And, he smiled, it would be a good time. Killing the enemies of Spain was the greatest of pleasures.
* * *
Once more, thought Wally Janson, as his beloved steamer, the Aurora, moved easily through the green ocean waters north of Cuba. Unlike the last time when cleverness and bravery were necessary to keep him from being taken prisoner, or even killed, this convoy was well protected.
At least he hoped so. Two new American cruisers, the Atlanta and Chicago led the convoy, while the third, the Baltimore, brought up the rear. A number of swift gunboats, recently converted from civilian use, kept the thirty or so transports in something resembling three parallel lines. Having to play by the navy’s rules chafed a lot of the civilian skippers, but Janson knew if was for their safety. Staying in order might save them in the event of an attack. Scatter and they’d be picked off like wolves killing stragglers from a deer herd.
As before, he had a detachment of soldiers with him, only this time it was a troop of Texas cavalry and their damned horses. He thought the Texans smelled bad enough, but their horses were even worse. The Texan commander was Captain Jesse Lang, a long, lean and deadly looking cowboy who said he owned a ranch and other businesses outside of Dallas and that this was a great way to see some of the rest of the world. He also said he’d fought Comanche, Apache, and Mexicans, so a bunch of damned Spaniards would be no big thing to him.
Along with Lang’s men and horses, the Aurora also carried a large quantity of food and ammunition. Other ships were bringing several thousand additional soldiers. Lang had brought along something that he said worked well to control cattle and ought to work deterring Spanish attackers—barbed wire. He said he’d tried to convince people in the War Department of its military potential, but they either weren’t interested or were overwhelmed with ideas, some of which were likely clearly crackpot. He insisted that his, of course, wasn’t. The wire sounded intriguing to Janson, but he’d like to see it in action before endorsing it. That is, if anybody cared what he thought.
Janson’s thoughts were interrupted by distant sounds. He thought he heard thunder from the east. No, it wasn’t thunder; it was signal guns from other ships that were racing towards the convoy. He raised his telescope and could see faint feather of smoke on the horizon.
“I think we’ve found the enemy fleet,” drawled Captain Lang. He’d mounted to the small quarterdeck without permission for about the tenth time since leaving Charleston. Janson had come to realize that Texans weren’t all that much on formality. But then, he’d granted that same privilege to Colonel Ryder, so what the hell.
Dark shapes appeared on the horizon, first the masts and then the bulk of the squat ships. The Atlanta and Chicago flew a number of signal pennants and then veered to meet the intruders. The Baltimore was coming up as well.
“Damned if we aren’t about to have a naval battle,” said Lang. “I’ve never seen one of them. I hope it turns out as well as the last one you had.”
Janson simply nodded. He was too intent on watching the warships approaching each other on collision courses to comment further. He had, of course, told the affable captain all about his ship’s encounter with the Spanish patrol boat.
“Those are the two Spanish battleships, the Numancia and the Vitoria,” Janson said softly. “And the other ships are likely their smaller cruisers, the Aragon, Castile, and Navarra.”
Lang spat tobacco over the side, doubtless streaking the hull with the juice. It was something else Janson wished he wouldn’t do. “You seem to know a lot about their navy.”
“I thought I’d enlighten myself after they tried to kill me—something about knowing thine enemy.”
The ships were now within a couple of miles of each other and commenced firing as they closed the range. Clouds of smoke obscured the warships and splashes showed where shells had missed. They were like spectators at a bad play as miss after miss raised huge splashes. It was becoming very obvious that ships moving in different directions and at varying speeds could not hit each other unless they were extremely close. The Numancia and the Chicago maneuvered to near point blank range and fired on each other.
Shells from the Numancia struck first, smashing into the Chicago and sending debris flying, but then the Numancia was struck in turn by shells from the Chicago’s larger and more quickly re-loaded guns, still, the Chicago had been badly hurt and was slowing. Black smoke was pouring from her gunports.
