1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 9

Ryder looked through his binoculars at the ocean of Spanish tents that had been erected just out of the range of his few cannon. He heard a click and turned. William Pywell, Kendrick’s photographer, had just taken a picture of the Spanish camp from the crest of Mount Haney. Pywell had landed by private boat the day before. He had also brought his travelling darkroom, a contraption on a carriage, and a horse to pull the thing. The pictures he’d been taking would be developed and sent to Florida the next morning. There might be a war on, but nothing would stop the men of the press. Nor were small boats like the one Pywell used bothered by the few Spanish ships cruising off Matanzas and the American coast.

“I hope that’s a good one,” said Ryder genially. Not only had Pywell taken photos of the Civil War, but had travelled with Custer before the Little Big Horn. He and Pywell had had a nodding acquaintance.

Pywell grinned. “It’ll be as good a panorama as Mathew Brady ever took, maybe even better since I can see and Brady can’t. Poor man’s just about blind, you know.”

Ryder had not heard that. He thought blindness was about the worst thing that could happen to a person. “If there is a battle, will you try to photograph the action?”

“Why not?” the photographer said and shrugged. “If the sun is bright enough to freeze movement, then it’ll work. The science of photography has come a long ways since the Civil War when we were afraid that all movement would wind up blurred. Of course, there also was the real fear of getting shot if we wandered too close to the fighting, which is one more reason we avoided photographing the action. No, it was better and safer to take pictures of the dead after the battle than the living during it.”

Ryder thought that was prudent and wondered if he could adopt that policy as well. There was commotion on the bay side of the mountain. He recognized Haney along with another man who wore the single star of a brigadier general on his shoulders. It was Frederick Benteen and he looked exhausted from the climb. He lazily returned Ryder’s salute and shook his hand.

“Colonel, you wouldn’t happen to have a gin and tonic in this godforsaken place, would you?”

“Sir, if such is available; Sergeant Haney will find it for you and along with some ice.”

“Give me just a few minutes, sir. The impossible often takes that long.” Haney said and disappeared into one of the bunkers.

Benteen removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was already soaked with sweat. “I think you already know what’s going on. But to make it official, the army’s divisions are being divided into brigades and I’m in charge of one. Your regiment’s in it, of course, along with two others.”

“I’m honored, although I’m just a little surprised.”

“Why? Because I’ve been given a brigade even though everyone knows that I despise Custer’s guts? I dislike him intensely for what he’s said about my behavior at the Little Big Horn and he knows it. Still, he needs good officers and I think I am one.”

Custer had criticized Benteen for not moving more quickly to his rescue when he’d joined up with Major Reno’s forces at the now famous battle that had almost become a massacre. Custer ignored the fact that Reno outranked Benteen and came under Reno’s orders on his arrival. Custer also ignored the fact that both Benteen and Reno were fighting desperately on the other side of the Little Big Horn and that Reno, the senior of the two and in command, had likely been drunk.

“At any rate,” Benteen continued, “this reorganizing should make the divisions more flexible and able to respond more quickly when the Spanish attack. Their army is getting larger and larger while ours is stagnating. Allegedly we are getting reinforcements and supplies, but God only knows when.”

A smiling Haney appeared beside them with two canteen cups in his hands. “As ordered, sirs. Enjoy.”

Benteen and Ryder swallowed appreciatively. “May I presume you have another gin and tonic in that bunker and that it’s for yourself?” asked Benteen.

“You may indeed,” said Haney. “Sadly, though, that is the last of the ice.”

“War is hell,” muttered Ryder.

* * *

Diego Valdez led his small group of “Spanish soldiers” through the vast array of tents housing the enemy army. Even though he was far from being a military professional, his inexperienced eyes could see that the Spanish army was not an elite force. They had not been stopped on entering the camp and no one had questioned them since then. Their stolen uniforms were sufficient to get them anywhere. The closest they’d come to having a problem had been when a clearly drunken captain had asked them to get him something. Diego had told the captain that they were on an errand from Colonel Juarez and the captain had sworn at them and walked away. Diego had no idea if there even was a Colonel Juarez.

