1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 15

When the first shell smashed through the wall of the army’s hospital in the church of San Charles de Borromeo, Sarah’s first thought was that a horrible mistake had been made. Artillery shells had been known to go in wrong directions. Perhaps, she thought, this was the case. No one would intentionally bombard a church or a hospital, would they?

When the second and third shells slammed into the building, sending glass and plaster along with chunks of stone raining down on them, the nurses realized it was no mistake.

As always, Clara Barton took charge. “Gather everyone and everything you can carry and get down to the waterfront.”

No one needed urging. Shells were falling all around the hospital and smashing into other buildings. Men were running for their lives to find safety in trenches, while horses screamed in panic. One was hit and disemboweled by a shell. It howled like a demon on fire before it died.

There were only a dozen or so patients in the hospital and most of these were able to get out under their own power. The handful remaining were helped or carried by staff and volunteers out to the trenches.

“I’m getting very tired of this,” said Ruta as she settled into the relative safety of the trench’s earthen walls.

“I’m not arguing with you,” Sarah responded. Her arms were full of medical supplies.

A company of soldiers ran past them and inland in the general direction of the front. Rifle fire, along with the incessant cannonading, had commenced. The war had finally come to them.

Clara Barton jumped into the trench with them. “We are going to split up. I’m going to take half of my people up to the entrance to the bay, while you, Ruta, will take the remainder towards Mount Haney.”

“Then we’re losing, aren’t we?” asked Sarah.

“Indeed and quite badly. The Spanish are attacking all along the line, but it does look like they are concentrating on splitting our forces in half.” Barton smiled briefly. “And yes, it does look like your General Ryder was correct after all, not that it matters right now. Our job is to get the wounded taken care of and our own people into places of safety.”

With that, Barton clambered out of the trench with surprising alacrity and, hunched over, ran away with several of her medical personnel.

Ruta was the natural leader of the others. She got all of the remaining medical personnel and the handful of wounded out of the trench and towards the waterfront. Along the way, they passed another company-sized unit of American infantry running towards the sound of gunfire that appeared to be much closer.

As they inched towards what they hoped would be safety, numbers of soldiers suddenly swarmed passed them, running the other direction. Their officers screamed at them to form up and get ready to fight, but too many were wide-eyed with terror.

Ruta grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Look over there.”

Sarah did as she was told and gasped in shock. A mob of several hundred Spanish soldiers was heading towards them. They were howling and screaming in insane fury. They had broken through the despised Americans and their blood lust was up. If the nurses didn’t hurry, they’d wind up as prisoners if they were lucky. The Spanish could easily simply rape them and butcher them in their insane fury. Even the best and most disciplined soldiers could lose their minds in battle and the Spanish were neither the best or most disciplined. In the distance, they could see other waves of Spaniards heading towards other targets. The sounds of the battle were overwhelming and terrifying.

“Run!” yelled Sarah. The women dropped everything. They hiked up their skirts and ran as fast as they could. Bullets whizzed and pinged around them. One of the nurses screamed and fell over. Her arm was twisted and bleeding.

“Carry her,” ordered Ruta. There was no time for a tourniquet. If she bled to death there was nothing they could do.

Another nurse fell over. The top of her head was gone. This cannot be happening, thought Sarah. We’re nurses. We aren’t soldiers. The Geneva Convention is supposed to protect us. How could human beings do such terrible things to each other? This was far worse than anything she’d yet seen.

The Spanish were only a little more than a hundred yards away when several of them buckled and fell. A number of Americans in wide-brimmed cowboy hats pushed by the nurses, knelt, and continued to fire. Each bullet seemed to strike a Spaniard, with the officers being the favored targets.

The Spanish lost their enthusiasm and took cover. “Now follow me,” said Haney, “and don’t look back or delay or anything. Just run like your bloomers are on fire.”

Despite the insanity of the situation, Sarah found herself laughing. My bloomers cannot be on fire, she thought. I’m not wearing bloomers.

They ran for a couple of hundred yards and then paused. The soldiers who’d saved them were identified by Haney as Texans and that they were really good shots. They moved through gaps in barbed wire and were then escorted over trenches that were filled with American soldiers. More Americans moved through the defenses and to safety. Cannon fired over their heads and they heard the chatter of Gatling guns. Sarah took a moment to see what was happening and wished she hadn’t. Shells were exploding over and in the Spanish ranks, shredding and dismembering bodies. War is hell and never forget that awful fact, she reminded herself.

