1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 21

Lieutenant Prentice envied the Marines and sometimes wished he was one. Lean, hard, and disciplined, they epitomized what a fighting man should be. He imagined them as Spartan warriors or Roman legionnaires. The hundred Marines crowding the deck of the Orion looked like they could lick a force ten times their size. The dismounted Negro cavalrymen on other ships looked equally fierce and professional, but they were army and his heart was with the navy.

The Marines could also row their own boats, while the cavalrymen needed help. The sailors on other ships cheerfully complained that the black soldiers couldn’t row across a bathtub. They prudently said this out of the hearing of the Buffalo Soldiers of the Ninth U.S. Cavalry. The name had been given to them by the Indian tribes they had fought.

Fifty-six year old Colonel Charles G. McCawley commanded the six hundred marines who would lead the assault, which thoroughly annoyed the soldiers who felt that they should go first. They did, however, understand the realities of the situation. The Marines were good with boats, while the soldiers were not. The Marines would go in first with the dismounted cavalry following quickly. Prentice would go with the Marine colonel.

Boats were lowered and filled with Marines who wore dark uniforms and had blackened their faces. The Negro cavalrymen jeered that they needed no such assistance to be hidden in the dark, causing obscenities to fly back and forth.

The Marines rowed steadily and surely to the shore. Their landing point was lit by men with candles and lanterns and they were just north of the almost star shaped fort called Morro Castle. It was assumed that the men in the various units would get mixed up; therefore, there would be no time-consuming attempt to sort people out. Under the command of McCawley and others the men poured out the boats as soon as the wooden hulls scraped the shore.

Prentice jumped out, took a few steps in the hip-deep water and stumbled. His revolver was now wet and all he had that he could count on was a cutlass. He cursed and pushed his way through the water to the shore. The colonel had arrived well ahead of anyone else. “Hurry up, Prentice; we won’t be waiting for you.”

Yes they would, he thought. He was the one who knew where they were going. He was the one who had been scouting out the terrain. He took the lead with a grinning McCawley just a step behind. The colonel was exulting in the fact that his Marines would be fighting as a unit, and not as small units on board warships.

Prentice quickly found the path that would lead them to the Morro Castle. It and La Cabana guarded the half of the entrance to Havana’s harbor that was across from the city itself. The Negro cavalry would attack the more sprawling fortress of La Cabana.

“Faster,” the colonel ordered and the men responded. Prentice had figured it as a two mile jog from the beach. The big threat, of course, was discovery. That it would happen was inevitable. Discovered too soon, however, and the enemy could be pouring rifle and cannon fire into the helpless ranks of Americans. As they ran past houses and cottages, people awakened. Windows were opened and, in some cases, people stepped outside to see what was happening. When they saw an army passing, most of them prudently went indoors, while others ran away from both the soldiers and the fort. In a few cases, Spanish speaking soldiers angrily told people to go inside their houses and hide.

After an eternity, the ramparts were in sight. There was no apparent activity. Whatever noise the column had made, it had not been enough to rouse the garrison that Prentice knew was small and poorly led. Prentice led men to where he’d spotted a gate. It was shut, of course. The colonel signaled and a handful of men raced towards it and confirmed that it was shut firmly. Prentice found himself holding his breath while the men fiddled with the explosives they’d brought. They lit the fuse and ran as fast as they could.

Just then, they were spotted and Spanish voices called out a challenge. “Too late,” McCawley said with a grin. A second later and a blast ripped the gate apart. The Marines didn’t wait to see if the way inside was clear, they just ran screaming towards the smoking void and disappeared inside. Prentice followed on their heels, nearly stumbling over debris.

The Spanish fought, and many of them with screaming desperation. There were but a hundred of them at most while more than six hundred Americans were in their midst, shooting them and stabbing them with bayonets. An unarmed Spaniard lunged at Prentice who hacked at him with his cutlass. The man screamed and fell to his knees as blood gushed from his shoulder. “I surrender,” he sobbed in Spanish. Prentice kicked him to the ground and continued on.

Resistance crumbled. Many Spaniards surrendered, while others ran out and into the darkness. A fire was burning and some ammunition was exploding, but the Americans quickly solved the problems. Farther down, Prentice could hear similar fighting raging as the Buffalo Soldiers clawed their way inside La Cabana. Prentice was confident that they would succeed. That garrison too was small and poorly armed. The incompetent Spanish leadership had left the back door to Havana wide open.

