1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 12

With swords waving Spanish officers shouted and made serious attempts to keep their men in order as they advanced towards the American lines. It was a truly impressive display as they moved out through the heavy foliage in reasonably precise lines. Unit flags flew while drums pounded, and bugles blared, all designed to bolster the bravery of the attackers and intimidate the defenders. Ryder had to admit that it worked, but only to a point.

The Spanish advance was truly impressive. Although he’d been in combat, it had usually consisted of skirmishes that were small, nasty, and over quickly. Even Custer’s fight on the Little Big Horn had involved relatively few soldiers compared with the mass of humanity that was approaching him. This was the first time he’d seen an actual battle involving large numbers of men on each side. At one level it was thrilling; on another it was frightening. His impression was that they were all advancing to kill him. His stomach was churning and he felt a strong urge to urinate. He wondered just how his men were taking it. Probably just like he was, he concluded.

Although seriously outnumbered, Ryder’s soldiers did have the advantage of being in strong defensive positions which gave them a sometimes false sense of security. Most of their bodies were protected, instead of those of the Spaniards who were out in the open and fully exposed. In theory, the defender had the advantage. In reality, people on both sides were going to die bloody and agonizing deaths.

As the Spanish lines reached a predetermined point, Ryder gave the order and his cannon finally began to fire. Shrapnel and grape chewed into the Spanish ranks. With his telescope he could see white uniforms turning red and bodies being ripped to shreds. Spanish officers screamed and tried to maintain order.

“It’s like Pickett’s Charge,” said Haney, “or maybe that stupid attack at Cold Harbor.”

Ryder had to wet his suddenly dry mouth before answering. “You were there?”

Haney chuckled, “Gettysburg no, but Cold Harbor, yes. I was fifteen when I stupidly lied my way into the army. I thought it would be glamorous and glorious. Christ was I wrong, general. I watched as an attack involving thousands of men was cut to shreds because the usual almighty General Ulysses S. Grant made a terrible mistake. It was just about my unit’s time to go forward when someone with half a brain called off the attack. Damn, I was lucky.”

“Luckier than those poor bastards,” Ryder said, looking at the steadily advancing Spanish.

The Spanish formations were disintegrating into a horde as more and more shells rained down upon them. True to human nature, they sought comfort with each other and bunched up, making them even easier targets to kill. When they reached the painted markers that said they were within rifle range, close to three thousand weapons fired. Unlike slower firing muzzle loaders of the Civil War, modern American rifles were breech-loaders and both firepower and accuracy were greatly increased. Just as important, shooters didn’t have to stand up or turn away from their targets to reload. More enemy soldiers went down like wheat being scythed. But still they came on. Some Spaniards were fleeing, but most were brave and continued on.

American officers and NCOs could be heard yelling for their men to fire slowly and carefully and to aim low. There was a normal tendency to fire high and a bullet over the head went nowhere, but a bullet into the ground might just ricochet and hit something. As the Spanish reached the barbed wire, they paused, confused. They had never seen this kind of barrier before. Men behind the first ones, packed into them, pushing and shoving them into the wire. The wire was a terrible thing. Spanish soldiers pulled at it and it ripped their hands to bloody shreds in the process. They tried to climb it and got stuck, tearing the flesh of their legs and bodies. They milled around and didn’t know what to do.

Ryder was about to wonder where his Gatling guns were when they began adding their insane chatter to the already hideous din. Hundreds of bullets a minute ripped into the Spanish masses. Men fell and Spanish soldiers behind them tried to climb over them or use the bodies as shields. Stymied, the Spanish began aiming and firing at their tormenters, finally causing serious American casualties. Clouds of gunsmoke confused both sides. In some cases, visibility dropped to zero, but both sides still blazed away. Spanish bullets whizzed by and others smacked into the earthen embankment with a thud, while a few found flesh.

“We should be in the front line, general,” Lang said.

Ryder shook his head. “Like I told you a hundred times, your men are sharpshooters and I want them where they can be best used, and not mixed in with the brawl.”

“I know,” said Lang. He looked like a wolf wanting to pounce.

Ryder suddenly realized that Lang was correct. The Texans should be in on the killing. “Bring your men forward now. Have them shoot into that mob but tell them to concentrate on officers and anybody who looks like he’s getting through the wire.”

