1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 13

A raid? Ryder was intrigued. It sure sounded good to him. It would enable his men to strike at the Spanish instead of waiting to be attacked the next time. “Exactly what sort of raid do you have in mind, Captain?”

Lang grinned happily. He was bored. The great battle was now several days ago and he was getting antsy. The victory had been intoxicating and he wanted to drink some more.

“Exactly what we’ll raid remains to be seen, general. What I propose is to go out with a couple of dozen of my best men and actually see what there is to raid. Hell, our patrols have been non-existent. All of our intelligence comes from our Cuban buddies and we should see things through our own eyes, not theirs.”

“So you don’t trust the Cubans?”

“Oh, some of them I trust a lot, like that Valdez fellow. If I can, I’d like to take him or at least some of his boys with me. It’d be kind of like when we’d go out chasing renegade Indians in Texas and we’d have some tame Apaches or Comanches working with us.”

Ryder wasn’t certain any of the Apache or Comanche warriors would have liked being referred to as tame, and definitely not the Cubans. “Don’t call Valdez or any of his friends tame. They’re likely to slice you with their tame machetes.”

Lang continued, “Wouldn’t think of it, general. I like my testicles right where they are. At any rate, it’d be easier to hide from the Spanish in this jungle crap that surrounds everything here. Back in Texas, anything larger than a coffee cup could be seen for miles on the barren ground.”

“I seem to recall that,” Ryder said, thinking of his days in the American west. “Will you be taking some of your Spanish speaking soldiers?”

Lang nodded vigorously. “All of my men speak Spanish at least as well as I do.”

Martin laughed. Lang’s Spanish was very basic and largely involved food, liquor, and getting laid. “Where will you go?”

“I thought I’d try to ride parallel to that goat path that passes for a road along the coast from Matanzas to Havana, at least for a while. First, though, I’d like to make a wide patrol around the Spanish camps and see what’s happening.”

“When will you leave?”

Lang stood. “Do you have to ask permission from Benteen or Miles?”

“Why? Benteen would go along, but I’m not so sure about Miles. I get the feeling that he doesn’t want to offend the Spanish. So we won’t tell him until you come back. It’s always easier to ask forgiveness than permission. By the way, please make sure to come back.”

* * *

It took several days for Diego Salazar to get in to see General Weyler. The general was far too busy writing letters to Governor General Villate in Havana. When received, the letters would be either re-written by Villate or simply forwarded to Madrid, with or without comment. Weyler was also exhausted and had only managed to get a good sleep the night before. There had been real concern that the Americans would counter-attack. He would not relax until he’d been certain that no such effort by the damned Americans was planned.

“So what did you find on your foray up the hill?” Weyler asked. His face looked puffy, like he’d just gotten out of bed. “And by the way, relax and have a seat.”

Salazar sat down stiffly on a camp chair, wincing from the pain in his groin. He’d aggravated it climbing up the hill. To his annoyance, the German colonel was also present and smiling his superior smile. “As we all suspected, the Americans used barbed wire to control the attack and their Gatling Guns to slaughter our men. I think it is safe to say that both came as a surprise.”

“Yet neither should have. We’ve known all along that the Americans had Gatlings although we didn’t realize they had so many up on that damned hill. Worse, none of our troops, including officers, have ever faced them. We’ve also known of the existence of barbed wire, although its use as a military weapon had not occurred to us. From what others have told me, our men did not know what to do when confronted with this terrible wire that not only stopped them but sliced their skin.”

Salazar was mildly annoyed that others had told the general about the wire. “I was able to get within a few feet of the barrier before I decided it was prudent to leave. It is not impenetrable by any means. A determined rush could have pushed through. It would have meant that the men in front would have had their flesh cut by the wire. Those men would have had to have been extremely brave. They would have had to lie down on the wire and allow others to clamber over them and using their bodies as stepping stones. It would have been difficult, but it could have been done. Men with blankets and mattresses could have done the same thing. Further, men with simple wire cutters could have eliminated the wire. I do wonder, though, whether artillery would have destroyed it or simply rearranged it.”

