Casca 52- the Rough Rider Page 5

  But it was on the twelfth of June that they were marched down to the smelly port and filed aboard a steamship waiting for them on the quayside. It wasn’t a great start, for too many units arrived simultaneously, not just from the 1st Cavalry Volunteers, and fighting broke out for places on the ships. Roosevelt, though, was a canny bastard and had already secured this ship, the Yucatan, by sneaking aboard and then refusing to get off. So he was joined by Colonel Wood and the rest of the unit, now being called the Rough Riders by Roosevelt, for they were without their horses due to a lack of space aboard. Only officers and the artillery were to have them.

  That led to more grumbling. Casey was happier, though, for he was more at home on the ground than in the saddle. The other problem was that they weren’t taking all their troops, again due to space restrictions. Troops C, H and I had to be left behind in camp much to those men’s disgust, and the officers weren’t best pleased, either. Although they had thirty-two transport ships and five barges, escorted by a flotilla of torpedo boats, cruisers and the battleship Indiana, they just didn’t have the space to carry all the V Corps over to Cuba.

  They set off and headed south east past Key West into the wide waters of the ocean. The men were kept below decks and had to find entertainment in their hammocks or around the cramped tables of their berths. Wood and Roosevelt organized them into groups each day to run along the passageways of the ship in order to keep them exercised and to burn off frustrations that would no doubt lead to fisticuffs unless kept under control.

  Seasickness was inevitable, but Casey was thankful they hadn’t to endure the conditions he’d had to a little while ago in the South Seas sailing to the cannibal islands. There the storms had been momentous and he’d seriously thought he was going to die, Curse or not. No, this was a mill pond by comparison and he was able to avoid the ill effects of being at sea. Billy Root, too, was fine, but poor Al Corrigan suffered.

  Finally after a few days at sea the officers relented and let shifts up on deck where they could either get fresh air, vomit over the side rather than on deck, or get more exercise. There was a roster so they knew they had a set amount of time out in the open.

  “Say, why the hell are they playing like crazy?” Corrigan asked one evening as they leaned over the rail, peering into the darkness. The ships all had their lights blazing away and the band aboard were booming out some tune Casey hadn’t heard before.

  “Dunno, maybe they want to tell the locals ashore we’re here.” Casey pointed to a set of lights in the distance, a village no doubt. That was the coast of Cuba.

  “God, the whole Spanish army will know we’re here,” The Kid said with dismay. “They’ll attack us for sure!”

  “Doubt it,” Casey shook his head. “We got a bigger navy and we’re sailing away from Havana where their main army is – and I overheard some of the sailors talking about the Spanish fleet here is down south at a place called Santiago. No idea where we’re headed, but I assume its away from Havana as it’s the best defended place. I wouldn’t want to be in the Spanish governor’s shoes now. He’s got a lot of coastline to defend, and not good terrain to rush troops around in. And there’s the insurgents to contend with as well. After all,” he grinned ironically, “we’re a-comin’ to free the oppressed people of Cuba from the wicked heel of Spanish occupation.” He had read enough propaganda in the newspapers recently to know whose side the press were on.

  “Quite right too,” Root nodded. “We’re Americans and we represent freedom.”

  “Yeah,” Casey said slowly.

  “You don’t think so?” Root looked at him intently.

  Casey shrugged. “One thing you got to learn, Kid, is how the world works. Not everybody plays by the same rules, or thinks along the same lines. One man’s freedom is another’s prison. A freedom fighter is an insurgent until he wins. Depends on your side of the argument.”

  “If you don’t agree with us freeing the Cubans, why are you here?”

  Casey pulled a rueful expression. “I’m a soldier, Kid. I fight. Now, I can choose which side to fight on as I have the luxury of seeing both sides of the argument and am not influenced by newspapers that love to make you think the way they want you to. So do I want to fight for Spain or America? Well, in this instance, its America. Don’t go thinking that we’re going to make the lives of the Cuban people any better, for whoever takes over if we win, they’ll just look after themselves and the people of Cuba can carry on as they have done before.”

