1882: Custer in Chains - eARC

by Robert Conroy

  “We should attack,” said Barnes.

  Ryder shook his head. “Until and if we can contact the navy about our intentions, we’re better off staying right here. We wouldn’t want to get killed by our own people, would we?”

  Barnes response was a sudden shriek. Ryder turned. Barnes’ right hand was a pulpy mass below his wrist. Bones and tendons were clearly visible and he was bleeding profusely. Hands grabbed him and a rough tourniquet was applied above his elbow. He stopped screaming and his face turned a pasty white. His eyes were blank and rolling back in his head. He dropped to his knees and fell backwards.

  “Get him to the rear,” yelled Haney. Soldiers quickly complied. Ryder could only shake his head. Sarah was going to be horribly shocked and stunned when she saw her brother and there was nothing he could do. His job was where he was, on the top of a hill looking down as the Spaniards slowly withdrew.

  “The navy’s ceased fire,” said Benteen. His cheek had been sliced open and the wound made him talk funny. “The Spanish are almost out of the ships’ range anyhow. We will advance.”

  Whistles and bugles blew. The men of Ryder’s brigade moved cautiously out of their trenches and down the slope. They walked gingerly through the ground that was blanketed with dead and wounded. They tried very hard to not step on a wounded man or a corpse, but there were places where the Spanish casualties were piled so deeply that it was impossible. Some of the dead groaned as they were stepped on, giving the illusion that they were still alive. They weren’t. It was air being expelled from their dead lungs. Some of the wounded screamed, but there was nothing the Americans could do for them.

  They kept an eye out for any wounded Spaniard who wanted to take an American with him before he died. None did and they walked through the charnel house and into the Spanish camp. Only a few more wounded lay there along with several dozen enemy soldiers who stood with their hands up.

  “Now what, general?” asked Lang.

  Ryder looked around and picked out a good defensive position. “We stop here and get organized, maybe figure out how many men we’ve got left and, oh yeah, get some food, water, and ammunition.”

  “What do we do about cleaning up the battlefield? We should do something before all those bodies begin to stink to high heaven,” Lang said.

  The several dozen surrendering Spaniards had become a couple of hundred with more giving up every minute. Ryder agreed with Lang. There already was a stench coming from the battlefield as ripped bodies, blood, and torn entrails along with the usual smells of sweat, piss and shit began to heat up. Some bodies were beginning to bloat.

  Martin waved in the general direction of the prisoners. “We’ll let them collect and bury their comrades. They can take any wounded back to our hospitals.”

  Haney was beside him. “Want me to go and check on Major Barnes?”

  Ryder nodded. “And everyone else.” Haney understood. It was a given that he would check on Sarah and Ruta as well. Martin would have to find a way to see Sarah and comfort her. Barnes’ hand was clearly gone and a wound like he’d gotten could easily get infected and prove fatal. Damn it to hell.

  * * *

  Gilberto Salazar stopped running after about a mile. He could still see the damned hill in the distance and the many tiny dots that were American soldiers emerging from their trenches. He had led his men as close as possible for his own safety until they were able to throw their grappling hooks and begin to drag down the wire. At that point he had stopped and gradually fallen back. The hooks had been his idea and his men had been ordered to be a major part of the effort. They had performed nobly and bravely, but now most of them were dead or wounded.

  Salazar counted the men gathered around him. There were just under a hundred and some of them were wounded and would play no further role in the fighting. His brave Legion had been bled out of existence. He wanted to weep out of frustration and bitterness, but would not permit himself so show weakness.

  The failure of the attack wasn’t his fault. The damned American warships had shown up just as the Spanish Army was about to destroy the enemy. There had also been rumors of a large American landing to their rear that had arrived at about the same time. This had caused fear and confusion. The ferocious American defense, combined with the presence of the warships and a possible enemy force in their rear had proven disastrous to the fighting spirit of the Spanish army. They had broken and run. The Spanish army had collapsed.