Lang had been right. He should have used the Texans sooner and he should have had some men specializing in killing officers shooting at them in the first place. He swore at himself. He still had a lot to learn.

Soldiers in the American lines were beginning to fall. With only their heads and shoulders generally exposed, the wounds were hideous and often fatal. A couple of men broke and ran screaming for the rear. Haney shot one of them in the leg and the other got away. Ryder desperately wanted to see what was happening behind and below him with the rest of the army and Sarah, but he dared not. He had to be a strong leader for his men. He could not turn his back on the enemy no matter how badly he wanted to.

Through gaps in the growing clouds of white smoke he could see some enemy soldiers had sneaked their way through or under the wire. Next time the wire would have to be thicker, he told himself, and then wondered if there would be a next time, and if there was, where the hell would he get the additional wire?

Several Spanish soldiers appeared before him, only a few yards away from the first trench line. “Some dumb son of a bitch always gets through,” snarled Haney as he shot a man.

Ryder laughed almost crazily and emptied his pistol in the direction of the attackers. He didn’t hit anything, but he felt that it was the right thing to do.

Then the Spanish were gone. They had endured more than men should have to. As the firing died down, the defenders of Mount Haney could see a landscape carpeted with uniforms that had once been white and now were smeared with blood and stained with urine and feces. Already the stench was beginning to grow.

No order to cease fire was given. It was just understood. A few Spaniards cautiously stood up with their hands in the air. Some of the more lightly wounded called for help, while others just lay there and moaned. American medical personnel would care for them as soon as American soldiers were treated.

“You gonna allow for a cease fire?” asked Haney. A couple of white flags were waving from the Spanish lines, and a handful of unarmed Spanish soldiers were moving tentatively forward with palms outstretched.

Ryder checked his watch. “Give them four hours to gather their dead and wounded and only those on the other side of the wire. I want men watching the Spanish to make sure they don’t try to cut the wire.”

“Are you concerned that they’ll find any secrets?”

“About the wire?” he said grimly. “I think they’ve already found out all they need to.”

* * *

“Hold,” said Sergeant Kelly. “Hold until I tell you to fire.”

“Why don’t you wait until they are in our fucking laps, sergeant? Or do you want us to see the whites of their eyes?”

“Why don’t you just shut up, Corporal Ryan.”

The howling mob of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away and coming fast. Ryan and Kelly were cousins who’d emigrated from Ireland a decade earlier and, even thought they’d served in the army, this was their first real combat. A handful of skirmishes with Indians didn’t matter, in their opinion. It was also the first time they would use the Gatling gun since that day on the Little Big Horn when they’d helped save the man who was now President of the United States from a terrible death.

They also found it amusing that the lieutenant who’d led them in their mad dash to save Custer was now their brigade leader. It was a small world, they thought every time the topic came up. It pleased them that the young general himself had recognized them and even said a few kind words with them, even laughed about shared memories.

The two cousins had left the army shortly after the Sioux had been defeated and tried several means of making a living, including working on the railroad. They’d quickly decided that building the railroads was just too damn much work. A new war, chances of promotion, and steady money had induced them to enlist in the First Maryland.

Then they had volunteered to work a Gatling gun when a couple of them were assigned to the regiment. They’d had the mistaken notion that it might keep them out of close-quarters fighting. They hadn’t realized that the gun’s crew was exposed to enemy artillery or sniper fire. And now a screaming horde of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away. Rifles and cannon were killing them and it was time for the machine guns.

“Fire!” Kelly screamed.

“About fucking time,” said Ryan as he cranked the handle that fired the gun. Another soldier was in charge of feeding stick magazines filled with bullets into the gun where gravity put one in each of the revolving barrels. Another soldier was to reload the magazines as quickly as possible, thus keeping up a continuous rate of fire.

Kelly’s job was to aim the beast and, along with a fourth soldier, manhandle it to where the torrent of bullets could do the most harm to an enemy.

Lead rained on the approaching Spaniards, knocking them and ripping into them. Screams from the wounded and the terrified filled the air, while smoke clouds enveloped them. Bodies piled up. Some had reached the barbed wire only to find that there was little chance of getting through. Getting tangled in the wire meant death. The Spanish attack faltered and they began to fall back. Still, the bullets chased them and found them and more were killed and wounded. The Spanish did not understand their tormentors new way of war and the retreat became a rout with wounded being trampled by the unharmed. Smoke now almost fully obscured the battlefield, so they simply fired where they thought the enemy would be. Soon, there was no enemy.