  “Uh? So why are we fighting this war, then?”

  “The reason soldiers have for centuries, Kid. Because our government want a war and tell us to fight. So we fight.”

  “But – its to free the people of Cuba, surely!” Root persisted.

  “Oh yes,” Casey nodded into the night. “It’s vital you project yourself as the Good Guy in any war, so people think you’re on the side of right. So why are we going into Cuba? Will it make the lives of the average citizen there better?”

  “Of course!”

  Casey regarded Root thoughtfully. “So you know their living conditions, then? No you don’t, neither do any of these guys with us. So how can you fight a war for any other reason than you’re being paid to do so.” He laughed briefly. “Me, I’m a mercenary. I fight for money. Sure, I pick my side to fight on and I’ve made some bad choices in the past, but hell, you can’t be right all the time. What’s going to be for sure, though, Kid, and you, Al, is that no matter what we do and whether we win or not, the lives of the average civilian living in Cuba won’t change one little bit.”

  Root shook his head in bafflement. He stared down at the black waters below the side of the ship. Corrigan chewed slowly and gave Casey a shrewd look. “So, you fight for money, huh? Not for America?”

  “America,” Casey laughed shortly again. “A flag. Nationhood. Not me. I may well side with the States today, but who knows, tomorrow I may fight against her. Depends on what’s at stake. Sometimes, Al, it’s a case of siding with the side that makes me throw up less.” He recalled his time in the same part of the world when the Conquistadors invaded the empire of the Aztecs. Both sides turned his stomach but he decided a fanatical Catholic empire was preferable to one that slaughtered thousands of helpless innocents to their bloodthirsty gods on a whim.

  “So you think America is wrong to invade Cuba?” Corrigan asked.

  “If its not to make the lives of the people here better, then yes. Because what else are they here for?”

  “The sinking of the Maine!” Root waved his hands in the air.

  “And what do you know of that, other than what you’ve been told by the newspapers, who let’s face it, hardly tell the whole truth, do they? They want war, but have no conception of the horror and death and suffering that’s coming to the people of Cuba. They just want the glory of big triumphal banner headlines so they can sell their product.” He shrugged. “So they’re prepared to have hundreds, maybe thousands killed, just so they make money. Not particularly noble, is it? What about poor Mrs Sanchez in her peasant’s hut deep in the interior of Cuba? ‘Sorry, Mrs Sanchez, but your husband died for the noble cause of bringing American newspapers more profit.’.” He grimaced.

  “We’re doing the right thing, though, aren’t we?” Corrigan asked.

  “What, ending the Spanish Empire? Replacing it with an American Empire?” Casey shook his head. “Wars cost money, Al, lots of money. Always have. So a government goes to war in order to make a profit. They have to. Not maybe money, but in other ways. Perhaps The States feels its better to have a weaker power on their doorstep, or one owned by them, rather than a European power, even one like Spain that’s been getting weaker for centuries. I know the States doesn’t like European Empires; they see them as dangerous rivals for the future, and if America can weaken the Europeans so much the better. This is what this war is really all about. You mark my words.”

  “This is too deep for me,” Corrigan grumbled. “I’m in this army to serve my country, an
d that’s what I’ll do, so maybe I’m purer of heart than you are, Casey.”

  Casey laughed. “You may well be right, Al. I’m just a tired old cynic who sees no good in any venture.” He slapped both on the shoulders. “Think your attitude is healthier; no worrying about anything. Just do the simple thing and do it well. C’mon, let’s go below and not worry about who’s what and why in this little fight. The important thing for us all is to stick together and help one another, come what may.”

  The three turned and walked as one back to their berths below deck.

