“When should I open fire?” yelled Kelly.
“Now!” answered Ryder.
Five guns were in place with more arriving. Every machine gun the army had was going to support the attack. The weapons opened fire and their demonic chatter was deafening.
Bullets fired from an extreme range rained down on the Spaniards, dropping still more of them. They were too far off for anything resembling aimed fire, but were within killing range. To Ryder it reminded him of the time he’d fired on the Sioux at the Little Big Horn, only this time the Spanish were more numerous and farther away. The guns could not miss. They almost certainly had to hit something in the mass of humanity. The guns were more accurate than rifle fire. Even the most experienced soldier might just fire into the ground or in the air or worse, not fire at all in his fear. The Gatlings were handled by teams of men who supported each other and saw to it that the stream of bullets was not only fired, but that shots landed where they were intended. The result was carnage.
Trumpets blared and the Spaniards surged forward. It was like the attacks on Mount Haney, only this time on a level plain with no barbed wire to separate the two sides. Gunners made adjustments and riflemen fired. Smoke obscured the battlefield as the two forces closed.
Ryder pulled out his revolver and unsheathed his sword. He tried to remember the last time he had even practiced with a sword. He was more likely to kill himself with it than a Spaniard.
The Spaniards were emerging through the battle-smoke. They were screaming as if Satan was behind them. They were fighting for their lives.
So too, however, were the Americans. The machine guns were now firing point blank at waist high level. Each gun was on a swivel which meant that each gun could spray bullets in nearly a one hundred and eighty degree arc.
Ryder threw down his sword and took a second revolver from a fallen soldier. The Spaniards were firing back and too many of his men were falling. Something hit him hard in the chest and he fell back, staggered. A Spaniard was directly in front of him and Ryder managed to shoot him. He lurched to his feet and quickly checked for blood. Amazingly, there wasn’t very much at all. Maybe it wasn’t a bullet that had hit him.
The battle was now between brave men on one side and brave men supported by cold and deadly technology on the other. Technology won. The Spaniards began to fall back just as reinforcements from the rest of Benteen’s division along with soldiers from Gibbon’s division filled the gaps caused by casualties.
Ryder’s arm was grabbed. “You all right, Ryder?” It was General Hancock. Ryder looked down. A stream of blood was visible on his shirt.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” said Ryder. Each breath was painful and he wondered if whatever had struck him hadn’t broken a rib.
“Go back and have that wound taken care of,” said Hancock.
“I’ll leave when you do, general.” Hancock laughed harshly and went on to another part of the battle.
The smoke was clearing and the Spaniards were retreating slowly and stubbornly. By companies and then by battalions, the American army began to move after them. Orders were not necessary. The Spaniards would be pushed and pushed hard until they surrendered or died.
Ryder looked around anxiously. Where the hell was Lang? The Texan had a job to do with his flying column.
* * *
The monsignor howled with joy. “We are to join the attack. By the Blessed Virgin we shall prevail.”
Diego Salazar was less than enthused but realized he had to obey the direct orders just received from Villate. The breach in Havana’s defenses had to be closed regardless the cost and it made perfectly good sense to send in the monsignor’s fanatics. The artillery barrage had been terrifying and from what he could see through gaps in the battle smoke, the infantry assault was wavering. The Americans must have a hundred Gatling guns, he decided, and all of them would be aimed at his body.
“Forward,” screamed Bernardi, “forward for Spain and Jesus and the Blessed Virgin.”
The men of the legion moved to the attack. Salazar noted that some were less enthusiastic than others. He understood them. Salazar tried to hold back, but the press of bodies propelled him onward. He wanted to run and hide but could not be seen as a coward. He had to do something, however, to get out of this terrible fight. A few yards ahead of him, the crazy monsignor was screaming and waving what looked like a sword. Where the devil had the fool gotten a sword, Salazar wondered. And what the hell did he plan on doing with it?
