1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 19

The large, squat siege mortar had first been used in the Civil War in the long fight for Petersburg, Virginia, but age did not diminish its effectiveness. It could hurl a ninety pound shell nearly a mile and a half and, hidden behind its own earthen walls, it was almost impervious to the light enemy fire directed at it and its sisters.

“Beautiful thing isn’t it?” asked a gaunt General Benteen as he leaned on his cane. He was out of breath and he cursed the illness that had weakened him so much. “That damn big gun of ours can’t be killed unless the Spanish are dumb enough to run out and attack it. On the other hand,” he said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t put it past them. They haven’t fired their cannon very much at all, which tells me that they don’t have a lot of ammunition and certainly none to spare shooting at targets they can’t hit.”

The illness that had attacked Benteen was abating, but he was still weak and had lost a lot of weight. The doctors were still mystified as to what had hit him. They blamed it on bad air, spiders, bad food, and bad luck. Sarah had told Martin that the general had very likely drunk some very bad water. Benteen did not think it was possible, since, as he joked, he only drank alcohol and never water. But, since he was recovering, everyone was willing to let the doctors figure out what had happened.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Ryder asked.

“Go to hell, Martin. You just want my job. A couple more promotions and you’ll be in charge of this whole army.”

“Which is just about the last thing I want,” he responded. “I’m not certain I’m ready to command a brigade, much less a division and certainly not an army.”

Benteen laughed. “Incompetence never stopped other people from rising to high office. Just look at your history and think of how many of Lincoln’s generals failed before he hit on Grant. And Grant was a virtual nobody before the Civil War. Just like you. Maybe you’ll be this war’s Grant.”

“Just so long as I’m not the next war’s Custer,” said Ryder.

Ryder helped the other man up a low rise. The mortar was about to fire and it was time to get out of the way. Older cannon had a bad habit of exploding and spraying chunks of hot metal all around at the oddest times, killing anyone who happened to be in their way. There was no reason for anyone not directly connected with firing the massive weapon to be out in the open.

Ryder continued, “For me to be this war’s Grant, it’d have to last three or four years like the last one. It ain’t gonna happen, general.”

“One can only hope you’re right,” said Benteen a second before the charge exploded and sent the shell arcing high into the air. They followed it with their eyes and watched as it landed and exploded beyond the city’s walls. This time there was no secondary explosion.

“I guess we just dug up some dirt,” laughed Benteen. “According to the boys in the balloons, the Spanish have gotten smart and have pulled back their troops. They’re sitting safely a quarter of a mile away from the walls. When they think we’re gonna attack, they’ll run back to their firing platforms and try to kill us.”

Since Ryder was going to command the attack, the picture he envisioned was not a pretty one. “Perhaps we should fake an attack. Then, when they’ve all returned to their positions, start firing at them. Wouldn’t that be a nasty surprise?”

Benteen watched as the mortar’s crew reloaded. “The real surprise would be if General Hancock hasn’t already thought of it, Martin.”

* * *

Bishop Estefan Campoy looked fondly at the conflicted woman sitting across the room from him. He loved her like the daughter he would never have and he ached at the thought of her being in so much emotional pain. To his eternal regret, he had been one of many friends and relatives who had urged, even coerced, plain and innocent young Juana into marrying Diego Salazar.

“Will you hear my confession, uncle?”

Unabashedly, he wiped away a tear. “No,” he said softly, “and you know why.”

“Yes, but let me hear it from you.”

Campoy sighed. This was the first time he had seen Juana since she’d run away with the American reporter. He couldn’t bring himself to visit her in the home of Mercedes de la Pena, a woman of loose morals he considered complicit in Juana’s sins. There would have been too much public scandal. But now she was in the British Consulate and that provided a form of cover. He could always claim official Church business. That no one would believe him was irrelevant.

He wiped away another tear. Why was life so unfair? Juana was a good woman who deserved so much better. “I can hear your confession and counsel you as I have so many times in the past, but I cannot give you absolution for the obvious reason that you are not in the slightest bit sorry for your sin.”

Juana smiled and her face lit up. “Nor will I ever be, uncle. But where is it written that I must stay married to a monster, a man who beats his wife and tortures innocent people, and a man who murders innocent men and women? I think that is the greater sin. Worse, he may even have created this foul war.”

He had heard the same question from others and sometimes he did doubt the Church’s reasoning. There was nothing he could do about it, however. “Both the laws of the Church and the laws of Spain prohibit divorce. And even if you and Mr. Kendrick were to flee to the United States, you would find that you were still bound by many of those same laws. Divorce in Cuba is impossible and almost so in the U.S.”

Juana stood and brought the bishop some brandy. “Then what about an annulment?”

“On what grounds, and please don’t tell me you’ve never consummated your marriage.”

“For all intents and purposes, we haven’t, and don’t look so shocked, dear uncle. Surely you’ve heard rumors about his strange and exotic preferences. And even if we did consummate our marriage, the last time he took me to his bed and tried was a number of years ago. He has effectively abandoned me.”

The bishop swirled his brandy and took a sip. “This is outstanding brandy. Are you trying to coerce me?”

“Of course,” she smiled warmly.

“Does anyone else know enough about the details of your marriage to be able to testify under oath in a Church court or in a Spanish court?”

Her face fell. “No.”

“And while he may be a murderer and a fool and a deviant to some, he is a hero to others. He was even wounded in battle, was he not?”

