1882: Custer in Chains (16 page)

“Ah, there you are,” Sergeant Haney said cheerfully, ignoring the carnage around him. “I was sent down here on a fool’s errand to assist one of our men who broke his leg tripping over a log. Somehow, I think the good colonel had me come here to check on you instead.”

Sarah’s spirits lifted. Martin was clearly safe. “Tell the good colonel that despite what you see, everything is under control.”

“Truth be told, Mrs. Damon, I’ve seen very much worse. Compared with what I took part in as the Civil War was ending, this is a church picnic. Sadly it’ll likely be much worse before this war is over.”

“Then it’s good we’ve had a chance to practice, Sergeant, and when we’re just talking like old friends and there’s none of this damned rank to get in the way, do you think you could manage to call me Sarah?”

Haney grinned. “I might manage it, Sarah, but only if you tell me where I might find that statuesque paragon of Polish beauty, Ruth Holden?”

Sarah laughed and gave him directions. Haney found Ruth scrubbing the blood off her arms. Unlike Sarah, Ruth had indeed participated in a couple of amputations and stitched up some wounds herself.

“You look wonderful, Ruth.”

“Go to hell, Haney. I look like a bloody monster and you know it.”

She took his hand and they went outside and behind the tent. She kissed him fiercely. “Surprised?” she asked.

“Delighted, is more the word,” he said and kissed her back. As his hand slid down and grasped her bottom, she pushed him away.

“This is neither the time nor the place, although I admit that helping save lives is exhilarating.”

“If I find you a place, will you make the time?”

“Of course,” she smiled and patted him on the cheek. “We international refugees have to stick together, don’t we?”

* * *

George Armstrong Custer read the reports with dismay. “Where the hell was our navy?” he shouted. “Several hundreds dead and wounded and a warship sunk. And let’s not forget the ammunition that was blown to hell.”

Secretary of the Navy William Hunt was sweating and not from any heat. The United States Navy had just failed its first test in this new war. “We had knowledge that the Spanish ships were sailing, but we didn’t know their destination. Attacking Matanzas certainly was one thought, but it was also deemed likely that they would strike at our second transport fleet gathering at St. Augustine. I thought it wise that we not split our major forces, which might have resulted in their two capital ships attacking and sinking one of ours. We thought the more likely target would be Florida, but we were clearly wrong. I take full responsibility for this disaster. If you want my resignation you shall have it within the hour.”

Custer thought for only a second. Libbie had told him not to fire him or accept Hunt’s resignation lest their political enemies claim that there was chaos in the Custer administration. Besides, there was agreement that Hunt was by far the best man to run the growing navy. Custer concurred. Hunt was too valuable. We learn from our mistakes, he thought. The Navy needed more ships.

“Sir, I do not want your resignation. What I truly want is for you to take control of your part of this war. We have three superior warships to Spain’s two. We have to maneuver so that we outnumber them. Where are the Spanish ships now?”

“We don’t know. They don’t carry much coal, so we believe they are still in Cuban waters. Sadly, there are literally scores of places where they could hide that are close to both Havana and Matanzas and receive that coal.”

Custer took a swallow of the Jim Beam bourbon he’d been favoring lately. He’d found it smoother than the recently established Jack Daniels brand of whisky. “And that is why every nervous Nellie along the Atlantic coast is demanding Navy warships to protect their front lawns, and that is why Congress has forced me to send scores of our newly commissioned auxiliary ships to protect every little town that has a fishing boat from a Spanish fleet that exists only in nightmares. Jesus, what a way to run a war! When the hell are we ever going to move out and take Havana?”

Hunt wiped his brow with a large white handkerchief. “That cannot happen until we have sufficient forces and sufficient supplies. The Army doesn’t want to send reinforcements until the Spanish battleships have been either sunk or blockaded or otherwise neutralized. Of immediate importance, the recent Spanish assault caused an explosion that destroyed much of our reserve ammunition. There is a real fear that an attack by the Spanish army would find our men defenseless. That means that the Army’s first priority is ammunition, and not reinforcements. Any move to Havana will have to be delayed until those problems are solved.”

