
as could be mustered for purposes of lookout, or, by merely
remaining quietly at anchor, protected from attack by the lines of
torpedoes, he might protract a situation which tended not only to
wear out our ships, but also to keep them there into the hurricane
season,—a risk which was not, perhaps, adequately realized by the
people of the United States.
It is desirable at this point to present certain other elements of the
naval situation which weightily affected naval action at the moment,
and which, also, were probably overlooked by the nation at large, for
they give a concrete illustration of conditions, which ought to
influence our national policy, as regards the navy, in the present and
immediate future. We had to economize our ships because they were
too few. There was no reserve. The Navy Department had
throughout, and especially at this period, to keep in mind, not merely
the exigencies at Santiago, but the fact that we had not a battleship in
the home ports that could in six months be made ready to replace
one lost or seriously disabled, as the Massachusetts, for instance, not
long afterwards was, by running on an obstruction in New York Bay.
Surprise approaching disdain was expressed, both before and after
the destruction of Cervera’s squadron, that the battle fleet was not
sent into Santiago either to grapple the enemy’s ships there, or to
support the operations of the army, in the same way, for instance,
that Farragut crossed the torpedo lines at Mobile. The reply—and, in
the writer’s judgment, the more than adequate reason—was that the
country could not at that time, under the political conditions which
then obtained, afford to risk the loss or disablement of a single
battleship, unless the enterprise in which it was hazarded carried a
reasonable probability of equal or greater loss to the enemy, leaving
us, therefore, as strong as before relatively to the naval power which
in the course of events might yet be arrayed against us. If we lost ten
thousand men, the country could replace them; if we lost a
battleship, it could not be replaced. The issue of the war, as a whole
and in every locality to which it extended, depended upon naval
force, and it was imperative to achieve, not success only, but success
delayed no longer than necessary. A million of the best soldiers
would have been powerless in face of hostile control of the sea.
Dewey had not a battleship, but there can be no doubt that that
capable admiral thought he ought to have one or more; and so he
ought, if we had had them to spare. The two monitors would be
something, doubtless, when they arrived; but, like all their class, they
lacked mobility.
When Cámara started by way of Suez for the East, it was no more
evident than it was before that we ought to have battleships there.
That was perfectly plain from the beginning; but battleships no more
than men can be in two places at once, and until Cámara’s movement
had passed beyond the chance of turning west, the Spanish fleet in
the Peninsula had, as regarded the two fields of war, the West Indies
and the Philippines, the recognized military advantage of an interior
position. In accepting inferiority in the East, and concentrating our
available force in the West Indies, thereby ensuring a superiority
over any possible combination of Spanish vessels in the latter
quarter, the Department acted rightly and in accordance with sound
military precedent; but it must be remembered that the Spanish
Navy was not the only possibility of the day. The writer was not in a
position to know then, and does not know now, what weight the
United States Government attached to the current rumors of possible
political friction with other states whose people were notoriously
sympathizers with our enemy. The public knows as much about that
as he does; but it was clear that if a disposition to interfere did exist
anywhere, it would not be lessened by a serious naval disaster to us,
such as the loss of one of our few battleships would be. Just as in the
maintenance of a technically “effective” blockade of the Cuban ports,
so, also, in sustaining the entireness and vigor of the battle fleet, the
attitude of foreign Powers as well as the strength of the immediate
enemy had to be considered. For such reasons it was recommended
that the orders on this point to Admiral Sampson should be
peremptory; not that any doubt existed as to the discretion of that
officer, who justly characterized the proposition to throw the ships
upon the mine fields of Santiago as suicidal folly, but because it was
felt that the burden of such a decision should be assumed by a
superior authority, less liable to suffer in personal reputation from
the idle imputations of over-caution, which at times were ignorantly
made by some who ought to have known better, but did not. “The
matter is left to your discretion,” the telegram read, “except that the
United States armored vessels must not be risked.”
