1882: Custer in Chains (23 page)

* * *

Sarah tried not to think. She had come to Cuba to help heal the men fighting the war and now the war was upon them in all its fury. Cannons from several directions thundered and then the clatter of rifle fire could be heard. The Spanish were attacking at the point of the bay and at the hill where Martin commanded.

“Casualties,” someone yelled and the first of the mangled were led or carried in. Behind was what looked like a never-ending stream of them and the sights were worse than she had ever imagined. She wanted to scream at the sight of some of the wounds. Men had limbs ripped off and others had been disemboweled, with intestines and bones clearly visible. The man with no face that she’d been afraid to treat receded into the recesses of her mind.

Clara Barton had given herself the terrible task of dividing the wounded into groups—those who could be saved by treatment, and those who should be left to die after being given enough narcotics to numb them until they slipped away quietly and peacefully.

Several priests and ministers were trying to bring solace to the wounded and sometimes it helped. Sometimes the wounded just screamed louder because they thought the presence of a churchman meant that they were going to die.

A boy on a cot close by to her was sobbing for his mother. He looked about sixteen and Miss Barton had decided that his wounds were mortal. He would never see his mother again. Sarah helped Doctor Desmond set some fractures and held a man’s arm while he extracted pieces of metal from it.

The man looked up and saw Sarah. “You better run while you can,” he said. His eyes were wide with fright and pain. “There’s millions of them and they’re gonna kill everyone. And what they’ll do to the women can’t be said.”

She wondered if it was true. If the Spanish broke through, what would happen to them? Would the Red Cross flag be enough to save them or would a vengeful and angry Spanish army kill the wounded and then rape and murder the nurses and doctors? She’d heard that sometimes even the best of men sometimes went crazy during battle. From what she was seeing, she believed it.

A few more wounded were beginning to come down from the hill. She stole a look to see if she knew any of them. She didn’t and felt a mixed sense of relief. But that didn’t mean that all was well with Martin. He could still be lying up there, bloody and broken. Perhaps he was crying for her as the boy had cried for his mother. She wanted to sob but couldn’t afford the luxury. The numbers of wounded were backing up.

She became aware that the firing had died down, almost stopped. There were scattered cheers off in the distance.

General Miles entered the tent and looked in on the wounded. He appeared harassed, she thought, and why not. He took off his hat and waved it, getting their attention. “We stopped them, boys. We killed a ton of them. They won’t be back for a long while.” With that he waved the hat once more and left the men in the tent.

A wounded man missing an arm lay on a cot beside Sarah and snorted, “At least the dumb fucker didn’t ask for three cheers. I would have waved my stump instead. Oops, sorry ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t think I should have said that.”

She smiled and gently ruffled his hair. “Soldier, I think you’ve earned the right to say any fucking thing you wish.”

* * *

The men of Gilberto Salazar’s Legion had not been called on to do anything this day. Instead, he’d leaned on his crutches and watched proudly as the Spanish army marched off in all its glory to destroy the American invaders. He’d cheered as they headed up the hill in proud ranks with flags flying and drums and bugles sounding. But then the Americans began to shoot. First the cannons tore into their ranks and then torrents of rifle and machine gun fire further decimated them. The proud ranks became a mob, but still they bravely climbed the hill. His stomach contracted and he had to stop himself from shaking with fear at the sight. He thanked Jesus and the Virgin that he had not been called upon to attack this day.

But then the advance stopped. Puzzled, Salazar aimed his binoculars and saw soldiers falling in heaps before an almost invisible barrier. What the devil? The advance was faltering and he sensed that the retreat would soon begin. This phase of the battle was over and it would be a crushing Spanish defeat. As the attackers fell back, what remained of their discipline collapsed and the Spanish withdrawal became a mob of men seeking the comfort of their earlier positions. Even officers had succumbed to the panic and were running frantically.

Salazar ground his teeth and tried not to weep. What had gone wrong? There had been so many more Spanish soldiers than American defenders and, yes, it was presumed that the attackers would suffer heavier casualties than the defending Americans. But it was also presumed that the weight of their numbers would overwhelm the American positions, however strong their positions might be.

