Read 1882: Custer in Chains Online
Authors: Robert Conroy
1882: Custer in Chains (25 page)
“Make yourself comfortable, Captain, but I’m afraid that real hardships are upon us. While we have gin, we are totally out of tonic.”
“There is no God,” Lang sighed. “I guess I’ll have to make do with gin alone. Is there any ice?”
“Curiously, yes, and thank that God you say doesn’t exist for Sergeant Haney. He had our engineers develop an ice-making machine. While most of the ice goes to the hospital, some of it manages to make its way up here. Now please don’t tell me that you made a complete circuit of the Spanish lines. You haven’t been gone anywhere near long enough.”
“Correct, General, and I came back because I found things that are both good and bad. The good is that there are more holes in the Spanish lines than I have in my socks. I believe I could take a good-sized force through them and hit them in the rear or anywhere else and cause a great deal of damage.”
“Excellent.”
The Spanish gun boomed again. Again the shell landed well short. Lang continued. “On the bad side, I think they are preparing to attack again, but not where they did originally. It looks like a major buildup between here on Mount Haney and the opening to the bay. If I read things correctly, I’d say they’re gonna attack between those points which would take them right through the city of Matanzas itself. They take that and they can claim a major victory.”
Ryder took a stick and sketched a map of the area in the dirt and eyed it thoughtfully. “If they take the city, they can place guns along the coast and control the bay. We could fire down on them part of the way, but not all, and most of our ships, being unarmored, would be loath to enter and shoot it out with shore-based cannons.”
“We don’t have armored ships, sir? I thought we invented the damn things.”
Ryder grinned. “We did and then we forgot why. Just don’t say I said that to any Navy boys you might meet. They’d likely take offence. To the best of my knowledge, the only truly armored ship we have is the
Atlanta
. When the
Chicago
comes back, which won’t be for quite a while, that’ll give us two. Not very impressive for a world power, is it?”
“Shit,” said Lang. “What are you gonna do?”
“First I’m going to finish this drink and then I’m going to send a signal to Benteen that I’d like to come down and talk to him. Custer himself was offshore meeting with Miles and, along with giving him your report, I’d like to know what was discussed.”
Lang grinned. Like everyone else, he knew all about his general and Sarah Damon. The base at Matanzas was a very small town in many ways. “Maybe I can report to Benteen myself and relieve you of the awful burden of going down there.”
“Maybe you can go to hell, Captain,” Ryder said without rancor.
The Spanish cannon boomed again. “Can we hit that fucker, sir? He’s really getting annoying.”
“Yes. He’s in range of about a dozen of our guns. Why, do you want to teach him a lesson?”
“I do indeed, sir. Why not have all of our guns fire one round at the same time at him and see what happens. If we don’t kill him, we should scare the shit out of him.”
“I like the way you think, Captain Lang. You are one nasty son of a bitch.”
* * *
Clemente Cisneros liked to complain that he was proof that the Spanish Navy was totally fossilized, even though he wasn’t absolutely certain what the word meant. He thought it had to do with something turning to stone and that was an apt description of the current state of the once proud Spanish Navy.
A small thin man descended from minor nobility, he had made the navy his career. He was now forty-five years old and a lieutenant commander. He lacked political connections in Madrid so it was unlikely that he would rise above his current rank. This lack further hurt his chances because the Spanish Navy was small and getting smaller. It would be even more difficult for him if Spain lost the current war with the arrogant United States. That he might be discharged and left on the beach depressed him mightily. He longed to do something that would attract the attention of the leaders in Madrid.
After commanding a couple of patrol craft during his career, he had been appointed captain of the seven-hundred-ton gunboat, the
Marques del Duero
. She was a mere one-tenth the size of a modern major warship and doubtless represented the pinnacle of his career. While small, his ship was far from helpless, carrying one 6.3-inch gun and a pair of 4.7s. She also had a crew of a hundred men whom he’d trained hard. He was also a fair man and his men had responded. He was proud of them. The
Duero
was ready to fight.
