by Tony Roberts
“Oh, for God’s sake! I told you, I’m a soldier in the American army, under Colonel Wood. Take me there, it’s only four miles away, and we should be there by daylight.”
He was struck across the face. “Liar! We will force the truth out of you. Jaime, hold him tight.”
As a pair of arms took hold of him, Casey knew he had to act. He slammed his head back at Jaime, crashing it into the rebel’s face, and at the same time swung his boot up into the genitals of the leader. Both of them grunted in pain and the arms weakened their grip. Casey broke free and lurched to one side as the third raised his rifle in panic and loosed off a shot that missed narrowly.
The shot would now alert those in the vicinity. As the rebel worked the bolt action to force the next bullet into the chamber, Casey kicked up hard. The rifle was torn out of the man’s grip and he staggered back a couple of steps.
Casey didn’t waste any time. The martial arts taught him by Shiu Lao Tze all those centuries ago and his constant practicing of it came to the fore now. He swung around and sent a reverse kick at the man, sending him onto his back.
A quick look around. Jaime was clutching a shattered nose, screaming loud enough to bring the hordes of Wotan down upon them all. The leader was on one knee, his face screwed up in agony, clutching his crushed genitals, while the third one was slowly rolling onto his side, groaning in pain. Which one to sort out? The leader. Casey swung hard with his boot and connected with the helpless man’s head. He went out like a light.
Jaime staggered forward, a knife now in one hand, his other hand pressed against a bloodied stump of a nose, unsuccessfully trying to stem the flow of blood down his face. The young Cuban rebel lunged hard but missed, pain and desperation making him clumsy. He received a solid, hard boot in the guts and he went down, throwing his last meal up.
The third one turned and fled into the grass, not wishing to face this mad maniac who kicked like a burro. Casey saw the knife of Jaime lying on the ground and knelt by it, forcing his fingers to the hilt and then picking it up. A quick glance at the two men still there. The leader was out cold, and Jaime was on all fours drooling spit, blood and puke.
Casey maneuvered the hilt of the knife between his ankles, clamped it tight, and brought his bindings to the blade and sawed slowly, the keen edge slicing through the rope in no time.
With a grunt of triumph, he got up, flexing his arms. Jaime looked up, his face a bloodied mask. “You idiots,” Casey growled, “if you’d been more sensible we’d be on our way to my camp by now. But you brought this upon yourself…” he paused, for there were noises coming to him from the direction of El Caney.
The third Cuban’s shot had brought some of the garrison out. That and Jaime’s screams. “Time I was gone,” he said. “Adios, amigo!” He grabbed his rifle from the downed leader and set off through the grass, just ahead of the arriving Spanish garrison.
There came a shout and a cry of mercy from Jaime. Casey ran hard, knowing the young man would be spilling his guts to the Spanish in no time. He was right, for shouts went up from the clearing and the eternal mercenary put his head down and pounded hard as fast as he could away from them.
His mind was working, thinking up courses of action before discarding them. The first thing that went was his hat, he flung that aside and ran hard, hoping to hell he didn’t trip over something in the near dark.
And that was something else. Day was coming, for as he glanced to his left and saw a bar of brightening sky. Now they’d be able to see him better. Time to use deception, as Sun Tzu would say. He turned to the north and crashed as loudly as he could, screaming vile insults and colorful metaphors at the Spaniards’ ancestry, then he stopped, turned and crept off to the south-west, keeping as low as he could.
What he hoped for was that the pursuing Spanish would blunder on north, by-passing him, allowing him to creep away and make it to camp. He went on, glancing around as he did so, ears pricked for the slightest movement. He wasn’t making fast progress, but it was best to remain silent and not give his position away.
Silence was not what the Spanish were practicing. They were shouting and blundering about, calling to one another, asking if they had seen the gringo in Spanish uniform. Yes, Casey nodded to himself, Jaime had spilled his guts alright. The crashing was coming from his right and slightly to the rear. They had gone in the direction he’d wanted. Then, with a shout, one yelled out he’d found the hat. Casey guessed it was about fifty yards behind him. Not that far.