“Cease fire,” Kelly ordered. The smoke thinned and then disappeared. The hillside was blanketed with dead and wounded.

“Holy Mary,” said a stunned Ryan, “what the bloody hell have we gone and done. This isn’t war. This is a massacre.”

He gagged as the stench from torn flesh and bowels wafted towards them and others were becoming ill as well. They had forgotten just what a large bullet could do to the human body, smashing chests and ripping off limbs. And why men who were called wounded often never returned to battle or were able to lead useful lives.

* * *

Carlos Menendez looked up at the hill and could barely see the heads and shoulders of dug in riflemen staring down at him. He was as brave a man as any Spanish soldier, but the sight shook him. After two decades in the armies of Spain and having fought in many skirmishes and a number of battles, this left him very uneasy. Yes, the army commanded by General Weyler greatly outnumbered the Yankees, but these were not the Moslem tribesmen of North Africa nor were they the Moslem Moros of the Philippines. The Moros and the tribesmen were barbarians, savages. They would castrate and flay and then burn alive anyone they caught. The Americans generated a sense of quiet and deadly efficiency, rather than the shrieking and howling of the savages who would never dream of fighting a real battle.

He’d managed to avoid fighting his fellow Spaniards in the last civil war so he had never yet fought anyone European or American. These were the feared Americans. The Yankees had beaten England and Mexico along with the savages who’d once dominated the Americas. They had even fought an incredibly brutal civil war against themselves. They were tough and hardened soldiers and, worse, held the high ground.

The Americans were in trenches and well protected while his men would be attacking in the open. Many would die and he might be one of them.

For the first time since he’d enlisted, he wondered just why Spain was fighting in Cuba. It was clear that the majority of the Cubans he’d met and talked to wanted nothing to do with Spain and how could he blame them. From what he’d seen since arriving, the Spanish government in Cuba was corrupt and incompetent and incredibly brutal towards its own citizens.

Carlos was sweating profusely and not just from the combination of brutal heat and heavy uniforms. He looked at the men in his squad and saw the same fear he hoped he was hiding. He cared for his men and they needed him to be calm. He was the only one with any real combat experience, even if only against savages. The rest were virgins.

Trumpets blared and officers shouted orders. Corporal Carlos Menendez barked at his men and they formed into ranks. More trumpets sang out and they began to move forward. While the captains and lieutenants waved their swords, Carlos urged his men to yell and scream. They did and it seemed to help calm their fears, but only for a second.

Guns began to fire and men began to fall. The soldier next to him screamed and grabbed his knee. A bullet had almost taken off the lower part of his leg. Other soldiers stared at the wounded man until Carlos pushed them and got them moving forward.

Another from his squad fell, this time with a bullet in his face. Carlos did not need a doctor to tell him that the man was dead.

The attack was losing cohesion. Formations were falling apart. A terrible screeching sound was heard, followed by a rain of bullets. These must come from the Gatling Guns the Americans were said to have. The officers said they were harmless and not to worry about them. But men were falling everywhere and the attack was stalling.

His lieutenant grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get those men up that hill, corporal. That’s the only way we’ll survive.”

Yes, he thought. Take the hill and the killing will stop. He looked for more men from his squad and saw only two. They looked at him and began running down the hill and away from the fight.

“Cowards,” he screamed.

Something hit him in the leg and he fell face forward onto the ground. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. He felt something sticky running down his leg. He was bleeding from his left thigh. The blood wasn’t pulsing so it wasn’t a serious wound, but he couldn’t stand. He also couldn’t go forward. Most of Spain’s finest had fallen and the rest were running back to their camp. Carlos could only crawl back down the hill, hoping that the Americans didn’t think killing wounded enemy soldiers was a fine sport.

They didn’t and halfway down, a couple of soldiers grabbed him by the arms and helped him to an aid station. His leg was bandaged and he was laid on the ground as the cots had been reserved for officers and the truly seriously wounded.