An American gunboat in the bay found that the Spanish were within range and added to the thunderous din with her cannon. The air was filled with smoke and debris. The nurses were walking now and not running. Their breath still came in gasps. They were exhausted, both emotionally and physically. “There are eight of us,” said Ruta, “and that includes Nurse Atkins who probably will lose her arm. Carmody is dead and there will be no attempt to retrieve her body. Perhaps it can be done if a flag of truce is initiated. Otherwise, we will not risk anyone.”

The nurses were moved into a sandbagged bunker where they could rest. Sarah thought she had seen Martin farther up on the hill, but she wasn’t certain. The sound of gunfire came from the inland side of the hill as well. She was certain that Martin was far too busy to check on her. He would find her in due course. In the meantime they would all rest and figure out where they could set up a hospital where the Spanish wouldn’t destroy it.

* * *

Colonel Gilberto Salazar still walked with difficulty. The wound to his groin was healing but exquisitely slowly. As the men of his Legion moved up the hill that both sides were now calling Mount Haney, he was forced to fall behind. He didn’t mind that at all. Let other brave fools get killed.

His attack was going to fail and in that failure lay success. It was conceded that the American fortifications on Mount Haney were too strong to take by storm. They would require a steady and deadly pounding by heavy artillery which the Spanish Army didn’t have. These would have to be followed by a further assault by huge numbers of well-trained infantry, which Spain also did have. No, the job of his Legion was to demonstrate and pretend to attack, holding the Americans in position so that the main force under General Weyler could storm through the American center and split the Yankee force in half.

For this demonstration, Salazar had been given command of four other regiments, all understrength and poorly trained. Since he didn’t want his own men killed in a useless gesture, he had the new regiments lead while his legion acted as a tactical reserve. As the soldiers neared the hated barbed wire, American rifles and machine guns opened up. Only a few cannon fired at them and it occurred to him that the American defenders were shifting their cannon to better cover the attack on their middle.

Soldiers fell in heaps, but not his best men. When it was apparent that the attack was not going to succeed, he ordered them all to lie prone and shoot at the entrenched Americans. Even this was futile. After only a few minutes, his men began to fall back. Some of the officers tried to stop them, but too many joined in the retreat.

Cowardly bastards, he cursed, conveniently ignoring the fact that he’d held back. Finally, a message arrived authorizing the retreat that was already occurring. It said that the attack on the middle was a complete success and that hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans were dead, wounded, or captured.

Even though they were retreating, all around him men were cheering. They had singed the beard of Uncle Sam, and better, Salazar hadn’t gotten hurt. Another messenger brought him word that General Weyler was very pleased with the way his men had pinned down the Americans on the hill and kept them from counter-attacking. Weyler confirmed Salazar’s rank as colonel. No longer was he a temporary colonel. Perhaps even his scrawny slut of a wife would be proud of him.

As he headed back to his quarters, he noticed that he wasn’t limping as much. Tonight he would go into the village where Helga was ensconced. He smiled at the thought of her servicing his manhood with her marvelous lips. Thank god he could be certain of her loyalty and love towards him. He could count on her, not like his cold bitch of a wife. Helga was a hundred times more of a woman than Juana, and if that American reporter wanted to fuck her, well he could have her. Salazar laughed as he wondered if Kendrick’s cock would freeze inside her and fall off. He thought it more than likely.

* * *

It was almost dawn before Ryder felt confident enough in the security of his men’s position to take a break and lie down. He’d been up almost all night shifting men and units into positions and helping sight cannon so they could fire down into the newly developing Spanish lines below Mount Haney. At dawn a truce would be in effect to help gather up the dead and wounded from both sides. The cries and moans coming from the wounded tore at all of them, but they were gradually fading away as men either died of their wounds or were carried away by comrades taking advantage of the darkness and an unofficial truce to sneak out and help them.

Ryder slipped out of his tunic and shirt and managed to wipe himself somewhat clean with a rag and a pitcher of water. He closed his eyes and immediately went to sleep. When he awoke, it was mid-day and he cursed angrily.

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” said Sarah as she pushed him back on the cot. “The world did not end while you were resting. Your soldiers will get the wrong idea and think you’re a violent man who likes to swear. Everything’s under control, Martin. Both sides are licking their wounds.”

He looked around and continued to wake up. They were in the back room of his quarters and a blanket had been hung to give him some privacy from the office part. “We shouldn’t be alone like this.”

“I’m a nurse and Ruta’s just outside with a couple of other nurses. The wounded are all taken care of, so don’t worry about your men being neglected. They will think I’m treating you for some malady or minor injury. And besides, we don’t have enough privacy to really get into trouble. By the way, you look terrible. You won’t be too much use to your men if you’re too sick and hungry to lead them.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Not for one second. Now be still and kiss me.”