This night, however, she would be one of a number of decoys. The
Duero
’s problem was her speed. On a good day, she could do only ten knots and she hadn’t had many good days lately. Her engine kept acting up and her hull was fouled. She was scheduled for a refit, but she was way down the list and, besides, the mechanics in Cuba were largely incompetent. At times Cisneros thought he would be better off running under her schooner-rigged sails than counting on her temperamental engines.
Still, Cisneros had to admit that the Spanish Navy’s plan for this night had considerable merit. Two good-sized cruisers and one smaller one were languishing in Havana harbor with nothing to do since the sinking of the
Vitoria
in the harbor by some incredibly brave Americans. He’d been to visit the captured American officers and, since he spoke excellent English, had had an interesting conversation. He now knew more about torpedoes then he ever cared to. At first he’d thought that the Americans had talked too much, but then realized that the information was in the newspapers.
Spanish intelligence also said that the American warship, the
Chicago
, had been sufficiently repaired to enable her to join the
Atlanta
in blockading Havana. If the remnants of the Spanish fleet were to escape, it had to be soon. Thus, he’d been given the extremely temporary rank of commodore and would lead a dozen armed merchantmen out in an attack designed to distract the
Atlanta
and other ships while the Spanish cruisers escaped to the high seas where they could commence terrorizing American merchant ships. As commerce raiders, it was believed that they could cause damage far beyond their size.
He wished for a cloudier night, but it wasn’t granted. There were gaps in the clouds where stars could be seen twinkling and providing visibility for the Americans. At least the moon wasn’t full. He hoped it was dark enough for him to succeed in his purpose. With his cruiser in the lead, the Spanish decoy fleet steamed out and, as soon as they were close enough to the Americans to be seen, they opened fire with their smaller guns. The Americans immediately went to battle stations while the decoys charged bravely towards them. Cisneros could only hope that the three larger cruisers, the
Aragon, Castile
, and
Velasco
, were escaping during the confusion he believed he was creating. Some of his ships would die and he prayed that their deaths would not be in vain.
They were soon within range of the Americans and the enemy gunnery began to tell. One of the decoys was quickly set on fire and sinking, while another was dead in the water. An American gun fired a shell that landed within feet of the
Duero
, raising a geyser of water and splashing a torrent of spray and shell fragments on her deck. A couple of his men were down. Enough, Cisneros thought, and gave the order to withdraw. They’d had their moment of glory.
He smiled. Even if the Spanish warships hadn’t gotten away, it had been extremely pleasant to yank on Uncle Sam’s beard. Indeed, it looked like the American ships were all steaming west, doubtless chasing the Spanish squadron that they’d belatedly spotted. He hoped his compatriots got away. It was all in God’s hands.
Wait. There was a strange ship in view and approaching. It was almost within range. Better, it was not very large and, since he knew all of the Spanish warships, it had to be an American. They would not have to skulk back to Havana after only a pretense at battle.
A moment later and his three guns opened fire on the mystery ship.
* * *
Captain Blondell was aghast. The night was ablaze with cannon fire. It looked like he had taken the
Dolphin
into a major battle. Cannons were firing in all directions and it was clear that the Spanish fleet was trying to sortie from Havana.
As Custer had ordered, he’d brought the
Dolphin
towards the blockading Americans and without any attempt at subterfuge. Against his better judgment, ships lights were on and horns blared. When the battle began, he was only a mile or two away from the
Atlanta
and the others. When the firing began, he darkened the ship and prudently took it away. He did not want to be confused with a Spaniard. Even Custer, a man he was firmly convinced was a fool, concurred. In fact, he seemed shaken by the sudden turn of events.
