1882: Custer in Chains (31 page)

* * *

The last thing in the world Governor-General Vlas Villate needed was an uninvited visitor from the Vatican. His once large army was in disarray and falling back as best it could to relative safety behind the impressive but still incomplete defenses of Havana. The Americans had begun their advance and, although moving slowly, appeared unstoppable. His army would fight them, and slow them along the road, but most of the army was demoralized and confused. A number of men and officers had not yet arrived from Matanzas, and that included his field commander, General Valeriano Weyler.

“Admit him,” Villate snarled to a secretary who scurried to an anteroom. He returned in a minute and announced the presence of Monsignor Eugenio Bernardi. The monsignor was short and plump, leading Villate to guess that the man had taken no vow that would result in his missing meals. Celibacy too was probably honored in the breach, as it was with so many priests.

They shook hands formally and Villate offered wine, which the priest eagerly accepted. “I represent Rome,” he said a trifle pompously.

“And what does Rome say?” Villate responded sarcastically.

Bernardi either ignored the jibe or it went over his head. “His Holiness, Pope Leo XIII, is very concerned about the war with the United States. As you are well aware, the Holy Father is also very worried about the role of the papacy in a changing and modern world. While not espousing certain liberal tendencies, he wants the role of the pope to be important and relevant in the world. He realizes that the many new nations in the world, and that includes the United States, will never be as influenced by the Church as they might have been in the past. However, he does wish the Holy See to take and maintain a leadership role. Therefore, he wishes this war concluded quickly and he does wish the United States defeated.”

“As do I, Monsignor,” Villate said with a hint of exasperation. “But pray tell me, how does the pope wish me to bring this to fruition?”

“The United States is growing and with it the curses of Protestantism, secularism, and democracy. We cannot hope to defeat Protestantism, while the thought of democracy is frightening to the Church. Should democracy take hold in a Catholic land like Cuba, then the island might well be lost to the faith. It will be even more tragic if secularism were to become the law of the land as it is in the United States. The Church must remain as the established church in Cuba, and that can only occur with Spain as its governor. Cuba, therefore, must be defended to the last. I should mention that King Alfonso agrees with that assessment.”

Villate stood and walked around his office. Bernardi remained seated, a slight that Villate chose to ignore. “And what material aid will the pope provide?” Villate asked with unconcealed anger. “The Holy Father no longer possesses even the limited military resources of the Papal States. He is confined to the Vatican. I need soldiers, weapons, and ammunition, and I wouldn’t mind having a number of modern warships either. Please do not say that you will keep us in your prayers. There are enough people praying for our victory and still the Americans are advancing after defeating the best that Spain has.”

Bernardi nodded smugly. “Sir, I have it on good authority that a relief army will soon be brought by a Spanish fleet.”

Villate could not help himself. He laughed out loud, startling the priest. “Spare me, Monsignor, and do not insult me. Just this morning I received a cable from our beloved King Alfonso. In it he reiterated that there would be no relief and that the Spanish forces in Cuba are on their own.”

Now Bernardi appeared shaken. “That is not what I understood when I left Rome.”

“I don’t know your sources, but perhaps they also believe in fairy tales. Unfortunately, what I just told you is the truth. However, I have a wonderful idea, Monsignor, and it is one that the Holy Father should appreciate. There are many, many priests in and around Havana, far more than our poor city needs. You will gather them up and issue them weapons so they can fight the enemy, smiting him hip and thigh.”

“You should not mock the desires of the Holy Father.”

“I am not mocking, Monsignor. I am very serious. In fact, I am deadly serious. If the priests will not fight, then organize them into labor battalions that can work building the defenses of Havana. And that would include nuns as well. From what I’ve seen, many of them can use the exercise.”

A captain entered the room, earning glares from both men. He handed Villate a note, which he quickly read. “Well, well, I do have a bit of good news, although it is far from anything that will ensure victory. It appears that General Weyler and several thousand of his men have managed to find their way back to Havana and even now are entering the city.”

“Praise the Lord.”