Two days later, his captain came to visit him. Enough of the seriously wounded had died so he now had a cot. Carlos was the only man in his squad who hadn’t been either killed or very seriously wounded. The lieutenant who’d tried to get them to go forward had been shot in the stomach and had died screaming and howling the next day.

“You fought bravely, corporal,” said his captain. “I saw you through my binoculars.”

Carlos wondered why the captain had been so far from the action that he needed binoculars. He kept silence.

“The doctors say you will not be fit for combat for some weeks, perhaps longer. Therefore, I am going to assign you to work with Lieutenant Flores as he works to recruit replacements.”

Carlos nodded and thanked the captain. He despised working to trap innocent and not so innocent men into the army, but it was far better than having his body savaged by American bullets.

* * *

Sarah tried not to think. She had come to Cuba to help heal the men fighting the war and now the war was upon them in all its fury. Cannon from several directions thundered and then the clatter of rifle fire could be heard. The Spanish were attacking at the point of the bay and at the hill where Martin commanded.

“Casualties,” someone yelled and the first of the mangled were led or carried in. Behind was what looked like a never-ending stream of them and the sights were worse than she had ever imagined. She wanted to scream at the sight of some of the wounds. Men had limbs ripped off and others had been disemboweled, with intestines and bones clearly visible. The man with no face that she’d been afraid to treat receded into the recesses of her mind.

Clara Barton had given herself the terrible task of dividing the wounded into groups-those who could be saved by treatment, and those who should be left to die after being given enough narcotics to numb them until they slipped away quietly and peacefully.

Several priests and ministers were trying to bring solace to the wounded and sometimes it helped. Sometimes the wounded just screamed louder because they thought the presence of a churchman meant that they were going to die.

A boy on a cot close by to her was sobbing for his mother. He looked about sixteen and Miss Barton had decided that his wounds were mortal. He would never see his mother again. Sarah helped Doctor Desmond set some fractures and held a man’s arm while he extracted pieces of metal from it.

The man looked up and saw Sarah. “You better run while you can,” he said. His eyes were wide with fright and pain. “There’s millions of them and they’re gonna kill everyone. And what they’ll do to the women can’t be said.”

She wondered if it was true. If the Spanish broke through, what would happen to them? Would the Red Cross flag be enough to save them or would a vengeful and angry Spanish army kill the wounded and then rape and murder the nurses and doctors? She’d heard that sometimes even the best of men sometimes went crazy during battle. From what she was seeing, she believed it.

A few more wounded were beginning to come down from the hill. She stole a look to see if she knew any of them. She didn’t and felt a mixed sense of relief. But that didn’t mean that all was well with Martin. He could still be lying up there, bloody and broken. Perhaps he was crying for her as the boy had cried for his mother. She wanted to sob but couldn’t afford the luxury. The numbers of wounded were backing up.

She became aware that the firing had died down, almost stopped. There were scattered cheers off in the distance.

General Miles entered the tent and looked in on the wounded. He appeared harassed, she thought, and why not. He took off his hat and waved it, getting their attention. “We stopped them, boys. We killed a ton of them. They won’t be back for a long while.” With that he waved the hat once more and left the men in the tent.

A wounded man missing an arm lay on a cot beside Sarah and snorted, “At least the dumb fucker didn’t ask for three cheers. I would have waved my stump instead. Oops, sorry ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t think I should have said that.”

She smiled and gently ruffled his hair. “Soldier, I think you’ve earned the right to say any fucking thing you wish.”

* * *

The men of Gilberto Salazar’s Legion had not been called on to do anything this day. Instead, he’d leaned on his crutches and watched proudly as the Spanish army marched off in all its glory to destroy the American invaders. He’d cheered as they headed up the hill in proud ranks with flags flying and drums and bugles sounding. But then the Americans began to shoot. First the cannon tore into their ranks and then torrents of rifle and machine gun fire further decimated them. The proud ranks became a mob, but still they bravely climbed the hill. His stomach contracted and he had to stop himself from shaking with fear at the sight. He thanked Jesus and the Virgin that he had not been called upon to attack this day.

But then the advance stopped. Puzzled, Salazar aimed his binoculars and saw soldiers falling in heaps before an almost invisible barrier. What the devil? The advance was faltering and he sensed that the retreat would soon begin. This phase of the battle was over and it would be a crushing Spanish defeat. As the attackers fell back, what remained of their discipline collapsed and the Spanish withdrawal became a mob of men seeking the comfort of their earlier positions. Even officers had succumbed to the infection and were running frantically.