Suddenly, the dark shape of another ship was visible only a couple of hundred yards away. Where the devil had that ship come from, he wondered. Before he could answer his own question, the other ship opened fire. A shell ripped into the forward hull of the
Dolphin
, filling the air with splinters that cut down several of his crew, leaving them as bloody ruins on the deck. A second shot again hulled her and she began to list almost immediately. The converted yacht didn’t stand a chance against her unknown and far stronger attacker. When a third shell ripped into her, Blondell screamed the order to abandon ship. He didn’t know who the mystery ship was or whether she was Spanish or American. He only knew that this ass of a President of the United States was about to get him and everyone else on the
Dolphin
killed if he didn’t act quickly.
Fires had begun on his first and doubtless only command. Blondell hoped that his tormenter could see that he was abandoning her and no longer represented a threat.
If she ever had been, he thought angrily.
Blondell made sure everyone alive was off the ship before climbing down the short distance to a lifeboat. It was jammed with men and he sniffed when he saw that George Armstrong Custer was one of them. Idiot, he thought. Why the devil hadn’t he been among the dead?
“What now, Captain Blondell?” Custer asked.
I think I’ll throw you overboard, that’s what’s now, Blondell thought. “What we are going to do, President Custer, is float around until dawn and then hope and pray that we are found by an American ship and not by a Spaniard.”
* * *
With the sea largely illuminated by the false dawn, Cisneros was able to see that the American warships had departed. He concluded that they were doubtless chasing the Spanish cruisers that were trying desperately to escape. The Americans had positioned their ships to prevent an escape to the east, towards Matanzas, where they might bombard the army. This left an opportunity to race west and possibly escape by hiding in the many coves and inlets that nature had carved out of the Cuban shore.
The light also showed the wreckage of several of his ad hoc flotilla that hadn’t made it back to Havana. With the Yanks gone, Cisneros determined to search for survivors and rescue them before the sharks could assault them. He felt it was the least he could do for the brave souls he’d had the honor to lead.
Floating debris was plentiful, as were the pitiful remains of some of his little flotilla’s sailors. He was just about to return to Havana when a lookout spied what looked like two lifeboats lashed together and riding low in the water. They steamed slowly and carefully in that direction. They were farther from shore than Cisneros would have liked and, even though none of the American warships were currently in view, they could return at any time.
Fortune smiled on him and the men in the boats. Better, as he pulled the
Duero
alongside, he could see that the dozen men staring at him with expressions ranging between apathy, fear, and anger, were all Americans. He exulted. This meant that the fighting hadn’t been all one-sided. A scout ship from Havana told him he’d already been commended for his brave efforts in attacking the American fleet, and now he’d be bringing in a handful of American prisoners. Quite likely the Americans had come from that ship he had fired on during the night. Perhaps another commendation would be in order and, just perhaps, another promotion would no longer be such an impossibility.
The Americans were pulled out of their floundering boats and, while armed guards watched, their hands and feet were bound. He would take no chances on their trying to take over his ship. They would fail, of course, but some of his men might die in the attempt. He had to make haste. The Americans could return at any moment. His lookouts were scanning the horizon for any telltale signs of smoke.
As they approached the entrance to Havana’s harbor and safety, Cisneros asked if any of the prisoners was the captain.
“I am, or was,” responded a plump man. “I am Commander William Blondell, captain of the United States Navy Auxiliary Cruiser
Dolphin
. As we are your prisoners, I would like to remind you that you are required to treat us in accordance with the Geneva Convention.”
Cisneros bristled at the slur on his honor. “I am well aware of my obligations according to the Convention, and I assure you that no harm will come to you. You will be taken to Havana and held until either exchanged or the war ends.”
Blondell and the others appeared to understand. One man with long and graying blond hair, however, seemed confused. Perhaps he’d been hit on the head, Cisneros thought. Then he had another thought that jarred him. The man looked so very familiar. It dawned on him and he grinned from ear to ear. The promotion would be his.
He walked over and shook the man’s hand. “Welcome to Spanish Cuba, President Custer.”
◆
Chapter 14
◆
I
t had commenced raining heavily again, turning the ground into a quagmire. Both Ryder and Benteen were covered with mud from their knees down. “Is the weather better up there on Mount Haney?” General Benteen asked.
