1882: Custer in Chains (20 page)
Read 1882: Custer in Chains Online
Authors: Robert Conroy
Kendrick took the reins of the carriage and followed Juana’s directions. Again they visited one of the internment camps. There were even more prisoners jammed into it and Juana said there were still more in the others. Again the hatred in the inmate’s eyes bore holes in them. “Don’t they know you’re on their side?” asked Kendrick.
“I hope not. If they do, then I will be useless as a rebel and will be caught by the Spanish and thrown into a dungeon. There are cells in the Castillo de la Cabaña that are centuries old and have known great filth and agony. Neither you nor I would do well in there.”
He shuddered at the thought of her being violated by brutal jailers and him being tortured for information he didn’t have. Once again he wondered about the wisdom of his coming to Havana.
Juana continued. “Some of us are stockpiling weapons for when the war comes here and we can liberate our own city. We have few guns, of course, so we must concentrate on giving our people machetes and spears. I just don’t want to be mistaken for a Spaniard when the day of reckoning occurs.”
“How will you prevent that?”
“I have no idea. When the day of reckoning arrives, I hope I will have enough time to get to the homes of rebel friends who will protect me. Certainly, one of the first targets of the rebels will be my husband and people like him and that includes the large number of American Confederates who came to Cuba after your Civil War concluded.”
Kendrick understood. He had done an article on the unrepentant Confederates who’d fled to Mexico and Cuba after the end of the Civil War and the death of the Confederacy. He’d thought it ironic that people in the South had once wanted to occupy Cuba and turn it into a slave state to counterbalance the spread of Free states in the Union. A further irony was Spain’s freeing of its slaves, however gradual. Where, he wondered, was someone who truly believed in the institution of slavery to go? Straight to hell seemed like a good idea.
They continued on to where they could see the main part of the harbor off the Plaza de San Francisco. They stopped and Juana pointed. “There it is, the target of the American Navy, the Spanish battleship
Vitoria
. The original idea was to have her repaired at the Arsenal on the other side of the harbor, but the ship is too large.”
Kendrick noted several men taking photographs of the
Vitoria
and the several smaller warships clustered protectively around her. “I wonder if I could get a print?”
“Why not? The pictures are for sale. It’s not like the battleship’s presence is a secret.” She chuckled. “I will tell one of the photographers that I am a loyal Spaniard who wishes to immortalize the triumph of the Spanish Navy, and then I will buy it for you as a present.”
“You’re too kind,” he said with a grin.
Juana put her hand on his knee and drew it up his inner thigh. “We have been riding around in this heat for long enough. The clothing I am wearing is beginning to chafe my body,” she said as she glared at him sternly. “I am feeling an almost overwhelming urge to get out of them and have my body massaged.”
Kendrick pretended to be shocked, “You too?”
* * *
Lang walked around the Gatling gun. It was one of an additional two brought up to the top of the hill. Until joining up with Ryder, Lang had heard of them but hadn’t seen one. “What is it, fish or fowl?”
Ryder laughed softly and concurred. “I don’t think anybody quite knows. The Gatling doesn’t have the range of a cannon, but it’s on a carriage just like it was one. Placed too far back from the fighting, it’s useless. Move it too close to an enemy and their riflemen can kill the men operating the Gatling.”
“Yet you used them to kill hundreds of Sioux.”
Ryder rolled his eyes, “My, how the legend has grown. It was nowhere near that many. Perhaps a couple of score both killed and wounded, but that’s it. If the Sioux had wanted to take down my little detachment they could easily have spread out and overwhelmed it. I think they left because they were confused and because they didn’t want to take too many casualties.”
Lang nodded. “And you would have had a hell of a time swiveling the guns to meet a moving target like a bunch of Sioux on horseback.”
“That’s a big weakness. I think the gun should either be mounted higher and on a swivel so it can turn without chopping down the carriage’s own wheels, or maybe the wheels should be smaller.”
