1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 14

It had commenced raining heavily again, turning the ground into a quagmire. Both Ryder and Benteen were covered with mud from their knees down. “Is the weather better up there on Mount Haney?” General Benteen asked.

Ryder sipped some coffee and didn’t grimace. Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. It was strong and very hot, and that’s what counted. “Sadly, no. Most of the men feel we’re just that much closer to the rain clouds.”

“What a wonderful vision. At any rate, Ryder, we’re not here to discuss the weather. I did discuss your thoughts with General Miles and, to put it bluntly, he totally disagrees with what Captain Lang found and what you believe. I disagreed with Miles and let’s just say we had a very spirited discussion on the matter. He is convinced that any Spanish attack will consist of another assault on your position or on the entrance to the bay, or even both. He told me it didn’t really matter since he didn’t think the Spanish have the stomach for another attack on anything, at least not for a long while. When I suggested that we should attack since the Spaniards are such weaklings, I thought he’d throw me out of his office.”

Ryder was puzzled. “I thought that Miles’ meeting with Custer had resulted in his agreeing to attack?”

“So did I, but he’s apparently having second thoughts with Custer on his way back to Florida, which is another concern. He was supposed to go to Key West and then to St. Augustine, and there’s been no report of his arrival. He should have gotten there by now. One of our gunboat captains reported that he thought he saw the president’s ship heading north towards Havana. Going off on a run like that would be just like Custer. He was always too impetuous for his own good.”

“And it would be dangerous,” added Ryder. They had just gotten reports that the Spanish Navy had tried to escape from Havana and that there had been a major naval battle. Reports were inconclusive, but it did seem that several vessels had been sunk. “Christ, what if the president had been swept up in that mess?”

Benteen grimaced. “If Custer’s dead it means that Chester A. Arthur is now the President of the United States. If Custer is missing or a prisoner, I don’t know what the hell happens next. Jesus, what a mess.”

* * *

Governor General Villate looked with delight on the blanket covered man who slept soundly. If he’d been a cat, the general thought he would have purred.

The man below him seemed unaware that he was chained to the cot. Villate coughed loudly and the man stirred. He winced with pain. The doctors said his ankle was badly sprained and his body was covered with cuts and bruises.

Villate smiled. “Good afternoon, President Custer. May I cordially welcome you to Cuba?”

Custer glared at him. “You may cordially go to hell. You may also remove these goddamn chains. Where do you think I’d run with a bad ankle?”

“We’ll talk about removing your shackles later,” Villate responded coldly. “In the meantime, you are my prisoner and I will treat with you in any manner I wish.”

“As long as it is in accordance with the Geneva Convention,” said British Consul Redford Dunfield. To Villate’s dismay, he’d again shown up to interfere with Villate’s pleasure. Dunfield then introduced himself to Custer who grunted and nodded.

Dunfield smiled and continued. “I don’t think I have to remind you that President Custer is the head of the United States government and must be treated in accordance with his rank.”

Villate laughed. The situation was still too priceless for him to get really angry. “When we hang him, I promise to use a new rope.”

Dunfield was mildly amused as well. Custer was not. Dunfield could see a flicker of concern. Would the Spanish truly consider hanging him? The thought clearly concerned him.

Villate continued. “You may not like the arrangements,” he said to Dunfield, “but I am not going to put him in a position where his countrymen might try to free him. As you see, he is in a private cell here in the Morro Castle. Rescuing him would be a fruitless and costly endeavor. Besides, we would kill him to prevent that from happening.”

“It would not be necessary to keep him here. If you continue to do so, you will risk the anger of the international community. Heads of state are kept in far better circumstances than this. I can guaranty you that Her Majesty’s Government will not be happy if this situation continues.”

“He needs medical help,” Villate said, exaggerating Custer’s condition. He was conscious that he was about to lose another argument with the damned Englishman. “What do you propose?” he asked resignedly.

“I have an estate on the outskirts of town. You know it and you’ve been there. It’s practically a fortress. I propose that General Custer be moved there and protected, guarded if you will, by a good battalion of your finest and most loyal troops. I further propose that photographs be taken of the president showing that he is being well kept, and that he be able to communicate with his government.”

