Robert Conroy - 1882 - Custer in Chains

They sat in facing chairs and sized each other up. Finally, she spoke. “Are you satisfied with what you see, Mr. Kendrick? Or have I changed so much in the last few years?”

The last time he’d laid eyes on her, she was taking her wounded husband away from the Dakotas down the Missouri on a flat-bottomed steamer. She’d been anguished but firm. Her husband would survive his wounds and the reports of the battle would paint him as an American hero. Any attempts on Kendrick’s part to tell a different version of the story would be quashed, and, for the most part, they had been.

“I wouldn’t be lying if I said you have become even lovelier, Mrs. Custer.”

“You’re too kind to be a reporter. Now, why did you ask to see my husband?”

“Madam, we are either fighting or not fighting a very curious war. Despite a declaration of war, there has been little fighting and even the telegraph lines between Cuba, Spain, and the United States are still operational.”

“And they are likely to stay that way. It serves everyone’s purposes to keep lines of communication open. It is also possible that some in Spain and Cuba are so technologically backward that they are unaware of the potential of the telegraph.”

Kendrick wondered if President Custer would have thought that way. “I thought you should know that I received an invitation from the Cuban General Gilberto Salazar to be his guest in Havana so I can report accurately on events in Cuba.”

Libbie looked momentarily astonished, but recovered quickly. “Isn’t Salazar the filthy little man who massacred the Americans on the Eldorado ? Yes, of course he is. Do you want to go and why are you, in effect, asking our permission? You journalists seem to go and do as you wish.”

“I do want to go. It could be a wonderful story. I might also be able to maintain very personal lines of communication between our countries.”

“While getting rich and famous in the process?”

Kendrick grinned. “Of course, and I would not like to be painted as a traitor for my efforts in writing an unbiased report.”

Libbie stood and Kendrick did as well. She was a little taller than he recalled. She exuded a hint of some perfume and he was acutely aware that the President’s wife was as sensuous a woman as he’d ever met.

“Mr. Kendrick, both my husband and I are of the opinion that the coming war will be short and will result in a great victory both for us and for the country. It has been years since the Civil War ended and it is time for a major reconciliation between the North and the South. A victorious war against a common foe will go a long ways towards accomplishing that goal.”

Kendrick agreed with that, but with one caveat that he kept to himself. The Spanish had had their own civil wars, the last ending with Alfonso XII becoming king. The Spanish needed a unifying war against a foreign enemy as much as the United States did, perhaps even more.

He also wondered if members of his own government wanted war so badly that they would have betrayed the men on the ill-fated Eldorado to the Spanish, thus precipitating the crisis. No, he thought, no one could be that duplicitous. Of course, perhaps no one had intended it to go that far. From what he’d seen of the government’s reaction, the shock of the massacre had been very real.

“May I ask a favor from you, Mr. Kendrick? First, I would like your promise that you will give us any information that might help our nation before you submit it for publication. That will be at your discretion, of course. I don’t want you to either get fired or killed.”

“Agreed, Mrs. Custer, although I’m not totally certain how I’d work that out.”

Libbie smiled radiantly. “Excellent and I’m sure you’ll think of something. Now let’s have some sandwiches. I’m famished.”

She took his arm and steered him to a table where a servant dashed in with some small sandwiches. He was acutely aware of the light feel of her breast against him. Jesus, he thought, she really is something.

When they were again seated, she smiled warmly. “Now I would like a favor from you.”

“Just ask.”

“Since we’re going to be such good friends, please call me Libbie.”

* * *

Waves of blue uniformed soldiers moved up the low hill while other soldiers awkwardly tried to maneuver a pair of brass twelve pound cannon commonly known as Napoleons, and another pair of Gatling guns into position. This was the first time he’d had the entire regiment try a maneuver like this and it was apparent that they all had a lot to learn. The men were enthusiastic but untrained. Ryder had forbidden them to fix bayonets to their new to them 1873 Trapdoor Model Springfield rifles. There was a real fear that they would skewer themselves and that, as Haney said, would be bad for morale.

These rifles were improvements over the ones used by the army during the Indian Wars and had largely solved the problem of jamming caused by overheating during prolonged firing. When the old rifles overheated, the spent cartridge might expand and get stuck and that would be disastrous on the battlefield. Unconfirmed rumors had it that some of Custer’s men had suffered from that problem and lost their scalps as a result.

The soldiers reached the summit of the hill and lustily cheered their victory over a non-existent foe. The men dragging the cannon and the Gatlings were too tired to cheer.

“What do you think, Sergeant Haney?”

Haney snorted. “I think they look like a thousand little kids running for free ice cream. At least they didn’t bunch up until the last minute.”

Ryder agreed and dismissed them to their ice cream reward. Despite all the good work done by Colonel Fowler, their former commander had trained them in Civil War tactics that included massed forces slowly approaching an enemy. With current weapons that fired more rapidly and more accurately and at greater ranges, the tactics used at Gettysburg were a recipe for disaster. The men had quickly learned that spreading out and shooting and re-loading from a prone position, which the Springfield permitted, was a potential lifesaver. During the Civil War, soldiers generally had to reload while standing which made them excellent targets.

The two battalions of five hundred each were only part of his regiment. A third battalion of almost totally untrained men was being formed. They were mere spectators to this show, although they looked like they’d like to join in what appeared to be a lot of fun.

Ryder looked at the large number of civilians who’d showed up to watch the maneuvers. It reminded him of what he’d read about the first Battle of Bull Run when thousands of civilians had appeared thinking that war was a spectator sport. They’d quickly had their illusions dashed when they saw the bloody reality of battle. They’d fled in panic for the safety of Washington after the Confederate victory.

“Sergeant, we are going to keep doing it until we get it right. We are going to keep teaching these farm boys and mechanics how to attack and shoot without hitting themselves in the rear and we are going to whip them into shape.”

“Indeed, sir. By the way, I see young Major Barnes approaching with two ladies. With your permission I think I shall disappear and leave you to charm them.”

“Go to hell Sergeant Major,” Ryder said with a laugh. Barnes was only a couple of years younger than he. “And did I ever tell you how good you looked with a thousand Sioux arrows sticking out of your body?”

“Several times, sir. A bloody pin cushion I was, although there were only three of them and not a thousand and they hurt like the devil,” Haney said and quickly walked away.

A slightly flustered Barnes approached. “Sir, may I present my sister, Mrs. Sarah Damon and her friend, Mrs. Ruth Holden.”