Robert Conroy - 1882 - Custer in Chains

Nelson Miles blinked and smiled tightly as the implications behind Hancock’s statement sunk in. “A lot could change in a week. The whole world could have been changed, at least their world.”

* * *

Haney and Lang crawled the half mile from the American works to the Spanish fortifications in nervous silence. If the intelligence that the Spaniards had pulled back was inaccurate, they could be met with a murderous torrent of bullets. At best, they could be allowed to proceed and then taken prisoner. Neither fate seemed particularly attractive.

Shells had cratered the ground which gave them some cover as they sneaked forward. Each foot gained brought them closer to either safety or tragedy. Even though each man wanted to say or whisper something, they knew better. Adding to their concerns was the fervent wish that their artillerymen understood their orders and were not going to fire. They hadn’t shelled the Spanish for the last several days as a deliberate ploy to make the Spanish think that this was a safe sector. Just not too safe, had been the thought. A shell or two every now and then to keep them on their toes was the thought. Haney and Lang just hoped that the gunners remembered the schedule.

They were only a few feet away from the defensive crest. There were no sounds although they thought they could smell tobacco being smoked. Lang and Haney shrugged and slithered over and into a Spanish trench. It was empty and they exhaled a sigh of relief. Someone coughed, but it wasn’t close by. Even so, the trench wasn’t totally empty. The Spanish had left a few troops behind to watch the Americans. They would have to avoid detection if the plan was to succeed. They could not alarm the Spanish and send them rushing back to their trenches before the Americans attacked. This foray was only to determine if the Spaniards actually were keeping a minimal presence at their front lines. So far that appeared to be the case.

They hunched down and looked over the embankment to the now visible city of Havana. Haney was acutely aware that Ruta was somewhere in it, along with Sarah and the other nurses. His eyes could see people moving around in the distance, but in no great numbers and with no sense of urgency. Numerous cook fires were burning down. There was the smell of smoke and some of it came from charred buildings. Even though there was some laughter and some drunken idiot was singing badly, the Spanish were asleep. They wouldn’t stay that way too much longer, he thought happily, and this night could be the last full night that Havana was under Spain’s flag.

An hour later they were back in their own lines, exhausted and dirty, but safe. “Well?” asked Ryder.

“There can’t be more than a handful of them in their forward trenches,” Haney said as he guzzled water. “We can take them out easily.”

Lang nodded agreement. “When will we begin bombarding again?”

“Just about right now,” said Ryder. A moment later, American mortars lifted shells towards the enemy.

Lieutenant Prentice envied the Marines and sometimes wished he was one. Lean, hard, and disciplined, they epitomized what a fighting man should be. He imagined them as Spartan warriors or Roman legionnaires. The hundred Marines crowding the deck of the Orion looked like they could lick a force ten times their size. The dismounted Negro cavalrymen on other ships looked equally fierce and professional, but they were army and his heart was with the navy.

The Marines could also row their own boats, while the cavalrymen needed help. The sailors on other ships cheerfully complained that the black soldiers couldn’t row across a bathtub. They prudently said this out of the hearing of the Buffalo Soldiers of the Ninth U.S. Cavalry. The name had been given to them by the Indian tribes they had fought.

Fifty-six year old Colonel Charles G. McCawley commanded the six hundred marines who would lead the assault, which thoroughly annoyed the soldiers who felt that they should go first. They did, however, understand the realities of the situation. The Marines were good with boats, while the soldiers were not. The Marines would go in first with the dismounted cavalry following quickly. Prentice would go with the Marine colonel.

Boats were lowered and filled with Marines who wore dark uniforms and had blackened their faces. The Negro cavalrymen jeered that they needed no such assistance to be hidden in the dark, causing obscenities to fly back and forth.

The Marines rowed steadily and surely to the shore. Their landing point was lit by men with candles and lanterns and they were just north of the almost star shaped fort called Morro Castle. It was assumed that the men in the various units would get mixed up; therefore, there would be no time-consuming attempt to sort people out. Under the command of McCawley and others the men poured out the boats as soon as the wooden hulls scraped the shore.

Prentice jumped out, took a few steps in the hip-deep water and stumbled. His revolver was now wet and all he had that he could count on was a cutlass. He cursed and pushed his way through the water to the shore. The colonel had arrived well ahead of anyone else. “Hurry up, Prentice; we won’t be waiting for you.”

Yes they would, he thought. He was the one who knew where they were going. He was the one who had been scouting out the terrain. He took the lead with a grinning McCawley just a step behind. The colonel was exulting in the fact that his Marines would be fighting as a unit, and not as small units on board warships.

Prentice quickly found the path that would lead them to the Morro Castle. It and La Cabana guarded the half of the entrance to Havana’s harbor that was across from the city itself. The Negro cavalry would attack the more sprawling fortress of La Cabana.

“Faster,” the colonel ordered and the men responded. Prentice had figured it as a two mile jog from the beach. The big threat, of course, was discovery. That it would happen was inevitable. Discovered too soon, however, and the enemy could be pouring rifle and cannon fire into the helpless ranks of Americans. As they ran past houses and cottages, people awakened. Windows were opened and, in some cases, people stepped outside to see what was happening. When they saw an army passing, most of them prudently went indoors, while others ran away from both the soldiers and the fort. In a few cases, Spanish speaking soldiers angrily told people to go inside their houses and hide.

After an eternity, the ramparts were in sight. There was no apparent activity. Whatever noise the column had made, it had not been enough to rouse the garrison that Prentice knew was small and poorly led. Prentice led men to where he’d spotted a gate. It was shut, of course. The colonel signaled and a handful of men raced towards it and confirmed that it was shut firmly. Prentice found himself holding his breath while the men fiddled with the explosives they’d brought. They lit the fuse and ran as fast as they could.

Just then, they were spotted and Spanish voices called out a challenge. “Too late,” McCawley said with a grin. A second later and a blast ripped the gate apart. The Marines didn’t wait to see if the way inside was clear, they just ran screaming towards the smoking void and disappeared inside. Prentice followed on their heels, nearly stumbling over debris.

The Spanish fought, and many of them with screaming desperation. There were but a hundred of them at most while more than six hundred Americans were in their midst, shooting them and stabbing them with bayonets. An unarmed Spaniard lunged at Prentice who hacked at him with his cutlass. The man screamed and fell to his knees as blood gushed from his shoulder. “I surrender,” he sobbed in Spanish. Prentice kicked him to the ground and continued on.