Robert Conroy - 1882 - Custer in Chains

“I guess they don’t realize we’re on their side,” Kendrick said.

“Are we?” Juana asked. “What have we done for them? General Weyler calls these places ‘concentration camps,’ because he has concentrated all of these so-called enemies together where they can be watched. While here, they are given minimal rations, no water for cleaning, and the more attractive women are either abused or allowed to sell themselves for additional food. This and other places like it are nothing but hell.”

“I’ll write about it.”

“You might want to add that many of these imprisoned souls are recently freed slaves who’ve traded one form of bondage for another.”

Kendrick simply nodded. What was happening to so-called free slaves in Cuba wasn’t all that different from what was happening to freed slaves in the United States. With Reconstruction over, the Negro was being pushed farther and farther down the economic ladder, particularly in the south. Perhaps his editors wouldn’t like reading such an interpretation. He would be discrete and write about the camps, but not that they were filled with freed slaves.

Juana came to him again that night. She walked to an open window and looked up at the stars. “Gilberto will be back tomorrow evening. I strongly urge you to be far from here when he arrives.”

“I thought I was his guest,” he said jokingly. She was again wearing the long and shapeless cotton night gown.

“I have people keeping an eye on him and they say he is furious that he hasn’t caught the rebels who killed his men. At some point he will recall that he sent me to you and realize that his honor has been insulted and he will feel compelled to take action. It won’t matter that he was the one who suggested it. It’s contradictory and doesn’t make sense, but that is the way he thinks. He is often far from logical or rational.”

“Then I can’t leave you. He’ll hurt you.”

Juana laughed. “No he won’t. I told you he’s afraid of me and my family. He’ll scream and rage and then ignore me, which I find quite acceptable.” She reached out and patted his cheek. She didn’t tell him that he would likely slap her and even punch her. He didn’t need to know that. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And when you leave you’ll go with one of my men and a companion of his who arrived a day ago and has been living in the servants’ quarters.”

She stood and walked to the window. The nightgown fabric was light and he could see the outline of her thin body through the moonlight. She caught him watching.

“Am I that ugly, James?”

He took a deep breath. “No, my lady, far from it.”

His initial impressions of her as a stern and plain woman had long since disappeared. She was a classic case of the more he got to know her, the more attractive she became. He thought it amusing since he generally liked his women a little on the plump side and a whole not more bosomy. Juana had small breasts at best.

“Well then, he sent me here so that I would be punished and humiliated by having sex with you and that hasn’t happened. Nor has he been cuckolded. Yet.”

Juana carefully and slowly unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and gracefully stepped out of it. “You are absolutely lovely,” Kendrick whispered. She smiled and blew out the one candle that had been illuminating the room.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He started to rise but she pushed him back down. She took his head and held it to her breasts. “First things first,” she said. We have all night so we will take all night. You will now kiss my breasts lovingly and slowly like I’ve always wanted and imagined and then we will move on to other things.”

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her so tightly she gasped. “My dear Juana, I exist to please you,” he said and realized that he meant it.

* * *

Clarissa Harlow Barton was in her early sixties. Better known as Clara Barton, she had recently founded the American Red Cross. She had tended the sick and wounded in the Civil War and seen the results of the most horrific fighting. She’d also come under fire and nearly been killed. After the war, she’d travelled to Europe and helped during the Franco-Prussian War. To Sarah, she gave the immediate impression that she was a stern and demanding taskmistress.

The unmarried Clara Barton was in Baltimore to oversee the shipment of medical supplies to the south when the army finally embarked for Cuba.

“You and your friend will not be permitted to serve on the battlefield,” she said sternly.

“May I ask why not,” Sarah enquired. “I have experience with terrible wounds. My father is a doctor and I assisted him on many occasions. I’ve seen men bleeding and mangled from wounds and injuries and, yes, even shot. I did not flinch then and will not in the future. Not that it matters, but I’ve also assisted in childbirth, and I’ve even watched as people died.

“And as to my friend, Ruth Holden spent many months as a volunteer nurse in Paris during the terrible fighting. If anything, she has far more experience than I do.”

“Who is he?” Barton asked.

Sarah was perplexed. “Who?”

Barton smiled slightly. “The man you wish to follow, that’s who.”

“Am I that obvious? I guess I am. His name is Martin Ryder and he commands the First Maryland Volunteers.”

Barton shuffled through papers on her desk until she found the one she wanted. “According to this, your young colonel is highly regarded by his superiors, his peers and his men. His men are well disciplined and well behaved. I understand that he is concerned about their hygiene. The next time you see him tell him to make sure his medical personnel keep themselves and their tools as clean as possible.”

“He will be leaving in a couple of days. When I seem him next, I will tell him what you said.” Of course it would be in between desperate and passionate kisses.

Barton nodded. “As to you and your friends, you will accompany us to Jacksonville and, if circumstances warrant, perhaps down to the Florida Keys. We will be going by train to Charleston, which is as far south as decent rail lines go. There is a narrow gauge track running from Charleston to Jacksonville and, if possible we will use that. It’s a shame that the Confederate railroad tracks were so miserable during the war and that there have been only minimal improvements since then.”

It was common knowledge that the U.S. government was trying to widen the gauge and extend the line south to Daytona, but that was not going to happen overnight. There was resistance on the part of the railroad lines to building farther south since there is little in the way of civilization and customers in that direction.

Sarah nodded politely. She was delighted that the redoubtable Clara Barton was going to let her at least go to Jacksonville. Once there she and the others could prove their worth and, if the war lasted as long as some people thought it would, then she was confident that hospitals would be established on Cuban soil. It only made sense. Wounded soldiers had to be treated by skilled medical personnel as soon as possible; thus, they would have to be close to the battlefields. Shipping them to Jacksonville or even the Florida Keys made no sense. She would take one step at a time.

She profusely thanked Miss Barton and left before the woman could change her mind. On the train back to Baltimore, she thought how much her life had changed and how much Martin Ryder now meant to her. The kiss she’d promised him at the White House for not punching President Custer had quickly turned into a number of them and all given joyously and passionately. She found herself worried sick that he might not return from the war or that he might be terribly maimed. She recalled helping her father operating on a man who’d lost his legs in a train accident. That such horrible wounds could happen to Martin as well, would soon be a terrifying reality.