1882: Custer in Chains (37 page)

“Forlorn hope my ass, General. I plan on doing nothing forlorn. I plan on surviving and getting a medal pinned on my chest by representatives of a grateful nation and I won’t even care if that representative is that asshole, Custer.”

“If you can pull it off, Captain, a lot of people will be eternally grateful, although maybe not some people in Washington. How far along are your plans?”

Lang grinned. “They’re getting there. In the meantime, since rank has its privileges, may I assume that you have something stronger than warm water in this tent?”

* * *

Monsignor Bernardi entered the office of Governor-General Villate with a feeling of trepidation. He had been doing God’s work and was proud of his efforts. There was concern, however, that others might not see it in that light. The weak and the misguided always misunderstood him and the need to take strong measures against those who would defy the Church. He was also less than thrilled to find Bishop Campoy present as well. Campoy was not one of his supporters. He believed in accommodation, while Bernardi believed in confrontation with the Devil and the destruction of God’s enemies.

He was invited to be seated but was offered nothing in the way of refreshments. That did not bode well. The bishop was clearly uncomfortable. “Your zeal is causing problems for both the Church and Cuba,” he said.

“I find that hard to believe, sir. I am working for God and Spain. I have recruited, trained, and armed a force of men that will be instrumental in pushing back the Americans, as well as for keeping Cuba part of Spain and in the bosom of Our Holy Mother Church.”

Campoy shook his head. “And for that you needed to
kill
that boy?”

Which
boy? wondered Bernardi. There had been more than a few. Then he recalled. “The person you refer to as a boy was a deserter. He and a pack of other young wolves are living in the streets of Havana by stealing and thumbing their noses at the government and the church. We meted out justice.”

Campoy continued. “Did justice include torturing that boy? He could not have been older than ten. I saw his body. He had been whipped and his flesh was covered with burns. Why did that happen? Why in the name of God did you think such atrocities were necessary?”

Bernardi was undeterred. “We were trying to find out where the others in the pack of devils were hiding. We did, of course, but it took a while to pry the information from him. He was a stubborn little savage.”

Villate leaned forward. He smelled the monsignor’s blood in the water and it pleased him. “By that time, I assume that the others in the pack of devils had already left that place if indeed they ever returned to it. Am I not correct?”

“You are,” Bernardi admitted grudgingly. “And you are also correct that we have no idea where they are right now.”

“How many men have deserted your legion because of this murder?” Villate asked.

“A few,” Bernardi said softly and after a moment’s hesitation.

“A few?” snapped Villate. “The true number is more like fifty and you know it. Fifty men have either disappeared into the slums of Havana or have gone over to the rebels. And how many others disapprove but have not deserted but will no longer fight as hard as they had been willing to for God and King. What you did was distasteful even to those extremely devout Catholics you and Salazar have recruited.”

“It was justice,” Bernardi responded sullenly. “And justice is sometimes very harsh.”

The bishop shook his head. “Justice, Monsignor, consists of a trial and an appropriate punishment, but only if the accused is found guilty according to the laws of Spain. There was no trial, only a punishment. What you did was little more than a lynching and it was made worse because you implied that the church supported your actions.”

“I am authorized to defend the faith against its enemies,” Bernardi snapped. “You’ve seen my credentials from Rome.”

Bishop Campoy smiled coldly. “Really? Both the Spanish government and the Vatican have had many more important things to do than verify your credentials, but we finally did get a response to our cables. Neither His Holiness nor anyone else in the Vatican acknowledges any association with you. We were told that you were a wide-eyed radical priest who opposed reforms the Pope was trying to institute. They said that whatever credentials you showed indicating otherwise are fraudulent. We accept that you are indeed a monsignor, but you do not represent the will of Pope Leo XIII.”

Bernardi started to sputter. “I represent the wishes of many Roman Catholics in opposing the spread of heresy by any means necessary.”

