“Weyler will attack soon?” he asked.
Canovas looked uncomfortable. “General Weyler is building up his forces. It may only be fifty some miles from Havana to Matanzas, but they are difficult miles and our army in Cuba is not very mobile. Cables from Havana insist that Weyler will move in a few days at the longest.”
And that means two weeks, Alfonso thought. Yet there must be a battle that would end this farce that could destroy what remained of Spain, he thought. Of course, anything resembling a Spanish victory over that bombastic fool Custer would preserve Spain for a century. He would have his clergy pray for victory. At least it would give them something to do.
Chapter 9
Ryder looked through his binoculars at the ocean of Spanish tents that had been erected just out of the range of his few cannon. 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 travelling 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 travelled 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 and 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. They all would.
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 at 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.