1882: Custer in Chains

Chapter 17

The fire from the Spanish lines was deafening and overwhelming, causing everyone to keep their heads down as bullets and shells flew overhead or thudded into the American barricades and trenches. At the moment, the Spanish were making no attempt to attack. They were using their cannon and thousands of riflemen to provide covering fire for the soldiers who were creeping up towards the hated barbed wire.

Martin only let a handful of his men expose themselves to enemy bullets, and those were his invaluable sharpshooters. The Spanish were pushing pieces of wood and anything else that would stop or deflect a bullet ahead of each crawling soldier, which made them very hard to hit. What they were about to do was painfully obvious, but not even machine gun fire appeared to hit enough of them to stop or deter them.

“We knew they’d figure out something,” said Benteen. “I just didn’t think it would be this simple.

When they were close enough to the wire, Spanish soldiers would quickly stand and hurl a grappling hook into the wire. Most of the time it held and a trailing rope was pulled on by Spaniards who yanked the poles holding the wire from the ground. The wire was then dragged back to the Spanish lines. The wall of wire was being systematically dismantled.

“At least they’ve told us exactly where they’re going to attack,” Ryder said. “Now I can place my guns with a degree of confidence.”

Benteen muttered something obscene that Martin didn’t think warranted a reply. A two hundred yard breach in the barbed wire was almost completed. To stop an attack, he’d jammed in almost his entire brigade and Benteen had placed another behind it. Six Gatling guns were arrayed along with a number of cannon loaded with grape and shrapnel. Lang’s work in making the machine guns more portable was working.

On the other hand, he fervently wished that Sarah and the others were safe in Florida instead of less than a hundred yards behind him. Women should not be in battle, especially women who were dressed in men’s uniforms. If the position was overwhelmed, would the Spanish even recognize the nurses as women until after it was too late? And what would happen to them if they did? One of Valdez’s Cuban rebels said that the Spanish considered a woman in man’s clothing to be a whore and would likely be treated as one.

Trumpets sounded from below and thousands of voices roared their defiance. They signaled that it was time for the assault. A horde of Spaniards emerged from the ground. They’d gotten much closer than Ryder had thought. American rifles and machine guns ripped through them. They fell by the score, but kept on coming. His cannon fired grape and shrapnel and shredded still more bodies. These too fell and the dead and wounded began to pile up. The smoke was blowing downhill and hiding the Spanish from Ryder’s men. The Americans fired into the clouds and hoped they hit something. His men had to expose themselves in order to fire and they were falling. Some screamed, but far too many simply lay ominously still where they lay in crumpled bloody heaps in their trenches.

His men were falling back from their first trench line and tumbling into the second. He had intended to stay farther back from the front than he’d done during the first attack, but the Spaniards were getting closer and closer to his position. He ordered his men to fix bayonets. Ryder heard the fire of heavy guns coming from his rear. Shells far larger than those from his field guns landed among the Spaniards still climbing the hill.

“What the hell?” Ryder wondered. A few moments later, a breathless Major Barnes flopped down.

“The navy’s arrived. There are gunboats in the bay, and it looks like one of our bigger sloops is shelling the Spaniards by the bay’s opening.

More shells landed, further shredding the Spanish attack. The enemy paused, seemed confused and dispirited, and then began to drift back. In another minute and another volley, the backward drift became a run. The Spaniards were fleeing.

“We should attack,” said Barnes.

Ryder shook his head. “Until and if we can contact the navy about our intentions, we’re better off staying right here. We wouldn’t want to get killed by our own people, would we?”

Barnes response was a sudden shriek. Ryder turned. Barnes’ right hand was a pulpy mass below his wrist. Bones and tendons were clearly visible and he was bleeding profusely. Hands grabbed him and a rough tourniquet was applied above his elbow. He stopped screaming and his face turned a pasty white. His eyes were blank and rolling back in his head. He dropped to his knees and fell backwards.

“Get him to the rear,” yelled Haney. Soldiers quickly complied. Ryder could only shake his head. Sarah was going to be horribly shocked and stunned when she saw her brother and there was nothing he could do. His job was where he was, on the top of a hill looking down as the Spaniards slowly withdrew.

