As a result of the sinking, Spanish naval power in the new world was virtually nonexistent. In a short time the U.S. would have two capital ships to Spain’s none, and the American smaller warships were at least as good as the less numerous Spanish vessels.
The two American officers had been brought in on stretchers. They were heavily bandaged and the younger man’s legs were in splints. Villate felt like ripping the bandages from their bodies and listening to them scream.
There was a mild and intentional cough behind him. Redford Dunfield from the British Consulate and the International Red Cross had insisted on being present. Since Dunfield was British and since Great Britain was the most powerful nation in the world, his annoying request had to be honored. He was also plump, in his fifties, and exuded a sense of confidence that Villate found both condescending and annoying. He was accompanied by a newly arrived German advisor, Colonel Adolf Helmsdorf. The British consul was in civilian clothes while the German was in full uniform.
The British diplomatic presence in Havana was small. As Dunfield had mentioned several times in earlier meetings, her majesty was most parsimonious when it came to handing out diplomatic titles. Besides, the British ambassador to Spain was located in Madrid, while Havana was a backwater. The Havana consulate was more of a courtesy than anything else. In order to make ends meet, Dunfield spent most of his time working in the import-export business, where he had been successful. Unfortunately for Villate, on this day Dunfield took his consular duties very seriously. The German appeared curious but unconcerned.
The two American prisoners were unconscious and in no shape to be questioned. Villate thought they were pretending, but with Dunfield present he would let it go for another time. However, he did have Spain’s pride to salve.
Villate turned on Dunfield and glared. “They will be hanged as pirates and spies.”
“On what grounds?” Dunfield asked calmly but firmly. “According to her papers, their ship was a legitimate U.S. Navy warship and she was flying the American flag when she was taken. Her officers and men are all members of the U.S. Navy; therefore, they cannot be held as pirates.”
Villate felt himself turning red with frustration. “They entered the harbor flying a Norwegian flag and presented Norwegian papers. We trusted their integrity. They are franc-tireurs, terrorists, and, as such are subject to execution. We will hang them in such a manner that the American ships offshore can see them twist and dangle.”
Helmsdorf nodded solemnly. During the Franco-Prussian war, his army had summarily executed a number of Frenchmen who were defined as terrorists. This, however, was different. For one thing, the Americans were all wearing uniforms, which was in accordance with the rules of war and legitimized their actions.
Dunfield shook his head. “According to the Geneva Convention, the officers and men of the Aurora were and are legitimate members of a conventional armed force and not terrorists as defined by the Convention. And may I remind you that Spain was a signatory to that agreement. Therefore, you are honor bound to adhere to its terms. You may not hang them.”
I would like to shove the Geneva Accord up your ass and set it on fire, Villate thought. Rules of war, hell, he thought. War consists of killing people. There should be no rules when fighting for one’s own existence. The Americans should be executed immediately. He had the feeling that the German agreed with him as well. “Are you saying it was a ruse de guerre and nothing more?”
“That’s correct,” Dunfield said, “a trick of war and, sadly, you fell for it. These men were incredibly brave and successful and not pirates or terrorists. When they get back to their homeland, they will be feted and given medals.”
“If they get back,” Villate snarled. “A lot can happen to them before that. Perhaps their medical situation could take a serious change for the worse. Perhaps their wounds will become infected, causing their deaths. Perhaps such infections, instead of causing their deaths, would cause their limbs to become gangrenous and need to be amputated. Would the United States like their heroes coming home alive but without arms and legs and being carried in boxes?”
Dunfield paled and responded angrily. “I cannot recommend that you even think of committing such atrocities. In fact, I’ve just this instant decided that Red Cross personnel will constantly observe the American prisoners and that they will be taken to the British Consulate or some other suitable place as soon as possible, within the hour if I can arrange it.”
The two men glared at each other while Helmsdorf turned away. Villate hated do-gooders. Dunfield decided to try and calm things. “Can the Americans be exchanged for Spanish prisoners?”
“I will look into it,” Villate said sullenly. “However, I do not believe the Americans have taken enough of our men prisoner in this strange war to make an exchange feasible.”
Villate walked over to the two inert figures. He leaned over and spat in their faces. Dunfield thought about protesting but decided he’d pushed his luck far enough.
“You can take the prisoners to wherever you wish,” Villate said and walked away. The German followed a moment later. But first he winked at Dunfield.
Prentice had been pretending to be unconscious. He thought Janson had been as well. “Mr. Janson,” he whispered, “if I heard correctly, we actually stand a chance of surviving.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Janson whispered back. “Anything could happen. One other thing.”
“What?”
“You’ve got spit all over your face.”
* * *
The bombardment began at first light the next day. The Spanish army had brought up dozens of cannons, most of them small, and began shelling the two major locations—Mount Haney and the entrance to the bay.
With an infantry attack clearly imminent, Ryder’s men manned their positions. He sent runners to ensure that his other two regiments were equally prepared. He was beginning to get a taste of higher command and he wasn’t sure he liked it. All his instincts said that he should lead from the front, like a good lieutenant or captain should, but now he was a general in charge of three regiments. He could not allow himself to be shot and thus decapitate his command.