Juana laughed hugely, surprising the bishop. “Uncle, he fell off his horse and ruptured himself, which, while painful, is hardly a war wound. Yes, he has been in battle, but did you notice that he always survives unscathed while many of his men are slaughtered? His actions are hardly heroic.”

Campoy smiled. Ruptured? How delicious. “Juana, would you be willing to say that you are frigid and have refused him his rights as a husband?”

Juana thought for only a second. “Of course,” she said. “It would only be part of a lie since he hasn’t asked in so long. If he’d had, I would have rejected him outright, especially after he betrayed me to his mistresses. I only wish that his latest, Helga, was still in Havana. We had come to an accommodation and I believe she would have supported me.”

Campoy gestured and received some more brandy. “I don’t know how you would explain away your sexual frolics in the home of Mercedes de la Pena or here in the estate of Mr. Dunfield. These are hardly the actions of a frigid woman.”

“Are you saying I can’t be selectively frigid? I think you would find many women are that way. You’d know that if you’d been listening more closely during confessions instead of dozing off.”

Campoy laughed and stood. It was time to go. “I will think on what you are saying. I cannot hear your confession and give you absolution, but I can give you and your barbarian Protestant lover my personal prayers and blessings and I do. In the meantime, I will try to help you find a way out of your dilemma. But first, I have a different task. There is a matter of church and state I must discuss with our beloved Governor-General. This war is bringing out the worst in people and now I am finding that there are a few more bad priests than I ever thought. Almost all of my clergy are good people and it is deeply disturbing when I find that a handful have betrayed the laws of God and man.”

“Well then, uncle, may I pray that my husband dies in battle? Heroically, of course.”

Campoy winced. “That thought is most un-Christian and un-Catholic. And besides, be careful what you wish for, it might come true.” Although, he thought, it would be a fitting end to their problems, even ones she didn’t know existed.

Juana kissed him on the cheek and led him to the door. She looked around the outside and determined that Cisneros’ guards were in place and that there was no danger to her or to the bishop. She didn’t think that Salazar would strike at a man of god like her uncle, but who knew what he was capable of.

* * *

Ryder was jarred awake by the sound of gunfire, punctuated by screams and yells. Bugles and drums added to the din as the alarm was sounded. But why, he wondered as he pulled on his pants. According to the clock on his stand, it was three in the morning.

Haney burst in. “It’s a raid, general. The goddamn Spanish are trying to kill our guns. They’ve hit General Gibbon’s division with a large force and they seem to be causing a lot of damage.”

Ryder thought quickly. Gibbons’ division was to his brigade’s right as he faced the Spanish lines and, he thought with sudden horror, the hospital where Sarah worked was directly behind it.

All over the area, his men were rousing. He quickly ordered one of his three regiments to maintain their forward positions facing the Spanish and ordered the other two to prepare for a flanking attack against the Spaniards. None of this would occur instantly. The men, dragged from their sleep, were forming up as quickly as they could, but they would have to advance as entire major units and not as small groups that would be cut to pieces by the Spanish.

If Haney was right, and he usually was, this was only a raid which meant that the attackers would withdraw fairly soon. It could not be a major attack since the observers in the balloons would have caught the movement of large numbers of enemy troops towards the area. This meant that the Spanish would retreat fairly soon but after they had spiked cannon, destroyed ammunition and other supplies, and caused as much mischief as they could.

After what seemed an eternity, his two remaining regiments moved towards the fight. They kept their order and moved slowly so as to avoid shooting fellow American soldiers. After only a couple of hundred yards, they saw numbers of Spaniards pulling back and firing at them and at other advancing Americans. Ryder’s soldiers returned fire. Because of the darkness, almost all shooting was wild and inaccurate. Even when a target appeared, the flash of gunfire and smoke temporarily blinded the shooters.

Fires from burning supplies and small explosions punctuated the night, further destroying soldiers’ vision. Ryder caught up with an outraged Gibbon. “Somebody’s going to be crucified for letting them get on top of us like this,” he raged. Ryder had the sneaking thought that it might have been Gibbon’s men who were responsible, but prudently kept quiet.

They soon came upon the first Spanish dead. Someone had gotten smart, Ryder thought. The soldiers weren’t dressed in their white uniforms. Instead, they were wearing what looked like dark blue. Their faces had been smeared with dirt to make them even more difficult to spot. Still, wide awake sentries should have caught them before they got as far as they did.

Ryder stayed close to General Gibbon and heard that a number of cannon had been spiked. While Gibbon swore colorfully, another messenger said that the Spanish had done a poor job of disabling the guns and that they all would be back in working order in a few hours.

“Thank heaven for small favors,” Gibbon snarled. “It was just a raid and they botched it. This’ll be embarrassing, but I’ll get over it. Hell, I didn’t have that much of a career left anyhow.”

Ryder tried to force another concern out of his mind. Sarah and the hospital were fairly close and looked like they were directly in the path of the Spanish assault. Some tents were burning, but he couldn’t tell what they had been. He looked for Haney and couldn’t find him. Good. The man had probably slipped away to find out what had happened to Ruta and, at the same time, Sarah.

* * *

Sarah and several others, including Ruta, had been sleeping soundly when the shooting started. Their first reaction was the same as everyone’s-shock that the gunfire was so close, and then horror that it was getting closer. Something was clearly, horribly, wrong.