Weyler yawned. “I think you expect too much if you believe that men will voluntarily use their bodies to crush the wire while the hooks are digging into their flesh. And as to wire cutters, they would work but the soldiers would have to wait for the men with the cutters to finish their work. While our men were waiting for the wire to disappear, the Americans would be killing the men cutting the wire and shooting the waiting formations to pieces. And, oh yes, even with holes in the wire barrier, our formations would be reduced to the mobs we saw the other day. Do I state the problem correctly, major?”

“Yes, sir,” Salazar said glumly.

Weyler turned to the German. “Do you have anything to add, Colonel Helmsdorf?”

The German smiled. He would like to have added that he’d seen the timid way in which Salazar had gone to the wire, but declined. “What I have seen has convinced me that the German Army must have many, many more machine guns and countless miles of barbed wire. With them, the military arts have definitely shifted to the defensive.”

“Interesting,” said Weyler. “However, I am too tired to discuss it now. Salazar, do you have anything else to say?”

“Only that our men will be extremely loathe to attack again. The rumors are thick that the wire is ungodly and inhuman. The men are terrified of it. An attack on that hill as long as the barbed wire is in place is, in my opinion, doomed before it begins.”

Weyler nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. “Then we shall not attack the wire.”

* * *

If Custer was irked that the Atlanta was not available, he didn’t show it. At least he was able to get the hell away from his detractors on the mainland. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought happily. He felt like a kid playing hooky from school. Even better, if caught no one could punish him.

The Atlanta was fully repaired and patrolling off the channel leading to Havana. So too were most of the other American warships, including several old steam sloops. What remained of the Spanish navy in the Atlantic was in Havana’s harbor, locked up as tight as a bunch of nuns in a convent, as Commodore Bunce had told him. He added that travelling from Florida to the coast off Matanzas would be an easy trip and wouldn’t require taking a major warship away from its duties to carry the president.

So why not enjoy it, Custer had thought. Thus, he had settled on using a converted yacht named the Dolphin. There had been several other US Navy ships of that name, the last of which was a brig that had been burned to prevent capture by the Confederates. If he thought it was a bad omen, he didn’t let on.

This current version of the Dolphin had both sails and a steam engine. She carried a handful of small cannon and was clearly intended for escort or courier purposes only. Better for Custer, she had a large and luxurious cabin worthy of a travelling President of the United States. She was categorized as an auxiliary cruiser which was a catch-all title for a miscellaneous warship.

Custer took the long slow train to St. Augustine. Not even his position could make the iron beast go faster. The newly constructed tracks did not go all the way to Key West. Going by ship from St. Augustine was the only alternative. He would be away from the telegraph lines and out of touch for the shortest length of time.

A short and extremely fat lieutenant commander named Blondell was the Dolphin’s skipper. He didn’t know whether to be honored that the president was on his small warship or annoyed that he’d had to give up his spacious and luxurious cabin for the duration. Regardless, the two men took an instant dislike to each other.

Custer and the Dolphin arrived off Matanzas without incident. The ship was expected and a couple of the small warships protecting the anchorage fired off salutes. Custer enjoyed and appreciated it but was frustrated. He was only a couple of hundred yards from Cuban soil but he had promised Libbie that he would not set foot on it. Men waved and cheered and yelled at him to come ashore. He swore and waved back.

Then it was time for a barge bringing General Miles alongside and for the general to come aboard. They spent only a few minutes on deck together. Just enough time to shake hands with everyone and wave to the crowds on the beach while a photographer snapped shots. After that, it was time for privacy. They went to Custer’s cabin and took seats across from each other. Sandwiches were eaten and whiskey was served. Custer and Miles had known each other and, while there was a serious lack of affection, there was mutual respect due to each other’s rank. Miles’ trademark handlebar mustache seemed to twitch and he blinked nervously. The general was clearly tense and stressed, which concerned Custer.

