1882: Custer in Chains

by Robert Conroy

  She rose and walked to the doorway. “I can protect myself, although the next time I need to I’ll have the pistol cocked.”

  * * *

  “Morituri te salutant,” whispered Sarah as they joined the gaily dressed throng swarming into the White House.

  “I am not a gladiator and this is not Rome,” Ryder said with a smile. “However, if you like, I will go up to General Custer and tell him that we who are about to die salute you.”

  She playfully tapped him on the arm with her fan. “I keep forgetting you’re partly civilized.”

  The invitation to the White House had come as a surprise. The Custers had decided to invite just about anybody in Congress and the government and all military personnel of significant rank to attend what was a grand going-away party. As commander of a regiment, Ryder qualified on the low end of the list of important people. He mentioned to Sarah that he thought it might be similar to the ball held by the British before they marched out to fight Napoleon at Waterloo. At least that battle ended well for the Brits, he thought. How would this coming campaign fare for the United States?

  This was the first time inside the White House for either of them and each was dressed for the occasion. Sarah wore a gown of deep green that exposed her bare pink shoulders. The cut of the gown emphasized her trim figure and very slender waist. Ryder wore a dress blue uniform and, since he felt that many were staring at Sarah, thought that he was fairly inconspicuous. There were scores of colonels present and a fair number of generals, including Sheridan and Miles. His divisional commander, General Terry, looked exhausted and older than his actual late fifties and Ryder wondered if he was up to the coming task.

  If there had been a receiving line to see the president, it had disintegrated into chaos. Thus, he was surprised when Libbie Custer stood smiling in front of them.

  “It’s good to see you, Colonel. I believe the last time was somewhere near the Little Big Horn and I was thanking you for saving George’s life.”

  Ryder remembered no such incident. He’d seen her at a distance before the wounded Custer was evacuated. He did not contradict her. He introduced Sarah to her and they chatted politely for a few seconds before Libbie wandered off.

  “I can see why men fall in love with her,” Sarah said. “She is exquisitely lovely and has a splendid figure. That and she has a wry smile that is quite engaging. And to think she’s forty years old. Goodness,” she giggled, “am I ever being cattish and spiteful?”

  “But did you notice her eyes? They were evaluating you, Sarah.”

  “For what, I wonder?”

  “Because I’m one of a diminishing number who know that Custer nearly destroyed the Seventh Cavalry and that it was not his brilliant idea that had me there with the machine guns. I think she wonders if you too are a potential threat to her husband.”

  Sarah was about to respond when the subject of their discussion suddenly appeared before them. “Colonel Ryder,” Custer said genially. His eyes were red and his face was flushed. The president had been drinking. “I envy you and everyone who is going with you to Cuba. The old ladies in the government insist that the United States cannot get along without my presence here in Washington. Utter nonsense if you ask me.”

  Ryder introduced Custer to Sarah. The president bowed deeply and made an obvious attempt to look down the front of her dress. She flushed and smiled tightly. She thought about saying to Custer that there was more than a touch of gray in his once golden hair, but decided against it. She noted that Martin was grim and angry so she squeezed his arm tightly. He got the message and turned away. Punching the President of the United States in the mouth while in the White House was not a good career move even if the man was being a boor.

  Custer reiterated his desire to join in the invasion of Cuba and wandered off. “Is he always like that?” she asked.

  “Obnoxious and crude? Only when he’s awake. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in years and he never used to drink the way I hear he does now. Perhaps power has changed him, or even frustrated him. It’s rumored that Libbie generally does a lot of his thinking for him. That’s probably only partly true. The man is impetuous and reckless, not stupid.”

  She steered him outside where it was cooler. And safer for Martin’s career. It would not have done for Martin to have made a scene in front of several hundred of the most powerful people in the country.

  “Would you like me to do your thinking for you, Martin?”

  “No, and I don’t want to do yours, although I would definitely want your advice.”

  “As I would yours. Now tell me why you never grew a beard like so many of those very important people have?”

  He grinned at the memories. “First, I did try on several occasions, but the thing always came in scraggly. Frankly, I’m very glad that having a great bushy beard is going out of fashion. But why?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Because I’m thinking of letting you kiss me tonight, and I’m glad your beard won’t scratch my face.”

  “Then that makes two of us.”

  Sarah was glad it was dark out so Martin couldn’t see her face suddenly turn red. She had just recalled what her good friend Ruth had said about men’s beards itching and scratching. When Sarah had mentioned the harsh feel of whiskers on her cheeks, Ruth had said, “Oh no, I’m talking about my thighs.”

  * * *

  The open carriage wound its way through the streets of Havana and out into the countryside. A trusted servant of Juana’s drove while she and Kendrick sat in comfort and talked quietly. Juana held a parasol, which she used to try and shield both of them from both the sun and the prying and angry eyes of the Cuban people.

  Kendrick was astonished at the large number of Spanish soldiers and sailors wandering around the town. Outside of Havana proper, hundreds of civilian workers were digging trenches and building up fortifications. Even though he considered himself a novice when it came to military matters, it was apparent that any attempt to storm Havana could result in a bloody catastrophe.

