Robert Conroy - 1882 - Custer in Chains

Diego led him inland; carefully staying off the dirt paths he called roads. “I think this is want you want to see,” he said as they breasted a gentle hill just a mile or two inland from the city.

Haney nodded and looked around. The hill was only a few hundred feet high. It wasn’t much of a vantage point but it would do. From it he could see the city of Matanzas itself. He estimated the population at about ten thousand. The bay looked like it could handle a number of good sized ships, but it also looked like it was silting up. That, he concluded, would severely limit the number and size of ships that could unload at any one time.

He also wondered why the navy hadn’t sent someone along with him. He’d asked that question when Colonel Ryder suggested that he volunteer and was told that the navy was too busy trying to round up ships to spend time scouting inland Cuba. They said it was the army’s business.

“I don’t see any fortifications,” Haney said. Even though it was night, the moon and stars allowed him to see that the land was undisturbed. What he assumed were sugar cane and tobacco were growing in fields, but no entrenchments or cannon could be seen.

“That’s because there aren’t any. All the work is being done to protect Cuba is happening just outside Havana. There they are digging in like beavers, building fortifications that will stop any army. I understand the Spanish are now bitterly regretting tearing down Havana’s defensive walls only a few years ago. Little places like Matanzas have been left to their own devices.”

Haney didn’t like hearing about the fortifications around Havana, but his job was to scout out the Matanzas area. “Are you telling me there are no troops here?”

Diego laughed. “Of course there are soldiers, just not too many of them. I estimate several companies, perhaps a battalion. You should be able to crush them when you attack.”

Haney was too much of a realist to accept such optimistic estimates. After all, hadn’t Custer said the Indians would run when the Seventh Cavalry approached? Unconsciously he rubbed a scar on his shoulder where a Sioux arrow had stuck in his flesh. He still remembered the pain when a surgeon pulled it out.

Haney was about to comment when he heard voices. They were close and getting closer. Shit, he thought. The two men quickly tried to make themselves invisible in the dark.

Three Spanish soldiers passed them only a few feet away. They were talking loudly and not paying much attention to the world around them. Garrison duty and going out on the occasional patrol were not too arduous despite the war, Haney concluded.

He was about to exhale and thank their lucky stars when Diego suddenly screamed, bolted from his hiding place, and slashed at one of the soldiers with his machete, ripping the man’s throat.

The wounded soldier fell while the other two wheeled in disbelief. Christ, thought Haney. What the hell had just happened? He pulled his revolver and a Bowie knife and joined in the assault. Diego was wrestling with a second soldier while the third tried to bring his rifle to bear. Haney plunged his knife into the belly of the third and ripped upwards. The man screamed and fell back. Haney waited until he had a chance and then used the handle of his revolver to crack the skull of the man wrestling with Diego. He hit the man several more times before the soldier let go and went limp. Haney checked to see if any were alive. None were. Even the man he’d stabbed had stopped breathing and was gazing at the night sky with blank eyes.

Diego staggered to his feet. He was covered with blood, but most of it wasn’t his. “Thank you, my friend. You saved my life.”

Haney wiped his knife on the shirt of one of the dead soldiers. “Yeah, and your bullshit action might have gotten us killed.”

“You are right,” he said contritely. “But when I saw their uniforms I couldn’t help myself. They are from a regiment formed and led by Gilberto Salazar. They are the ones who massacred your fellow Americans on that ship. More important to me, they are the devils who slaughter Cubans they think are rebels just because they are wandering and looking for food. A while back, they killed my sister but not until many soldiers abused her. When the soldiers were through with her, they cut her throat and left her to bleed to death on the ground. She was fourteen.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Haney as he looked around nervously, “but these guys comrades are going to be looking for them very soon. You better get me back to that dinky boat so I can get the hell out of here.”

“You’re right that we must move, but there is no hurry. They won’t be missed for several hours and we will be many miles from here by then.”

“Diego, where do you want to go?”

The Cuban laughed. “I want you to see Havana. But before then, tell me what a sergeant major does in the army. I have a lot I need to know.”

Haney thought for a moment before responding. Screw it, he decided. “A sergeant major beats the shit out of untrained recruits until they get it in their heads that they have to obey orders and can’t go and do what they want. And sometimes I have to talk very firmly to undisciplined officers, too.”

Diego flinched. “I understand your message. What I did was unforgiveable and it will not happen again. Unfortunately, this lack of discipline is common in our army. Everyman seems to think he is a general and, therefore, enabled to lead. Sometimes there is chaos. May I borrow you to help instill discipline?”

“Let’s get back from Havana first.”

* * *

Sarah yawned. She’d had at least one glass of wine too many. She wondered if she was slurring her words and decided she didn’t care. Sarah and her good friend Ruth Holden were on the second floor of Sarah’s house in the country, residing on couches in the large master bedroom. Ruth was going to spend the night in her own room down the hall.

The two women had changed into their nightgowns and were also wearing light robes. No servants were present. They could talk candidly without housekeepers’ sometimes very large ears picking up gossip.

“Do you miss marriage?” Ruth asked.

“Sometimes very much. Walter was a very good man, very considerate and kind. He made me feel secure and he genuinely cared for me. I was genuinely fond of him.” Although, she thought, that fondness had not necessarily translated into love.

“That isn’t what I meant. Do you miss the physical part of marriage?”

Sarah felt herself flush. “Sometimes very much. Despite the fact that he was older, neither one of us was all that experienced as lovers, but we both learned very rapidly. We enjoyed each other immensely. What about you?”

“I miss it very much as well. You are aware, of course, that I was never actually married. Jean was a lover, nothing more. And yes, I do miss the very exciting physical part. You are aware that he was a thief, aren’t you?”

Sarah giggled. The wine was winning. “I thought there might be something like that from statements you made.”

“Yes. When we weren’t romping in bed, Jean would go out and rob rich Parisians. He stole money, usually negotiable securities, and, very rarely, jewelry. Jewelry was too special and unique and he could only sell it for a fraction of its real value. Sometimes he would actually melt it down for the gold, but that was too risky. Money and negotiable securities were a different matter. The chaos of the war with Prussia and the later revolution permitted him to steal almost at will. I don’t think he ever hurt anyone. He didn’t have to. My job was to take the plunder to Switzerland and convert it to Swiss or British money.”

“That’s a lot more exciting than farming,” Sarah said as she poured them each some more wine. She had to concentrate on not spilling any.