George Armstrong Custer’s rash and idiotic behavior had embarrassed the United States in the eyes of the world. In Kendrick’s article, the president had said that he wanted to return so he could again take over. The consensus was that he was deluding himself.
Libbie stood. “It would have been far better if he had been killed at the Little Big Horn. At least then he would have died a hero instead of now rotting in a prison. Custer’s Last Stand would have been on a hill in the Dakotas with a gun in his hand, and not on a couch in a Havana apartment with a bottle of rum in his hand.”
With that, she sobbed and swept out of the room.
“I generally find it hard feeling sorry for her,” said Arthur. “She’s always been conniving on her husband’s behalf and now it’s come back to hit her in the face.”
Blaine simply nodded. He too had been writing off President Custer as a serious contender for the presidency the next election. He’d begun thinking that he could stymie Chester Arthur’s ambitions at the next Republican convention if he could get Libbie Custer on his side. For the first time in her life, the marvelously attractive and sensuous woman was scared and vulnerable. Better, she was a sympathetic presence. She didn’t have to denounce her dunce of a husband, merely announce how much she was depending on James G. Blaine to lead the country out of this terrible dilemma. President Custer might be despised by the public, but his grieving almost-widow could strike a sympathetic cord among delegates at the next Republican Convention.
Blaine was reasonably happily married to his wife Harriet, but he would not be above seducing Libbie Custer if it could help his political ambitions. Nor did the seduction have to be in the physical sense, although that would be marvelous. Many times he had imagined her naked and beneath him. He thought that many in Washington had imagined the same thing. No, all he had to do was get her under his control and get her to speak and act as he wished her to. Who knows, he thought, she might actually be a widow in the very near future.
A very young aide entered bearing a message. He looked in confusion as to who should get it. As Blaine seethed, Arthur waved the boy over and took the paper, again taking command. The vice president read it and nodded. He looked at his pocket watch. “It is nearly noon and word has been received that the Spanish are again attacking our positions in force.”
“Damn it to hell,” said Blaine.
“I have also been informed that General Sheridan along with former General Winfield Scott Hancock will be arriving shortly.”
Blaine was astonished. “Who the devil invited them?”
Arthur smiled tolerantly. “As Commanding General of the United States Army, I don’t believe that Philip Sheridan requires an invitation to give us his sage advice and counsel. However and to set your mind at ease, I requested both men to come here. As to Hancock’s being present, I’m certain you can guess why.”
* * *
Maria Garcia watched in horror as the ragged column of fifty or so dusty soldiers and conscripts came down the path towards her house. Others in her small village had already run inside and closed their doors. They would watch through the openings in the walls that they called windows, but they would not interfere. That would be pointless and dangerous.
The Spaniards’ presence could mean only one thing. Her only surviving son, her baby, was going to be taken away and turned into a soldier. For an instant she thought about telling Manuel to run like the wind and hide. But where would he go? The soldiers were already fanning out as if expecting the sixteen year old boy to flee. It was apparent that the Spanish soldiers had done this before. Nor could she ask help from his father. He was dead and she was alone.
A heavyset corporal walked up to her. He was sweating profusely but kept his uniform buttoned in an attempt to look professional. “Please tell Manuel Garcia to come out and bring with him what belongings he wishes to take with him. He is about to have the honor of becoming a soldier of Spain.”
“What honor?” she snapped. “You will have him fighting his fellow Cubans or, worse, the Americans. If you take him I will never see him again.”
The corporal looked genuinely saddened. “Senora, no one can tell what might happen in time of war. All I do know is that he is to become a soldier of Spain and he will be one of many to be on the lookout for an American landing.”
“And what will he do if they come, throw rocks at them? Are you going to teach him to shoot a gun, fire a cannon?” She reached out and tugged at his arm. “Corporal, if you leave without him, tonight I will let you come to my bed.”
The corporal blinked. Senora Garcia was a fine looking and mature woman with a full ripe figure. She breathed deeply and he thought her breasts would rip through the fabric of her blouse and her nipples, clearly outlined, seemed to be calling to him.
“I would dearly love to, kind lady, but the lieutenant who is picking his nose and riding that horse is an ass and he will not let that happen. Your son is coming with us. If he decides to run, we have dogs that will run him down and tear at his flesh. Is that what you wish?”
It was not. She sagged and called her son out on the handful of planks that served as a porch. The boy emerged and blinked in the sunlight. He was tall for his age but very thin. The others in the column looked on, bored. They had seen this vignette play out many times before.
Maria put her hand on her son’s shoulder and squeezed. “I want you to get your best clothing. There is no point in your going off to war looking like someone who has already lost one.”
The boy nodded and started to turn away. The corporal stopped him. “Do not do that, senora. Dress him in rags, the dirtiest clothes you can find. Otherwise, anything he has that is worth something will be stolen before tomorrow’s dawn.”
“He’s right,” said the boy, finally speaking. “And I will not wear shoes or boots. My feet are tough enough to handle the roads.
“Can you read or write?” asked the corporal.
“Yes,” he said.
“Excellent. Then I will tell the lieutenant that you would make a fine clerk. He has been looking for one for a while. Only don’t let him put his hand on your ass, unless, of course, you like that sort of thing.”
It didn’t take long for Manuel to gather his meager possessions and join the straggly column. Maria waved the corporal over. “Will he be able to send letters?”
The corporal nodded solemnly. His heart was not in these actions which were little more than kidnappings. “He will write and I will ensure that they are mailed properly. I will do everything I can to also ensure his safety.”
“What is your name, corporal?”
“Carlos Menendez, senora, and I have been a soldier of Spain for almost twenty years. I became a soldier because there was no other route open to me, just as there isn’t now for your son. I was ragged and hungry and now I have at least the semblance of a uniform although the food has been lacking lately.”
“Is this what you enlisted to do?”
“No senora, I wanted to be a soldier, not a thief of children.”
“Then why don’t you desert and join the rebels?”
Menendez looked around to see if anyone was paying any attention to him. They weren’t. “Because I am Spanish and the rebels would likely chop me into little pieces before I had a chance to explain myself. But trust me, I will do what I can to protect your boy. The army is building a small fort at Santa Cruz del Norte. It is where the lieutenant will put him and where he will be the lieutenant’s clerk. It will be well away from any battlefield.”
Maria nodded gratefully and lightly rested her hand on his arm. “Then show up here shortly after dark and bring some rum and a loaf of bread. Despite the uniform you wear, you appear to be a decent man and I will need some comforting this night, perhaps a lot of comforting.”