1882: Custer in Chains (10 page)

* * *

Clarissa Harlow Barton was in her early sixties. Better known as Clara Barton, she had recently founded the American Red Cross. She had tended the sick and wounded in the Civil War and seen the results of the most horrific fighting. She’d also come under fire and nearly been killed. After the war, she’d traveled to Europe and helped during the Franco-Prussian War. To Sarah, she gave the immediate impression that she was a stern and demanding taskmistress.

The unmarried Clara Barton was in Baltimore to oversee the shipment of medical supplies to the south when the army finally embarked for Cuba.

“You and your friend will not be permitted to serve on the battlefield,” she said sternly.

“May I ask why not?” Sarah enquired. “I have experience with terrible wounds. My father is a doctor and I assisted him on many occasions. I’ve seen men bleeding and mangled from wounds and injuries and, yes, even shot. I did not flinch then and will not in the future. Not that it matters, but I’ve also assisted in childbirth, and I’ve even watched as people died.

“And as to my friend, Ruth Holden spent many months as a volunteer nurse in Paris during the terrible fighting. If anything, she has far more experience than I do.”

“Who is he?” Barton asked.

Sarah was perplexed. “Who?”

Barton smiled slightly. “The man you wish to follow, that’s who.”

“Am I that obvious? I guess I am. His name is Martin Ryder and he commands the First Maryland Volunteers.”

Barton shuffled through papers on her desk until she found the one she wanted. “According to this, your young colonel is highly regarded by his superiors, his peers and his men. His men are well disciplined and well behaved. I understand that he is concerned about their hygiene. The next time you see him tell him to make sure his medical personnel keep themselves and their tools as clean as possible.”

“He will be leaving in a couple of days. When I see him next, I will tell him what you said.” Of course it would be in between desperate and passionate kisses.

Barton nodded. “As to you and your friends, you will accompany us to Jacksonville and, if circumstances warrant, perhaps down to the Florida Keys. We will be going by train to Charleston, which is as far south as decent rail lines go. There is a narrow gauge track running from Charleston to Jacksonville, and if possible we will use that. It’s a shame that the Confederate railroad tracks were so miserable during the war and that there have been only minimal improvements since then.”

It was common knowledge that the U.S. government was trying to widen the gauge and extend the line south to Daytona, but that was not going to happen overnight. There was resistance on the part of the railroad lines to building farther south since there was little in the way of civilization and customers in that direction.

Sarah nodded politely. She was delighted that the redoubtable Clara Barton was going to let her at least go to Jacksonville. Once there she and the others could prove their worth, and, if the war lasted as long as some people thought it would, she was confident that hospitals would be established on Cuban soil. It only made sense. Wounded soldiers had to be treated by skilled medical personnel as soon as possible; therefore, they would have to be close to the battlefields. Shipping them to Jacksonville or even the Florida Keys made no sense. She would take one step at a time.

She profusely thanked Miss Barton and left before the woman could change her mind. On the train back to Baltimore, she considered how much her life had changed and how much Martin Ryder now meant to her. The kiss she’d promised him at the White House for not punching President Custer had quickly turned into a number of them and all given joyously and passionately. She found herself worried sick that he might not return from the war or that he might be terribly maimed. She recalled helping her father operate on a man who’d lost his legs in a train accident. That such horrible wounds could happen to Martin as well, would soon be a terrifying reality.

She had not given herself to him nor would she, at least not yet. However, she thought it was time to permit just a few liberties that would let him know just how much she cared for him.

Sarah smiled to herself. One nice thing about being a widow, she thought, was that she now knew so much about what pleased a man.

* * *

Maria Vasquez peered through one of the small gaps in the rough wooden stockade that kept her a prisoner. She was twenty-five and a widow. Her husband had been killed by a Spanish firing squad. They thought he’d been a guerilla. He hadn’t been but Maria was now. She had worked hard for the revolution, carrying messages and supplies. Even though she never carried a gun, she still could have been executed. It was ironic that she had been condemned to spend God knows how long in the prison camp because she had protested the lack of food that had claimed the life of her small son. Then she had been hungry. Now she was close to starving.