Salazar stumbled over a dead soldier and fell on his face. He looked up in time to see Bernardi’s body convulse as machine gun bullets ripped through it. Salazar laughed hysterically. The mad man deserved to die, but he, Diego Salazar, did not. He had a task to complete.
Salazar found a piece of a brick with a sharp edge and gouged it into his scalp and forehead. Like all head wounds, it quickly gushed blood that covered his face and made it look like he’d been horribly wounded.
He pretended to stagger to his feet. The remnants of his legion were fleeing. He joined them. Once again he was a wounded hero who would save what was left of his command. He would gather them and do what he truly wanted to do—take revenge on Juana and her bastard of an American lover. In the meantime, the Americans were advancing and there was nothing he could do about it.
* * *
The boys huddled in the crypt. The skulls of its occupants and assorted other bones no longer bothered them. They were terrified of the man-made thunder that was coming ever closer. Another had joined them. They had been adopted by a small thin dog that they fed with scraps, which was something they felt was hilarious. They too were existing on scraps. The dog wagged its tail and licked their hands. It’s love, even if motivated by food, gave them something they could focus on besides their perilous condition.
They originally considered naming the dog Tico after their dead comrade, but decided to name it Alfonso after their dog of a king who had gotten them into all this trouble. They would find another way to honor Tico. Manuel thought it was sad that they didn’t even know Tico’s last name or where he came from. They also hoped that the little priest who had murdered their friend would burn in hell.
The dog sniffed the powdery bones and decided they were too dry to provide any sustenance. Manuel thought it was nice that the little dog did not have an appetite for humans, although he would have understood if it had. If starvation will make a man do crazy things like Tico did, then what would it do to an animal. He didn’t want to know. He’d heard that there were such things as cannibals that willingly ate human flesh and was beginning to understand them.
The earth shaking thunder of the cannon had been joined by the rattle of small arms fire that was getting ever closer. Their time of reckoning was coming and they were terrified. They huddled together and even the dog picked up on their fears, pressing against them and shaking as much as they did. Manuel wondered if they had anything that could pass as a white flag so they could at least attempt to surrender. To their horror, they heard footsteps all around the crypt. They also realized that the sound of gunfire was fading.
“Leave your weapons in there and come out with your hands up,” The command was shouted in poor but understandable Spanish. “We know that you’re in there. Come out right now or we start shooting.”
They looked at each other and quickly decided to comply. They yelled that they were coming out and staggered into the sunlight where they were confronted by a number of hairy, dirty giants in dressed in blue who had rifles pointed at them. They were the first Americans they had ever seen. All their hands were up with the exception of Manuel who held the dog in his arms. The frightened animal had peed on him but Manuel didn’t care.
“Children, who are you and what are you doing in there?” asked the same man who had ordered them to leave the place of death. His voice was sad and no longer fearsome and he lowered his rifle. “Are you Spanish soldiers?”
Manuel decided that honesty was probably the best policy. “They tr
ied to make us soldiers, but we left them. We didn’t want to fight anyone.” He tried not to sob but couldn’t help himself. The others were crying as well. The dog whimpered and looked confused.
The blue giant translated for his companions who laughed softly. One reached down and petted Alfonso who licked the giant’s hand. “You were wise to desert,” said the man who understood Spanish. “Spaniards are dying by the thousands. Little boys should not be fighting machine guns.”
Manual wasn’t certain what machine guns were but had heard about them. He understood that they were something terrible.
“What do you boys want to do now?” the soldier asked.
Manuel couldn’t help another tear from forming and running down his filthy cheek. The others were sobbing as well. “Sir, we just want to go home.”
One of the soldiers looked away after hearing the translation while another took out part of a loaf of bread, broke off a piece and gave it to the dog who gulped it. Then he saw how the boys looked longingly at the bread, laughed, and brought out a much larger part of a loaf and gave it to Manuel, who thanked him and broke it into roughly equal pieces.