It had been Diego’s idea to check out the encampment and see what damage he and his men could do to Spain. The explosion of the American ammunition dump had given him the idea that he could do the same thing to the Spanish. Reality, however, was proving otherwise. Ammunition appeared to have been disbursed to the many units arrayed against the Americans; ergo, there would be no large and devastating explosion. It was also obvious that the Spanish were gearing up for a major attack. He hoped that the Americans were aware of that since the large number of soldiers confronting the Americans precluded his sneaking directly through to warn them. He would have to go around the Spanish army and that would take time.

At least they’d managed to pilfer additional Spanish uniforms and this time they included a supply of boots.

He’d actually seen General Weyler and had given serious thought to killing him. Unfortunately, that would likely have resulted in his own tragic demise and that of his men which did not appeal to any of them. They were all brave but not suicidal.

Night came and they bedded down on the ground along with thousands of others. In the morning they would leave the camp simply by marching out as if they were on some work detail. His men would not be happy that they were not able to inflict pain on the Spanish or their traitorous Cuban allies, but they would deal with it. They all would.

He was awakened by the sound of horses trotting by only a few feet away. There was enough light to see the riders’ faces. With a jolt he recognized the hated Gilberto Salazar. It took all his strength to not shoot at the man.

But one of his soldiers couldn’t restrain himself. Diego heard a scream and a shot. Salazar and his horse went down in a heap. “Run,” he yelled. The man who had fired stood with a stunned look on his face and a smoking weapon in his hands as realization of what he’d done dawned. Salazar’s men turned and saw him. They fired and the soldier staggered but didn’t fall.

“Stupid bastard,” Diego sobbed in fury as he shot his irrational comrade in the head. He could not afford to have the fool captured and questioned.

As soldiers swarmed past him, he and the others in his group melted away, running in all directions. As he left the area, he saw men helping Salazar to his feet. He appeared hurt, but not too badly as he was able to stand with only minimal help. The man who had fired had been a friend and fellow revolutionary for several years, but his family had been slaughtered by Salazar.

The camp was now wide awake and soldiers were milling and moving in all directions. Nobody was yet in control and soldiers were shooting wildly and at anything. A campfire had overturned and a tent was on fire. He found the outer edge of the encampment and simply departed. In a short while he was joined by a couple of his men. They were as shocked and stunned as he was. “You had to kill Jose’,” one of them said sadly. “He was my cousin, but he was a fool. We cannot have fools.”

* * *

Ryder and his staff were transfixed by the sight below them in the Spanish camp. When the gunfire started, the sentries in both sides had sounded the alarm, sending troops into the trenches. Were the Spanish about to attack? There was no need for Ryder to sound a second alarm. His soldiers were already pouring into the trenches, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and trying to get ready for whatever the enemy might try to throw at them.

“Anybody know what the hell is going on down there?” Ryder asked. He got no response which was what he expected. Who wanted to admit that they didn’t know a damn thing? More gunfire exploded and something was on fire. Several Spanish tents were burning and he flames were spreading.

“You know what I think, sir?” said Barnes. “I think they’re shooting at themselves. I think something spooked them and they’ve pretty well panicked.”

“Makes sense,” Ryder answered. “Their boys can’t be any more experienced than ours.” Almost every night since landing some soldiers had fired at shadows. Some of the boys called it demon shooting or ghost attacks. Everybody’s nerves were strained what with the Spanish in plain sight but just out of range.

As if to confirm that statement, rifle fire came from another regiment on his left flank. He heard officers yelling at the men to stop shooting at shadows. At least his men had shown a semblance of fire discipline. Well, this night at least.

A cannon boomed from a Spanish battery. The shell landed hundreds of yards short of the American lines, churning up mud and vegetation. Spanish soldiers could be seen moving towards the Americans.

“Are they going to attack?”

Ryder could only watch in grim disbelief. The Spanish advance seemed confused and uncoordinated. “Give the order. Our guns can open fire when they are within range and the same with our rifles.” He turned to Barnes. “I have the damndest feeling that is some kind of spontaneous eruption. If so, we’re going to chase them back real fast.”

Only a few hundred enemy soldiers were advancing. They were yelling and screaming. They reached the white painted stakes that Ryder’s men had pounded into the ground to designate range. First, the pair of twelve pounders on the hill fired at extreme range, hitting nothing. The Spanish soldiers wavered, but gathered their courage and advanced. American cannon fired again, this time shells landing in the midst of the enemy, throwing them around like toys.

“Can we use the Gatlings?” Barnes asked with almost unseemly excitement.

“No. We hold them back. They’ll be our little surprise when the right time comes.”