“The navy’s ceased fire,” said Benteen. His cheek had been sliced open and the wound made him talk funny. “The Spanish are almost out of the ships’ range anyhow. We will advance.”

Whistles and bugles blew. The men of Ryder’s brigade moved cautiously out of their trenches and down the slope. They walked gingerly through the ground that was blanketed with dead and wounded. They tried very hard to not step on a wounded man or a corpse, but there were places where the Spanish casualties were piled so deeply that it was impossible. Some of the dead groaned as they were stepped on, giving the illusion that they were still alive. They weren’t. It was air being expelled from their dead lungs. Some of the wounded screamed, but there was nothing the Americans could do for them.

They kept an eye out for any wounded Spaniard who wanted to take an American with him before he died. None did and they walked through the charnel house and into the Spanish camp. Only a few more wounded lay there along with several dozen enemy soldiers who stood with their hands up.

“Now what, general?” asked Lang.

Ryder looked around and picked out a good defensive position. “We stop here and get organized, maybe figure out how many men we’ve got left and, oh yeah, get some food, water, and ammunition.”

“What do we do about cleaning up the battlefield? We should do something before all those bodies begin to stink to high heaven,” Lang said.

The several dozen surrendering Spaniards had become a couple of hundred with more giving up every minute. Ryder agreed with Lang. There already was a stench coming from the battlefield as ripped bodies, blood, and torn entrails along with the usual smells of sweat, piss and shit began to heat up. Some bodies were beginning to bloat.

Martin waved in the general direction of the prisoners. “We’ll let them collect and bury their comrades. They can take any wounded back to our hospitals.”

Haney was beside him. “Want me to go and check on Major Barnes?”

Ryder nodded. “And everyone else.” Haney understood. It was a given that he would check on Sarah and Ruta as well. Martin would have to find a way to see Sarah and comfort her. Barnes’ hand was clearly gone and a wound like he’d gotten could easily get infected and prove fatal. Damn it to hell.

* * *

Gilberto Salazar stopped running after about a mile. He could still see the damned hill in the distance and the many tiny dots that were American soldiers emerging from their trenches. He had led his men as close as possible for his own safety until they were able to throw their grappling hooks and begin to drag down the wire. At that point he had stopped and gradually fallen back. The hooks had been his idea and his men had been ordered to be a major part of the effort. They had performed nobly and bravely, but now most of them were dead or wounded.

Salazar counted the men gathered around him. There were just under a hundred and some of them were wounded and would play no further role in the fighting. His brave Legion had been bled out of existence. He wanted to weep out of frustration and bitterness, but would not permit himself so show weakness.

The failure of the attack wasn’t his fault. The damned American warships had shown up just as the Spanish Army was about to destroy the enemy. There had also been rumors of a large American landing to their rear that had arrived at about the same time. This had caused fear and confusion. The ferocious American defense, combined with the presence of the warships and a possible enemy force in their rear had proven disastrous to the fighting spirit of the Spanish army. They had broken and run. The Spanish army had collapsed.

Salazar recognized an aide from Weyler’s staff. The man was wide-eyed and looked like he was about to panic. Salazar grabbed his arm. “Do you have orders for us?”

The aide looked surprised, then suddenly pleased as he saw that it was Salazar. “Yes. I have been ordered to find you. All units are to take the roads to Havana. The Americans have landed in great force at Santa Cruz del Norte. Reports say there are a hundred thousand of them and that they are heading here to destroy us. General Weyler says we must flee to Havana before we are destroyed.”

* * *

Sarah wiped her brother’s forehead with a damp cloth. He was unconscious and could only moan, although she sensed that he was comforted by the feel. She wore a smock over her cut down soldier’s uniform and she, the smock, and her uniform were covered with drying blood and gore. She’d managed to keep her hands reasonably clean and had done her best to avoid infecting Jack and anyone else she’d treated.

“I’m sorry,” said Doctor Desmond. He too was covered with the blood of soldiers and his eyes were red-ringed with exhaustion. “We tried to save as much of his right arm as possible, but his hand was destroyed along with some of the bone above his wrist. With luck he’ll make it, but he will need help until he learns to function with only one hand.”

“He was right-handed,” she said numbly. “What will he do without a right hand?” Desmond didn’t hear her. He had gone on to another patient.

