There was a pause in the shelling and explosions and they all rose up. In the distance, they could see a pair of large Spanish warships heading out to sea.
As they watched, another ship approached the two Spaniards from the east. Even from a distance they could see it flew the American flag. Sadly, though, it looked like an obsolete wooden frigate from wars gone by. It fired a broadside that fell short of the two enemy ships who responded quickly. The American vessel was hit and seemed to shudder from the blows.
“Jesus,” said a naval officer in the trench with them, “she’s the steam frigate Franklin. She was obsolete when the Civil War ended. Those people are brave, but foolish.”
“But they had to do something,” commented Ruth. “If you haven’t noticed, we don’t have any big guns on shore. We’re helpless.”
The Franklin was burning. Spanish guns fired again and pieces of wood and other debris that might have been bodies flew skyward. Explosions ripped through the Franklin, setting more fires. Men began to jump overboard. The American ship was doomed. She turned on her side and sank slowly as water gushed through gaping holes in her hull.
Everyone was shocked to silence. Finally, Sarah spoke, “How many men were on the Franklin?”
“At least a couple of hundred,” the officer said sadly, “and I knew a lot of them.” He smiled weakly. “I’m Ensign Paul Prentice and I was on the British ship, the Shannon, when she toured Havana before being turned over to our navy. I just arrived on the Franklin. I guess I was lucky to get off when I did.”
“So where is our mighty new navy now?” Ruth said sarcastically. “I think it might have been useful.”
“No idea,” Prentice said sadly.
Heads were bobbing in the water and small boats were pushing off from shore to help the survivors. The Spanish ships were not going to stop and help. They had decided it was time to run. At least they weren’t going to hinder rescue operations.
“It’s over with,” Ruth said, “unless they want to take a parting shot or two.”
“Was it like this in Paris?” Sarah asked as they climbed out of the trench.
“Oh lord, it was a thousand times worse. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of cannons firing and it went on all day and night. This was nothing compared with that, although I’m afraid there will be a number of casualties. We’d better get to the hospital and await what comes.”
Prentice wished them well and walked slowly away.
* * *
When the Spanish ships began their bombardment, the enemy soldiers near Mount Haney chose that time to commence their own shooting at the Americans. The Spanish cannons were few, small, and didn’t have the range. That didn’t mean that Ryder’s First Maryland Volunteers didn’t have to pay attention. There was concern that the Spaniards would launch an attack if they thought the hill’s defenders were distracted or had been drawn off to repel a potential amphibious invasion.
Ryder wouldn’t let his men be distracted, although he had to grab a couple of them and bodily push them back to where they were supposed to be. They all wanted to see what was happening below in the main camp and do did Martin. Sarah was down there and he was in agony with worry for her safety. What the hell had moved her to come to Cuba?
White-clad Spanish skirmishers began to probe up the hill. Ryder had his men hold their fire until they got within a hundred yards. When the Spanish reached that point, the Americans began shooting. In seconds, concentrated rifle fire had blown them away, leaving a score of dead and wounded littering the slope. Behind the retreating survivors, he saw a larger body of soldiers, but they stopped and withdrew. The Spanish army was not ready to attack Mount Haney this rainy and miserable day.
When he was certain everything was stable, he ran to the other side of the hill and looked down. Smoke poured from where a number of shells had hit. He used his binoculars and looked at the Red Cross compound. Several tents were down and others looked damaged. Soldiers helping casualties were moving towards what remained of the Red Cross facility. He could see what looked like medical personnel helping them. Was one of them Sarah? He could only hope and pray. He hadn’t prayed in a long time, but it seemed like a good idea this day. He looked out to sea where the Spanish warships were disappearing and a third ship was burning.
“Where the hell was our navy?” asked Barnes. “They should have been protecting us. Now look at all the damage and God only knows how many killed and wounded. Jesus, and look at all the ammunition that’s been destroyed. We’re pretty damn near helpless.”