The Spanish had stopped. Officers could be seen taking control and leading their men back to safety. Ryder ordered everyone to cease firing.

He took a swallow of miserable tasting water from his canteen. Now what the hell was that all about, he wondered?

* * *

General Valeriano Weyler was livid as he left the hospital tent and walked through the ashes of the fire. First, a group of rebels had penetrated deep into his encampment and then one of them had attempted to assassinate Gilberto Salazar.

In a way, Weyler thought it was a shame that the attacker had failed. Salazar was proving to be more trouble than he was worth. After all, he was the man widely given credit for starting the war in the first place, although both he and Governor General Villate thought that the Americans would have found some other reason to begin fighting. American greed and rapacity knew no bounds. Salazar’s attacker, now thoroughly dead, had mortally wounded Salazar’s horse and the major had been thrown under the dying animal. The most serious injury to him appeared to be a seriously pulled groin muscle. The rest of his injuries were bruises and cuts.

A groin pull could be nasty and painful and easily take a man away from one of life’s more congenial pursuits-sex with a woman. There were rumors about Salazar’s sexual activities, but Weyler had always dismissed him. Salazar was as manly as anyone he knew and even had a luscious and bosomy German mistress to compensate for his shrew of a wife. He laughed silently. If anyone could make a man’s testicles wither and blow away it would be Juana Salazar. Gilberto Salazar would be able to ride a horse fairly soon, but not his wife. On the other hand, he thought and laughed softly, who would want to?

Before the fire was finally put out, a score of tents had burned and a small number of men had been injured. The worst was the uncoordinated and spontaneous attack on the American positions by Cuban militia. This had resulted in a handful of dead and wounded that had been retrieved under flag of truce. During the truce, one American had yelled down, asking in Spanish just what the hell that was all about. His men did not respond, which must have told the Americans that the whole thing was a big mistake.

But now, Salazar was a kind of hero. The Americans or the rebels had struck at him specifically. Weyler had reluctantly succumbed to pressure from local Spanish and Cuban loyalists and promoted him to the temporary rank of colonel. Salazar still had close to two thousand men under his command. The loyalists had demanded a reward and he had given it to them. Salazar could be their hero.

Weyler paused and looked around. A number of soldiers were looking at him curiously. They knew that he was in charge of the army and that their lives were held in the palm of his hand. He took out his binoculars and stared at the American trenches. Blue uniformed soldiers were moving around with impunity. He could see that they were strengthening their defenses just as he was strengthening his own. More soldiers were en route from Havana and still more were gathering around Havana from other parts of Cuba. Spain was going to take a major chance and gather almost all of her army in Cuba close to Havana in order to destroy the Americans. Only Santiago would have a strong garrison. If this meant temporarily giving control of some areas of the island to the rebels, then so be it. When Spain was victorious, the rebels could be crushed in good time.

And, he smiled, it would be a good time. Killing the enemies of Spain was the greatest of pleasures.

* * *

Once more, thought Wally Janson, as his beloved steamer, the Aurora, moved easily through the green ocean waters north of Cuba. Unlike the last time when cleverness and bravery were necessary to keep him from being taken prisoner, or even killed, this convoy was well protected.

At least he hoped so. Two new American cruisers, the Atlanta and Chicago led the convoy, while the third, the Baltimore, brought up the rear. A number of swift gunboats, recently converted from civilian use, kept the thirty or so transports in something resembling three parallel lines. Having to play by the navy’s rules chafed a lot of the civilian skippers, but Janson knew if was for their safety. Staying in order might save them in the event of an attack. Scatter and they’d be picked off like wolves killing stragglers from a deer herd.

As before, he had a detachment of soldiers with him, only this time it was a troop of Texas cavalry and their damned horses. He thought the Texans smelled bad enough, but their horses were even worse. The Texan commander was Captain Jesse Lang, a long, lean and deadly looking cowboy who said he owned a ranch and other businesses outside of Dallas and that this was a great way to see some of the rest of the world. He also said he’d fought Comanche, Apache, and Mexicans, so a bunch of damned Spaniards would be no big thing to him.

Along with Lang’s men and horses, the Aurora also carried a large quantity of food and ammunition. Other ships were bringing several thousand additional soldiers. Lang had brought along something that he said worked well to control cattle and ought to work deterring Spanish attackers-barbed wire. He said he’d tried to convince people in the War Department of its military potential, but they either weren’t interested or were overwhelmed with ideas, some of which were likely clearly crackpot. He insisted that his, of course, wasn’t. The wire sounded intriguing to Janson, but he’d like to see it in action before endorsing it. That is, if anybody cared what he thought.