“I think we just lost a ship,” said Lang and Janson sadly concurred. However, the Numancia had not escaped unscathed and the Spanish ship was taken under fire by the Atlanta. The Baltimore was also within range and began shelling the now burning Numancia. The enemy battleship slowed, then stopped dead in the water. The American ships moved in for the kill and Numancia began to sink. Scores of crewmen jumped from her.
The remaining Spanish battleship, the Vitoria, had turned and was steaming away.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Janson. “Look at that!” A Spanish cruiser was headed directly towards the Baltimore. “The son of a bitch is going to ram her.”
The crew of the Baltimore spotted the danger and attempted to maneuver away. The smaller Spaniard matched their turns and, guns roaring, plowed into the hull of the Baltimore, impaling herself on the larger American ship. There was silence for a few moments, but then the Spanish ship exploded, raining fire and debris onto the American, causing numerous fires. As the Numancia slipped beneath the waves, the men of the Atlanta and Chicago attempted to help the Baltimore. What was left of the Spanish cruiser was sinking and threatening to drag the Baltimore down with her.
As American ships closed in to help, the Baltimore exploded with a deafening roar.
“Jesus,” said Lang. “We’re going to go and help them, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” said Janson. “We can’t leave the living for the fish.”
Janson looked around at what had once been a well-organized convoy. Ships had scattered in all directions when the Spanish attacked and were only beginning to return. His Aurora was one of the closest to the site of the battle. Lifeboats were in the water and men could be seen swimming or splashing frantically, while others weren’t moving. He would rescue everyone he could, American or Spanish. It didn’t matter.
The Aurora moved slowly and carefully through the debris field. Ship’s boats were lowered and crews rowed them towards scores of swimmers. Cargo nets were draped over the hull to enable the strong to climb to safety. Lang’s riflemen covered them as they clambered over. “Can’t be too careful,” the Texan said. “Some of them damn greasers might decide to take over your little ship and run back to Cuba.”
They divided the men into two groups—American and Spanish. Then they tried to help the wounded. “What about the dead?” Janson was asked.
Janson forced himself to look the few feet to the water. Bodies and chunks of meat were floating along with the current. He forced the vomit down his throat. “If it looks American, try to save it. Maybe we can identify them and contact their families.”
And maybe not, he thought as one terribly mangled corpse bobbed by. Fish were already nibbling at it. He thought he saw Barracuda circling from below. He visualized their razor teeth slicing through human flesh. “We’ll be in Matanzas in a few hours, tomorrow at the latest,” he said softly. “At least we can give them a Christian burial.”
* * *
Ruth Holden padded barefoot across the small room that she and Sarah Damon shared. It had finally dawned on the military high command that Clara Barton was correct. The women nurses needed more privacy than that afforded by the canvas walls of a tent to hide them from the leering eyes of thousands of what Ruth described as horny American soldiers. Sarah had never heard the word before in that context but agreed with it. Thus, she and the ten other female nurses took over a decent sized house in Matanzas that had been abandoned by its previous owners.
It was far from luxurious but it did afford the women a degree of privacy. Both Ruth and Sarah were
dressed only in cotton shifts that left their arms bare but covered them to their knees. They were still hot and sweaty but far more comfortable than when in full attire.
A room on the first floor contained a slightly rusty metal tub which the women filled with water from a stream that flowed into the bay, but only after first ascertaining that no military latrines were upstream. It was not luxurious bathing, and, in keeping with custom, they kept their shifts on and bathed around them. It was awkward, but it sufficed. It and the limited and bland food the army provided were a far cry from the luxury they’d both been accustomed to. To complete the picture, there was a stinking outhouse a few yards away from the kitchen.
Ruth laughed. “This reminds me of my life as a young girl trying to escape from Poland, only it wasn’t this hot.”
“If you’re going to reminisce, should I call you Ruta?”
Ruth shook her head sadly. “Ruth Holden is who and what I am now. Unless, of course, I change my mind once more and again decide to be Ruta Jasinski. If I didn’t think it would confuse people, I would.” She brightened. “Perhaps I’ll call myself Ruta Jasinski Holden.
