1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 11

With doctors treating more critical patients and with little doubt as to the severity of General Terry’s condition, it fell to Clara Barton to examine him and officially pronounce him dead. She presumed that it had been a massive and sudden heart attack and that there was nothing anybody could have done. As his body was taken by stretcher, scores of soldiers watched in solemn silence. Few men had known him well if at all, but he was one of the army’s leader and now he was gone. Within minutes the word had spread throughout the camp and the men were shaken and concerned.

“After a brief ceremony, we will bury him here,” pronounced General Miles. A small cemetery had been started and it included a number of navy and army dead. It was acknowledged that packing him in ice and shipping his body to St. Augustine was impractical at this time. When the war was over, perhaps then it would be time to send his remains back to his family in Connecticut.

Miles nodded solemnly towards the empty chair. “It may be unseemly, but we have decisions to make and they should be made promptly. I propose that General Benteen take over Terry’s division. I don’t believe we should wait for Custer or Sheridan to propose someone else and then wait for that person to actually arrive from Washington or even the frontier. Benteen knows the situation. I cannot imagine objections to an essential field promotion.”

There was no serious disagreement. They were about to fight a campaign against Spain. They could not wait on the whims of Washington. “Then who will take over Benteen’s brigade?” asked Gibbon.

“I will check with Benteen, but I rather think he will recommend Colonel Ryder. The man is skilled and experienced despite his relative youth and, alone with winning some minor battles, has gotten some excellent publicity for us, which means it is highly unlikely that Custer will even think of overruling our choice.”

There was mild surprise. Ryder was a West Pointer and Miles disliked West Pointers, a feeling that was reciprocated. It sometimes made for prickly relationships.

Crook managed a small laugh. “I can’t imagine you being worried about the ability of a very young general.”

Miles grinned and flushed. He knew he was not popular. “Sometimes younger generals are the best.”

* * *

Ryder word of his promotion had been flashed to him by heliograph from Miles’ headquarters. While he was saddened by the death of General Terry, a man who had stood beside him during some dark days, he could not help but be pleased that he was now a brevet brigadier general. Only a short while ago, such an event would have been inconceivable. However, there was a dark side to his promotion. Along with the rank came responsibility for more than twenty-five hundred men in three regiments. Along with the First Maryland he now had the Second New York and the First Delaware, all volunteer units. The New York regiment was in fairly good shape but the men from Delaware would need a lot of solid training.

The first thing he did was inform Barnes that he was now acting commander of the First Maryland Volunteers. Neither Ryder nor Barnes was totally comfortable with this, but there was no immediate alternative. The battalion commanders might grumble, but Barnes had been around Ryder enough to have at least some idea how to run a regiment. Barnes had come a long ways in the last few months, but it was folly to think that he could immediately be an effective regimental commander. Ryder firmly told him that he would be watching him carefully and would try to spend as much time as possible with him. Barnes understood.

As to the other two regiments, they were somewhat smaller and had officers with some experience leading their units. Ryder wasn’t totally confident with either man, but these were the cards he’d been dealt. Everyone seemed competent and their men were well positioned and dug in. They ought to be able to hold off a Spanish attack.

He’d just returned to his headquarters on the hill when another message ordered him to come down. General Benteen wanted to meet with him. He borrowed a horse and rode down and into the city of Matanzas. Maybe if he was lucky he’d manage to steal a few minutes with Sarah.

Benteen surprised him by having General Miles present as well. They formally expressed confidence in his abilities to handle the situation. It was good to hear although Ryder wondered if they felt they had to compliment him. They informed him that General Terry had already been buried, which didn’t surprise Ryder. There was a war on and it was very hot. His remains might be sent north in the future, assuming they could find them after a few months in Cuban ground.

Miles, who also looked so strained and gaunt that Ryder wondered about his condition, told Ryder to be on the lookout for a Spanish attack. Ryder politely said that he would and wondered just what the hell Miles though he’d been doing since taking over Mount Haney. He noticed that Benteen turned away and stifled a grin.

