Robert Conroy - 1882 - Custer in Chains

“Quite fighting, children,” Ryder said as he grabbed a rope and joined in the effort. “Just a few more yards and you’ll be done and can start killing Spaniards.”

Haney shook his head. “Generals aren’t supposed to be pulling tow ropes.”

Ryder ignored him and, along with other men, manhandled the first gun into position. The next five followed in short order. Tow ropes were dropped and metal shields were put in place. The shields were another of Lang’s ideas. Nobody in the army’s hierarchy could decide whether the machine guns were fish or fowl, cannon or rifles. Set too far back from the front lines, they were wildly inaccurate. Closer to the enemy, they were murderously effective but the crews were vulnerable to sniper fire or even massed rifle fire. The shields would provide a degree of protection for the four man crews.

“Jesus,” exclaimed Haney, “it looks like someone kicked over an anthill.”

As the dawn was rising, the Spanish lines were erupting with men forming up for the attack. They poured out of the ruined buildings and into the narrow streets. The artillery was raining down on them and killing them by the score, but there were thousands of them and more forming up to attack with every minute.

“When should I open fire?” yelled Kelly.

“Now!” answered Ryder.

Five guns were in place with more arriving. Every machine gun the army had was going to support the attack. The weapons opened fire and their demonic chatter was deafening.

Bullets fired from an extreme range rained down on the Spaniards, dropping still more of them. They were too far off for anything resembling aimed fire, but were within killing range. To Ryder it reminded him of the time he’d fired on the Sioux at the Little Big Horn, only this time the Spanish were more numerous and farther away. The guns could not miss. They almost certainly had to hit something in the mass of humanity. The guns were more accurate than rifle fire. Even the most experienced soldier might just fire into the ground or in the air or worse, not fire at all in his fear. The Gatlings were handled by teams of men who supported each other and saw to it that the stream of bullets was not only fired, but that shots landed where they were intended. The result was carnage.

Trumpets blared and the Spaniards surged forward. It was like the attacks on Mount Haney, only this time on a level plain with no barbed wire to separate the two sides. Gunners made adjustments and riflemen fired. Smoke obscured the battlefield as the two forces closed.

Ryder pulled out his revolver and unsheathed his sword. He tried to remember the last time he had even practiced with a sword. He was more likely to kill himself with it than a Spaniard.

The Spaniards were emerging through the battle-smoke. They were screaming as if Satan was behind them. They were fighting for their lives.

So too, however, were the Americans. The machine guns were now firing point blank at waist high level. Each gun was on a swivel which meant that each gun could spray bullets in nearly a one hundred and eighty degree arc.

Ryder threw down his sword and took a second revolver from a fallen soldier. The Spaniards were firing back and too many of his men were falling. Something hit him hard in the chest and he fell back, staggered. A Spaniard was directly in front of him and Ryder managed to shoot him. He lurched to his feet and quickly checked for blood. Amazingly, there wasn’t very much at all. Maybe it wasn’t a bullet that had hit him.

The battle was now between brave men on one side and brave men supported by cold and deadly technology on the other. Technology won. The Spaniards began to fall back just as reinforcements from the rest of Benteen’s division along with soldiers from Gibbon’s division filled the gaps caused by casualties.

Ryder’s arm was grabbed. “You all right, Ryder?” It was General Hancock. Ryder looked down. A stream of blood was visible on his shirt.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” said Ryder. Each breath was painful and he wondered if whatever had struck him hadn’t broken a rib.

“Go back and have that wound taken care of,” said Hancock.

“I’ll leave when you do, general.” Hancock laughed harshly and went on to another part of the battle.

The smoke was clearing and the Spaniards were retreating slowly and stubbornly. By companies and then by battalions, the American army began to move after them. Orders were not necessary. The Spaniards would be pushed and pushed hard until they surrendered or died.

Ryder looked around anxiously. Where the hell was Lang? The Texan had a job to do with his flying column.

* * *

The monsignor howled with joy. “We are to join the attack. By the Blessed Virgin we shall prevail.”

Diego Salazar was less than enthused but realized he had to obey the direct orders just received from Villate. The breach in Havana’s defenses had to be closed regardless the cost and it made perfectly good sense to send in the monsignor’s fanatics. The artillery barrage had been terrifying and from what he could see through gaps in the battle smoke, the infantry assault was wavering. The Americans must have a hundred Gatling guns, he decided, and all of them would be aimed at his body.

“Forward,” screamed Bernardi, “forward for Spain and Jesus and the Blessed Virgin.”

The men of the legion moved to the attack. Salazar noted that some were less enthusiastic than others. He understood them. Salazar tried to hold back, but the press of bodies propelled him onward. He wanted to run and hide but could not be seen as a coward. He had to do something, however, to get out of this terrible fight. A few yards ahead of him, the crazy monsignor was screaming and waving what looked like a sword. Where the devil had the fool gotten a sword, Salazar wondered. And what the hell did he plan on doing with it?

Salazar stumbled over a dead soldier and fell on his face. He looked up in time to see Bernardi’s body convulse as machine gun bullets ripped through it. Salazar laughed hysterically. The mad man deserved to die, but he, Diego Salazar, did not. He had a task to complete.

Salazar found a piece of a brick with a sharp edge and gouged it into his scalp and forehead. Like all head wounds, it quickly gushed blood that covered his face and made it look like he’d been horribly wounded.

He pretended to stagger to his feet. The remnants of his legion were fleeing. He joined them. Once again he was a wounded hero who would save what was left of his command. He would gather them and do what he truly wanted to do-take revenge on Juana and her bastard of an American lover. In the meantime, the Americans were advancing and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

The boys huddled in the crypt. The skulls of its occupants and assorted other bones no longer bothered them. They were terrified of the man-made thunder that was coming ever closer. Another had joined them. They had been adopted by a small thin dog that they fed with scraps, which was something they felt was hilarious. They too were existing on scraps. The dog wagged its tail and licked their hands. It’s love, even if motivated by food, gave them something they could focus on besides their perilous condition.

They originally considered naming the dog Tico after their dead comrade, but decided to name it Alfonso after their dog of a king who had gotten them into all this trouble. They would find another way to honor Tico. Manuel thought it was sad that they didn’t even know Tico’s last name or where he came from. They also hoped that the little priest who had murdered their friend would burn in hell.

The dog sniffed the powdery bones and decided they were too dry to provide any sustenance. Manuel thought it was nice that the little dog did not have an appetite for humans, although he would have understood if it had. If starvation will make a man do crazy things like Tico did, then what would it do to an animal. He didn’t want to know. He’d heard that there were such things as cannibals that willingly ate human flesh and was beginning to understand them.