At least the killing had stopped, she thought, if only for a moment. The sounds of battle had faded to nothing. Martin and the army were off the hill and advancing inland. The combined might of the United States Army and Navy had won a great victory. So why were all of these people moaning and screaming, and why were there those hideous mounds of white limbs outside where flies were gathering by the millions to feast on them?

Nothing she’d seen or done before had prepared her for these sights and smells. Ruta was beside her. “Was it like this in Paris?” Sarah asked.

Ruta was just as filthy and exhausted. “Believe it or not, it was worse. At least we’re not starving as well.”

A soldier howled in indescribable agony. Someone said they were running out of ether. Ruta grabbed her arm. “We have to get back to help the others. You can either help your brother or mourn him later, Sarah. There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

She agreed. Helping others to live was her duty. There truly was nothing more she could do for Jack. His fate was out of her control. She looked across and saw that Martin had come up the hill and was checking on some wounded soldiers. He looked up and caught her eye. He nodded grimly and walked over. They would not embrace in the hospital. Instead, they let their hands touch. She quickly explained about her brother and he responded that he knew, that he’d seen him get shot and that he was fortunate to be alive.

“I wonder if he’ll feel that way later,” she said. Martin said nothing.

A general was approaching them. “Jesus,” he said. “It’s Hancock.”

Ryder snapped to attention and saluted. Hancock returned the gesture and shook Martin’s hand. “Benteen says your men were magnificent. But what about your brigade’s casualties?”

Ryder took a deep breath. “In rough numbers, two hundred dead and three hundred wounded. Considering the brigade was under-strength, that’s about twenty per cent of our men.”

Even though the numbers were nothing like what Hancock had seen at Gettysburg and elsewhere, they were brutal enough and typical of other units. They could not afford to lose men at that rate. The roughly forty-thousand men now in Cuba were just about all there was. Even if he could somehow conjure up a larger army, he would have enormous difficulties supplying it.

“We will not chase them,” Hancock said, “at least not right away. We must rest our men and get them re-supplied. When that happens we will move towards Havana along the coast road. I’m sure the Spanish will be setting up roadblocks and strong points to slow us and bleed us.”

“If you get help from the guerillas, general, perhaps you can bypass them, maybe even attack them in the rear.”

Hancock scowled. “I was told that the guerillas were unreliable, that they were little more than bandits.”

“General, may I ask who told you that?”

Hancock looked away. “Why it was our Secretary of State, James G. Blaine. He said they were thieves who would steal everything that wasn’t nailed down. And, if they succeeded in gaining independence, that there would be a massacre of innocents that would eclipse anything that had happened elsewhere, even in Haiti. He said he’d spoken with some of their leaders and said they were a bunch of liars as well.”

“Sir, some are liars and thieves, but I’ve been working with a group that has been extremely helpful. They’ve scouted for us, carried messages, and ambushed small Spanish units. They’ve even managed to go in and out of Havana almost at will. They cannot stand up to the Spanish army in a traditional battle. They don’t have the weapons, the training, or the leadership. But they can guide us and will fight for us. Actually they’re fighting for themselves since they are convinced that they will be independent when all of this is over.”

“I don’t know about independence,” said Hancock. “That will be decided by the president, whoever he is, along with Congress. However, we do need good scouts who can fight. I’ve seen the maps of Cuba and, for all intents and purposes, they are utterly useless. They show no roads in the interior and that cannot be true, so, yes, I will gratefully take their help.”

Hancock patted Ryder on the shoulder and smiled. “In the meantime, look to your wounded and bury your dead. And don’t forget to talk to that lovely young woman who’s been staring at us.”

* * *

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 ante-room. 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 had been 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 Roja’s 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 up 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 stained some 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 the other hand, 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 deal with,” he said grimly.

Sarah began to shudder 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. If anybody noticed, he just didn’t care. Nor did she as she held him just as 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 cannon. 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.

He watched in approval as two American cannon were wheeled into position. From their flags, he discerned that a brigade was arrayed behind them. Good. The messages truly had gotten through. Someone in the Spanish lines must be swearing at his bad fortune.

