Casca 52- the Rough Rider Page 6

  “Yeah,” the other man nodded, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Young Kid’s smitten with the granddaughter. She’s some beauty.”

  Casey rolled his eyes. “Hope he hasn’t been pushing himself at her; don’t want to start a fight just because the boy’s too keen on the first young Cuban girl he sees.”

  The first chuckled. “But boy, you gotta see her. She’s somethin’ else.”

  Waving at the two, he went indoors out of the harsh light, and took off his felt hat, wiping his brow. It was as hot as a Navajo’s you-know-what. He grinned at the phrase. It was similar to one he’d heard in the legion when he had been in Jerusalem in the heat of summer. One of the men had complained after a hard day’s march that it was as ‘hot as Vulcan’s dick’. Casey hadn’t wanted to think about that, but he guessed what the man had meant.

  The house was cool inside, and that was down to the thick walls that helped keep the heat out. It also had a clear view of the sea from the rear and here the windows were wide open, allowing in the sea breeze that helped with the interior temperature. Corrigan greeted him, sat at the kitchen table that had three civilians with him, an elderly woman whom Casey took to be the headman’s wife, and a couple who were middle-aged. That must be the son and daughter-in-law.

  “Where’s the Kid?” he asked.

  “Through there, being fed by the other women. They’re mothering him.”

  “Of course,” Casey grinned and wandered through a doorway to a large room that seemed to serve as a living room-cum-reception room. He’s seen a flight of steps leading up to the upper floor where the bedrooms would be.

  Billy Root sat eating out of a bowl with two women of early middle age fussing over him, while a younger boy and girl stood in the background. Casey guessed these were the offspring of the couple back in the dining room with Corrigan. They looked to be about fifteen in the boy’s case and eighteen in the girl’s. And yes, the girl was something else. No doubt a catch for any of the young men in the village. Not only good looking with big dark eyes and a cascade of curly black hair, but a smooth, unmarked face and even delicate features.

  Uh-oh, calm down boy, Casey thought to himself. No time to go off romancing the locals. He was part of an invading force and there was no way they’d stay in Daiquiri for more than a few days. Best to let the young woman live what life she had planned out – or that had been planned out by her folk.

  “Everything alright, Kid?” he greeted Root.

  The young man nodded and rolled his eyes. The two women were making sure he was eating every scrap.

  “Now, ladies, its very kind to provide my compadre here with your wonderful food, but honestly, he had more than enough rations to keep him going, I assure you.”

  “Oh, senor, it is nothing,” one replied, smiling. These Americans were so friendly and respectful, so different to what they had been told to expect. “It is a greeting from us to you, and this young man really does need feeding up. He’s so thin!”

  “A little bit of healthy exercise running through the length of Cuba will sort that out,” Casey quipped, and one of the women smiled, but the other tutted.

  “Oh, I hope not! It is so hot and full of disease in the interior. And the guerrillas in the jungle! Oh they would harm this poor boy.”

  Casey raised an eyebrow. “And nothing to say about what they would do to me?”

  “Oh, senor, you look as if you could take care of yourself!”

  He chuckled. “Senorita, you have that so right.” He winked at the other woman who put a hand to her mouth and her eyes crinkled. He looked at Billy. “Alright Kid, finish that and report to me; I suspect Colonel Wood will be arriving shortly so you’d best not be like this when he turns up. Got it?”

  “Mmm!” he nodded, his mouth crammed with the soup.

  Casey got the others to smarten up. Just in time, too, for the headman returned with Colonel Wood and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt along with the rest of the entourage of headquarters flunkies. Wood got the five men to line up outside the house in the boiling heat while he and the rest went indoors. Sergeant Holland arrived and peremptorily ordered the men to follow him into the trees on the edge of the village.

  At least here the heat wasn’t so direct, but the foliage kept the humidity high and it was almost unbearable. No wonder diseases were rife here. The unit was setting up camp in between the trees and the planted crops of sugar and the land was cleared to the east. It was a case of setting up tents in the clearing and the direct sun, or have them in the shade and melt through the humidity.

