1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 16

Major General Benteen made himself as comfortable as possible in Ryder’s bunker. He had just finished a circuit of the new lines of defenses on and around Mount Haney. These now included extensive trench lines for the rest of his division and not only Ryder’s brigade. The defenses ran from the waterfront on both sides of the hill and around it. They were several lines deep and Benteen was pleased.

“No fortress is ever impregnable Martin, but you’ve done a great job. Of course, you had me alongside to help you,” he added with a grin.

Ryder shook his head and ignored the good-natured jibe. “We only lack two things, general, food and water. There are enough of us to hold off the Spaniards and we have enough ammunition to fight a number of battles, but we might just die of starvation or thirst while carrying loaded weapons.”

The crushing Spanish attack on the city of Matanzas had resulted in the loss of much of their supplies. As the men retreated to Haney and the entrance to the bay, they’d carried with them as much ammunition as possible. This meant leaving stockpiles of food for the Spanish to plunder. Nor was their water situation much better. The men around Haney now numbered more than eight thousand and, while water was available, it came in a literal trickle from the wells already dug. These had been adequate for Ryder’s brigade, but not for an entire division and a number of refugees. The Spanish, sensing the situation, had attempted to divert the few streams that ran close to the American lines. They’d only partly succeeded, but it did mean an inadequate supply for cooking and sanitation.

The two generals were alone. This was a conversation, not a conference. “How’s Miles taking his demotion?” asked Ryder.

“Outwardly, he appears to be controlling his anger. Inwardly, I think he’s relieved. Commanding an independent army this size was too much for him. When Hancock and the Second Corps arrive, he’ll still have an important role to play, but he won’t be responsible for the major decisions. Miles is a brave man and a good fighter, but he was put in water too deep for him and that was Custer’s fault. He should have chosen the best man under any circumstances, not the best from a small pool of choices that he alone created. He should have left politics out of it.”

“What president could have done that?” Ryder grumbled.

“No one that I know of,” Benteen admitted with a smile.

Several cannon boomed from the American positions. The taking of Matanzas had not presented the Spanish with the complete victory they’d wanted. Cannon from Mount Haney and from the mouth of the bay covered most of the distance between the two points which kept the Spanish from fortifying what they’d taken. Word had come that, after recovering the dead and wounded under yet another flag of truce, the Spanish had apologized for bombarding the hospital. They claimed that they’d been told that the church had been fortified. The apology had been accepted even though no one believed it. The Red Cross symbol had been prominently displayed on all sides of the building.

Benteen continued. “I also like the way you’ve established tracks and trails so you can move your big guns and your Gatlings quickly. You mass those things against a Spanish attack and the greasers won’t like it.”

Ryder wanted to light a cigar, but he only had a couple left and didn’t feel like sharing them with Benteen. “The Spanish don’t like being called greasers.”

“Who cares what the Spanish think.”

“One more question. When Hancock arrives with an additional fifteen thousand or so men, where the hell are we supposed to put them?”

Benteen sighed, “Beats the hell out of me, Martin. Now be a good boy and give me one of those cigars you’re hiding, because I’m not leaving until I get one.”

* * *

Hector Rojas was a big man in many ways. Physically huge, he was an important part of Mercedes de Milan’s household. In many ways he was its leader, and not just because he occasionally shared his mistress’s bed. He was far smarter than his brutish looks, which sometimes fooled people, often to their permanent loss.

Nor was Hector the jealous type. He knew his place. He fully accepted that Mercedes’ current number one lover was the British diplomat, Redford Dunfield. This slightly surprised him because Dunfield seemed to be more than a little effeminate. Perhaps he had hidden skills or more subtle ways of satisfying Mercedes, he thought with a smile. No matter. Mercedes de Milan was approaching old age with ill grace and fear and this had made her sexually insatiable. She was deathly afraid that no one would want her when her looks faded. When Dunfield or a predecessor was not available to serve her, Rojas was. She also tipped well after each session and, as a result, he’d accumulated a significant amount of money.

One of his duties was to ensure that all was safe and secure in the de Milan compound. Hector knew that the two lovers who occupied the cottage were in danger from the skinny woman’s husband, Gilberto Salazar. On occasion Rojas had walked by the cottage and seen them naked through a window. Juana Salazar did not arouse him although he conceded that she would do in a pinch. She was just too thin for his tastes.