The cannons fired and after a couple of ranging shots, shells began to land in the Spanish defenses, shredding trees and shrubs, and destroying the Spanish trenches and barricades. Something exploded in the Spanish lines and he could hear the screams of the wounded. The bombardment lasted only about half an hour before the Americans began to move towards what Diego could see were shattered Spanish ranks. The Spaniards were melting away. Officers frantically tried to stop them, but it was like stopping the rain. Outgunned and outnumbered, the Spanish had no more fight in them.

Valdez turned to where his men were waiting and watching. Less than two hundred yards away, the Spaniards were streaming down the road. His men were grinning expectantly.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he laughed. “Kill them. Only remember to take prisoners. The Americans don’t like it when we massacre all our enemies, no matter how much they deserve it.”

His men howled their pleasure and began firing into the fleeing Spaniards, many of whom were their Cuban brethren. Tough, he thought. Even though they were likely unwilling conscripts, they were still the enemy. The fight for a free Cuba had long ago become the worst kind of civil war.

Some Spaniards tried to fire back at their new tormentors, but when a few were cut down, the others began to back away. His men hadn’t practiced enough to be good shots, but they still caused damage and these Spanish began to run. All control and discipline had been lost.

“Chase them,” Valdez howled and his men surged forward screaming. Because of a chronic shortage of ammunition, rebel General Gomez had urged his men to fire one shot and then run at the Spaniards with their machetes. They’d done it before and the effect on the Spaniards was shattering. Nobody wanted to be chopped to pieces.

The remaining Spanish soldiers dropped their arms and held up their hands, screaming for mercy. A few of Diego’s soldiers forgot their orders and shot and hacked at their enemies until he and his few officers got control. He counted casualties. Of his men, there were four wounded and none seriously. A score of Spanish were dead and a number of others were wounded. The Americans had seen the fighting and had stopped their own firing.

He pointed at the bodies of those who’d been slaughtered. “Drag those away and hide them. I don’t want the Americans thinking that we’re a bunch of savages.”

Valdez’s men laughed as if he’d just said the funniest thing in the world. A few moments later, the American General Chamberlain, a pale man with a drooping mustache shook his hand and congratulated him on a job well done.

When the general disappeared, he took Maria’s hand and smiled at her. Tonight they would make desperate love on a blanket a little ways away from his camp. He had promised her that he would liberate and destroy the despicable concentration camps like the one she’d escaped from.

* * *

Secretary of State James G. Blaine could see all his ambitions for the presidency and the existence of an overseas American Empire being flushed ignominiously down the toilet. He looked into the sad eyes of Libbie Custer and wished he truly could reach out and comfort her. Sadly, she had made it clear to one and all that she was totally dedicated to rescuing her husband and resuming their lives together. Not that he would have tried, of course, but she was so achingly lovely. Whatever had she seen in her impetuous husband? He banished the thoughts from his brain. He was married and loved his wife. He would only see the White House when he was a guest, as he was now.

“I do understand the irony, Mr. Blaine. When my husband is rescued it will be because of the efforts of his main political rivals, Winfield Scott Hancock and Chester A. Arthur. And I do understand that it might just propel either General Hancock or Chester Arthur into the White House. According to the newspapers, Hancock has skillfully merged both former Union and Confederate soldiers into one army, a remarkable achievement. It also appears that he will be besieging Havana in short order. However, he doesn’t have enough men to properly invest Havana, and he will not get any significant reinforcements.”

Blaine nodded and put down his tea. They were in her private residence in the White House. The servants were present but discretely out of hearing. “All of which means that this war could drag on and on,” he said. “Sooner or later, Hancock must either storm the city or wait for his men to catch the fever and die. Fortunately, the fevers have not been severe this year, at least not yet.”

“At least we have taken Puerto Rico without serious incident.”

Marine Commandant, Colonel Charles G. McCawley, had scraped together the equivalent of a regiment from various ships’ crews and along with fresh enlistments, had landed outside San Juan while under the cover of American gunboats. The conquest had been almost totally bloodless, with only one Marine killed and four wounded. McCawley and the Marines were the nation’s newest heroes. Perhaps a score of Spaniards had fallen in the conquest of Puerto Rico.

