1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 20

Back in his tent, Martin took the brief letter from Sarah out of his pocket and read it for the tenth time in the last hour. She was safe and well, which he pretty much knew. She and the others were no longer living in the convent, which she said was hilariously inappropriate considering her carnal longings for him. Instead, their new quarters were on the property of the British Consul, a man named Redford Dunfield. Dunfield was complaining that his estate was getting very crowded, what with nurses, guards, and, of course, President Custer.

Martin re-folded the letter. He sniffed it briefly hoping it still carried her essence. It didn’t of course and he hoped that no one had seen him do it. He walked to the map of Havana that was spread out on a table and noted the location of the British consulate. While it wasn’t extremely close to where he and his brigade would be attacking, it was close enough to be in a danger zone. Of course, when the battle began, everyone and everything in Havana would be in danger. But then, she might be with Custer when the attack happened. Surely the Spanish would try to protect the President of the United States. Another thought intruded and it sickened him. Would they kill Custer and everyone around him, including Sarah, Ruta, and the other nurses, rather than see him liberated.

* * *

Lieutenant Junior Grade Paul Prentice leaned against the railing of the Orion and stared at the Cuban shoreline through Janson’s telescope. It was only a few miles away and the details stood out boldly in the early evening light. The ground sloped gently up from the beach. It was just as he recalled it. Better, he could see no sign of Spanish military activity.

Captain Janson moved alongside him. “You’re not thinking of going back, are you?”

“I hope not, at least not as a spy or scout. I don’t think there’s too much more I can add to the information the navy already has.”

Each night for the past week, Prentice had been rowed to shore in a fishing boat. There he had met with Cuban rebels and scouted both the terrain and the Spanish fortifications. The land, he decided, contained no serious obstacles and could easily be handled, even in the dark, by well trained and highly disciplined by U.S. Army soldiers and Marines.

He had also concluded that the rumors about the Spanish defenses were correct. The larger of the two forts, known as La Cabana, was poorly defended. With Cuban help, he had even penetrated the fortifications and been able to give the large numbers of cannon a quick examination. Some of the guns were as ancient as had been rumored. They were at least two centuries old and were badly rusted. A quick check of primer holes showed them clogged with rust. He reported to the navy that he would pray for anyone who tried to use them.

This information both pleased and dismayed the higher-ups. If the guns were that bad, how could they be turned and used against the Spanish? The answer was simple-most of them couldn’t. The American force would have to land a number of their own and that included the weapons from smaller ships like the Orion. Janson was highly displeased with that piece of news, but recognized that it was necessary.

“You don’t have to go in with them,” Janson said with a hint of sadness. He had gotten fond of the younger officer and often thought of him as the son he’d never had.

“Yes I do,” Prentice said. “I know the land and I know the people the Marines will be dealing with. Working with a stranger might lead to confusion and that would be tragic to say the least.”

Janson sniffed his reluctant agreement. “That and the fact that it will be a hell of an adventure to tell your grandchildren, provided, of course, that you don’t get yourself killed during this grand adventure.”

Prentice shook his head and then wondered if Janson could see the gesture in the fading light. Even though the Spanish were well aware that many ships were off shore, the Orion was showing no lights as darkness fell.

“I have no plans to get killed.”

“Nobody ever does, Paul. But somehow it just happens during war, and usually when you least expect it.”

Prentice decided to change the subject. It was getting too close to his own fears. He was no hero and had very mixed emotions about the so-called grand adventure he was about to go on. True, he had volunteered to go ashore and meet with the rebels, but only because he had dealt with some of them on a casual basis while at Mount Haney and because he spoke passable Spanish.

“When will the cargo be coming aboard?” he asked.

Janson laughed at the idea of calling a hundred Marines cargo. “I understand it’ll be tomorrow night. All of which means they’ll be jammed on board with us for at least a day. Well, I had more soldiers stuffed in the Aurora the first trip over. Of course, the Aurora was a larger ship. No matter, the Marines will endure it.”

Prentice tried to visualize the more than two thousand Marines and Negro cavalrymen, their equipment, ammunition, and enough food to last them a week on board about fifty ships of varying size. Fortunately, the ships involved had all been on a far out blockade for a couple of weeks. The Spanish were used to their presence and they had made no threatening gestures against the Spanish fortifications at the entrance to Havana’s harbor.

