"There's a patrol on the road. About five of them," Oliverio reported when he came back from his scouting. 

"Damn," Dario cursed. Security was tightening up.

As Eutimio the traitor had promised in his last words, Batista's forces did come, though not in a full-scale direct attack to evict them out of the mountain range. Instead, they formed a ring around the territory of the beleaguered revolutionaries, tightening up security, trying to enforce some sort of blockade. It was working, to a degree. Everyone was becoming more paranoid, because the frequency of enemy patrols kept increasing. The villagers were terrified, and the supplies and information they provided slowly dwindled. The Movement had to rely more on Huber Matos, Juanita and Celia Sánchez to come through with their logistics network. However, even they were facing issues in deliveries due to patrols.

"Marco. Lionel," Dario whispered to the twins who were kneeling beside him. He pointed to the road. "Take up positions on the road. Get ready to fire on my signal."

The Almeidas obeyed the order and without a word, got up to a crouching position to navigate their way through the thick vegetation as quietly as possible.

Dario sighed, the dreariness of another direct conflict weighing down on his mind. He had lost count of the number of times he had to fight in skirmishes with enemy soldiers. But, this time, he must secure the road and failure could not be accepted. Just yesterday, a messenger arrived at his platoon encampment on a horse. Apparently, Fidel had received a message from Celia that she was coming with a North American journalist who wanted to interview him. Because security was so tight, Fidel decided that Dario should go and escort them, since his camp was nearest to Celia's route back. 

And their meeting point was supposedly this road.

Dario muttered another curse under his breath for being tasked to do this. All this trouble just so that Fidel could have another moment in glory in a newspaper. Then he suppressed the thought immediately. Publicity for Fidel meant publicity for the cause and that could help undermine Batista's hold on power. He licked his lips. Anything to down Batista.

"Come. Let's go. Oliverio, lead the way."

He followed behind the reliable Chinese youth who found the way to a spot near the edge of the vegetation with minimal noise. There, they got down to their prone positions. Since the density of vegetation was thinner there, Dario could make out the shapes of the five men standing in a circle, donned in the familiar grey uniform complete with jungle hats. Their rifles hung slackly by the sides. Rings of smoke rose above them from the tips of their cigarettes.

"Look at them," Dario sneered. "Standing around, smoking like they own the place."

"Well, actually they do," Oliverio pointed out. "We are the ones hiding like rats."

Dario chuckled softly. "Not anymore. These idiots won't know what hit them."

He lifted his rifle and cocked it, feeling the familiar weight fit tightly in the hollow of his shoulder. Wanting to get a better viewpoint, he dug his elbows into the mud and crawled forward a small distance. Oliverio readied himself for battle too. 

Like the seasoned guerrilla he was, Dario aimed his iron sight at the head of one of the soldiers. His rifle hung still. His fingers stayed ready over the trigger. 

He fired, the shot tearing the lazy smoking session asunder. The soldier, hit with a bullet in the head, slumped down to the ground, limp, cigarette still between his lips. The other four were taken aback by the sudden shot and immediately reached for their rifles. But before they could take cover, more bullets flew in towards them, this time shot by the Almeidas. Oliverio fired his bullets, managing to take down one of the soldiers.

Within seconds, all five were dead. The ambush was a success. Dario stood up and strolled to the center of the road. He scanned the area with a wary alertness. 

After concluding that there were no more enemies in the vicinity, he shouted, "Celia! Are you here? It's Dario!"

Immediately, Dario heard a rustling among the bushes on the other side of the road. Celia Sánchez emerged, rifle in hand. A clean-shaven gringo of average build dressed in a brown sweatshirt with black cargo pants soon followed. He looked to be in his fifties as deep wrinkles lined his forehead. His receding white hair could be seen under a haphazardly worn newsboy cap. Wearing his black leather backpack, he looked distinctly out of place in this part of Cuba, like a lost tourist. 

His sallow gray eyes seemed to smile at Dario. The gringo may look to be in his fifties but his nervous energy made him seem much younger than the seasoned guerrillas he faced.

Celia announced, "Señor, these are the men who will escort you to Fidel. I will have to take my leave now."

After exchanging customary greetings with Dario, the Almeidas, and Oliverio, the grizzled female revolutionary took her leave.

"I am Dario Ruiz, a platoon commander. These are my men, Marco and Lionel Almeida, as well as Oliverio Chang," Dario introduced himself and his men in a dry formal tone.

"Hello. Thank you for taking the trouble." he said too joyfully in broken Spanish. His voice was sprightly, which was unexpected coming from one looking his age. He proceeded to shake the hands of the revolutionaries. "I am Herbert Matthews, journalist from the New York Times."

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"How old are you?" Herbert asked Dario in Spanish a few minutes into their trek back. 