He pulled her down to him and they kissed hungrily, passionately. When she finally pulled back, she looked down on him with tenderness and sadness. “I’m going to shock you, Martin. I want to go someplace lovely and private and make love to you and it won’t matter if we’re married or not. I’ve decided that life is too short and death too violent and close by to waste on ceremonials.”

“Funny, but I was thinking pretty much the same thing. I wasn’t shocked, though. Frankly, I’m delighted.”

She poured some water into a bowl and began to clean off his chest and arms. “You’re filthy and this water isn’t that much cleaner.”

“I just tried to clean up,” he said.

She left and returned with a fresh pitcher. “With what? Mud? You need to get used to doing a better job if you want to get me in your bed. I will not have a filthy lover.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said and gasped. He was becoming thoroughly aroused as she rinsed off his bare chest. From the way Sarah was biting her lip, he thought that she was too. “Perhaps you could just come here several times a day and take care of my personal hygiene needs.”

She laughed. “It appears that your needs have nothing to do with hygiene. Speaking of which, have you noticed how dirty and tattered my nurse’s uniform is? Of course you have. Now look at this.” She pulled her dress up well above her knees. He wanted to gape at her lovely and shapely legs but he couldn’t. The dark stockings she was wearing were torn almost to shreds. “All of us are wearing clothing that is at least as bad as this.”

Martin sat up. The romantic interlude was over, at least for the moment. “I’ve seen beggars who were better dressed. What do you want me to do?”

“Unless you can get us ladies some appropriate women’s wear, we would like you to order the quartermaster to issue us men’s uniforms, size small, very small if they have any such thing. If not, we will tailor what we can get to our needs.”

“It’s irregular, but so is the idea of having you here in the first place. Consider it done. But what will Clara Barton think?”

She leaned down and kissed him longingly, for a moment letting her tongue wander with his. “I don’t much care what Clara Barton thinks,” she said when they broke and could talk. “She can solve her own problems.”

Sarah ran her hand down his chest and stomach and lightly over his pants and the very obvious swelling hiding beneath the cloth. “Just remember, my very dear general that the suddenly lusty Widow Damon needs you and craves you very much, so stay safe.”

* * *

Pleased and confident, Winfield Scott Hancock, former major general in the Union Army and 1880 Democratic candidate for President of the United States formally presented himself to Blaine, Arthur, and the others. Libbie Custer was not present. She could not bear to be in the same room as the man who had run against her beloved husband and had almost beaten him. Unsaid was the thought that a President Hancock wouldn’t have gotten the U.S. in the terrible mess that the war in Cuba had become.

Lieutenant General Philip Sheridan accompanied him. It was not lost on the attendees that Hancock looked far more fit and trim and healthy than Sheridan who was seven years his junior.

“Don’t we have any young generals?” sneered Blaine.

“No we don’t,” Sheridan said blandly, “and therein lies the curse of the peacetime army, and navy I might add. During war, merit and survival are rewarded and cream rises to the top. In peacetime, rank freezes, even fossilizes. Just about every general we currently have in the army achieved that rank during the Civil War, and that tragic event ended more than sixteen years ago.”

“And as I can still talk and walk, I decline to be referred to as a fossil,” answered a smiling Hancock. He was in a confident and ebullient mood. He was about to be honored and vindicated by his political enemies. “I may be many years older than Nelson Miles, but in many ways I am very much younger than he.”

Even Blaine had to agree with that assessment. “Have you come to be America’s savior, Mister Hancock?”

Hancock refused to be insulted by Blaine’s not referring to him as General. Even though he was a civilian, he was entitled to the courtesy. “I don’t think America needs a savior, sir, but the war in Cuba certainly does.”

Vice President Arthur decided it was time to end the pettiness. Blaine was beginning to annoy him. “Agreed. Now, General Hancock, what can you bring to the table?”

Hancock took a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I led men in battle, but I am confident I can rally the troops and conclude the war with an American victory.”

Even Blaine had to nod agreement. Few could not recall Hancock’s taking control of the Union lines at the Battle of Gettysburg and stabilizing them before he was terribly wounded. That wound still troubled him and on occasion caused him great pain. There were those who thought that it had been Hancock and not Meade who had won that climactic battle.

“What do you need for victory?” Arthur asked in a soft voice.

“I need rank sufficient to the task. Reinstate me, but as a lieutenant general. That will make me second to General Sheridan but above anyone in command in Cuba, which will eliminate conflicts.”

“Agreed,” said Arthur and the others nodded.

“General Miles is correct. We need more men. There are two more divisions in training and I want them immediately. General Gordon’s division and General Chamberlain’s must be on the move to Cuba as soon as humanly possible.”