The American gestured towards the road. Large numbers of people were filing down it and all were headed in the same direction, the country. “Mix in with those people and go outside the city. You have no weapons and you look harmless, so it’s not likely that anyone will stop you. After that you’re on your own. Do you know where your home is?”
Manuel nodded proudly. “I am from Santa Cruz del Norte. My mother has a house there and she will take care of us. We will go there until I can find a way to get my friends to their real homes.”
“Your mother will be very proud of you,” the American said. He pushed some more food their way and the other soldiers contributed as well. They would eat well this day. The giant American ruffled Manuel’s hair. “Travel safely.”
They walked for an entire day and were well out of the city and the column of refugees was thinning. They were hungry again and thirsty. Some people were looking carefully at the people in the column as if they wanted to find someone who was lost. He shrugged. All he wanted to do was find his way home.
He gasped as a large hand came down on his shoulder. “You are a difficult young man to find.”
“Corporal Menendez, what are you doing here?”
“I am not a corporal any more. I am only Carlos Menendez and I am a farmer. I was looking for a young boy to take back to his mother. Now it looks like I have found several lost boys and a skinny dog. I think she will be very happy to see you, all of you.” He handed them a canteen. “Now drink some water and gather your strength.”
* * *
Cisneros prided himself on being a good naval officer and one who prepared for contingencies. Thus, he was shocked when Salazar’s soldiers entered the British Consulate through a rear door he didn’t know existed. For the last moments of his life, he ruefully admitted that warships don’t have rear entrances.
Convinced that the consulate’s inhabitants were the enemies of Spain, the remnants of Salazar’s and Monsignor Bernardi’s troops poured in, fired wildly at shadows or anything that moved. They rushed forward and then opened the double front door, letting in more of their men. Cisneros’ men shot down a number of the attackers, but there were too many of them already in the building. Outraged and desperate, Cisneros led a charge against Salazar and his men. Cisneros knew that Salazar had caused this war and this calamity for Spain and he wanted justice for his country.
While Cisneros’ men hesitated for an instant before shooting their fellow countrymen, Salazar’s fanatic troops had no such reservations. Without orders and while Salazar hid behind a wall, they poured a volley into the sailors. Cisneros fell with a bullet in his head and several in his chest. Their leader gone, the remaining sailors ran outside and fled into the city.
Salazar was about to lead a search for Kendrick and Juana when more gunfire hit his men from a room off their left. Enraged, Salazar dropped to the floor and fired through the doorway and heard screams. He looked in and saw several bodies and a number of women cowering on the floor. He quickly satisfied himself that none of the women was Juana and that Kendrick was not among the dead or dying. That meant that they had escaped during the confusion.
A dark-haired nurse knelt by one of the fallen men. She was British or American by her looks. The woman looked up at him, her eyes filled with anger. “Do you realize what you have just done?”
Salazar laughed. There was no longer any threat to worry about. “I have defended Spain’s honor and now I will go and defend mine.”
Sarah now recognized him from the pictures she’d seen. “Diego Salazar, not only did you start this war, but you just shot the President of the United States.”
* * *
This time it was the Americans who were attacking. The siege of Havana was going to come to a conclusion this day. Carlos Menendez had been given a rifle and a dozen raw and confused recruits to lead. He’d protested that his leg wasn’t truly healed and been hit with the flat of a captain’s sword for his efforts.
The latest attack on the American positions had been as great a failure as the others. The machine guns were just too deadly and too terrifying. Even he had an almost overwhelming urge to piss.
Spanish soldiers were yelling and pointing at the advancing Americans. They were terrified and he saw why. The Americans were bringing their devil guns with them. Before this, the Gatlings had sat behind fortifications and killed from a distance. Now they were advancing with the blue-clad infantry.