She and the others slipped robes over their ankle-length nightgowns and put on their shoes. If they had to flee they would be ready to escape. They were wrong. There would be no escape. Minutes later, Spanish soldiers burst into their tent. A couple of them jeered and laughed at the disheveled nurses, but were soon silenced by a Spanish captain.

“You are nurses from the hospital, are you not?”

Sarah saw no point in lying. “Yes.”

“Good. You will come with us. You are an unexpected bonus. Governor Villate will be pleased to have you working in our hospital and healing Spanish soldiers instead of aiding the gringos who have invaded our land.”

Sarah started to argue and struggle, as did the others, but they were quickly knocked down and tied up. She was angry at being restrained and by the fact that the still laughing soldiers were taking the opportunity to paw her, one even slipping his hands under her nightgown.

The captain again controlled the situation, slapping the impertinent soldier who didn’t seem at all abashed. “Ladies, it will go so much easier for you if you stop fighting. One way or the other, you will be going to Havana and, one way or another, you will be helping wounded Spanish soldiers.”

When they hesitated, he eyed them coldly. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. So far I have restrained my men. If you do not accept my kind invitation, I will grant them certain latitudes with you. Their favorite sport when transporting women prisoners is to hang them by their hands from the crossbar of the cart. After which, you will be stripped naked and driven all around Havana so that one and all can see your charms. The men will be posing you with your legs spread and your knees in the air, ensuring that your most private and intimate body parts are vividly displayed for admiring thousands. You will not actually be raped-I will not permit that, of course-but you will feel thoroughly violated by the time you make it to the dubious safety of a prison cell.”

Sarah sagged and Ruta caught her eye. The two of them shrugged and the others nodded. “Well,” Ruta said with a forced smile, “I always wanted to see Havana.”

* * *

Even though there was a Red Cross flying from a flagpole outside the Spanish hospital, it bore little resemblance to the conditions in the American Army. The hospital personnel they saw were poorly trained and there was little appearance of hygiene. It was as if the concept had not yet been introduced in the Spanish Army.

Following their capture, the five nurses had been taken by wagon to see Governor General Vlas Villate. They were frightened but tried not to show it. His reputation for cruelty and harshness was well known. Before being given over to Villate, Sarah had asked the captain if he really would have permitted his men to strip and display them. He’d laughed hugely, “Of course not. Spaniards are not barbarians.”

Villate smiled when they were taken to his office. “You ladies are an unintended bonus. And since you are Red Cross personnel and not any part of the American Army, you will be treated with utmost respect. Until and if arrangements are made for your return, you will work as you did, but in a Spanish hospital and treating Spanish wounded. I trust you will not decline the honor.”

The young captain might have been making a cruel joke about mistreating them, but Villate was a monster. They would not take any chances.

Sarah forced a smile. “Then we will not consider declining. We would appreciate it if you could somehow arrange for us to receive better clothing since we left in such a hurry.”

Villate had been trying to eye their bodies through their nightgowns and whatever else they had thrown on. “You’ve made an excellent decision. One of the good sisters at the Cathedral will see to it that you are properly dressed. Although I sincerely doubt that any of you are virgins, I believe you will make most fetching nuns.”

Only a few hours later, they found themselves working under the stern supervision of one Sister Maria Magdalena, a very large woman who called herself a nurse but who knew little about the craft, and a very young Doctor Pedro Juarez. The doctor had been trying hard, but was overwhelmed by the number of wounded. His assistants were few and mostly incompetent. Thus, he welcomed the five Americans and promised them good treatment in return for good work. The nurses thought that was fair. He also said they would sleep in the convent near the cathedral for the time being.

Sister Maria, on the other hand, made it clear that she despised them. Not only were they not Catholic, but they were Americans, a nation she hated because it was filled with heretics. She made it known that she would have them whipped if they offended her, and the American women believed her.

“This is better than being kept in a dungeon,” Ruta muttered and the others concurred as they dressed in religious garments. “I’m not too sure I like being dressed like a postulant or a novice nun, but this will work.”

Because of language issues, they were assigned to work as a group and under Doctor Juarez. His English was basic at best and they decided to try to use Spanish as much as possible. After their time in Cuba, Sarah’s Spanish had become fairly decent, and Ruta seemed to have a flair for languages. Despite their dislike of their current condition, they determined to do their best to help the hundreds of wounded who looked at them beseechingly. Their first job would be to sweep the filth off the floors and try to get the men fresh bandages and bedding. Sarah wondered what Sister Magdalena would be doing and the doctor had shaken his head and said that the real nun would be watching them.

“These are the enlisted men,” Doctor Juarez said with a tinge of bitterness. “The officers have their own hospital and doctors and, yes, the best of Spanish nurses. Please do not be offended, but the officers have kept the best for themselves and left these men with the dregs.”

“We are not offended,” said Sarah. “And we will do our best to help these men. I can only hope, however, that none of them is returned to duty to fight against my countrymen.”

“You know I cannot control that.”

Ruta smiled sweetly. “Then perhaps you can grant us one other favor. Would you be able to have Sister Mary Dragon transferred elsewhere?”

Juarez smiled and rolled his eyes. “I will do my best, but there is a rumor that her far lovelier cousin is General Villate’s mistress.”

