As they column trudged by, he estimated their numbers at several thousand and wondered if there were other columns or if this was all that remained of the Matanzas army. There was a scattering of cheers as General Weyler rode by on an old horse. Kendrick stiffened with surprise as he saw the man riding directly behind Weyler. It was Gilberto Salazar. He fumed. Of course the son of a bitch would survive the disaster at Matanzas. Now he and Juana would have to be doubly, trebly, careful. Maybe he could get her out of the city and down to the American lines.
Maybe he could grow wings and fly.
* * *
Sarah took off the filthy smock that she wore over her army uniform and held it under the water of the stream that flowed into the bay. The dried blood and other matter loosened and fell away, staining the water a vile shade of pink. She shook the cloth and the water stained some more. She kept squeezing and shaking until nothing more came off. Satisfied that she’d done the best she could, she wrung it out and hung it over a branch. The day was hot and not overly humid, and it should dry quickly.
She sensed rather than heard or saw Martin standing behind her. “Do you always watch a lady doing her laundry?”
“Every chance I get. Now, are you going to jump in that stream or not?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m filthy, body and soul. I would sell everything I own for a bath. On the other hand, I think I will jump in.”
She didn’t actually jump. Rather, she took off her shoes and stockings, stepped into the clear running water and sat down. “This is wonderful. Care to join me?”
Martin laughed. “The minute I do, General Hancock will come strolling by or Benteen will call for an immediate meeting.”
“Turn around and watch out for me,” she ordered. She slipped the military tunic up and washed underneath as best she could. She then did the same for her trousers, lowering them down to her ankles and letting the fresh water do its magic.
A couple of moments later she straightened her clothes and stood up. Her clothes were soaking wet but they would quickly dry. In the meantime, being cold was a delicious feeling.
“Did you peek?”
“Only a little,” he admitted with a smile. “The water distorted the picture. From what I did see, however, you are lovely.”
“Swine,” she said gently. “When are you leaving for Havana?”
“In about an hour. The First Maryland and the rest of my brigade will bring up the rear, at least for a while. Both Benteen and Hancock have been showering me with compliments which means I’ll be moving up to the front in a little while.”
“I prefer you at the rear. At least there it’s a little safer.”
“What about you?”
“The entire medical contingent will be moving out by ship to either Santa Cruz del Norte or Santa Maria del Mar which is even closer to Havana.”
Martin whistled in surprise. “Somebody’s optimistic. We haven’t taken del Mar yet.”
“All generals should be optimists, Martin. At any rate, our seriously wounded are en route to Florida and the more lightly wounded are being returned to limited duty. In a little while, Matanzas and all the killing done there will be but a fading memory.”
“I don’t think so,” he corrected. “Too many dead and wounded to make it simply go away. Granted the fighting here pales in comparison with the great battles of the Civil War, but there has been some nasty bloodletting here at Matanzas.” He mentally kicked himself as he thought of her brother.
Sarah saw and understood the expression on Martin’s face. “Don’t worry about Jack. My brother is improving and even coming to grips with the fact of his lost hand. He told me that now he’ll never have to work hard again in his life, and that all of the young ladies in Washington will throw themselves at him because he’s a heroic wounded veteran.”
“Would you throw yourself at me if I was wounded?”
“I thought I already had. You had a number of cuts and bruises when I saw you in your tent.”
“Which is nothing compared with what others, like your brother, are having to deal with,” he said grimly.
Sarah began to shudder and Martin held her arm. He was still afraid to show too much affection where others might see them. Then he decided, the hell with it, and held her tightly to him. If anybody noticed, he just didn’t care. Nor did she as she held him just as tightly and wept. Her body convulsed against his and he wanted to sweep her up and take her away to someplace safe.
She pushed him away. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said as she dried her eyes with a handkerchief that was none too clean. “On the other hand, I truly don’t care what other people think. Do you want me to report us to General Hancock? Perhaps he’ll send us back to the States in disgrace. I think I might like that.”