Again, the Spanish lines broke. Men ran or threw down their weapons and held up their hands in meek surrender. Carlos thought for a moment and decided on the latter. He laid down his rifle, never fired, and raised his hands. He trembled in fear as the Americans came near. Would they kill him? It could even happen by accident. What if a foolish Spaniard decided to shoot an American? The Yanks would be furious and doubtless massacre prisoners.
To his astonishment, the Americans swept by with barely a glance. A few seconds later, he and the others were ordered by gestures to head out of Havana. It dawned on him that the Yanks weren’t interested in keeping and feeding prisoners and that he would be on his own. He had his cane to help him walk and he would head back to Manuel Garcia’s lovely mother. But first he had to find the damned boy.
Chapter 22
Lang’s intended lightning thrust towards the British Consulate had confronted reality. The old streets of Havana were filled with retreating Spanish soldiers who were fighting each other as well as Cuban rebels. Black smoke filled the air and hot ashes from burning homes and buildings fell on them. Lang thought that the city of Havana was burning and being turned to cinders just like ancient Rome had been destroyed under Nero.
Lang’s men moved as a compact mass towards what they felt was the right direction. The streets were narrow and congested and, even with Diego Valdez and a score of his men to help, they got lost a couple of times. Some roads were little more than alleys. Several times they were confronted by groups of Spanish soldiers who, on seeing the disciplined Americans, melted away. Only one time did a Spaniard open fire on them and he was cut down in a barrage of gunfire. Lang commented that moving through Havana was like swimming upstream against a school of desperate fish.
The Spanish were fighting the Cubans and the Americans, and the Cubans were fighting each other as the last act of a brutal civil war played out in the blood-soaked streets. Several times, Valdez and his men had to be restrained from exacting brutal revenge against their oppressors. Valdez’s mistress, Maria, accompanied him and tried to act as a calming influence. As a result, atrocities were at a minimum.
Many Spaniards wished to surrender, but accepting their surrender was not the purpose of Lang’s column. Their goal was the British Consulate and the rescue of President George Armstrong Custer. That Custer was imprisoned with other Americans who were far more popular and personally more important to Lang and the other
Americans was irrelevant. They had a task assigned to them.
They passed the smashed and smoldering fortress of Castillo del Principe. Ahead they could see the spires of the Cathedral of San Cristobal. Smoke was swirling around it as well. “My world is burning,” said Valdez. Maria caught up with them and held Valdez’s arm.
“You’ll have a long time to rebuild it,” answered Lang.
Lang signaled a halt. Ahead of them was their goal, the large enclave that was the British Consulate and the home of Redford Dunfield. The massive wooden doors were open and smoke was pouring from a number of windows. Bloody bodies were strewn around the outside of what had been a magnificent estate.
They moved cautiously to the main entrance and walked in, their weapons at the ready. They passed more bodies as they entered the central courtyard. There was silence. Lang wondered if the place had been abandoned. If so, where the devil was Custer?
“Hello,” Lang hollered. “Anybody home,” he added and immediately felt foolish for saying that. A couple of his men snickered nervously and he silenced them with a glare.
Valdez yelled something in Spanish and there was still silence. “This is the United States Army,” Lang added. “Come out. You are safe.”
There was a rustling noise followed by a woman’s voice. “Is that you, Captain Lang?”
Lang breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes it is, Mrs. Damon, although I regret to inform you that neither your general nor Sergeant Haney are with us.”
Sarah and Ruta emerged from a hallway. They were filthy and bruised and their clothing was torn. Each was carrying a rifle and had a pistol stuck in their waistbands.
“I hope you have a doctor with you. President Custer was badly wounded in the fighting. I’m afraid he might die.”
* * *
General Weyler had a hard time finding the current headquarters of Governor General Villate as he had moved it several times in response to changing threats from both the Americans and the Cuban insurgents. Finally, he located it in a small abandoned hotel. A number of staff officers were wandering around in confusion. They looked lost and thoroughly dispirited. Weyler grabbed the arm of a captain he knew was an aide to Villate.
1882: Custer in Chains - eARC Page 39