“Damn it to hell,” he muttered as shells kicked up dirt on the approaches to the defenses.
“And isn’t that the truth,” said Haney. “And it’s also the truth that the Spanish gunners are pretty miserable shots.”
The Spanish were having difficulty elevating their cannons so they could hit the crest of the diminutive Mount Haney. He had given orders that his own guns should not respond or duel with the Spaniards until and if he gave the specific command. He didn’t want to reveal their positions or let the enemy know that he only had eight twelve-pounders to their thirty or so guns. In order to confuse the Spanish, Ryder had dummy gun emplacements built and painted logs called Quaker Guns jutted out from them.
Barnes scrambled up to Ryder. “The boys are getting frustrated. They want to shoot back.”
“Control yourself and your men, Jack. We’ll open fire on their infantry and not their useless cannons, which, if you hadn’t noticed, are missing us. We’ll load with grape and shrapnel, not solid shot. And when they get close enough, we’ll hit them with the Gatlings. If they’re as inexperienced as I think they are, they’ll be coming up the hill in bunches or waves and we’ll be able to hurt them badly.”
Barnes turned and walked away. He gotten a few yards when he stopped suddenly and started to return. Haney blocked his path and glared at him. “Is whatever you need from the general really important?”
“I just wanted to know if he’d heard anything from Sarah, or Ruth,” he added after a moment.
“Worrying about them is the last thing he needs to do now, you idiot. He has to concentrate on the fight in front of him.”
“You shouldn’t call me an idiot,” said a shocked Barnes.
Haney looked around and saw that no one was watching them. “Then don’t act like one,” he said as he drove his fist hard into
the other man’s stomach. Barnes doubled over and retched. Haney grabbed his shirt and pulled him upright. “The general, bless his heart, was indeed concerned that you might not be ready to lead, and you are just proving his point. Now go and take control of yourself and your men and it’s a damned shame you fell down like that. And just for the record, there’s been no shells landing anywhere near the hospital.”
A few yards away, Ryder hadn’t heard a word, but figured out that Barnes had almost done something foolish. Still, sergeants should not be permitted to punch majors in the gut. He would have to punish Haney. Severely. Once the battle was over, he would have to think of something. Perhaps he’d have Haney forfeit some of his whisky. Yes, that’s a very good idea.
Men began shouting. Large numbers of Spanish infantry were emerging and beginning the long climb up the hill.
◆ Chapter 12 ◆
With swords waving, Spanish officers shouted and made serious attempts to keep their men in order as they advanced towards the American lines. It was a truly impressive display as they moved out through the heavy foliage in reasonably precise lines. Unit flags flew while drums pounded, and bugles blared, all designed to bolster the bravery of the attackers and intimidate the defenders. Ryder had to admit that it worked, but only to a point.
Although he’d been in combat, it had usually consisted of skirmishes that were small, nasty, and over quickly. Even Custer’s fight on the Little Big Horn had involved relatively few soldiers compared with the mass of humanity that was approaching him. This was the first time he’d seen an actual battle involving large numbers of men on each side. At one level it was thrilling; on another it was frightening. His impression was that they were all advancing to kill him. His stomach was churning and he felt a strong urge to urinate. He wondered just how his men were taking it. Probably just the way he was, he concluded.
Although seriously outnumbered, Ryder’s soldiers did have the advantage of being in strong defensive positions, which gave them a sometimes false sense of security. Most of their bodies were protected, unlike those of the Spaniards who were out in the open and fully exposed. In theory, the defender had the advantage. In reality, people on both sides were going to die bloody and agonizing deaths.
As the Spanish lines reached a predetermined point, Ryder gave the order and his cannons finally began to fire. Shrapnel and grape chewed into the Spanish ranks. With his telescope he could see white uniforms turning red and bodies being ripped to shreds. Spanish officers screamed and tried to maintain order.
“It’s like Pickett’s Charge,” said Haney, “or maybe that stupid attack at Cold Harbor.”
Ryder had to wet his suddenly dry mouth before answering. “You were there?”
Haney chuckled, “Gettysburg no, but Cold Harbor, yes. I was fifteen when I stupidly lied my way into the Army. I thought it would be glamorous and glorious. Christ, was I wrong, General. I watched as an attack involving thousands of men was cut to shreds because the almighty General Ulysses S. Grant made a terrible mistake. It was just about my unit’s time to go forward when someone with half a brain called off the attack. Damn, I was lucky.”
“Luckier than those poor bastards,” Ryder said, looking at the steadily advancing Spanish.
The Spanish formations were disintegrating into a horde as more and more shells rained down upon them. True to human nature, they sought comfort with each other and bunched up, making them even easier targets to kill. When they reached the painted markers that said they were within rifle range, close to three thousand weapons fired. Unlike slower-firing muzzle-loaders of the Civil War, modern American rifles were breech-loaders and both firepower and accuracy were greatly increased. Just as important, shooters didn’t have to stand up or turn away from their targets to reload. More enemy soldiers went down like wheat being scythed. But still they came on. Some Spaniards were fleeing, but most bravely continued on.