* * *

Fire and shells from the American guns had damaged Diego Salazar’s estate, the place where Kendrick and Juana had cuckolded him. It enraged him. The structure was largely intact, but his home had been profaned. He would not live there again. Not only was it the place where his faithless wife had betrayed him, but it was also the place where his mistress, Helga, had plundered much of his wealth before disappearing.

He had arrived to find his two remaining servants cowering in the basement. Helga had arrived a few days earlier with several Cuban women and had taken all of his cash and anything else of value they could carry off. The servants said they had tried to stop her but that she had cursed them, threatened them, and beaten them badly. Salazar doubted their story. For one thing, there were no bruises on them and, for another; the two were consummate cowards and liars.

Helga had somehow managed to get from Salazar’s quarters at Matanzas to Havana ahead of the routed army. Loaded with their loot, they had then left Havana where he was told by an informer that she’d found a way to take a ship to Mexico and her child. Well, that part of his life was over. When Spain was victorious, he would find another aristocratic woman to service him. In the meantime, one of the servants would do. They wouldn’t like it, but they would not protest overmuch. They would cooperate and be rewarded or defy him and be terribly hurt.

What he would really like to do was gather his re-constituted legion and storm the estate of the British Consul, Redford Dunfield. Once in the villa, he would castrate Kendrick with his sword and turn Juana over to his men to enjoy while he watched. If Kendrick had not bled to death, he would hack him to pieces. The fanatic monsignor from Rome might disapprove, but he would also understand. The woman was a sinner. She had to be punished. Besides, Salazar thought with a hint of whimsy, he could always go to Confession from Monsignor Bernardi and beg forgiveness. Bernardi would hate it, but would comply.

Salazar started as he realized that the annoying priest was beside him. “What are you thinking of, colonel,” the priest asked.

“I’m thinking of a beautiful picture. In it, my whore of a wife is burning at the stake while her shit of a lover is being drawn and quartered.”

Bernardi laughed nervously. He never knew when is partner was kidding or not. “Your hatred of her for her sins is compelling. However and as before, now is not the time for the luxury of a personal vendetta. First we must find a ways to help Spain defend Havana and defeat the Americans. Then you can see to the painful destruction of your faithless wife and her heretic lover.”

* * *

Sarah and the other American nurses had just taken up mops, brooms, and anything they could use as a weapon to wield against a furious and steadily advancing Sister Magdalena, when the door to their ward opened. To their astonishment, Governor-General Villate stood there. Beside him was a very nervous Doctor Juarez and what appeared to be a bald American man in his late thirties. He looked amused at the scenario, while Villate appeared outraged. Juarez looked like he would pass out from fear caused by being so close to the dreaded and thoroughly angry Villate.

“What the devil is going on?” Villate demanded.

Ruta stepped forward. “Do you see this bruise on my face?” she said angrily. There was indeed a red blotch on her cheek and it was turning purple. It fairly well matched one on Sister Magdalena’s chin. “We are nurses, general, not cattle to be whipped and beaten. This vile creature decided we weren’t working hard enough and started hitting us with her broom, and I think it’s the same one she rides around on.”

“You are lazy American whores and swine,” snarled the nun. She turned to Villate. “This creature struck me. I am a woman of God and I demand that she be flogged within an inch of her heretical life.”

Sarah laughed mockingly. “A woman of God? I can’t think of a god that would have you.”

When an enraged Sister Magdalena started to charge like an enraged bear, the other American nurses formed a phalanx and she paused. This gave Villate a moment to put himself between them. When he did, he looked around at the scores of wounded soldiers on their cots. They were looking at him with expressions of fear and hatred, and it dawned on him that if many of them could move, they would rise up and tear him to bloody pieces. He then wondered if they had been searched for weapons or did some of them have knives hidden in their rags. He put his hand on his pearl handled revolver and signaled for a couple of his bodyguards to come into the ward.

Villate sighed. “The gringo who is enjoying this insane debacle is Mr. James Kendrick, an American reporter. It has been an open secret that he’s been in Havana at the home of the British Consul and periodically spying on us while writing articles about your foolish President Custer who is also living at the consulate. It has been decided that he will write an article about how you American nurses are caring for Spanish soldiers and becoming beloved by them and all the time being treated well by us.” Sister Magdalena gasped and turned away on hearing the comments.

Kendrick? Sarah quickly recognized the name from her conversations with Martin. And this Kendrick was staying with Custer with the British Consul? How very interesting, she thought. Might she and the others manage to finesse their way into the consulate where they would be relatively safe when the battle started? But that would mean abandoning the wounded men they now thought of as their own. She would have to think on that. These poor creatures were not her enemy.

Sarah smiled warmly. “We would all be thrilled to be interviewed by the esteemed Mr. Kendrick, but not here. We would also appreciate it if he was allowed to send some personal messages to our families regarding our situation.”

“Everyone in the United States is aware of your situation,” Kendrick said. “But I will see to it that each of you is allowed to send personal messages to loved ones.”

“But any interviews will take place here,” said Villate.

“Then there will be no interviews,” snapped Sarah.

“And why not?” asked a bewildered Villate.

“Because we are sick and tired of being pushed around and being treated as property instead of human beings,” Ruta answered. “We were stolen like cattle, treated barbarically and now, after working hard to save the lives of your soldiers; you won’t grant us that one little favor?”

Villate looked away. It was clear that he didn’t give a damn about the lives of the Cuban peasant soldiers in the ward. He took a deep breath and turned back. “I will graciously concede. The interviews will take place in Mr. Dunfield’s residence. There you will have the privacy to tell Mr. Kendrick anything you desire without having to worry about being overheard or misinterpreted.”

