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"We Are the Law." Picked officers took downtown Havana's Cabana fortress. Others seized naval and air centers. From these bases they took control of police stations, communication centers, the labor palace. The rest of the island—there were only two regiments outside Havana—fell soon afterward. The young officers crowded round Batista at his table in Columbia and crowed: "Fulge, we're in!" Prío took refuge at the Mexican embassy. "We are the law," proclaimed Batista, sending tanks and armored cars through the streets of Havana.
Cubans hardly needed to be told. Political foes rushed to make deals with the new boss. Gangsters stopped shooting at each other. Employers reported an abrupt end to such familiar nuisances as wildcat strikes and absenteeism. Cubans remembered Batista. In the past, he had used castor oil, midnight arrests or gunplay; his soldiers had ruthlessly put down abortive rebellions. He could afford to be economical with the weapon of terror. "It is my destiny to make bloodless revolutions," he bragged—and added a significant qualification: "The only blood spilled will be that of those who oppose us."
In the old days, Batista liked to roister long past midnight with ex-sergeant cronies. Now the ex-sergeants are out of the picture, and Batista is alone. The Strong Man is a big boy now. As one Cuban says: "Batista does not love and does not hate. He will sacrifice his best friend and pardon his bitterest enemy if it serves his purpose." This political formula has not made him popular, but it works. Smiles Batista: "I am a dictator with the people."
The Stenographer Dictates. With or against the people, the Strong Man, at any rate, came from them. The son of a poor farmer of mixed blood, he was born in 1901, while his country was still under U.S. occupation, at the eastern sugar town of Banes. Quitting Banes' Quaker School at twelve, he worked as a tailor's apprentice, bartender, barber, banana picker, cane cutter and railroad hand. At 20 he joined the Army. To other soldiers, he was virtually a literary type: there was always a book or magazine under the pillow of his bunk. When he got the chance, he studied shorthand and became a sergeant-stenographer, handling secret papers, working with high officers, traveling around.
Batista was still a sergeant at 30, as the great depression settled down on Cuba. Sugar then sold for ½¢ a pound, banks foreclosed on planters, cane cutters roamed the island seeking a few weeks' seasonal work at 20¢ for a dawn-to-dark day. Those were the years of the tyrannous President Machado and his infamous gangs of gunmen hired to repress the people by terror and torture. Rebellion was in the air. Students led strikes, and the ABC revolutionary society hurled bombs at Machado's hated police. President Roosevelt sent Sumner Welles to help ease Machado out without an insurrection. Machado went, and Cuba exploded in the celebrated "Sergeant's Revolt." On Sept. 4, 1933, Sergeant Batista, the ringleader, walked into Camp Columbia headquarters, pistol in hand, and told the army chief he was relieved of duty.