Ryder sipped some coffee and didn’t grimace. Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. It was strong and very hot, and that’s what counted. “Sadly, no. Most of the men feel we’re just that much closer to the rain clouds.”
“What a wonderful vision. At any rate, Ryder, we’re not here to discuss the weather. I did discuss your thoughts with General Miles and, to put it bluntly, he totally disagrees with what Captain Lang found and what you believe. I disagreed with Miles and let’s just say we had a very spirited discussion on the matter. He is convinced that any Spanish attack will consist of another assault on your position or on the entrance to the bay, or even both. He told me it didn’t really matter since he didn’t think the Spanish have the stomach for another attack on anything, at least not for a long while. When I suggested that we should attack since the Spaniards are such weaklings, I thought he’d throw me out of his office.”
Ryder was puzzled. “I thought that Miles’ meeting with Custer had resulted in his agreeing to attack?”
“So did I, but he’s apparently having second thoughts with Custer on his way back to Florida, which is another concern. He was supposed to go to Key West and then to St. Augustine, and there’s been no report of his arrival. He should have gotten there by now. One of our gunboat captains reported that he thought he saw the president’s ship heading north towards Havana. Going off on a run like that would be just like Custer. He was always too impetuous for his own good.”
“And it would be dangerous,” added Ryder. They had just gotten reports that the Spanish Navy had tried to escape from Havana and that there had been a major naval battle. Reports were inconclusive, but it did seem that several vessels had been sunk. “Christ, what if the president had been swept up in that mess?”
Benteen grimaced. “If Custer’s dead it means that Chester A. Arthur is now the President of the United States. If Custer is missing or a prisoner, I don’t know what the hell happens next. Jesus, what a mess.”
* * *
Governor-General Villate looked with delight on the blanket-covered man who slept soundly. If he’d been a cat, the general thought, he would have purred.
The man below him seemed unaware that he was chained to the cot. Villate coughed loudly and the man stirred. He winced with pain. The doctors said his ankle was badly sprained and his body was covered with cuts and bruises.
Villate smiled. “Good afternoon, President Custer. May I cordially welcome you to Cuba?”
Custer glared at him. “You may cordially go to hell. You may also remove these goddamn chains. Where do you think I’d run with a bad ankle?”
“We’ll talk about removing your shackles later,” Villate responded coldly. “In the meantime, you are my prisoner and I will treat with you in any manner I wish.”
“As long as it is in accordance with the Geneva Convention,” said British Consul Redford Dunfield. To Villate’s dismay, he’d again shown up to interfere with Villate’s pleasure. Dunfield then introduced himself to Custer, who grunted and nodded.
Dunfield smiled and continued. “I don’t think I have to remind you that President Custer is the head of the United States government and must be treated in accordance with his rank.”
Villate laughed. The situation was still too priceless for him to get really angry. “When we hang him, I promise to use a new rope.”
Dunfield was mildly amused as well. Custer was not. Dunfield could see a flicker of concern. Would the Spanish truly consider hanging him? The thought clearly concerned him.
Villate continued. “You may not like the arrangements,” he said to Dunfield, “but I am not going to put him in a position where his countrymen might try to free him. As you see, he is in a private cell here in the Morro Castle. Rescuing him would be a fruitless and costly endeavor. Besides, we would kill him to prevent that from happening.”
“It would not be necessary to keep him here. If you continue to do so, you will risk the anger of the international community. Heads of state are kept in far better circumstances than this. I can guarantee you that Her Majesty’s government will not be happy if this situation continues.”
“He needs medical help,” Villate said, exaggerating Custer’s condition. He was conscious that he was about to lose another argument with the damned Englishman. “What do you propose?” he asked resignedly.
“I have an estate on the outskirts of town. You know it and you’ve been there. It’s practically a fortress. I propose that General Custer be moved there and protected, guarded if you will, by a good battalion of your finest and most loyal troops. I further propose that photographs be taken of the president showing that he is being well kept, and that he be able to communicate with his government.”