“Have you considered that Spain might lose this war?” Villate asked. “We are indeed losing it right now. Our army is penned in and our fleet has been destroyed. The enemy is getting stronger while we grow weaker. When the war ends, the Americans will demand their pound of flesh and that includes Diego Salazar. If your people commit further atrocities, that pound of flesh may include you as well. Salazar will be given more justice by the Americans than you gave that boy. Salazar will likely be sent to either Washington or New York and put on trial for the murders of those men on the
Eldorado
and then hanged. If you are still alive and here in Havana, you may also be tried for the murder of that boy. Perhaps one or two of those fifty new deserters who will no longer be on hand to defend us will testify against you. Did you know, by the way, that the boy had been sodomized as well as beaten?”

Campoy was shocked. “Dear God.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Bernardi insisted.

“Perhaps not directly,” said Campoy, “but you could be guilty of negligence, which is both a crime and a sin.”

Bernardi looked at the two men. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re trying to cover yourselves for the time when the Americans take over Havana.”

To his surprise, Villate laughed. “Of course, you fool. I do not wish to be hanged by either the United States for atrocities, or by our weak King Alfonso for having lost his precious Cuba. If you are thinking that you will be blamed at least in part for the debacle that is coming, then you are absolutely correct. I strongly urge you, if you wish to survive, to change your way of doing things. In short, no more executions. At least none without my express permission.”

“I understand,” said Bernardi.

Campoy leaned forward. “And if you have them on you, I will take those so-called credentials.”

* * *

“A fleet,” Secretary of State James Blaine exulted. “We’ve captured a bloody fleet. Now we can go on and take more of Spain’s decaying empire.”

The telegram from Cuba had just come in announcing that five Spanish cruisers were now in American hands. The public, of course, had found out about it too. There were no secrets in Washington and newspapers were already trumpeting the news that a Spanish fleet in Cuba had surrendered to an American fleet. The battle had been brief and there had been no American casualties, which made the triumph even more exciting. All throughout the nation’s capital, church bells were ringing and throngs of people were gathering around the White House. Fireworks displays were planned for the evening in Washington, New York, and other major cities. More than a victory, it was a hope that the now heartily disliked war would soon be over. The Washington
Post
said that an American noose was tightening around the throats of Spain and Cuba. Blaine thought the prose was too florid but otherwise liked the sentiments.

Blaine and the others were in Blaine’s office in the State, War, and Navy Building just west of the White House. Blaine, along with Vice President Chester Arthur and the secretaries of Navy and War, had chosen this site for their meeting to avoid the annoying presence of Libbie Custer. Her demands for negotiating or winning the release of her husband were becoming more and more strident, and there were growing concerns about her mental stability.

“Five small ships is hardly a fleet,” said Arthur drily. “And besides, what other Spanish properties would you wish us to annex?”

“The Philippines and Guam come to mind,” Blaine said cheerfully. “Without a navy, the Spaniards can’t very well defend them from us, can they?”

“Nor could we hold them, even if we managed to take them,” responded Naval Secretary William Hunt. “Those lands are thousands of miles away and have been under Spanish rule for centuries. We would have to send our ships halfway around the world on a journey that could take as long as four months each way. You forget that almost all of our warships are in the Atlantic, and not the Pacific. Maybe someday we’ll build a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, but right now that’s nothing more than an engineer’s fantasy.”

Arthur agreed with Hunt. “If we send what navy we have across the Pacific, we would have no ships here to protect us from European predators. England could take the Philippines from us in an instant, while France could exact a bloody vengeance if she so wished. We are a long ways from being a great power, although having a modern navy would be a major step forward.”

“So too would a canal across the Isthmus,” said Hunt.

Blaine was forced to agree, but he had further grand ideas. “Then we must have a two-ocean navy. If Great Britain can have a navy scattered all over the earth, then we surely must be able to have real squadrons in both oceans and not the handful of relics we currently possess. Gentlemen, we are entering into a new era of American power. If we are going to be a serious player on the world stage, then we must possess the tools.”