Salazar ground his teeth and tried not to weep. What had gone wrong? There had been so many more Spanish soldiers than American defenders and, yes, it was presumed that the attackers would suffer heavier casualties than the defending Americans. But it was also presumed that the weight of their numbers would overwhelm the American positions, however strong their positions might be.

He’d read that attacks were fragile things. Men had to agree to march into enemy fire and generally without much of a chance to return that fire. The job of the attacker was to continue to advance and make contact with an enemy who was trying to kill him, and drive that enemy away. But today, the Spanish had been halted and, instead of simply heavy casualties, there had been a slaughter. He found it hard to fault the men who had suffered so much. In a very short while there would be a truce to enable the dead and wounded to be cleared from what had become a field of death. He had to know what had caused the advance to stop. He would have to swallow his many fears and go up the hill.

He confronted a frustrated General Weyler and said that he wanted to see what had caused the attack to fail when the truce went into effect. Swearing mightily in rage and frustration, Weyler agreed and, after stripping off his officer’s tunic and exchanging it for an enlisted man’s, Salazar limped up the hill on his cane. He trembled with fear and wondered if he hadn’t let his passions lead him into a very bad decision. He had reached the point where the attack had started when yells went out that the truce was in effect. Thank God, he thought, and walked up the rest of the hill. He was still frightened, but he could control it.

He helped bring a couple of wounded down which put a lot of blood on his borrowed uniform. Good, he thought. The next time, he went as close as possible to the high point of the attack, and got within a few yards of what he realized was a wire barrier with metal spikes or hooks woven into it. Of course it had stunned and stopped the advance, he thought, not that the attack would have gone that much farther in the first place. The field of battle was covered with dead and wounded Spanish soldiers. Again, he thanked God that he had not been in the attack.

On the other side of the wire, grim and sweating American soldiers were pushing the dead who’d made it through the wire back under it and lifting off those who’d been impaled on it. These were dropped like sacks onto the Spanish side of the wire. It felt incredibly strange to be so close to the Americans. He dared not observe too closely. Americans were watching carefully, looking for any hint of sabotage and a couple of them were eyeing him curiously.

He’d seen what he’d wanted to. It was time to leave. A badly wounded soldier reached out and grabbed his leg and Salazar fought the urge to kick him away. Instead, he managed to get him up and, with still more difficulty, draped the soldier’s arm over his shoulder. Together they limped back. When he was close enough to an aid station, he handed off his burden to another man who looked at him and shrugged. “Why did you bother, sir?” This man is dead.”

* * *

Kendrick’s departure from Havana and the willing arms of Juana Salazar was delayed when news of the failed attack at Matanzas reached the city. Even though elated by the Spanish defeat and wanting to go where the news was, it was clearly dangerous for anyone even remotely looking like an Anglo to be on the streets of Havana. Pro Spanish rioters roamed the streets savagely beating people indiscriminately. The government was unable to control the chaos and Kendrick wondered if they even cared. As a result, a number of Europeans had been badly hurt and at least a couple had been lynched. Establishments catering to non-Spanish had been trashed and even burned. The Havana police and militia were slowly getting the upper hand, but without much enthusiasm.

“So many stories and nowhere to send them,” he said sadly.

Standing behind him, Juana slipped a bare arm around his equally bare chest and let a hand slide down his belly. Since they could not safely go out, they were spending as much time as possible in her room.

“When this war is over,” she said as she fondled him, “you can write a book about your experiences as an American in Spanish Havana.”

Kendrick grinned, reached back, and patted her bottom. “Can I write about this?”

“Go ahead. I no longer care what others think. On the other hand,” she said with mock piety, “please change my name when you do.”

Kendrick laughed hugely. Why on earth had he ever thought she was a stern and plain stick? She had blossomed into a vivacious and passionate woman. It occurred to him that she’d gained a couple of pounds since they came into each other’s lives. Well, she could certainly use them. She’d told him how she’d kept herself thin in order to make her unattractive to her husband who was a useless lover in the first place. Not only did she not eat much, but she taught herself how to vomit up what she had eaten.