“Perhaps he will ask them to surrender,” Villate sneered.

“The hell I will,” said Custer, “and quit talking around me.”

“Again, kindly recall that you are a prisoner,” said Villate. An idea had formed and he loved the thought of it. “We will announce to the world that we hold you and that you require medical attention. This will mean that you will remain here for at least a couple of days until we can make arrangements to move you to Senor Dunfield’s estate. Except for proving your existence and relative well-being, you will remain incommunicado.”

Custer’s eyes burned with anger. “Bastard.” Villate laughed again.

* * *

The news hit the American forces at Matanzas like a thunderbolt. They got the telegram from Florida at almost the same time that the Spanish soldiers did. These began celebrating wildly, cheering and firing their weapons into the air. Some actually had fireworks and sent rockets into the air.

“The dumb son of a bitch has gone and done it again,” said General Benteen. “Jesus Christ, what the hell kind of mess has Custer gotten him and us into now? And do the damn Spaniards expect us to surrender?”

Ryder decided to remain silent. He’d been down again from the hill for yet another meeting and had found the time for a few moments of delicious privacy with Sarah. He was aware that his lips were bruised from the intensity of their kisses and that his uniform was rumpled. He didn’t give a damn and it was obvious that Custer’s fate was far more important than his being disheveled.

Benteen continued. “On the other hand, some might view this as an opportunity. Who knows what the powers in Washington will decide on as a course of action? My guess is that they will do absolutely nothing for the short term.”

“That would be my guess as well,” Ryder said. “Have we heard anything from the Spanish as to what they might want for Custer’s return?”

“Not a peep. Although I would guess that they would insist on our leaving Cuba as one condition, which won’t happen. That would be the same as admitting defeat. We would never be able to field an army to invade Cuba again. Ryder, what’s your sense of the morale of the troops?”

Ryder shrugged. “I haven’t had all that much time to talk with people, but my immediate sense is that of confusion. Everybody’s wondering just how the hell did the President manage to get captured at sea when everybody says we rule the waves? I have heard a couple of voices say that we might be better off with new leadership and that a new leader might replace General Miles.”

Benteen grinned wickedly. “I’ll forget you said that.”

“Much appreciated. Otherwise, I have the feeling that the men will survive quite nicely without President Custer and that they’d like to get this war over. Do you think the Spanish will want to work out an exchange for him?”

Benteen guffawed. “Exchange him for what? We won’t have to do that. I’ve got this feeling that the Spaniards will throw him back after putting up with him for a few months.”

* * *

Juana kissed her good friend Mercedes de Milan on her heavily rouged cheeks. The older woman gave her a warm hug in return. “How are things with your lover in my little cottage?” the sixty year old widow asked.

“Amazingly well, thank you. I have never known such happiness. I almost don’t know what to do about it.”

“Then enjoy yourself as I have enjoyed all of my lovers.”

“And how many have there been, dear Mercedes?”

She waved her hand. “Too many to count and I’ve enjoyed them all, including the one lover I have now. I will not name him because you might be shocked.”

“You don’t fear discovery?”

“I used to of course, but not much anymore. I am a widow and I can pretty much do what I want. You, on the other hand, are married to a man who, while a fool and a brute, might be a dangerous fool and an even more dangerous brute. But don’t let danger hold you back. Even if you cuckold your husband, the worst he can do is beat you and divorce you and then you would be free. I am also protected by my bodyguards who are very loyal. You’ve met my chief guard, haven’t you?”

Juana smiled and nodded. Hector Rojas was a giant of a man who worshipped Mercedes. Rumors said that Rojas had killed many times in his life. She wondered if Hector ever shared Mercedes bed.

Mercedes reached over and handed Juana a cigarillo. The two women enjoyed a few puffs of the expensive tobacco before Mercedes continued. “Danger makes love affairs even more splendid. I remember one time when I was seated on a raised wooden bench in a stadium watching some dismal musical performance in a very dark night. I was about to doze off when I felt the light pressure of someone caressing my inner calf.”

