As before, he had a detachment of soldiers with him, only this time it was a troop of Texas cavalry and their damned horses. He thought the Texans smelled bad enough, but their horses were even worse. The Texan commander was Captain Jesse Lang, a long, lean and deadly looking cowboy who said he owned a ranch and other businesses outside of Dallas and that this was a great way to see some of the rest of the world. He also said he’d fought Comanche, Apache, and Mexicans, so a bunch of damned Spaniards would be no big thing to him.
Along with Lang’s men and horses, the Aurora also carried a large quantity of food and ammunition. Other ships were bringing several thousand additional soldiers. Lang had brought along something that he said worked well to control cattle and ought to work deterring Spanish attackers-barbed wire. He said he’d tried to convince people in the War Department of its military potential, but they either weren’t interested or were overwhelmed with ideas, some of which were likely clearly crackpot. He insisted that his, of course, wasn’t. The wire sounded intriguing to Janson, but he’d like to see it in action before endorsing it. That is, if anybody cared what he thought.
Janson’s thoughts were interrupted by distant sounds. He thought he heard thunder from the east. No, it wasn’t thunder; it was signal guns from other ships that were racing towards the convoy. He raised his telescope and could see faint feather of smoke on the horizon.
“I think we’ve found the enemy fleet,” drawled Captain Lang. He’d mounted to the small quarterdeck without permission for about the tenth time since leaving Charleston. Janson had come to realize that Texans weren’t all that much on formality. But then, he’d granted that same privilege to Colonel Ryder, so what the hell.
Dark shapes appeared on the horizon, first the masts and then the bulk of the squat ships. The Atlanta and Chicago flew a number of signal pennants and then veered to meet the intruders. The Baltimore was coming up as well.
“Damned if we aren’t about to have a naval battle,” said Lang. “I’ve never seen one of them. I hope it turns out as well as the last one you had.”
Janson simply nodded. He was too intent on watching the warships approaching each other on collision courses to comment further. He had, of course, told the affable captain all about his ship’s encounter with the Spanish patrol boat.
“Those are the two Spanish battleships, the Numancia and the Vitoria,” Janson said softly. “And the other ships are likely their smaller cruisers, the Aragon, Castile, and Navarra.”
Lang spat tobacco over the side, doubtless streaking the hull with the juice. It was something else Janson wished he wouldn’t do. “You seem to know a lot about their navy.”
“I thought I’d enlighten myself after they tried to kill me-something about knowing thine enemy.”
The ships were now within a couple of miles of each other and commenced firing as they closed the range. Clouds of smoke obscured the warships and splashes showed where shells had missed. They were like spectators at a bad play as miss after miss raised huge splashes. It was becoming very obvious that ships moving in different directions and at varying speeds could not hit each other unless they were extremely close. The Numancia and the Chicago maneuvered to near point blank range and fired on each other.
Shells from the Numancia struck first, smashing into the Chicago and sending debris flying, but then the Numancia was struck in turn by shells from the Chicago’s larger and more quickly re-loaded guns, still, the Chicago had been badly hurt and was slowing. Black smoke was pouring from her gunports.
“I think we just lost a ship,” said Lang and Janson sadly concurred. However, the Numancia had not escaped unscathed and the Spanish ship was taken under fire by the Atlanta. The Baltimore was also within range and began shelling the now burning Numancia. The enemy battleship slowed, then stopped dead in the water. The American ships moved in for the kill and Numancia began to sink. Scores of crewmen jumped from her.
The remaining Spanish battleship, the Vitoria, had turned and was steaming away.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Janson. “Look at that!” A Spanish cruiser was headed directly towards the Baltimore. “The son of a bitch is going to ram her.”
The crew of the Baltimore spotted the danger and attempted to maneuver away. The smaller Spaniard matched their turns and, guns roaring, plowed into the hull of the Baltimore, impaling herself on the larger American ship. There was silence for a few moments, but then the Spanish ship exploded, raining fire and debris onto the American, causing numerous fires. As the Numancia slipped beneath the waves, the men of the Atlanta and Chicago attempted to help the Baltimore. What was left of the Spanish cruiser was sinking and threatening to drag the Baltimore down with her.
As American ships closed in to help, the Baltimore exploded with a deafening roar.
“Jesus,” said Lang. “We’re going to go and help them, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” said Janson. “We can’t leave the living for the fish.”
Janson looked around at what had once been a well-organized convoy. Ships had scattered in all directions when the Spanish attacked and were only beginning to return. His Aurora was one of the closest to the site of the battle. Lifeboats were in the water and men could be seen swimming or splashing frantically, while others weren’t moving. He would rescue everyone he could, American or Spanish. It didn’t matter.
The Aurora moved slowly and carefully through the debris field. Ship’s boats were lowered and crews rowed them towards scores of swimmers. Cargo nets were draped over the hull to enable the strong to climb to safety. Lang’s riflemen covered them as they clambered over. “Can’t be too careful,” the Texan said. “Some of them damn greasers might decide to take over your little ship and run back to Cuba.”
They divided the men into two groups-American and Spanish. Then they tried to help the wounded. “What about the dead?” Janson was asked.
Janson forced himself to look the few feet to the water. Bodies and chunks of meat were floating along with the current. He forced the vomit down his throat. “If it looks American, try to save it. Maybe we can identify them and contact their families.”
And maybe not, he thought as one terribly mangled corpse bobbed by. Fish were already nibbling at it. He thought he saw Barracuda circling from below. He visualized their razor teeth slicing through human flesh. “We’ll be in Matanzas in a few hours, tomorrow at the latest,” he said softly. “At least we can give them a Christian burial.”
* * *
Ruth Holden padded barefoot across the small room that she and Sarah Damon shared. It had finally dawned on the military high command that Clara Barton was correct. The women nurses needed more privacy than that afforded by the canvas walls of a tent to hide them from the leering eyes of thousands of what Ruth described as horny American soldiers. Sarah had never heard the word before in that context but agreed with it. Thus, she and the ten other female nurses took over a decent sized house in Matanzas that had been abandoned by its previous owners.
It was far from luxurious but it did afford the women a degree of privacy. Both Ruth and Sarah were dressed only in cotton shifts that left their arms bare but covered them to their knees. They were still hot and sweaty but far more comfortable than when in full attire.