Prentice joined a group that was examining the numerous cannon that faced the entrance to the harbor. Across the channel was the small fort of La Punta. He wondered what its garrison was thinking as smoke and gunfire erupted from the two larger forts that were to have protected the city. American ships would have had to run that deadly gauntlet if they had tried to force their way in. As soon as it was determined which of the Spanish guns were useable, they would commence bombarding La Punta and targets of opportunity.

In a very short while they concluded that only about half of the cannon were safe enough to use and many of them could only be used with reduced charges.

While Marines struggled with the captured cannon and others were dragged up the trail from the ships, Prentice wondered about the man he’d chopped with his cutlass. Dreading what he would see, he found his way back to where he’d left the Spaniard. The man lay on the ground with his mouth open and his eyes glazed over. Blood had coagulated on his wound and was turning black. Flies were swarming in their hundreds. Prentice made it to a wall before vomiting.

“Your first, lieutenant?” asked a Marine corporal. His arm was in a sling. Prentice looked to see if the man was being smart and saw sympathy instead of sarcasm.

Paul wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “This is the first time I ever killed anyone directly. When you fire a cannon you usually don’t see the results. Worse, he wasn’t even armed although he was lunging at me.”

The corporal nodded. “That means he was trying to kill you so what you did was war and self-defense. Maybe it’s better when we kill from a distance. I really don’t want to look into the whites of their eyes. It becomes just too damn personal.”

Prentice agreed and vomited a second time.

* * *

Governor General Vlas Villate was awakened by the sound of thunder and the distant muted crackling of gunfire. He swung his bare legs out of the bed, as always careful to not awaken the stocky Cuban woman who was his current mistress. She wasn’t all that attractive but she fucked like a tigress and made no demands on him. Her cousin was that demon of a nun named Magdalena. He often wondered what that not very holy woman thought of her cousin screwing the governor of Cuba. Jealousy, he thought. In his opinion, celibacy was the most idiotic thing the Catholic Church had ever invented. Only a fool would deprive himself or herself of the joys of sex.

He shuffled to a window that pointed to the American lines and heard nothing. Shit, he thought, that meant that the sounds were coming from the channel.

Clad only in his nightshirt, he walked to another window. From this he could see out towards the entrance of the harbor. Since the siege had commenced, he had begun sleeping in the security of the fortress known as Real Fueza. Over two hundred years old, it had been obsolete the day it was built because it was set too far back from the channel to defend it. It was just another ancient piece of stupidity from Madrid. Until tonight, however, its history meant little. This night, Real Fueza made a splendid observation tower with a great view of the other side of the channel. As he watched, an explosion ripped through La Cabana, sending flames and smoke into the sky. Morro Castle was already burning. He grabbed a telescope and thought he could see people running around. They looked like ants that had been spilled from their hill.

An aide rushed in and paused, dismayed at seeing his governor in his night clothes. “Don’t gawk, you fool. Who is in charge of the forts on the other side of the channel?”

“The navy, sir.”

Villate sagged. “And we don’t have a damned navy anymore, do we? Does that mean that no one is in charge over there?”

The aide prudently decided not to answer. “Never mind, damn it. Sound the alarm. Where there is one attack, there will likely be two.” Or three, or four, he thought angrily. “Sound bells, trumpets, bang pots and pans, and anything that will make noise. It may be too late for those people across the channel, but we will be ready. And oh yes, get me my damned uniform.”

Madrid, he realized, wouldn’t give a stinking damn who was supposed to be in charge of those forts. They would only note that one Vlas Villate was Governor General of Cuba, and that all responsibility for what was looking more and more like a catastrophic defeat rested on his broad soldiers. He should have made certain that there was better control of the forts and that troops were out patrolling. The bastards in Madrid would have his head for this. He thought briefly of the money he’d siphoned from government funds and into accounts in Argentina and Brazil. There was more than enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. He would not go back to Spain for court martial and everlasting shame.

Nor would he take the Cuban woman with him. She was stirring and looking at him solemnly. He would be able to do much better wherever he went. He was confident that his second in command, Weyler, had also invested prudently in his future and would not be returning to Spain except, of course, to tell King Alfonso how badly Vlas Villate had fought this war. Villate chuckled softly. It was nothing more than what he would do himself.