The meeting was mercifully short. It was still afternoon and Ryder felt he had plenty of time to be with Sarah before it became dark. He felt he should be with his men in the event of a sneak night attack by the Spanish.

Finding her proved easier than he expected. First, he saw Ruth who directed him to a house where a stern woman told him that nurses were not allowed to associate with soldiers. She softened significantly when he reminded her that he was a general. It was the first time he’d pulled rank since his promotion and she went upstairs to inform Sarah who was off duty and taking a nap.

She came downstairs a few minutes later. She was disheveled, pale, tired, mussed, and incredibly lovely. They fought the urge to embrace and went outside. There was no privacy there, either. Ruth took up position on his left. “I’m your chaperone,” she informed them happily. “Mistress Barton insisted on it.”

“Damn,” said Sarah as she squeezed Martin’s arm.

Ruth continued. “I could get you into the place where Haney and I enjoy ourselves; however, the stack of tents is not all that comfortable and the warehouse is appallingly hot in the afternoon. We always wait until it cools off at night.”

“Good planning,” Ryder said sarcastically, wondering if there was anyplace where they could find a little decent privacy.

Ruth led them to a small cottage and the three of them entered. “You cannot use the bedroom since someone else owns it. However, I feel a very strong urge to visit the kitchen and look out the window for several very long minutes. There is a lovely couch in the living room which you might find comfortable and pleasurable. You have my permission to enjoy yourselves for a few minutes. Just don’t get too carried away. I might have to interrupt you and get you out of here real fast if the owner shows up.”

“You’re wonderful,” said Sarah.

Martin looked around. The cottage was Spartan. There wear no personal effects around. “Ah, whose place is this?”

Ruth smiled. “Clara Barton’s”

* * *

Ensign Prentice stood behind Janson on the bridge of the Aurora, now temporarily renamed the Oslo. Her papers showed that she was now a Norwegian merchant and she had just managed to evade the few American warships on patrol. Even if she’d been stopped, her cargo of foodstuffs was not military and, as an apparent neutral, she would likely have been permitted to go on through to Havana. If necessary, Janson would have shown his real identification, but he would not have divulged his purpose.

Prentice felt more than a few minutes trepidation as they steamed slowly through the narrow channel that led from the Caribbean to the inner harbors of Havana. He could not help but stare at the rows of guns on the battlements of the Castillo del Morro and the Castillo de la Cabana that seemed to be staring right at him. Only a few shells would shatter their wooden hulled ship. On the other hand, it looked like the Spanish guns were ancient and rusty. He stared though his telescope and saw no one paying attention to the Oslo or, for that matter, manning the guns of the two forts.

They were directed to anchor in an area of the harbor called the Ensenada de Marimelena, directly across from the downtown area of Havana and only a few hundred yards away from their target, the Spanish battleship Vitoria. Clustered around her were the cruisers Aragon and Navarro. Other than a much smaller cruiser and a gaggle of gunboats, this was the heart of the Spanish Navy in the New World. And, Prentice thought to himself, we are here to rip its heart out.

Spanish customs inspection had been a joke. The Spanish government was delighted to have a European ship thumb its nose at the Americans and, besides, the Oslo’s cargo of foodstuffs was very welcome. It was considered hilarious to the Spaniards that the cargo had been picked up in the U.S. and brought to Havana for sale to America’s enemy. The ship was cheerfully waved through and cleared to unload without even a cursory inspection.

That no one on the Oslo chose to take shore liberty was unusual but nothing worthy of note. They’d informed the Spanish authorities that they would be departing as soon as possible and likely with very short notice. When they sensed that the American blockaders were weak or distracted, they would run. The Spanish authorities wished them Godspeed. One said that they were heroes and that he would have a Solemn High Mass said for their safety.

Prentice, Janson, and the small crew of American sailors who had volunteered for the mission loudly wanted to leave Havana and allegedly make some more money before the Americans got serious about their half-hearted blockade. The Spanish understood their mercantile motives.