Juana laughed, “Oh my.”

“Oh my, indeed. I truly didn’t know what to do as his hand delicately slid its way up my calf to my thigh and then to that wonderful soft spot that men love so much. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out as he gently and exquisitely manipulated me and totally aroused me. A couple of times I groaned and my aunt looked at me curiously. I gestured that I was having some trouble with my stomach and she let it go. The erotic game lasted quite some time and, finally, I felt him slide one of my garters down. And then he disappeared. At least I hoped the bold rogue was a he.”

Juana was almost convulsing with laughter. “Well was it a he?”

“Yes,” said Mercedes, smiling at the memory. “The next day a handsome young man I didn’t know came to me with a package. It contained my garter and he cheerfully admitted to both fondling me and removing it. I rewarded him by taking him into my boudoir and insisting that he put it on my leg, but not until that was all I was wearing.”

“How wonderful.”

“Not really. It turned out that he was much more facile with his hands than with any other part of his body. But it was an exciting few weeks until I grew tired of him. That was some years ago and the poor dear is back in Spain and doubtless growing fat. But hearing me talk is not why you came to see me, is it? What do you and your American lover want that I can provide?”

“He would like access to Custer for the purpose of doing an interview. I’ve known that your current lover is Mr. Dunfield, the British Consul. and since President Custer will soon be ensconced at Mr. Dunfield’s villa, James and I thought it could be something that you would be able to arrange.”

Mercedes was mildly surprised that her secret was no secret at all. She laughed again, “Why not?”

* * *

“Well, am I now the President of the United States or not?”

The question came from Chester A. Arthur, the stocky fifty-three year old Vice President of the United States. According to the constitution, he was the man next in line for the presidency on the death of the president. The question he asked was one that no one was quite ready to answer. While the death of a president was covered and understood, the question of a president being incapacitated because he was a prisoner of war was not. Presidential incapacity for various reasons had caused confusion in the past and was doing so now.

“My husband is still alive and as long as he breathes, he is the president,” Libbie Custer practically snarled.

The others in the president’s office simply looked away at the outburst. Arthur, however, was not deterred.

“Madam, as much as I sympathize with your predicament, I must remind you that you have no official position in this matter or, for that matter, at this meeting. You are here as a courtesy. I must also remind you that the government of the United States must continue to run, and that is why we have met here today. The idea of President Custer being shackled in Havana is repugnant, but it is occurring and we can do nothing about it. Your husband may be helpless but we must not be. We haven’t that luxury.”

A tear trickled down Libbie Custer’s cheek. Word had reached them that photographs of President Custer, in chains and in a cell, had made it to Key West and were on their way north. That they would appear in newspapers throughout the world was understood. Custer’s shame had become America’s shame.

“I do wonder just how he managed to get himself captured,” said Arthur. “There are so many conflicting stories.”

“And all of them are irrelevant to the situation,” said Secretary of State Blaine. “Congress can investigate to its heart’s content when this war is over and crucify those responsible, but, as you said, Mr. Arthur, we have a country and a war to run.”

“What about getting my husband back?” Libbie stood and practically shrieked.

“I’m sorry,” said Blaine as she sat down, “but we’ve heard nothing from the Spanish regarding a reasonable price to pay for him. All we’ve heard are rumors which would involve our leaving Cuba and signing a treaty in which we would promise never to invade again. We would also agree to pay Spain an enormous money indemnity. I must add that we have no leverage whatsoever.”

“And that can never happen,” added Arthur. “It would be a humiliation almost too great for our nation and our party to bear, which is why we must decide just who is running the country in Custer’s absence and continue on with the war. I have taken the liberty of checking with Chief Justice Fuller and he is of the opinion that the Constitution does not really cover this sort of exigency. He does feel that naming an acting president for the duration of the emergency would be appropriate. And obviously, that acting president would be me.”

Libbie Custer was shaking and again on the verge of hysterics. “You would take away his office?”

Blaine was getting annoyed. “Madam, he isn’t here and he isn’t likely to return anytime soon. And I must again remind you that you are here as a courtesy. You hold no office, either elected or appointed. If you keep this up, I can assure you that we will meet without you and outside of the White House.”