There was silence but no disagreement. John Gordon’s men were all southerners and there had been resistance to having former Confederates fighting as a unit. But Hancock was popular in the South. He’d been fairly lenient to southerners during the Reconstruction period. His detractors had said he had been too lenient on the former and largely unrepentant rebels. No matter, he would have Gordon’s Division.

Joshua Chamberlain’s division of volunteers primarily came from Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. In an exquisite irony, it had been Brevet Major General Chamberlain who had been tasked with receiving the surrender of Robert E. Lee’s troops at Appomattox. The Confederate General tasked with surrendering the Army of Northern Virginia had been John Gordon. Chamberlain had won Gordon’s and the rest of the Confederates’ respect by ordering his men to salute the rebels as they marched past and laid down their arms. After the war, Gordon had become very controversial. Even though he denied it, rumors said he had been in charge of the Ku Klux Klan.

On the other hand, John Gordon had been elected to the U.S. Senate.

“I understand that Joshua Chamberlain’s in poor health,” said Arthur.

Sheridan chuckled. “You tell him. The man’s insistent. He feels that serving as a General in the Civil War, being awarded the Medal of Honor and later becoming Governor of Maine, and still later President of Bowdoin College entitle him to consideration and I agree.”

Between Gordon and Chamberlain, they could bring another fifteen to twenty thousand men to the battle. Would they be enough to win? That would be up to Lieutenant General Hancock.

“We are in agreement?” asked Sheridan and all said yes.

Even Blaine seemed pleased. “Well, General Hancock, how soon will your men commence arriving at Matanzas?”

Lieutenant General Winfield Scott Hancock smiled widely, “Events will transpire very soon, gentlemen.”

Phil Sheridan turned away and smiled. He and Hancock had discussed strategy for the coming campaign. No reinforcements would be landing at Matanzas. For the time being, Nelson Miles, with help from the navy, would be on his own in defending his two perimeters at that dismal Cuban port.

* * *

“I think I’ve done this before,” sighed Wally Janson as he looked over the gathering host of ships anchored off Charleston, South Carolina, “Although maybe it was in another and more pleasant life.”

The transports were all shapes and sizes and of varying speeds. Someone had the bright idea of breaking them into two groups-the slower ships in one and the faster in another since a convoy would be held to the speed of its slowest member. A rough estimate had more than two hundred vessels clustered off Charleston. In a very short while they would commence loading two divisions of infantry and all their supplies.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Paul Prentice smiled tolerantly. He’d heard the comments several times in the last couple of days. Along with the other survivors from the ill-fated Aurora, he and Janson been exchanged for an equivalent number of Spanish prisoners. Treated as heroes for their role in sinking the Spanish battleship Vitoria, the US Navy had offered the older Janson command of a newly commissioned gunboat, which he promptly named the Orion. He didn’t ask if the navy already had plans for the name. As a sailor, he had a deep affection for the constellations. The two men had been awarded the Medal of Honor for sinking the Spanish battleship.

The Orion displaced about twelve hundred tons and was armed with a pair of six-inch guns, along with a handful of nine and twelve-pound cannon. Armored plating had been attached to her sides and around her bridge which affected her speed and maneuverability. She was a deadly force even no one would ever call her an ironclad. With luck, the light armor would deflect bullets or shrapnel and small cannon shells, but would be useless against the shells from bigger weapons. The Orion would choose her fights carefully. Spain might have lost her two battleships, but her remaining cruisers would be more than a match for Janson’s ship.

Janson was her skipper, while Prentice was on board as a supernumerary. The leg he’d broken when captured hadn’t completely healed and he was on crutches. He would not be able to return to active duty until he was fully healed. In the meantime, Janson needed assistance to function as a real naval officer. Janson’s commission would last for the duration of the war and it was presumed that the Orion would be signed over to his ownership as partial compensation for the loss of the Aurora.

The Orion was one of two score similar ships that had been hastily pressed into service in the rapidly expanding navy. All had been converted from merchantmen. Small and lethal, they would protect the gathering armada from the few remaining Spanish warships if they should venture out from wherever they were hiding. The navy was building a number of real armored cruisers that would be substantially better than the powerful Atlanta, which was patrolling off Charleston and no longer on duty at Havana. The new ships would not be ready for a year of two. The newspapers had called the situation a shame and heaped more blame on President Custer. Both Prentice and Janson were inclined to agree with the assessment as was most of the population of the United States.