Janson’s thoughts were interrupted by distant sounds. He thought he heard thunder from the east. No, it wasn’t thunder; it was signal guns from other ships that were racing towards the convoy. He raised his telescope and could see faint feather of smoke on the horizon.

“I think we’ve found the enemy fleet,” drawled Captain Lang. He’d mounted to the small quarterdeck without permission for about the tenth time since leaving Charleston. Janson had come to realize that Texans weren’t all that much on formality. But then, he’d granted that same privilege to Colonel Ryder, so what the hell.

Dark shapes appeared on the horizon, first the masts and then the bulk of the squat ships. The Atlanta and Chicago flew a number of signal pennants and then veered to meet the intruders. The Baltimore was coming up as well.

“Damned if we aren’t about to have a naval battle,” said Lang. “I’ve never seen one of them. I hope it turns out as well as the last one you had.”

Janson simply nodded. He was too intent on watching the warships approaching each other on collision courses to comment further. He had, of course, told the affable captain all about his ship’s encounter with the Spanish patrol boat.

“Those are the two Spanish battleships, the Numancia and the Vitoria,” Janson said softly. “And the other ships are likely their smaller cruisers, the Aragon, Castile, and Navarra.”

Lang spat tobacco over the side, doubtless streaking the hull with the juice. It was something else Janson wished he wouldn’t do. “You seem to know a lot about their navy.”

“I thought I’d enlighten myself after they tried to kill me-something about knowing thine enemy.”

The ships were now within a couple of miles of each other and commenced firing as they closed the range. Clouds of smoke obscured the warships and splashes showed where shells had missed. They were like spectators at a bad play as miss after miss raised huge splashes. It was becoming very obvious that ships moving in different directions and at varying speeds could not hit each other unless they were extremely close. The Numancia and the Chicago maneuvered to near point blank range and fired on each other.

Shells from the Numancia struck first, smashing into the Chicago and sending debris flying, but then the Numancia was struck in turn by shells from the Chicago’s larger and more quickly re-loaded guns, still, the Chicago had been badly hurt and was slowing. Black smoke was pouring from her gunports.

“I think we just lost a ship,” said Lang and Janson sadly concurred. However, the Numancia had not escaped unscathed and the Spanish ship was taken under fire by the Atlanta. The Baltimore was also within range and began shelling the now burning Numancia. The enemy battleship slowed, then stopped dead in the water. The American ships moved in for the kill and Numancia began to sink. Scores of crewmen jumped from her.

The remaining Spanish battleship, the Vitoria, had turned and was steaming away.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Janson. “Look at that!” A Spanish cruiser was headed directly towards the Baltimore. “The son of a bitch is going to ram her.”

The crew of the Baltimore spotted the danger and attempted to maneuver away. The smaller Spaniard matched their turns and, guns roaring, plowed into the hull of the Baltimore, impaling herself on the larger American ship. There was silence for a few moments, but then the Spanish ship exploded, raining fire and debris onto the American, causing numerous fires. As the Numancia slipped beneath the waves, the men of the Atlanta and Chicago attempted to help the Baltimore. What was left of the Spanish cruiser was sinking and threatening to drag the Baltimore down with her.

As American ships closed in to help, the Baltimore exploded with a deafening roar.

“Jesus,” said Lang. “We’re going to go and help them, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” said Janson. “We can’t leave the living for the fish.”

Janson looked around at what had once been a well-organized convoy. Ships had scattered in all directions when the Spanish attacked and were only beginning to return. His Aurora was one of the closest to the site of the battle. Lifeboats were in the water and men could be seen swimming or splashing frantically, while others weren’t moving. He would rescue everyone he could, American or Spanish. It didn’t matter.

The Aurora moved slowly and carefully through the debris field. Ship’s boats were lowered and crews rowed them towards scores of swimmers. Cargo nets were draped over the hull to enable the strong to climb to safety. Lang’s riflemen covered them as they clambered over. “Can’t be too careful,” the Texan said. “Some of them damn greasers might decide to take over your little ship and run back to Cuba.”

They divided the men into two groups-American and Spanish. Then they tried to help the wounded. “What about the dead?” Janson was asked.