Regardless, she and her American lover were Mercedes’ guests and were to be protected. Hector liked to wander the compound at odd times just to see what might be afoot. By staggering his patrols, he hoped to confuse anyone who might want to break in and harm the lovers. It also kept his other guards on their toes.

This night was cloudy and there were few shadows. In a couple of hours, false dawn would rise. He was reacting to information from an informer in Salazar’s legion that there would be an attempt on the lives of the two guests. The darkness smelled of danger and that excited him. He moved around the compound’s perimeter with surprising grace and silence. He liked to think of himself as a large predator cat like the pictures of lions and leopards he’d seen in books in Mercedes’ extensive library.

Hearing something, he paused. The compound was close enough to the city to pick up numerous background noises. There was a pattern to these sounds, even when punctuated by the odd shout or scream, or the occasional gunshot. What he was listening for was the sound of footfalls, or bushes and leaves being brushed against by something that shouldn’t be there. He knew enough to identify and ignore the sounds of dogs or cats or even rodents. They did not concern him.

He heard something once more and froze. He heard it again and decided it wasn’t an animal, at least not a four-legged one. He moved stealthily towards the sound, keeping it between him and the cottage. As he generally did, he had a large hammer in his hand and he handled it like a twig. One side was flat for pounding, while the other was wedge-shaped and good for crushing. He had a knife and a pistol in his belt, but his usual weapon of choice was the hammer. A gun made too much noise, and a knife was messy and often did not kill or even disable immediately. Even slicing a man’s throat did not necessarily bring immediate death. The victim could flop and make noises for some time and be bleeding all over the place.

However, even a glancing blow from the hammer would shatter bones and cause shock, while a direct blow was usually fatal, at least when he swung it with blinding speed.

Rojas smelled blood. He moved cautiously and found the body of one of his guards. He swore softly. The boy had only been fifteen and now he was dead. He had volunteered to be a guard to prove his manhood and earn a little extra money and now he was dead. His head had been bashed in and his throat had been skillfully sliced open.

Rojas smiled tightly and moved closer to the lovers’ cottage. The two men he’d sensed and now could see were concentrating on their approach to the cottage and paying no attention to what was happening behind them. Fools, he thought. As he stalked them he noted that each had a revolver in his waistband. Dangerous fools, he amended. He could call the alarm and others would come to his aid, but that would take a few precious minutes during which he could be shot. No, he would solve this himself and there would be no gunfire.

The two intruders were so preoccupied that he got within a few feet of them before he launched his bulk at them with fearful speed. He struck the first with the hammer and the man’s skull shattered with a sickening sound, like a melon dropping on cement. He whirled and struck at the second man who was only beginning to turn with a look of puzzlement on his face. The hammer struck him between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Rojas breathed deeply and looked around. He had disturbed no one. He threw the bodies over his shoulder, walked to the stable and dumped them into a cart. After covering the corpses with a blanket and some straw he walked to the main house and entered through the servant’s entrance. He was pleased to see that the Englishman was not present. That made things so much simpler.

He entered Mercedes’ bedroom and awakened her. She was used to the touch of his hand and did not startle. As usual, she had been sleeping naked and made no effort to more fully cover what he had seen so many times before. Nor was she shocked by what he told her. An attack on the lovers had been expected.

“What will you do with the bodies?”

“At dawn, when the curfew is over, I will take them a few miles out of town and dump them in a field. It will be a while before anyone notices them, if ever, and by then they will be unrecognizable. Not even their mothers will know them.”

Mercedes shuddered at the thought of the intruders being eaten by birds and animals and insects and bloated by the sun, but it had to be done. Other things had to be done as well. She could not allow Gilberto Salazar or his men to enter her property and murder people. He had crossed a line.

She handed him a corner of the light blanket that only partly covered her. He grinned and gently pulled it off her. Her beauty might be fading, but she was still highly desirable.

She smiled and held out her hand. He grasped it and she pulled him down to her. She had never had sex with a man who had just killed on her behalf and it thoroughly excited her. “You have done so very well, Hector Rojas, that I think you deserve a very great reward.”

* * *

Jesus, thought Kendrick. He was too stunned to return to bed where Juana slept peacefully. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone to a window simply to look around. Even though he loved Juana and loved being with her, he was getting bored and needed to get near where the story and the action were. Thus, he’d seen the two men approaching. He’d been about to awaken Juana and make a run for the main house when a massive bulk had surged over the intruders like a wave, knocking them down with wickedly fast swings of a hammer. He recognized Rojas by his bulk. He’d seen the man around many times. Kendrick had kept on cordial terms with him and was now very thankful he had.