Miles spoke first. “I’m glad you’re here. I just wish you could go ashore and see what’s happening and what we are confronting. If you would climb to the top of Mount Haney, you’d see the Spanish army that’s arrayed against us and maybe so many in Washington wouldn’t be asking so damn many questions. Unlike some Civil War generals who were mistaken about their enemy’s strength, McClelland in particular, we truly are seriously outnumbered. Our boys are by far the better soldiers, but the Spanish have got some good ones, too. When we finally do move out of our trenches, we will be the attackers and the Spanish will deal us large numbers of casualties.”

This was precisely what Custer didn’t want to hear. “You have upwards of twenty-five thousand men, general. They are the best America has and they are costing a helluva lot of money to feed. What more do you need? Yes, the navy has stopped the flow of men from Spain, but if you want a large number of reinforcements, say a hundred thousand men, that is highly unlikely to happen. The nation does not believe that a bunch of greasy Spaniards and pro-Spanish Cubans can stand up to American soldiers. And speaking of which, where the hell are our beloved Cuban allies?”

“I’m not going to say the Cubans are useless, general, but that’s pretty damn close. I think there are maybe ten thousand of them scattered throughout the Matanzas area, but nobody really knows. They may or may not be led by someone named Jose’ Marti or maybe a guerilla named Diego Valdez. By anybody’s standards, they are undisciplined and most of them have no weapons except machetes and what they’ve managed to steal and that includes robbing our boys. They’ve been fighting the Spaniards for a long time and now they expect to be able to lie down and take a nap while we do the rest of the fighting. Our boys are getting pissed off by that kind of attitude.”

“Jesus,” Custer muttered. He took a deep swallow of his whiskey. This was more that he didn’t want to hear. He began to regret not bringing either Blaine or Robert Lincoln. Hell, he at least should have brought Libbie. She would have known what to say.

“What do you want from me,” Miles asked, almost plaintively. “If you want my resignation, it’s yours.”

Custer did, but he would not admit it. What he saw before him was a defeated man. There was no spark, no life. The always supremely confident and undeniably brave Major General Nelson Appleton Miles had been given an assignment that was too big for him. Part of Custer wanted to gloat but the practical part realized that he would have to find someone better to replace him. He refused to accept that what Miles was saying was true. He firmly believed that the American soldier was far better than the Spaniard, and that should eliminate the Spanish advantage in numbers.

Off in the distance, some cannon fire boomed. Miles informed him it was Spanish. “They do that every so often. I believe they are trying to annoy us.”

“I do not want your resignation,” said Custer. The look on Miles’ face said that he knew it was a lie.

After some further small talk, the two men shook hands gravely and Miles departed. As the general’s boat was rowed ashore, Custer had an idea. He smiled and turned to the skipper of the Dolphin.

“Captain Blondell, I have changed my mind. We will not depart for Florida this afternoon.”

“Sir?”

Custer wrung his hands with glee. “Yes, I now have an overwhelming urge to see Havana, if only from a distance, and I want to go right now.”

Blondell paled. “If we do that we are likely to arrive in the middle of the night. That could be dangerous since the fleet is not expecting us.”

“Nonsense. All we have to do is show up with lights on and bells and whistles and whatever the hell you have blaring away and the navy will realize we’re harmless.”

“Sir, I still say it’s too dangerous.”

“Are you a coward, Blondell?”

Blondell’s face turned beet red. “Of course not and I resent the implication.”

“And I resent sitting here off Cuba and arguing with someone who is so junior in rank to me that I shouldn’t even have to acknowledge your existence. I know you’re captain of this ship and god almighty when you’re on it, but I am the president and your commander in chief, and if you decline to obey me, your next command will be a very small garbage scow.”

Blondell paled and swallowed. “Very well, sir. We will set off for Havana.”