He’d read that attacks were fragile things. Men had to agree to march into enemy fire and generally without much of a chance to return that fire. The job of the attacker was to continue to advance and make contact with an enemy who was trying to kill him, and drive that enemy away. But today, the Spanish had been halted and, instead of simply heavy casualties, there had been a slaughter. He found it hard to fault the men who had suffered so much. In a very short while there would be a truce to enable the dead and wounded to be cleared from what had become a field of death. He had to know what had caused the advance to stop. He would have to swallow his many fears and go up the hill.

He confronted a frustrated General Weyler and said that he wanted to see what had caused the attack to fail when the truce went into effect. Swearing mightily in rage and frustration, Weyler agreed and, after stripping off his officer’s tunic and exchanging it for an enlisted man’s, Salazar limped up the hill on his cane. He trembled with fear and wondered if he hadn’t let his passions lead him into a very bad decision. He had reached the point where the attack had started when yells went out that the truce was in effect. Thank God, he thought, and walked up the rest of the hill. He was still frightened, but he could control it.

He helped bring a couple of wounded down, which put a lot of blood on his borrowed uniform. Good, he thought. The next time, he went as close as possible to the high point of the attack, and got within a few yards of what he realized was a wire barrier with metal spikes or hooks woven into it. Of course it had stunned and stopped the advance, he thought, not that the attack would have gone that much farther in the first place. The field of battle was covered with dead and wounded Spanish soldiers. Again, he thanked God that he had not been in the attack.

On the other side of the wire, grim and sweating American soldiers were pushing the dead who’d made it through the wire back under it and lifting off those who’d been impaled on it. These were dropped like sacks onto the Spanish side of the wire. It felt incredibly strange to be so close to the Americans. He dared not observe too closely. Americans were watching carefully, looking for any hint of sabotage, and a couple of them were eyeing him curiously.

He’d seen what he’d wanted to. It was time to leave. A badly wounded soldier reached out and grabbed his leg and Salazar fought the urge to kick him away. Instead, he managed to get him up and, with still more difficulty, draped the soldier’s arm over his shoulder. Together they limped back. When he was close enough to an aid station, he handed off his burden to another man who looked at him and shrugged. “Why did you bother, sir? This man is dead.”

* * *

Through gaps in the growing clouds of white smoke Ryder could see some enemy soldiers had snuck their way through or under the wire. Next time the wire would have to be thicker, he told himself, and then wondered if there would be a next time, and if there was, where the hell would he get the additional wire?

Several Spanish soldiers appeared before him, only a few yards away from the first trench line. “Some dumb son of a bitch always gets through,” snarled Haney as he shot a man.

Ryder laughed almost crazily and emptied his pistol in the direction of the attackers. He didn’t hit anything, but he felt that it was the right thing to do.

Then the Spanish were gone. They had endured more than men should have to. As the firing died down, the defenders of Mount Haney could see a landscape carpeted with uniforms that had once been white and now were smeared with blood and stained with urine and feces. Already the stench was beginning to grow.

No order to cease fire was given. It was just understood. A few Spaniards cautiously stood up with their hands in the air. Some of the more lightly wounded called for help, while others just lay there and moaned. American medical personnel would care for them as soon as American soldiers were treated.

“You gonna allow for a cease fire?” asked Haney. A couple of white flags were waving from the Spanish lines, and a handful of unarmed Spanish soldiers were moving tentatively forward with palms outstretched.

Ryder checked his watch. “Give them four hours to gather their dead and wounded and only those on the other side of the wire. I want men watching the Spanish to make sure they don’t try to cut the wire.”

“Are you concerned that they’ll find any secrets?”

“About the wire?” he said grimly. “I think they’ve already found out all they need to.”