“I will watch out for them and make sure that they say nothing that would slander Spain,” said Sister Magdalena.

Before Villate could respond, Kendrick interjected. “You will do no such thing. Mr. Dunfield will not permit you to enter the consulate. Besides,” he continued, “General Villate will be given copies of everything I’ve written before it is sent. If there are mistakes, I’m certain he will, ah, correct them.”

Even Villate smiled at the blatant falsehood. By the time he read Kendrick’s writings, the text would be well on its way to Washington.

* * *

Mercedes de Milan had not been feeling well. Her stomach ached and she was having trouble keeping food down, which made her crabby and irritable. One of her friends told her that her problems signaled the approach of old age. She hated the thought of aging. Just that morning she had looked in her mirror and seen new wrinkles and a few more strands of gray hair. The hair she could die, but the wrinkles were there forever. She could hide some of them with heavy makeup, but she had seen older women using too much and ending up looking like clowns. She hated growing old and it made her short-tempered.

Even though she was uncomfortable having Diego Salazar in her house, she could think of no reason to deny him entrance or even be concerned about it. Yes, he was a monster who murdered his enemies, but he was also a Spanish gentleman and, yes, he had what some people considered deviant sexual appetites, but they were appetites shared and enjoyed by so many other men. And, she smiled to herself, some women as well.

She received him in her parlor. She did not sit down and she did not invite him to do so either. “To what do I owe this honor, colonel?” she said sarcastically. Her stomach had just started cramping. “I didn’t think you’d be brave enough to show yourself here since the abortive attack on this house.”

Salazar smiled nervously. “That was an unfortunate mistake. Yes, I wanted to take back my wife and yes, I wanted to punish her lover, but there was never any intent to harm anyone. My men misunderstood. They were overzealous and they have been disciplined.”

Disciplined? Mercedes had seen their dead bodies. Rojas had taken her out to the place where they’d been dumped. “Then why did they carry knives and guns, colonel?”

“Why to protect themselves against Kendrick and your guardian, Rojas. By the way, where is the very large Hector Rojas?”

She smiled tightly. Why did he want to know? Mercedes wondered. “He is running a brief errand for me. He will return momentarily.”

Salazar’s eyes suddenly blazed with fury and she realized she shouldn’t have admitted that Rojas had gone at all. “Why did you protect my whore of a wife?” he snarled. “I deserve to know.”

Mercedes was not easily intimidated and the pain her stomach overwhelmed her caution, “To protect her from a pig like you.”

Salazar screamed his fury and punched her with all his might in the middle of her frail chest. She staggered backwards and then fell to the floor. She gasped and lay on her back with her arms outstretched. Salazar watched in grim fascination as her eyes rolled back in her head and her arms and legs twitched uncontrollably.

In a few seconds, her twitching stopped and his nose told him that her bowels had released. Damn it, he thought, was the bitch dead? Had he killed her? He bent down and checked her pulse. It fluttered and stopped. He cursed silently. He hadn’t planned to kill the old whore, but she had provoked him beyond reason. He looked around. None of the servants was present. Good. He straightened up and walked out with as much dignity as he could manage. He wanted to leave before Rojas returned. Salazar was armed, but Rojas was a killer.

As he stepped outside and into the sunlight, he realized that he might escape any scrutiny or suspicion if there was to be an investigation into the death of Mercedes de la Pena. He had hit her where no one would easily discover a mark. With only a little luck, the servants and Rojas would think the evil old woman had suffered a fatal heart attack.

* * *

Rojas was led into Mercedes’ bedroom only a few minutes later. Ironically, he had seen Salazar walking down the street without a care in the world and had thought nothing of it. They’d even nodded greetings. Between sobs, the servants told him that Salazar had been alone with their mistress and that he had punched her in the chest and killed her. When Salazar had struck the fatal blow, they’d been watching through a hole in the wall designed by Mercedes just for such surveillance. Terrified, they’d kept quiet and Salazar had left thinking his assault was a secret.

Rojas shifted Mercedes clothing so he could see the dark blotch on her chest. Yes, he thought, such a blow could be fatal, especially to a frail old woman. He’d inflicted such blows himself with his heavy hammer and seen his younger, healthier victims die gasping for breaths that would never come. Such a blow would even stop a person’s heart. Perhaps that was what happened to Mercedes.

Rojas decided that he had to leave. Even though he was innocent, he couldn’t take a chance that the authorities might want a scapegoat. He went to Mercedes’ room and took all the money she had in her purse and in the wall safe hidden behind an ugly painting of a bunch of flowers. He had memorized the combination after watching his mistress open it several times. He had never opened it himself until now and had no idea what he might find. To his delight he found almost twenty thousand dollars in American money and several hundred British pound notes.

Excellent, he thought. He did not want to have to take and sell jewelry which would go for a fraction of its worth and likely be identified as having belonged to his deceased mistress. He turned to the servants and told them that they could have whatever they wished and they began a mad scramble to grab anything of value including the jewelry he didn’t want.

He smiled to himself. If anyone became suspicious and the servants were caught with the precious items, they would be suspected of stealing from a dead woman and not him.

