1882: Custer in Chains (17 page)

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Chapter 9
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R
yder looked through his binoculars at the ocean of Spanish tents that had been erected just out of the range of his few cannons. He heard a click and turned. William Pywell, Kendrick’s photographer, had just taken a picture of the Spanish camp from the crest of Mount Haney. Pywell had landed by private boat the day before. He had also brought his traveling darkroom, a contraption on a carriage, and a horse to pull the thing. The pictures he’d been taking would be developed and sent to Florida the next morning. There might be a war on, but nothing would stop the men of the press. Nor were small boats like the one Pywell used bothered by the few Spanish ships cruising off Matanzas and the American coast.

“I hope that’s a good one,” said Ryder genially. Not only had Pywell taken photos of the Civil War, but had traveled with Custer before the Little Big Horn. He and Pywell had had a nodding acquaintance.

Pywell grinned. “It’ll be as good a panorama as Mathew Brady ever took, maybe even better since I can see and Brady can’t. Poor man’s just about blind, you know.”

Ryder had not heard that. He thought blindness was about the worst thing that could happen to a person. “If there is a battle, will you try to photograph the action?”

“Why not?” the photographer said and shrugged. “If the sun is bright enough to freeze movement, then it’ll work. The science of photography has come a long ways since the Civil War when we were afraid that all movement would wind up blurred. Of course, there also was the real fear of getting shot if we wandered too close to the fighting, which is one more reason we avoided photographing the action. No, it was better and safer to take pictures of the dead after the battle than the living during it.”

Ryder thought that was prudent and wondered if he could adopt that policy as well. There was commotion on the bay side of the mountain. He recognized Haney along with another man who wore the single star of a brigadier general on his shoulders. It was Frederick Benteen and he looked exhausted from the climb. He lazily returned Ryder’s salute and shook his hand.

“Colonel, you wouldn’t happen to have a gin and tonic in this godforsaken place, would you?”

“Sir, if such is available, Sergeant Haney will find it for you, along with some ice.”

“Give me just a few minutes, sir. The impossible often takes that long.” Haney said and disappeared into one of the bunkers.

Benteen removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was already soaked with sweat. “I think you already know what’s going on. But to make it official, the Army’s divisions are being divided into brigades and I’m in charge of one. Your regiment’s in it, of course, along with two others.”

“I’m honored, although I’m just a little surprised.”

“Why? Because I’ve been given a brigade even though everyone knows that I despise Custer’s guts? I dislike him intensely for what he’s said about my behavior at the Little Big Horn and he knows it. Still, he needs good officers and I think I am one.”

Custer had criticized Benteen for not moving more quickly to his rescue when he’d joined up with Major Reno’s forces at the now famous battle that had almost become a massacre. Custer ignored the fact that Reno outranked Benteen and came under Reno’s orders on his arrival. Custer also ignored the fact that both Benteen and Reno were fighting desperately on the other side of the Little Big Horn and that Reno, the senior of the two and in command, had likely been drunk.

“At any rate,” Benteen continued, “this reorganizing should make the divisions more flexible and able to respond more quickly when the Spanish attack. Their army is getting larger and larger while ours is stagnating. Allegedly we are getting reinforcements and supplies, but God only knows when.”

A smiling Haney appeared beside them with two canteen cups in his hands. “As ordered, sirs. Enjoy.”

Benteen and Ryder swallowed appreciatively. “May I presume you have another gin and tonic in that bunker and that it’s for yourself?” asked Benteen.

“You may indeed,” said Haney. “Sadly, though, that is the last of the ice.”

“War is hell,” muttered Ryder.

* * *

Diego Valdez led his small group of “Spanish soldiers” through the vast array of tents housing the enemy army. Even though he was far from being a military professional, his inexperienced eyes could see that the Spanish army was not an elite force. They had not been stopped on entering the camp and no one had questioned them since then. Their stolen uniforms were sufficient to get them anywhere. The closest they’d come to having a problem had been when a clearly drunken captain had asked them to get him something. Diego had told the captain that they were on an errand from Colonel Juarez and the captain had sworn at them and walked away. Diego had no idea if there even
was
a Colonel Juarez.