* * *

Kendrick’s departure from Havana and the willing arms of Juana Salazar was delayed when news of the failed attack at Matanzas reached the city. Even though elated by the Spanish defeat and wanting to go where the news was, it was clearly dangerous for anyone even remotely looking like an Anglo to be on the streets of Havana. Pro-Spanish rioters roamed the streets savagely beating people indiscriminately. The government was unable to control the chaos and Kendrick wondered if they even cared. As a result, a number of Europeans had been badly hurt and at least a couple had been lynched. Establishments catering to non-Spanish had been trashed and even burned. The Havana police and militia were slowly getting the upper hand, but without much enthusiasm.

“So many stories and nowhere to send them,” he said sadly.

Standing behind him, Juana slipped a bare arm around his equally bare chest and let a hand slide down his belly. Since they could not safely go out, they were spending as much time as possible in her room.

“When this war is over,” she said as she fondled him, “you can write a book about your experiences as an American in Spanish Havana.”

Kendrick grinned, reached back, and patted her bottom. “Can I write about this?”

“Go ahead. I no longer care what others think. On the other hand,” she said with mock piety, “please change my name when you do.”

Kendrick laughed hugely. Why on earth had he ever thought she was a stern and plain stick? She had blossomed into a vivacious and passionate woman. It occurred to him that she’d gained a couple of pounds since they came into each other’s lives. Well, she could certainly use them. She’d told him how she’d kept herself thin in order to make herself unattractive to her husband, who was a useless lover in the first place. Not only had she not eaten much, but she had taught herself how to vomit up what she had eaten.

Before the rioting he’d gotten a British passport and been out to examine the wreck of the
Vitoria
. A helpful young lieutenant named Hugo Torres, who had survived the sinking and was now working on the wreck, told him of the horrors of the explosion caused by what was now known to be a torpedo. He called the weapon a devil’s tool. He told of the panic, and the torrents of water rushing through the doomed warship and drowning scores of crewmen. Curiously, the man was not bitter.

“It was war, señor, and, obviously, I survived. If we had steamed out to duel with the Americans I might well be rotting on the bottom of the Caribbean. Instead, I was simply able to swim away from the sinking battleship. From what I’ve seen and heard, the American ships are bigger and better than ours, and their crews are better trained. The men under my command were the dregs of the earth who knew nothing about serving in a navy and showed no interest in learning. I will mourn for those of my friends who were killed, but I exult in the fact that I am alive.”

“Will you try to raise the ship?” It was obvious from the activity that the Spanish were trying to do exactly that.

“Of course,” said Torres. “If nothing else we must remove the hulk from the harbor where it is a dangerous impediment to shipping. The hole caused by the torpedo has been repaired and the next step will be to right the ship so she can be pumped out. But will she return to her place in Spain’s navy? I don’t think so. Her insides have been smashed by the explosion of one of her magazines and her engine has been underwater and ruined. In my opinion, she will be floated so she can be dragged out of the way or, when the war ceases, sent farther out into the ocean where she can be sunk in deep water.”

Torres made the sign of the cross. “Perhaps we will be able to recover the bodies of the missing and give them a mass and a Christian burial.”

“How many missing are there?”

“Six or eight, depending on which doctor you talk to. I suggest you go to the morgue and see them trying to assemble body parts into whole persons. I do not envy them their task, but honor says it must be done.”

Kendrick had thanked him for his perspective and the young lieutenant had laughed. “By the way, señor, I’ve been to England and your British accent is as awful as anyone I have ever heard.”

He and Juana had laughed over that incident and decided that he would not go out without Juana to translate for him. Nor would they emerge from their cocoon until the fighting in the streets stopped. Filing the story of his examination of the
Vitoria
’s hulk would wait. Smoke continued to pour skyward from a number of sites in the beleaguered city. Perhaps the U.S. wouldn’t have to storm Havana. Perhaps they could let the Spanish destroy the city for them.

* * *

Ryder called an informal council of his advisors. They included Lang, Barnes, and Haney. Rank wasn’t one of the reasons for inclusion. He wanted intelligent opinions. In only a short while, the lean Texan had proven himself as a leader, while Haney always had been. As to Barnes, the acting regimental commander still had to prove himself as a leader, but certainly had the brains.