Before the rioting he’d gotten a British passport and been out to examine the wreck of the Vitoria. A helpful young lieutenant named Hugo Torres had survived the sinking and was now working on the wreck told him of the horrors of the explosion caused by what was now known to be a torpedo. He called the weapon a devil’s tool. He told of the panic, and the torrents of water rushing through the doomed warship and drowning scores of crewmen. Curiously, the man was not bitter.

“It was war, senor, and, obviously, I survived. If we had steamed out to duel with the Americans I might well be rotting on the bottom of the Caribbean. Instead, I was simply able to swim away from the sinking battleship. From what I’ve seen and heard, the American ships are bigger and better than hours and their crews are better trained. The men under my command were the dregs of the earth who knew nothing about serving in a navy and showed no interest in learning. I will mourn for those of my friends who were killed, but I exult in the fact that I am alive.”

“Will you try to raise the ship?” It was obvious from the activity that the Spanish were trying to exactly that.

“Of course,” said Torres. “If nothing else we must remove the hulk from the harbor where it is a dangerous impediment to shipping. The hole caused by the torpedo has been repaired and the next step will be to right the ship so she can be pumped out. But will she return to her place in Spain’s navy? I don’t think so. Her insides have been smashed by the explosion of one of her magazines and her engine has been underwater and ruined. In my opinion, she will be floated so she can be dragged out of the way or, when the war ceases, sent farther out into the ocean where she can be sunk in deep water.”

Torres made the sign of the cross. “Perhaps we will be able to recover the bodies of the missing and give them a mass and a Christian burial.”

“How many missing are there?”

“Six or eight, depending on which doctor you talk to. I suggest you go to the morgue and see them trying to assemble body parts into whole persons. I do not envy them their task, but honor says it must be done.”

Kendrick had thanked him for his perspective and the young lieutenant had laughed. “By the way, senor, I’ve been to England and your British accent is as awful as anyone I have ever heard.”

He and Juana had laughed over that incident and decided that he would not go out without Juana to translate for him. Nor would they emerge from their cocoon until the fighting in the streets stopped. Filing the story of his examination of the Vitoria’s hulk would wait. Smoke continued to pour skyward from a number of sites in the beleaguered city. Perhaps the US wouldn’t have to storm Havana. Perhaps they could let the Spanish destroy the city for them.

* * *

Ryder called an informal council of his advisors. They included Lang, Barnes, and Haney. Rank wasn’t one of the reasons for inclusion. He wanted intelligent opinions. In only a short while, the lean Texan had proven himself as a leader, while Haney always had been. As to Barnes, the acting regimental commander still had to prove himself as a leader, but certainly had the brains.

“This place stinks,” said Lang, “and not just because we haven’t bathed in a month of Sundays.”

Between the two armies, most of the dead had been removed, but not necessarily all of the body parts. The crabs and other scavengers were eagerly devouring what still remained, but much was still rotting in the heat.

Haney grinned. “Don’t fret, captain, the stench will clear up in a couple of months.”

As usual, Haney had worked wonders. Food had been brought up along with fresh water. There was no ice, however, and they drank their gin and tonics warm and with few complaints. There were no worries about the Spanish returning to the attack for a while. They had been badly mauled.

“The wire stopped them,” said Lang. “What we need now is a hell of a lot more wire.”

“Which has been requested,” Ryder answered. “But actually getting it is not going to happen overnight. I’m also impressed with your modifications to that Gatling Gun.”

Lang beamed. As he’d planned, he had mounted it on a swivel and lowered the wheels. As a result he had been able to turn it in a wide swath without having to move the entire weapon, enabling him to mow down scores of Spanish. “Like I said, I’m going to patent the modifications and we’ll all be rich. Well, at least I will,” he added cheerfully. “Of course, I’ll modify the rest of our guns free of charge.”

“You’re a fucking saint,” said Haney.

“But they’ll figure out what to do about the wire, won’t they?” asked Barnes. “They aren’t stupid. I’ll bet they’re scouring all of Cuba for wire cutters.”

“That and brave soldiers willing to cut it and pull it away,” added Haney. “My bet is they’ll find them both and we’ll all be in deep shit. Their next attack will be a real bear to stop.”

