Yes, they would, he thought. He was the one who knew where they were going. He was the one who had been scouting out the terrain. He took the lead with a grinning McCawley just a step behind. The colonel was exulting in the fact that his Marines would be fighting as a unit, and not as small units on board warships.
Prentice quickly found the path that would lead them to the Morro Castle. It and La Cabaña guarded the half of the entrance to Havana’s harbor that was across from the city itself. The Negro cavalry would attack the more sprawling fortress of La Cabaña.
“Faster,” the colonel ordered and the men responded. Prentice had figured it as a two-mile jog from the beach. The big threat, of course, was discovery. That it would happen was inevitable. Discovered too soon, and the enemy could be pouring rifle and cannon fire into the helpless ranks of Americans. As they ran past houses and cottages, people awakened. Windows were opened and, in some cases, people stepped outside to see what was happening. When they saw an army passing, most of them prudently went indoors, while others ran away from both the soldiers and the fort. In a few cases, Spanish-speaking soldiers angrily told people to go inside their houses and hide.
After an eternity, the ramparts were in sight. There was no apparent activity. Whatever noise the column had made, it had not been enough to rouse the garrison that Prentice knew was small and poorly led. Prentice led men to where he’d spotted a gate. It was shut, of course. The colonel signaled and a handful of men raced towards it and confirmed that it was shut firmly. Prentice found himself holding his breath while the men fiddled with the explosives they’d brought. They lit the fuse and ran as fast as they could.
Just then, they were spotted and Spanish voices called out a challenge. “Too late,” McCawley said with a grin. A second later and a blast ripped the gate apart. The Marines didn’t wait to see if the way inside was clear, they just ran screaming towards the smoking void and disappeared inside. Prentice followed on their heels, nearly stumbling over debris.
The Spanish fought, many of them with screaming desperation. There were but a hundred of them at most while more than six hundred Americans were in their midst, shooting them and stabbing them with bayonets. An unarmed Spaniard lunged at Prentice who hacked at him with his cutlass. The man screamed and fell to his knees as blood gushed from his shoulder. “I surrender,” he sobbed in Spanish. Prentice kicked him to the ground and continued on.
Resistance crumbled. Many Spaniards surrendered, while others ran out into the darkness. A fire was burning and some ammunition was exploding, but the Americans quickly solved those problems. Farther down, Prentice could hear similar fighting raging as the Buffalo Soldiers clawed their way inside La Cabaña. Prentice was confident that they would succeed. That garrison too was small and poorly armed. The incompetent Spanish leadership had left the back door to Havana wide open.
Prentice joined a group that was examining the numerous cannons that faced the entrance to the harbor. Across the channel was the small fort of La Punta. He wondered what its garrison was thinking as smoke and gunfire erupted from the two larger forts that were to have protected the city. American ships would have had to run that deadly gauntlet if they had tried to force their way in. As soon as it was determined which of the Spanish guns were useable, they would commence bombarding La Punta and targets of opportunity.
In a very short while they concluded that only about half of the cannons were safe enough to use and many of them could only be used with reduced charges.
While Marines struggled with the captured cannons, and others were dragged up the trail from the ships, Prentice wondered about the man he’d chopped with his cutlass. Dreading what he would see, he found his way back to where he’d left the Spaniard. The man lay on the ground with his mouth open and his eyes glazed over. Blood had coagulated on his wound and was turning black. Flies were swarming in their hundreds. Prentice made it to a wall before vomiting.
“Your first, Lieutenant?” asked a Marine corporal. His arm was in a sling. Prentice looked to see if the man was being smart and saw sympathy instead of sarcasm.
Paul wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “This is the first time I ever killed anyone directly. When you fire a cannon you usually don’t see the results. Worse, he wasn’t even armed, although he was lunging at me.”
The corporal nodded. “That means he was trying to kill you, so what you did was war and self-defense. Maybe it’s better when we kill from a distance. I really don’t want to look into the whites of their eyes. It becomes just too damn personal.”