Thanks to his efforts at patrolling and spying, the brass now knew that the enemy defenses were as decayed as the Spanish Empire they represented. Would this make the invasion easier? Lord, he hoped so.

* * *

“I’m hungry,” said one of the smallest boys. His name was Gilberto and he was not quite twelve years old. That was, if he knew his correct age in the first place. “We’re going to starve to death, aren’t we?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Manuel Garcia, the erstwhile leader of the small group that was now one person smaller. Of course, he had no idea how to prevent such a fate. If the city wasn’t soon liberated by the Americans and their Cuban allies, they would indeed weaken and, while they wouldn’t likely die, their weaknesses would make it easier for the Spanish authorities to catch them.

After fleeing the bombardment and running into Havana, they had hidden in a number of basements, abandoned buildings and sheds, and even slept out in the open. For food, they had scavenged through trash and stolen from homes and shops whenever possible. The last few nights, however, had been a horror. After running for their lives, they had finally found a secure place to hide while the Spanish Army looked for them. They were in a mausoleum in a large cemetery near the Cathedral of San Cristobal. A couple of the coffins had broken open and they shared the space with grinning skeletons. Manuel had calmed the other boys by turning the skulls so that they looked away. He hoped he wasn’t committing a sacrilege.

Tico was the smallest and youngest one, and also the most innocent and most desperate. A couple of nights earlier, they had been grubbing through the trash behind a large house when the door had suddenly opened. A priest they knew as the crazy Roman monsignor who was trying to organize soldiers to die for Spain and Christ stood in the doorway. The light behind him was blinding. The others had fled, but Tico had been transfixed and the priest had grabbed him.

“What are you doing, my son,” they’d heard the priest say in a calming voice.

When Tico explained that he was hungry, they heard the priest tell the boy to wait by the door. Amazed, they watched as the priest disappeared inside and then come back with two loafs of bread. “Take these and share with your companions. Do it just like Jesus did with the loaves and fishes. All of you come back tomorrow and there will be more food.”

That night they gorged themselves on the bread and didn’t even complain that it was a little stale. The next night they went to the back door of what they now realized was the cathedral rectory. On the stoop by the door were two more loaves of bread and a jug of something. They were about to start forward and claim their prize when Manuel told them to wait. It was just too quiet.

“What if there are soldiers around and what if it is a trap,” he said.

“But I’m hungry,” said Tico. “And besides, it was a priest who gave us the food, wasn’t it? A priest wouldn’t lie, would he?”

“Be patient. Let’s look around first. We’ve got to make sure this is safe. We don’t want to hang, do we?”

Even as he said it, Manuel knew he’d be lucky to spot any soldiers. It was dark and here were just too many places for them to hide. But then he smelled burning tobacco along with the stench of human sweat. There were men close by and almost all of the men in Havana were soldiers. He was about to tell the boys to return to their latest hideout in a basement when he realized that Tico had ignored his orders and was walking cautiously up to the irresistible food.

“No,” he hissed, but Tico either couldn’t or wouldn’t hear.

The boy reached the bread and was leaning down to pick it up when doors opened and soldiers flooded out. At the same time, the rectory door opened and the crazy priest came out screaming. “You were to wait for all of them, you fools, not just this little wretch.”

Manuel heard swearing and obscenities from the soldiers as poor little Tico wriggled and writhed helplessly in their grasp.

“Over there,” the priest yelled and pointed in Manuel’s direction. They had been spotted. “Catch the bastard deserters.”

The remaining boys ran for their lives. The soldiers were older and stronger, but the boys were motivated by fear. The boys also by know knew the streets and alleys very well. They darted in and out of darkened paths and managed to stay just out of the grasp of the soldiers. One by one, the soldiers gave up, doubled over and gasping for breath. The boys were totally exhausted as well. A couple of them had actually been grabbed at by the soldiers and Manuel had been staggered by a strong hand on his ankle when a soldier threw himself at him. He’d screamed and kicked himself free.