But now he had a problem and it was called justice. Mercedes de la Pena had been very good to Hector Rojas. She had not deserved to be killed like Salazar had done. She should still be alive and teasing him and perhaps inviting him into her bed where he would convince her that she was still young. He would have to think what to do about Diego Salazar. Whatever he decided would be painful and permanent. Salazar would suffer.

* * *

Martin had to yell to make himself heard by the five hundred men in the battalion. They were all standing casually and looking at him curiously. Nothing ever good came from being addressed en mass by a senior officer and even less so by a general.

“Congratulations, men. You all look like hell. Back home you would be arrested on sight and thrown into jail as vagrants.”

The men were all wearing what a Cuban peasant revolutionary soldier would wear-ragged pants, torn shirt, sandals, and big, floppy hats.

The soldiers roared with laughter and one asked just when they would be going home so this happy event could happen. He ignored the comment. A soldier he knew was a sergeant under his rags waved his hand. “General, I know you’ve got us wearing this stinking shit for a good reason and I know you ain’t gonna tell us that reason today, but will we be able to take our real uniforms with us when we go out and do whatever you want us to do?”

“Sergeant Kelly, that is a real good and real long question,” he answered. “And are all the sergeants in this man’s army from Ireland?

Kelly was a small, wiry man and he grinned impudently. “Only the good ones,” he responded and was greeted with a chorus of good-natured jeers and boos.” The sergeant’s brogue was thick enough to cut with a knife. It told Martin that Kelly, along with so many Irishmen had arrived fairly recently in the U.S.

Ryder held up his hands for silence and quickly got it. “Despite my rank I can say with confidence that I don’t know all that is going to happen. When I do and can tell you, I will. In the meantime, don’t lose the rags you’ve been issued today. They could wind up being very important. Oh yes, don’t advertise the fact that you have them.”

* * *

As the men disbursed to go back to their quarters and change into their regular uniforms, Sergeant Kelly turned to his companion and cousin from County Cork, Corporal Ryan. “Does his generalship actually expect five hundred men to keep this nonsense a secret?”

Ryan shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said thoughtfully. “All this does is tell us that whatever is going to happen is going to occur real, real soon.”

“Can’t argue with that reasoning,” Kelly said. “And it also points out that we’re going to be in disguise and try to fool the goddamn Spanish into thinking we’re a bunch of raggedy-ass Cuban rebels.”

“And that means we’re going to be really close to the front where there is likely to be a lot of shooting. Shit.”

“Ryan, do you have any of your Bushmills left? I think we’re going to be in need of a drink.”

“Sergeant, we finished it a long time ago. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do. I was just hoping I was wrong. I guess we’ll have to make do with that shit they call rum.”

The comments about Bushmills were a joke. It and other Irish brands like Jameson were too pricy for them. They’d talked about pooling their money and buying a bottle when they got back to Baltimore. The two men had arrived from Ireland a dozen years earlier as kids and were poorer than dirt. They had been trying to work their way to respectability since then. Joining the Maryland militia a few years earlier had seemed like a good idea and volunteering to fight in Cuba an even better one. Hell, they were even able to shoot at people. Too bad their targets were Spanish and not English.

In the distance, the American artillery again began to fire. Ryan shook his head. “Either we attack soon or we’re gonna run out of ammunition. My money’s on soon. I suggest we concentrate on just how the hell we’re going to drag our Gatling guns through the streets of Havana.”

* * *

Lieutenant Hugo Torres watched with dismay and horror as the black fingers of smoke on the horizon separated and became warships, many warships. Soon they could see the white water at the ships’ bows as they bulled their way through the sea.

As a result of surviving the sinking of the Vitorio, he was now second in command of the cruiser Aragon. It was a dubious honor at best. The ship was rusty and totally ill-maintained. Her engines sounded like they were gasping for life and he wondered if they would have to try and rig sails. There was little coal left in her bunkers and what they had was of poor quality. She was rated at fourteen knots, but she barely made ten during the flight from Havana. The Aragon was supposed to have a crew of nearly four hundred, but fewer than half that had left Havana with them. Had the others deserted? Only if they were wise, Torres thought.

The ship carried eight eight-inch guns which sounded impressive, but they were not in good shape and he wondered if they would even fire. No one seemed to know when they were last used. It came as no surprise to find that the ammunition was of poor quality as well.

At just over three thousand tons, the Aragon was the largest Spanish ship in the small squadron. As a result, she was the flagship. She was half the size of the larger American warships and totally outgunned. A battle would result in a slaughter. Even so, the newly appointed captain had just finished haranguing the crew on the virtues of dying well. At least that’s what Torres thought of the speech. He said they would fight the Yankees for the glory of Spain. The previous captain had claimed he was too ill to make the escape from Havana. Torres thought their flight at night from Havana was cowardly and stupid. They had no place to go and were short on food and water as well as fuel and ammunition.

Nor could they scuttle their ships and try to make it on foot to somewhere safe. There was no safe haven. Scores of rebels were visible on the shore. He could hear their jeers and curses. They would chop to pieces anyone who came ashore.

They were doomed.

The captain waved his sword. When he stopped, Torres noticed flecks of rust on the blade. “For Spain, for King Alfonso, and for Holy Mother Church. Let us go and fight and, if need be, die as heroes.”

A burly sailor stepped forward. “I do not wish to die and I certainly do not wish to die in a foolish battle that we cannot win. Today I refuse to fight.”

Several junior officers moved towards the man to arrest him, but he was quickly surrounded by a several dozen other sailors who protected and cheered him. “Surrender, surrender,” they chanted.