Some of the gaps were wide enough for her to stick her hand through and beg for food. Sometimes she actually got some from sympathetic Cubans. They were careful, though. They didn’t want to attract attention and wind up in the camp themselves.

Several priests routinely passed out charity along with a few civilians. In particular, an old man named Luis would bring her pieces of cheese and chunks of stale bread. She could not count on Luis, however. He was old and scrawny. He would talk to her in a respectful manner and she loved him for that. He had a shoe repair shop a mile from the camp. She knew where it was and he had told her to run to it if she could ever escape from the hell she was in.

Maria was afraid that she would spend the rest of her life in the camp. People came in but the only ones who left were carried out as cadavers. She could see happy people walking by the camp and a number of wealthy men and women riding in carriages. She had never seen a zoo, but she knew what one was. To the rich Spaniards, she and the others were little more than animals in a zoo. Somewhere, life was normal. Just not here.

Luis was not the only man in her life. One of the guards, a heavyset man named Ramon, had made it plain to her that she would have a much better life if only she would become his mistress or at least let him fuck her every now and then. His comments told her that she was still reasonably attractive. She was not light-skinned like a Spaniard or dark like a Negro. She was somewhere in between and she knew that men found her color fascinating. As a child she’d asked her mother whether she was Mexican, Indian, or Negro and her mother had laughed and said everything.

A lot of the women in the camp had succumbed to Ramon and other guards. So far, she had not given in, although every day in the camp made it more and more difficult. At least what Ramon wanted was straightforward. There were two other guards who took great delight in watching the women relieve themselves in the disgusting latrine trenches. She and some of the others shuddered at what they might want to do with a woman.

By telling her he would provide a place of refuge, Luis had given her the germ of an idea. Even though the thought of it disgusted her, she would use Ramon’s lust to gain her freedom. She turned away from the stockade and went to her sleeping mat. The old woman who had been sleeping beside her had died during the night, which was a further shame. For the last few days, when the woman had slipped into a coma and death was inevitable, Maria had been using her food ticket. The thought that she was depriving the old woman of a little nutrition disturbed her only a little. The woman was unconscious and dying. Perhaps a doctor could have fed her and saved her, but there were no doctors available.

Maria made up her mind. She walked over to the guard shack. It was by one of the several gates that led to the outside world. Ramon saw her and smiled. She gestured for him to come closer.

“You win,” she said. “I want food. You can have me tonight and any other night if you will keep getting me food. And yes, I will do whatever you want, but for you and you alone.”

Ramon grinned hugely. “Come into the shack and we’ll close the deal.”

She smiled, hoping it was warm and seductive. “No. I am not a street whore who will do it standing up in that shack. And I will certainly not do it where people can see. You will find us privacy. I will come tonight when it’s dark and you will take me out of this stockade and into the fresh air. Bring a blanket and we will do it on the ground where no one can see us, and you can have me as often and any way you wish.”

Before he could answer, she undid the strings on her blouse and exposed her breasts. They were still full enough to make his eyes widen. “All right,” he stammered and she almost laughed in his face.

* * *

It was dark when she made it to the guard shack. Ramon was waiting and he took her by the arm and through the gate. True to his word, he had found a secluded spot. Another guard, Carlos, was watching to make sure that no officer came and interrupted their fun. She sucked in the clearer air of the world outside the prison. She would not go back to the camp alive.

Ramon turned her and kissed her on the lips. He was aroused and in a rush. “Slowly,” she said. “Take off your shirt and kneel on the blanket. You can watch me.”

He did as he was told. He had even taken steps to clean up. He didn’t smell quite as bad as he normally did. She glanced around for a package of anything resembling food. There was nothing and she was convinced that he was not going to pay her and would even force her to service the other guard, Carlos.

