With an infantry attack clearly imminent, Ryder’s men manned their positions. He sent runners to ensure that his other two regiments were equally prepared. He was beginning to get a taste of higher command and he wasn’t sure he liked it. All his instincts said that he should lead from the front, like a good lieutenant or captain should, but now he was a general in charge of three regiments. He could not allow himself to be shot and thus decapitate his command.
“Damn it to hell,” he muttered as shells kicked up dirt on the approaches to the defenses.
“And isn’t that the truth,” said Haney. “And it’s also the truth that the Spanish gunners are pretty miserable shots.”
The Spanish were having difficulty elevating their cannon so they could hit the crest of the diminutive Mount Haney. He had given orders that his own guns should not respond or duel with the Spaniards until and if he gave specific orders. He didn’t want to give away their positions or let the enemy know that he only had eight twelve-pounders to their thirty or so guns. In order to confuse the Spanish, Ryder had dummy gun emplacements built and painted logs called Quaker Guns jutted out from them.
Barnes scrambled up to Ryder. “The boys are getting frustrated. They want to shoot back.”
“Control yourself and your men, Jack. We’ll open fire on their infantry and not their useless cannon, which, if you hadn’t noticed, are missing us. And we’ll load with grape and shrapnel, not solid shot. And when they get close enough, we’ll hit them with the Gatlings. If they’re as inexperienced as I think they are, they’ll be coming up the hill in bunches or waves and we’ll be able to hurt them badly.”
Barnes turned and walked away. He gotten a few yards when he stopped suddenly and started to return. Haney blocked his path and glared at him. “Is whatever you need from the general really important?”
“I just wanted to know if he’d heard anything from Sarah, or Ruth,” he added after a moment.
“Worrying about them is the last thing he needs to do now, you idiot. He has to concentrate on the fight in front of him.”
“You shouldn’t call me an idiot,” said a shocked Barnes.
Haney looked around and saw that no one was watching them. “Then don’t act like one,” he said as he drove his fist hard into the other man’s stomach. Barnes doubled over and retched. Haney grabbed his shirt and pulled him upright. “The general, bless his heart, was indeed concerned that you might not be ready to lead, and you are just proving his point. Now go and take control of yourself and your men and it’s a damned shame you fell down like that. And just for the record, there’s been no shells landing anywhere near the hospital.”
A few yards away, Ryder hadn’t heard a word, but figured out that Barnes had almost done something foolish. Still, sergeants should not be permitted to punch majors in the gut. He would have to punish Haney. Severely. Once the battle was over, he would have to think of something. Perhaps he’d have Haney forfeit some of his whiskey. Yes, that’s a very good idea.
Men began shouting. Large numbers of Spanish infantry were emerging and beginning the long climb up the hill.
Chapter 12
With swords waving Spanish officers shouted and made serious attempts to keep their men in order as they advanced towards the American lines. It was a truly impressive display as they moved out through the heavy foliage in reasonably precise lines. Unit flags flew while drums pounded, and bugles blared, all designed to bolster the bravery of the attackers and intimidate the defenders. Ryder had to admit that it worked, but only to a point.
The Spanish advance was truly impressive. Although he’d been in combat, it had usually consisted of skirmishes that were small, nasty, and over quickly. Even Custer’s fight on the Little Big Horn had involved relatively few soldiers compared with the mass of humanity that was approaching him. This was the first time he’d seen an actual battle involving large numbers of men on each side. At one level it was thrilling; on another it was frightening. His impression was that they were all advancing to kill him. His stomach was churning and he felt a strong urge to urinate. He wondered just how his men were taking it. Probably just like he was, he concluded.
Although seriously outnumbered, Ryder’s soldiers did have the advantage of being in strong defensive positions which gave them a sometimes false sense of security. Most of their bodies were protected, instead of those of the Spaniards who were out in the open and fully exposed. In theory, the defender had the advantage. In reality, people on both sides were going to die bloody and agonizing deaths.
As the Spanish lines reached a predetermined point, Ryder gave the order and his cannon finally began to fire. Shrapnel and grape chewed into the Spanish ranks. With his telescope he could see white uniforms turning red and bodies being ripped to shreds. Spanish officers screamed and tried to maintain order.
“It’s like Pickett’s Charge,” said Haney, “or maybe that stupid attack at Cold Harbor.”
Ryder had to wet his suddenly dry mouth before answering. “You were there?”
Haney chuckled, “Gettysburg no, but Cold Harbor, yes. I was fifteen when I stupidly lied my way into the army. I thought it would be glamorous and glorious. Christ was I wrong, general. I watched as an attack involving thousands of men was cut to shreds because the usual almighty General Ulysses S. Grant made a terrible mistake. It was just about my unit’s time to go forward when someone with half a brain called off the attack. Damn, I was lucky.”
“Luckier than those poor bastards,” Ryder said, looking at the steadily advancing Spanish.
The Spanish formations were disintegrating into a horde as more and more shells rained down upon them. True to human nature, they sought comfort with each other and bunched up, making them even easier targets to kill. When they reached the painted markers that said they were within rifle range, close to three thousand weapons fired. Unlike slower firing muzzle loaders of the Civil War, modern American rifles were breech-loaders and both firepower and accuracy were greatly increased. Just as important, shooters didn’t have to stand up or turn away from their targets to reload. More enemy soldiers went down like wheat being scythed. But still they came on. Some Spaniards were fleeing, but most were brave and continued on.
American officers and NCOs could be heard yelling for their men to fire slowly and carefully and to aim low. There was a normal tendency to fire high and a bullet over the head went nowhere, but a bullet into the ground might just ricochet and hit something. As the Spanish reached the barbed wire, they paused, confused. They had never seen this kind of barrier before. Men behind the first ones, packed into them, pushing and shoving them into the wire. The wire was a terrible thing. Spanish soldiers pulled at it and it ripped their hands to bloody shreds in the process. They tried to climb it and got stuck, tearing the flesh of their legs and bodies. They milled around and didn’t know what to do.
Ryder was about to wonder where his Gatling guns were when they began adding their insane chatter to the already hideous din. Hundreds of bullets a minute ripped into the Spanish masses. Men fell and Spanish soldiers behind them tried to climb over them or use the bodies as shields. Stymied, the Spanish began aiming and firing at their tormenters, finally causing serious American casualties. Clouds of gunsmoke confused both sides. In some cases, visibility dropped to zero, but both sides still blazed away. Spanish bullets whizzed by and others smacked into the earthen embankment with a thud, while a few found flesh.
“We should be in the front line, general,” Lang said.
Ryder shook his head. “Like I told you a hundred times, your men are sharpshooters and I want them where they can be best used, and not mixed in with the brawl.”