* * *
The roadblock was primitive but strong. Spanish soldiers were arrayed on either side of the narrow dirt road and heavily dug in. They were also well camouflaged and hidden by thick brush. An advancing force would have to be within a couple of hundred yards before they would be seen. Assuming, that is, that the Spanish troops had enough discipline to stay still, thought Diego Valdez. His lover, Maria Vasquez, had scouted them and estimated their number at about five hundred—a battalion, nothing more, and they had no cannon. Still, they could inflict casualties on his allies, the Americans, if they were not forewarned. He’d already sent a couple of runners back to the leading American commander, a General Chamberlain. The American had the reputation of being a canny veteran and one who would not reject advice from a mere Cuban. Too many Americans would, he thought ruefully.
There. He could see the head of the American column. Skirmishers and scouts led it, looking and probing for an enemy. Diego smiled. Even if he hadn’t warned them, the Americans were ready.
Blue-coated soldiers advanced and moved out onto the fields that led to the Spaniards who were still hidden but would have to emerge to fight. Diego wondered at the idiocy of the Spanish wearing white to go to war. Of course, the Americans wearing blue wasn’t all that much smarter. Both sides were a long ways from invisible. He had about a hundred men and they were all dressed in rags that had faded to the color of the earth.
He watched in approval as two American cannon were wheeled into position. From their flags, he discerned that a brigade was arrayed behind them. Good. The messages truly had gotten through. Someone in the Spanish lines must be swearing at his bad fortune.
The cannons fired and after a couple of ranging shots, shells began to land in the Spanish defenses, shredding trees and shrubs, and destroying the Spanish trenches and barricades. Something exploded in the Spanish lines and he could hear the screams of the wounded. The bombardment lasted only about half an hour before the Americans began to move towards what Diego could see were shattered Spanish ranks. The Spaniards were melting away. Officers frantically tried to stop them, but it was like stopping the rain. Outgunned and outnumbered, the Spanish had no more fight in them.
Valdez turned to where his men were waiting and watching. Less than two hundred yards away, the Spaniards were streaming down the road. His men were grinning expectantly.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he laughed. “Kill them. Only remember to take prisoners. The Americans don’t like it when we massacre all our enemies, no matter how much they deserve it.”
His men howled their pleasure and began firing into the fleeing Spaniards, many of whom were their Cuban brethren. Tough, he thought. Even though they were likely unwilling conscripts, they were still the enemy. The fight for a free Cuba had long ago become the worst kind of civil war.
Some Spaniards tried to fire back at their new tormentors, but when a few were cut down, the others began to back away. His men hadn’t practiced enough to be good shots, but they still caused damage and these Spanish began to run. All control and discipline had been lost.
“Chase them,” Valdez howled and his men surged forward screaming. Because of a chronic shortage of ammunition, rebel General Go
mez had urged his men to fire one shot and then run at the Spaniards with their machetes. They’d done it before and the effect on the Spaniards was shattering. Nobody wanted to be chopped to pieces.
The remaining Spanish soldiers dropped their arms and held up their hands, screaming for mercy. A few of Diego’s soldiers forgot their orders and shot and hacked at their enemies until he and his few officers got control. He counted casualties. Of his men, there were four wounded and none seriously. A score of Spanish were dead and a number of others were wounded. The Americans had seen the fighting and had stopped their own firing.
He pointed at the bodies of those who’d been slaughtered. “Drag those away and hide them. I don’t want the Americans thinking that we’re a bunch of savages.”
Valdez’s men laughed as if he’d just said the funniest thing in the world. A few moments later, the American General Chamberlain, a pale man with a drooping mustache shook his hand and congratulated him on a job well done.
When the general disappeared, he took Maria’s hand and smiled at her. Tonight they would make desperate love on a blanket a little ways away from his camp. He had promised her that he would liberate and destroy the despicable concentration camps like the one she’d escaped from.