Blaine was further annoyed by the fact that Custer’s foolishness might have propelled Chester Arthur into the White House, and not just as an acting president. He had been hoping that Custer’s incompetence would lead to his not being re-nominated by the Republican Party in the next election. In that case, he, James G. Blaine, would be honored if they turned to him as their candidate. If Arthur was to turn Custer’s mess into something resembling a victory for him, he would be a formidable force and might just take that nomination away from him. Blaine could only seethe and plot. Nor could he change the fact that, as vice president or acting president, Chester A. Arthur was in charge.

“What is the army going to do?” Blaine asked of Secretary of War Robert Lincoln.

“Right now, they are waiting for the next Spanish attack,” Lincoln answered. “General Miles is of the opinion that it will come soon and will be a repeat of the attacks on the entrance to the bay and that hill called Mount Haney. I do know that all of his generals do not agree with him. They feel it will come between those two points in an attempt to split the army.”

“And Miles has decided otherwise?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” said the Vice President. “I can only hope he’s right. What is the navy doing, Mr. Hunt?”

Navy Secretary Hunt was not happy. “Havana is blockaded, but the three Spanish cruisers that escaped have not been located. They could be in any one or more of hundreds of coves and bays. I do not, however, think that they have sailed far or towards the United States. For one thing, they don’t carry enough coal. For another, they just aren’t all that big and dangerous. Nor can they risk incurring even the slightest damage since there is no place they can be repaired. Even so, their existence is scaring the bejeezus out of everyone on the East Coast. We have several dozen armed and hastily armored converted merchant ships outside our major ports. The navy is confident that they will not be needed, but their presence helps keep the population happy.”

Blaine shook his head sadly. “In short, we have the makings of a stalemate.”

Lincoln disagreed. “Not really. Our army cannot sit there forever. It has to be supplied and reinforced and, all the while, the fever season will be coming. All the Spanish have to do is wait and our army might just be destroyed by sickness.”

“Jesus,” said Arthur. “We have got to get Miles and the army moving.”

“And I don’t know if Miles is the man to do it,” said Lincoln and the others nodded agreement, even a solemn Libbie Custer.

The heavy-set Arthur stood and walked ponderously to a window overlooking the lawn. “If Miles cannot drive the army to Havana, we must find a general who can, even if that means thinking the unthinkable.”

Libbie Custer paled. “No. You can’t be serious. It’s bad enough that George is a prisoner of the Spanish, but now you would kill him?”

* * *

Ryder’s headquarters bunker had become a very substantial dwelling. He now had a solid roof and gutters for drainage. Of course, he made sure that all of his men had similar amenities before his was completed. The amount of barbed wire surrounding the hill had more than tripled. Ships from New Orleans and Galveston had brought in miles of it. He was confident that the wire and the other improvements that had been made to the defenses on Mount Haney would make a Spanish assault a very bloody one. Curiously, not all the other senior officers were supporters of using barbed wire because they thought it might detract from their soldier’s offensive fighting spirit. Their loss, Ryder thought and he commandeered their share of the wire. If they wouldn’t use it, he would.

Many of the same officers who hated wire also hated machine guns because they encouraged soldiers to use up too much ammunition too quickly. Ryder wondered if they’d forgotten that the purpose of a war was to kill the enemy.

He hated the thought of his men becoming stagnant, but they had done pretty much all they could do without unduly endangering themselves. War against Spain had become exceedingly boring. Now he could sneak down and see Sarah on a reasonably regular basis, confident that he would be informed in plenty of time to react against anything the Spaniards might try. They could even go for walks. Other nurses had also established relationships and Haney was still seeing Ruth who had begun calling herself Ruta. Some of the soldiers were clearly envious, but there was nothing he could do about that. He was not going to ignore Sarah.

A few civilians had tried to return to Matanzas, but the army was discouraging their presence. Too many of them could be spies, was the thought.

His regimental commanders were good, and Sarah’s brother was settling in his true position as a staff officer. Ryder sometimes mentally kicked himself for thinking that Jack Barnes had been ready to command a regiment.