Lang continued to examine the gun. It was the first time he’d really had a chance to do so since arriving, and he found it fascinating. Along with his ranch, he owned a combination blacksmith and machine shop where he loved to tinker.
“My vote is for the smaller wheels, even though that would make it necessary to carry the gun on a wagon instead of behind pulled by horses,” Lang said. “It’s amazing that this damn thing has been around for twenty years and there’ve been no major improvements to it.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It’s a lot better than the half dozen that General Butler bought and paid for out of his own wallet during the closing days of the Civil War, and they are certainly more reliable than what I used at the Little Big Horn. Those had a tendency to jam at the drop of a hat. Thank God they didn’t or we wouldn’t be standing here. These won’t do that. The Navy’s using them a lot because they work well on a warship, like I found out on the way here. But the Army really doesn’t know what to do with them.”
“The Army has a point. They are so damn big and clumsy.”
“So design one that isn’t. Look, I’ll even give you one to work with if I think your ideas have merit. If I were you I’d hurry. I’ve heard through the grapevine that people like Hiram Maxim and even some inventors in Europe are working on just such a thing—a more compact and mobile machine gun.”
Lang thought for a second. “And if you let me work on it and I get it patented, maybe you and I can form a company and get ourselves rich. We could call it Lang and Martin Arms. What do you think?”
Sometimes Ryder thought that he wished the Texans paid more attention to military discipline. But the men from the Lone Star State had proven themselves to be excellent fighters. One old man bragged that he had ridden with Sam Houston at the battle of San Jacinto. Martin doubted it, but hell, the guy looked old enough.
“Great idea, Captain, but first we have to defeat the damned Spaniards who are down there in plain sight. One of these days, either we or they are going to decide that we’re strong enough to take on the other. This status quo situation where we’re not quite at war with each other can’t go on forever.”
Martin took a periscope from a soldier and looked over the rampart. There was nothing to be seen. Maybe the damned Spanish snipers had taken the day off. Or maybe it was some saint’s feast day. Regardless, he thought it was a hell of a way to run a war.
* * *
Major General Nelson Miles was a vain and proud man. He’d risen to the rank of brevet general in the Civil War while still a very young man and had been awarded the Medal of Honor for heroism in battle. Since the end of the Civil War, he’d distinguished himself fighting the Indians and had even supported Custer with troops after the Little Big Horn. He’d married well. His bride was related to both Senator John Sherman and General William Tecumseh Sherman.
In his early forties, he was still a young and ambitious man. He saw the invasion of Cuba with him in command as a stepping stone to greatness. The White House would be in his sights. Unfortunately, he was now assailed by personal doubts. The war was not going as hoped and there had been no great American victories.
He hated councils of war but felt the need to call one. Such councils often indicated indecisiveness on the part of the man calling it.
It was a small group that gathered in the main dining room of the Palacio de Junco in Matanzas. Until the American invasion the del Junco family had lived there. They had fled to Havana and now it was the headquarters of Nelson Miles and the American army. The room was filled with smoke. The family had left behind a number of excellent cigars that the senior officers were enjoying immensely.
Miles had divided the army into three divisions. Their commanders were John Gibbon, Alfred Terry, and George Crook. All had performed well on the frontier but Miles wasn’t so sure that their successes against the Indians were transferring to success against the far more numerous and better armed Spanish. It also didn’t help that all three were also major generals and ambitious as well. While Miles’ orders said that he was in command of the force, he felt that the others were waiting for him to stumble.
Miles glared at them. “President Custer wants us to attack. He doesn’t seem to care that we are greatly outnumbered and that half our army still can’t tell one end of a rifle from another. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that our three divisions have never worked together, nor have the brigades and regiments within them. I predict that an attack before we are ready would result in disaster.”
Gibbon glared at him. “You’re sounding a lot like McClellan in the past war. He kept seeing Confederate shadows and believed that the rebels had twice as many men as we later found out that they did.”