  Most of the men went around just in trousers, coated in sweat. Casey sat by his tent and went through the rigors of cleaning his Krag carbine. It was a comforting thing for him to do and he’d done plenty in his lifetime already. What was just another occasion? Root was gasping in the heat, laid out flat, his legs protruding into the sun, his body and head in the tent. “I can’t breathe,” he complained.

  “You’re breathin’ enough to speak, Kid,” Corrigan said laconically.

  “God, Al, ain’t you pitying me?”

  “Nope,” Corrigan said, his hat pushed well back on his head. His hair was plastered to his head. “Goddamned insects are eatin’ me alive here.”

  “Mosquitoes. They spread malaria,” Casey said. “Slap the bastards.”

  Corrigan heartily slapped his arm and a smear of blood appeared. “I don’ wan’ no malaria, or whatever you call it.”

  “No doubt they’ll call it Cuban Fever or something,” Casey said, checking the breech.

  “You always checking your gun?” Root asked, peering at Casey sat there calmly.

  “Always look after your gun; for if you do, it’ll look after you.” He looked around at Root. “Want it to jam in a fight? They what do you do? Bash the man over the head? He’s got time to shoot you three times before you get to him.”

  Billy sighed. “Work work work.”

  “Keeps you fit, lad,” Casey grinned, as Billy got up with a groan and reached for his carbine.

  Just then the corporal who’d been at the jetty walked along the line of tents. “Private Casey Long!”

  Casey looked up. “Corporal?”

  The NCO came over to him and Casey got up slowly, cursing the heat. “Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt wants you to report to him instantly at the village church. Get smartened up and come with me.”

  “Gonna hear your confession, Casey,” some wag laughed. The rest of the camp joined in.

  “Alright, wise-ass, shut it,” the corporal glared at the men. “And get on with cleaning your equipment. Colonel Wood wants us out of here tomorrow on the road to Siboney. So you’d all best be ready to get going at first light.”

  The men groaned and there was a collective clinking of metal as guns were picked up and a mass of cleaning began. Casey was smart enough for the corporal’s satisfaction and they made their way across the dusty, bare ground to the plantation border, separated from the dirt track by a three-strand wire fence. The church had been appropriated by the army on a temporary basis and Roosevelt stood by the entrance, peering up and down the one and only street. He saw Casey and the NCO approach and walked into the cooler interior of the holy place.

  Casey had been in many churches, and they always had an air of reverence to them. Even in wartime. So he removed his hat and stood before Roosevelt, waiting for the bespectacled man to talk. The NCO was told to wait by the door. With Roosevelt were three men in civilian attire and Casey was wary of them. They looked like businessmen and he mistrusted those kind of people.

  “Private Long, please meet some associates of mine, Messrs Faulkner, Schroeder and Weiss. They are newspaper reporters.”

  Casey eyed the three men cautiously. “Sir?”

  “As you know, the people of the United States are eager to hear of our valiant struggle to overthrow the hated regime of Spain from the people of Cuba, and these gentlemen are here to ensure the folks back home get to hear of it.”

  Casey eyed them again. He w
ondered what the hell this was all about.

  Roosevelt waved at the eternal mercenary. “Now, nothing helps folks want to read about our brave men more than a hero. They will eagerly follow our exploits more if they have a hero to root for. Understand, soldier?”

  Casey had a bad feeling about this. “Uh, sir. You’re a politician, isn’t that so?”

  “Well yes, I was. I resigned to join the army in this brave endeavor. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m sure sir, that a man used to braving the world of politics is much more likely to be newsworthy than a humble soldier like myself.”

  “A humble soldier,” Weiss spoke. He had a goatee beard and a thin face. “That sounds good. Humble soldier secures peaceful liberation of Cuban village.”

  Casey closed his eyes in pain.

  Roosevelt smirked. “Too modest to take the credit for your work earlier today? I must say, Private Long, this is twice you’ve come to my attention, and each time you’ve been on the moral high ground. This unit needs people like you, Long, to show everyone that we Rough Riders are the best unit in the army. Not just through our martial prowess, but through our sense of right and just.” He nodded at the newspapermen who were scribbling furiously. Even now he was working on his image. Once a politician, always a politician.

