Thus, he had chosen to meet with the two most important men in Spanish politics. They were his current prime minister, Praxedes Sagasta, and Sagasta’s predecessor, Antonio Canovas. Of the two, he was confident that Canovas would be the better war leader. The man had helped crush a previous coup and had done so with great brutality. It was rumored that many hundreds of Spanish men and women had emerged barely alive from weeks or even months of horrific tortures in his prisons. That is, if they emerged at all. Canovas’ brutality sometimes made the king shudder, but he did what had to be done.
“Sire, the situation is intolerable,” Canovas said and the king was pleased to see Sagasta nod in agreement. “What the Americans wish we cannot give if we are to be still considered an important nation in the eyes of the world.”
The king looked at the document on the table, wishing it to go away. It was the message from the President of the United States, George Armstrong Custer, although they strongly suspected that the actual author had been his secretary of state, James Blaine.
The American demands were many. First, they required an apology for what they referred to as the murders of innocent Americans. They professed horror that there had been summary and brutal executions but no trials. Second, they demanded reparations in the amount of one million dollars per person killed.
Canovas had pointed to that paragraph and sarcastically said that no one man is worth a million dollars, especially not an American pirate.
The American demands then included the establishment of naval bases in Cuba at Santiago and, in Puerto Rico at San Juan. They demanded recognition of the still-quiescent rebels as the legitimate government of Cuba.
And finally, they demanded that a Cuban-born Spanish officer named Gilberto Salazar be sent to the United States for trial. He would be charged with nearly a hundred counts of murder.
All of these had been categorically rejected by the king and the Spanish government, although the official notice of rejection had not yet been sent.
Canovas was predictably outraged. “They send a pirate ship full of rebels and weapons and we are supposed to do nothing? What arrogance. We cannot apologize or pay for their criminal actions. Nor can we allow the Americans to get a foothold on either Cuban or Puerto Rican soil. The Spanish empire has shrunk and can shrink no longer. Cuba is the crown jewel of what remains and we cannot even begin to let it go. If the Americans get a base in Cuba, they will use it to arm and train the rebels and then take over the whole island. Cuba will become a colony of the United States.”
It was an ugly fact that the once-proud Spanish empire in the new world, first begun by Christopher Columbus in 1492, had been in decline for more than two centuries. The colonies of South and Central America had successfully rebelled and discarded Spain. Only Cuba and Puerto Rico remained as Spanish outposts in the Atlantic, along with the Philippines in the Pacific. They also recalled the ugly fact that some in the southern United States had wanted to add Cuba as another slave state before the American Civil War. Ironic was the fact that a number of unrepentant Confederates had moved to Cuba and now made it their home.
The king stood and gestured for the others to remain seated. “It is my understanding that not even the rebel Cuban leaders, such as Jose Marti, fully trust the Americans.”
Prime Minister Sagasta agreed. “The Americans are greedy, rapacious, ambitious, and worse, not Catholic. Almost all of them are heretics who hate the Catholic Church. This is obvious from the way they treat their Irish immigrants. They cannot be allowed to gain any advantage in Cuba. Their secretary of state, Blaine, has stated his belief that the United States should continue to expand wherever it can, so this incident with the Eldorado does not surprise me. Their President Custer appears to be the same kind of man—rapacious and ambitious. The Americans will attempt to take advantage of us no matter what we do. Therefore, we must reject everything and especially decline to arrest Gilberto Salazar, a man many consider to be a true patriot and hero.”
Canovas added, “And let’s not forget that he is not only a patriot, but also a Catholic who commands a legion of more than a thousand loyal, well-armed and well-trained soldiers that he is supporting with his own considerable fortune.”
“Still,” the king said wryly, “it would have been so much easier if Salazar had brought his prisoners into port where they could have been interrogated and then put on trial. His summary execution of so many men was a tactical mistake.”
“Agreed,” said Canovas, “I would have liked to have had them in my prisons for a couple of weeks. I guarantee you that they would have confessed to just about anything, including fornicating with their mothers and barnyard animals.”
Alfonso shuddered but dismissed the comment. “Their message is phrased quite cleverly. They are saying that if we do not accept everything they’ve demanded, Spain will have declared war on the United States. In effect, we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
Canovas shook with righteous anger. “Then let’s give them what they want! If they want war then they shall have it. We shall either win back our empire or die with honor. We will never let them forget that we are Spaniards with centuries of empire behind us and they are nothing but barbarians.”
* * *
Sarah Damon and Ruth Holden watched and cheered as yet another band marched down Pennsylvania Avenue and past the White House. Sarah, the younger of the two at twenty-five, could barely bring herself to call it the White House, instead of the President’s House, as most people were now doing. She thought White House sounded too common.
Sarah wondered when she would see her brother’s regiment. He was a captain in the newly formed First Maryland Volunteers, one of a number of units springing up all across the nation and forming to fight the Spanish should a war actually come.
Finally, the First Maryland came in sight and marched past them. “They’re almost in step,” laughed Ruth and Sarah agreed. “Of course, they have been training for the last few weeks.”