  Salazar recognized an aide from Weyler’s staff. The man was wide-eyed and looked like he was about to panic. Salazar grabbed his arm. “Do you have orders for us?”

  The aide looked surprised, then suddenly pleased as he saw that it was Salazar. “Yes. I have been ordered to find you. All units are to take the roads to Havana. The Americans have landed in great force at Santa Cruz del Norte. Reports say there are a hundred thousand of them and that they are heading here to destroy us. General Weyler says we must flee to Havana before we are destroyed.”

  * * *

  Sarah wiped her brother’s forehead with a damp cloth. He was unconscious and could only moan, although she sensed that he was comforted by the feel. She wore a smock over her cut down soldier’s uniform and she, the smock, and her uniform were covered with drying blood and gore. She’d managed to keep her hands reasonably clean and had done her best to avoid infecting Jack and anyone else she’d treated.

  “I’m sorry,” said Doctor Desmond. He too was covered with the blood of soldiers and his eyes were red-ringed with exhaustion. “We tried to save as much of his right arm as possible, but his hand was destroyed along with some of the bone above his wrist. With luck he’ll make it, but he will need help until he learns to function with only one hand.”

  “He was right-handed,” she said numbly. “What will he do without a right hand?” Desmond didn’t hear her. He had gone on to another patient.

  At least the killing had stopped, she thought, if only for a moment. The sounds of battle had faded to nothing. Martin and the army were off the hill and advancing inland. The combined might of the United States Army and Navy had won a great victory. So why were all of these people moaning and screaming, and why were there those hideous mounds of white limbs outside where flies were gathering by the millions to feast on them?

  Nothing she’d seen or done before had prepared her for these sights and smells. Ruta was beside her. “Was it like this in Paris?” Sarah asked.

  Ruta was just as filthy and exhausted. “Believe it or not, it was worse. At least we’re not starving as well.”

  A soldier howled in indescribable agony. Someone said they were running out of ether. Ruta grabbed her arm. “We have to get back to help the others. You can either help your brother or mourn him later, Sarah. There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

  She agreed. Helping others to live was her duty. There truly was nothing more she could do for Jack. His fate was out of her control. She looked across and saw that Martin had come up the hill and was checking on some wounded soldiers. He looked up and caught her eye. He nodded grimly and walked over. They would not embrace in the hospital. Instead, they let their hands touch. She quickly explained about her brother and he responded that he knew, that he’d seen him get shot and that he was fortunate to be alive.

  “I wonder if he’ll feel that way later,” she said. Martin said nothing.

  A general was approaching them. “Jesus,” he said. “It’s Hancock.”

  Ryder snapped to attention and saluted. Hancock returned the gesture and shook Martin’s hand. “Benteen says your men were magnificent. But what about your brigade’s casualties?”

  Ryder took a deep breath. “In rough numbers, two hundred dead and three hundred wounded. Considering the brigade was under-strength, that’s about twenty per cent of our men.”

  Even though the numbers were nothing like what Hancock had seen at Gettysburg and elsewhere, they were brutal enough and typical of other units. They could not afford to lose men at that rate. The roughly
forty-thousand men now in Cuba were just about all there was. Even if he could somehow conjure up a larger army, he would have enormous difficulties supplying it.

  “We will not chase them,” Hancock said, “at least not right away. We must rest our men and get them re-supplied. When that happens we will move towards Havana along the coast road. I’m sure the Spanish will be setting up roadblocks and strong points to slow us and bleed us.”

  “If you get help from the guerillas, general, perhaps you can bypass them, maybe even attack them in the rear.”

  Hancock scowled. “I was told that the guerillas were unreliable, that they were little more than bandits.”

  “General, may I ask who told you that?”

  Hancock looked away. “Why it was our Secretary of State, James G. Blaine. He said they were thieves who would steal everything that wasn’t nailed down. And, if they succeeded in gaining independence, that there would be a massacre of innocents that would eclipse anything that had happened elsewhere, even in Haiti. He said he’d spoken with some of their leaders and said they were a bunch of liars as well.”