  “Rough Riders, sir?” Casey asked.

  “Hell, yeah. No horses, so we’re riding rough, on foot through this harsh terrain. It has a great title, and the boys here love it. Yup, we’re gonna be the Rough Riders.” He pondered, gazing at Casey. “So tell me, soldier, why are you reluctant to assume the mantle of a hero?”

  “Sir.” Casey thought fast on a plausible answer. The one he couldn’t use was ‘sir, the Brotherhood of the Lamb will read it and come a-gathering to drag me away for all eternity until the Second Coming.’ Nope, that was not a sensible response. So he had to come up with a quick and understandable reply. “I’m ah, wanted by certain people in New Mexico. Uh, can I ask for discretion here, from these good gentlemen, sir?”

  Roosevelt looked interested, but he nodded. “They’ll be discreet. Go on.”

  “Ah, well sir, its like this. A man of my, ah, stature and experience, tends to find the lady-folk eager to make my acquaintance, even those who have, um, husbands.” He shrugged, affecting a rakish smile. “Got myself into big trouble down Santa Fe way with a few well-connected gentlemen who have employed some professional gunmen to satisfy their bruised egos at being, ah, cuckolded. You understand, sir?”

  The three reporters laughed. They got it all right. Roosevelt smirked. “Well, Long, I see you’re a man of many talents. I’m more interested in your fighting ability and your ability to think quick on your feet.”

  “I do that with the ladies, too, sir.”

  Roosevelt waved the guffawing reporters to quieten down. “Now, we want a real-life hero, so what I propose is to keep your exploits here to the military side, and maybe change your name to protect the guilty, what do you say?”

  Casey looked quickly at the three newspaper men, then nodded. “Alright, sir, I’ll accept that as long as you keep my name out of it and no photographs, because one look at my scarred face and they’ll be leaning on Governor Otero to have me pulled out of here and sent back to New Mexico, and that’d be a slap to your face, too, sir.”

  Roosevelt smiled thinly. “Leave the political back-stabbing to those versed in it, soldier. But I see your point. So, we’ll get some other heroic figure to pose for photographs. What I want you to do, Long, is to do your job and keep on doing it well. I’ll be following your progress very closely because I have the feeling you’re just the image we want in this conflict – other than me, of course.” Laughter. Casey obligingly smiled.

  Roosevelt then waved to Casey in dismissal. “Now get back to camp and get ready to move out. We’re off to Siboney in the morning.”

  “Sir?”

  “Leave the planning to the officers. You just do the job of the common soldier, Long.”

  Casey saluted, turned around, and marched out into the hammering sun. Siboney. Where the hell was that?

  CHAPTER SIX

  At it turned out, Siboney was a better landing site seven miles down the road to the west, and the Rough Riders were part of the advance force sent to secure it. They marched or slouched along the dirt road, sometimes through thick jungle, sometimes out in the open, in two columns. Casey thought they were a little too slack, but they’d only had a few months of training and were still rookies.

  Siboney was easily captured and they found some decent camping spots to pitch their tents that evening and settled down for some chow. It had been something of an anti-climax in taking the village, but they were much closer to Santiago now, the main city of this part of Cuba, and the Spanish army HQ in the eastern half of the island.

  Casey didn’t know this part of Cuba at all; he’d been in Havana previously, so this was all a new adventure to him. As they chatted about the day and the possible outcome of their campaign here, Sergeant Holland came past, shouting out that they were to get shut-eye early as they were due to be up and off at daybreak, and be armed for a fight.

  A fight! Excitement shivered through the men. At last, here was the chance to get to grips with the enemy. Root looked anxiously at Casey and Corrigan. “What’s it like, being in a fight?”

  Corrigan shrugged. “All I’ve been involved in is a gunfight with some no-good outlaw who wanted my horse, and I shot the fella through the chest good and proper. He couldn’t hit a thing with his Colt. Its loud and smelly, that’s all I can say.”