When Cervera’s squadron was once cornered, an intelligent
opponent would, under any state of naval preparedness, have seen
the advisability of forcing him out of the port by an attack in the rear,
which could be made only by an army. As Nelson said on one
occasion, “What is wanted now is not more ships, but troops.” Under
few conditions should such a situation be prolonged. But the reasons
adduced in the last paragraph made it doubly incumbent upon us to
bring the matter speedily to an issue, and the combined expedition
from Tampa was at once ordered. Having in view the number of
hostile troops in the country surrounding Santiago, as shown by the
subsequent returns of prisoners, and shrewdly suspected by
ourselves beforehand, it was undoubtedly desirable to employ a
larger force than was sent. The criticism made upon the inadequate
number of troops engaged in this really daring movement is
intrinsically sound, and would be wholly accurate if directed, not
against the enterprise itself, but against the national
shortsightedness which gave us so trivial an army at the outbreak of
the war. The really hazardous nature of the movement is shown by
the fact that the column of Escario, three thousand strong, from
Manzanillo, reached Santiago on July 3d; too late, it is true,
abundantly too late, to take part in the defense of San Juan and El
Caney, upon holding which the city depended for food and water; yet
not so late but that it gives a shivering suggestion how much more
arduous would have been the task of our troops had Escario come up
in time. The incident but adds another to history’s long list of
instances where desperate energy and economy of time have wrested
safety out of the jaws of imminent disaster. The occasion was one
that called upon us to take big risks; and success merely justifies
doubly an attempt which, from the obvious balance of advantages
and disadvantages, was antecedently justified by its necessity, and
would not have been fair subject for blame, even had it failed.
The Navy Department did not, however, think that even a small
chance of injury should be taken which could be avoided; and it may
be remarked that, while the man is unfit for command who, on
emergency, is unable to run a very great risk for the sake of decisive
advantage, he, on the other hand, is only less culpable who takes
even a small risk of serious harm against which reasonable
precaution can provide. It has been well said that Nelson took more
care of his topgallant masts, in ordinary cruising, than he did of his
whole fleet when the enemy was to be checked or beaten; and this
combination of qualities apparently opposed is found in all strong
military characters to the perfection of which both are necessary.
 29. “Fleet in Being” and “Fortress Fleet”[101]

The Port Arthur Squadron in the Russo-Japanese War

[At the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in February, 1904,

Russia had three armored cruisers at Vladivostok, another at
Chemulpo, Korea, and seven battleships, six cruisers, and a torpedo
flotilla at Port Arthur. Three of the Port Arthur ships were badly
damaged by torpedo attack on February 8, and the cruiser at
Chemulpo was destroyed on the next day. Togo lost two of his six
first-class battleships by running into a mine field off Port Arthur on
May 15. In an attempt to escape to Vladivostok on August 10, the
Port Arthur squadron lost a battleship and several cruisers; the
remainder were sunk in the course of the Port Arthur siege. This
lasted from May 27 to January 1, 1905. Even before February 8,
1904, the Japanese had begun transporting their troops to Korea;
and after the fall of Port Arthur they were able to throw their full
strength against General Kuropatkin in the decisive battle of
Mukden, February 24, 1905.—Editor.]
I have been led, on an occasion not immediately connected with
Naval Strategy, to observe that errors and defeats are more obviously
illustrative of principles than successes are. It is from the records of
the beaten side that we are most surely able to draw instruction. This
is partly due to the fact that the general or admiral who is worsted
has to justify himself to his people, perhaps also to his Government.
The naval practice of court-martialing a defeated captain or admiral
has been most productive of the material which history, and the art
of war, both require for their treatment. Even failing a court-martial,
defeat cries aloud for explanation; whereas success, like charity,
covers a multitude of sins. To this day Marengo is the victory of
Napoleon, not of Desaix; and the hazardous stretching of the French
line which caused the first defeat is by most forgotten in the ultimate
triumph. The man who has failed will of his own motion bring out all
that extenuates failure, or relieves him from the imputation of it. The
victor is asked few questions; and if conscious of mistakes he need
not reveal them. More can be found to criticize Kuropatkin and
Rozhestvensky than to recognize either their difficulties or their
merits. Probably few, even in this naval audience, knew, or have
noted, that on the day preceding that on which two Japanese
battleships, the Hatsuse and Yashima, were sunk by Russian mines,
not a Japanese scout was in sight, to notice the Russian vessel
engaged in the work which resulted so disastrously to its foes. On
that day, during that operation, no Japanese vessel was visible to the
lookouts at Port Arthur.