American officers and NCOs could be heard yelling for their men to fire slowly and carefully and to aim low. There was a normal tendency to fire high and a bullet over the head went nowhere, but a bullet into the ground might just ricochet and hit something. As the Spanish reached the barbed wire, they paused, confused. They had never seen this kind of barrier before. Men behind the first ones collided with them, pushing and shoving them into the wire. The wire was a terrible thing. Spanish soldiers pulled at it and it ripped their hands to bloody shreds in the process. They tried to climb it and got stuck, tearing the flesh of their legs and bodies. They milled around and didn’t know what to do.
Ryder was about to wonder where his Gatling guns were when they began adding their insane chatter to the already hideous din. Hundreds of bullets a minute ripped into the Spanish masses. Men fell and Spanish soldiers behind them tried to climb over them or use the bodies as shields. Stymied, the Spanish began aiming and firing at their tormenters, finally causing serious American casualties. Clouds of gunsmoke confused both sides. In some cases, visibility dropped to zero, but both sides still blazed away. Spanish bullets whizzed by while others smacked into the earthen embankment with a thud, and a few found flesh.
“We should be in the front line, General,” Lang said.
Ryder shook his head. “Like I told you a hundred times, your men are sharpshooters and I want them where they can be best used, and not mixed in with the brawl.”
“I know,” said Lang. He looked like a wolf wanting to pounce.
Ryder suddenly realized that Lang was correct. The Texans should be in on the killing. “Bring your men forward now. Have them shoot into that mob but tell them to concentrate on officers and anybody who looks like he’s getting through the wire.”
Lang had been right. He should have used the Texans sooner and he should have had some men specializing in killing officers shooting at them in the first place. He swore at himself. He still had a lot to learn.
Soldiers in the American lines were beginning to fall. With only their heads and shoulders generally exposed, the wounds were hideous and often fatal. A couple of men broke and ran screaming for the rear. Haney shot one of them in the leg and the other got away. Ryder desperately wanted to see what was happening behind and below him with the rest of the army and Sarah, but he dared not. He had to be a strong leader for his men. He could not turn his back on the enemy no matter how badly he wanted to.
* * *
“Hold,” said Sergeant Kelly. “Hold until I tell you to fire.”
“Why don’t you wait until they are in our fucking laps, Sergeant? Or do you want us to see the whites of their eyes?”
“Why don’t you just shut up, Corporal Ryan.”
The howling mob of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away and coming fast. Ryan and Kelly were cousins who’d emigrated from Ireland a decade earlier and, even though they’d served in the army, this was their first real combat. A handful of skirmishes with Indians didn’t matter, in their opinion. It was also the first time they would use the Gatling gun since that day on the Little Big Horn when they’d helped save the man who was now President of the United States from a terrible death.
They also found it amusing that the lieutenant who’d led them in their mad dash to save Custer was now their brigade leader. It was a small world, they thought every time the topic came up. It pleased them that the young general himself had recognized them and even said a few kind words to them, and laughed about shared memories.
The two cousins had left the army shortly after the Sioux had been defeated and tried several means of making a living, including working on the railroad. They’d quickly decided that building the railroads was just too damn much work. A new war, chances of promotion, and steady money had induced them to enlist in the First Maryland.
Then they had volunteered to work a Gatling gun when a couple of them were assigned to the regiment. They’d had the mistaken notion that it might keep them out of close-quarters fighting. They hadn’t realized that the gun’s crew was exposed to enemy artillery or sniper f
ire. And now a screaming horde of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away. Rifles and cannons were killing them and it was time for the machine guns.
“Fire!” Kelly screamed.
“About fucking time,” said Ryan as he cranked the handle that fired the gun. Another soldier was in charge of feeding stick magazines filled with bullets into the gun where gravity put one in each of the revolving barrels. Still another reloaded the magazines as quickly as possible, thus keeping up a continuous rate of fire.
Kelly’s job was to aim the beast and, along with a fourth soldier, manhandle it to where the torrent of bullets could do the most harm to an enemy.
Lead rained on the approaching Spaniards, knocking them down and ripping into them. Screams from the wounded and the terrified filled the air, while smoke clouds enveloped them. Bodies piled up. Some had reached the barbed wire only to find that there was little chance of getting through. Getting tangled in the wire meant death. The Spanish attack faltered and they began to fall back. Still, the bullets chased them and found them and more were killed and wounded. The Spanish did not understand their tormentors’ new way of war and the retreat became a rout with wounded being trampled by the unharmed. Smoke now obscured the battlefield, so they simply fired where they thought the enemy would be. Soon, there was no enemy.
“Cease fire,” Kelly ordered. The smoke thinned and then disappeared. The hillside was blanketed with dead and wounded.
“Holy Mary,” said a stunned Ryan, “what the bloody hell have we gone and done? This isn’t war. This is a massacre.”
He gagged as the stench from torn flesh and bowels wafted towards them and others were becoming ill as well. They had forgotten just what a large bullet could do to the human body, smashing chests and ripping off limbs. And why men who were called wounded often never returned to battle or were able to lead useful lives.
1882: Custer in Chains Page 20