“We cannot go back to where we were or where we’ve ever been,” Manuel said as his breath calmed and he got control of his fears. “Tico will talk and they will be waiting for us.”

“Tico is brave,” one of the other boys said, his stammer betraying his own fear.

Manuel again realized he was too wise for his years. He remembered his schoolteacher being beaten and hanged by the Spanish. “Yes, Tico is brave and, yes, Tico is strong. But the Spanish are stronger and they will break him and make him talk. Trust me, they will break him. Everyone will break sooner or later.”

“What will we do?”

Manuel managed a smile. He had been thinking along the lines of desperation when it came to hiding places and had seen the mausoleums in the cemetery. “I think I know of a final resting place for us,” he said.

The next evening they found Tico. He had been beaten, whipped and there were burns all over his small naked body. He was hanging by the neck from the limb of a tree. They also found evidence that soldiers had found many of their earlier hiding places. Sadly, they knew that Tico had been brave but had ultimately talked. Poor foolish boy, Manuel thought. At least he had found out the name of the evil priest who had betrayed them. His name was Bernardi and he was indeed evil. And evil had to be crushed.

* * *

It was raining again and they couldn’t see the Spanish watchtowers. On the other hand, Ryder thought, the observation balloons were safely tethered to the ground. They now had three of the balloons and, as a number of soldiers said, were useless as tits on a boar in the rain.

“Maybe we won’t have to wear those stupid Cuban costumes,” muttered Lang.

“You look great in one,” said Ryder.

“I would say something really appropriate, but you are a general.”

“Good thinking. You may still have to wear those stupid outfits, but you’re right to look at the bright side. The rain is hiding all of our movements. Of course, it’s also hiding theirs from us. Once again, the blind are leading the blind.”

“I thought that was standard army procedure,” Lang said with a smile.

“I don’t think the army has a standard procedure for invading a foreign country.”

“Not just to change the subject a little, general, but is it true that we’ll be the first to enter Havana?”

Ryder knew he should keep quiet, but rumors were rife and Lang was a trusted advisor and a damn good leader. “I would be very surprised if we weren’t. Unless, of course, my well laid plans don’t work and we’re all killed. In that case, we won’t be the first into Havana.”

“Ah, a happy thought, sir. But I have a question-what are the plans for liberating the President and, ah, all those other people with him?”

Ryder smiled. The other people in question were the nurses, although it was understood that other important personages were staying with the British consul. “Lang, you are the soul of discretion. What on earth are you possibly thinking?”

Lang pulled out two Cuban cigars and handed one to Ryder. Cigars were another luxury available now that the army had burst out of its lines at Matanzas. The two men lit up and puffed contentedly for a moment.

“Well, general, once upon a while ago, I led a raid against the Spanish. Then, just a short while ago, they raided our lines. Since it appears we’re playing tit for tat, I feel it’s time to tat their tit. In other words, I think it’s time we raided their asses and made them squeal.”

Ryder blew a perfect smoke ring and watched as it drifted across to the other side of the tent. “I like the thought, but there’s very little chance of success right now. And if you did launch a raid, it would give away the fact that we are planning a major attack.”

Lang nearly choked on his cigar. “General, don’t you think they know what we’re up to, at least in a basic sense? Besides, I have no plans to raid before the attack. My plan, such as it now is now is, will be to launch a raid during the attack when everybody and his brother will be fighting the main battle.”

Ryder blew another ring and decided he was getting really good at it. “Are you thinking of a flying column or a forlorn hope?” he asked, referring to given to sometimes desperate attacks.

“Forlorn hope my ass, general. I plan on doing nothing forlorn. I plan on surviving and getting a medal pinned on my chest by representatives of a grateful nation and I won’t even care if that representative is that asshole, Custer.”

“If you can pull it off, captain, a lot of people will be eternally grateful, although maybe not some people in Washington. How far along are your plans?”

Lang grinned. “They’re getting there. In the meantime, since rank has its privileges, may I assume that you have something stronger than warm water in this tent?”

* * *

Monsignor Bernardi entered the office of Governor General Villate with a feeling of trepidation. He had been doing God’s work and was proud of his efforts. There was concern, however, that others might not see it in that light. The weak and the misguided always misunderstood him and the need to take strong measures against those who would defy the Church. He was also less than thrilled to find Bishop Campoy present as well. Campoy was not one of his supporters. He believed in accommodation, while Bernardi believed in confrontation with the devil and the destruction of God’s enemies.