* * *
Secretary of State James G. Blaine could see all his ambitions for the presidency and the existence of an overseas American Empire being flushed ignominiously down the toilet. He looked into the sad eyes of Libbie Custer and wished he truly could reach out and comfort her. Sadly, she had made it clear to one and all that she was totally dedicated to rescuing her husband and resuming their lives together. Not that he would have tried, of course, but she was so achingly lovely. Whatever had she seen in her impetuous husband? He banished the thoughts from his brain. He was married and loved his wife. He would only see the White House when he was a guest, as he was now.
“I do understand the irony, Mr. Blaine. When my husband is rescued it will be because of the efforts of his main political rivals, Winfield Scott Hancock and Chester A. Arthur. And I do understand that it might just propel either General Hancock or Chester Arthur into the White House. According to the newspapers, Hancock has skillfully merged both former Union and Confederate soldiers into one army, a remarkable achievement. It also appears that he will be besieging Havana in short order. However, he doesn’t have enough men to properly invest Havana, and he will not get any significant reinforcements.”
Blaine nodded and put down his tea. They were in her private residence in the White House. The servants were present but discretely out of hearing. “All of which means that this war could drag on and on,” he said. “Sooner or later, Hancock must either storm the city or wait for his men to catch the fever and die. Fortunately, the fevers have not been severe this year, at least not yet.”
“At least we have taken Puerto Rico without serious incident.”
Marine Commandant, Colonel Charles G. McCawley, had scraped together the equivalent of a regiment from various ships’ crews and along with fresh enlistments, had landed outside San Juan while under the cover of American gunboats. The conquest had been almost totally bloodless, with only one Marine killed and four wounded. McCawley and the Marines were the nation’s newest heroes. Perhaps a score of Spaniards had fallen in the conquest of Puerto Rico.
“And, dear lady, the Marines will soon re-embark and be sent to Cuba. They will be replaced in Puerto Rico by our militia who will do nothing more than occupy that peaceful and lovely little place. There is the remote possibility that we will be able to gather up the equivalent of another brigade by combining the Marines and a Negro cavalry regiment. The cavalry will fight dismounted, of course. Barring a miracle, we will not be able to ship and supply very many horses. Or men, for that matter.”
“Yet we must win. Or do you feel constrained because of the actions of Congress?”
Blaine tried to hide his annoyance but failed. Cuban rebel spokesman Fidel Cardanzo had spoken with him on several occasions about his visions for the future of Cuba and they did not include a new Cuba as a permanent province or territory of the United States. No, the Cuban rebels wanted independence and they wanted it immediately. The idea of turning over such an island jewel as Cuba to the rag-tag and largely black rebels disgusted him. They needed much more help before they could rule a country on their own.
As usual, Congress was confused with some members wanting a permanent takeover of the Spanish possession, while others said that the U.S. should maintain sovereignty over the island for a set amount of time, approximately four years after victory. This seemed to be the idea that, in some form, would carry. Cardanzo and the rebels would protest, but if there was a date certain by which the U.S. would leave, then perhaps they would be satisfied. The Cuban rebels’ leader, Jose Marti, had spent a considerable amount of time wooing various members of Congress and had largely succeeded. Cuba would not be a permanent part of an American Empire and that infuriated Blaine.
At a slightly different level, there were negotiations with Cardanzo regarding giving American merchants preferred status when Cuba was liberated. Additionally, the U.S. Navy required land for bases and coaling stations when the war was finally concluded. Cardanzo, speaking for Jose Marti and others, had made it clear that using Havana for anything other than the incidental presence of American warships was not negotiable. Other sites, however, were acceptable as potential permanent bases. Matanzas was an obvious locale, but there were thoughts that Santiago on the other side and east of Havana would be better. The farther away from Havana the better, they said. Out of sight, out of mind with the American fleet, went the thought.