It had been Diego’s idea to check out the encampment and see what damage he and his men could do to Spain. The explosion of the American ammunition dump had given him the idea that he could do the same thing to the Spanish. Reality, however, was proving otherwise. Ammunition appeared to have been disbursed to the many units arrayed against the Americans; ergo, there would be no large and devastating explosion. It was also obvious that the Spanish were gearing up for a major attack. He hoped that the Americans were aware of that, since the large number of soldiers confronting the Americans precluded his sneaking directly through to warn them. He would have to go around the Spanish army and that would take time.

At least they’d managed to pilfer additional Spanish uniforms and this time they included a supply of boots.

He’d actually seen General Weyler and had given serious thought to killing him. Unfortunately, that would likely have resulted in his own tragic demise and that of his men, which did not appeal to any of them. They were all brave but not suicidal.

Night came and they bedded down on the ground along with thousands of others. In the morning they would leave the camp simply by marching out as if they were on some work detail. His men would not be happy that they were not able to inflict pain on the Spanish or their traitorous Cuban allies, but they would deal with it.

He was awakened by the sound of horses trotting by only a few feet away. There was enough light to see the riders’ faces. With a jolt he recognized the hated Gilberto Salazar. It took all his strength to not shoot the man.

But one of his soldiers couldn’t restrain himself. Diego heard a scream and a shot. Salazar and his horse went down in a heap. “Run,” he yelled. The man who had fired stood with a stunned look on his face and a smoking weapon in his hands as realization of what he’d done dawned. Salazar’s men turned and saw him. They fired and the soldier staggered but didn’t fall.

“Stupid bastard,” Diego sobbed in fury as he shot his irrational comrade in the head. He could not afford to have the fool captured and questioned.

As soldiers swarmed past him, he and the others in his group melted away, running in all directions. As he left the area, he saw men helping Salazar to his feet. He appeared hurt, but not too badly, as he was able to stand with only minimal help. The man who had fired had been a friend and fellow revolutionary for several years, but his family had been slaughtered by Salazar.

The camp was now wide awake and soldiers were milling and moving in all directions. Nobody was yet in control and soldiers were shooting wildly and at anything. A campfire had overturned and a tent was on fire. He found the outer edge of the encampment and simply departed. In a short while he was joined by a couple of his men. They were as shocked and stunned as he was. “You had to kill Jose,” one of them said sadly. “He was my cousin, but he was a fool. We cannot have fools.”

* * *

Ryder and his staff were transfixed by the sight below them in the Spanish camp. When the gunfire started, the sentries in both sides had sounded the alarm, sending troops into the trenches. Were the Spanish about to attack? There was no need for Ryder to sound a second alarm. His soldiers were already pouring into the trenches, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and trying to get ready for whatever the enemy might try to throw at them.

“Anybody know what the hell is going on down there?” Ryder asked. He got no response, which was what he expected. Who wanted to admit that they didn’t know a damn thing? More gunfire exploded and something was on fire. Several Spanish tents were burning and the flames were spreading.

“You know what I think, sir?” said Barnes. “I think they’re shooting at themselves. I think something spooked them and they’ve pretty well panicked.”

“Makes sense,” Ryder answered. “Their boys can’t be any more experienced than ours.” Almost every night since landing, some soldiers had fired at shadows. Some of the boys called it demon shooting or ghost attacks. Everybody’s nerves were strained, what with the Spanish in plain sight but just out of range.

As if to confirm that statement, rifle fire came from another regiment on his left flank. He heard officers yelling at the men to stop shooting at shadows. At least his men had shown a semblance of fire discipline. Well, this night at least.

A cannon boomed from a Spanish battery. The shell landed hundreds of yards short of the American lines, churning up mud and vegetation. Spanish soldiers could be seen moving towards the Americans.

“Are they going to attack?”