The ship was unloaded quickly and payment in English pounds was received. As darkness fell, Prentice and Janson stood on the bridge and looked at the Vitoria. There was no attempt at secrecy on her part either. Candles and oil lamps burned and there seemed to be festivities ongoing. They could hear laughter and the sound of music. Prentice thought it would be wonderful to go on board and announce to one and all that he was an officer in the United States Navy and he’d been sent with terrible new weapons to sink the Spanish Navy’s only remaining major warship.

If they succeeded, they would be heroes and Prentice openly hoped for a medal and a promotion. Janson’s hope was less dramatic. He just wanted to sink the damn enemy ship and get away. He also wanted to change the Oslo’s name back to the Aurora and get his old crew back. Those sailors remained back in St. Augustine. This was no place for civilians.

It was considered very bad luck to change a ship’s name. Janson felt a cold breeze and wondered if it was the wind or his fears. Why the hell, he wondered, had he volunteered for this mission? Why had he allowed American naval engineers to modify the hull of his ship so that it now housed two large and lethal torpedoes?

* * *

General Weyler was outraged. The request from the government in Madrid, as forwarded through Havana, was almost an insult. King Alfonso XII had sent a message demanding the prompt and complete destruction of the American forces at Matanzas. The letter said that the continued American presence on Spanish soil was an intolerable insult to Spain, the situation was repugnant, and that all efforts must expended immediately to expel the despised invaders. The implication was clear. In the opinion of the king and the government in Madrid, the Spanish army under Valeriano Weyler was doing little or nothing to resolve the grievous situation.

Vlas Villate was the Governor General of Cuba and Weyler’s superior. He had been looking forward to retiring from his position in Cuba and returning to his estates in Spain. The unexpected war had intruded on his plans.

“However crudely put,” Villate said, “the king has a point. This appears to be a stalemate and it cannot go on forever. The Americans must be crushed, destroyed, just as we must absolutely wipe out any vestiges of Cuban independence. Madrid cannot, however, understand why it is taking so long to move a Spanish army a mere fifty miles.”

Weyler considered Villate to be both his commander and a mentor. They both felt that ruthlessness must be shown, both to the United States and to the rebels now only a few miles from where they were meeting in what had once been the home of a prosperous farmer. Nor did either man much care how many casualties were suffered by the Spanish Army. The Americans must go. However, the Spanish army must be victorious in order for that to happen.

“What they don’t realize is that the distance from Havana to Matanzas is the longest fifty miles in the world,” Weyler said. “The road is a mud track and the army moves at a snail’s pace in part because of that. There are no railroads except for those few that carried sugar products to port, and all food and ammunition must be carried by wagon or by mule. Worse, the army is an untrained mess.”

“Yes, but it is the army we have and the army we must use,” said Villate. “We outnumber the Americans who are just as inexperienced as we are. Many of our officers have never seen battle and even fewer of the enlisted men. However, the same must hold true for the Americans.”

Weyler thought he saw an opening. “Which is why I’ve ordered two divisions from the Santiago garrison to be been sent north to reinforce our army at Matanzas. When they arrive, that will give us an additional twenty thousand men. Our army will total nearly a hundred thousand soldiers.”

Villate shook his head. “Given the distance and, again, the state of the roads, it will be more than a month before they arrive, and they will doubtless be in terrible shape when they do. And that will mean more time for them to get ready. No, my good friend, we must show Madrid that we can fight and, if God is on our side, that we can drive the Americans into the sea.” He sighed, “I long to see large numbers of American prisoners rotting in our prisons while King Alfonso piously decides their fate. Perhaps he will trade them all for President Custer? Then we can chain him and ship him to Madrid.”

Weyler had to smile. “It is a compelling picture and, yes, I do see your point. I shall attack at the soonest opportunity.”

“When?” Villate urged. “I must respond to the king.”