“But look at Colonel Fowler,” Sarah said and pointed at the overweight older man who led them. He was clearly in distress. The fifty-year-old Fowler’s face was beet red and he was having a hard time walking. “Someone should help him. He might be about to have a heart attack or even a stroke.”
“Dear God, you’re right. It shouldn’t take a doctor’s daughter like you to recognize that the man’s in trouble. However, we both know the man. He is stubborn and unmovable as a large boulder. As long as he can, he will lead his men.”
“Right into the grave,” Sarah said. “Just like my late husband.”
Ruth reached over and patted Sarah’s hand. “Are you getting through it?”
“My husband was a good man and he was good to me in many ways. His death was senseless.”
Ruth did not respond. Sarah’s husband had been fifteen years older than she, a hard-working and prosperous businessman and farmer and, one day, he’d simply and unexpectedly collapsed and died at his desk. He had left two large farms and a shoe factory to Sarah, along with several other businesses. Recognizing her own limitations and the restrictions of what she thought was a near-feudal society, she sold them and had invested the proceeds in strong stocks and bonds. She was particularly enamored of Mr. Bell’s telephone company.
Two hours later, Sarah’s brother Phil Barnes met them in the restaurant of the Hay-Adams Hotel. He looked distraught. “The colonel’s in the hospital. The march was too much for him. We tried to tell him it would be but he’d have nothing of it.”
“How bad is he?” Sarah asked. She wasn’t fond of the argumentative and stubborn Fowler, but that didn’t extend to wishing him ill.
The waiter brought a glass of cold water which Phil downed in one long swallow. The waiter grinned and brought him another. “They think it’s a heart attack and, if that’s the case, he won’t be returning to the regiment anytime soon and that scares the heck out of me.”
Ruth smiled. “You can say hell. I’ve heard the word and so has
Sarah. Now why does it scare you?”
“Because right now I’m the acting major and that makes me second in command. If Fowler doesn’t return, then I’m in charge of the regiment.”
“God help the First Maryland and the United States of America,” Sarah said while stifling a smile.
She did understand much of what he meant. The regiment had been organized only a few weeks earlier and consisted of close to eight hundred men, and most of them had never been in uniform before. Worse, the handful who had had military experience had not been officers and had forgotten what they’d learned in the sixteen years since the end of the Civil War. All the regiment had were uniforms, old weapons, and little else. Fowler, who had served in the Union Army had fought in several Civil War battles and had been attempting to impart his knowledge and experience to his raw unit.
There was no way on earth that her brother could lead a regiment. The War Department would have to do something about this tragic circumstance. Sarah and her brother thought President Custer was wrong in pushing for war, but they had confidence in Generals Sheridan and Sherman. Yes, those two would do the right thing for the First Maryland.
* * *
Captain Martin Ryder waited for the command that would send him in to see Lieutenant General Phil Sheridan. To Martin, Sheridan had been a true hero of the Civil War and was now the man rumored to be the heir apparent to the current commanding general, William Tecumseh Sherman.
Ryder had been ordered to report to the War Department and wondered what he might have done wrong. No explanation had accompanied the summons and that concerned him. The War Department was located at 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue NW, almost adjacent to the White House. Ryder could imagine a beleaguered President Custer looking out a window and wondering just what he’d gotten himself into with a war with Spain close to a reality.
Ryder was still young for a captain. He was only twenty-seven, although some said he looked older. His light brown hair was thinning and his clean-shaven face was weathered. At least he was still lean and wiry. A lady friend once said he had a nice smile if he’d only ever use it. She was right, he thought, but there was so little to smile about. His military career might have peaked even though there was war on the horizon. He was afraid that he might be assigned some backwater job while others got promotions. Of course, a backwater would be safe, but he hadn’t joined the army to be safe.
Since that momentous day on the Little Big Horn some six years earlier, he’d been stationed at a number of places in the Pacific Northwest and California. He’d spent two years rounding up drunken Indians who’d left their reservations, and another two stationed in a small post outside San Diego. There he had to deal with drunken and sometimes lethal Mexican bandits who kept slipping across the border to rustle cattle and steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. The years had been dull with moments of sheer terror as life and death had sometimes been only a matter of inches apart. Sometimes luck determined who lived and who died. There had been a number of skirmishes with the Mexicans and he’d again seen men die bloodily and horribly. Ironically, since devastating the Indian attack on Custer, he’d never actually killed a man.
He recalled the long-ago conversation he’d had with the journalist, James Kendrick. The man had been right. Custer and the Army had wanted him out of the way. The future president could not be embarrassed by anyone contradicting the official version of the near-massacre at the Little Big Horn.
He’d thought things had been turning around for him when he’d recently been assigned as an aide to the commandant at West Point. He’d even been permitted to give some lectures, although he never spoke about his experiences with Custer. Some thought it odd, while others put it down to modesty. He didn’t much care what other people thought. He was seriously thinking of resigning his commission and getting on with life as a civilian, but he wondered if his resignation would be accepted with war clouds darkening.
He also wondered if he wanted to resign at this moment. If war came, he felt duty and honor bound to use his skills to help his country and the Army.