If he needed someone to do some fighting, he always had Lang and Haney, along with the Cuban leader, Diego Valdez. The Cuban had at least a thousand men under his command and seemed content to place himself more or less under Ryder’s leadership. Leadership, Ryder thought, not command. No one commanded Valdez, not even the vivacious young lady who was now his mistress, a young widow named Maria Vasquez.

Haney entered and sat down, “Anything new on Custer, general?”

“Of course not, sergeant, and stop asking silly questions. When something happens, you’ll know it well before anyone else.”

Haney ignored the jab. “And that means that Nelson Miles is paralyzed, doesn’t it. The army isn’t going to move. We’re just going to sit here until either the Spanish overwhelm us or the fevers kill us or both. I thought that Custer had stiffened his spine, but I guess getting captured put a stop to all that.”

Ryder laughed harshly. “It might be getting worse. My scouts say that the Spanish are really building up their strength something fierce and will be ready to attack us in a manner of days.”

“And Miles still won’t reinforce the center? That’s crazy.”

“Don’t call your commanding general crazy. He might be, but you just don’t say it, especially where somebody might hear you. According to Benteen, Miles feels he doesn’t have enough men to cover everything. It’s about five miles from the opening of the bay to where we are sitting and he feels that’s too far, especially when you consider that he’d have to defend both sides of the bay.”

“Makes sense,” the sergeant admitted reluctantly.

“So, Benteen has decided that this moldy lump of mud that’s been named after your worthless ass shall be transformed into a citadel. He just informed me that he wants storerooms for food and ammunition and more bunkers for additional soldiers. If we’re pushed away from the bay, he doesn’t want us starving to death or having to throw rocks at the Spaniards. He feels another two thousand men can strengthen this place. He also said he wants a fresh water well dug and seemed shocked when I told him we’d already done it.”

“What about nurses?” Haney asked softly. Ryder was about to say something when he recalled that the sergeant was still very close to Ruta Holden, perhaps just as close as he was to Sarah. No, he thought; they weren’t just as close. He hadn’t gotten Sarah to bed yet, much less made love on a stack of dusty and uncomfortable tents.

“When the time comes, sergeant, we will do what we have to, even if that includes sending you down the hill on an errand of mercy to save the wounded and the people who take care of them.”

Haney nodded and then grinned. “That works fine for me.”

* * *

Kendrick felt incredibly nervous. Not only was the house where Custer was being kept surrounded by Spanish soldiers, but it was less than a mile from the massive Castillo del Principe, the ominous fortification that had been built nearly a century before. The Principe was the anchor in the reconstructed fortifications protecting Havana and one of several similar but smaller forts in a loose ring around Havana. Kendrick quietly wondered just how the American Army would storm these forts assuming, of course, that the army ever got off its butts and made it to Havana.

Dunfield lived in a Mediterranean style villa that was not unusual for the Caribbean. Square outer walls built with stone and with few windows made it look like a fortress and Kendrick realized that’s what it could become in a matter of minutes. At the moment, it was a prison as well as a home. The four walls surrounded an inner courtyard in which fountains sprayed water and colorful flowers brightened the scene. It was as if the outer world didn’t exist.

Kendrick was informed that Custer was being kept in a suite of rooms on the second floor. Somewhat gratuitously, he was informed that the window was barred and that guards were in the street below. He would have expected nothing else. He asked if he was expected and the guard, a fat corporal, simply shrugged. He didn’t know and didn’t care. Kendrick asked how Custer was doing.

“He eats, sleeps, shits, and takes walks in the courtyard,” the corporal said.

“Has he said anything to you?”

The corporal shook his head. “He is a rude bastard.”

“Then he hasn’t changed at all,” Kendrick said and the guard, surprised at the candor, actually laughed.

When Kendrick went to open the door, the guard grabbed his arm and halted him. He searched him for weapons, even taking a small pocket knife with a Red Cross on it that he’d bought years ago in Switzerland. He was assured that it would be returned to him when he left. Kendrick had his doubts.