“The first time I left on a mission like this, it was from Baltimore,” Janson mused out loud. “At least we’re a few hundred miles closer to Cuba than we were that first time, which will make it easier on all the troops who’ll be jammed in the holds of all those ships. Did I ever tell you how we were attacked by a Spanish gunboat and how that young Colonel Ryder figured out how to sink it? I like to think that fight was part of why he got promoted to general.”

“Only about a hundred times,” Prentice said tolerantly. “This Ryder must be a hell of a general. Not all generals and admirals are willing to fight. A lot of them simply want to make speeches and look good in their uniforms.”

“Lieutenant, you are wise beyond your years.”

“Skipper, have you learned our final destination?”

Janson’s eyes widened in surprise, “Are you telling me it’s not Matanzas?”

“All I’m saying is that I keep hearing rumors. I also understand that the army is going to undergo a major reorganization now that Hancock’s in charge. I keep hearing that someone named Couch is going to be named to an important position. The name’s familiar, but I don’t know why.”

Janson yawned. It was good to have someone he could talk to without having to worry about little things like rank. “Paul, I’m sure they’ll tell us when they decide it’s important enough. For your information, Darius Couch was a Union general, but I don’t recall all that much about him. Wait, I do recall one thing. He likes to pronounce his name Coach instead of Couch. I guess he doesn’t want to be compared to a piece of furniture.”

* * *

Darius N. Couch, recently returned to the army as a major general in command of the newly designated Second Corps, was looking for redemption. He was sixty years old and every day he recalled how he had failed his country at the Battle of Chancellorsville in the spring of 1863. In his mind he had let the very real chance of defeating or even destroying Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia slip through his normally very capable hands. Had he acted decisively, how many lives could have been saved, how many thousands of families would not still be in mourning. He could only wonder and mourn for himself and the faceless others.

Unlike the more powerfully built Hancock, Couch was small and slight and subject to bouts of ill health. Couch had also been decorated for gallantry in the Mexican War, at the Battle of Buena Vista.

“I won’t let you down,” he said solemnly.

Hancock nodded. “I know.”

“Not like Chancellorsville.”

Hancock understood the man’s frustration. At Chancellorsville, the terribly overmatched Joe Hooker had been the victim of a surprise attack by Lee. The much larger Union Army had been pushed back into a defensive perimeter. Still, they were in good shape until Hooker had been wounded, struck on the head by falling debris. As he was taken to the rear, Hooker ordered Couch, his second in command, to retreat. There were vehement arguments both for and against obeying that order. Couch felt that Lee had done all he could and was ripe for a counter-attack. Hooker, concussed and confused, insisted on ordering a retreat and was taken away by ambulance, leaving Couch in temporary command of the massive Army of the Potomac.

“I obeyed the orders of an injured and confused man who, quite likely, wasn’t right in the head. I should have seized control and fought Lee. We could have whipped him. We could have shortened the war, maybe even ended it. It sickens me every time I think of it.”

Hancock smiled. Couch had obeyed orders and that had absolved him from any blame for the defeat at Chancellorsville. However, Couch was right. Sometimes orders are meant to be ignored. “Well, now you get to fight Weyler, and I want you to fight him all the way to Havana.”

Couch could not bring himself to smile in return. “Neither I nor the Second Corps will let you down, General Hancock.” Then he did smile briefly. “Of course I do not envy you having to work with General Miles. If he were in my command, I would likely have to kill him.”

Hancock laughed. He was pleased with his decision to bring Couch back to the colors. Although another of what James G. Blaine annoyingly referred to as an older general, it was clear that Couch was full of fight and wanted to purge himself of history. He would command the newly created Second Corps which consisted of Gordon’s and Chamberlain’s divisions. The two subordinate generals had met a few days earlier and politely recalled previous incidents including the surrender at Appomattox. Although they would never be close friends, both Couch and Hancock were convinced that they would both cooperate and obey. Second Corps was in good hands and would operate independently of First Corps.

That left First Corps, which, until it was just recently designated, was the entire American Army in Cuba. First Corps was in Nelson Miles’ hands and would remain so. Hancock would be with Miles and oversee the touchy and vain little man’s actions. Miles would not be happy, but that was none of Hancock’s concern. First Corps consisted of three divisions-Benteen’s, Gibbon’s, and Crook’s. Altogether, the two army corps totaled nearly forty thousand men. It was the largest American Army to take the field since the Civil War. If it was defeated, the whole idea of a war against Spain would result in nothing more than a bloody humiliation for the United States.

Therefore, Hancock thought as he left the conference with Couch, I will not be defeated.

Therefore again, he concluded, I must get to Matanzas as soon as possible. He would travel on the steam sloop Enterprise, while Couch would have his temporary headquarters on the Atlanta.