“Perhaps he will ask them to surrender,” Villate sneered.
“The hell I will,” said Custer, “and quit talking around me.”
“Again, kindly recall that you are a prisoner,” said Villate. An idea had formed and he loved the thought of it. “We will announce to the world that we hold you and that you require medical attention. This will mean that you will remain here for at least a couple of days until we can make arrangements to move you to Señor Dunfield’s estate. Except for proving your existence and relative well-being, you will remain incommunicado.”
Custer’s eyes burned with anger. “Bastard.” Villate laughed again.
* * *
The news hit the American forces at Matanzas like a thunderbolt. They got the telegram from Florida at almost the same time that the Spanish soldiers did. These began celebrating wildly, cheering and firing their weapons into the air. Some actually had fireworks and sent rockets into the air.
“The dumb son of a bitch has gone and done it again,” said General Benteen. “Jesus Christ, what the hell kind of mess has Custer gotten him and us into now? And do the damn Spaniards expect us to surrender?”
Ryder decided to remain silent. He’d been down again from the hill for yet another meeting and had found the time for a few moments of delicious privacy with Sarah. He was aware that his lips were bruised from the intensity of their kisses and that his uniform was rumpled. He didn’t give a damn and it was obvious that Custer’s fate was far more important than his being disheveled.
Benteen continued. “On the other hand, some might view this as an opportunity. Who knows what the powers in Washington will decide on as a course of action? My guess is that they will do absolutely nothing for the short term.”
“That would be my guess as well,” Ryder said. “Have we heard anything from the Spanish as to what they might want for Custer’s return?”
“Not a peep. Although I would guess that they would insist on our leaving Cuba as one condition, which won’t happen. That would be the same as admitting defeat. We would never be able to field an army to invade Cuba again. Ryder, what’s your sense of the morale of the troops?”
Ryder shrugged. “I haven’t had all that much time to talk with people, but my immediate sense is that of confusion. Everybody’s wondering just how the hell did the president manage to get captured at sea when everybody says we rule the waves? I have heard a couple of voices say that we might be better off with new leadership and that a new leader might replace General Miles.”
Benteen grinned wickedly. “I’ll forget you said that.”
“Much appreciated. Otherwise, I have the feeling that the men will survive quite nicely without President Custer and that they’d like to get this war over. Do you think the Spanish will want to work out an exchange for him?”
Benteen guffawed. “Exchange him for what? We won’t have to do that. I’ve got this feeling that the Spaniards will throw him back after putting up with him for a few months.”
* * *
Juana kissed her good friend Mercedes de Milan on her heavily rouged cheeks. The older woman gave her a warm hug in return. “How are things with your lover in my little cottage?” the sixty-year-old widow asked.
“Amazingly well, thank you. I have never known such happiness. I almost don’t know what to do about it.”
“Then enjoy yourself as I have enjoyed all of my lovers.”
“And how many have there been, dear Mercedes?”
She waved her hand. “Too many to count and I’ve enjoyed them all, including the one lover I have now. I will not name him because you might be shocked.”
“You don’t fear discovery?”
“I used to, of course, but not much anymore. I am a widow and I can pretty much do what I want. You, on the other hand, are married to a man who, while a fool and a brute, might be a dangerous fool and an even more dangerous brute. But don’t let danger hold you back. Even if you cuckold your husband, the worst he could do is beat you and divorce you and then you would be free. I am also protected by my bodyguards who are very loyal. You’ve met my chief guard, haven’t you?”
Juana smiled and nodded. Hector Rojas was a giant of a man who worshipped Mercedes. Rumors said that Rojas had killed many times in his life. She wondered if Hector ever shared Mercedes’ bed.
Mercedes reached over and handed Juana a cigarillo. The two women enjoyed a few puffs of the expensive tobacco before Mercedes continued. “Danger makes love affairs even more splendid. I remember one time when I was seated on a raised wooden bench in a stadium watching some dismal musical performance in a very dark night. I was about to doze off when I felt the light pressure of someone caressing my inner calf.”