Prentice agreed and vomited a second time.
* * *
Governor-General Vlas Villate was awakened by the sound of thunder and the distant muted crackling of gunfire. He swung his bare legs out of the bed, as always careful to not awaken the stocky Cuban woman who was his current mistress. She wasn’t all that attractive but she fucked like a tigress and made no demands on him. Her cousin was that demon of a nun named Magdalena. He often wondered what that not very holy woman thought of her cousin screwing the governor of Cuba. Jealousy, he thought. In his opinion, celibacy was the most idiotic thing the Catholic Church had ever invented. Only a fool would deprive himself or herself of the joys of sex.
He shuffled to a window that pointed to the American lines and heard nothing. Shit, he thought, that meant that the sounds were coming from the channel.
Clad only in his nightshirt, he walked to another window. From this he could see out towards the entrance of the harbor. Since the siege had commenced, he had begun sleeping in the security of the fortress known as Real Fueza. Over two hundred years old, it had been obsolete the day it was built because it was set too far back from the channel to defend it. It was just another ancient piece of stupidity from Madrid. Until tonight, however, its history meant little. This night, Real Fueza made a splendid observation tower with a great view of the other side of the channel. As he watched, an explosion ripped through La Cabaña, sending flames and smoke into the sky. Morro Castle was already burning. He grabbed a telescope and thought he could see people running around. They looked like ants that had been spilled from their hill.
An aide rushed in and paused, dismayed at seeing his governor in his night clothes. “Don’t gawk, you fool. Who is in charge of the forts on the other side of the channel?”
“The Navy, sir.”
Villate sagged. “And we don’t have a damned navy anymore, do we? Does that mean that no one is in charge over there?”
The aide prudently decided not to answer. “Never mind, damn it. Sound the alarm. Where there is one attack, there will likely be two.” Or three, or four, he thought angrily. “Sound bells, trumpets, bang pots and pans, and anything that will make noise. It may be too late for those people across the channel, but we will be ready. And oh yes, get me my damned uniform.”
Madrid, he realized, wouldn’t give a stinking damn who was supposed to be in charge of those forts. They would only note that one Vlas Villate was governor-general of Cuba, and that all responsibility for what was looking more and more like a catastrophic defeat rested on his broad soldiers. He should have made certain that there was better control of the forts and that troops were out patrolling. The bastards in Madrid would have his head for this. He thought briefly of the money he’d siphoned from government funds and into accounts in Argentina and Brazil. There was more than enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. He would not go back to Spain for court martial and everlasting shame.
Nor would he take the Cuban woman with him. She was stirring and looking at him solemnly. He would be able to do much better wherever he went. He was confident that his second in command, Weyler, had also invested prudently in his future and would not be returning to Spain except, of course, to tell King Alfonso how badly Vlas Villate had fought this war. Villate chuckled softly. It was nothing more than what he would do himself.
His real fear was that he would be captured by the Cuban rebels who hated him with a fiery passion. They would deligh
t in cutting chunks from his large body and feeding them to the dogs while he watched and screamed. And yes, he would scream. Anyone would.
If this battle was going to end as badly as he thought it might, it was time to complete his prudent arrangements and to leave. Before that, he thought happily, he would order that stupid Monsignor Bernardi to put himself and his legion of fanatics in the forefront of the battle. And Diego Salazar could be there as well. After all, it had been Salazar’s monumental stupidity that had started this war. Salazar was going to cost Spain the island of Cuba and himself, Vlas Villate, his reputation.
Tomorrow—assuming there was a tomorrow—he would move his headquarters to some place that wouldn’t look like a military installation and thus attract cannon fire from the American warships that were sure to charge down the channel and into Havana harbor with their guns blazing.
His aide returned with a uniform in his arms. He dismissed the man and began to dress himself. Always go to war with your pants on, he reminded himself.
* * *
Lang and Haney again crawled towards the enemy works. This time they trailed a rope and every fifty yards behind them another American soldier used it as a guide to lead him.