  On the positive side, the soldiers and sailors he did see were, for the most part, slovenly and seemed uninterested in the possibility of the coming fighting. Of course, they might react differently when the shooting started and their lives were in danger.

  Nor were the officers any better. Many of them appeared to be dandies and fops. Some were nothing more than boys. He decided that Spain had superiority in numbers, but not in the quality of her troops. He would send a coded message to that effect to Washington. Of course, even poor soldiers might fight well from behind the protection of a defensive wall or the security of a trench.

  Juana read his mind. “What will you tell them?”

  “As I said before, the truth is often useful. I still think it’s incredible that Spain hasn’t shut down the telegraph lines running from Havana to other countries, and that includes the U.S. They appear oblivious to the fact that most of the Western Union workers are American. They seem to think that modern technology is irrelevant. Of course, if they do shut it down, they would have no way of communicating with Madrid. It’s an incredible dilemma for them.”

  They continued on their ride and she showed him one of several large prison camps. “General Weyler has organized these atrocities. If he feels that the locals are not trustworthy or have harbored guerillas, he’s had entire villages uprooted and the people sent to these camps where they are poorly fed, inadequately housed, and abused. People are dying by the hundreds and Spain doesn’t care. Spain should not be in charge of any country.”

  A wooden stockade surrounded the camp. Inside were at least a thousand men, women, and children. All were jammed together tightly. Most had dark skins, but a number were lighter. All of them were dressed in rags and were filthy and thin to the point of emaciation. Many bore bruises and those that they could see through the walls of the stockade looked at Juana and Kendrick with eyes that were filled with hatred.

  “I guess they don’t realize we’re on their side,” Kendric
k said.

  “Are we?” Juana asked. “What have we done for them? General Weyler calls these places ‘concentration camps,’ because he has concentrated all of these so-called enemies together where they can be watched. While here, they are given minimal rations, no water for cleaning, and the more attractive women are either abused or allowed to sell themselves for additional food. This and other places like it are nothing but hell.”

  “I’ll write about it.”

  “You might want to add that many of these imprisoned souls are recently freed slaves who have traded one form of bondage for another.”

  Kendrick simply nodded. What was happening to so-called free slaves in Cuba wasn’t all that different from what was happening to freed slaves in the United States. With Reconstruction over, the Negro was being pushed farther and farther down the economic ladder, particularly in the South. Perhaps his editors wouldn’t like reading such an interpretation. He would be discreet and write about the camps, but not that they were filled with freed slaves.

  Juana came to him again that night. She walked to an open window and looked up at the stars. “Gilberto will be back tomorrow evening. I strongly urge you to be far from here when he arrives.”

  “I thought I was his guest,” he said jokingly. She was again wearing the long and shapeless cotton nightgown.

  “I have people keeping an eye on him and they say he is furious that he hasn’t caught the rebels who killed his men. At some point he will recall that he sent me to you and realize that his honor has been insulted and he will feel compelled to take action. It won’t matter that he was the one who suggested it. It’s contradictory and doesn’t make sense, but that is the way he thinks. He is often far from logical or rational.”

  “Then I can’t leave you. He’ll hurt you.”

  Juana laughed. “No he won’t. I told you he’s afraid of me and my family. He’ll scream and rage and then ignore me, which I find quite acceptable.” She reached out and patted his cheek. She didn’t tell him that he would likely slap her and even punch her. He didn’t need to know that. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And when you leave you’ll go with one of my men and a companion of his who arrived a day ago and has been living in the servants’ quarters.”

  She stood and walked to the window. The nightgown fabric was light and he could see the outline of her thin body through the moonlight. She caught him watching.

  “Am I that ugly, James?”

  He took a deep breath. “No, my lady, far from it.”

  His initial impressions of her as a stern and plain woman had long since disappeared. She was a classic case of the more he got to know her, the more attractive she became. He thought it amusing since he generally liked his women a little on the plump side and a whole lot more bosomy. Juana had small breasts at best.

  “Well then, he sent me here so that I would be punished and humiliated by having sex with you and that hasn’t happened. Nor has he been cuckolded. Yet.”

  Juana carefully and slowly unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and gracefully stepped out of it. “You are absolutely lovely,” Kendrick whispered. She smiled and blew out the one candle that had been illuminating the room.

  He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He started to rise but she pushed him back down. She took his head and held it to her breasts. “First things first,” she said. “We have all night, so we will take all night. You will now kiss my breasts lovingly and slowly like I’ve always wanted and imagined and then we will move on to other things.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her so tightly she gasped. “My dear Juana, I exist to please you,” he said and realized that he meant it.

  * * *

  Clarissa Harlow Barton was in her early sixties. Better known as Clara Barton, she had recently founded the American Red Cross. She had tended the sick and wounded in the Civil War and seen the results of the most horrific fighting. She’d also come under fire and nearly been killed. After the war, she’d traveled to Europe and helped during the Franco-Prussian War. To Sarah, she gave the immediate impression that she was a stern and demanding taskmistress.