His right foot found a slope and he fell down into the creek.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself. He’d made a splashing sound.
At least the creek was not too cold and deep. Someone, though, had heard it. “Amigos! Over here!” he screamed.
“Shut your noise, you slum whore!” an officer bellowed, clearly unaware he was making more noise. “You want this gringo to hear you all?”
That was the last of the voices he heard, so he made his way along the creek, leaping over darker patches which were rocks or stones, trying to keep out of the water as much as he could. Birds were now waking to begin their day as the brightness spread out across the sky, and he could begin to see much better.
A shot smashed close to his ear and he almost jumped out of his skin. A Spanish soldier had out-thought him and gone to the edge of the creek downstream and seen him. The shot hadn’t missed by much.
Casey swung around, worked a round into the breech and aimed quickly. His shot spat close to the soldier who dived for cover. Casey now abandoned his silent mode and pounded hard along the creek, sending water splashing up as he went.
A chorus of shouts now broke out as the Spanish all came running to help. The creek was the best directional pointer for him as it led back towards his camp, so he scuttled along as fast as he could. He was heading almost due south now, but he guessed he had three miles to go, and shit he wasn’t built for that kind of running. He was no Pheidippides, that legendary Marathon runner.
His breath was sawing in and out of his chest, and getting painful, especially in the heat of the new day, so he got up out of the creek, up onto the eastern bank and glanced behind him. He saw a few figures running towards him so he snapped off a shot that made them fall flat on their faces.
He set off again and made for a clump of brush and trees not too far ahead. A shot came his way and struck the first tree just before he plunged into the shelter and shade, and kept on going for a while, then stopped and turned, kneeling behind a thick growth of bushes and a fallen tree.
He waited and looked left to right, and then saw a shape vaguely moving, pushing into the undergrowth, treading on a twig. A careful aim, this time, and Casey squeezed the trigger.
The report crashed out through the jungle, and the Spaniard staggered, and slumped to the ground, exclaiming he had been hit. Casey turned and slunk off, hoping that would slow the bastards down.
The officer was organizing them well, though. “Spread out you idiots!” he ordered, and from what Casey could make out, he was behind his troops. Typical. “Don’t bunch up, and spread wide. When he shoots, all turn towards him and close in from three sides. That pig won’t be able to shoot you all.”
No, Casey agreed, but I’ll shoot enough to make them scared of coming for me. He stopped behind a particularly thick tree with tangled creepers writhing their way up, and looked around towards where the enemy were advancing from. He guessed there were ten or more, and as soon as he shot at one, the rest would converge on him. He turned again and slipped in between two trees and made his way steadily along the dark floor of the jungle. What light there was he kept to his left, and as the day grew, the light changed so that it became harder to keep in the right direction. He had to change far too often to go around undergrowth.
Someone shot wildly off to the left and he guessed one of his pursuers was too jumpy. It made the others move in that direction and Casey took advantage and slunk away from the noises.
It wasn’t that long before th
e light ahead grew and he could see open ground. He emerged onto a field of long grass and turned left, hugging the edge of the jungle. A track ran right to left so he jumped over a fence onto it and jog-trotted along, keeping low, hoping he had evaded them.
Then, ahead, he saw a small clearing and a hacienda or some kind of farmstead. He wondered if the people there were pro- or anti-Spain. He’d soon find out. He had to know where the hell he was.
Two people were tending the field nearest the house and he ran up to them, rifle in his hands, just in case. They were a man and woman, both around the same age, late thirties, perhaps? “Morning,” he said. “Can you tell me where I am? I’m lost.”
The man straightened and frowned. “Don’t you know? Aren’t you from the garrison in Santiago? Or maybe El Caney?”
“Neither. I’m not with the Spanish army, despite this,” he tugged on his uniform. “I’m an American and need to get back to my comrades at El Pozo. Could you please direct me to where that is?”