He was invited to be seated but was offered nothing in the way of refreshments. That did not bode well. The bishop was clearly uncomfortable. “Your zeal is causing problems for both the Church and Cuba,” he said.

“I find that hard to believe, sir. I am working for God and Spain. I have recruited, trained, and armed a force of men that will be instrumental in pushing back the Americans, as well as for keeping Cuba as part of Spain and in the bosom of Holy Mother Church.”

Campoy shook his head. “And for that you needed to kill that boy?”

Which boy, Bernardi wondered. There had been more than a few. Then he recalled. “The person you refer to as a boy was a deserter. He and a pack of other young wolves are living in the streets of Havana by stealing and thumbing their noses at the government and the church. We meted out justice.”

Campoy continued. “Did justice include torturing that boy? He could not have been older than ten. I saw his body. He had been whipped and his flesh was covered with burns. Why did that happen? Why in the name of God did you think such atrocities were necessary.”

Bernardi was undeterred. “We were trying to find out where the others in the pack of devils were hiding. We did, of course, but it took a while to pry the information from him. He was a stubborn little savage.”

Villate leaned forward. He smelled the monsignor’s blood in the water and it pleased him. “By that time, I assume that the others in the pack of devils had already left that place if indeed they ever returned to it. Am I not correct?”

“You are,” Bernardi admitted grudgingly. “And you are also correct that we have no idea where they are right now.”

“How many men have deserted your legion because of this murder,” Villate asked.

“A few,” Bernardi said softly and after a moment’s hesitation.

“A few?” snapped Villate. “The true number is more like fifty and you know it. Fifty men have either disappeared into the slums of Havana or have gone over to the rebels. And how many others disapprove but have not deserted but will no longer fight as hard as they had been willing to for God and King. What you did was distasteful even to those extremely devout Catholics you and Salazar have recruited.”

“It was justice,” Bernardi responded sullenly. “And justice is sometimes very harsh.

The bishop shook his head. “Justice, monsignor, consists of a trial and an appropriate punishment, but only if the accused is found guilty according to the laws of Spain. There was no trial, only a punishment. What you did was little more than a lynching and it was made worse because you implied that the church supported your actions.”

“I am authorized to defend the faith against its enemies,” Bernardi snapped. “You’ve seen my credentials from Rome.”

Bishop Campoy smiled coldly. “Really? Both the Spanish government and the Vatican have had many more important things to do than verify your credentials, but we finally did get a response to our cables. Neither His Holiness nor anyone else in the Vatican acknowledges any association with you. We were told that you were a wide-eyed radical priest who opposed what reforms the Pope was trying to institute. They said that whatever credentials you showed indicating otherwise are fraudulent. We accept that you are indeed a monsignor, but you do not represent the will of Pope Leo XIII.”

Bernardi started to sputter. “I represent the wishes of many Roman Catholics in opposing the spread of heresy by any means necessary.”

“Have you considered that Spain might lose this war?” Villate asked. “We are indeed losing it right now. Our army is penned in and our fleet has been destroyed. The enemy is getting stronger while we grow weaker. When the war ends, the Americans will demand their pound of flesh and that includes Diego Salazar. If your people commit further atrocities, that pound of flesh may include you as well. Salazar will be given more justice by the Americans than you gave that boy. Salazar will likely be sent to either Washington or New York and put on trial for the murders of those men on the Eldorado and then hanged. If you are still alive and here in Havana, you may also be tried for the murder of that boy. Perhaps one or two of those fifty new deserters who will no longer be on hand to defend us will testify against you. Did you know, by the way, that the boy had been sodomized as well as beaten?”

Campoy was shocked. “Dear God.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Bernardi insisted.

“Perhaps not directly,” said Campoy, “but you could be guilty of negligence, which is both a crime and a sin.”

Bernardi looked at the two men. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re trying to cover yourselves for the time when the Americans take over Havana.”