  The unmarried Clara Barton was in Baltimore to oversee the shipment of medical supplies to the south when the army finally embarked for Cuba.

  “You and your friend will not be permitted to serve on the battlefield,” she said sternly.

  “May I ask why not?” Sarah enquired. “I have experience with terrible wounds. My father is a doctor and I assisted him on many occasions. I’ve seen men bleeding and mangled from wounds and injuries and, yes, even shot. I did not flinch then and will not in the future. Not that it matters, but I’ve also assisted in childbirth, and I’ve even watched as people died.

  “And as to my friend, Ruth Holden spent many months as a volunteer nurse in Paris during the terrible fighting. If anything, she has far more experience than I do.”

  “Who is he?” Barton asked.

  Sarah was perplexed. “Who?”

  Barton smiled slightly. “The man you wish to follow, that’s who.”

  “Am I that obvious? I guess I am. His name is Martin Ryder and he commands the First Maryland Volunteers.”

  Barton shuffled through papers on her desk until she found the one she wanted. “According to this, your young colonel is highly regarded by his superiors, his peers and his men. His men are well disciplined and well behaved. I understand that he is concerned about their hygiene. The next time you see him tell him to make sure his medical personnel keep themselves and their tools as clean as possible.”

  “He will be leaving in a couple of days. When I see him next, I will tell him what you said.” Of course it would be in between desperate and passionate kisses.

  Barton nodded. “As to you and your friends, you will accompany us to Jacksonville and, if circumstances warrant, perhaps down to the Florida Keys. We will be going by train to Charleston, which is as far south as decent rail lines go. There is a narrow gauge track running from Charleston to Jacksonville, and if possible we will use that. It’s a shame that the Confederate railroad tracks were so miserable during the war and that there have been only minimal improvements since then.”

  It was common knowledge that the U.S. government was trying to widen the gauge and extend the line south to Daytona, but that was not going to happen overnight. There was resistance on the part of the railroad lines to building farther south since there was little in the way of civilization and customers in that direction.

  Sarah nodded politely. She was delighted that the redoubtable Clara Barton was going to let her at least go to Jacksonville. Once there she and the others could prove their worth, and, if the war lasted as long as some people thought it would, she was confident that hospitals would be established on Cuban soil. It only made sense. Wounded soldiers had to be treated by skilled medical personnel as soon as possible; therefore, they would have to be close to the battlefields. Shipping them to Jacksonville or even the Florida Keys made no sense. She would take one step at a time.

  She profusely thanked Miss Barton and left before the woman could change her mind. On the train back to Baltimore, she considered how much her life had changed and how much Martin Ryder now meant to her. The kiss she’d promised him at the White House for not punching President Custer had quickly turned into a number of them and all given joyously and passionately. She found herself worried sick that he might not return from the war or that he might be terribly maimed. She recalled helping her father operate on a man who’d lost his legs in a train accident. That such horrible wounds could happen to Martin as well, would soon be a terrifying reality.

  She had not given herself to him nor would she, at least not yet. However, she thought it was time to permit just a few liberties that would let him know just how much she cared for him.

  Sarah smiled to herself. One nice thing about being a widow, she thought, was that she now knew so much about what pleased a man.

  * * *

  Maria Vasquez peered through one of
the small gaps in the rough wooden stockade that kept her a prisoner. She was twenty-five and a widow. Her husband had been killed by a Spanish firing squad. They thought he’d been a guerilla. He hadn’t been but Maria was now. She had worked hard for the revolution, carrying messages and supplies. Even though she never carried a gun, she still could have been executed. It was ironic that she had been condemned to spend God knows how long in the prison camp because she had protested the lack of food that had claimed the life of her small son. Then she had been hungry. Now she was close to starving.

  Some of the gaps were wide enough for her to stick her hand through and beg for food. Sometimes she actually got some from sympathetic Cubans. They were careful, though. They didn’t want to attract attention and wind up in the camp themselves.

  Several priests routinely passed out charity along with a few civilians. In particular, an old man named Luis would bring her pieces of cheese and chunks of stale bread. She could not count on Luis, however. He was old and scrawny. He would talk to her in a respectful manner and she loved him for that. He had a shoe repair shop a mile from the camp. She knew where it was and he had told her to run to it if she could ever escape from the hell she was in.

  Maria was afraid that she would spend the rest of her life in the camp. People came in but the only ones who left were carried out as cadavers. She could see happy people walking by the camp and a number of wealthy men and women riding in carriages. She had never seen a zoo, but she knew what one was. To the rich Spaniards, she and the others were little more than animals in a zoo. Somewhere, life was normal. Just not here.

  Luis was not the only man in her life. One of the guards, a heavyset man named Ramon, had made it plain to her that she would have a much better life if only she would become his mistress or at least let him fuck her every now and then. His comments told her that she was still reasonably attractive. She was not light-skinned like a Spaniard or dark like a Negro. She was somewhere in between and she knew that men found her color fascinating. As a child she’d asked her mother whether she was Mexican, Indian, or Negro and her mother had laughed and said everything.