“You may go in, Captain,” said a boyish lieutenant whose attitude told Ryder that he was not impressed by mere captains. Ryder felt like giving him a quick punch in the groin just to hear him squeal.
Ryder entered Sheridan’s office and saluted the short, stout man seated behind the desk. Lieutenant General Phil Sheridan, he noted, had gained a lot of weight. He was no longer the trim cavalryman who’d given the Rebels fits. He was only in his early fifties and looked decades older. Ryder could not help but think that that if Sheridan represented the best of the Army, the Army was in trouble.
Sheridan waived him to a chair. He was breathing heavily. “You’ve had an interesting few years since saving Custer’s tail, haven’t you?”
Ryder flushed. Like many senior officers, Sheridan did not hold Custer in high esteem. “It hasn’t always been interesting, sir.”
Sheridan snorted, but did not appear angry at the comment. “Your superiors have always given you high grades and you have the respect of your peers. Rumor has it you might have risen quite high if you had not been held back by that Custer debacle. Damndest things happen when you try to do your duty, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s right. The road to hell is sometimes paved with good intentions. But now there’s about to be a war and nobody’s going to remember that strange day on the Little Big Horn. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Pretty well, sir. Learning it was almost essential while I was stationed by the Mexican border.” He declined to mention that it had been a lovely young señorita who’d been his tutor and that much of his lessons involved a detailed study of her anatomy.
“You’re to be commended. Too many young officers would have pissed away their time drinking and screwing Mexican women. You didn’t do any of that, did you? Don’t answer. Do you want coffee?”
Before Ryder could respond, a mug of black stuff was in his hand, courtesy of the smirking young lieutenant. “Captain, we are going to have to rebuild the Army if we’re going to fight Spain. We will need experienced officers who can be promoted to higher positions so they can command what is now little more than a rabble with mostly ancient weapons and using even older tactics. That is if they’re lucky and they have any weapons at all. A need for a man of your talents just opened up. The colonel commanding the First Maryland Volunteers collapsed and nearly died while marching down Pennsylvania Avenue in the extreme heat. Even if he survives, he will not ever return to his regiment. To say that the rest of the officers in his regiment are inexperienced would be a gross understatement. They need a younger commander with combat experience and common sense. They need you, Captain. Effective immediately, you are to take over the First Maryland with the brevet rank of colonel.”
“Sir, I’m at a loss.”
Sheridan smiled, “Don’t be. You deserve it; just don’t make too big a mess of things.”
Ryder was almost giddy. He’d gone from captain to full colonel in less than five minutes. Granted it was only a temporary rank, but it might become a permanent opportunity if he didn’t screw up. At the very least, there was the possibility that his new permanent rank would be major when the war ended. Of course, there first had to be a war. It was considered probable, but the Spaniards might act sensibly and negotiate a settlement. Would that change his thinking? Would he want to stay in the Army?
Sheridan continued. “The regiment is here in Washington, so take over as soon as you can get your new rank sewn on your uniform. Also, I’m sure you remember Sergeant Haney. Well, he’s Master Sergeant Haney now and he’s just out of the hospital where he’d been recovering from a broken leg. He says he fell off his horse, but I think he fell out of some woman’s bed. He’ll be joining you and, between the two of you, you ought to be able to whip nearly a thousand volunteers into shape.”
The lieutenant knocked on the door and reentered. “Sir, we’ve gotten a response from the Spa
niards.”
Sheridan looked forward eagerly. “Well, out with it, damn it.”
“They reject all our demands and, in turn, demand that we send the man they say is the chief pirate, President Custer, to Madrid in chains.”
Sheridan’s jaw dropped and Ryder thought his did as well. The general recovered quickly and laughed hugely. “Custer in chains? My, my, what an intriguing possibility that is. I know a lot of people who’d pay money to see that picture.”
* * *
Gilberto Salazar lay in the mud and tried not to show his men how uncomfortable he was. Leadership often came with a price and getting muddy water down his shirt and into his pants was a small one to pay.
Nearly a hundred of his legionnaires were arrayed in a line to either side of him and were as well hidden as he. His only regret was that they were not able to wear their splendid white uniforms. Instead, they were dressed as the rabble they were out to kill.
He chuckled to himself. One of the side benefits of going to war with the United States was that the rebels, quiet for a few years, had emerged from their rat-holes and again begun fighting for freedom from Spain. It was not lost on Salazar and other Spanish leaders that many of the rebels were slaves who were beginning to get their freedom as the result of the treaty ending the war in 1875. However, slavery in Cuba still existed and would until the year 1888. The idea was that the slaves would somehow be able to buy their freedom from their masters.
Salazar shifted slightly, thus allowing a fresh stream of dirty water to enter his clothing. He hoped he wasn’t getting bugs or leaches in his crotch. Some people, he thought, deserved to be in bondage and that included the poor blacks who were now rebelling against the Spanish empire. Of course, not all of the rebels were Negroes, but a lot of them were. The group he’d been tracking fell into that category.
1882: Custer in Chains Page 3