The man pointed off to the left. “This road leads to Santiago, but you want to head due south from here. Its across open ground until the jungle, then you’ll need to cross Las Guamas creek and you’ll see a road. It takes you to El Pozo but avoid the village of Marianage; the Spanish have an outpost there.”
“Thank you.”
“Be off with you,” the man grunted, “we don’t want any trouble. You being here will bring that to us.”
Casey nodded and set off across country, leaping over fencing, and wading through grass that came up to his thighs. He suspected those two were strictly neutral and would tell the chasing group where he was going just as easily as they had helped him.
The day was full upon him now and he kept on looking back anxiously for signs of pursuit. How far the soldiers would chase him was open to debate, for they would be getting into dangerous territory from their point of view and they would be very wary of continuing. But then, they would know by now who he was and what he had been doing outside El Caney, so their pride may well dictate they keep on chasing him until it was either too close to the American lines, or they got him.
And getting him was more likely, for he saw a couple of soldiers behind him on the umpteenth time of glancing back. They were some distance away but they were coming from the hacienda so the man had told them what they wanted to know.
With a curse under his breath he set off faster and without any effort to conceal himself. The longer it went on the better for him. He left an easily followed trail through the crops, leaving plenty flattened on his route through towards the jungle line, which he could see in the distance. There was a line of brush just before it and he guessed that was the creek. He certainly had gone well wide in his flight from the Spanish outpost.
Faint shouting came to him and more of his pursuers joined in, all eager to get their quarry. One snapped off a shot, not so much in a hope he would hit Casey, but to bring the rest running. With nothing to lose, Casey swung around, rifle raised, and a hasty aim and shot had the two not-so-distant Spaniards flying aside in fright.
Once more he got going, his legs aching, his chest heaving, sweat running down his face. Goddamned heat, terrain, Spanish, Cuba. Anything. Goddamned!!
The creek got closer and he stumbled towards it. His legs were not used to running so far, so much in such heat. But he was fitter than those behind him and they had dropped behind again. The creek was maybe five-six feet wide and he cleared in in one leap, stumbling on the far bank, then pushing into the leafy undergrowth of the jungle once more. He stopped, mostly because his body was telling him to, and he knelt behind a convenient fallen log. He fought to bring his breathing under control and rested the rifle barrel on the log and took careful aim at the two men coming towards him.
He could see perhaps the top two feet of them but he knew all too well where to aim. Not the head, no. The middle of the torso. If it hit the chest, then good. It’d probably kill them if it drilled through the heart. But a gut shot was even better, for it incapacitated the victim and caused such agony that the screams would be off-putting. It would also mean another would have to look after him, thus taking both out of the equation.
All very cold-bloodied, maybe, but he had been fighting and killing for nineteen centuries, or the best part of it, anyway, so he was quite immune to feelings of compassion towards anyone hunting him and trying to shoot him full of holes. He aimed long and slow, and squeezed off a shot. One of the soldiers crashed to the ground with a scream and the other threw himself sideways into concealment.
The man he’d hit was making a heck of a lot of noise, calling to his mother and so on. Nothing Casey hadn’t heard before. He was in good cover and the Spanish were not. The other one was yelling for help, but help was a long time in coming, and the screaming man gradually quietened down. He was either unconscious or dead.
The other now snapped off shot after shot, anger and fury compelling him to blast away. Rookie. Had to be. Most of the shots went too high. Casey laid flat and kept a careful eye out for the others, and they slowly came through the grass, crawling.
He heard one asking what had gone on and the frantic soldier was almost crying, saying his comrade was dead. The officer now arrived and got the men to spread wide. He may be a pompous man but he knew tactics.
Casey assessed he had one more shot to make before he ought to get out of there. So he aimed again, at where he thought the officer was, and fired. He rolled away from the brush and scrambled up and ran, keeping low. Answering shots smashed into trees, leaves and passed through the air. Two shots came close but Casey was unharmed and ran deeper into the jungle.