Ramon saw her looking. “Don’t worry, Carlos will bring the bag of food when we’re done. Now it is your turn.”

She forced a smile and again exposed her breasts. She guided his mouth onto them and made pretend sounds of pleasure. She pushed him on his back and climbed on to his chest. “Close your eyes,” she said and he complied.

She took the small sand-filled sack from behind her waist. She wished she had a knife, but the sand would have to do. She whipped the sack quickly and smashed it against the side of Ramon’s head, just as he opened his eyes to see what was happening. The thud made by the sack’s contact with Ramon’s skull was sickening. His eyes widened for a second and rolled back into his head. She checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. She had just killed a man and she wanted to throw up, but there wasn’t time.

Maria dressed quickly. In a few minutes Carlos would become curious, wondering how soon his turn would come, and check on them. She tucked the sack back in her waistband.

She smiled as thunder rumbled and it started to rain heavily. The sudden shower masked her dash across the road and into the streets of Havana. She ran down the streets to where Luis had his shop. She was about to pound on the door when she saw him looking at her through the glassless window. “It’s about time,” he said as he let her in.

* * *

Maximo Gomez was sick of war. Gomez had been born in the Dominican Republic in 1836. He had been converted to the cause of Cuban independence shortly after his arrival in 1868. Prior to that he had served as an officer in the Spanish Army and was now a major general in the Cuban rebel forces. His unfulfilled goal was to drive the Spanish out of Cuba.

Unless the military situation changed dramatically, this would not happen anytime soon. There was a truce in effect between the Spanish and the rebel governments that was based on mutual exhaustion. Unless the balance of power changed, nothing decisive would occur.

Gomez greeted his guest at his headquarters outside the city of Camaguay, which was located east of the middle of the island. His guest was Jose Marti, the young firebrand who was considered by many to be the soul of the revolution. Gomez was not so certain. Yes, the well-educated and highly articulate Marti attracted many followers, but they were not always fighters. Marti himself had never been in battle, while Gomez had seen many, perhaps too many. He fully understood the weaknesses of his rebel army. They had few weapons and precious little ammunition. They also lacked discipline. The only weapon they were skilled in was the machete and he’d ordered them to use it as effectively as possible. On several occasions, hordes of Cubans wielding machetes had panicked Spanish regulars, letting the rebels swarm their ranks, hacking and chopping.

“Will the Americans fight for us?” Gomez bluntly asked as he twisted his trade-mark handlebar mustache.

Marti shook his head. “The Americans will fight for themselves. If we are useful, then they will support us. Our friend Cardanzo spoke with their secretary of state and it is his impression that President Custer’s government would like to drive Spain out of Cuba and annex it themselves. Their Secretary Blaine hinted at Cuba being the foundation of an overseas American empire.”

“Then why should we help them?”

“Custer and Blaine do not necessarily have the support of their Congress in this endeavor. There are many in that body who do not want to acquire any territory outside America’s continental boundaries. There was concern when the U.S. bought Alaska from the Russians and that was only fifteen years ago. Nothing has changed. Custer and Blaine have gotten their war and it is likely that they will expel the Spaniards, but it is not certain that they will replace them permanently.”

Gomez nodded. “Then you’re saying we should fight on the side of the United States and gain their undying gratitude.”

“Yes, General. It will definitely strengthen our hand with their Congress if we are perceived as the brave independence fighters. Actually, General, we don’t have much of a choice. I do not see us standing aside while two powers fight over Cuba. Nor do I see us fighting for Spain to keep the Americans out. Even if we exchange Spanish sovereignty for American, I do not think it would be for very long. Besides, the Americans would definitely be the more gentle overlords.”

Gomez snarled. “I do not want any foreign overlords in Cuba. But you’re right. We must be pragmatic. Yes, my forces will ally with the Americans if and when they arrive. May I assume that you will be active in Washington instead of here in Cuba?”

Marti smiled and ignored the implied slur on his lack of military experience. “I will do what I do best and that is to be an advocate for a free Cuba.”