Weyler stood and examined a map on the wall. The Americans held strong positions both on the hill he understood they called Mount Haney and at the opening of the Matanzas Bay. He would attack both spots. Take the foolishly named hill and guns could dominate at least part of the bay, which would drive away American shipping. Take the opening to the bay and the Americans would be trapped.

Weyler drew himself up to full attention. “We will attack in two days.”

* * *

Janson and Prentice decided that the time was right. It was well after midnight, but a three-quarters moon and a cloudless sky gave them all the light they would need. The festivities on the Vitoria had ended and any civilians were now safely on land. This was a comfort to the two men as the idea of needlessly inflicting civilian casualties was repugnant. If necessary they would do it, but avoiding them was a fervent wish.

Better, the two small Spanish cruisers had shifted their anchorage so that getting a clear shot at the battleship was a good possibility. The Aurora’s anchor chains and her engine had been oiled and finely tuned so they made very little noise.

Janson signaled for all ahead slow and the Oslo, once again the Aurora, began to slowly move away from her anchorage. If anyone on shore or on the Spanish ships noticed, they didn’t care. An American flag was ready to be flown as soon as Janson or Prentice gave the order. The American crewmen, most of them now grinning hugely, were dressed as American sailors and not as Norwegian merchant crewmen.

At a point they turned to starboard and began to head towards the Vitoria. They had informed the Spanish that they would turn towards the channel and steam through it to the ocean. At only a couple of hundred yards from the Spanish ship, Janson ordered her engines stopped. He also ordered the torpedo tubes on the hull of the ship opened. This caused the Aurora to wallow for a moment. The brand new Whitehead torpedoes were propelled by compressed air and had a range of three hundred yards maximum and weren’t all that accurate; thus, the Americans had to be as close as possible in order to hit their target and for the Aurora to stand any chance of getting away safely.

Janson nodded towards Prentice. “The honor is yours, I believe.”

Prentice swallowed nervously. “Fire one,” he ordered through a speaking tube. The Aurora shuddered as the torpedo broke free. “Fire two,” he yelled, this time exultantly. The first torpedo was headed straight towards the Vitoria and the second quickly followed in her path.

Janson ordered the Aurora’s engines up to full speed and began to maneuver the ship towards and down the channel. Prentice kept an eye on the Vitoria as the torpedo wakes closed. He heard excited and confused yells from the enemy warship as someone spotted them. It was too late. First one and then the other struck the Vitoria, sending up mountains of water. The Spanish battleship shuddered and heeled over before recovering. Alarms and screams sounded.

As they headed down the channel, trumpets blared and alarm bells rang. “Fly our flag,” Janson ordered and the Stars and Stripes went up at her stern.

“The Vitoria’s sinking,” exulted Prentice. “She’s actually sinking. We’ve done it.”

Janson stole a glance. The Vitoria was listing heavily to port and he could see men jumping off her and into the calm warm water. Smoke was pouring out of her from down below. To his experienced eye, she was mortally wounded. The Spanish might actually salvage her someday, but it would be many months before the Vitoria returned to combat. “Now all we have to do is get out of here,” he said grimly.

Now alert but confused, the Spanish shore batteries opened up on anything that looked like a target and that included the Aurora. Someone with a brain clearly realized that a ship fleeing from such a catastrophe might have had something to do with it.

Shells splashed into the water around them. Shortly, the Spanish guns got the range and cannonballs began to strike the Aurora, hulling her and smashing her. Prentice was thrown the deck where he lay unconscious and bleeding. A large wooden splinter had pierced Janson’s shoulder and he could barely stand the pain.

“Stop engines and strike the flag,” he ordered before the darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

Lieutenant Hugo Torres of the Spanish Navy was bored and lonely. He also felt that the Spanish Navy was in such bad shape that it might not even exist in a few days. The escape of the battleship Vitoria from the guns of the Americans was being told as if it was a great victory when nothing could be farther from the truth. Her batteries of 6.3 inch and 5.5 inch guns were popguns when compared with the guns mounted by the ships of other modern navies. Even the few large ships possessed by the U.S. Navy outgunned the Vitoria. Thus, the Vitoria had run from the battle to the safety of Havana’s harbor.