“Shit and double shit!” Custer raged. He paced around his office a few times, took a deep breath and seemed to regain control. “If this situation doesn’t improve, Hunt, both of us are going to look like laughingstock jackasses. And it doesn’t help that this Kendrick asshole is down in Cuba filing stories about the Army’s bravery under adverse circumstances—circumstances that he implies are all my fault. And once again, he’s promoted his old buddy Ryder as a hero. What the hell, all Ryder did was beat off an ineffective probe by a small bunch of Spanish skirmishers. It’s not like he’s winning the war by himself.”

Secretary of State Blaine entered unbidden and took a seat. “At least it’s a small victory in a night of disasters. The public needs a hero, so let them have one. And don’t forget that the first photos of the expedition will be arriving soon and many of them will be grim. The newspapers have chartered small, fast ships to take the plates from Cuba as quickly as possible so they can be developed before they rot in the heat.”

Custer looked stunned by the idea of such negative publicity. “Is there any way we can stop them? We all know that a battlefield is a dismal and ugly place. If the American people see what is happening in Cuba, they may turn against the war.”

For once he makes sense, thought Blaine, however futile the thought. “The last thing we want to try to do is impose censorship. That will convince our enemies that we have something to hide. We do, of course, and that is the military’s incompetence, but we can’t let anyone in on that little secret. In the meantime, I will be having a meeting with your esteemed political rival, Winfield Scott Hancock, on the future of Cuba if we should manage to defeat the Spaniards.”

Custer poured a large splash of bourbon into his now empty glass. “And what does that fat pile of shit want?”

Blaine smiled. Custer was feeling overwhelmed and confused. He was also getting drunk. One of these days, it was inevitable that he would make an utter fool out of himself, which would leave the door to the next Republican nomination wide open to one James G. Blaine.

“Hancock will agree to change the date of our leaving an American-occupied Cuba from three years to five years if you will consider giving him a field command should the situation warrant it.”

“When hell freezes over,” Custer snarled. “Wait, is he saying that Nelson Miles is going to fail?”

Blaine shrugged and Hunt looked away. “Miles has never commanded a large force in his life and he’s in his fifties. Hardly ancient but he may be too old to learn.”

“And Hancock isn’t? Hell, he’s older than Miles by a few years.”

“Six or so,” said Blaine, “but he’s much younger in his attitude and has a world of experience.”

“Which he can stuff up his ass! I’ll call on him if and when the situation becomes truly desperate and not a moment sooner.”

“Perhaps I can provide a hint of good news,” said Hunt. “We have some naval personnel off Matanzas with a new weapon. When we find the Spanish capital ships, it is possible that we will be able to use it to sink or damage at least one of them.”

Custer tried to blink away the effects of the alcohol. It didn’t work. He was starting to slur his words. “What sort of weapon?”

Hunt smiled. “It’s called a torpedo.”

* * *

Juana never thought that her small foray into the world of military intelligence would instantly result in Spain’s defeat. Instead and to her dismay, it seemed like the warning that the Spanish battleships had sailed had been misinterpreted. All Havana was cheering, drinking, and dancing in the streets. The camp of the hated gringos had been pounded into rubble and the ground soaked with gringo blood. When later word came that an American warship had been smashed to kindling by Spain’s warships, the celebrations began anew. She did notice that not everyone joined in the party. Many Cubans were silent and reflective. They would revel only when the Spanish were gone.

Still, she was certain that she had done the right thing and would do it again in a heartbeat. She heard voices. Her husband was home. He opened the door to her apartment and strode in, smiling proudly.

“Victory is ours, noble wife.”

“It’s considered polite to knock when entering a lady’s rooms.”

Salazar laughed. “You are not a lady and I am too drunk to care. The Americans have been smashed. In a very short while we will launch a huge attack against them and drive them into the sea. It is my fondest hope that your lover, Kendrick, will either drown or die running and his body eaten by the land crabs. I convinced General Weyler that I had pressing business here and that the war could spare me for a few days. Therefore, here I am to dispense long overdue justice, you whore. I know you were romping in bed with that bastard Kendrick.”