Ryder nodded agreement. “And that means we’re going to both conserve what ammunition we have as well as try to gather up as much extra as we can. If the Spanish attack, we don’t want to have to fight with only what the men have in their pouches. That’d last only an hour or so. Send some runners down and get more ammo before somebody figures out that most of our reserves just got blown up. We have to hold on to this high ground.”
In the meantime, he thought, I’ve got to find out if Sarah is safe. Damn it to hell, why didn’t she stay in Maryland?
* * *
Sarah vomited the first time she saw the man whose face had been destroyed. He had no eyes and the skin on his cheeks had been flayed off. He seemed to be trying to speak even though the lower part of his chin was missing as well. The result was a horrible gurgling sound.
She caught Clara Barton staring at her. “Well?”
Sarah wiped the vomit off her chin. The young American soldier in question was also missing an arm and blood bubbled out from where his chest had been crushed. Despite that, he began to thrash about on his cot. “He’s going to die,” she said softly.
“Why are you whispering?” asked Barton.
“Because I don’t know whether or not he can hear me. The only thing we should do is give him enough morphine to make his passing painless.”
“Do you know how to inject with a hypodermic?”
Sarah said that she did. She got morphine and injected it into his remaining arm. The man sighed and relaxed almost immediately. Barton nodded approvingly. “When we’re through with the others, we’ll come back and see how he’s doing, although I’m reasonably certain he’ll die shortly.”
“I’m sorry I threw up.”
“Nonsense. I’d have been shocked if you hadn’t. And I won’t be shocked if it happens again. The important thing is that you got control of yourself. This battle was just a minor bloodletting although a terrible one for this poor soldier. Things will get much worse, I’m afraid, before this war is over.”
The line of wounded needing treatment was surprisingly long. If this was a minor bloodletting, Sarah thought she didn’t want to see a major one. In battle there was no such thing as a peaceful death, not like most of the ones she’d seen at home. There were no gentle-faced old people lying placidly in coffins while everyone said how good they looked or how they appeared to be sleeping. Nor was this anything like the occasional badly injured people she’d helped her father treat. No, this was beyond ghastly. Worse, these were not old people. Many of the casualties were so young they hadn’t begun to reach their prime, much less become aged.
The first thing the medical staff did when the wounded arrived was decide who might live and who likely would not. Sometimes it was easy. Young men who’d lost several limbs and much of their blood would likely die, like the man without a face. They were made as comfortable as possible and injected with morphine to ease their passing.
The wounded who might survive also needed that narcotic, and Sarah went around and administered it. Unlike a couple of other nurses she saw, she always washed off the needle before using it on another patient. It was her father’s policy. He had read the works of Lister and Pasteur and strongly felt that cleanliness would prevent infection and gangrene. She was pleased to see that Doctor Desmond, their chief surgeon, also concurred. Some of the Army doctors dismissed such notions as foolish and time consuming. Perhaps, she thought, that was why so many of the wounded were l
ining up to be helped by Clara Barton and the Red Cross and not by Army doctors.
Caring for the wounded took several hours. She did not have to assist in any amputations, although she did see one poor young man having his leg sawed off just above the knee. The foot and knee had been mangled to a pulp, with pieces of white bone sticking out through the flesh. She shuddered. What the devil had she gotten herself into? She checked on the man without a face and his cot was empty. She was informed that he had died, peacefully she hoped.
“Ah, there you are,” Sergeant Haney said cheerfully, ignoring the carnage around him. “I was sent down here on a fool’s errand to assist one of our men who broke his leg tripping over a log. Somehow, I think the good colonel had me come here to check on you instead.”
Sarah’s spirits lifted. Martin was clearly safe. “Tell the good colonel that despite what you see, everything is under control.”
“Truth be told, Mrs. Damon, I’ve seen very much worse. Compared with what I took part in as the Civil War was ending, this is a church picnic. Sadly it’ll likely be much worse before this war is over.”