Kendrick also understood what would happen to the bodies. They would disappear and never be found. He would have to find a way of thanking Rojas. He had a feeling that both Rojas and Mercedes would deny that anything like what he’d seen had ever happened and he was fine with that. Still, he had to let them know of his appreciation. Rojas had just saved his and Juana’s life.

He walked softly back to bed, although he wondered if he would ever be able to get to sleep again. Next, he wondered if they should move to a more secure location. But to where, he wondered. If he could get the two of them back to the American lines, perhaps they’d be safe there. But maybe they’d be safe nowhere with Gilberto Salazar still in the picture. How could the man be so jealous of him when he’d thrown Juana at him? The man was mad, that was why. After hating and discarding Juana, he was now obsessed with no one else possessing her.

Perhaps they should move to the main house. There wouldn’t be as much privacy, but they would be safer. No, he had to find a better, safer place for them. He could not leave Havana until the war was over. The story of a lifetime, maybe several lifetimes, was unfolding before his eyes. Word had come that the relief force had sailed from Charleston and the people of the city of Havana were tense and confused. Either Cuba was going to be free of Spain or the United States was going to suffer an ignominious defeat. Either way, he would be in Havana.

* * *

Ruta looked at the fresh grave. The mound of raw earth was the final resting place of Nurse Ethel Carmody. Her shattered and nearly headless body had been recovered during a truce and quickly buried. She was the first of the volunteer nurses to die. With the exception of Nurse Atkins who had lost her arm, none of the others had even been wounded. Bumps, cuts and bruises, yes, but nothing serious had occurred to them.

“Doctor Desmond gave a wonderful eulogy for her, didn’t he?” commented Ruta. Desmond had moved from the head of the bay to Mount Haney. It was a clear indication that a major Spanish move was likely.

“Too bad so much of what he said wasn’t true,” said Sarah.

Ruta agreed. “I know. He said she was a marvelous nurse, which she wasn’t, and a gentle, loving human being who was cherished by everyone, which she also wasn’t. Too bad I couldn’t believe a word of what he said. Carmody was a wretched person.”

“Never speak ill of the dead,” said Sarah. “No matter how miserable they were in their lifetimes, they were always faithful husbands and wives, loving brothers and sisters, and devoted friends. Eulogies are never about the truth.”

Ruta laughed bitterly. “My father beat us with his fists and a cane he kept for that purpose, and his brother tried to rape me. I told my father about his brother and dear father said I must be lying. He beat me again for slandering his dear brother. I hope both of them are dead and burning in hell. That would be my eulogy.”

“I had an uncle who kept trying to run his hands up my dress,” said Sarah. “I told my father and he beat him up very badly. It slowed him down but didn’t stop him. I just learned to be more agile. He died a couple of years ago. Everyone cried and said what a saint he’d been in life. I felt like desecrating his grave. I was going to go to his grave at night and urinate on it. I couldn’t because I was afraid of cemeteries in the night.”

Ruta agreed. “I think we all have eulogies we’d like to give, but won’t. Carmody wasn’t perfect, but she was here and she was trying her best.”

Sarah agreed. “On the other hand, Nurse Carmody didn’t deserve to die like she did. There’s going to be at least one more battle and it’s entirely possible that some of us might fall. Martin says there’s no way the Spanish can make any guarantees about our safety. We are all jammed in so close here that there is no real safety. We’ve dug caves and bunkers and all that means is that we might be buried alive during a bombardment.”

Ruta sighed. “You are so cheerful today. You and Martin need to be alone for a few minutes to calm yourselves down like Haney and I have been.”

Sarah was astonished. “Have you really managed to be alone with your beloved sergeant up here on this wretched hill? Where on earth did you ever find the time and space for such an encounter?”

Ruta grinned wickedly. “If you have the time you can always find the space. And it doesn’t have to take all that much time. And we’d better get used to not having much space. When the relief army gets here, our forces will almost double. As they say, one should make hay while the sun shines.”

Sarah laughed and made a note to seek out Martin. There was a pause in the fighting as the two sides shifted and jockeyed for advantage. Perhaps they could find a few moments to be alone before Matanzas was even more jammed with American soldiers.