The battleship was safe but she was also locked in. As one sailor put it, she was as safe as a nun in a convent. The harbor was now her prison. Numerous American warships patrolled the entrance to the harbor. Any attempt to leave would bring them swarming. Even though all of the enemy ships outside the harbor were smaller than the Vitoria, there were so many of them that they would prevail against the Vitoria. They would be like a pack of wolves tearing at a horse or a cow. At least that was what the ship’s captain had declared. Torres was of the opinion that they should try to blast their way out, and that their bigger guns would prevail. However, the captain had also added that the Vitoria had no place to go even if she were to win free. The only safe place for her would be Spain and that was out of the question. It was too far and they would never make it. With that, Torres had to agree.

The people of Havana knew nothing of this. They were just delighted that the mighty looking ship was there to protect their city.

And that was another thing that annoyed Torres. Havana was nowhere near the cosmopolitan city he thought it would be. It was small, cramped, and dirty. Granted Madrid had her poor neighborhoods, but Havana had so many of them. Worse, there were so many blacks and Indians and so few true Spaniards. Many of those who considered themselves noble were clearly of mixed racial backgrounds. Madrid society would have laughed at them.

Nor had he managed to make any headway with the women of the town. The few really lovely ones had already been gobbled up by the more senior and wealthier officers. Torres family had some money but not enough to provide him with a lifestyle that would impress the senoritas. There was never enough, which was why he’d joined the navy in the first place. He had wanted to remove himself as a burden to his family. Well, he thought bitterly, he had indeed removed himself. Now he might remove himself out of this life if the Vitoria went to sea.

“Lieutenant, the foreign ship is moving.”

Torres was about to forcefully remind the sailor that he didn’t have the watch and had only come on deck to get out of the stifling heat below decks when he realized that the foreign ship’s behavior was indeed strange. Was she leaving port? All the Vitoria’s officers had been told that she might depart at any time. Well, he thought, this must be the time.

“Don’t worry about it, sailor,” he snapped.

But wait. The foreign ship was lined up as if she was planning to ram the Spaniard. There was commotion in the water on each side of the foreigner’s hull.

He saw things in the water headed towards him and realized with horror that they were torpedoes.

“Alarm!” Torres screamed. “Sound the alarm.”

It was too late. The torpedoes slammed into the Vitoria’s hull and exploded with incredible violence, actually lifting the ship out of the water for an instant. Torres felt himself being lifted into the air and thrown overboard. He landed in the water and began to thrash. Something floated by and he grabbed at it. He shrieked when he realized it was a human leg, complete with a shoe on its foot.

Crewmen were throwing themselves into the water by the score. No one was making any attempt to save the ship. No matter, he realized as he treaded water. The one remaining capital ship in the Spanish navy was settling in the mud of Havana’s harbor.

Bells and sirens were going off in the city as small boats pushed off to rescue the Vitoria’s crew. A few moments later, Torres was standing on a dock looking at the ruined thing that had been a proud Spanish battleship. Scores of bodies floated around her in an obscene dance. Other rescued crewmen clustered around him as if for comfort. He could not help but wonder if he was the battleship’s ranking survivor. If so, he was now captain of the wreck of the Vitoria.

* * *

Governor Villate saw the prisoners in the hospital where they’d been taken. There were only eight of them and all were injured, some very seriously. Better for his concerns, two of them were the senior officers who’d been on board the American ship.

The reports from the Vitoria were dismal. The battleship was resting on the muddy bottom of Havana harbor with only part of her superstructure showing. She was almost on her side and there was a pair of gaping holes in her hull. These were the results of a torpedo attack. He’d known that the English had the devices and that the inventor had been selling them to a number of nations. He wondered if Spain had any and decided it was highly unlikely. Far too modern and costly to interest the parsimonious government at Madrid, he concluded.