His real fear was that he would be captured by the Cuban rebels who hated him with a fiery passion. They would delight in cutting chunks from his large body and feeding them to the dogs while he watched and screamed. And yes, he would scream. Anyone would.

If this battle was going to end as badly as he thought it might, it was time to complete his prudent arrangements and to leave. Before that, he thought happily, he would order that stupid Monsignor Bernardi to put himself and his legion of fanatics in the forefront of the battle. And Diego Salazar could be there as well. After all, it had been Salazar’s monumental stupidity that had started this war. Salazar was going to cost Spain the island of Cuba and him, Vlas Villate, his reputation.

Tomorrow-assuming there was a tomorrow-he would move his headquarters to some place that wouldn’t look like a military installation and thus attract cannon fire from the American warships that were sure to charge down the channel and into Havana harbor with their guns blazing.

His aide returned with a uniform in his arms. He dismissed the man and began to dress himself. Always go to war with your pants on, he reminded himself.

* * *

Lang and Haney again crawled towards the enemy works. This time they trailed a rope and every fifty yards behind them another American soldier used it as a guide to lead him.

For a second time in as many nights, they reached their goal safely. They huddled in the Spanish trench and waited for the others. An impatient Haney jerked on the rope in a futile attempt to get the others to hurry. It took nearly a precious hour to get the equivalent of a platoon ready to fan out and kill sentries. As this was happening, still more Americans clambered in. No one was surprised that Ryder was among them.

“I thought that generals were too important to go on raids like this?” Haney said.

Ryder smiled in the night. “How come you’re not out taking care of Spaniards?”

“Lang informed he I was too damned clumsy,” he sniffed. “Once upon a time I could sneak up on a wide awake rabbit in the daylight while I was wearing cowbells, but I guess those days are gone forever.”

“Just as well, Sergeant Major. I need you here with me.”

A few moments later, two of Lang’s men, one coming from each direction, returned to say that the battlement had been cleared for more than a hundred yards each way and that the safe distance was increasing.

Ryder acknowledged the information. “Sergeant Major, I just decided that I no longer need you with me. I want you to get back to the brigade as fast as you can and tell them to run up here fast and not to worry about making noise. Then send a message to Benteen asking him to have the rest of the division to move up as well. Quickly would be greatly appreciated,” he added.

A moment after Haney departed, Lang reappeared. His Bowie knife had blood drying on it. “Man’s best friend is not always a dog,” he said as he poured water from his canteen on it and wiped off the blade. “Sometimes a good knife is even better.”

“How many did you have to kill?”

“Only a couple,” he answered. “Most of them surrendered right away when we burst in among them. They were scattered in groups of no more than three. They weren’t very well organized or attentive, for that matter. Most of them were sound asleep.”

More men began to arrive. In short order, he had a full battalion of the First Maryland in position with more arriving each moment.

“It looks like something’s burning,” said Lang. “Smells like it, too.”

Through the darkness they could see smoke arising from just past the city where the channel to the ocean was. “General, in a few seconds I think that all hell is going to break loose.”

Ryder agreed. He grabbed some junior officers to be couriers. “All three of you are to run like hell.” He grabbed one lieutenant and told him to tell the other battalion commanders to drop any thoughts of secrecy and get their men to him and in position immediately. To the second, he requested that division artillery begin bombarding Spanish positions, also immediately. The third he had deliver a message to General Benteen. “My respects to the general and he might want to consider bringing up the rest of the division even faster than I originally requested. Tell him that the city is about to explode and that things are likely to get very hot in a very short while.”

As the men scooted off, bells, bugles and rifle fire came from Havana. Ryder recalled that the navy was supposed to provide a diversion. Then he wondered whether his attack was to be a diversion for the navy. Either way, a major battle was brewing.

“Jesus Christ,” said Lang. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“At your service,” said photographer William Pywell. “The sun is going to rise shortly and this will be a lovely spot to place a camera.”

Ryder shook his head. “It would be an even lovelier spot for a Gatling Gun.”

* * *

Everyone at British Consul Redford Dunfield’s extensive home was suddenly awakened by the alarms going off all over the city. Custer had been roused from his sleep by the familiar sound of gunfire and was already dressed when everyone gathered in the main dining area. A slightly sleepy Spanish Navy Commander Clemente Cisneros addressed them.