  ____

  Five days later they stopped off the coast of southern Cuba. The men lined up on deck and peered out across the water to a forested shoreline. A small village could be seen on the shoreline with a few fishing boats and wooden jetties, and beyond the land rose in irregular rises, all covered in jungle. The heat was like a furnace and sweat broke out over all their faces.

  “Why are we stopped here?” Root asked.

  “Don’t know what the shallows are like, Kid,” Corrigan spat over the side. “We could run aground and be sitting ducks.”

  Casey nodded. “Do they have artillery there or not? We don’t know. I can see people running about ashore but are they soldiers, or civilians?”

  Just then the Indiana opened up with her main guns and shells landed on the shoreline, blowing up rocks, trees and mud. The soldiers cheered and punched the air in delight. At last, some action! Spanish soldiers were seen fleeing into the jungle away from the village. Casey grunted in agreement. Good tactics, to drive off the defenders before landing. So it seemed they were going to land here. The ships were queuing up in the roads, ready to dump their load of soldiers ashore. But there was a reluctance to take the first step, clearly. The surf looked rough, and the waves crashing onto the long shoreline could overturn many a boat unless care was taken.

  He also wondered how many of the soldiers could actually swim. There was one long jetty, looking in a ramshackle condition, and he guessed this was where they would be put.

  Shouts along the deck brought his attention to the approaching Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt. “Men!” he hollered, “get ready to disembark. Sergeant Holland, arrange the men into two lines to climb down the netting and ladders to the landing boat!”

  “Sir!” Holland snapped off a parade ground salute. He roared at the men to get into two lines with their guns, packs and other equipment. There was a confused mass of men who milled about, getting into one another’s way. Casey had to kick a few out of his way as he helped with the confusion, pushing one or two into the semblance of order. One objected to him being handled roughly, so Casey glared at him. “The sooner we get off this rust bucket and ashore, the better. Want to remain here at the mercy of Spanish artillery? At least ashore you can hide in the goddamned trees. Here, we’re in full view of the entire Spanish army!”

  The man grumbled and turned back to face forward. Casey shook his head in disgust. Idiot. With some swearing and cajoling, finally they were ready and began to climb down the netting and ladders to the waiting smaller boat, the Vigilancia, and packed in like slaves in the bad old days.

  “I jus’ hope those Spaniards don’ go shootin’ off their shells at us now,” one of the men groaned. “Else we’ll all go to the bottom of this damned bay.”

  There were sick smiles in response. None of them were happy with their situation, but this was the army and you just did as you were ordered. The sea kept off some of the heat as they wallowed towards the long jetty, and Casey managed to turn his head enough to see other transports taking soldiers from the big ships. Once again Roosevelt had shown the way. As they edged closer to the jetty, Casey was reminded of an old Roman tale in the legions, the one where Julius Caesar invaded Britannia for the first time. Stories had gone round the barracks then, in his days in the Tenth, of how the Romans were too afraid to jump off their transports into the surf because a warband of Celts were on the shore with their painted faces and shouting war cries.

  It had taken the standard bearer of the Tenth legion to show them all the way by leaping into the water and shouting out he would rather fight than be a coward, and would the rest of the legion stand and watch their standard be taken by the Celts? That had done the trick, and those in that legion had always been proud of that story.

  So now here they were, repeating the tale, except the Spaniards were not stood on the shore, hollering out with their faces painted blue. They edged against the jetty and two of the crew leaped onto it with ropes trailing, and tied the ship firmly so it couldn’t pull free. “Off!” Holland roared.

  The men didn’t need second bidding. In a wave they fought to get off. Holland, realizing his mistake, screamed for order but it was too late. One man went flying off, pushed by his colleagues accidentally, into the water and vanished below in seconds. “Holy shit!” Holland exclaimed. “Get into order you stupid bastards!”

  Casey roared at the confused men. “Line up! On parade!” Although a private, he’d done enough as a corporal and a sergeant to know how to organize men at the squad or platoon level. “Stand in a straight line, you ugly lot, the eyes of the generals are on us!”

