Dunfield made a mock bow that Custer ignored. “I will send you a barber and not because I don’t trust you. I’m afraid that your hands are a bit shaky and you might just slice yourself to ribbons. I will also send you my tailor with instructions to clothe you appropriately, but not too expensively. I’m sure you’re aware that Her Majesty Queen Victoria is quite close with her money.”
“I will be thankful for whatever you can provide.”
“Since you’re returning to mankind, do you desire female companionship?”
Custer flushed. “Indeed, but unless you can transport Libbie down to me, I don’t think I wish to chance it.” No, he thought, power corrupts and I’ve certainly been corrupted in the past, but not now. “Thank you, but no thank you.”
“By the way, two other people will be moving in and will be under guard but they will not be prisoners. One is Juana Salazar and the second man you know, James Kendrick. I know you despise him, but try to be nice to each other while you’re under my roof.”
Custer smiled wanly. “I know my place. When this is all over, I reserve the right to strangle him.”
On the other hand, Custer thought, if he sees how I am now and how heroically I behave during the coming battle, perhaps he can be a tool in getting back my reputation.
* * *
Two admirals commanded the massive fleet heading to Cuba and Janson thought that was at least one too many. Prentice had laughed and agreed.
In overall command was the aging David Dixon Porter. At seventy, he had served with Farragut and Grant during the Civil War. Totally professional, he had made many enemies by insisting on high standards by all ranks. He was well organized and considered a fighter. His organizational skills were on display as the great host of ships made it down the Atlantic coast towards Cuba. Porter’s skills were augmented by those of the much younger Admiral Pierce Crosby. Crosby was in charge of shepherding the civilian transports with a minimum of confusion and had managed to do so. Porter kept control of the warships and directed gunboats and patrol vessels out every time a strange sail or mast or puff of smoke was seen.
As night fell, each ship was required to show oil lamps as running lights to prevent collisions and ships getting lost. Of course, each morning still brought its number of strays which the smaller warships like the Orion dutifully rounded up. Since they functioned as shepherds, Janson had gotten in the habit of referring to their civilian charges as lambs.
“What we really need,” said Janson, “is a kind of telegraph between ships. Using signal flags and sending Morse code by signal lamp is just too inaccurate and prone to error. And the range is too damn limited, too.”
Prentice laughed. “You’re right, but you’d need a really long cord for telegraph between ships. I don’t doubt that something will be invented to make it happen, but not on this trip. By the way, shouldn’t we be nearing Matanzas by now?”
Janson conceded the point about the wire and agreed that Cuba should be just over the horizon. The Orion was in the fleet’s van and the men had bets as to when Cuba would be sited and who would be the first sailor to do so. Sailors, he concluded, would bet on damn near anything.
“Land ho!” a lookout cried and a number of men cheered while others grumbled. Money changed hands as the men lined the rail to see the faint smudge on the horizon.
“Damn it to hell,” muttered Janson. “Either we’re lost or we’re not headed for Matanzas.”
“Could it be Havana?” asked an equally puzzled Prentice. “But it sure doesn’t look like Havana.”
Janson yelled to his crew, asking if anyone recognized their landfall. One young sailor timidly raised his hand. “Sir, it sort of looks like Santa Cruz del Norte.”
“And just what the hell is Santa Cruz del Norte?” Janson asked with a smile.
The sailor responded, “Captain, it’s a shitty little fishing village just about halfway between Matanzas and Havana.”
“Oh my God,” said Prentice, awed by the apparent strategy. “If we land here, we’ll have an army that can either march on Havana or attack the Spaniard’s rear at Matanzas.”
* * *
Manuel Garcia had been inducted only two weeks earlier and had been given a uniform that didn’t fit and a rifle he had never fired. For that matter, he’d never fired a gun of any kind in his young life. Nor had he ever worn shoes on his sturdy, hardened feet.
He was near the small town of Santa Cruz del Norte, which was only a few miles from his home and his mother. He and a handful of others were commanded by his former school teacher who was as confused and puzzled as everyone. The erstwhile soldiers had serious doubts about the teacher. They wondered if he wasn’t senile. Manuel wondered that as well. As Manuel’s teacher, he had professed his love for Spain and his willingness to die for her. Now he didn’t seem so sure of himself.
They had dug what someone referred to as a redoubt, but it was only a low earth-walled fort that faced the sea. In it a small cannon had been found and placed to threaten the ocean. That there were no shells or ammunition didn’t seem to concern anyone. Finally, the very young and junior Spanish officer who commanded them showed up with a dozen men along with small amount of ammunition. He pronounced himself pleased and told everyone that they could easily hold off the approaching American hordes if the Yanks should have the balls to show themselves. The men with the lieutenant were regulars and they openly sneered at Manual’s militia.
The announcement horrified Manuel. He knew there was a war on, but he had understood that the fighting was a score of miles away. That was also too close, but the front seemed stable, so people had learned to live and let live. What else could they do? They were pawns. He’d given thought to joining the rebels, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. If caught, he’d be hanged or shot. Now, with Americans possibly approaching, he wondered if he had the nerve to desert. He reminded himself that deserters were also either hanged or shot.
At least Corporal Menendez had kept his word. Manuel had worked as a clerk for the lieutenant up until the last couple of days. With the Americans believed to be on the way, clerking could wait. A letter from his mother implied that she and the corporal had become close. He had mixed emotions about that. He wanted his mother to be happy, but he wanted his mother to himself. Of course, he realized, there was little he could do about it at this time.
Only a couple of days later, Manuel and the others awakened to a nightmare. All the ships in the world were approaching his little fort. The lieutenant screamed and they all grabbed their rifles. One went off accidentally and the lieutenant screamed again. Manuel rubbed his eyes. The nightmare would not go away. He could see the guns of the giant warships and it looked like they were all turned towards him.
The American ships closed to within range of their mighty guns and opened fire. The sound was deafening and the shells exploded around their little fort. The first barrage hit nothing and killed no one. The lieutenant stood on the wall and yelled defiance at the Americans. He was hysterical and white froth came from his mouth.
Small boats filled with soldiers were being rowed towards the shore. Manuel counted his bullets-twelve. With twelve rounds he was supposed to hold off the Yankee hordes? He laughed harshly and realized he was growing up too fast.
The American guns fired again and this time they struck. The lieutenant disappeared in a spray of pink mist and pieces of bone. Manuel screamed and huddled on the ground. Another shell struck the cannon sending it tumbling over. It landed on a Spaniard who began screaming at the top of his lungs. His screams lasted only a few seconds before they ended in a gurgle.
It occurred to Manuel that it would be safe to flee while the Yankees reloaded. Yes, it was time.