“Then it’s good we’ve had a chance to practice, Sergeant, and when we’re just talking like old friends and there’s none of this damned rank to get in the way, do you think you could manage to call me Sarah?”
Haney grinned. “I might manage it, Sarah, but only if you tell me where I might find that statuesque paragon of Polish beauty, Ruth Holden?”
Sarah laughed and gave him directions. Haney found Ruth scrubbing the blood off her arms. Unlike Sarah, Ruth had indeed participated in a couple of amputations and stitched up some wounds herself.
“You look wonderful, Ruth.”
“Go to hell, Haney. I look like a bloody monster and you know it.”
She took his hand and they went outside and behind the tent. She kissed him fiercely. “Surprised?” she asked.
“Delighted, is more the word,” he said and kissed her back. As his hand slid down and grasped her bottom, she pushed him away.
“This is neither the time nor the place, although I admit that helping save lives is exhilarating.”
“If I find you a place, will you make the time?”
“Of course,” she smiled and patted him on the cheek. “We international refugees have to stick together, don’t we?”
* * *
George Armstrong Custer read the reports with dismay. “Where the hell was our navy?” he shouted. “Several hundreds dead and wounded and a warship sunk. And let’s not forget the ammunition that was blown to hell.”
Secretary of the Navy William Hunt was sweating and not from any heat. The United States Navy had just failed its first test in this new war. “We had knowledge that the Spanish ships were sailing, but we didn’t know their destination. Attacking Matanzas certainly was one thought, but it was also deemed likely that they would strike at our second transport fleet gathering at St. Augustine. I thought it wise that we not split our major forces, which might have resulted in their two capital ships attacking and sinking one of ours. We thought the more likely target would be Florida, but we were clearly wrong. I take full responsibility for this disaster. If you want my resignation you shall have it within the hour.”
Custer thought for only a second. Libbie had told him not to fire him or accept Hunt’s resignation lest their political enemies claim that there was chaos in the Custer administration. Besides, there was agreement that Hunt was by far the best man to run the growing navy. Custer concurred. Hunt was too valuable. We learn from our mistakes, he thought. The Navy needed more ships.
“Sir, I do not want your resignation. What I truly want is for you to take control of your part of this war. We have three superior warships to Spain’s two. We have to maneuver so that we outnumber them. Where are the Spanish ships now?”
“We don’t know. They don’t carry much coal, so we believe they are still in Cuban waters. Sadly, there are literally scores of places where they could hide that are close to both Havana and Matanzas and receive that coal.”
Custer took a swallow of the Jim Beam bourbon he’d been favoring lately. He’d found it smoother than the recently established Jack Daniels brand of whisky. “And that is why every nervous Nellie along the Atlantic coast is demanding Navy warships to protect their front lawns, and that is why Congress has forced me to send scores of our newly commissioned auxiliary ships to protect every little town that has a fishing boat from a Spanish fleet that exists only in nightmares. Jesus, what a way to run a war! When the hell are we ever going to move out and take Havana?”
Hunt wiped his brow with a large white handkerchief. “That cannot happen until we have sufficient forces and sufficient supplies. The Army doesn’t want to send reinforcements until the Spanish battleships have been either sunk or blockaded or otherwise neutralized. Of immediate importance, the recent Spanish assault caused an explosion that destroyed much of our reserve ammunition. There is a real fear that an attack by the Spanish army would find our men defenseless. That means that the Army’s first priority is ammunition, and not reinforcements. Any move to Havana will have to be delayed until those problems are solved.”
“Shit and double shit!” Custer raged. He paced around his office a few times, took a deep breath and seemed to regain control. “If this situation doesn’t improve, Hunt, both of us are going to look like laughingstock jackasses. And it doesn’t help that this Kendrick asshole is down in Cuba filing stories about the Army’s bravery under adverse circumstances—circumstances that he implies are all my fault. And once again, he’s promoted his old buddy Ryder as a hero. What the hell, all Ryder did was beat off an ineffective probe by a small bunch of Spanish skirmishers. It’s not like he’s winning the war by himself.”