* * *

Another Spanish cannon fired and caused no damage, merely kicking up dirt a good two hundred yards away from the American lines. The American guns did not respond. It was as if it was beneath their dignity. Ryder gestured for Lang to have a seat in the trench. Lang was filthy and his clothes were torn. He looked exhausted, but also happy.

“Make yourself comfortable, captain, but I’m afraid that real hardships are upon us. While we have gin, we are totally out of tonic.”

“There is no God,” Lang sighed. “I guess I’ll have to make do with gin alone. Is there any ice?”

“Curiously, yes, and thank that God you say doesn’t exist for Sergeant Haney. He had our engineers develop an ice-making machine. While most of the ice goes to the hospital, some of it manages to make its way up here. Now please don’t tell me that you made a complete circuit of the Spanish lines. You haven’t been gone anywhere near long enough.”

“Correct, general, and I came back because I found things that are both good and bad. The good is that there are more holes in the Spanish lines than I have in my socks. I believe I could take a good sized force through them and hit them in the rear or anywhere else and cause a great deal of damage.”

“Excellent.”

The Spanish gun boomed again. Again the shell landed well short. Lang continued. “On the bad side, I think they are preparing to attack again, but not where they did originally. It looks like a major buildup between here on Mount Haney and the opening to the bay. If I read things correctly, I’d say they’re gonna attack between those points which would take them right through the city of Matanzas itself. They take that and they can claim a major victory.”

Ryder took a stick and sketched a map of the area in the dirt and eyed it thoughtfully. “If they take the city, they can place guns along the coast and control the bay. We could shoot down on them part of the way, but not all, and most of our ships, being unarmored, would be loath to enter and shoot it out with shore-based cannon.”

“We don’t have armored ships, sir? I thought we invented the damn things.”

Ryder grinned. “We did and then we forgot why. Just don’t say I said that to any navy boys you might meet. They’d likely take offence. To the best of my knowledge, the only truly armored ship we have is the Atlanta. When the Chicago comes back, which won’t be for quite a while, that’ll give us two. Not very impressive for a world power is it?”

“Shit,” said Lang. “What are you gonna do?”

“First I’m going to finish this drink and then I’m going to send a signal to Benteen that I’d like to come down and talk to him. Custer himself was offshore meeting with Miles and, along with giving him your report, I’d like to know what was discussed.”

Lang grinned. Like everyone else, he knew all about his general and Sarah Damon. The base at Matanzas was a very small town in many ways. “Maybe I can report to Benteen myself and relieve you of the awful burden of going down there.”

“Maybe you can go to hell, captain,” Ryder said without rancor.

The Spanish cannon boomed again. “Can we hit that fucker, sir? He’s really getting annoying.”

“Yes. He’s in range of about a dozen of our guns. Why, do you want to teach him a lesson?”

“I do indeed, sir. Why not have all of our guns fire one round at the same time at him and see what happens. If we don’t kill him, we should scare the shit out of him.”

“I like the way you think, Captain Lang. You are one nasty son of a bitch.”

* * *

Clemente Cisneros liked to complain that he was proof that the Spanish navy was totally fossilized, even though he wasn’t absolutely certain what the word meant. He thought it had to do with something turning to stone and that was certainly an apt description of the current state of the once proud Spanish navy.

A small thin man descended from minor nobility, he had made the navy his career. He was now forty-five years old and a lieutenant commander. He lacked political connections in Madrid so it was unlikely that he would rise above his current rank. This lack further hurt his chances because the Spanish Navy was small and getting smaller. It would be even more difficult for him if Spain lost the current war with the arrogant United States. That he might be discharged and left on the beach depressed him mightily. He longed to do something that would attract the attention of the leaders in Madrid.