In seconds, the rest of the crew was chanting as well. The captain looked stricken. “We must fight for our honor. Look, the enemy is almost upon us.”

Torres looked in the direction of the approaching Americans. They were indeed much closer and forming up to run parallel to the Spanish squadron. There was a puff of smoke from the lead warship and the shell splashed well short of the Aragon. It was a literal shot across their bows. The in a very short while the Americans would commence firing for real and the slaughter would begin.

“Fuck our honor,” yelled the sailor who was the ringleader. “Take the officers.”

It happened so quickly Torres realized it must have been planned. He was grabbed and his arms pinned to his side. They took his sword and pistol.

Torres turned to the ringleader. “If you want to surrender, then someone must tell the Americans. Otherwise they will start shelling us.”

“Will you do it?” asked the ringleader, suddenly concerned that the battle might start despite his fervent wishes.

Torres shook off his captors. “You may keep the pistol, but give me back my sword. It was a gift from my mother and, besides, I may have to pretend to surrender it to the Americans.”

“Bastard, traitor,” said the captain as Torres’ sword was returned. The other officers looked away.

“He needs a swim,” laughed the ringleader. Other mutineers grabbed the captain and threw him overboard. Several other officers followed.

“Don’t let them drown,” said Torres. “We’re doing this to stop any killing.”

The sailors growled, then laughed as they pulled their bedraggled skipper and the others from the drink.

Torres gave orders to the crew to lower the colors and turn the guns either down or away from the Americans. He realized that his fate had just been decided for him. He would never be able to return to Spain. He wondered if some other Spanish speaking country in the New World could use a good naval officer.

* * *

“The Orion does not belong in a line of battle,” Janson said. “She is not a battleship. Hell, she isn’t even a real cruiser, despite what her papers say. So here we are, ready to go and fight the remnants of the Spanish navy.”

The Orion was the seventh in the line of American warships. Ahead of her were the heavy cruisers Atlanta and Chicago and four Civil War vintage steam sloops. The Atlanta was the flagship and Admiral Porter was on board her. The steam sloops were followed by a dozen auxiliary cruisers of all shapes and sizes. They were en route to the small Cuban port of Playa Colorada to the west and south of Havana. Credible intelligence said that the mere handful of Spanish ships remaining in Cuban waters were riding there at anchor. That the Spanish hadn’t steamed farther away was explained by the fact that they couldn’t get additional coal, or even wood to burn as fuel. To make matters worse, the friendly port of Santiago was out of their limited range. Playa Colorada was a day’s worth of steaming from Havana. The Spanish squadron had gone as far as it could. The dash from Havana was over.

The Spanish ships were the cruisers Aragon and Navarra and the light cruiser Velasco. Two small and useless monitors were also with the cruisers. The Spanish were heavily outgunned and outnumbered. It was rumored by some that Admiral Porter wanted to destroy them in one last and glorious fleet action, while others felt that he wanted to overawe them into surrendering. Janson and Prentice hoped that inducing them to give up was the goal. Both men had both seen enough death and destruction to last a lifetime.

“Spanish honor might demand a battle,” mused Janson, “even if it means useless bloodshed. People can get killed even in a symbolic battle.”

There would be no secret arrival for the American fleet. Black smoke from burning coal poured from their stacks, signaling their presence for many miles. The two men wondered if the Spaniards would still be at Playa Colorada or if they would have fled as far as their limited supply of fuel would take them.

Signal flags flew from the Atlanta-enemy in sight. The crew of the Orion cheered. Soon the Spanish squadron-they refused to call it a fleet-was visible. At first the enemy ships looked grim and dangerous, but Prentice and Janson quickly changed their minds. The Spanish vessels were small and as they drew closer, rust could be seen on their hulls. A sailor commented that it looked like either American capital ship could swallow the Spanish ones.

“My God,” said Prentice. “Is this the end of the Spanish Empire in North America, a handful of small and obsolete warships? Is this pitiful remnant of a navy what is left of the nation that conquered half the world and launched the Armada against England?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Janson.

As they drew closer, they could see that the ships were anchored against the Cuban shoreline. More signal from the Atlanta said the American ships were to stop and hold position just out of the range of the Spanish guns. The Atlanta fired one gun and the shell fell well short. The miss was intentional, they realized.

“What the hell is happening?” wondered Prentice. There appeared to be fighting on board the Spanish ships and they could hear small arms fire.

Janson peered through his telescope. “It looks like the crew is trying to overpower the officers. I think what we are watching is an old fashioned mutiny. If so, I’ll bet that the crew doesn’t want any more fighting, not even something symbolic.”

They continued to watch as several men were thrown overboard. “Officers, I’ll bet,” said Janson. “I hope they can swim.”

A moment later and there was loud cheering from the Spanish ships. The mutiny was over and the mutineers had won. Ropes were lowered to retrieve the officers thrown overboard. It had been a civilized mutiny.

A few moments later, a small boat was lowered from one of the enemy cruisers and rowed over to the Atlanta. “It looks like we are going to parlay and that is a very good sign,” said Janson.

In a very short while, the boat returned to her ship. More signals flew from the Atlanta. “We are not to fire, repeat, not to fire,” said Janson “unless, of course, the Spaniards violate the truce and fire upon us. Also, Paul, you and I are to report immediately to the flagship.”