“This may be a false alarm, but I think not. It appears that the Americans have either forced the channel or somehow stormed the forts across the channel. Either way they are now able to bombard the city. It may well be that a major infantry attack will soon be launched against Havana.”

“We must get to the hospital immediately,” Sarah announced. “If you are correct, there will be many wounded to care for.”

“Your devotion to your duty is praiseworthy,” Cisneros said, “but I cannot allow it. My orders are to keep all of you safe and sending you out into what might be the midst of a climactic battle for Havana is not keeping you safe. With or without your permission, you will remain here.”

Sarah was aghast. “Then who will care for the wounded?”

“They will have to fend for themselves until and if it is safe. I cannot run the risk of any of you getting hurt.”

“I assume that your soulful concern applies to me as well,” said a clearly annoyed President Custer.

“Frankly, sir, I don’t much care what happens to you, but my government does. Therefore I am required to protect you from both yourself and the numerous enemies outside the walls of this place who would like to see you dead. Or perhaps they would like to hold you hostage for a large cash ransom and safe passage somewhere.”

“Would Villate or Weyler sink so low as to do that?” Custer asked.

Cisneros laughed harshly. “Most people would do just about anything to save their lives, don’t you think?”

“What about me?” asked Kendrick. “I’m a reporter. I have a right and an obligation to observe and write about the coming battle.”

“I applaud your devotion to your duty and the next book you plan to write, but kindly recall that you have enemies outside these walls who would dearly love to see you dead. Your lovely Juana would be most upset with me if that were to happen; therefore, it will not happen. You will remain here and safely out of the reach of Diego Salazar.”

Custer was incredulous. “You would order your men to fire on other Spaniards?”

“If those so-called Spaniards were to attack this place they would be violating their orders as well as what passes for international law. This is the British Consulate, not some tavern. If anyone attacks, they will have become rebels and criminals and, yes, we will fight them.”

“I’m relieved for Juana’s sake,” said Kendrick, “but I would still like to report on what I can see with my own eyes. I could use runners, but I don’t like to do that?”

“Perhaps you would rather get shot by either Salazar’s men or some trigger-happy Spanish recruit who has been poorly trained and barely knows how to fire his rifle.”

“Good point,” Kendrick muttered. “I’ll stay put.” At least, he thought, until he could figure a way out that would also be reasonably safe.

* * *

“Put your back into it, you lazy Irishman.”

Sweat was pouring down Sergeant Kelly’s face. “If the bloody general would mind getting us some bloody help pulling this dead rhinoceros, maybe we could actually move a lot faster. Kindly recall, general, that this beastie was designed to be pulled by horses and not people.”

Benteen laughed. Kelly was one of his favorite NCOs. “So we don’t have horses but we do have ignorant Irish mules.” He turned to a number of men who had been doing little more than gawk. “All of you, grab ropes, grab anything and pull and pull fast. I want those guns in position in minutes, not hours.”

More hands did help and the column of Gatling guns gained speed. Kelly took a deep breath and yelled for the men to move faster. Benteen helped by telling them all to run, which made Kelly swear loudly.

Kelly understood fully. The machine guns had to be in place before the Spanish swarmed out of their lines and towards the outnumbered Americans. This time there was no barbed wire or trenches to halt them. The hell being rained down on them by American cannon would hinder, but would not stop the massed enemy. Only rifle fire and the precious Gatlings could.

Lang had done a masterful job of modifying them. The wheels were smaller and lower which meant that the guns, now mounted on a swivel, could fire over them. Unfortunately, it also meant that the guns were harder to pull and, since horses were in short supply in Cuba, manpower was essential to move the weapons.

“Hurry up Kelly, the war’s not going to wait for you to get out of bed and start moving.”

“Haney,” he gasped, “you may be bigger than me and have a couple more stripes on your sleeve, but, so help me God, I am going to kill your ass, you fucking shanty Irish bastard.”

“Quite fighting, children,” Ryder said as he grabbed a rope and joined in the effort. “Just a few more yards and you’ll be done and can start killing Spaniards.”

Haney shook his head. “Generals aren’t supposed to be pulling tow ropes.”