  “Sir, some are liars and thieves, but I’ve been working with a group that has been extremely helpful. They’ve scouted for us, carried messages, and ambushed small Spanish units. They’ve even managed to go in and out of Havana almost at will. They cannot stand up to the Spanish army in a traditional battle. They don’t have the weapons, the training, or the leadership. But they can guide us and will fight for us. Actually they’re fighting for themselves since they are convinced that they will be independent when all of this is over.”

  “I don’t know about independence,” said Hancock. “That will be decided by the president, whoever he is, along with Congress. However, we do need good scouts who can fight. I’ve seen the maps of Cuba and, for all intents and purposes, they are utterly useless. They show no roads in the interior and that cannot be true, so, yes, I will gratefully take their help.”

  Hancock patted Ryder on the shoulder and smiled. “In the meantime, look to your wounded and bury your dead. And don’t forget to talk to that lovely young woman who’s been staring at us.”

  * * *

  The last thing in the world Governor General Vlas Villate needed was an uninvited visitor from the Vatican. His once large army was in disarray and falling back as best it could to relative safety behind the impressive but still incomplete defenses of Havana. The Americans had begun their advance and, although moving slowly, appeared unstoppable. His army would fight them, and slow them along the road, but most of the army was demoralized and confused. A number of men and officers had not yet arrived from Matanzas, and that included his field commander, General Valeriano Weyler.

  “Admit him,” Villate snarled to a secretary who scurried to an ante-room. He returned in a minute and announced the presence of Monsignor Eugenio Bernardi. The monsignor was short and plump, leading Villate to guess that the man had taken no vow that would result in his missing meals. Celibacy too was probably honored in the breach, as it was with so many priests.

  They shook hands formally and Villate offered wine which the priest eagerly accepted. “I represent Rome,” he said a trifle pompously.

  “And what does Rome say?” Villate responded sarcastically.

  Bernardi either ignored the jibe or it went over his head. “His Holiness, Pope Leo XIII, is very concerned about the war with the United States. As you are well aware, the Holy Father is also very worried about the role of the papacy in a changing and modern world. While not espousing certain liberal tendencies, he wants the role of the pope to be important and relevant in the world. He realizes that the many new nations in the world, and that includes the United States, will never be as influenced by the Church as they might have been in the past. However, he does wish the Holy See to take and maintain a leadership role. Therefore, he wishes this war concluded quickly and he does wish the United States defeated.”

  “As do I, monsignor,” Villate said with a hint of exasperation. “But pray tell me, how does the pope wish me to bring this to fruition?”

  “The United States is growing and with it the curses of Protestantism, secularism, and democracy. We cannot hope to defeat Protestantism, while the thought of democracy is frightening to the Church. Should democracy take hold in a Catholic land like Cuba, then the island might well be lost to the faith. It will be even more tragic if secularism were to become the law of the land as it is in the United States. The Church must remain as the established church in Cuba, and that can only occur with Spain as its governor. Cuba, therefore, must be defended to the last. I should mention that King Alfonso agrees with that assessment.”

  Villate stood and walked around his office. Bernardi remained seated, a slight that Villate chose to ignore. “And what material aid will the pope provide?” Villate asked with unconcealed anger. “The Holy Father no longer possesses even the limited military resources of the Papal States. He is confined to the Vatican. I need soldiers, weapons, and ammunition, and I wouldn’t mind having a number of modern warships either. Please do not say that you will keep us in your prayers. There are enough people praying for our victory and still the Americans are advancing after defeating the best that Spain has.”

  Bernardi nodded smugly. “Sir, I have it on good authority that a relief army will soon be brought by a Spanish fleet.”

  Villate could not help himself. He laughed out loud, startling the priest. “Spare me, monsignor, and do not insult me. Just this morning I received a cable from our beloved King Alfonso. In it he reiterated that there would be no relief and that the Spanish forces in Cuba are on their own.”