More important, one hundred and seven officers and men had died on the Vitoria. Most had been trapped belowdecks and drowned while others had been blown to pieces by the explosion. A shocking number had died in their hammocks where they’d been sleeping. The attack had been cowardly and despicable. The dead and wounded had to be avenged. Spain’s honor was at stake.

As a result of the sinking, Spanish naval power in the new world was virtually non-existent. In a short time the U.S. would have two capital ships to Spain’s none, and the American smaller warships were at least as good as the less numerous Spanish vessels.

The two American officers had been brought in on stretchers. They were heavily bandaged and the younger man’s legs were in splints. Villate felt like ripping the bandages from their bodies and listening to them scream.

There was a mild and intentional cough behind him. Redford Dunfield from the British Consulate and the International Red Cross had insisted on being present. Since Dunfield was British and since Great Britain was the most powerful nation in the world, his annoying request had to be honored. He was also plump, in his fifties, and exuded a sense of confidence that Villate found both condescending and annoying. He was accompanied by a newly arrived German advisor, Colonel Adolf Helmsdorf. The British consul was in civilian clothes while the German was in full uniform.

The British diplomatic presence in Havana was small. As Dunfield had mentioned several times in earlier meetings, her majesty was most parsimonious when it came to handing out diplomatic titles. Besides, the British ambassador to Spain was located in Madrid, while Havana was a backwater. The Havana consulate was more of a courtesy than anything else. In order to make ends meet, Dunfield was successful in the import-export business. Unfortunately this day for Villate, Dunfield took his consular duties very seriously. The German appeared curious but unconcerned.

The two American prisoners appeared unconscious and in no shape to be questioned. Villate thought they were pretending, but with Dunfield present he would let it go for another time. However, he did have Spain’s pride to salve.

Villate turned on Dunfield and glared. “They will be hanged as pirates and spies.”

“On what grounds?” Dunfield asked calmly but firmly. “According to her papers, their ship was a legitimate U.S. Navy warship and she was flying the American flag when she was taken. Her officers and men are all members of the U.S. Navy; therefore, they cannot be held as pirates.”

Villate felt himself turning red with frustration. “They entered the harbor flying a Norwegian flag and presented Norwegian papers. We trusted their integrity. They are franc-tireurs, terrorists, and, as such are subject to execution. We will hang them in such a manner that the American ships offshore can see them twist and dangle.”

Helmsdorf nodded solemnly. During the Franco-Prussian war, his army had summarily executed a number of Frenchmen who were defined as terrorists. This, however was different. For one thing, the Americans were all wearing uniforms which was in accordance with the rules of war and legitimized their actions.

Dunfield shook his head. “According to the Geneva Convention, the officers and men of the Aurora were and are legitimate members of a conventional armed force and not terrorists as defined by the Geneva Convention. And may I remind you that Spain was a signatory to that agreement. Therefore, you are honor bound to adhere to its terms. You may not hang them.”

I would like to shove the Geneva Accord up your ass and set on fire, Villate thought. Rules of war hell, he thought. War consists of killing people. There should be no rules to fighting for one’s own existence. The Americans should be executed immediately. He had the feeling that the German agreed with him as well. “Are you saying it was a ruse de guerre and nothing more?”

“That’s correct,” Dunfield said, “a trick of war and, sadly, you fell for it. These men were incredibly brave and successful and not pirates or terrorists. When they get back to their homeland, they will be feted and given medals.”

“If they get back,” Villate snarled. “A lot can happen to them before that might happen. Perhaps their medical situation could take a serious change for the worse. Perhaps their wounds will become infected, causing their deaths. Perhaps such infections, instead of causing their deaths, would cause their limbs to become gangrenous and need to be amputated. Would the United States like their heroes coming home alive but without arms and legs and being carried in boxes?”