Secretary of State Blaine entered unbidden and took a seat. “At least it’s a small victory in a night of disasters. The public needs a hero, so let them have one. And don’t forget that the first photos of the expedition will be arriving soon and many of them will be grim. The newspapers have chartered small, fast ships to take the plates from Cuba as quickly as possible so they can be developed before they rot in the heat.”
Custer looked stunned by the idea of such negative publicity. “Is there any way we can stop them? We all know that a battlefield is a dismal and ugly place. If the American people see what is happening in Cuba, they may turn against the war.”
For once he makes sense, thought Blaine, however futile the thought. “The last thing we want to try to do is impose censorship. That will convince our enemies that we have something to hide. We do, of course, and that is the military’s incompetence, but we can’t let anyone in on that little secret. In the meantime, I will be having a meeting with your esteemed political rival, Winfield Scott Hancock, on the future of Cuba if we should manage to defeat the Spaniards.”
Custer poured a large splash of bourbon into his now empty glass. “And what does that fat pile of shit want?”
Blaine smiled. Custer was feeling overwhelmed and confused. He was also getting drunk. One of these days, it was inevitable that he would make an utter fool out of himself, which would leave the door to the next Republican nomination wide open to one James G. Blaine.
“Hancock will agree to change the date of our leaving an American-occupied Cuba from three years to five years if you will consider giving him a field command should the situation warrant it.”
“When hell freezes over,” Custer snarled. “Wait, is he saying that Nelson Miles is going to fail?”
Blaine shrugged and Hunt looked away. “Miles has never commanded a large force in his life and he’s in his fifties. Hardly ancient but he may be too old to learn.”
“And Hancock isn’t? Hell, he’s older than Miles by a few years.”
“Six or so,” said Blaine, “but he’s much younger in his attitude and has a world of experience.”
“Which he can stuff up his ass! I’ll call on him if and when the situation becomes truly desperate and not a moment soone
r.”
“Perhaps I can provide a hint of good news,” said Hunt. “We have some naval personnel off Matanzas with a new weapon. When we find the Spanish capital ships, it is possible that we will be able to use it to sink or damage at least one of them.”
Custer tried to blink away the effects of the alcohol. It didn’t work. He was starting to slur his words. “What sort of weapon?”
Hunt smiled. “It’s called a torpedo.”
* * *
Juana never thought that her small foray into the world of military intelligence would instantly result in Spain’s defeat. Instead and to her dismay, it seemed like the warning that the Spanish battleships had sailed had been misinterpreted. All Havana was cheering, drinking, and dancing in the streets. The camp of the hated gringos had been pounded into rubble and the ground soaked with gringo blood. When later word came that an American warship had been smashed to kindling by Spain’s warships, the celebrations began anew. She did notice that not everyone joined in the party. Many Cubans were silent and reflective. They would revel only when the Spanish were gone.
Still, she was certain that she had done the right thing and would do it again in a heartbeat. She heard voices. Her husband was home. He opened the door to her apartment and strode in, smiling proudly.
“Victory is ours, noble wife.”
“It’s considered polite to knock when entering a lady’s rooms.”
Salazar laughed. “You are not a lady and I am too drunk to care. The Americans have been smashed. In a very short while we will launch a huge attack against them and drive them into the sea. It is my fondest hope that your lover, Kendrick, will either drown or die running and his body eaten by the land crabs. I convinced General Weyler that I had pressing business here and that the war could spare me for a few days. Therefore, here I am to dispense long overdue justice, you whore. I know you were romping in bed with that bastard Kendrick.”
Juana was outraged. “How can you pretend to be betrayed when you ordered me to his room? And thank God you did. If it hadn’t been for your insane wishes, I never would have known the pleasures he gave me. Pleasures, I might add, that you were incapable of providing me.”
1882: Custer in Chains Page 14