  Now Bernardi appeared shaken. “That is not what I understood when I left Rome.”

  “I don’t know your sources, but perhaps they also believe in fairy tales. Unfortunately, what I just told you is the truth. However, I have a wonderful idea, monsignor, and it is one that the Holy Father should appreciate. There are many, many priests in and around Havana, far more than our poor city needs. You will gather them up and issue them weapons so they can fight the enemy, smiting him hip and thigh.”

  “You should not mock the desires of the Holy Father.”

  “I am not mocking, monsignor. I am very serious. In fact, I am deadly serious. If the priests will not fight, then organize them into labor battalions that can work building the defenses of Havana. And that would include nuns as well. From what I’ve seen, many of them can use the exercise.”

  A captain entered the room, earning glares from both men. He handed Villate a note which he quickly read. “Well, well, I do have a bit of good news, although it is far from anything that will ensure victory. It appears that General Weyler and several thousand of his men have managed to find their way back to Havana and even now are entering the city.”

  “Praise the Lord.”

  Praise the Lord, indeed, Villate thought as the pudgy little prelate departed after swallowing the last of the wine. He didn’t even give the Governor-General his blessing. Villate wondered just how many priests and nuns would show up to fight or form labor battalions. Not many he thought. On the other hand, Weyler’s return, along with at least part of his army, meant that he might have enough men to defeat an American attack. If he could turn the war into a siege for Havana, perhaps he could bleed the Americans. Perhaps also, the fevers would strike the damn Yankees and kill them all. The next time he saw Monsignor Bernardi, he would request that the overweight prelate pray for just that. Maybe he would ask that the priest go on a fast for victory, and that thought made him smile.

  * * *

  Kendrick’s skin had been darkened by oils and his head had been completely shaven. Juana thought he looked like a bald pirate. Kendrick thought he looked like a complete ass. The disguise, rude as it was, would enable him to wander the streets of Havana without being noticed. Looking like he did, he was almost invisible in the crowds. He also carried a pistol in a holster under his shirt and a dagger in his boot. The attempt on their lives by Gi
lberto Salazar’s two assassins was fresh in his mind. He had the vague but comforting feeling that one of Roja’s men was following him and protecting him from a distance.

  The disaster at Matanzas had stunned the population of Havana, many of whom were very pro-Spanish. They were appalled at the thought of an American victory and the possible installation of the rebels as the new government. They could see their comfortable and centuries old way of life disintegrating. Those who claimed Spanish heritage and nobility could see exile at best if the Americans won and a terrible death if the mob did.

  Kendrick’s only fear was that someone would want to talk to him. His Spanish had improved dramatically, but he still spoke it like a foreigner. He carried identification that said he was a laborer for Dunfield and an immigrant from Argentina. Nobody, however, seemed the slightest bit interested in him. Nobody even looked when he walked to the edge of the water and stared at the recovery work being done on the hulk of the Vitoria. Somebody had finally realized that the ruined battleship carried a number of heavy guns that could be put to good use on the walls of Havana. Credit for the effort was being given to a naval officer named Cisneros. Kendrick recalled that he was the man who’d actually captured Custer. The shells too would be salvaged, but the powder was soaked and useless unless the Spaniards could figure out some way of drying it out.

  The thought of those six and five inch guns being turned against American soldiers chilled him. Did General Hancock know, and, if not, how would he get word to him?

  Chilling too was the thought of having dinner with George Armstrong Custer. Although sobered up and cleaned up, the President of the United States was still a boor. He seemed to think that the world awaited his resurrection, and was in an exultant mood as the American Army progressed towards Havana. Kendrick would take mental notes and write what he hoped would be a fair and impartial report.

  As he returned and began the long walk back, a column of soldiers marched by. He used the word marched loosely. They were in ragged formation, looked exhausted and, worse for Spain, appeared defeated. He quickly realized that these were the latest to make it back from Matanzas.