  A corporal came running up. “Ah, nice work, um, Soldier. I’ll take over now, thank you.”

  “Sure, Corporal,” Casey stepped into his place. “Shithead,” he muttered under his breath as the corporal trotted along the line of thirty men. “Should’ve been here in the first place to avoid this crap.”

  Corrigan grinned, then took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Christ, it’s hotter than a Navajo whore’s pussy.”

  Sniggers broke out along the line at that. The corporal whirled. “Who said that?”

  Silence, just a row of men stood smartly to attention.

  Holland was still trying to find the man who’d fallen into the water, and Casey caught sight of a second boat nosing into the jetty. “Ah, Corporal, shouldn’t we be marching ashore off this thing? It don’t look too secure if you ask me. And they’re about to land,” he nodded at the second boat.

  “Yes, Soldier, I was just about to do that, thank you!” The NCO put his hands on his hips. “Alright you lot, turn left and march ashore, and secure the village.”

  They made their way along the jetty which began to bounce alarmingly. Casey remembered the old adage about breaking step on bridges, and decided this was a kind of bridge. “Hey, boys, break step, else we’ll all bounce into the water!”

  The rest did so, alarmed at the movement of the old rotting structure, and almost ran to the shore, relieved to be on dry land. The village was a collection of stone or wooden buildings, mostly houses or huts, with a church – inevitably – and a village headsman’s abode. Casey led Corrigan, Root and a couple of others to the latter, thinking it was best to get the village leader to accept the ‘surrender’ of the place.

  He banged his fist on the door and it opened timidly. “Si?” came a nervous voice.

  “Open up, Senor, we are the American army and we are here to free you from Spanish rule.” Casey’s fluent Spanish would help enormously, naturally.

  The door opened wide to reveal a short, swarthy man with beady black eyes and a bald pate. He looked at the five men standing before him, then at the other soldiers moving through the village. “Please, Senors, do not harm us; we are a peaceful village and the Spanish soldiers have fled.”

  Casey nodded. “Please come with us to our commander. He will request you formally surrender this village – what is its name?”

  “Daiquiri, Senor.”

  “Thank you. My compadres here will ensure your place is safe, and your family too, if they are here?”

  The man nodded gratefully. “Thank you. My wife, her sister, my son, two daughters, daughter in law and three grandchildren are here. Please, I would be grateful that no harm befalls any of them.”

  “They will be safe; we are American troops and we respect civilians.”

  He turned to the others. “I’ve agreed to take him to the C
olonel. Secure this building and don’t let anyone in, got it? You four have the responsibility of respecting this house, and those within.”

  Casey then took the headman back through the throng of soldiers, all of whom were looking into the houses and being shouted at by the sergeants and corporals to stay out and find places to bivouac outside the village limits. The first officer Casey encountered was a young lieutenant, snapping out orders left and right and getting the men around him into some semblance of order. Casey introduced the headman to him, and the lieutenant thanked Casey, got his name and ordered him to return to his group, taking the Spaniard with him to Colonel Wood who stood by the edge of the jetty.

  Casey returned to the headman’s house and saw two of the men sat on the step outside, smoking. “Hey, Casey,” one of them greeted him, “how come you learned such good Spanish?”

  “Oh, been around Spaniards in my time,” he explained easily. Sure, he had. Like in 1519 when he was part of Cortez’s conquistador army, or even earlier than that, as a prisoner of the inquisition in Cadiz. That hadn’t been a time he recalled with fondness. There again, after he’d returned from the New World to Spain, he’d been in Charles’ army for a time, then again as a slave aboard one of their galleys in the Armada, and you sure picked up all the insults and curses word perfect.

  Had he been in the Spanish army since then? He quickly went through his more recent history. Austria, Britain, a pirate where he’d needed to speak Spanish as well as English, then in the Americas and then France. Nope, not really. “Its always been easy for me to pick up a language. Just lucky, I guess,” he said. “Everything alright here?”