“Please leave the door open, Senor Kendrick. Otherwise we will not interfere with you or listen to your conversation.”

Kendrick thanked the man and tipped him a couple of American dollars, which further improved the corporal’s disposition.

Kendrick entered the suite and blinked in the darkness. “Jesus Christ,” came a familiar voice. “Just when I thought I’d gotten far enough away from you, you pop up again. What the hell have I done to deserve this?”

“Mr. President, you have been a very bad boy and it’s cost me a lot to get to see you in person.”

There was a bottle of Bacardi Rum in Custer’s hand and an empty one was on the floor. It was apparent that the president was in no condition to escape even if his prison was wide open.

“This stuff isn’t bad, Kendrick, you should try it.”

“Some other day, perhaps. So, how are you doing? How are they treating you?”

“Well enough,” he said and took a long swallow. “Now, how is my war coming? Has Miles attacked? The sooner he punches through, the sooner I can get the hell out of the glorified prison and go back to running the country.”

“I regret to inform you that Miles appears to have lost what courage you thought you gave him. The army isn’t moving and he is simply waiting for the next Spanish attack.”

“Damn him. What are they doing in Washington?”

“From what I’ve been able to discern, they are trying to figure out who is in charge in your absence. Chester Arthur is the favorite and he will likely go for a change in command. It might not be somebody you like.”

Kendrick had heard no such information. What he was saying had the feel of logic, so he felt comfortable fibbing to Custer. To his surprise, Custer did not seem upset. “There’s not much I can do about that, is there? My one and only goal is to get back to the States and Libbie and take over again. Then I can run any bastard I don’t like out of town. Until then, I am totally irrelevant. It’s like I actually had been killed at the Little Big Horn and sometimes I wish I had.”

Good luck with taking over if he ever did return, thought Kendrick. “Tell me about how you got caught. Commander Blondell and his crew have been exchanged and he’s told everyone that you ordered him to go to Havana against his wishes and that your getting captured is all your fault. Any comment?”

A shrug and another swallow followed by a belch. “Blondell’s a fat little prick but he’s right. I wanted to see Havana and I made him do it. I couldn’t lie about it if I wanted to.”

“Do you favor signing a treaty of peace unfavorable to the U.S. in order to get you out of here?”

“Fuck no. I’m desperate, not crazy. Besides, I’m in no position to dictate any peace terms and no way could I have unfavorable terms ratified by the senate.”

Kendrick was mildly surprised at Custer’s coherent understanding of the situation. “So you’re willing to stay here for a very long time if necessary?”

“Willing? Hell, Kendrick, I must certainly am not willing. On the other hand I have to recognize reality. I’m not going anyplace until there is peace. The next time you slip out of here and back to our lines, you let Libbie, Blaine, Arthur, and anyone else know that I will not be bought and sold like a bushel of corn.”

Kendrick said that he would do just that. He did not inform Custer that he had no plans to leave Havana in the immediate future. No, this is where the big story would be. Either the US would win and Havana conquered, or Spain would win and the Spanish Empire would be rejuvenated. He would write up his interview and then type it. Juana had access to a new Remington Typewriter and he had taught himself how to use it. The story would be placed in a British diplomatic pouch and go by ship to Florida.

“Besides freeing you, Mr. President, is there anything else I can do?”

Custer eyed the now empty Bacardi bottle. He threw it in a wastebasket. “Yes. I’ve decided I really don’t like this shit. See if you can get me a few dozen cases of bourbon to tide me over until the war ends.”

* * *

Chester Arthur, James Blaine, and the others, including Libbie Custer, did not like referring to themselves as a junta or a cabal as some of the Washington and New York newspapers were doing. The terms cabal and junta had sinister undertones and what they were doing was both legal and public, and, of course, necessary. The United States had to be governed and continue to run.

And add to that the fact that the public was outraged by the way the war was going and the situation was volatile. Marches had taken place in a number of cities as pro-war and anti-war adherents shouted their opinions. Groups carrying banners paraded and shouted. No one was shocked to see numbers of women involved in the marching. The women wanted the war over and their men returned home. On a number of occasions, the marches had become violent and more than a dozen had been killed rioting in New York and Boston.