But then she had a thought and she recalled what Martin had said. He had wondered aloud just why everyone thought the relief army was coming to Matanzas.

* * *

General Weyler rode down the line to meet with his senior field officers and made the dramatic announcement that the American reinforcements were on their way. “Our future is spelled out for us. If Cuba is to remain Spanish, then the American force at Matanzas must be expelled. We must defeat the Americans before their reinforcements can land and the two groups unite. We will attack in overwhelming force and ferocity and destroy them.”

He paused dramatically and looked at the assembly. “For King and Spain,” he yelled dramatically. “For King and Spain,” several score voices echoed. It did not escape Weyler’s notice that not everyone had cheered and some of those had been lacking in enthusiasm and lustiness. They were clearly horrified at the thought of again attacking the wire and the machine guns. The guns and the wire had neutralized Spain’s advantage in numbers.

Weyler departed and the group disbanded to return to their units and inspire them to make the ultimate sacrifice required in storming the American fortifications. Gilberto Salazar, however, had that and other things on his mind. Clearly, the two men he’d sent to kill Juana and Kendrick had failed. Either that or they’d taken the money he’d given them in advance and disappeared, which he considered unlikely. He hadn’t given them all that much money. The bulk of the cash was to be their reward when they were successful. Therefore, they had lost in an encounter with whoever was protecting the slut and her lover, and he assumed that it had been Mercedes tame bear of a man named Hector Rojas.

It infuriated him that, with the Americans approaching the horizon, there wouldn’t be another opportunity to kill them until the battle and perhaps the war was decided. The bitch would continue to live and spread her skinny legs for Kendrick. Sometimes he recalled that he had started the farce, but he dismissed it. No wife of his would have taken him seriously when he told her to sleep with another man. No, he had been betrayed by her and her lover.

Gilberto had a most pleasant thought. When he was victorious and a hero, he would kill Kendrick with his bare hands and then turn Juana over to his troops and the hell with her uncle the bishop. He was going to burn in hell for all he’d done so what did offending a prince of the church matter?

* * *

George Armstrong Custer took a last sad look at the bottle of rum. There was about an inch in the bottom and instead of swallowing it, he poured it out a window and onto some flowers, belatedly wondering if the alcohol would kill the flowers. In a way he was grateful nobody had been able to get him any bourbon. It would have been wasted. The decision to stop drinking might have been even more difficult.

The imprisoned President of the United States had had an epiphany. The army was going to free him and it didn’t matter if Winfield Scott Hancock was its commander or not. He was going to be rescued and he didn’t want to be a drunken, dirty, sot when it happened. He’d also been having that dream where the Sioux killed him. He’d been waking up in a soaking sweat and a couple of time he’d thought he’d screamed out loud. If he stopped drinking himself into a stupor, perhaps the dream would go away.

“I’m done feeling sorry for myself,” he said to his British host.

“I was wondering when that would happen,” Redford Dunfield said with a smile. “And trust me, I didn’t begrudge you one bit for wondering just what the devil had happened to put you in such a predicament.”

“I want to be ready and armed when Hancock arrives with his army. We can at least meet as equals.” Well, almost, he thought. “I am greatly concerned that the Spanish will attempt to move me when that time comes and hold me hostage elsewhere. I cannot permit that to happen, at least not without a hell of a fight; hence, the need for at least one weapon, several if you have them.”

“And some clean clothes,” Dunfield said drily. “Quite honestly, you look like hell and you stink to high heaven.”

Custer flushed. He’d already taken stock of himself in a mirror. “Indeed, and I’d like the use of either a razor or the services of a barber if you won’t trust me with anything sharp. And yes, I would like to take a bath as well.”

Dunfield made a mock bow that Custer ignored. “I will send you a barber and not because I don’t trust you. I’m afraid that your hands are a bit shaky and you might just slice yourself to ribbons. I will also send you my tailor with instructions to clothe you appropriately, but not too expensively. I’m sure you’re aware that Her Majesty Queen Victoria is quite close with her money.”

“I will be thankful for whatever you can provide.”

“Since you’re returning to mankind, do you desire female companionship?”

Custer flushed. “Indeed, but unless you can transport Libbie down to me, I don’t think I wish to chance it.” No, he thought, power corrupts and I’ve certainly been corrupted in the past, but not now. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

“By the way, two other people will be moving in and will be under guard but they will not be prisoners. One is Juana Salazar and the second man you know, James Kendrick. I know you despise him, but try to be nice to each other while you’re under my roof.”