“Don’t you mean props?” the vice president chided gently. “All of that will cost money. If our new colonies turn out to be a fiscal drain, the voters will turn against us in a heartbeat.”

Secretary of War Lincoln added. “We are already paying a price. More than a thousand of our young men are dead with at least twice that many wounded, and the fever season is just beginning. I will grant you that these numbers are tiny in comparison with the great battles of Gettysburg, Shiloh, and elsewhere, but those were many years ago and today’s numbers represent real people whose death must mean something in order to be justified.”

“A price must be paid for an empire,” said Blaine dismissively. “But what if I suggest a free entry to our Pacific empire? I’m thinking, of course about Hawaii. It’s been said that the islands are incredibly lovely, but they are ruled by a backward tribal hierarchy. We have a treaty with them that grants the islands favored status for trading, but the Americans who have settled there have been agitating for something better. I suggest we give them their wishes. I also suggest that we take the islands before someone else does.”

Hunt smiled. Such a bloodless conquest would legitimize his plans for an expanded navy. “We could take the islands with the small and old warships we have out there, and utilize only a regiment or two of volunteers from California to overwhelm the islanders. Then, of course, we would need to establish and maintain bases in or around their major city, Honolulu. I understand there are marvelous anchorages available. I think Hawaii would definitely be a start in the Pacific and, better, I do not believe Hawaii has any history of fever.”

Blaine was pleased. A mere dot on the map of the world was better than no dot on the map. He would get the United States a foothold in the vast Pacific and Hunt would get further justification for his improved navy.

* * *

The usually ill-tempered Nelson Miles angrily pushed the piece of paper across the table to General Hancock. General Couch, who had already read it, showed no expression. He already had a fair idea what Hancock’s decision would be.

Miles, however, wanted his thoughts heard. “Clara Barton may be the closest thing we have to an American saint, but the idea that we would send aid to the enemy is preposterous. I acknowledge that they are only asking for ether and other medical supplies and not weapons, but any Spanish soldier healed through the use of an anesthetic could soon be fighting against us.”

“I disagree with that assumption,” said Couch. “Any soldier operated on now is not going to be fighting us for a goodly long time, if ever, given the terrible wounds that modern weapons can inflict. Giving them medical supplies now is something that might just serve us well in a postwar environment. A little mercy shown now could pay dividends down the road.”

General Hancock had been astonished to receive a letter from Clara Barton reminding him that the Red Cross was an international organization and that the United States was honor and treaty bound to adhere to the terms of the Geneva Convention. While sending medical supplies to an enemy to treat their wounded was not specifically mentioned, she firmly felt that it fell within its terms.

Hancock took the letter and handed it to an aide. “I’m not surprised they are suffering shortages. Our blockade and siege have been fairly effective. Some food might be smuggled in, but not ether or other medications. Therefore, we shall supply it to them. According to Miss Barton’s letter, they have enough for only a week or so. I propose that we agree to send them some in just about a week.”

Nelson Miles blinked and smiled tightly as the implications behind Hancock’s statement sunk in. “A lot could change in a week. The whole world could have been changed, at least their world.”

* * *

Haney and Lang crawled the half mile from the American works to the Spanish fortifications in nervous silence. If the intelligence that the Spaniards had pulled back was inaccurate, they could be met with a murderous torrent of bullets. At best, they could be allowed to proceed and then be taken prisoner. Neither fate seemed particularly attractive.

Shells had cratered the ground, which gave them some cover as they snuck forward. Each foot gained brought them closer to either safety or tragedy. Even though each man wanted to say or whisper something, they knew better. Adding to their concerns was the fervent wish that their artillerymen understood their orders and were not going to fire. They hadn’t shelled the Spanish for the last several days as a deliberate ploy to make the Spanish think that this was a safe sector. Just not too safe with a shell or two every now and then to keep them on their toes. Haney and Lang just hoped that the gunners remembered the schedule.