To his surprise, Villate laughed. “Of course, you fool. I do not wish to be hanged by either the United States for atrocities, or by our weak King Alfonso for having lost his precious Cuba. If you are thinking that you will be blamed at least in part for the debacle that is coming, then you are absolutely correct. I strongly urge you, if you wish to survive, to change your way of doing things. In short, no more executions. At least none without my express permission.”

“I understand,” said Bernardi.

Campoy leaned forward. “And if you have them on you, I will take those so-called credentials.”

* * *

“A fleet,” Secretary of State James Blaine exulted. “We’ve captured a bloody fleet. Now we can go on and take more of Spain’s decaying empire.”

The telegram from Cuba had just come in announcing that five Spanish cruisers were now in American hands. The public, of course, had found out about it too. There were no secrets in Washington and newspapers were already trumpeting the news that a Spanish fleet in Cuba had surrendered to an American fleet. The battle had been brief and there had been no American casualties, which made the triumph even more exciting. All throughout the nation’s capital, church bells were ringing and throngs of people were gathering around the White House. Fireworks displays were planned for the evening in Washington, New York and other major cities. More than a victory, it was a hope that the now heartily disliked war would soon be over. The Washington Post said that an American noose was tightening around the throats of Spain and Cuba. Blaine thought the prose was a little too florid but otherwise liked the sentiments.

Blaine and the others were in Blaine’s office in the State, War, and Navy Building just west of the White House. Blaine, along with Vice President Chester Arthur and the Secretaries of Navy and War, had chosen this site for their meeting to avoid the annoying presence of Libbie Custer. Her demands for negotiating or winning the release of her husband were becoming more and more strident, and there were growing concerns about her mental stability.

“Five small ships is hardly a fleet,” said Arthur drily. “And besides, what other Spanish properties would you wish us to annex?”

“The Philippines and Guam come to mind,” Blaine said cheerfully. “Without a navy, the Spaniards can’t very well defend them from us, can they?”

“Nor could we hold them, even if we managed to take them,” responded Naval Secretary William Hunt. “Those lands are thousands of miles away and have been under Spanish rule for centuries. We would have to send our ships halfway around the world on a journey that could take as long as four months each way. You forget that almost all of our warships are in the Atlantic, and not the Pacific. Maybe someday we’ll build a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, but right now that’s nothing more than an engineer’s fantasy.”

Arthur agreed with Hunt. “If we send what navy we have across the Pacific, we would have no ships here to protect us from European predators. England could take the Philippines from us in an instant, while France could exact a bloody vengeance if she so wished. We are a long ways from being a great power, although having a modern navy would be a major step forward.”

“So too would a canal across the Isthmus,” said Hunt.

Blaine was forced to agree, but he had further grand ideas. “Then we must have a two-ocean navy. If Great Britain can have a navy scattered all over the earth, then we surely must be able to have real squadrons in both oceans and not the handful of relics we currently possess. Gentlemen, we are entering into a new era of American power. If we are going to be a serious player on the world stage, then we must possess the tools.”

“Don’t you mean props?” the vice president chided gently. “All of that will cost money. If our new colonies turn out to be a fiscal drain, the voters will turn against us in a heartbeat.”

Secretary of War Lincoln added. “We are already paying a price. More than a thousand of our young men are dead with at least twice that many wounded, and the fever season is just beginning. I will grant you that these numbers are tiny in comparison with the great battles of Gettysburg, Shiloh, and elsewhere, but those were many years ago and today’s numbers represent real people whose death must mean something in order to be justified.”

“A price must be paid for an empire,” said Blaine dismissively. “But what if I suggest a free entry to our Pacific empire? I’m thinking, of course about Hawaii. It’s been said that the islands are incredibly lovely, but they are ruled by a backward tribal hierarchy. We have a treaty with them that grants the islands favored status for trading, but the Americans who have settled there have been agitating for something better. I suggest we give them their wishes. I also suggest that we take the islands before someone else does.”

Hunt smiled. Such a bloodless conquest would legitimize his plans for an expanded navy. “We could take the islands with the small and old warships we have out there, and utilize only a regiment or two of volunteers from California to overwhelm the islanders. Then, of course, we would need to establish and maintain bases in or around their major city, Honolulu. I understand there are marvelous anchorages available. I think Hawaii would definitely be a start in the Pacific and, better, I do not believe Hawaii has any history of fever.”