Terry laughed harshly. “Are you saying those are phantoms and shadows camped around us? We have roughly twenty-five thousand men and it is clear that the Spanish have somewhere between fifty and seventy-five thousand with more dribbling down those miserable and muddy excuses for roads that lead here from Havana.”
Gibbon responded. “Oh, I agree that we are outnumbered but those are Spaniards and Cubans, gentlemen, not Confederates who were real men and real soldiers. The Spaniards are corrupt and poorly trained while the Cubans in their army want nothing to do with a war against us. Custer may be right. If we attack, they might just crumble.”
“Or they might not,” said a glum Crook. “If we attack what appear to be strong positions and fail, our army’s morale will be seriously damaged and we might be forced to withdraw from this miserable island.”
“Custer would never allow it,” said Miles. “He would order us to fight to the last man, just like he almost did against the Sioux.”
“Too bad it didn’t work out that way,” said Terry to laughter.
“Which we just might have to,” said Gibbon. “We know that our navy was badly mauled by the Spanish. Admiral Bunce says the U.S. fleet is in control and that the Spanish are bottled up in Havana. I’ll be blunt—I don’t totally believe him. Should it become necessary to evacuate us, who would do it? We cannot count on the Navy to get us out of here. We might have to surrender,” he said with a shudder. They all recognized that such a calamity would spell an end to their careers as well as any political ambitions. That it would be a disaster for the United States was a given.
Miles stood and paced. He tugged at his uniform. He’d lost weight and it no longer fit properly. He would have to do something about that. Fortunately, there were some decent tailors in the force. He did not like appearing slovenly. It gave the men a bad impression. Maybe a Ulysses Grant could have gotten away with it, but not a Nelson Miles, he thought ruefully.
Miles continued. “Nor do we yet have enough ammunition, food, and other supplies to sustain a campaign. Even if we were to attack and somehow defeat the Spanish, what then? We would likely be too weak to move to Havana. No, we will stay here and demand supplies and reinforcements before we attack.”
“Perhaps Gordon will arrive,” Crook said with the hint of a sneer. Former Confederate General John Gordon was rumored to be forming a division of ex-Rebels in Georgia. The men had mixed emotions about working with Gordon. Although a skilled general and a man who had been reconstructed after the war to the point where he had served in the U.S. Senate, John B. Gordon was still a rebel and old habits and hatreds died hard. Still, if he had a division, it would be well trained and equipped and ready to fight.
General Terry coughed harshly and stood up. Miles was annoyed by the interruption until he saw that Terry’s face had become pale, almost gray. Miles was suddenly concerned. “General, are you unwell?”
Terry raised his hand to say something, looked puzzled, tried to speak, and pitched forward onto the floor.
◆
Chapter 11
◆
W
ith doctors treating more critical patients and with little doubt as to the severity of General Terry’s condition, it fell to Clara Barton to examine him and officially pronounce him dead. She presumed that it had been a massive and sudden heart attack and that there was nothing anybody could have done. As his body was taken by stretcher, scores of soldiers watched in solemn silence. Few men had known him well if at all, but he was one of the army’s leaders, and now he was gone. Within minutes the word had spread throughout the camp and the men were shaken and concerned.
“After a brief ceremony, we will bury him here,” pronounced General Miles. A small cemetery had been started and it included a number of Navy and Army dead. It was acknowledged that packing him in ice and shipping his body to St. Augustine was impractical at this time. When the war was over, perhaps then it would be time to send his remains back to his family in Connecticut.
Miles nodded solemnly towards the empty chair. “It may be unseemly, but we have decisions to make and they should be made promptly. I propose that General Benteen take over Terry’s division. I don’t believe we should wait for Custer or Sheridan to propose someone else and then wait for that person to actually arrive from Washington or even the frontier. Benteen knows the situation. I cannot imagine objections to an essential field promotion.”
There was no serious disagreement. They were about to fight a campaign against Spain. They could not wait on the whims of Washington. “Then who will take over Benteen’s brigade?” asked Gibbon.