Ryder smiled and added a little more gin to his glass from the very elegant crystal decanter that Haney had somehow found and liberated. “Then we’ll have to plan for that fact. Yes, the wire can be circumvented, and maybe even destroyed by cannon fire, but it will still slow them down and mess up their formations. When that happens, we will have to be stronger and more disciplined.”

“And better dug in,” added Barnes. “We need ditches and all kinds of barricades to stop them.”

Ryder agreed, “And that, gentlemen, means that we must dig, dig, and dig some more. Where we can’t get wire, we make do with interlocking tree branches and anything else that will make their lives miserable. The troops won’t like working that hard, but I don’t really care.” He finished his drink and stood. The meeting was over. “Back to work, gentlemen.”

“But I’m not a gentleman,” Haney said with an evil grin.

Ryder nodded. “And you never will be.”

When they left, Barnes signaled Ryder. “Can we talk privately?” he asked. Ryder nodded. He thought he knew what was coming next. “I handled myself poorly during the battle. I don’t think I’m qualified to command a regiment. I’d like someone else to take over the First Maryland.”

“I hope this doesn’t insult you, Jack, but I agree. Things happened all too fast and you were appointed because you happened to be handy.” Kind of like me getting the regiment in the first place, he thought. “With some time to think on it, I’ll get somebody with more experience and you’ll be back on my staff.”

Barnes took a deep breath and smiled wanly. “I thank you. My sister will thank you as well.”

Barnes saluted crisply and departed. Ryder walked across the hill to where he could see down onto the town and the main camp. It was easy to spot the hospital church with the Red Cross painted vividly on it. He focused his telescope on it and saw people walking about. He turned to the place where the nurses were quartered. A canvas tent or room had been built on the roof. He recalled Sarah saying something about the nurses wanted a better place to bathe. He smiled and wondered just what was going on behind that canvas barrier.

* * *

Ruth sat on a stool on the roof. She was dressed only in a thin shift that revealed everything about her body and she had openly wished she was naked. It was the only way one could get truly clean, she’d said and Sarah had agreed. However, proprieties must be observed no matter how ridiculous they might seem. Even though they were safe behind the canvas walls, they could not run the risk of some soldier or sailor seeing too much and possibly going crazy with lust. Thus, they washed and cleansed themselves as best they could and rinsed with buckets of water pumped up to the roof. The water ran down a slope on the roof and down gutters. It was a fairly ingenious operation and similar to what the soldiers also had.

Ruth finished and it was Sarah’s turn. She got thoroughly wet and used some of their precious soap to wash herself under her shift. Ruth then slowly poured water over her. The feeling was exquisite and she sighed with pleasure. The great battle was now history and the situation with the wounded was stable. Ships were taking the badly wounded to Florida while the ones who would recover shortly and be returned to duty stayed behind.

“When this is over and we go back to Maryland, I’ve decided that I’m going to go back to using Ruta as my name and not Ruth.”

Sarah squeezed the water out of her hair. “Fine, but why?”

“Because I’ve suddenly realized that’s who I was and who I want to be. I see Cubans bravely fighting to create a new nation just like I would like to see Poland free again. I should be proud of my past. Haney is proud to be an Irishman and maybe his nation will be free as well. Someday I will write a book about my life.”

Sarah laughed as they let the sun dry them. “All of it?”

“Good point. I shall do some discreet editing.”

“Such as romping in the hay with Haney?”

“When I write my memoirs, I’ll leave it in. He won’t mind a bit. So when will you see your beloved general again?”

“Soon, I hope.” So close, but so far away, she thought.

* * *

Custer read the casualty reports with dismay. Despite winning the battle, the United States Army had suffered more than a thousand casualties. The fact that the Spanish had suffered an estimated three times that many meant little. The newspapers were being highly critical of both him and the war. They were openly wondering just when the army was going to move from Matanzas, take Havana, end the fighting, and get the troops home. It was clear that a stalemate was developing. There was a growing call for a change in command. More than one was suggesting that Nelson Miles be replaced by Custer’s nemesis, Winfield Scott Hancock.

At the thought of that possibility, Custer scowled. He accepted the feeling that Nelson Miles might not have been the best choice to command, but who else was there? Sheridan and Sherman had declined because of age and health, and Miles’ contemporaries were as inexperienced as he. Damn it, he thought. Was he doomed to go through a progression of commanding generals as Abraham Lincoln had until he finally got lucky and settled on Ulysses Grant? Too bad Grant was dead, he laughed mirthlessly. And no way in hell was he going to offer the command of anything larger than an outhouse to Winfield Scott Hancock.