For a second time in as many nights, they reached their goal safely. They huddled in the Spanish trench and waited for the others. An impatient Haney jerked on the rope in a futile attempt to get the others to hurry. It took nearly a precious hour to get the equivalent of a platoon ready to fan out and kill sentries. As this was happening, still more Americans clambered in. No one was surprised that Ryder was among them.
“I thought that generals were too important to go on raids like this?” Haney said.
Ryder smiled in the night. “How come you’re not out taking care of Spaniards?”
“Lang informed him I was too damned clumsy,” he sniffed. “Once upon a time I could sneak up on a wide awake rabbit in the daylight while I was wearing cowbells, but I guess those days are gone forever.”
“Just as well, Sergeant Major. I need you here with me.”
A few moments later, two of Lang’s men, one coming from each direction, returned to say that the battlement had been cleared for more than a hundred yards each way and that the safe distance was increasing.
Ryder acknowledged the information. “Sergeant Major, I just decided that I no longer need you with me. I want you to get back to the brigade as fast as you can and tell them to run up here quickly and not to worry about making noise. Then send a message to Benteen asking him to have the rest of the division to move up as well. Quickly would be greatly appreciated,” he added.
A moment after Haney departed, Lang reappeared. His Bowie knife had blood drying on it. “Man’s best friend is not always a dog,” he said as he poured water from his canteen on it and wiped off the blade. “Sometimes a good knife is even better.”
“How many did you have to kill?”
“Only a couple,” he answered. “Most of them surrendered right away when we burst in among them. They were scattered in groups of no more than three. They weren’t very well organized or attentive, for that matter. Most of them were sound asleep.”
More men began to arrive. In short order, he had a full battalion of the First Maryland in position with more arriving each moment.
“It looks like something’s burning,” said Lang. “Smells like it, too.”
Through the darkness they could see smoke arising from just past the city where the channel to the ocean was. “General, in a few seconds I think that all hell is going to break loose.”
Ryder agreed. He grabbed some junior officers to act as couriers. “All three of you are to run like hell.” He selected one lieutenant and told him to tell the other battalion commanders to drop any thoughts of secrecy and get their men to him and in position immediately. To the second, he requested that division artillery begin bombarding Spanish positions, also immediately. The third he had deliver a message to General Benteen. “My respects to the general and he might want to consider bringing up the rest of the division even faster than I originally requested. Tell him that the city is about to explode and that things are likely to get very hot in a very short while.”
As the men scooted off, bells, bugles, and rifle fire came from Havana. Ryder recalled that the Navy was supposed to provide a diversion. Then he wondered whether his attack was to be a diversion for the Navy. Either way, a major battle was brewing.
“Jesus Christ,” said Lang. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“At your service,” said photographer William Pywell. “The sun is going to rise shortly and this will be a lovely spot to place a camera.”
Ryder shook his head. “It would be an even lovelier spot for a Gatling gun.”
* * *
Everyone at British Consul Redford Dunfield’s extensive home was suddenly awakened by the alarms going off all over the city. Custer had been roused from his sleep by the familiar sound of gunfire and was already dressed when everyone gathered in the main dining area. A slightly sleepy Spanish navy Commander Clemente Cisneros addressed them.
“This may be a false alarm, but I think not. It appears that the Americans have either forced the channel or somehow stormed the forts across the channel. Either way they are now able to bombard the city. It may well be that a major infantry attack will soon be launched against Havana.”
“We must get to the hospital immediately,” Sarah announced. “If you are correct, there will be many wounded to care for.”
“Your devotion to your duty is praiseworthy,” Cisneros said, “but I cannot allow it. My orders are to keep all of you safe and sending you out into what might be the midst of a climactic battle for Havana is not keeping you safe. With or without your permission, you will remain here.”
Sarah was aghast. “Then who will care for the wounded?”
“They will have to fend for themselves until and if it is safe. I cannot run the risk of any of you getting hurt.”