Janson forced himself to look the few feet to the water. Bodies and chunks of meat were floating along with the current. He forced the vomit down his throat. “If it looks American, try to save it. Maybe we can identify them and contact their families.”

And maybe not, he thought as one terribly mangled corpse bobbed by. Fish were already nibbling at it. He thought he saw Barracuda circling from below. He visualized their razor teeth slicing through human flesh. “We’ll be in Matanzas in a few hours, tomorrow at the latest,” he said softly. “At least we can give them a Christian burial.”

* * *

Ruth Holden padded barefoot across the small room that she and Sarah Damon shared. It had finally dawned on the military high command that Clara Barton was correct. The women nurses needed more privacy than that afforded by the canvas walls of a tent to hide them from the leering eyes of thousands of what Ruth described as horny American soldiers. Sarah had never heard the word before in that context but agreed with it. Thus, she and the ten other female nurses took over a decent sized house in Matanzas that had been abandoned by its previous owners.

It was far from luxurious but it did afford the women a degree of privacy. Both Ruth and Sarah were dressed only in cotton shifts that left their arms bare but covered them to their knees. They were still hot and sweaty but far more comfortable than when in full attire.

A room on the first floor contained a slightly rusty metal tub which the women filled with water from a stream that flowed into the bay, but only after first ascertaining that no military latrines were upstream. It was not luxurious bathing, and, in keeping with custom, they kept their shifts on and bathed around them. It was awkward, but it sufficed. It and the limited and bland food the army provided were a far cry from the luxury they’d both been accustomed to. To complete the picture, there was a stinking outhouse a few yards away from the kitchen.

Ruth laughed. “This reminds me of my life as a young girl trying to escape from Poland, only it wasn’t this hot.”

“If you’re going to reminisce, should I call you Ruta?”

Ruth shook her head sadly. “Ruth Holden is who and what I am now. Unless, of course, I change my mind once more and again decide to be Ruta Jasinski. If I didn’t think it would confuse people, I would.” She brightened. “Perhaps I’ll call myself Ruta Jasinski Holden.

Sara would not argue or tease her friend. She’d been told all about Ruth’s life before coming to the U.S. and it wasn’t pretty. The only part that was even a bit whimsical was Ruth’s selection of Holden as a last name. It was that of a British embassy staffer in Paris whom she found odious and boring.

“Have you heard from Haney?” Sarah asked.

Ruth, now Ruta, grinned. “It’s not that far from the top of his mountain to here. Sometimes he manages to slip away.”

“And where do you manage to find privacy?”

“In storage areas and warehouses,” she said with a knowing smile. “There are many places if you know where to look. He knows a lot of other sergeants and they make sure to look away when we wish to be alone. Making love on a pile of tenting isn’t the worst thing in the world. You and your colonel should give it a try, at least before he becomes a general.”

“General? Where did you hear that?” Sarah asked, astonished. It was the first she’d heard of any possible promotion for Martin.

“Some sergeants gossip like old ladies,” Ruta answered. “It does seem that the higher ranking generals are displeased with the efforts of some other high ranking officers. It also seems that Washington might not be all that thrilled with the way General Miles is leading the army and that General Terry might be very ill. Changes could come soon, and kindly recall that your paramour has gotten a lot of very favorable publicity recently.

Sarah decided to send Martin a note asking about the rumored promotion. She thought about delivering it herself, but he had made it abundantly plain that he did not want her up on Mount Haney, which some were calling Haney’s Hill after belatedly realizing that it wasn’t all that high. Regardless, she yearned to be with him, to feel his arms around her and his hands caressing her body. She would have to figure some way to be discreetly and totally alone with him. Just a few hours would be delicious and wonderful. However, it would not be on a stack of tenting.

Sarah’s thoughts were interrupted by commotion coming from outside. She and Ruta looked through a window and saw men running towards the waterfront. Someone said an American warship was coming in and it was in bad shape.

The women dressed quickly and looked through another window that faced the bay. A large warship that someone in the crowd said was the Chicago was steaming slowly into the bay. She was escorted by a number of other transports. The Chicago was listing to starboard and, as she got closer, heavy damage and evidence of fires could be seen.

Clara Barton ran to each of the women informing them of the obvious and telling them to get to the hospital. There had been a battle and there were casualties, many casualties.