Sara would not argue or tease her friend. She’d been told all about Ruth’s life before coming to the U.S. and it wasn’t pretty. The only part that was even a bit whimsical was Ruth’s selection of Holden as a last name. It was that of a British embassy staffer in Paris whom she found odious and boring.
“Have you heard from Haney?” Sarah asked.
Ruth, now Ruta, grinned. “It’s not that far from the top of his mountain to here. Sometimes he manages to slip away.”
“And where do you manage to find privacy?”
“In storage areas and warehouses,” she said with a knowing smile. “There are many places if you know where to look. He knows a lot of other sergeants and they make sure to look away when we wish to be alone. Making love on a pile of tenting isn’t the worst thing in the world. You and your colonel should give it a try, at least before he becomes a general.”
“General? Where did you hear that?” Sarah asked, astonished. It was the first she’d heard of any possible promotion for Martin.
“Some sergeants gossip like old ladies,” Ruta answered. “It does seem that the higher ranking generals are displeased with the efforts of some other high ranking officers. It also seems that Washington might not be all that thrilled with the way General Miles is leading the army and that General Terry might be very ill. Changes could come soon, and kindly recall that your paramour has gotten a lot of very favorable publicity recently.
Sarah decided to send Martin a note asking about the rumored promotion. She thought about delivering it herself, but he had made it abundantly plain that he did not want her up on Mount Haney, which some were calling Haney’s Hill after belatedly realizing that it wasn’t all that high. Regardless, she yearned to be with him, to feel his arms around her and his hands caressing her body. She would have to figure some way to be discreetly and totally alone with him. Just a few hours would be delicious and wonderful. However, it would not be on a stack of tenting.
Sarah’s thoughts were interrupted by commotion coming from outside. She and Ruta looked through a window and saw men running towards the waterfront. Someone said an American warship was coming in and it was in bad shape.
The women dressed quickly and looked through another window that faced the bay. A large warship that someone in the crowd said was the Chicago was steaming slowly into the bay. She was escorted by a number of other transports. The Chicago was listing to starboard and, as she got closer, heavy damage and evidence of fires could be seen.
Clara Barton ran to each of the women informing them of the obvious and telling them to get to the hospital. There had been a battle and there were casualties, many casualties.
* * *
Kendrick watched as the Chicago anchored as close to the makeshift docking facilities as it possibly could. Beside him, Pywell took pictures of the wounded battleship. Lifeboats and other small vessels began the task of getting the wounded to the hospitals. As he walked among the wounded it occurred to him that the mutilations suffered in land warfare were the same as in a naval battle. Despite having seen it so many times before, the human suffering was terribly depressing and the stench from torn and infected flesh and ripped bowels was almost overwhelming.
He watched as doctors and nurses went about their grim task. That some of them were women who looked like lovely and genteel ladies no longer surprised him. Women were constantly disabusing the idea that they were a frail sex that needed to be sheltered from the world. He wondered if Juana would be able to handle an emergency like this and decided that she would. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t heard from her. He would have to figure out a way to get a message to her.
Clara Barton stood in front of him. “Either be helpful or get out of the way,” she demanded sternly.
Kendrick quickly decided that he would be no use as a medico and stepped away. A civilian transport was also disgorging wounded and unhurt and some of each category were Spanish. The Spanish prisoners looked confused and dispirited. They also looked harmless. Whatever fight that had been in them was no longer there.
Someone grabbed his arm. “Hey, pal. You got any idea where I can find an officer named Ryder?”
“Sure. He’s up on that snow-covered peak called Mount Haney. Who wants to know?”
“Jesse Lang, that’s who and if that peak’s snow-covered I’m a mountain goat.”
The two men introduced themselves. Kendrick quickly realized that Lang had been an eye witness to the battle that saw the sinking of the Baltimore and the damaging of the Chicago. He also realized that he probably wouldn’t get access to senior navy personnel for a while. The commanders would like to keep their losses to themselves. Too bad. He would use whatever sources he could and the hell with the navy’s secrets. Right now it looked like the ships of the small United States Navy had been mauled.