After commanding a couple of patrol craft during his career, he had been appointed captain of the seven-hundred ton gunboat, the Marques del Duero. She was a mere one tenth the size of a modern major warship and doubtless represented the pinnacle of his career. While small, his ship was far from helpless, carrying one 6.3-inch gun and a pair of 4.7s. She also had a crew of a hundred men whom he’d trained hard. He was also a fair man and his men had responded. He was proud of them. The Duero was ready to fight.

This night, however, she would be one of a number of decoys. The Duero’s problem was her speed. On a good day, she could do only ten knots and she hadn’t had many good days lately. Her engine kept acting up and her hull was fouled. She was scheduled for a refit, but she was way down the list and, besides, the mechanics in Cuba were largely incompetent. At times Cisneros thought he would be better off running under her schooner-rigged sails than counting on her temperamental engines.

Still, Cisneros had to admit that the Spanish navy’s plan for this night had considerable merit. Two good-sized cruisers and one smaller one were languishing in Havana harbor with nothing to do since the sinking of the Vitoria in the harbor by some incredibly brave Americans. He’d been to visit the captured American officers and, since he spoke excellent English, had had an interesting conversation. He now knew more about torpedoes then he ever cared to. At first he’d thought that the Americans had talked too much, but then realized that the information was in the newspapers.

Spanish intelligence also said that the American warship, the Chicago, had been sufficiently repaired to enable her to join the Atlanta in blockading Havana. If the remnants of the Spanish fleet were to escape, it had to be soon. Thus, he’d been given the extremely temporary rank of commodore and would lead a dozen armed merchantmen out in an attack designed to distract the Atlanta and other ships while the Spanish cruisers escaped to the high seas where they could commence terrorizing American merchant ships. As commerce raiders, it was believed that they could cause damage far beyond their size.

He wished for a cloudier night, but it wasn’t granted. There were gaps in the clouds where stars could be seen twinkling and providing visibility for the Americans. At least the moon wasn’t full. He hoped it was dark enough for him to succeed in his purpose. With his cruiser in the lead, the Spanish decoy fleet steamed out and, as soon as they were close enough to the Americans to be seen, they opened fire with their smaller guns. The Americans immediately went to battle stations while the decoys charged bravely towards them. Cisneros could only hope that the three lager cruisers, the Aragon, Castile, and Velasco, were escaping during the confusion he hoped he was creating. Some of his ships would die and he prayed that their deaths would not be in vain.

They were soon within range of the Americans and the enemy gunnery began to tell. One of the decoys was quickly set on fire and sinking, while another was dead in the water. An American gun fired a shell that landed within feet of the Duero, raising a geyser of water and splashing a torrent of spray and shell fragments on her deck. A couple of his men were down. Enough, Cisneros thought, and gave the order to withdraw. They’d had their moment of glory.

He smiled. Even if the Spanish warships hadn’t gotten away, it had been extremely pleasant to yank on Uncle Sam’s beard. Indeed, it looked like the American ships were all steaming west, doubtless chasing the Spanish squadron that they’d belatedly spotted. He hoped his compatriots got away. It was all in God’s hands.

Wait. There was a strange ship in view and approaching. It was almost within range. Better, it was not very large and, since he knew all of the Spanish warships, it had to be an American. They would not have to skulk back to Havana after only a pretense at battle.

A moment later and his three guns opened fire on the mystery ship.

* * *

Captain Blondell was aghast. The night was ablaze with cannon fire. It looked like he had taken the Dolphin into a major battle. Cannon were firing in all directions and it was clear that the Spanish fleet was trying to sortie from Havana.

As Custer had ordered, he’d brought the Dolphin towards the blockading Americans and without any attempt at subterfuge. Against his better judgment, ships lights were on and horns blared. When the battle began, he was only a mile or two away from the Atlanta and the others. When the firing began, he darkened the ship and prudently took it away. He did not want to be confused with a Spaniard. Even Custer, a man he was firmly convinced was a fool, concurred. In fact, he seemed shaken by the sudden turn of events.