Dunfield paled and responded angrily. “I cannot recommend that you even think of committing such atrocities. In fact, I’ve just this instant decided that Red Cross personnel will constantly observe the American prisoners and that they will be taken to the British Consulate or some other suitable place as soon as possible, within the hour if I can arrange it.”

The two men glared at each other while Helmsdorf turned away. Villate hated do-gooders. Dunfield decided to try and calm things. “Can the Americans be exchanged for Spanish prisoners?”

“I will look into it,” Villate said sullenly. “However, I do not believe the Americans have taken enough of our men prisoner in this strange war to make an exchange feasible.”

Villate walked over to the two inert figures. He leaned over and spat in their faces. Dunfield thought about protesting but decided he’d pushed his luck far enough.

“You can take the prisoners to wherever you wish,” Villate said and walked away. The German followed a moment later. But first he winked at Dunfield.

Prentice had been pretending to be unconscious. He thought Janson had been as well. “Mr. Janson,” he whispered, “If I heard correctly, we actually stand a chance of surviving.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Janson whispered back. “Anything could happen. One other thing.”

“What?”

“You’ve got spit all over your face.”

* * *

The bombardment began at first light the next day. The Spanish army had brought up dozens of cannon, most of them small, and began shelling the two major locations-Mount Haney and the entrance to the bay.

With an infantry attack clearly imminent, Ryder’s men manned their positions. He sent runners to ensure that his other two regiments were equally prepared. He was beginning to get a taste of higher command and he wasn’t sure he liked it. All his instincts said that he should lead from the front, like a good lieutenant or captain should, but now he was a general in charge of three regiments. He could not allow himself to be shot and thus decapitate his command.

“Damn it to hell,” he muttered as shells kicked up dirt on the approaches to the defenses.

“And isn’t that the truth,” said Haney. “And it’s also the truth that the Spanish gunners are pretty miserable shots.”

The Spanish were having difficulty elevating their cannon so they could hit the crest of the diminutive Mount Haney. He had given orders that his own guns should not respond or duel with the Spaniards until and if he gave specific orders. He didn’t want to give away their positions or let the enemy know that he only had eight twelve-pounders to their thirty or so guns. In order to confuse the Spanish, Ryder had dummy gun emplacements built and painted logs called Quaker Guns jutted out from them.

Barnes scrambled up to Ryder. “The boys are getting frustrated. They want to shoot back.”

“Control yourself and your men, Jack. We’ll open fire on their infantry and not their useless cannon, which, if you hadn’t noticed, are missing us. And we’ll load with grape and shrapnel, not solid shot. And when they get close enough, we’ll hit them with the Gatlings. If they’re as inexperienced as I think they are, they’ll be coming up the hill in bunches or waves and we’ll be able to hurt them badly.”

Barnes turned and walked away. He gotten a few yards when he stopped suddenly and started to return. Haney blocked his path and glared at him. “Is whatever you need from the general really important?”

“I just wanted to know if he’d heard anything from Sarah, or Ruth,” he added after a moment.

“Worrying about them is the last thing he needs to do now, you idiot. He has to concentrate on the fight in front of him.”

“You shouldn’t call me an idiot,” said a shocked Barnes.

Haney looked around and saw that no one was watching them. “Then don’t act like one,” he said as he drove his fist hard into the other man’s stomach. Barnes doubled over and retched. Haney grabbed his shirt and pulled him upright. “The general, bless his heart, was indeed concerned that you might not be ready to lead, and you are just proving his point. Now go and take control of yourself and your men and it’s a damned shame you fell down like that. And just for the record, there’s been no shells landing anywhere near the hospital.”

A few yards away, Ryder hadn’t heard a word, but figured out that Barnes had almost done something foolish. Still, sergeants should not be permitted to punch majors in the gut. He would have to punish Haney. Severely. Once the battle was over, he would have to think of something. Perhaps he’d have Haney forfeit some of his whiskey. Yes, that’s a very good idea.

Men began shouting. Large numbers of Spanish infantry were emerging and beginning the long climb up the hill.