Ryder ignored him and, along with other men, manhandled the first gun into position. The next five followed in short order. Tow ropes were dropped and metal shields were put in place. The shields were another of Lang’s ideas. Nobody in the army’s hierarchy could decide whether the machine guns were fish or fowl, cannon or rifles. Set too far back from the front lines, they were wildly inaccurate. Closer to the enemy, they were murderously effective but the crews were vulnerable to sniper fire or even massed rifle fire. The shields would provide a degree of protection for the four man crews.

“Jesus,” exclaimed Haney, “it looks like someone kicked over an anthill.”

As the dawn was rising, the Spanish lines were erupting with men forming up for the attack. They poured out of the ruined buildings and into the narrow streets. The artillery was raining down on them and killing them by the score, but there were thousands of them and more forming up to attack with every minute.

“When should I open fire?” yelled Kelly.

“Now!” answered Ryder.

Five guns were in place with more arriving. Every machine gun the army had was going to support the attack. The weapons opened fire and their demonic chatter was deafening.

Bullets fired from an extreme range rained down on the Spaniards, dropping still more of them. They were too far off for anything resembling aimed fire, but were within killing range. To Ryder it reminded him of the time he’d fired on the Sioux at the Little Big Horn, only this time the Spanish were more numerous and farther away. The guns could not miss. They almost certainly had to hit something in the mass of humanity. The guns were more accurate than rifle fire. Even the most experienced soldier might just fire into the ground or in the air or worse, not fire at all in his fear. The Gatlings were handled by teams of men who supported each other and saw to it that the stream of bullets was not only fired, but that shots landed where they were intended. The result was carnage.

Trumpets blared and the Spaniards surged forward. It was like the attacks on Mount Haney, only this time on a level plain with no barbed wire to separate the two sides. Gunners made adjustments and riflemen fired. Smoke obscured the battlefield as the two forces closed.

Ryder pulled out his revolver and unsheathed his sword. He tried to remember the last time he had even practiced with a sword. He was more likely to kill himself with it than a Spaniard.

The Spaniards were emerging through the battle-smoke. They were screaming as if Satan was behind them. They were fighting for their lives.

So too, however, were the Americans. The machine guns were now firing point blank at waist high level. Each gun was on a swivel which meant that each gun could spray bullets in nearly a one hundred and eighty degree arc.

Ryder threw down his sword and took a second revolver from a fallen soldier. The Spaniards were firing back and too many of his men were falling. Something hit him hard in the chest and he fell back, staggered. A Spaniard was directly in front of him and Ryder managed to shoot him. He lurched to his feet and quickly checked for blood. Amazingly, there wasn’t very much at all. Maybe it wasn’t a bullet that had hit him.

The battle was now between brave men on one side and brave men supported by cold and deadly technology on the other. Technology won. The Spaniards began to fall back just as reinforcements from the rest of Benteen’s division along with soldiers from Gibbon’s division filled the gaps caused by casualties.

Ryder’s arm was grabbed. “You all right, Ryder?” It was General Hancock. Ryder looked down. A stream of blood was visible on his shirt.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” said Ryder. Each breath was painful and he wondered if whatever had struck him hadn’t broken a rib.

“Go back and have that wound taken care of,” said Hancock.

“I’ll leave when you do, general.” Hancock laughed harshly and went on to another part of the battle.

The smoke was clearing and the Spaniards were retreating slowly and stubbornly. By companies and then by battalions, the American army began to move after them. Orders were not necessary. The Spaniards would be pushed and pushed hard until they surrendered or died.

Ryder looked around anxiously. Where the hell was Lang? The Texan had a job to do with his flying column.

* * *

The monsignor howled with joy. “We are to join the attack. By the Blessed Virgin we shall prevail.”

Diego Salazar was less than enthused but realized he had to obey the direct orders just received from Villate. The breach in Havana’s defenses had to be closed regardless the cost and it made perfectly good sense to send in the monsignor’s fanatics. The artillery barrage had been terrifying and from what he could see through gaps in the battle smoke, the infantry assault was wavering. The Americans must have a hundred Gatling guns, he decided, and all of them would be aimed at his body.

“Forward,” screamed Bernardi, “forward for Spain and Jesus and the Blessed Virgin.”