Praise the Lord, indeed, Villate thought as the pudgy little prelate departed after swallowing the last of the wine. He didn’t even give the governor-general his blessing. Villate wondered just how many priests and nuns would show up to fight or form labor battalions. Not many he thought. On the other hand, Weyler’s return, along with at least part of his army, meant that he might have enough men to defeat an American attack. If he could turn the war into a siege for Havana, perhaps he could bleed the Americans. Perhaps also, the fevers would strike the damn Yankees and kill them all. The next time he saw Monsignor Bernardi, he would request that the overweight prelate pray for just that. Maybe he would ask that the priest go on a fast for victory, and that thought made him smile.

* * *

Kendrick’s skin had been darkened by oils and his head was completely shaven. Juana thought he looked like a bald pirate. Kendrick thought he looked like a complete ass. The disguise, rude as it was, would enable him to wander the streets of Havana without being noticed. Looking like he did, he was almost invisible in the crowds. He also carried a pistol in a holster under his shirt and a dagger in his boot. The attempt on their lives by Gilberto Salazar’s two assassins was fresh in his mind. He had the vague but comforting feeling that one of Rojas’ men was following him and protecting him from a distance.

The disaster at Matanzas had stunned the population of Havana, many of whom were very pro-Spanish. They were appalled at the thought of an American victory and the possible installation of the rebels as the new government. They could see their comfortable and centuries-old way of life disintegrating. Those who claimed Spanish heritage and nobility could see exile at best if the Americans won and a terrible death if the mob did.

Kendrick’s only fear was that someone would want to talk to him. His Spanish had improved dramatically, but he still spoke it like a foreigner. He carried identification that said he was a laborer for Dunfield and an immigrant from Argentina. Nobody, however, seemed the slightest bit interested in him. Nobody even looked when he walked to the edge of the water and stared at the recovery work being done on the hulk of the
Vitoria
. Somebody had finally realized that the ruined battleship carried a number of heavy guns that could be put to good use on the walls of Havana. Credit for the effort was being given to a naval officer named Cisneros. Kendrick recalled that he was the man who’d actually captured Custer. The shells too would be salvaged, but the powder was soaked and useless unless the Spaniards could figure out some way of drying it out.

The thought of those six- and five-inch guns being turned against American soldiers chilled him. Did General Hancock know, and, if not, how would he get word to him?

Chilling too was the thought of having dinner with George Armstrong Custer. Although sobered and cleaned up, the President of the United States was still a boor. He seemed to think that the world awaited his resurrection, and was in an exultant mood as the American army progressed towards Havana. Kendrick would take mental notes and write what he hoped would be a fair and impartial report.

As he returned and began the long walk back, a column of soldiers marched by. He used the word “marched” loosely. They were in ragged formation, looked exhausted and, worse for Spain, appeared defeated. He quickly realized that these were the latest to make it back from Matanzas.

As they column trudged by, he estimated their numbers at several thousand and wondered if there were other columns or if this was all that remained of the Matanzas army. There was a scattering of cheers as General Weyler rode by on an old horse. Kendrick stiffened with surprise as he saw the man riding directly behind Weyler. It was Gilberto Salazar. He fumed. Of course the son of a bitch would survive the disaster at Matanzas. Now he and Juana would have to be doubly, trebly, careful. Maybe he could get her out of the city and down to the American lines.

Maybe he could grow wings and fly.

* * *

Sarah took off the filthy smock that she wore over her army uniform and held it under the water of the stream that flowed into the bay. The dried blood and other matter loosened and fell away, staining the water a vile shade of pink. She shook the cloth and the water reddened more. She kept squeezing and shaking until nothing more came off. Satisfied that she’d done the best she could, she wrung it out and hung it over a branch. The day was hot and not overly humid, and it should dry quickly.

She sensed rather than heard or saw Martin standing behind her. “Do you always watch a lady doing her laundry?”

“Every chance I get. Now, are you going to jump in that stream or not?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m filthy, body and soul. I would sell everything I own for a bath. On second thought, I think I
will
jump in.”