Custer smiled wanly. “I know my place. When this is all over, I reserve the right to strangle him.”

On the other hand, Custer thought, if he sees how I am now and how heroically I behave during the coming battle, perhaps he can be a tool in getting back my reputation.

* * *

Two admirals commanded the massive fleet heading to Cuba and Janson thought that was at least one too many. Prentice had laughed and agreed.

In overall command was the aging David Dixon Porter. At seventy, he had served with Farragut and Grant during the Civil War. Totally professional, he had made many enemies by insisting on high standards by all ranks. He was well organized and considered a fighter. His organizational skills were on display as the great host of ships made it down the Atlantic coast towards Cuba. Porter’s skills were augmented by those of the much younger Admiral Pierce Crosby. Crosby was in charge of shepherding the civilian transports with a minimum of confusion and had managed to do so. Porter kept control of the warships and directed gunboats and patrol vessels out every time a strange sail or mast or puff of smoke was seen.

As night fell, each ship was required to show oil lamps as running lights to prevent collisions and ships getting lost. Of course, each morning still brought its number of strays which the smaller warships like the Orion dutifully rounded up. Since they functioned as shepherds, Janson had gotten in the habit of referring to their civilian charges as lambs.

“What we really need,” said Janson, “is a kind of telegraph between ships. Using signal flags and sending Morse code by signal lamp is just too inaccurate and prone to error. And the range is too damn limited, too.”

Prentice laughed. “You’re right, but you’d need a really long cord for telegraph between ships. I don’t doubt that something will be invented to make it happen, but not on this trip. By the way, shouldn’t we be nearing Matanzas by now?”

Janson conceded the point about the wire and agreed that Cuba should be just over the horizon. The Orion was in the fleet’s van and the men had bets as to when Cuba would be sited and who would be the first sailor to do so. Sailors, he concluded, would bet on damn near anything.

“Land ho!” a lookout cried and a number of men cheered while others grumbled. Money changed hands as the men lined the rail to see the faint smudge on the horizon.

“Damn it to hell,” muttered Janson. “Either we’re lost or we’re not headed for Matanzas.”

“Could it be Havana?” asked an equally puzzled Prentice. “But it sure doesn’t look like Havana.”

Janson yelled to his crew, asking if anyone recognized their landfall. One young sailor timidly raised his hand. “Sir, it sort of looks like Santa Cruz del Norte.”

“And just what the hell is Santa Cruz del Norte?” Janson asked with a smile.

The sailor responded, “Captain, it’s a shitty little fishing village just about halfway between Matanzas and Havana.”

“Oh my God,” said Prentice, awed by the apparent strategy. “If we land here, we’ll have an army that can either march on Havana or attack the Spaniard’s rear at Matanzas.”

* * *

Manuel Garcia had been inducted only two weeks earlier and had been given a uniform that didn’t fit and a rifle he had never fired. For that matter, he’d never fired a gun of any kind in his young life. Nor had he ever worn shoes on his sturdy, hardened feet.

He was near the small town of Santa Cruz del Norte, which was only a few miles from his home and his mother. He and a handful of others were commanded by his former school teacher who was as confused and puzzled as everyone. The erstwhile soldiers had serious doubts about the teacher. They wondered if he wasn’t senile. Manuel wondered that as well. As Manuel’s teacher, he had professed his love for Spain and his willingness to die for her. Now he didn’t seem so sure of himself.

They had dug what someone referred to as a redoubt, but it was only a low earth-walled fort that faced the sea. In it a small cannon had been found and placed to threaten the ocean. That there were no shells or ammunition didn’t seem to concern anyone. Finally, the very young and junior Spanish officer who commanded them showed up with a dozen men along with small amount of ammunition. He pronounced himself pleased and told everyone that they could easily hold off the approaching American hordes if the Yanks should have the balls to show themselves. The men with the lieutenant were regulars and they openly sneered at Manual’s militia.

The announcement horrified Manuel. He knew there was a war on, but he had understood that the fighting was a score of miles away. That was also too close, but the front seemed stable, so people had learned to live and let live. What else could they do? They were pawns. He’d given thought to joining the rebels, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. If caught, he’d be hanged or shot. Now, with Americans possibly approaching, he wondered if he had the nerve to desert. He reminded himself that deserters were also either hanged or shot.