“I will check with Benteen, but I rather think he will recommend Colonel Ryder. The man is skilled and experienced despite his relative youth and, along with winning some minor battles, has gotten some excellent publicity for us, which means it is highly unlikely that Custer will even think of overruling our choice.”
There was mild surprise. Ryder was a West Pointer and Miles disliked West Pointers, a feeling that was reciprocated. It sometimes made for prickly relationships.
Crook managed a small laugh. “I can’t imagine you being worried about the ability of a very young general.”
Miles grinned and flushed. He knew he was not popular. “Sometimes younger generals are the best.”
* * *
Word of Ryder’s promotion had been flashed to him by heliograph from Miles’ headquarters. While he was saddened by the death of General Terry, a man who had stood beside him during some dark days, he could not help but be pleased that he was now a brevet brigadier general. Only a short while ago, such an event would have been inconceivable. However, there was a dark side to his promotion. Along with the rank came responsibility for more than twenty-five hundred men in three regiments. Along with the First Maryland he now had the Second New York and the First Delaware, all volunteer units. The New York regiment was in fairly good shape but the men from Delaware would need a lot of solid training.
The first thing he did was inform Barnes that he was now acting commander of the First Maryland Volunteers. Neither Ryder nor Barnes was totally comfortable with this, but there was no immediate alternative. The battalion commanders might grumble, but Barnes had been around Ryder enough to have at least some idea how to run a regiment. Barnes had come a long way in the last few months, but it was folly to think that he could immediately be an effective regimental commander. Ryder firmly told him that he would be watching him carefully and would try to spend as much time as possible with him. Barnes understood.
As to the other two regiments, they were somewhat smaller and had officers with a modicum of experience leading their units. Ryder wasn’t totally confident with either man, but these were the cards he’d been dealt. Everyone seemed competent and their men were well positioned and dug in. They ought to be able to hold off a Spanish attack.
He’d just returned to his headquarters on the hill when another message ordered him to come down. General Benteen wanted to meet with him. He borrowed a horse and rode down and into the city of Matanzas. Maybe if he was lucky he’d manage to steal a few minutes with Sarah.
Benteen surprised him by having General Miles present as well. They formally expressed confidence in his abilities to handle the situation. It was good to hear although Ryder wondered if they felt they had to compliment him. They informed him that General Terry had already been buried, which didn’t surprise Ryder. There was a war on and it was very hot. His remains might be sent north in the future, assuming they could find them after a few months in Cuban ground.
Miles, who also looked so strained and gaunt that Ryder wondered about his condition, told Ryder to be on the lookout for a Spanish attack. Ryder politely said that he would and wondered just what the hell Miles thought he’d been doing since taking over Mount Haney. He noticed that Benteen turned away and stifled a grin.
The meeting was mercifully short. It was still afternoon and Ryder felt he had plenty of time to be with Sarah before it became dark. He felt he should be with his men in the event of a sneak night attack by the Spanish.
Finding her proved easier than he expected. First, he saw Ruth who directed him to a house where a stern woman told him that nurses were not allowed to associate with soldiers. She softened significantly when he reminded her that he was a general. It was the first time he’d pulled rank since his promotion, and she went upstairs to inform Sarah who was off duty and taking a nap.
She came downstairs a few minutes later. She was disheveled, pale, tired, mussed, and incredibly lovely. They fought the urge to embrace and went outside. There was no privacy there, either. Ruth took up position on his left. “I’m your chaperone,” she informed them happily. “Mistress Barton insisted on it.”
“Damn,” said Sarah as she squeezed Martin’s arm.
Ruth continued. “I could get you into the place where Haney and I enjoy ourselves; however, the stack of tents is not all that comfortable and the warehouse is appallingly hot in the afternoon. We always wait until it cools off at night.”
“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 that 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 were 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 Cabaña 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
Navarra
. 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 be 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.”