Juana was outraged. “How can you pretend to be betrayed when you ordered me to his room? And thank God you did. If it hadn’t been for your insane wishes, I never would have known the pleasures he gave me. Pleasures, I might add, that you were incapable of providing me.”

“You fucking bitch,” he screamed and slapped her across the face with enough violence to split her lip. She fell to the floor and he kicked her in the stomach. When she tried to get up, he punched her on the side of her head. He tore her dress down to her waist and squeezed her breasts until she groaned. “Did he like your tiny little tits? You’re so small you’re not even a woman. You must be a boy.”

Juana stared in horror as he drew his sword. “I should slice you to ribbons and send you to Kendrick piece by bloody piece. But no, I am not that foolish. Your beloved uncle would condemn me and I would have to perform annoying penances. Therefore, you will live, but you will indeed know pain.”

With that he began to slap her on her bare back and shoulders with the flat of the sword. She bit her lip and tried to stifle the pain but it was no use. She began to moan and then to scream.

Salazar laughed as her howls carried through the house. “Don’t think for a minute that one of your more loyal servants will stop me. I sent them all away.”

Despite the fact that he was not using the blade, she could feel that she’d been cut and that blood was flowing down her body. Finally, he stopped, spat on her as she cowered on the floor. He laughed at her and left.

Juana lay there and tried to gather her strength and her wits. The servants would be back shortly, but she would not call out for their help. None of them should see her like this. She pulled herself to her feet and staggered into her bathroom. The mirror showed the extent of the damage. From the neck down her body was a mass of bruises and small cuts. She was already in intense pain, but she would endure it. She had no choice if she was going to win against her husband.

Juana managed to smile even though her lip hurt where she’d been struck. It would be swollen and discolored for a number of days, but she would explain it away as a horseback riding accident. No one would believe her, of course, but it didn’t matter. Husbands beat their wives as a matter of course and it was well known that she and Gilberto were not on the best of terms. Properly combed, her hair would cover where he had struck her on the head. She carefully washed away the blood on her face and body, and then changed her dress. Her body was beginning to stiffen and ache. It would take all of her willpower to not limp or show pain, but she would not give her bastard husband or any of his friends the opportunity to gloat.

Juana realized that Gilberto hadn’t accused her of spying or relaying information. The fool only thought that he’d been cuckolded, nothing more. She would have to find more information to relay to the Americans. Only this time she prayed that they would make better use of it.

* * *

Alfonso XII, King of Spain, walked through the palace garden. It should have been filled with luxuriant growth, an enormous bouquet of radiant and multi-colored flowers tended by faithful servants. But no. Instead of life, everything was drab and brown, lifeless caricatures of flowers. It occurred to him that what had once been the mightiest empire on the earth couldn’t even properly water a garden and keep flowers alive.

The king plucked at a dry twig and broke it. “Still nothing from the Americans? Still no indication on their part of a willingness to negotiate?”

Prime Minister Antonio Canovas stared impassively at a point over the king’s shoulder. “No, majesty.”

“And why not?” the king demanded. “Haven’t we defeated them on land and sea?”

“Actually, sir, we’ve done no such thing. We gave them a bloody nose and embarrassed them, but their forces are still largely intact and growing. So too are ours,” he added hastily.

The king acknowledged that fact. Another flotilla of transports had departed for Cuban waters only a couple of days earlier. It would bring an additional fifteen thousand soldiers to Cuba along with supplies of weapons and ammunition. What it could not bring was fighting spirit. The Spanish army was much like the barren garden in which he wandered.

Alfonso thought of the men in the army he’d reviewed just before they sailed away. Fifteen thousand men had been dressed in bright white uniforms and looking like soldiers, but only from a distance. Up close, their uniforms were worn and didn’t quite fit. Many soldiers were old and some were astonishingly young, only boys. Nor were their weapons any better. The rifles were new enough, but he saw dirt and rust, which showed that they were not being maintained. He asked himself—what kind of soldier doesn’t clean his rifle, the thing that might save his life? This war had to end before the façade of Spanish military might collapsed.