“Good planning,” Ryder said sarcastically, wondering if there was anyplace where they could find a little decent privacy.
Ruth led them to a small cottage and the three of them entered. “You cannot use the bedroom since someone else owns it. However, I feel a very strong urge to visit the kitchen and look out the window for several very long minutes. There is a lovely couch in the living room which you might find comfortable and pleasurable. You have my permission to enjoy yourselves for a few minutes. Just don’t get too carried away. I might have to interrupt you and get you out of here real fast if the owner shows up.”
“You’re wonderful,” said Sarah.
Martin looked around. The cottage was Spartan. There wear no personal effects around. “Ah, whose place is this?”
Ruth smiled. “Clara Barton’s”
* * *
Ensign Prentice stood behind Janson on the bridge of the Aurora, now temporarily renamed the Oslo. Her papers showed that she was now a Norwegian merchant and she had just managed to evade the few American warships on patrol. Even if she’d been stopped, her cargo of foodstuffs was not military and, as an apparent neutral, she would likely have been permitted to go on through to Havana. If necessary, Janson would have shown his real identification, but he would not have divulged his purpose.
Prentice felt more than a few minutes trepidation as they steamed slowly through the narrow channel that led from the Caribbean to the inner harbors of Havana. He could not help but stare at the rows of guns on the battlements of the Castillo del Morro and the Castillo de la Cabana that seemed to be staring right at him. Only a few shells would shatter their wooden hulled ship. On the other hand, it looked like the Spanish guns were ancient and rusty. He stared though his telescope and saw no one paying attention to the Oslo or, for that matter, manning the guns of the two forts.
They were directed to anchor in an area of the harbor called the Ensenada de Marimelena, directly across from the downtown area of Havana and only a few hundred yards away from their target, the Spanish battleship Vitoria. Clustered around her were the cruisers Aragon and Navarro. Other than a much smaller cruiser and a gaggle of gunboats, this was the heart of the Spanish Navy in the New World. And, Prentice thought to himself, we are here to rip its heart out.
Spanish customs inspection had been a joke. The Spanish government was delighted to have a European ship thumb its nose at the Americans and, besides, the Oslo’s cargo of foodstuffs was very welcome. It was considered hilarious to the Spaniards that the cargo had been picked up in the U.S. and brought to Havana for sale to America’s enemy. The ship was cheerfully waved through and cleared to unload without even a cursory inspection.
That no one on the Oslo chose to take shore liberty was unusual but nothing worthy of note. They’d informed the Spanish authorities that they would be departing as soon as possible and likely with very short notice. When they sensed that the American blockaders were weak or distracted, they would run. The Spanish authorities wished them Godspeed. One said that they were heroes and that he would have a Solemn High Mass said for their safety.
Prentice, Janson, and the small crew of American sailors who had volunteered for the mission loudly wanted to leave Havana and allegedly make some more money before the Americans got serious about their half-hearted blockade. The Spanish understood their mercantile motives.
The ship was unloaded quickly and payment in English pounds was received. As darkness fell, Prentice and Janson stood on the bridge and looked at the Vitoria. There was no attempt at secrecy on her part either. Candles and oil lamps burned and there seemed to be festivities ongoing. They could hear laughter and the sound of music. Prentice thought it would be wonderful to go on board and announce to one and all that he was an officer in the United States Navy and he’d been sent with terrible new weapons to sink the Spanish Navy’s only remaining major warship.
If they succeeded, they would be heroes and Prentice openly hoped for a medal and a promotion. Janson’s hope was less dramatic. He just wanted to sink the damn enemy ship and get away. He also wanted to change the Oslo’s name back to the Aurora and get his old crew back. Those sailors remained back in St. Augustine. This was no place for civilians.
It was considered very bad luck to change a ship’s name. Janson felt a cold breeze and wondered if it was the wind or his fears. Why the hell, he wondered, had he volunteered for this mission? Why had he allowed American naval engineers to modify the hull of his ship so that it now housed two large and lethal torpedoes?
* * *
General Weyler was outraged. The request from the government in Madrid, as forwarded through Havana, was almost an insult. King Alfonso XII had sent a message demanding the prompt and complete destruction of the American forces at Matanzas. The letter said that the continued American presence on Spanish soil was an intolerable insult to Spain, the situation was repugnant, and that all efforts must expended immediately to expel the despised invaders. The implication was clear. In the opinion of the king and the government in Madrid, the Spanish army under Valeriano Weyler was doing little or nothing to resolve the grievous situation.
Vlas Villate was the Governor General of Cuba and Weyler’s superior. He had been looking forward to retiring from his position in Cuba and returning to his estates in Spain. The unexpected war had intruded on his plans.
“However crudely put,” Villate said, “the king has a point. This appears to be a stalemate and it cannot go on forever. The Americans must be crushed, destroyed, just as we must absolutely wipe out any vestiges of Cuban independence. Madrid cannot, however, understand why it is taking so long to move a Spanish army a mere fifty miles.”
