Kendrick was informed that Custer was being kept in a suite of rooms on the second floor. Somewhat gratuitously, he was informed that the window was barred and that guards were in the street below. He would have expected nothing else. He asked if he was expected and the guard, a fat corporal, simply shrugged. He didn’t know and didn’t care. Kendrick asked how Custer was doing.
“He eats, sleeps, shits, and takes walks in the courtyard,” the corporal said.
“Has he said anything to you?”
The corporal shook his head. “He is a rude bastard.”
“Then he hasn’t changed at all,” Kendrick said and the guard, surprised at the candor, actually laughed.
When Kendrick went to open the door, the guard grabbed his arm and halted him. He searched him for weapons, even taking a small pocket knife with a Red Cross on it that he’d bought years ago in Switzerland. He was assured that it would be returned to him when he left. Kendrick had his doubts.
“Please leave the door open, Senor Kendrick. Otherwise we will not interfere with you or listen to your conversation.”
Kendrick thanked the man and tipped him a couple of American dollars, which further improved the corporal’s disposition.
Kendrick entered the suite and blinked in the darkness. “Jesus Christ,” came a familiar voice. “Just when I thought I’d gotten far enough away from you, you pop up again. What the hell have I done to deserve this?”
“Mr. President, you have been a very bad boy and it’s cost me a lot to get to see you in person.”
There was a bottle of Bacardi Rum in Custer’s hand and an empty one was on the floor. It was apparent that the president was in no condition to escape even if his prison was wide open.
“This stuff isn’t bad, Kendrick, you should try it.”
“Some other day, perhaps. So, how are you doing? How are they treating you?”
“Well enough,” he said and took a long swallow. “Now, how is my war coming? Has Miles attacked? The sooner he punches through, the sooner I can get the hell out of the glorified prison and go back to running the country.”
“I regret to inform you that Miles appears to have lost what courage you thought you gave him. The army isn’t moving and he is simply waiting for the next Spanish attack.”
“Damn him. What are they doing in Washington?”
“From what I’ve been able to discern, they are trying to figure out who is in charge in your absence. Chester Arthur is the favorite and he will likely go for a change in command. It might not be somebody you like.”
Kendrick had heard no such information. What he was saying had the feel of logic, so he felt comfortable fibbing to Custer. To his surprise, Custer did not seem upset. “There’s not much I can do about that, is there? My one and only goal is to get back to the States and Libbie and take over again. Then I can run any bastard I don’t like out of town. Until then, I am totally irrelevant. It’s like I actually had been killed at the Little Big Horn and sometimes I wish I had.”
Good luck with taking over if he ever did return, thought Kendrick. “Tell me about how you got caught. Commander Blondell and his crew have been exchanged and he’s told everyone that you ordered him to go to Havana against his wishes and that your getting captured is all your fault. Any comment?”
A shrug and another swallow followed by a belch. “Blondell’s a fat little prick but he’s right. I wanted to see Havana and I made him do it. I couldn’t lie about it if I wanted to.”
“Do you favor signing a treaty of peace unfavorable to the U.S. in order to get you out of here?”
“Fuck no. I’m desperate, not crazy. Besides, I’m in no position to dictate any peace terms and no way could I have unfavorable terms ratified by the senate.”
Kendrick was mildly surprised at Custer’s coherent understanding of the situation. “So you’re willing to stay here for a very long time if necessary?”
“Willing? Hell, Kendrick, I must certainly am not willing. On the other hand I have to recognize reality. I’m not going anyplace until there is peace. The next time you slip out of here and back to our lines, you let Libbie, Blaine, Arthur, and anyone else know that I will not be bought and sold like a bushel of corn.”
Kendrick said that he would do just that. He did not inform Custer that he had no plans to leave Havana in the immediate future. No, this is where the big story would be. Either the US would win and Havana conquered, or Spain would win and the Spanish Empire would be rejuvenated. He would write up his interview and then type it. Juana had access to a new Remington Typewriter and he had taught himself how to use it. The story would be placed in a British diplomatic pouch and go by ship to Florida.
“Besides freeing you, Mr. President, is there anything else I can do?”
Custer eyed the now empty Bacardi bottle. He threw it in a wastebasket. “Yes. I’ve decided I really don’t like this shit. See if you can get me a few dozen cases of bourbon to tide me over until the war ends.”
* * *
Chester Arthur, James Blaine, and the others, including Libbie Custer, did not like referring to themselves as a junta or a cabal as some of the Washington and New York newspapers were doing. The terms cabal and junta had sinister undertones and what they were doing was both legal and public, and, of course, necessary. The United States had to be governed and continue to run.
And add to that the fact that the public was outraged by the way the war was going and the situation was volatile. Marches had taken place in a number of cities as pro-war and anti-war adherents shouted their opinions. Groups carrying banners paraded and shouted. No one was shocked to see numbers of women involved in the marching. The women wanted the war over and their men returned home. On a number of occasions, the marches had become violent and more than a dozen had been killed rioting in New York and Boston.
“I wish Kendrick had kept the interview quiet,” Blaine muttered. “At least until we could have read it first and been prepared for the uproar.”
Kendrick’s interview with Custer had become public. It had been sold to scores of newspapers, garnering the reporter large amounts of money and several book offers. He was becoming rich in absentia and would be given a hero’s welcome when he too returned home.
“He’s a reporter,” said Arthur, “what the devil did you expect. Actually, reporters are the devil, or at least people who have sold their souls to the devil.”
Blaine didn’t think that the comment was funny at all. “The President of the United States is sitting there drunk as a lord while a prisoner of the Spanish. He says he has no confidence in the commanding general, and would like someone to send him some Kentucky bourbon. Jesus, what the hell is this country coming to?”
“At least he’s alive and well,” responded Libbie Custer in a soft and muted voice that was totally uncharacteristic of her. Her eyes were sunken and her complexion gray. She looked like a woman in mourning, which she was. She was slowly becoming reconciled to the inescapable fact that her beloved husband would not be returning for quite a while. And worse, when he did return, scorn would be heaped upon him. As president Custer had committed several unforgivable sins. He had left the country and the public was not accepting the theory that he had still been in the United States by virtue of being on the Dolphin. His political enemies had argued that the Dolphin had been in Spanish or Cuban waters and could not have been sovereign American territory. Legally, they might be wrong, but the public’s ire was up. Then, Custer had managed to get himself captured and was being held in a Havana prison and appeared to be spending his time in a drunken stupor. The shame to the United States was almost palpable.