"I understand English perfectly, Señor," Dario stated in accented English. He had learnt the language in school and polished it during his year in Miami. 

"Oh, that's great. You can call me Herbert," the journalist said, evidently relieved, reverting back to his native language.

"I am twenty-five by the way. Herbert." 

"Wow," Herbert uttered in awe. "That's a lot younger than I imagined. Are most of you this young?"

"Some even younger. The Chinese boy over there? He's eighteen."

"Eighteen?!" Herbert exclaimed, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. "He looked young, but I never imagined-"

"We have to keep our voice down. You never know who is lurking nearby in this jungle," Dario warned curtly.

Herbert's eyes darted around nervously to the gnarly trees shadowing around him. "Sorry." He then continued in a low voice. "I never thought Batista would be fighting against a bunch of teenagers. How old is Fidel Castro?"

The comment could have been construed as offensive, but Dario chose to ignore it, instead taking it as ramblings of a man out of his element in these hostile jungles.

"Fidel is thirty... one? I believe," Dario tried to recall through his foggy memory. He then continued, "You never thought that... what did you think back in America? Never mind what you think. What is the public view of this war?"

"Oh." Herbert blinked his eyes. "Actually, I thought you guys were finished. In fact, back in America, it's widely thought that Fidel Castro is dead."

"What?" The journalist's words caught him by surprise. "Fidel Castro, dead? How did they come to think that way?"

"What happened was that the press was told, by your president, that the rebellion was quashed when the army ambushed you guys at your landing, and Fidel Castro was killed in battle."

"Nonsense! He is alive. You will see."

"I know. I know," Herbert said in a gentle tone, like a father calming down an indignant child. "I received a message from my correspondent in Havana from an emissary from your Movement, inviting me down here to interview a supposedly dead man. I could not pass up the opportunity."

"Ah, must be Juanita," Dario said. She was in charge in external affairs. Fidel must have tasked her with arranging an interview, he thought.

"Yes, I think that was her name. But not to worry, everything was arranged in absolute secrecy. We cannot risk Batista finding out."

"Yes. That bastard lied about us being done. We are far from it, you will see. That man is a threat to our country, and we will destroy him," Dario declared with vigorous passion.

Herbert looked at the young revolutionary as if he were appraising some fine specimen. Nodding, he said, "I am interested to see what you all are about. Truth be told, there are worries among my country's leaders about Batista's volatility, shall we say? Ultimately, I believe that they desire a stable Cuba."

"Hmph," Dario snorted derisively. "Then a military dictatorship will definitely be far from ideal."

"Yes... but a communist government would be even worse, especially in a time when tension with the Soviets is rising."

Dario shot the journalist a dark look. His thoughts immediately went to Rául Castro, the communist. Herbert maintained his questioning glare, as if expecting a response.

"No," Dario finally said quietly. "I am not a communist."

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The party of five slept in a clearing deep within vegetation when it was too dark to continue. The four revolutionaries took turn to keep watch. The journalist slept uneasily on the cold hard ground, being unused to such discomfort. As soon as dawn arrived, the group continued the trek, which only took an hour more to complete. 

It was the beginning of the morning when they arrived at Fidel's encampment, which had been shifted after the bombing a few weeks prior. After being challenged by the sentry, they were brought to Fidel's tent. 

The leader of the Movement had been in the midst of a meeting with his second-in-command, Che Guevara, when the escorts arrived with the American journalist. His eyes lit up as soon as they landed on Herbert Matthews. 

"Are you the journalist?" he asked in English.

The sight of the famed leader of the Movement must have stunned the journalist for a split second. Here he was, powerfully built, olive skinned, full-faced with a straggly beard. A supposedly dead man in the flesh. 

"I am Herbert Matthews, journalist with the New York Times."

Fidel walked over to shake Herbert's hand. "Yes, yes, I have heard. I have been expecting you."
His hands then gestured grandly to his modest table. "I have food prepared, so let us sit and talk in comfort."

Dario's eyes and mouth widened at the feast on display for the journalist. Sugarcane juice in mugs. Ham sandwiches on metal platters. Cured meat on the bone. Soda crackers and tinned coffee. And it was imported coffee! Not the usual piss they drank. Fidel really spared no expense in wanting to impress the American.

"Dario, Marco, Lionel, Oliverio," Fidel called out.

"Yes?"

"Thank you all escorting the journalist here."

Dario bowed his head and spoke for his men. "Our pleasure, Fidel."

"Sit down and enjoy the food with us. Take it as a reward."

Oliverio gave a grin so wide that looking at it, Dario could not prevent a spurt of happiness from making its way to his face. The Almeidas merely looked on blankly, but their pursed lips hid a hint of a smile. 

Dario scratched his hair, smiling sheepishly. "I... I think we will accept then."