Weyler considered Villate to be both his commander and a mentor. They both felt that ruthlessness must be shown, both to the United States and to the rebels now only a few miles from where they were meeting in what had once been the home of a prosperous farmer. Nor did either man much care how many casualties were suffered by the Spanish Army. The Americans must go. However, the Spanish army must be victorious in order for that to happen.
“What they don’t realize is that the distance from Havana to Matanzas is the longest fifty miles in the world,” Weyler said. “The road is a mud track and the army moves at a snail’s pace in part because of that. There are no railroads except for those few that carried sugar products to port, and all food and ammunition must be carried by wagon or by mule. Worse, the army is an untrained mess.”
“Yes, but it is the army we have and the army we must use,” said Villate. “We outnumber the Americans who are just as inexperienced as we are. Many of our officers have never seen battle and even fewer of the enlisted men. However, the same must hold true for the Americans.”
Weyler thought he saw an opening. “Which is why I’ve ordered two divisions from the Santiago garrison to be been sent north to reinforce our army at Matanzas. When they arrive, that will give us an additional twenty thousand men. Our army will total nearly a hundred thousand soldiers.”
Villate shook his head. “Given the distance and, again, the state of the roads, it will be more than a month before they arrive, and they will doubtless be in terrible shape when they do. And that will mean more time for them to get ready. No, my good friend, we must show Madrid that we can fight and, if God is on our side, that we can drive the Americans into the sea.” He sighed, “I long to see large numbers of American prisoners rotting in our prisons while King Alfonso piously decides their fate. Perhaps he will trade them all for President Custer? Then we can chain him and ship him to Madrid.”
Weyler had to smile. “It is a compelling picture and, yes, I do see your point. I shall attack at the soonest opportunity.”
“When?” Villate urged. “I must respond to the king.”
Weyler stood and examined a map on the wall. The Americans held strong positions both on the hill he understood they called Mount Haney and at the opening of the Matanzas Bay. He would attack both spots. Take the foolishly named hill and gu
ns could dominate at least part of the bay, which would drive away American shipping. Take the opening to the bay and the Americans would be trapped.
Weyler drew himself up to full attention. “We will attack in two days.”
* * *
Janson and Prentice decided that the time was right. It was well after midnight, but a three-quarters moon and a cloudless sky gave them all the light they would need. The festivities on the Vitoria had ended and any civilians were now safely on land. This was a comfort to the two men as the idea of needlessly inflicting civilian casualties was repugnant. If necessary they would do it, but avoiding them was a fervent wish.
Better, the two small Spanish cruisers had shifted their anchorage so that getting a clear shot at the battleship was a good possibility. The Aurora’s anchor chains and her engine had been oiled and finely tuned so they made very little noise.
Janson signaled for all ahead slow and the Oslo, once again the Aurora, began to slowly move away from her anchorage. If anyone on shore or on the Spanish ships noticed, they didn’t care. An American flag was ready to be flown as soon as Janson or Prentice gave the order. The American crewmen, most of them now grinning hugely, were dressed as American sailors and not as Norwegian merchant crewmen.
At a point they turned to starboard and began to head towards the Vitoria. They had informed the Spanish that they would turn towards the channel and steam through it to the ocean. At only a couple of hundred yards from the Spanish ship, Janson ordered her engines stopped. He also ordered the torpedo tubes on the hull of the ship opened. This caused the Aurora to wallow for a moment. The brand new Whitehead torpedoes were propelled by compressed air and had a range of three hundred yards maximum and weren’t all that accurate; thus, the Americans had to be as close as possible in order to hit their target and for the Aurora to stand any chance of getting away safely.
Janson nodded towards Prentice. “The honor is yours, I believe.”
Prentice swallowed nervously. “Fire one,” he ordered through a speaking tube. The Aurora shuddered as the torpedo broke free. “Fire two,” he yelled, this time exultantly. The first torpedo was headed straight towards the Vitoria and the second quickly followed in her path.
Janson ordered the Aurora’s engines up to full speed and began to maneuver the ship towards and down the channel. Prentice kept an eye on the Vitoria as the torpedo wakes closed. He heard excited and confused yells from the enemy warship as someone spotted them. It was too late. First one and then the other struck the Vitoria, sending up mountains of water. The Spanish battleship shuddered and heeled over before recovering. Alarms and screams sounded.
As they headed down the channel, trumpets blared and alarm bells rang. “Fly our flag,” Janson ordered and the Stars and Stripes went up at her stern.
“The Vitoria’s sinking,” exulted Prentice. “She’s actually sinking. We’ve done it.”
Janson stole a glance. The Vitoria was listing heavily to port and he could see men jumping off her and into the calm warm water. Smoke was pouring out of her from down below. To his experienced eye, she was mortally wounded. The Spanish might actually salvage her someday, but it would be many months before the Vitoria returned to combat. “Now all we have to do is get out of here,” he said grimly.
Now alert but confused, the Spanish shore batteries opened up on anything that looked like a target and that included the Aurora. Someone with a brain clearly realized that a ship fleeing from such a catastrophe might have had something to do with it.