At least Corporal Menendez had kept his word. Manuel had worked as a clerk for the lieutenant up until the last couple of days. With the Americans believed to be on the way, clerking could wait. A letter from his mother implied that she and the corporal had become close. He had mixed emotions about that. He wanted his mother to be happy, but he wanted his mother to himself. Of course, he realized, there was little he could do about it at this time.

Only a couple of days later, Manuel and the others awakened to a nightmare. All the ships in the world were approaching his little fort. The lieutenant screamed and they all grabbed their rifles. One went off accidentally and the lieutenant screamed again. Manuel rubbed his eyes. The nightmare would not go away. He could see the guns of the giant warships and it looked like they were all turned towards him.

The American ships closed to within range of their mighty guns and opened fire. The sound was deafening and the shells exploded around their little fort. The first barrage hit nothing and killed no one. The lieutenant stood on the wall and yelled defiance at the Americans. He was hysterical and white froth came from his mouth.

Small boats filled with soldiers were being rowed towards the shore. Manuel counted his bullets-twelve. With twelve rounds he was supposed to hold off the Yankee hordes? He laughed harshly and realized he was growing up too fast.

The American guns fired again and this time they struck. The lieutenant disappeared in a spray of pink mist and pieces of bone. Manuel screamed and huddled on the ground. Another shell struck the cannon sending it tumbling over. It landed on a Spaniard who began screaming at the top of his lungs. His screams lasted only a few seconds before they ended in a gurgle.

It occurred to Manuel that it would be safe to flee while the Yankees reloaded. Yes, it was time.

“Run,” he screamed as he got to his feet. He jumped over the low wall at the rear of the fort and ran for his life. The rest of the tiny garrison ran with him. None of them had their rifles and they frantically tore at their uniforms. In seconds they were almost naked. He would get clothes from his mother and hide in the bushes until the war passed him.

He laughed when he saw that his old teacher was buck naked and running faster than any of them.

* * *

Major General Darius Couch stepped more nimbly out of the small boat and into the ankle deep water than he thought he would. The idea of leading an army once again was exhilarating. He felt at least ten years younger than his age.

The bombardment of the pitiful shore defenses had been violent but short. The little earthen walled fort almost seemed to disappear under the impact. The men of Gordon’s division had landed in reasonably good order and were moving inward towards the road that connected Matanzas with Havana. Chamberlain’s would land shortly. He would soon have a full fifteen thousand men to hurl at the enemy’s rear. It would be like Chancellorsville again, except that he would play the role of Stonewall Jackson and not the inept Joe Hooker. He reminded himself not to get shot by his own men like Jackson had.

The landing had been well organized and had gone off almost without a hitch. Only a couple of boats had capsized and spilled their passengers and only a handful of their passengers had drowned. It was regrettable, a tragedy, but a necessary price to pay. He thought it was a shame that so few people, including sailors who should know better, knew how to swim.

Couch’s attack would not be as sudden and dramatic as when Jackson’s force fell on an unsuspecting Union flank and destroyed it. No, he could easily imagine scores of messengers heading to General Weyler at Matanzas with the terrible news that a large new enemy was in his rear. Other messengers would be riding to inform Villate in Havana. He assumed that the Spanish had telegraph lines operating between Havana and Matanzas. If the lines existed, the American army would be able to cut the one that ran parallel to the road running from Matanzas to Havana. Weyler would have to contend with the fact that, in order to fight the new American army, he would have to pull men away from the siege lines at Matanzas. If that happened, he was confident that Nelson Miles, spurred on by Hancock, would launch his own counter-attack; hopefully catching the Spanish in a pincers.

There had been serious discussions about what should be the main thrust of the American invasion. Some advisors had said they should strike directly towards Havana, the head of the Spanish snake. Hancock had been adamant. Their goal was the destruction of Weyler’s army. Hadn’t they learned anything, Hancock had wondered out loud, from the Civil War? While generals on both sides had striven to conquer capitals, large cities, and vast tracts of land, only Grant and Sherman had understood that you won a war by destroying the enemy’s ability to fight and today that meant killing Weyler’s army. Havana, like Washington or Richmond, would always be there.

There was another real fear. On hearing that an enemy was behind him, it was possible, even likely, that Weyler would attack Matanzas with a desperate fury. The smaller American force could be overwhelmed and massacred. Worse, thousands of Americans could wind up as prisoners.