“Lang, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll take you up the fearsome slopes of Mount Haney and introduce you to Colonel Ryder if you will tell me all you know about the battle that just took place.”
“Sounds fair, although it might cost you a couple of drinks,” Lang said. “I might just bring along the captain of the ship I came on, a man named Janson. You’ll find his observations interesting as well since he actually knows which end of a ship is up.”
“Excellent,” said Kendrick. “Maybe the good captain can help me figure out if the United States still has a navy.”
* * *
Custer was drunk, a condition that was becoming increasingly normal and a source of concern to most of his inner circle. While he had been told he should not leave the United States, there was no prohibition on his leaving the increasingly hostile confines of Washington where he was being held to account for the slow progress of the war. Thus, he had chosen to go to St. Augustine, Florida. There he could see for himself many of the efforts to maintain the army and navy.
For his stay, he had commandeered the elegant Markland House in St. Augustine. There, he and Libbie sought to get closer to the action and farther away from his critics. He brought with him his secretaries of war and the navy, as well as his secretary of state. Neither man was pleased to be in a steamy Florida backwater. They felt they should be in the nation’s capital where the action was and it didn’t matter if they were connected to Washington by telegraph or not.
All four men sat on the veranda and sipped whisky. It was understood that Libbie Custer was just inside and would listen to everything through an open window. It served to maintain the fiction that President Custer was totally in charge instead of having a partner who might just be more than an equal. Many men, including most of those in the room, thought it was unseemly, unladylike, for a woman to be involved in the affairs of government.
“Well,” Custer said, his voice slightly slurred, “who the hell won the battle?”
Secretary of the Navy Hunt put down his drink. He had scarcely touched it.
“Unlike a land battle where the victor usually claims the battlefield, no one can lay claim to the ocean. However, the Spanish did depart and leave the convoy and the rest of the escorts to proceed uninterrupted to Matanzas. Therefore, it is safe to say that we were victorious.”
“But we lost ships,” Custer insisted. “The Baltimore is gone and the Chicago is almost destroyed. Only the Atlanta remains and she too was damaged. What the hell ships do we have left if that damn surviving Spanish battleship and their remaining cruisers come out to play?”
This time Hunt did take a swallow of his drink. “We have it on good authority that the remaining Spanish battleship, the Vitoria, is in Havana harbor where she is being watched by some of our smaller ships. The Atlanta is also off Havana and will engage the Vitoria if she tries to come out. We are confident that the Atlanta can handle her. Despite sensationalist rumors in the press to the contrary, the Atlanta’s damages were slight and she will be completely ready in a very short while. In the meantime, the Chicago will be temporarily repaired and then sent to Charleston for more complete repairs. Unfortunately, she will be out of the war for several months at the least.”
Custer turned to his secretary of state. “Blaine, you’ve got to get us more ships.”
Blaine shrugged. “It’s not going to happen. England and France are now working together and have decided that it would be in their best interests to not play a part in this war; therefore, they will not be arming either side. Apparently they are concerned that the war between us and Spain could spread. They are also concerned that Germany might try and gobble up Spanish possessions if Spain is defeated too utterly.”
“I thought we had a deal with the Brits,” Custer said petulantly.
“Britannia rules the waves and Britannia waives the rules,” said Blaine with a wry smile. “And British wealth rules the land the waves surround. If the British decide to renege on a deal, there’s not much we can do about it except send diplomatic notes that will be read and ignored.”
Hunt finished his drink and poured himself another one. It was far too hot for whisky, even on the pillared veranda of the Markland House. There was no breeze and he’d begun to sweat profusely. “Then we must go ahead with first arming merchant ships and, second, building our own battleships no matter the cost. Unfortunately, that latter course will take time.”
1882: Custer in Chains - eARC Page 16