She didn’t actually jump. Rather, she took off her shoes and stockings, stepped into the clear running water and sat down. “This is wonderful. Care to join me?”

Martin laughed. “The minute I do, General Hancock will come strolling by or Benteen will call for an immediate meeting.”

“Turn around and watch out for me,” she ordered. She slipped the military tunic up and washed underneath as best she could. She then did the same for her trousers, lowering them down to her ankles and letting the fresh water do its magic.

A couple of moments later she straightened her clothes and stood up. Her clothes were soaking wet, but they would quickly dry. In the meantime, being cold was a delicious feeling.

“Did you peek?”

“Only a little,” he admitted with a smile. “The water distorted the picture. From what I did see, however, you are lovely.”

“Swine,” she said gently. “When are you leaving for Havana?”

“In about an hour. The First Maryland and the rest of my brigade will bring up the rear, at least for a while. Both Benteen and Hancock have been showering me with compliments, which means I’ll be moving up to the front in a little while.”

“I prefer you at the rear. At least there it’s a little safer.”

“What about you?”

“The entire medical contingent will be moving out by ship to either Santa Cruz del Norte or Santa Maria del Mar, which is even closer to Havana.”

Martin whistled in surprise. “Somebody’s optimistic. We haven’t taken del Mar yet.”

“All generals should be optimists, Martin. At any rate, our seriously wounded are en route to Florida and the more lightly wounded are being returned to limited duty. In a little while, Matanzas and all the killing done there will be but a fading memory.”

“I don’t think so,” he corrected. “Too many dead and wounded to make it simply go away. Granted the fighting here pales in comparison with the great battles of the Civil War, but there has been some nasty bloodletting here at Matanzas.” He mentally kicked himself as he thought of her brother.

Sarah saw and understood the expression on Martin’s face. “Don’t worry about Jack. My brother is improving and even coming to grips with the fact of his lost hand. He told me that now he’ll never have to work hard again in his life, and that all of the young ladies in Washington will throw themselves at him because he’s a heroic wounded veteran.”

“Would you throw yourself at me if I was wounded?”

“I thought I already had. You had a number of cuts and bruises when I saw you in your tent.”

“Which is nothing compared with what others, like your brother, are having to endure,” he said grimly.

Sarah shuddered and Martin held her arm. He was still afraid to show too much affection where others might see them. Then he decided, the hell with it, and held her tightly to him. He simply didn’t care if anybody noticed. Nor did she. She held him tightly and wept. Her body convulsed against his and he wanted to sweep her up and take her away to someplace safe.

She pushed him away. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said as she dried her eyes with a handkerchief that was none too clean. “On the other hand, I truly don’t care what other people think. Do you want me to report us to General Hancock? Perhaps he’ll send us back to the States in disgrace. I think I might like that.”

* * *

The roadblock was primitive but strong. Spanish soldiers were arrayed on either side of the narrow dirt road and heavily dug in. They were also well camouflaged and hidden by thick brush. An advancing force would have to be within a couple of hundred yards before they would be seen. Assuming, that is, that the Spanish troops had enough discipline to stay still, thought Diego Valdez. His lover, Maria Vasquez, had scouted them and estimated their number at about five hundred—a battalion, nothing more, and they had no cannons. Still, they could inflict casualties on his allies, the Americans, if they were not forewarned. He’d already sent a couple of runners back to the leading American commander, a General Chamberlain. The American had the reputation of being a canny veteran and one who would not reject advice from a mere Cuban. Too many Americans would, he thought ruefully.

There. He could see the head of the American column. Skirmishers and scouts led it, looking and probing for an enemy. Diego smiled. Even if he hadn’t warned them, the Americans were ready.

Blue-coated soldiers advanced and moved out onto the fields that led to the Spaniards who were still hidden but would have to emerge to fight. Diego wondered at the idiocy of the Spanish wearing white to go to war. Of course, the Americans wearing blue wasn’t all that much smarter. Both sides were a long ways from invisible. He had about a hundred men and they were all dressed in rags that had faded to the color of the earth.