“I assume that your soulful concern applies to me as well,” said a clearly annoyed President Custer.
“Frankly, sir, I don’t much care what happens to you, but my government does. Therefore I am required to protect you from both yourself and the numerous enemies outside the walls of this place who would like to see you dead. Or perhaps they would like to hold you hostage for a large cash ransom and safe passage somewhere.”
“Would Villate or Weyler sink so low as to do that?” Custer asked.
Cisneros laughed harshly. “Most people would do just about anything to save their lives, don’t you think?”
“What about me?” asked Kendrick. “I’m a reporter. I have a right and an obligation to observe and write about the coming battle.”
“I applaud your devotion to your duty and the next book you plan to write, but kindly recall that you have enemies outside these walls who would dearly love to see you dead. Your lovely Juana would be most upset with me if that were to happen; therefore, it will not happen. You will remain here and safely out of the reach of Diego Salazar.”
Custer was incredulous. “You would order your men to fire on other Spaniards?”
“If those so-called Spaniards were to attack this place they would be violating their orders as well as what passes for international law. This is the British Consulate, not some tavern. If anyone attacks, they will have become rebels and criminals and, yes, we will fight them.”
“I’m relieved for Juana’s sake,” said Kendrick, “but I would still like to report on what I can see with my own eyes. I could use runners, but I don’t like to do that.”
“Perhaps you would rather get shot by either Salazar’s men or some trigger-happy Spanish recruit who has been poorly trained and barely knows how to fire his rifle.”
“Good point,” Kendrick muttered. “I’ll stay put.” At least, he thought, until he could figure a way out that would also be reasonably safe.
* * *
“Put your back into it, you lazy Irishman.”
>
Sweat was pouring down Sergeant Kelly’s face. “If the bloody general would mind getting us some bloody help pulling this dead rhinoceros, maybe we could actually move a lot faster. Kindly recall, General, that this beastie was designed to be pulled by horses and not people.”
Benteen laughed. Kelly was one of his favorite NCOs. “So we don’t have horses but we do have ignorant Irish mules.” He turned to a number of men who had been doing little more than gawk. “All of you, grab ropes, grab anything and pull and pull fast. I want those guns in position in minutes, not hours.”
More hands did help and the column of Gatling guns gained speed. Kelly took a deep breath and yelled for the men to move faster. Benteen helped by telling them all to run, which made Kelly swear loudly.
Kelly understood fully. The machine guns had to be in place before the Spanish swarmed out of their lines and towards the outnumbered Americans. This time there was no barbed wire or trenches to halt them. The hell being rained down on them by American cannons would hinder but would not stop the massed enemy. Only rifle fire and the precious Gatlings could.
Lang had done a masterful job of modifying them. The wheels were smaller and lower, which meant that the guns, now mounted on a swivel, could fire over them. Unfortunately, it also meant that the guns were harder to pull and, since horses were in short supply in Cuba, manpower was essential to move the weapons.
“Hurry up, Kelly, the war’s not going to wait for you to get out of bed and start moving.”
“Haney,” he gasped, “you may be bigger than me and have a couple more stripes on your sleeve, but, so help me God, I am going to kill your ass, you fucking shanty Irish bastard.”
“Quit fighting, children,” Ryder said as he grabbed a rope and joined in the effort. “Just a few more yards and you’ll be done and can start killing Spaniards.”
Haney shook his head. “Generals aren’t supposed to be pulling tow ropes.”
Ryder ignored him and, along with other men, manhandled the first gun into position. The next five followed in short order. Tow ropes were dropped and metal shields were put in place. The shields were another of Lang’s ideas. Nobody in the Army’s hierarchy could decide whether the machine guns were fish or fowl, cannons or rifles. Set too far back from the front lines, they were wildly inaccurate. Closer to the enemy, they were murderously effective but the crews were vulnerable to sniper fire or even massed rifle fire. The shields would provide a degree of protection for the four-man crews.
1882: Custer in Chains Page 38