The Second Corps had to get there in a hurry. So too did the navy. Already empty American transports were heading back to Florida where they would reload with more men and supplies. In the meantime, he would request Admiral Dixon to send a number of his smaller gunboats east to Matanzas where their guns might help blunt a Spanish attack.

* * *

Manuel Garcia leaned on his shovel and contemplated his miserable fate and the likelihood that God hated him. What made him think that he could simply run away from the Spanish Army? He hadn’t gotten more than a couple of miles from the smoldering and bloody ruins of the fort at Santa Cruz del Norte before he’d been captured by a Spanish patrol. His protestations that he was fleeing for his life and simply looking to rejoin his unit were laughed at for the lies they were. He had wanted to find his way home and hide under his bed until this miserable war was over.

The Spanish took him and his old teacher to Havana where justice was meted out. The old man was hanged. Manuel had watched in horror as his teacher’s skinny legs kicked and his feet scraped at the earth that was cruelly and tantalizingly barely beneath his reach. His face turned black and his eyes almost bugged out of their sockets while he danced. The soldiers had laughed hysterically as he both emptied his bowels and ejaculated before he died. Manuel had despised Professor Sanchez, but he did not deserve to be murdered.

“That one burst of pleasure will have to last him for all eternity,” said a skinny sergeant. “You, however, will have a choice. You can choose to be hanged and dance just like your old friend did or you can join a labor battalion.”

There was no real choice. He joined the battalion. He even thought that he’d be safer than in an army unit since he wouldn’t be involved in any fighting. Events had proven him wrong in that regard as well. He and a number of boys his age and younger in the battalion were out in the open while the shelling occurred. They had dug slit trenches to dive in to if the shelling got too bad, but their overseers generally jumped in first and told the laborers to keep working. When the shelling got too bad, the boys lay on the ground and whimpered, or ignored the orders and simply piled in.

When it was safe enough to continue, their eyes were greeted with more scenes of death and destruction. While it was evident that the Americans wanted only to destroy fortifications, their shells sometimes landed in nearby buildings, killing and maiming. He was beginning to grow used to the sight of dismembered bodies and the sounds of the screaming wounded and that frightened him. He never wanted to get accustomed to his new nightmare life.

Their sergeant, a fat pig who said he was from Barcelona and thereby superior to mere Cubans, screamed and ordered them back to work. Manuel and the other boys fantasized about driving one of their shovels up his ass. Along with being a pig, the sergeant was also a coward. Even when the bombardment was clearly not in their area, he was always the first one into a trench.

An explosion ripped through the nearby fortress of Castillo del Principe. The massive and oddly shaped stone structure jutted out from the Spanish defenses and, as someone had explained, was designed to provide flanking fire against an attacking enemy. Manual thought that was funny. The century-old stone structure would be a pile of rubble before long and the Americans would simply either ignore it or walk over what would soon be a jumble of rocks. Once, Manuel had been an unsophisticated farm boy. Now he was learning more about the world and war than he ever wanted to or thought possible.

Another explosion sent him reeling. For a moment he thought he was dead, but then he realized he was choking on dust. Dead men don’t choke, he told himself. He managed to get to a standing position. Several bodies lay near him along with a number of bloody body parts and other chunks of human meat. He gagged. He recognized the fat sergeant from Barcelona by his head. The rest of his body was nowhere to be seen. A couple of his young co-workers grabbed him and dragged him away while yelling at him. He had a hard time hearing but he understood their meaning if not their words. Flee, they were saying. Run for your life.

Manuel’s shovel had been broken by the blast, but the blade and a decent portion of the shaft remained. He reached down and grabbed it. If all else failed, it would serve as some kind of weapon.

“Grab your tools,” he yelled at them. The boys nodded their comprehension and grabbed shovels and anything else that could be used to defend themselves. When they were armed, they were all looking at him. By virtue of giving an order that made sense, he had just become their leader.

He and the others headed into the city, looking for Spanish patrols to avoid. They wanted to flee to the Americans but that would involve going through Spanish lines where they would likely be shot as the deserters they were.

Manuel wanted to cry. He wanted to go home to his mother. Did that make him a coward? If it did, he was not concerned. This was not his war and all he wanted was to leave Havana. And he certainly did not want to be responsible for a pack of boys as young as he.