“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 he 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 cannon fired again, this time 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 seriously 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 him. 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. Gilberto Salazar would be able to ride a horse fairly soon, but not his wife. On the other hand, he thought and laughed 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.
At least he hoped so. Two new American cruisers, the Atlanta and Chicago led the convoy, while the third, the Baltimore, brought up the rear. A number of swift gunboats, recently converted from civilian use, kept the thirty or so transports in something resembling three parallel lines. Having to play by the navy’s rules chafed a lot of the civilian skippers, but Janson knew if was for their safety. Staying in order might save them in the event of an attack. Scatter and they’d be picked off like wolves killing stragglers from a deer herd.