The men of the legion moved to the attack. Salazar noted that some were less enthusiastic than others. He understood them. Salazar tried to hold back, but the press of bodies propelled him onward. He wanted to run and hide but could not be seen as a coward. He had to do something, however, to get out of this terrible fight. A few yards ahead of him, the crazy monsignor was screaming and waving what looked like a sword. Where the devil had the fool gotten a sword, Salazar wondered. And what the hell did he plan on doing with it?

Salazar stumbled over a dead soldier and fell on his face. He looked up in time to see Bernardi’s body convulse as machine gun bullets ripped through it. Salazar laughed hysterically. The mad man deserved to die, but he, Diego Salazar, did not. He had a task to complete.

Salazar found a piece of a brick with a sharp edge and gouged it into his scalp and forehead. Like all head wounds, it quickly gushed blood that covered his face and made it look like he’d been horribly wounded.

He pretended to stagger to his feet. The remnants of his legion were fleeing. He joined them. Once again he was a wounded hero who would save what was left of his command. He would gather them and do what he truly wanted to do-take revenge on Juana and her bastard of an American lover. In the meantime, the Americans were advancing and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

The boys huddled in the crypt. The skulls of its occupants and assorted other bones no longer bothered them. They were terrified of the man-made thunder that was coming ever closer. Another had joined them. They had been adopted by a small thin dog that they fed with scraps, which was something they felt was hilarious. They too were existing on scraps. The dog wagged its tail and licked their hands. It’s love, even if motivated by food, gave them something they could focus on besides their perilous condition.

They originally considered naming the dog Tico after their dead comrade, but decided to name it Alfonso after their dog of a king who had gotten them into all this trouble. They would find another way to honor Tico. Manuel thought it was sad that they didn’t even know Tico’s last name or where he came from. They also hoped that the little priest who had murdered their friend would burn in hell.

The dog sniffed the powdery bones and decided they were too dry to provide any sustenance. Manuel thought it was nice that the little dog did not have an appetite for humans, although he would have understood if it had. If starvation will make a man do crazy things like Tico did, then what would it do to an animal. He didn’t want to know. He’d heard that there were such things as cannibals that willingly ate human flesh and was beginning to understand them.

The earth shaking thunder of the cannon had been joined by the rattle of small arms fire that was getting ever closer. Their time of reckoning was coming and they were terrified. They huddled together and even the dog picked up on their fears, pressing against them and shaking as much as they did. Manuel wondered if they had anything that could pass as a white flag so they could at least attempt to surrender. To their horror, they heard footsteps all around the crypt. They also realized that the sound of gunfire was fading.

“Leave your weapons in there and come out with your hands up,” The command was shouted in poor but understandable Spanish. “We know that you’re in there. Come out right now or we start shooting.”

They looked at each other and quickly decided to comply. They yelled that they were coming out and staggered into the sunlight where they were confronted by a number of hairy, dirty giants in dressed in blue who had rifles pointed at them. They were the first Americans they had ever seen. All their hands were up with the exception of Manuel who held the dog in his arms. The frightened animal had peed on him but Manuel didn’t care.

“Children, who are you and what are you doing in there?” asked the same man who had ordered them to leave the place of death. His voice was sad and no longer fearsome and he lowered his rifle. “Are you Spanish soldiers?”

Manuel decided that honesty was probably the best policy. “They tried to make us soldiers, but we left them. We didn’t want to fight anyone.” He tried not to sob but couldn’t help himself. The others were crying as well. The dog whimpered and looked confused.

The blue giant translated for his companions who laughed softly. One reached down and petted Alfonso who licked the giant’s hand. “You were wise to desert,” said the man who understood Spanish. “Spaniards are dying by the thousands. Little boys should not be fighting machine guns.”

Manual wasn’t certain what machine guns were but had heard about them. He understood that they were something terrible.

“What do you boys want to do now?” the soldier asked.

Manuel couldn’t help another tear from forming and running down his filthy cheek. The others were sobbing as well. “Sir, we just want to go home.”

One of the soldiers looked away after hearing the translation while another took out part of a loaf of bread, broke off a piece and gave it to the dog who gulped it. Then he saw how the boys looked longingly at the bread, laughed, and brought out a much larger part of a loaf and gave it to Manuel, who thanked him and broke it into roughly equal pieces.

The American gestured towards the road. Large numbers of people were filing down it and all were headed in the same direction, the country. “Mix in with those people and go outside the city. You have no weapons and you look harmless, so it’s not likely that anyone will stop you. After that you’re on your own. Do you know where your home is?”