Paul was puzzled. “What kind of trouble are we in now?”

A few moments later, one small cannon was fired from the Aragon. There was no splash as no shell had been loaded. Spain’s need for honor had just been satisfied by the firing of one unloaded gun in the general direction of the enemy. Spanish flags were dropped and the battle of Playa Colorada was over.

Janson shifted the Orion to a position much closer to the now anchored Atlanta and then the two of them went by ship’s boat to the flagship. Their orders were to report immediately, so they did not have the opportunity to change into dress uniforms. It didn’t matter. Admiral David Dixon Porter was preoccupied with the Spanish ships that were rocking gently at anchor only a few hundred yards away. His full beard was more white than dark and his eyes were piercing. The two men saluted and stood waiting to be acknowledged.

After a few seconds, Porter stood and returned the salute. He then extended his hand and they shook it. “I’ve been remiss,” the admiral said. “I wanted to congratulate you on sinking that Spanish battleship, but haven’t had the time. Now I can and you do have the thanks of a nation. We can be pleased that there’s one less enemy battleship to contend with. Of course,” he said with a tight smile, “it doesn’t look like the Spanish feel like fighting anyone this day.”

Porter turned and gestured to the Spanish ships where their crews lined the rails of their ships. “Look at them. They are scared to death and not of us, but of the Cubans. I just told their emissary that their surrender must be complete and unconditional and if there is any attempt to scuttle ships that are now our prizes, I will have them all cast ashore naked and unarmed so that the Cuban rebels can chop them to pieces with their machetes. I wouldn’t of course, but they don’t know that. For the past week, the poor fools have been afraid to go ashore for any reason and, along with running out of fuel, are also getting hungry and thirsty. Now, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Janson, clearly awed by the intense man.

“You, captain Janson, will return to the Aurora, while you, Lieutenant Prentice, will take over a score or so of men from both your ship and mine and take control of the Aragon as prize master. You will then take her to a spot just off Havana where she can be clearly seen. Similar crews will handle the other ships. I want the Spanish generals in Havana to see that their so-called fleet is actually in American hands. Lieutenant Prentice, you and the other prizes will sail in concert with our fleet, so you shouldn’t have any worries about the Spanish prisoners trying to take control of the ship. If they do try something, you will cut them down immediately and violently. Can you do that?”

Prentice stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

Porter smiled. “Captaining a near derelict ship and a few score demoralized prisoners should be nothing to someone who helped sink a battleship, although it will look good on your record. I assume you can find Havana, can’t you?”

It was Prentice’s turn to smile. “With my eyes closed, sir.”

“Excellent, but do try to keep them open. When you get to Havana and the Spaniards have seen the last of their fleet, you will be directed to an anchorage and the prisoners will be removed. You and the others will return to the Orion while the captured ships await additional crews to take them to Florida or wherever the Navy Department wants them.”

“Sir, may I ask if the captured ships will become part of our navy?” asked Prentice.

“A good question, lieutenant. On one hand, they would greatly augment our small navy, but on the other, they are not very modern ships and I hope that the United States would not pin its hopes on having them as a strong line of defense. We must build newer and better ships if we are to protect our investments in Cuba and Puerto Rico. If not, some other power is very likely to reach out with its navy and take them. Britain is just arrogant enough to do it without so much as a thank you, while France and Spain hate us.”

* * *

Corporal Carlos Menendez slowly walked up the path to Rosita Garcia’s small home. He had been there many times since he had taken her son. He had eaten there and shared Rosita’s bed. She had proven to be a passionate joy and he was very fond of her. Tonight, as evening gathered, he thought she shared that feeling.

However, her feelings towards him might just come to an abrupt end. She appeared on the tiny porch with a small candle in her hand and stared at him. “Where is my son?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“I don’t know, Rosita. The Americans attacked at Santa Cruz and no one expected it. The place where he was working was shelled, but he did get away. But then he was captured and charged with being a deserter. The Spanish Army, my army, gave him a choice. He could work as a laborer or he could hang. He chose to work.”

Rosita sagged and sat down on the ground. “Then where is he?”

Carlos sat on the ground a few feet before her. “I don’t know. Where he was working was attacked. I got there afterwards and there were several bodies, but none were his.” At least none that he could find, he thought. A couple were so badly mangled they could have been anybody’s.

“So he has escaped and is alive?”

“Possibly. I just don’t know for certain.”

“And how do you know all these things and why should I believe you?

Carlos took a deep breath. “After twenty years as a soldier I have made many friends and I can talk with them and ask them questions. Sometimes sergeants and corporals know more than the generals.”

“But you don’t know where Miguel is now, do you?”

“No, but I’ve heard rumors that there are packs of deserters roaming Havana and that some of them are young boys. Let me rest here tonight and I will sneak back into the city tomorrow and find out some more. I am not expected back until tomorrow afternoon.”

“You will not share my bed. You will sleep on the porch.”

Carlos understood. He had failed her. She went inside and he curled up on the wooden porch. He was exhausted and sleep came quickly.

Two hours later she came out and nudged him with her bare foot. She was wearing only a shirt that came halfway down her muscular thighs. “I have changed my mind. I cannot sleep. I believe that you have done as much as was humanly possible and I cannot demand more. You will come into my bed and you will hold me, nothing else, until I fall asleep. Then, in the morning, you and I will again make love. You will go back to Havana and do everything you can to find my son.”