Blaine was pleased. A mere dot on the map of the world was better than no dot on the map. He would get the United States a foothold in the vast Pacific and Hunt would get further justification for his improved and expanded navy.

* * *

The usually ill-tempered Nelson Miles angrily pushed the piece of paper across the table to General Hancock. General Couch, who had already read it, showed no expression. He already had a fair idea what Hancock’s decision would be.

Miles, however, wanted his thoughts heard. “Clara Barton may be the closest thing we have to an American saint, but the idea that we would send aide to the enemy is preposterous. I acknowledge that they are only asking for ether and other medical supplies and not weapons, but any Spanish soldier healed through the use of an anesthetic could soon be fighting against us.”

“I disagree with that assumption,” said Couch. “Any soldier operated on now is not going to be fighting us for a goodly long time, if ever, given the terrible wounds that modern weapons can inflict. Giving them medical supplies is something that might just serve us well in a post war environment. A little mercy shown now could pay dividends down the road.”

General Hancock had been astonished to receive a letter from Clara Barton reminding him that the Red Cross was an international organization and that the United States was honor and treaty bound to adhere to the terms of the Geneva Convention. While sending medical supplies to an enemy to treat their wounded was not specifically mentioned, she firmly felt that it fell within its terms.

Hancock took the letter and handed it to an aide. “I’m not surprised they are suffering shortages. Our blockade and siege have been fairly effective. Some food might be smuggled in, but not ether or other medications. Therefore, we shall supply it to them. According to Miss Barton’s letter, they have enough for only a week or so. I propose that we agree to send them some in just about a week.”

Nelson Miles blinked and smiled tightly as the implications behind Hancock’s statement sunk in. “A lot could change in a week. The whole world could have been changed, at least their world.”

* * *

Haney and Lang crawled the half mile from the American works to the Spanish fortifications in nervous silence. If the intelligence that the Spaniards had pulled back was inaccurate, they could be met with a murderous torrent of bullets. At best, they could be allowed to proceed and then taken prisoner. Neither fate seemed particularly attractive.

Shells had cratered the ground which gave them some cover as they sneaked forward. Each foot gained brought them closer to either safety or tragedy. Even though each man wanted to say or whisper something, they knew better. Adding to their concerns was the fervent wish that their artillerymen understood their orders and were not going to fire. They hadn’t shelled the Spanish for the last several days as a deliberate ploy to make the Spanish think that this was a safe sector. Just not too safe, had been the thought. A shell or two every now and then to keep them on their toes was the thought. Haney and Lang just hoped that the gunners remembered the schedule.

They were only a few feet away from the defensive crest. There were no sounds although they thought they could smell tobacco being smoked. Lang and Haney shrugged and slithered over and into a Spanish trench. It was empty and they exhaled a sigh of relief. Someone coughed, but it wasn’t close by. Even so, the trench wasn’t totally empty. The Spanish had left a few troops behind to watch the Americans. They would have to avoid detection if the plan was to succeed. They could not alarm the Spanish and send them rushing back to their trenches before the Americans attacked. This foray was only to determine if the Spaniards actually were keeping a minimal presence at their front lines. So far that appeared to be the case.

They hunched down and looked over the embankment to the now visible city of Havana. Haney was acutely aware that Ruta was somewhere in it, along with Sarah and the other nurses. His eyes could see people moving around in the distance, but in no great numbers and with no sense of urgency. Numerous cook fires were burning down. There was the smell of smoke and some of it came from charred buildings. Even though there was some laughter and some drunken idiot was singing badly, the Spanish were asleep. They wouldn’t stay that way too much longer, he thought happily, and this night could be the last full night that Havana was under Spain’s flag.

An hour later they were back in their own lines, exhausted and dirty, but safe. “Well?” asked Ryder.

“There can’t be more than a handful of them in their forward trenches,” Haney said as he guzzled water. “We can take them out easily.”

Lang nodded agreement. “When will we begin bombarding again?”

“Just about right now,” said Ryder. A moment later, American mortars lifted shells towards the enemy.