* * *

Kendrick watched as the Chicago anchored as close to the makeshift docking facilities as it possibly could. Beside him, Pywell took pictures of the wounded battleship. Lifeboats and other small vessels began the task of getting the wounded to the hospitals. As he walked among the wounded it occurred to him that the mutilations suffered in land warfare were the same as in a naval battle. Despite having seen it so many times before, the human suffering was terribly depressing and the stench from torn and infected flesh and ripped bowels was almost overwhelming.

He watched as doctors and nurses went about their grim task. That some of them were women who looked like lovely and genteel ladies no longer surprised him. Women were constantly disabusing the idea that they were a frail sex that needed to be sheltered from the world. He wondered if Juana would be able to handle an emergency like this and decided that she would. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t heard from her. He would have to figure out a way to get a message to her.

Clara Barton stood in front of him. “Either be helpful or get out of the way,” she demanded sternly.

Kendrick quickly decided that he would be no use as a medico and stepped away. A civilian transport was also disgorging wounded and unhurt and some of each category were Spanish. The Spanish prisoners looked confused and dispirited. They also looked harmless. Whatever fight that had been in them was no longer there.

Someone grabbed his arm. “Hey, pal. You got any idea where I can find an officer named Ryder?”

“Sure. He’s up on that snow-covered peak called Mount Haney. Who wants to know?”

“Jesse Lang, that’s who and if that peak’s snow-covered I’m a mountain goat.”

The two men introduced themselves. Kendrick quickly realized that Lang had been an eye witness to the battle that saw the sinking of the Baltimore and the damaging of the Chicago. He also realized that he probably wouldn’t get access to senior navy personnel for a while. The commanders would like to keep their losses to themselves. Too bad. He would use whatever sources he could and the hell with the navy’s secrets. Right now it looked like the ships of the small United States Navy had been mauled.

“Lang, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll take you up the fearsome slopes of Mount Haney and introduce you to Colonel Ryder if you will tell me all you know about the battle that just took place.”

“Sounds fair, although it might cost you a couple of drinks,” Lang said. “I might just bring along the captain of the ship I came on, a man named Janson. You’ll find his observations interesting as well since he actually knows which end of a ship is up.”

“Excellent,” said Kendrick. “Maybe the good captain can help me figure out if the United States still has a navy.”

* * *

Custer was drunk, a condition that was becoming increasingly normal and a source of concern to most of his inner circle. While he had been told he should not leave the United States, there was no prohibition on his leaving the increasingly hostile confines of Washington where he was being held to account for the slow progress of the war. Thus, he had chosen to go to St. Augustine, Florida. There he could see for himself many of the efforts to maintain the army and navy.

For his stay, he had commandeered the elegant Markland House in St. Augustine. There, he and Libbie sought to get closer to the action and farther away from his critics. He brought with him his secretaries of war and the navy, as well as his secretary of state. Neither man was pleased to be in a steamy Florida backwater. They felt they should be in the nation’s capital where the action was and it didn’t matter if they were connected to Washington by telegraph or not.

All four men sat on the veranda and sipped whisky. It was understood that Libbie Custer was just inside and would listen to everything through an open window. It served to maintain the fiction that President Custer was totally in charge instead of having a partner who might just be more than an equal. Many men, including most of those in the room, thought it was unseemly, unladylike, for a woman to be involved in the affairs of government.

“Well,” Custer said, his voice slightly slurred, “who the hell won the battle?”

Secretary of the Navy Hunt put down his drink. He had scarcely touched it. “Unlike a land battle where the victor usually claims the battlefield, no one can lay claim to the ocean. However, the Spanish did depart and leave the convoy and the rest of the escorts to proceed uninterrupted to Matanzas. Therefore, it is safe to say that we were victorious.”

“But we lost ships,” Custer insisted. “The Baltimore is gone and the Chicago is almost destroyed. Only the Atlanta remains and she too was damaged. What the hell ships do we have left if that damn surviving Spanish battleship and their remaining cruisers come out to play?”

This time Hunt did take a swallow of his drink. “We have it on good authority that the remaining Spanish battleship, the Vitoria, is in Havana harbor where she is being watched by some of our smaller ships. The Atlanta is also off Havana and will engage the Vitoria if she tries to come out. We are confident that the Atlanta can handle her. Despite sensationalist rumors in the press to the contrary, the Atlanta’s damages were slight and she will be completely ready in a very short while. In the meantime, the Chicago will be temporarily repaired and then sent to Charleston for more complete repairs. Unfortunately, she will be out of the war for several months at the least.”