Shells splashed into the water around them. Shortly, the Spanish guns got the range and cannonballs began to strike the Aurora, hulling her and smashing her. Prentice was thrown the deck where he lay unconscious and bleeding. A large wooden splinter had pierced Janson’s shoulder and he could barely stand the pain.
“Stop engines and strike the flag,” he ordered before the darkness overwhelmed him.
* * *
Lieutenant Hugo Torres of the Spanish Navy was bored and lonely. He also felt that the Spanish Navy was in such bad shape that it might not even exist in a few days. The escape of the battleship Vitoria from the guns of the Americans was being told as if it was a great victory when nothing could be farther from the truth. Her batteries of 6.3 inch and 5.5 inch guns were popguns when compared with the guns mounted by the ships of other modern navies. Even the few large ships possessed by the U.S. Navy outgunned the Vitoria. Thus, the Vitoria had run from the battle to the safety of Havana’s harbor.
The battleship was safe but she was also locked in. As one sailor put it, she was as safe as a nun in a convent. The harbor was now her prison. Numerous American warships patrolled the entrance to the harbor. Any attempt to leave would bring them swarming. Even though all of the enemy ships outside the harbor were smaller than the Vitoria, there were so many of them that they would prevail against the Vitoria. They would be like a pack of wolves tearing at a horse or a cow. At least that was what the ship’s captain had declared. Torres was of the opinion that they should try to blast their way out, and that their bigger guns would prevail. However, the captain had also added that the Vitoria had no place to go even if she were to win free. The only safe place for her would be Spain and that was out of the question. It was too far and they would never make it. With that, Torres had to agree.
The people of Havana knew nothing of this. They were just delighted that the mighty looking ship was there to protect their city.
And that was another thing that annoyed Torres. Havana was nowhere near the cosmopolitan city he thought it would be. It was small, cramped, and dirty. Granted Madrid had her poor neighborhoods, but Havana had so many of them. Worse, there were so many blacks and Indians and so few true Spaniards. Many of those who considered themselves noble were clearly of mixed racial backgrounds. Madrid society would have laughed at them.
Nor had he managed to make any headway with the women of the town. The few really lovely ones had already been gobbled up by the more senior and wealthier officers. Torres family had some money but not enough to provide him with a lifestyle that would impress the senoritas. There was never enough, which was why he’d joined the navy in the first place. He had wanted to remove himself as a burden to his family. Well, he thought bitterly, he had indeed removed himself. Now he might remove himself out of this life if the Vitoria went to sea.
“Lieutenant, the foreign ship is moving.”
Torres was about to forcefully remind the sailor that he didn’t have the watch and had only come on deck to get out of the stifling heat below decks when he realized that the foreign ship’s behavior was indeed strange. Was she leaving port? All the Vitoria’s officers had been told that she might depart at any time. Well, he thought, this must be the time.
“Don’t worry about it, sailor,” he snapped.
But wait. The foreign ship was lined up as if she was planning to ram the Spaniard. There was commotion in the water on each side of the foreigner’s hull.
He saw things in the water headed towards him and realized with horror that they were torpedoes.
“Alarm!” Torres screamed. “Sound the alarm.”
It was too late. The torpedoes slammed into the Vitoria’s hull and exploded with incredible violence, actually lifting the ship out of the water for an instant. Torres felt himself being lifted into the air and thrown overboard. He landed in the water and began to thrash. Something floated by and he grabbed at it. He shrieked when he realized it was a human leg, complete with a shoe on its foot.
Crewmen were throwing themselves into the water by the score. No one was making any attempt to save the ship. No matter, he realized as he treaded water. The one remaining capital ship in the Spanish navy was settling in the mud of Havana’s harbor.
Bells and sirens were going off in the city as small boats pushed off to rescue the Vitoria’s crew. A few moments later, Torres was standing on a dock looking at the ruined thing that had been a proud Spanish battleship. Scores of bodies floated around her in an obscene danc
e. Other rescued crewmen clustered around him as if for comfort. He could not help but wonder if he was the battleship’s ranking survivor. If so, he was now captain of the wreck of the Vitoria.
* * *
Governor Villate saw the prisoners in the hospital where they’d been taken. There were only eight of them and all were injured, some very seriously. Better for his concerns, two of them were the senior officers who’d been on board the American ship.
The reports from the Vitoria were dismal. The battleship was resting on the muddy bottom of Havana harbor with only part of her superstructure showing. She was almost on her side and there was a pair of gaping holes in her hull. These were the results of a torpedo attack. He’d known that the English had the devices and that the inventor had been selling them to a number of nations. He wondered if Spain had any and decided it was highly unlikely. Far too modern and costly to interest the parsimonious government at Madrid, he concluded.
More important, one hundred and seven officers and men had died on the Vitoria. Most had been trapped belowdecks and drowned while others had been blown to pieces by the explosion. A shocking number had died in their hammocks where they’d been sleeping. The attack had been cowardly and despicable. The dead and wounded had to be avenged. Spain’s honor was at stake.
As a result of the sinking, Spanish naval power in the new world was virtually non-existent. 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.
1882: Custer in Chains - eARC Page 19