“I’ve got to talk to Miles. I can’t sit here in Florida and twiddle my thumbs while the war is going to hell.”

“You can’t leave the United States,” reminded Libbie. “It’s the law.”

Custer snorted. “Actually it’s just a custom, a tradition. There’s no law involved at all. I had Chief Justice Fuller check it out and he agrees. No law, just a strong tradition and custom. Unfortunately, it’s one that’s taken very seriously.”

“Which you would be foolish to break,” she said sternly. “The country is upset enough right now.”

“I also had Fuller check something else, dear wife,” he said smugly. “Did you know that a U.S. Navy warship is considered United States territory? No? Well it is. Thus, if I travel by warship to Cuba, technically I will still be in the United States.”

“Sometimes you surprise me, George.”

“I could be on, say the Atlanta and be just a short distance off Cuba and talk with Miles about whatever the hell he is planning on doing and I can do so without ever leaving American soil, or, more precisely, territory.”

Libbie scowled. “It could be dangerous.”

“Fighting a war is dangerous. Losing one is even more dangerous. I have to know what the devil is going on and what Miles is planning to do about it. Everyone says we won a great victory. Wonderful, but why haven’t we followed up on it?”

“What instructions will you leave for Mr. Arthur?”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “I don’t plan on telling him or anyone else. Vice President Chester Arthur and Secretary of State Blaine will be pissed, but I won’t care. It won’t take me long to go from Florida to Matanzas and back. I just want to get the measure of Miles before I make a decision. Maybe all Miles needs to know is that he has my support. On the other hand, maybe he just needs a good kick in the ass to get him started.”

Libbie stood and looked out the window. She was clearly troubled and that was unusual for her. “Why then am I feeling so uncomfortable?”

“Maybe women are meant to worry. It’s their nature. What could happen, Libbie? Hell, I’ll be on a warship and surrounded by a score of cannon and a couple of hundred sailors to protect me. Like I said, what the hell could go wrong?”

* * *

Manuel Garcia loved school and learning. What he didn’t like was the scrawny and opinionated old man who was their teacher. Manuel had the sneaky feeling that he now knew as much as Professor Sanchez, the old goat who tormented the students and smacked them with his ruler when they gave wrong answers. Or when they asked questions he couldn’t answer. Sometimes he thought that Sanchez was a fraud. Sanchez was also in love with anything Spanish and worshipped King Alfonso. He hated the Cuban rebels and the United States with equal burning passion.

He thought it would be wonderful if the king’s recruiters grabbed every young man in Cuba to fight the rebels. Saying this could have been dangerous in a village where most of the people thought it would be nice if Alfonso was trampled by a herd of pigs. Lucky for him, the villagers thought of the professor as eccentric, not harmful.

Manuel sometimes thought of complaining to his mother, but he was afraid that she would yank him from the school and the pleasures it still gave him despite Senor Sanchez’ attempts to humble him. He loved learning and was confident he would outlive and outlast Professor Sanchez.

For him to fail at school would also humiliate his mother, a woman he loved dearly and who was trying so hard to raise him and educate him the right way. His father was gone, disappeared into the unforgiving ocean one day when he went fishing, so they were on their own. Manuel’s mother supported them by working the fields and tending other people’s houses. She had hopes that his life would be better than hers had turned out. Some days she was too exhausted to talk. No, he would not burden her with his problems. He would deal with Senor Sanchez in his own way.

Lessons were over and he walked barefoot along the dirt roads. He had one pair of shoes that were starting to pinch him. His mother laughingly despaired. “When will you ever stop growing, you naughty boy,” she would say before hugging him and kissing him on the top of his head. He thought his mother was beautiful and, apparently, so did some of the men in the village. Some of the older men who’d either never married or had lost their wives would come to their home and pay court. Or at least they tried to. She always rebuffed them. She said she would consider re-marrying when Manuel was grown and gone. He had mixed emotions about that. He did not want to share her, but he did not want her to waist what remained of her youth. After all, she was nearly thirty.

Right now, his main goals were to protect his mother and stay out of the Spanish Army. It was beginning to look like neither goal was achievable and that depressed him.