Manuel nodded proudly. “I am from Santa Cruz del Norte. My mother has a house there and she will take care of us. We will go there until I can find a way to get my friends to their real homes.”

“Your mother will be very proud of you,” the American said. He pushed some more food their way and the other soldiers contributed as well. They would eat well this day. The giant American ruffled Manuel’s hair. “Travel safely.”

They walked for an entire day and were well out of the city and the column of refugees was thinning. They were hungry again and thirsty. Some people were looking carefully at the people in the column as if they wanted to find someone who was lost. He shrugged. All he wanted to do was find his way home.

He gasped as a large hand came down on his shoulder. “You are a difficult young man to find.”

“Corporal Menendez, what are you doing here?”

“I am not a corporal any more. I am only Carlos Menendez and I am a farmer. I was looking for a young boy to take back to his mother. Now it looks like I have found several lost boys and a skinny dog. I think she will be very happy to see you, all of you.” He handed them a canteen. “Now drink some water and gather your strength.”

* * *

Cisneros prided himself on being a good naval officer and one who prepared for contingencies. Thus, he was shocked when Salazar’s soldiers entered the British Consulate through a rear door he didn’t know existed. For the last moments of his life, he ruefully admitted that warships don’t have rear entrances.

Convinced that the consulate’s inhabitants were the enemies of Spain, the remnants of Salazar’s and Monsignor Bernardi’s troops poured in, fired wildly at shadows or anything that moved. They rushed forward and then opened the double front door, letting in more of their men. Cisneros’ men shot down a number of the attackers, but there were too many of them already in the building. Outraged and desperate, Cisneros led a charge against Salazar and his men. Cisneros knew that Salazar had caused this war and this calamity for Spain and he wanted justice for his country.

While Cisneros’ men hesitated for an instant before shooting their fellow countrymen, Salazar’s fanatic troops had no such reservations. Without orders and while Salazar hid behind a wall, they poured a volley into the sailors. Cisneros fell with a bullet in his head and several in his chest. Their leader gone, the remaining sailors ran outside and fled into the city.

Salazar was about to lead a search for Kendrick and Juana when more gunfire hit his men from a room off their left. Enraged, Salazar dropped to the floor and fired through the doorway and heard screams. He looked in and saw several bodies and a number of women cowering on the floor. He quickly satisfied himself that none of the women was Juana and that Kendrick was not among the dead or dying. That meant that they had escaped during the confusion.

A dark-haired nurse knelt by one of the fallen men. She was British or American by her looks. The woman looked up at him, her eyes filled with anger. “Do you realize what you have just done?”

Salazar laughed. There was no longer any threat to worry about. “I have defended Spain’s honor and now I will go and defend mine.”

Sarah now recognized him from the pictures she’d seen. “Diego Salazar, not only did you start this war, but you just shot the President of the United States.”

* * *

This time it was the Americans who were attacking. The siege of Havana was going to come to a conclusion this day. Carlos Menendez had been given a rifle and a dozen raw and confused recruits to lead. He’d protested that his leg wasn’t truly healed and been hit with the flat of a captain’s sword for his efforts.

The latest attack on the American positions had been as great a failure as the others. The machine guns were just too deadly and too terrifying. Even he had an almost overwhelming urge to piss.

Spanish soldiers were yelling and pointing at the advancing Americans. They were terrified and he saw why. The Americans were bringing their devil guns with them. Before this, the Gatlings had sat behind fortifications and killed from a distance. Now they were advancing with the blue-clad infantry.

Again, the Spanish lines broke. Men ran or threw down their weapons and held up their hands in meek surrender. Carlos thought for a moment and decided on the latter. He laid down his rifle, never fired, and raised his hands. He trembled in fear as the Americans came near. Would they kill him? It could even happen by accident. What if a foolish Spaniard decided to shoot an American? The Yanks would be furious and doubtless massacre prisoners.

To his astonishment, the Americans swept by with barely a glance. A few seconds later, he and the others were ordered by gestures to head out of Havana. It dawned on him that the Yanks weren’t interested in keeping and feeding prisoners and that he would be on his own. He had his cane to help him walk and he would head back to Manuel Garcia’s lovely mother. But first he had to find the damned boy.