He had no idea if he’d hit the officer. If he had, then maybe they’d lose heart and pack up. If he hadn’t, then he may have a royally pissed officer on his ass.
The journey through the jungle was a case of keeping on moving, but not fast. He didn’t want to make any noise, if possible. One good thing was that he couldn’t hear any more sound behind him, so he relaxed some and stopped for a light bite and drink of water, before carrying on. He tried to move due south, as he knew that was the direction he had to move in, but it was hard to know for sure.
Some time in the late afternoon he emerged out onto a clearing, and at the far end there was a small village, alongside which ran a road, or what passed for a road in these parts. He guessed this was the village of Marianage where the Spanish supposedly had an outpost.
He knelt on one knee and surveyed the place for a moment or two, then decided to skirt the clearing, circle around and follow the road south to El Pozo. The American lines wouldn’t be far now.
He got halfway around when a shot spat close to his head and he saw eight men running towards him, led by the officer with his head bandaged. So he had nicked him in the head but made him madder than hell. They must have known he was going this way and did a short-cut. Damn!
Casey blasted wildly to keep them down and ran hard for the edge of the clearing where the road carried on through the jungle. Two more shots came very close and he knew they were going to get him.
Then, just as he thought it was all going to end in pain and tears, men appeared from up ahead, dressed in blue. They were black, and Casey realized they were the Buffalo Soldiers of the 9th or 10th US Cavalry regiment. “Hell boys!” he yelled, “don’t shoot my ass, shoot those goddamned Spaniards behind me!”
The negro soldiers hesitated, then looked at the pursing men and aimed at them. A rattle of shots and two Spanish went down. Casey threw himself down and rolled to a halt right by the boots of one soldier who looked at him with some amusement. “Hell,” the man grinned, “if I tol’ ma da and ma that a white man would be throwing hisself at ma feet, they’d’ve laughed their butts off.”
Casey grunted and sat up. “It was a gesture of worship at saving my ass,” he grinned. He offered the man his canteen. “Least I can do in the circumstances.”
The man nodded his thanks and took a pull of the water. He smacked his lips and pass
ed it back. “Josiah McMillan. Tenth Negro Regiment.”
“Casey Long. First Volunteer Cavalry.”
“Hell, one o’ them Rough Riders?”
“Pretty rough, yeah.”
They both laughed and McMillan helped him up to his feet. The others all congratulated themselves at chasing off the now fleeing surviving Spanish. “So what in the hell ya doin’ here, Long?” McMillan asked.
Casey threw an arm around the man’s shoulder as they began to walk down the road towards El Pozo. “Well it so happens I’ve heard the Spanish ladies are particularly beautiful and passionate, y’know? So I ups and wanders off over here…”
They roared with amusement at his tall tale.
CHAPTER TEN
Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt wasn’t entirely pleased with the return of Casey to the unit. In the time he’d gone to scout out El Caney, other events had arisen and now the village was no longer the concern of the Rough Riders. All-in-all, it had been a waste of Casey’s time, and the information he had managed to bring back was merely that which the irregulars and insurgents had told the general anyway.
General Shafter had decided that the Second Division under Major-General Lawton would assault El Caney, securing the American right flank and rear, and then help with the main assault up the ridges of San Juan and Kettle Hill, thus rolling up the entire line and taking the last Spanish defenses before the city.
Corrigan welcomed back Casey who was once again in US army uniform. “We gonna take Kettle Hill, so the word is, Casey,” he said. “Once we secured it, then the main attack can go ahead.”
Casey nodded over a welcome mug of hot coffee. It made sense, since Kettle Hill stood forward of the ridge of San Juan and unless it was in American hands, the Spanish on the hill could sweep the advancing attackers from the flank with enfilading fire. So it was a kind of staged series of attacks planned by Shafter; El Caney first, then Kettle Hill, then the main attack up San Juan. They were the First Brigade along with two other units, the First US Cavalry Regiment and the Tenth, the Buffalo Soldiers. All three were expected to attack and take Kettle Hill with its factory on the top.