Suddenly, the dark shape of another ship was visible only a couple of hundred yards away. Where the devil had that ship come from, he wondered. Before he could answer his own question, the other ship opened fire. A shell ripped into the forward hull of the Dolphin, filling the air with splinters that cut down several of his crew, leaving them as bloody ruins on the deck. A second shot again hulled her and she began to list almost immediately. The converted yacht didn’t stand a chance against her unknown and far stronger attacker. When a third shell ripped into her, Blondell screamed the order to abandon ship. He didn’t know who the mystery ship was or whether she was Spanish or American. He only knew that the ass of a President of the United States was about to get him and everyone else on the Dolphin killed if he didn’t act quickly.

Fires had begun on his first and doubtless only command. Blondell hoped that his tormenter could see that he was abandoning her and no longer represented a threat. If she ever had been, he thought angrily.

Blondell made sure everyone alive was off the ship before climbing down the short distance to a lifeboat. It was jammed with men and he sniffed when he saw that George Armstrong Custer was one of them. Idiot, he thought. Why the devil hadn’t he been among the dead?

“What now, Captain Blondell?’ Custer asked.

I think I’ll throw you overboard, that’s what’s now, Blondell thought. “What we are going to do, President Custer, is float around until dawn and then hope and pray that we are found by an American ship and not by a Spaniard.

* * *

With the sea largely illuminated by the false dawn, Cisneros was able to see that the American warships had departed. He concluded that they were doubtless chasing the Spanish cruisers that were trying desperately to escape. The Americans had positioned their ships to prevent an escape to the east, towards Matanzas, where they might bombard the army. This left an opportunity to race west and possibly escape by hiding in the many coves and inlets that nature had carved out of the Cuban shore.

The light also showed the wreckage of several of his ad hoc flotilla that hadn’t made it back to Havana. With the Yanks gone, Cisneros determined to search for survivors and rescue them before the sharks could assault them. He felt it was the least he could do for the brave souls he’d had the honor to lead.

Floating debris was plentiful, as were the pitiful remains of some of his little flotilla’s sailors. He was just about to return to Havana when a lookout spied what looked like two lifeboats lashed together and riding low in the water. They steamed slowly and carefully in that direction. They were farther from shore than Cisneros would have liked and, even though none of the American warships were currently in view, they could return at any time.

Fortune smiled on him and the men in the boats. Better, as he pulled the Duero alongside, he could see that the dozen men staring at him with expressions ranging between apathy, fear, and anger, were all Americans. He exulted. This meant that the fighting hadn’t been all one-sided. A scout ship from Havana told him he’d already been commended for his brave efforts in attacking the American fleet, and now he’d be bringing in a handful of American prisoners. Quite likely the Americans had come from that ship he had fired on during the night. Perhaps another commendation would be in order and, just perhaps, another promotion would no longer be such an impossibility.

The Americans were pulled out of their floundering boats and, while armed guards watched, their hands and feet were bound. He would take no chances on their trying to take over his ship. They would fail, of course, but some of his men might die in the attempt. He had to make haste. The Americans could return at any moment. His lookouts were scanning the horizon for any telltale signs of smoke.

As they approached the entrance to Havana’s harbor and safety, Cisneros asked if any of the prisoners was the captain.

“I am, or was,” responded a plump man. “I am Commander William Blondell, captain of the United States Navy Auxiliary Cruiser Dolphin. As we are your prisoners, I would like to remind you that you are required to treat us in accordance with the Geneva Convention.”

Cisneros bristled at the slur on his honor. “I am well aware of my obligations according to the Convention, and I assure you that no harm will come to you. You will be taken to Havana and held until either exchanged or the war ends.”

Blondell and the others appeared to understand. One man with long and graying blond hair, however, seemed confused. Perhaps he’d been hit on the head, Cisneros thought. Then he had another thought that jarred him. The man looked so very familiar. It dawned on him and he grinned from ear to ear. The promotion would be his.

He walked over and shook the man’s hand. “Welcome to Spanish Cuba, President Custer.”