  “Depends on the arms and training,” Casey said.

  “What do you mean, Casey?” the Kid asked.

  “Well. Up to now rifles have been using black powder, and that smells like rotten eggs and gives off white smoke, so you can see your opponent. But the newer guns, like ours, don’t use that no more and you don’t see them until your head gets blown off.”

  Some around them laughed, a little forced. “So you gonna get your head blown off?” one asked.

  “Nope, don’t plan on having that done,” Casey shook his head. “Look, a bullet cracks past your ear. It’s like a whip crack but twenty times louder and you can’t help but put your head down, and that’s sensible. In this jungle,” he waved at the foliage around them, “the defender has the advantage. And the Spaniards have the double advantage of knowing this terrain well, while we don’t. In a gunfight, don’t stand up, keep down, take cover. Listen to your NCOs, or to me,” he added. “No heroics, no stupidity.”

  “Ever been shot?” someone else asked.

  “Yeah and it ain’t recommended.” There was laughter around the nearby fires. “Kicks like a mule, hurts like nothing in the world. Lucky we’re not facing Colt .45s or you’d have half your arm off in no time. Those soft-nosed rounds explode inside you, while rifle bullets tend to drill a hole through you.”

  “So what do the Spanish have?”

  “No idea,” Casey admitted. “We’ll only find out when we face them.”

  “I heard a couple of the supply guys say they had Mausers or something’ like that,” one of the others piped up. “German, aren’t they?”

  “Yep, indeed. In that case they’ll be decent then, and no smoke from their shots. Accurate and deadly. All of you will have to be on your guard.”

  “Great,” the Kid groaned, “knowing our luck we’ll run into their elite sharpshooter company.”

  “I heard they’re no good for anything,” another said from the darkness.

  Casey looked up from his breech cleaning. “Don’t go thinking that, any of you. The Spanish may not have a good reputation but they’re tough bastards and will fight hard, you mark my words. They’re better than any of you might think, and its only down to poor leadership they’ve got a bad reputation. The Spanish can be incredibly tough and dogged fighters.”

  They all turned in shortly afterwards and got some sleep, but were got up while it was still dark. There was a lot of grumbling,
farting, sneezing and urinating into the undergrowth as the army got themselves ready for a march through the jungle.

  They were lined up in their troop and Sergeant Holland faced them. “Alright you lot, listen well as I ain’t repeatin’ this. We’re to go along with the Buffalo Soldiers up the hills towards Las Guasimas to the north. It’s a ridge overlooking our advance so we gotta go secure it. We’re told the Spanish are dug in around there so we’re expecting a fight. We’re the western column, two hundred of us and two-twenty of the Negros. Be ready for anythin’. Load up, get up, shut up.”

  They moved out, carbines in their hands, pistols in their belts or holsters. Sabers were not used since they were not on horseback. The route they were to take was a narrow trail that ran along the western side of a long wide valley, in the middle of which ran a creek. The whole place was thick jungle and they stretched out in a long snaking column. Las Guasimas was a small place to the north, not really a settlement, but was where the two trails joined and would provide a decent supply route for the army on their march to Santiago.

  The heat glowed at them from all around and sweat ran freely down faces and inside their uniforms. The uniform was clearly too warm for the humid tropics, but nobody had thought of that when declaring war on Spain. Casey cursed the War Department. He wiped his brow for the umpteenth time and kept his eyes alert. Sometime somewhere someone would begin the shooting. As he was in the middle of the column he didn’t think he’d get it, but you could never tell.

  They climbed uphill gradually, but it was hard to tell just how high they were going, since most of their vision was restricted to a few paces thanks to the thick jungle. None of these guys here had much experience of this kind of foliage, and he was reminded of his time in the lands of the Teotec. The coast had been like this and the Jaguar warriors had sprung at them from seemingly nowhere to grab him and take him to their capital to be sacrificed. But of course, an immortal could not die, even with his heart cut out, and he had risen from the dead.