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In honour of the occasion, Fidel broke open a box of good Havana cigars. Herbert accepted one in goodwill. The interview went by with Herbert asking questions while Fidel answered. The rest of the revolutionaries at the table listened intently, not wanting to interrupt the session.

The journalist started with Fidel's origins and past before he founded the Movement to overthrow Batista. Fidel preferred to use Spanish to answer, being much more eloquent in the language. Whenever there were words that had to be translated due to Herbert's intermediate command of Spanish, Dario would step in to do so. 

Every time Fidel was to answer a question, his dark brown eyes would flash, and he would push his face right up to Herbert's, maintaining an intensified expression, like a storyteller around a campfire. His whispering voice would lend a vivid sense of drama to his words. The leader was clearly enjoying himself. 

"So, how goes the war in your opinion?" Herbert asked, looking up from his notebook filled with scrawling words.

Fidel's eyes scanned the revolutionaries sitting with him at the table and smiled in deep approval. 

"We have been fighting for a few months now and are stronger than ever," he said. "Batista's soldiers are fighting badly; their morale is low and ours could not be higher. We are killing many, but when we take prisoners they are never shot. We question them, talk kindly to them, take their arms and equipment, and then set them free. I tell you this. They don't want to fight. They don't know how to fight this kind of mountain jungle warfare. We do."

Herbert nodded and scribbled a few things in his notebook. "Do you think the people of Cuba will stand with you?"

"Stand with me?" Fidel's voice went up a note, and a hint of anger could be detected in his tone. "The Cuban people hear on the radio all about wars in foreign countries, but they don't hear a word about us or read a word, thanks to the censorship. You will be the first to tell them. I have followers all over the island! All the best elements of this country, especially all the youth, are with us. The Cuban people will stand against oppression."

"Will you declare a revolutionary government?"

"Not yet," Fidel replied. "The time is not ripe. I will make myself known at the opportune moment. There is no hurry. Cuba is in a state of war, and Batista is hiding it. A dictatorship must show it is omnipotent or it will fall. We are showing it is impotent."

"Batista's regime," he continued with bitterness. "is using arms furnished by the United States against the Cuban people." He made sure to emphasise the last two words. "But we are safe here in the Sierra Maestra. They must come and get us, and they cannot."

Herbert seemed impressed with Fidel's answer. He removed the lit cigar from his lips and exhaled a puff of smoke. Casually, he dropped the next question. 

"Fidel Castro. What is your vision for Cuba, assuming Batista falls from power?"

Fidel paused to consider his answer, and the mechanisms in play within his mind could almost be seen turning and wheeling like well-oiled system of gears. Then, in a clear and confident voice, he said, "The 26th of July Movement is one of nationalism, anti-colonialism, and anti-imperialism."

The journalist's taut expression tightened up at those words.

Fidel continued, "Above all, we are fighting for a democratic Cuba, and an end to the dictatorship. What will happen after Batista falls from power? I will fight for the liberty of all Cubans, for the restoration of the Constitution and democracy. I will hold free elections and uphold social justice for all Cubans. In terms of economy, I value free and open trade with the rest of the world. Although I wish for Americans imperialism in our country to desist, you can be sure that we have no animosity towards the United States and the American people. I simply put the interests of my countrymen at the foremost of my mind."

Dario listened closely to every single word, and found nothing to disagree with. He agreed with the fundamental values that the leader espoused. But upon second thought, he thought that perhaps Fidel was spouting such words to get into the journalist's good books. Did he truly believe the words he said? Dario looked at Fidel and found nothing but a blank conviction.

Herbert loosened up visibly, and even smiled. "I am relieved that you say that you can be a friend of the American people. There were some concerns among my country's leadership that-"

"I am a communist?"

"Yes."

"Ha!" Fidel let out a chortle of laughter and slapped the back of Che, who was sitting quietly beside him. It was then Dario noticed Che had his eyebrows knitted, fists clenched, and jaws tensed up and trembling, as if he was holding some great ball of emotion within him and suppressing it. He took note of this. The man was hiding something. 

"Herbert Matthews," Fidel said in an offhand manner. "If there is one thing you can be sure of reporting, it is this. I am not a communist."

The journalist from the New York Times grinned. "I am glad to hear that."

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Dear Readers,

And this chapter is done! Pretty interesting stuff, yes? The interview did actually happen. Herbert Matthews did actually interview Fidel Castro and even published his article on the New York Times. Of course, what I wrote probably isn't what actually happened. I took the liberty of writing my own fictional version of it.

ALSO, I have great news! Freedom Fighters is currently on the featured list!!! It will be there for 2 weeks before it is taken down. 

As usual, don't forget to vote and comment!

Yours sincerely, 
SyllabusPearl