“I wish Kendrick had kept the interview quiet,” Blaine muttered. “At least until we could have read it first and been prepared for the uproar.”

Kendrick’s interview with Custer had become public. It had been sold to scores of newspapers, garnering the reporter large amounts of money and several book offers. He was becoming rich in absentia and would be given a hero’s welcome when he too returned home.

“He’s a reporter,” said Arthur, “what the devil did you expect. Actually, reporters are the devil, or at least people who have sold their souls to the devil.”

Blaine didn’t think that the comment was funny at all. “The President of the United States is sitting there drunk as a lord while a prisoner of the Spanish. He says he has no confidence in the commanding general, and would like someone to send him some Kentucky bourbon. Jesus, what the hell is this country coming to?”

“At least he’s alive and well,” responded Libbie Custer in a soft and muted voice that was totally uncharacteristic of her. Her eyes were sunken and her complexion gray. She looked like a woman in mourning, which she was. She was slowly becoming reconciled to the inescapable fact that her beloved husband would not be returning for quite a while. And worse, when he did return, scorn would be heaped upon him. As president Custer had committed several unforgivable sins. He had left the country and the public was not accepting the theory that he had still been in the United States by virtue of being on the Dolphin. His political enemies had argued that the Dolphin had been in Spanish or Cuban waters and could not have been sovereign American territory. Legally, they might be wrong, but the public’s ire was up. Then, Custer had managed to get himself captured and was being held in a Havana prison and appeared to be spending his time in a drunken stupor. The shame to the United States was almost palpable.

George Armstrong Custer’s rash and idiotic behavior had embarrassed the United States in the eyes of the world. In Kendrick’s article, the president had said that he wanted to return so he could again take over. The consensus was that he was deluding himself.

Libbie stood. “It would have been far better if he had been killed at the Little Big Horn. At least then he would have died a hero instead of now rotting in a prison. Custer’s Last Stand would have been on a hill in the Dakotas with a gun in his hand, and not on a couch in a Havana apartment with a bottle of rum in his hand.”

With that, she sobbed and swept out of the room.

“I generally find it hard feeling sorry for her,” said Arthur. “She’s always been conniving on her husband’s behalf and now it’s come back to hit her in the face.”

Blaine simply nodded. He too had been writing off President Custer as a serious contender for the presidency the next election. He’d begun thinking that he could stymie Chester Arthur’s ambitions at the next Republican convention if he could get Libbie Custer on his side. For the first time in her life, the marvelously attractive and sensuous woman was scared and vulnerable. Better, she was a sympathetic presence. She didn’t have to denounce her dunce of a husband, merely announce how much she was depending on James G. Blaine to lead the country out of this terrible dilemma. President Custer might be despised by the public, but his grieving almost-widow could strike a sympathetic cord among delegates at the next Republican Convention.

Blaine was reasonably happily married to his wife Harriet, but he would not be above seducing Libbie Custer if it could help his political ambitions. Nor did the seduction have to be in the physical sense, although that would be marvelous. Many times he had imagined her naked and beneath him. He thought that many in Washington had imagined the same thing. No, all he had to do was get her under his control and get her to speak and act as he wished her to. Who knows, he thought, she might actually be a widow in the very near future.

A very young aide entered bearing a message. He looked in confusion as to who should get it. As Blaine seethed, Arthur waved the boy over and took the paper, again taking command. The vice president read it and nodded. He looked at his pocket watch. “It is nearly noon and word has been received that the Spanish are again attacking our positions in force.”

“Damn it to hell,” said Blaine.

“I have also been informed that General Sheridan along with former General Winfield Scott Hancock will be arriving shortly.”

Blaine was astonished. “Who the devil invited them?”

Arthur smiled tolerantly. “As Commanding General of the United States Army, I don’t believe that Philip Sheridan requires an invitation to give us his sage advice and counsel. However and to set your mind at ease, I requested both men to come here. As to Hancock’s being present, I’m certain you can guess why.”