Custer turned to his secretary of state. “Blaine, you’ve got to get us more ships.”

Blaine shrugged. “It’s not going to happen. England and France are now working together and have decided that it would be in their best interests to not play a part in this war; therefore, they will not be arming either side. Apparently they are concerned that the war between us and Spain could spread. They are also concerned that Germany might try and gobble up Spanish possessions if Spain is defeated too utterly.”

“I thought we had a deal with the Brits,” Custer said petulantly.

“Britannia rules the waves and Britannia waives the rules,” said Blaine with a wry smile. “And British wealth rules the land the waves surround. If the British decide to renege on a deal, there’s not much we can do about it except send diplomatic notes that will be read and ignored.”

Hunt finished his drink and poured himself another one. It was far too hot for whisky, even on the pillared veranda of the Markland House. There was no breeze and he’d begun to sweat profusely. “Then we must go ahead with first arming merchant ships and, second, building our own battleships no matter the cost. Unfortunately, that latter course will take time.”

“And we might not have time,” said Robert Lincoln. “Reports are that the Spanish will launch a massive attack against General Miles’ army at almost any moment. They’ve moved more troops around Matanzas than we thought they would. There are enough Spaniards to overwhelm our men.”

Custer stood and staggered slightly. The men could hear Libbie gasp through the open window. Fortunately, the president did not fall down. “Damn it to hell. And I’m sick and tired of reading about all these problems in the newspapers. I want someone to arrest that bastard Kendrick and send him back here to St. Augustine, and preferably in pieces.”

Robert Lincoln looked away. Nobody was going to arrest Kendrick. The man was too popular with the army for the simple reason that he reported the truth. Besides, nobody was certain where to look for the man. After his latest report of the heavy casualties suffered by the navy, he’d decided to make himself scarce. There were even rumors that he’d fled to Havana where he had friends who would hide and protect him.

* * *

With her husband gone to the war at Matanzas and then to a hospital bed, Juana felt liberated. Gilberto’s wounds weren’t that serious, just debilitating. He’d dislocated his shoulder, sprained a knee and, worse, suffered a major and excruciatingly painful groin pull that, according to what she’d been told, made it almost impossible for him to sit, much less stand.

Even though her husband was generally impotent, it pleased her that he would be useless to any other woman, even Helga, his mistress. To her astonishment, Helga felt the same way.

“He has been a pig to me, just as he has been a monster to you,” Helga told her one afternoon. “He uses me and then ridicules me. He says I am fat and stupid. If I didn’t need the money he gives to provide for me and my child, I would have left him a long time ago. Of course, you understand fully what kind of a man he is.”

Child? Juana had no idea. “Helga, who is the father? Is it Gilberto?”

Helga thought that idea hilarious. “No, the girl’s father is a merchant in Mexico City. He had been sending money, but then it stopped. He must have found out about Diego. So now I must work for a living and that means satisfying your husband’s strange cravings.”

Juana did not think Gilberto’s cravings were all that strange, just nothing she wished to do with him. With Kendrick, fine, she thought and felt her cheeks flush, but not with Gilberto.

“Do you hate him enough that you would help me conspire against him?”

“With greatest pleasure,” Helga said. Her cheeks shook. She’d been gaining even more weight and it wasn’t flattering. Juana thought that Gilberto would soon dismiss her and look for a replacement. She shuddered. Just as long as Helga’s replacement wasn’t named Juana. One of her fears was that he would use his greater strength to force her to perform distasteful acts on him.

“Wonderful. I will see to it that you have funds to provide for your daughter if you will aide me in shaming Gilberto.”

Helga beamed. “What do you want me to do?”

“I have friends in the revolution who will help me get in contact with James Kendrick. Your job will be to go to the hospital and see to it that Diego stays there. If it looks like he will be heading home, your second job will be to warn me so that James and I can go back to our normal lives and forget we know each other.”

Helga actually giggled. “And where will you and your paramour be staying and for how long?”

It was Juana’s turn to smile. Actually, she was beginning to feel like a mischievous schoolgirl. “I have friends who are discreet and will provide a place. You just keep an eye on Diego.”

“You are not ready to trust me fully, are you?”

“No.”

Helga was not upset by the reply. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”