For the reasons advanced, I turn at first, and more particularly, to
the Russian naval action for illustration of principles, whether shown
in right or wrong conduct; and here I first name two such principles,
or formulation of maxims, as having been fundamental, and in my
judgment fundamentally erroneous, in the Russian practice. These
are mental conceptions, the first of which has been explicitly stated
as controlling Russian plans, and influencing Russian military ideas;
while the second may be deduced, inferentially, as exercising much
effect. The first, under the title of “Fortress Fleet,” is distinctly
Russian; realized, that is, in Russian theory and practice, though not
without representation in the military thought of other countries.
The second is the well known “Fleet in Being;” a conception
distinctly English in statement and in origin, although, like the first,
it finds reflection in naval circles elsewhere. I shall not at this point
define this conception “Fleet in Being.” I shall attempt to do so later,
by marking its extreme expression; but to do more will require more
space than is expedient to give here, because full definition would
demand the putting forward of various shades of significance, quite
wide in their divergence, which are attributed to the expression
—“Fleet in Being”—by those who range themselves as advocates of
the theory embraced in the phrase.
It is, however, apt here to remark that, in extreme formulation, the
two theories, or principles, summed up in the phrases, “Fortress
Fleet” and “Fleet in Being,” are the antipodes of each other. They
represent naval, or military, thought polarized, so to say. The one
lays all stress on the fortress, making the fleet so far subsidiary as to
have no reason for existence save to help the fortress. The other
discards the fortress altogether, unless possibly as a momentary
refuge for the vessels of the fleet while coaling, repairing, or
refreshing. The one throws national defense for the coast lines upon
fortifications only; the other relies upon the fleet alone for actual
defense. In each case, co-operation between the two arms, fleet and
coast-works, is characterized by a supremacy of one or the other, so
marked as to be exclusive. Co-ordination of the two, which I conceive
to be the proper solution, can scarcely be said to exist. The relation is
that of subjection, rather than of co-ordination. [Here a distinction is
drawn between compromise, which implies concessions and a
middle course between divergent purposes, and the proper method
best expressed by the word adjustment, which signifies
concentration on a single purpose and co-ordination of all means to
that end.]
It is worthy of your consideration whether the word “compromise”
does not really convey to your minds an impression that, when you
come to design a ship of war, you must be prepared to concede
something on every quality, in order that each of the others may have
its share. Granting, and I am not prepared to deny, that in effect each
several quality must yield something, if only in order that its own
effectiveness be ensured, as in the case of the central defense force
just cited, is it of no consequence that you approach the problem in
the spirit of him who divided his force among several passes, rather
than of him who recognizes a central conception to which all else is
to minister? Take the armored cruiser; a fad, I admit, with myself.
She is armored, and she is a cruiser; and what have you got? A ship
to “lie in the line?” as our ancestors used to say. No, and Yes; that is
to say, she may on a pinch, and at a risk which exceeds her powers. A
cruiser? Yes, and No; for, in order to give her armor and armament
which do not fit her for the line, you have given tonnage beyond what
is needed for the speed and coal endurance proper to a cruiser. By
giving this tonnage to armor and armament you have taken it from
other uses; either from increasing her own speed and endurance, or
from providing an additional cruiser. You have in her more cruiser
than you ought to have, and less armored vessel; or else less cruiser
and more armored ship. I do not call this a combination, though it is
undoubtedly a compromise. You have put two things together, but
they remain two, have not become one; and, considering the
tonnage, you have neither as much armored ship, nor as much
cruiser, as you ought to have. I do not say you have a useless ship. I
do say you have not as useful a ship as, for the tonnage, you ought to
have. Whether this opinion of one man is right or wrong, however, is
a very small matter compared with the desirability of officers
generally considering these subjects on proper lines of thought, and
with proper instruments of expression; that is, with correct
principles and correct phraseology.