Juana laughed, “Oh my.”
“Oh my, indeed. I truly didn’t know what to do as his hand delicately slid its way up my calf to my thigh and then to that wonderful soft spot that men love so much. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out as he gently and exquisitely manipulated me and totally aroused me. A couple of times I groaned and my aunt looked at me curiously. I gestured that I was having some trouble with my stomach and she let it go. The erotic game lasted quite some time and, finally, I felt him slide one of my garters down. And then he disappeared. At least I hoped the bold rogue was a he.”
Juana was almost convulsing with laughter. “Well, was it a he?”
“Yes,” said Mercedes, smiling at the memory. “The next day, a handsome young man I didn’t know came to me with a package. It contained my garter and he cheerfully admitted to both fondling me and removing it. I rewarded him by taking him into my boudoir and insisting that he put it on my leg, but not until that was all I was wearing.”
“How wonderful.”
“Not really. It turned out that he was much more facile with his hands than with any other part of his body. But it was an exciting few weeks until I grew tired of him. That was some years ago and the poor dear is back in Spain and doubtless growing fat. But hearing me talk is not why you came to see me, is it? What do you and your American lover want that I can provide?”
“He would like access to Custer for the purpose of doing an interview. I’ve known that your current lover is Mr. Dunfield, the British Consul, and since President Custer will soon be ensconced at Mr. Dunfield’s villa, James and I thought it could be something that you would be able to arrange.”
Mercedes was mildly surprised that her secret was no secret at all. She laughed again, “Why not?”
* * *
“Well, am I now the President of the United States or not?”
The question came from Chester A. Arthur, the stocky fifty-three-year-old Vice President of the United States. According to the Constitution, he was the man next in line for the presidency on the death of the president. The question he asked was one that no one was quite ready to answer. While the death of a president was covered and understood, the question of a president being incapacitated because he was a prisoner of war was not. Presidential incapacity for various reasons had caused confusion in the past and was doing so now.
“My husband is still alive and as long as he breathes, he is the president,” Libbie Custer practically snarled.
The others in the president’s office simply looked away at the outburst. Arthur, however, was not deterred.
“Madam, as much as I sympathize with your predicament, I must remind you that you have no official position in this matter or, for that matter, at this meeting. You are here as a courtesy. I must also remind you that the government of the United States must continue to run, and that is why we have met here today. The idea of President Custer being shackled in Havana is repugnant, but it is occurring and we can do nothing about it. Your husband may be helpless but we must not be. We haven’t that luxury.”
A tear trickled down Libbie Custer’s cheek. Word had reached them that photographs of President Custer, in chains and in a cell, had made it to Key West and were on their way north. That they would appear in newspapers throughout the world was understood. Custer’s shame had become America’s shame.
“I do wonder just how he managed to get himself captured,” said Arthur. “There are so many conflicting stories.”
“And all of them are irrelevant to the situation,” said Secretary of State Blaine. “Congress can investigate to its heart’s content when this war is over and crucify those responsible, but, as you said, Mr. Arthur, we have a country and a war to run.”
“What about getting my husband back?” Libbie stood and practically shrieked.
“I’m sorry,” said Blaine as she sat down, “but we’ve heard nothing from the Spanish regarding a reasonable price to pay for him. All we’ve heard are rumors that would involve our leaving Cuba and signing a treaty in which we would promise never to invade again. We would also agree to pay Spain an enormous financial indemnity. I must add that we have no leverage whatsoever.”
“And that can never happen,” added Arthur. “It would be a humiliation almost too great for our nation and our party to bear, which is why we must decide just who is running the country in Custer’s absence and continue on with the war. I have taken the liberty of checking with Chief Justice Fuller and he is of the opinion that the Constitution does not really cover this sort of exigency. He does feel that naming an acting president for the duration of the emergency would be appropriate. And obviously, that acting president would be me.”