There were rumors of a superb anchorage to the east of Santiago at a place called Guantanamo. That had to be checked out. In a few years, only American footholds would remain in Cuba.
Libbie smiled tolerantly. “You are a very unhappy man, and that is a shame. I am truly sorry that you will not see the presidency in this lifetime,”
Blaine smiled bleakly. She was lying through her teeth. She was thrilled that his ambitions had been thwarted. And to think he once thought of her as a potential ally. He stood leaned over and kissed her hand. “Perhaps I shall be reincarnated as a Roman emperor and could rule by decree. Perhaps that is truly more my style.”
* * *
The meeting between Gilberto Salazar and Monsignor Bernardi had been tense. The governor-general had given them their orders, however, and they were determined to carry them out. Salazar’s legion, now down to only a hundred men, would be reconstituted by volunteers called to action by the rabid exhortations of Bernardi.
The small Italian priest had a booming voice and the wild eyes of a fanatic. He called upon the faithful to rise up and drive the Protestant invaders out of Cuba, totally ignoring the fact that many of the Americans were Catholics, especially those from Ireland. He raged that the Americans would destroy statues of the Virgin and sexually assault nuns. His speeches were given as sermons during Mass, or in parks or on street corners. Wherever anyone gathered in the name of Jesus, he said, there he would preach. To his own annoyance, he was only moderately successful, and primarily because most of the men now in Havana were already in a military unit. Those few who weren’t in the army tended to be too old, too young, or too infirm.
With considerable effort, the two men managed to gather up enough men to bring Salazar’s Legion up to a thousand men, although many were not prime soldier material. Arming them was not a problem. The land outside Havana was littered with abandoned rifles as a large part of the army had thrown them away and simply disappeared.
Regardless of their physical limitations, the new recruits burned with zeal. They wanted nothing more than to hurl themselves at either the Americans or the Cuban rebels, and if they were killed in the effort, even better. They yearned to be martyrs.
On reviewing them, Governor General Villate had said that their intensity reminded him of some Moslem sects he’d fought against while commanding Spanish forces in
Africa. Martyrdom, he’d said, was a Moslem goal that they cherished. Salazar had no idea what sects he was talking about. If his recruits wanted to kill themselves for the glory of God while he got the glory of victory, then that was wonderful. Salazar wanted victory and survival. Martyrdom was for fools.
Chapter 18
Ryder stiffened and came to attention when he saw General Hancock approaching. As always, the commander of the U.S. forces in Cuba was impeccably dressed which made Martin feel more than a little dirty since his uniform hadn’t been cleaned in a while. To make matters worse, he and Lang had just spent some time crawling on their bellies to get a good look at the Spanish defenses. A very solemn Nelson Miles followed Hancock. It looked to Ryder that Miles still hadn’t gotten over being supplanted as commander of the American forces. Generals Crook and Gibbon lagged behind, amiably talking to each other.
The grueling advance from Matanzas to the outskirts of Havana was finally over. It had taken two long weeks to get the army out of its original base and down the narrow and inadequate coastal road. At spots, the road had been little more than a trail and the Spaniards had set a number of ambushes. These had either been brushed aside or there had been some brief but serious fighting. Regardless, it had taken time and blood to move the fifty or so miles to Havana.
Hancock returned Martin’s salute. “Good to see you, but I thought I’d be meeting with Benteen.”
“He’s sick, general. He asked me to fill in for him.”
Hancock shrugged as if to say it wasn’t all that important who he met with. “How ill is he? Please tell me it’s not the fever.”
For some reason, the dreaded fevers had not hit the American Army in force, at least not yet. Both sides were holding their breath, awaiting the murderous and mysterious disease that most people thought was caused by breathing the dank and stinking swampy air. Some thought the fever was caused by tiny, invisible organisms called germs, but there was disagreement about that theory. Ryder briefly wondered what Sarah or her father thought about the idea of germs.
1882: Custer in Chains - eARC Page 31