Ryder could only watch in grim disbelief. The Spanish advance seemed confused and uncoordinated. “Give the order. Our guns can open fire when they are within range and the same with our rifles.” He turned to Barnes. “I have the damndest feeling that is some kind of spontaneous eruption. If so, we’re going to chase them back real fast.”

Only a few hundred enemy soldiers were advancing. They were yelling and screaming. They reached the white painted stakes that Ryder’s men had pounded into the ground to designate range. First, the pair of twelve-pounders on the hill fired at extreme range, hitting nothing. The Spanish soldiers wavered, but gathered their courage and advanced. American cannons fired again, this time with the shells landing in the midst of the enemy, throwing them around like toys.

“Can we use the Gatlings?” Barnes asked with almost unseemly excitement.

“No. We hold them back. They’ll be our little surprise when the right time comes.”

The Spanish had stopped. Officers could be seen taking control and leading their men back to safety. Ryder ordered everyone to cease firing.

He took a swallow of miserable tasting water from his canteen. Now what the hell was that all about, he wondered?

* * *

General Valeriano Weyler was livid as he left the hospital tent and walked through the ashes of the fire. First, a group of rebels had penetrated deep into his encampment and then one of them had attempted to assassinate Gilberto Salazar.

In a way, Weyler thought it was a shame that the attacker had failed. Salazar was proving to be more trouble than he was worth. After all, he was the man widely given credit for starting the war in the first place, although both he and Governor-General Villate thought that the Americans would have found some other reason to begin fighting. American greed and rapacity knew no bounds. Salazar’s attacker, now thoroughly dead, had mortally wounded Salazar’s horse and the major had been thrown under the dying animal. The most serious injury to him appeared to be a badly pulled groin muscle. The rest of his injuries were bruises and cuts.

A groin pull could be nasty and painful and easily take a man away from one of life’s more congenial pursuits—sex with a woman. There were rumors about Salazar’s sexual activities, but Weyler had always dismissed them. Salazar was as manly as anyone he knew and even had a luscious and bosomy German mistress to compensate for his shrew of a wife. He laughed silently. If anyone could make a man’s testicles wither and blow away it would be Juana Salazar. Fairly soon, Gilberto Salazar would be able to ride a horse but not his wife. On the other hand, he thought, laughing softly, who would want to?

Before the fire was finally put out, a score of tents had burned and a small number of men had been injured. The worst was the uncoordinated and spontaneous attack on the American positions by Cuban militia. This had resulted in a handful of dead and wounded that had been retrieved under flag of truce. During the truce, one American had yelled down, asking in Spanish just what the hell that was all about. His men did not respond, which must have told the Americans that the whole thing was a big mistake.

But now, Salazar was a kind of hero. The Americans or the rebels had struck at him specifically. Weyler had reluctantly succumbed to pressure from local Spanish and Cuban loyalists and promoted him to the temporary rank of colonel. Salazar still had close to two thousand men under his command. The loyalists had demanded a reward and he had given it to them. Salazar could be their hero.

Weyler paused and looked around. A number of soldiers were looking at him curiously. They knew that he was in charge of the army and that their lives were held in the palm of his hand. He took out his binoculars and stared at the American trenches. Blue-uniformed soldiers were moving around with impunity. He could see that they were strengthening their defenses just as he was strengthening his own. More soldiers were en route from Havana and still more were gathering around Havana from other parts of Cuba. Spain was going to take a major chance and gather almost all of her army in Cuba close to Havana in order to destroy the Americans. Only Santiago would have a strong garrison. If this meant temporarily giving control of some areas of the island to the rebels, then so be it. When Spain was victorious, the rebels could be crushed in good time.

And, he smiled, it would be a good time. Killing the enemies of Spain was the greatest of pleasures.

* * *

Once more, thought Wally Janson, as his beloved steamer, the
Aurora
, moved easily through the green ocean waters north of Cuba. Unlike the last time when cleverness and bravery were necessary to keep him from being taken prisoner, or even killed, this convoy was well protected.