“And, dear lady, the Marines will soon re-embark and be sent to Cuba. They will be replaced in Puerto Rico by our militia who will do nothing more than occupy that peaceful and lovely little place. There is the remote possibility that we will be able to gather up the equivalent of another brigade by combining the Marines and a Negro cavalry regiment. The cavalry will fight dismounted, of course. Barring a miracle, we will not be able to ship and supply very many horses. Or men, for that matter.”

“Yet we must win. Or do you feel constrained because of the actions of Congress?”

Blaine tried to hide his annoyance but failed. Cuban rebel spokesman Fidel Cardanzo had spoken with him on several occasions about his visions for the future of Cuba and they did not include a new Cuba as a permanent province or territory of the United States. No, the Cuban rebels wanted independence and they wanted it immediately. The idea of turning over such an island jewel as Cuba to the rag-tag and largely black rebels disgusted him. They needed much more help before they could rule a country on their own.

As usual, Congress was confused with some members wanting a permanent takeover of the Spanish possession, while others said that the U.S. should maintain sovereignty over the island for a set amount of time, approximately four years after victory. This seemed to be the idea that, in some form, would carry. Cardanzo and the rebels would protest, but if there was a date certain by which the U.S. would leave, then perhaps they would be satisfied. The Cuban rebels’ leader, Jose Marti, had spent a considerable amount of time wooing various members of Congress and had largely succeeded. Cuba would not be a permanent part of an American Empire and that infuriated Blaine.

At a slightly different level, there were negotiations with Cardanzo regarding giving American merchants preferred status when Cuba was liberated. Additionally, the U.S. Navy required land for bases and coaling stations when the war was finally concluded. Cardanzo, speaking for Jose Marti and others, had made it clear that using Havana for anything other than the incidental presence of American warships was not negotiable. Other sites, however, were acceptable as potential permanent bases. Matanzas was an obvious locale, but there were thoughts that Santiago on the other side and east of Havana would be better. The farther away from Havana the better, they said. Out of sight, out of mind with the American fleet, went the thought.

There were rumors of a superb anchorage to the east of Santiago at a place called Guantanamo. That had to be checked out. In a few years, only American footholds would remain in Cuba.

Libbie smiled tolerantly. “You are a very unhappy man, and that is a shame. I am truly sorry that you will not see the presidency in this lifetime,”

Blaine smiled bleakly. She was lying through her teeth. She was thrilled that his ambitions had been thwarted. And to think he once thought of her as a potential ally. He stood leaned over and kissed her hand. “Perhaps I shall be reincarnated as a Roman emperor and could rule by decree. Perhaps that is truly more my style.”

* * *

The meeting between Gilberto Salazar and Monsignor Bernardi had been tense. The governor-general had given them their orders, however, and they were determined to carry them out. Salazar’s legion, now down to only a hundred men, would be reconstituted by volunteers called to action by the rabid exhortations of Bernardi.

The small Italian priest had a booming voice and the wild eyes of a fanatic. He called upon the faithful to rise up and drive the Protestant invaders out of Cuba, totally ignoring the fact that many of the Americans were Catholics, especially those from Ireland. He raged that the Americans would destroy statues of the Virgin and sexually assault nuns. His speeches were given as sermons during Mass, or in parks or on street corners. Wherever anyone gathered in the name of Jesus, he said, there he would preach. To his own annoyance, he was only moderately successful, and primarily because most of the men now in Havana were already in a military unit. Those few who weren’t in the army tended to be too old, too young, or too infirm.

With considerable effort, the two men managed to gather up enough men to bring Salazar’s Legion up to a thousand men, although many were not prime soldier material. Arming them was not a problem. The land outside Havana was littered with abandoned rifles as a large part of the army had thrown them away and simply disappeared.

Regardless of their physical limitations, the new recruits burned with zeal. They wanted nothing more than to hurl themselves at either the Americans or the Cuban rebels, and if they were killed in the effort, even better. They yearned to be martyrs.

On reviewing them, Governor General Villate had said that their intensity reminded him of some Moslem sects he’d fought against while commanding Spanish forces in Africa. Martyrdom, he’d said, was a Moslem goal that they cherished. Salazar had no idea what sects he was talking about. If his recruits wanted to kill themselves for the glory of God while he got the glory of victory, then that was wonderful. Salazar wanted victory and survival. Martyrdom was for fools.