* * *

Maria Garcia watched in horror as the ragged column of fifty or so dusty soldiers and conscripts came down the path towards her house. Others in her small village had already run inside and closed their doors. They would watch through the openings in the walls that they called windows, but they would not interfere. That would be pointless and dangerous.

The Spaniards’ presence could mean only one thing. Her only surviving son, her baby, was going to be taken away and turned into a soldier. For an instant she thought about telling Manuel to run like the wind and hide. But where would he go? The soldiers were already fanning out as if expecting the sixteen year old boy to flee. It was apparent that the Spanish soldiers had done this before. Nor could she ask help from his father. He was dead and she was alone.

A heavyset corporal walked up to her. He was sweating profusely but kept his uniform buttoned in an attempt to look professional. “Please tell Manuel Garcia to come out and bring with him what belongings he wishes to take with him. He is about to have the honor of becoming a soldier of Spain.”

“What honor?” she snapped. “You will have him fighting his fellow Cubans or, worse, the Americans. If you take him I will never see him again.”

The corporal looked genuinely saddened. “Senora, no one can tell what might happen in time of war. All I do know is that he is to become a soldier of Spain and he will be one of many to be on the lookout for an American landing.”

“And what will he do if they come, throw rocks at them? Are you going to teach him to shoot a gun, fire a cannon?” She reached out and tugged at his arm. “Corporal, if you leave without him, tonight I will let you come to my bed.”

The corporal blinked. Senora Garcia was a fine looking and mature woman with a full ripe figure. She breathed deeply and he thought her breasts would rip through the fabric of her blouse and her nipples, clearly outlined, seemed to be calling to him.

“I would dearly love to, kind lady, but the lieutenant who is picking his nose and riding that horse is an ass and he will not let that happen. Your son is coming with us. If he decides to run, we have dogs that will run him down and tear at his flesh. Is that what you wish?”

It was not. She sagged and called her son out on the handful of planks that served as a porch. The boy emerged and blinked in the sunlight. He was tall for his age but very thin. The others in the column looked on, bored. They had seen this vignette play out many times before.

Maria put her hand on her son’s shoulder and squeezed. “I want you to get your best clothing. There is no point in your going off to war looking like someone who has already lost one.”

The boy nodded and started to turn away. The corporal stopped him. “Do not do that, senora. Dress him in rags, the dirtiest clothes you can find. Otherwise, anything he has that is worth something will be stolen before tomorrow’s dawn.”

“He’s right,” said the boy, finally speaking. “And I will not wear shoes or boots. My feet are tough enough to handle the roads.

“Can you read or write?” asked the corporal.

“Yes,” he said.

“Excellent. Then I will tell the lieutenant that you would make a fine clerk. He has been looking for one for a while. Only don’t let him put his hand on your ass, unless, of course, you like that sort of thing.”

It didn’t take long for Manuel to gather his meager possessions and join the straggly column. Maria waved the corporal over. “Will he be able to send letters?”

The corporal nodded solemnly. His heart was not in these actions which were little more than kidnappings. “He will write and I will ensure that they are mailed properly. I will do everything I can to also ensure his safety.”

“What is your name, corporal?”

“Carlos Menendez, senora, and I have been a soldier of Spain for almost twenty years. I became a soldier because there was no other route open to me, just as there isn’t now for your son. I was ragged and hungry and now I have at least the semblance of a uniform although the food has been lacking lately.”

“Is this what you enlisted to do?”

“No senora, I wanted to be a soldier, not a thief of children.”

“Then why don’t you desert and join the rebels?”

Menendez looked around to see if anyone was paying any attention to him. They weren’t. “Because I am Spanish and the rebels would likely chop me into little pieces before I had a chance to explain myself. But trust me, I will do what I can to protect your boy. The army is building a small fort at Santa Cruz del Norte. It is where the lieutenant will put him and where he will be the lieutenant’s clerk. It will be well away from any battlefield.”

Maria nodded gratefully and lightly rested her hand on his arm. “Then show up here shortly after dark and bring some rum and a loaf of bread. Despite the uniform you wear, you appear to be a decent man and I will need some comforting this night, perhaps a lot of comforting.”