As an illustration of what I am here saying, the two expressions,
“Fortress Fleet” and “Fleet in Being,” themselves give proof in their
ultimate effect upon Russian practice and principle. Fortress Fleet
was a dominant conception in Russian military and naval thought. I
quote with some reserve, because from a daily newspaper,[102] but as
probably accurate, and certainly characteristic of Russian theory, the
following: “Before his departure from Bizerta for the Suez Canal,
Admiral Wirenius, in command of the Russian squadron, remarked
that the Russian plan was to make Port Arthur and Vladivostok the
two most important arsenals in the empire, each having a fleet of
corresponding strength,”—corresponding, that is, to the fortress,
—“depending upon it as upon a base.” The distribution would be a
division in the face of the probable enemy, Japan, centrally situated,
because the design has reference primarily to the fortress, not to
naval efficiency. The conception is not wholly erroneous; if it were,
the error would have been detected. It has an element of truth, and
therein lies its greatest danger; the danger of half or quarter truths. A
fleet can contribute to the welfare of coast fortresses; especially when
the fortress is in a foreign possession of the nation. On the other
hand, the Fleet in Being theory has also an element of truth, a very
considerable element; and it has been before the naval public,
explicitly, for so long a time that it is impossible it was not known in
Russia. It was known and was appreciated. It had a strong following.
The Russian Naval General Staff clamored for command of the sea;
but in influence upon the government, the responsible director and
formulator of national policy, it did not possess due weight. Not
having been adequately grasped,—whether from neglect, or because
the opposite factor of Fortress Fleet was already in possession of
men’s minds,—it was never able to secure expression in the national
plans. There was compromise, possibly; both things, Fleet in Being
and Fortress Fleet, were attempted; but there was not adjustment.
The fortress throughout reduced the fleet, as fleet, to insignificance
in the national conceptions. What resulted was that at Port Arthur
the country got neither a fortress fleet, for, except the guns mounted
from it, the fleet contributed nothing to the defense of the place; nor
yet a Fleet in Being, for it was never used as such.
 It is interesting to observe that this predominant conception of a
fortress fleet reflects national temperament; that is, national
characteristics, national bias. For, for what does Fortress Fleet
stand? For the defensive idea. For what does Fleet in Being stand?
For the offensive. In what kind of warfare has Russia most
conspicuously distinguished herself? In defensive. She has had her
Suvarof, doubtless; but in 1812, and in the Crimea, and now again, in
1904–1905, it is to the defensive that she has inclined. In virtue of
her territorial bulk and vast population, she has, so to say, let the
enemy hammer at her, sure of survival in virtue of mass. Militarily,
Russia as a nation is not enterprising. She has an apathetic bias
towards the defensive. She has not, as a matter of national, or
governmental, decision, so grasped the idea of offense, nor, as a
people, been so gripped by that idea, as to correct the natural
propensity to defense, and to give to defense and offense their proper
adjustment in national and military policy.
In these two well-known expressions, “Fortress Fleet” and “Fleet in
Being,” both current, and comparatively recent, we find ourselves
therefore confronting the two old divisions of warfare,—defensive
and offensive. We may expect these old friends to exhibit their well-
known qualities and limitations in action; but, having recognized
them under their new garb, we will also consider them under it,
speaking not directly of offensive and defensive, but of Fortress Fleet
and Fleet in Being, and endeavoring, first, to trace their influence in
the Russian conduct....
Why then was the fleet stationed in Port Arthur? Because,
expecting the Japanese attack to fall upon Port Arthur, the purpose
of the Russian authorities was not to use the fleet offensively against
the enemy’s navy, but defensively as a fortress fleet; defending the
fortress by defensive action, awaiting attack, not making it. That is,
the function of the fortress was conceived as defensive chiefly, and
not as offensive. Later, I hope to show that the purpose, the raison
d’être, of a coast fortress is in itself offensive; because it exists chiefly
for the purpose of sheltering a fleet, and keeping it fit to act
offensively. For the present, waiving the point, it will be sufficient to
note that the conception of the fleet by the Russians, that it should
act only in defense, led necessarily to imperfect action even in that
respect. The Port Arthur division virtually never acted offensively,