The Split

Chapter 12

Cuba, 1898

There was yelling, lots of yelling. Blue and tan uniforms whirled around moving equipment and readying horses near the base of the hill, nearby I could hear the crashing of cannon fire and sounds of battle coming from far to our left. The number of screams reverberating off the hills indicated that things were going poorly. I looked up to the summit of Kettle to see Spanish artillery, and infantrymen staring down at our position, waiting for orders to engage.

There were few cannons on the ground even near the front of our lines, most sat untended. It seemed like Henry was right. The Spanish had a large artillery advantage here, and we were going to take massive casualties on both sides of the hill.

As if in response to my fear, I heard the dull rolling of wheels behind me and looked over my shoulder. Our salvation stood just a few yards behind me, rolling along the grass, two men pushing it on either side. The brainchild of a man intending to create a death machine so absurd it proved war futile, Dr. Gatling's "Gatling Gun" had done anything but that. I looked over the gun to see two more coming from the same direction, flanked by mounted rifleman on either side. If anything could help give us an edge, this was it.

I had seen a Gatling Gun back in my own time on many occasions. Our city museum had acquired one from a private collector and had it staged in my favorite exhibit. Many times as a young boy I would gaze upon the gun, glancing from each mannequin soldier placed behind it, as I tried to imagine the sounds and feelings such a terrifying weapon would produce.

My reverie was broken by the sounds of shouting in front of me. Two men on horseback were arguing, about 50 feet away near the back of the front line. Both had patches covering their uniforms to indicate their status as officers. The bigger of the two had his back turned, but from the smaller man's face and tone I could tell that it was he who was in charge around here.

"Shafter has yet to give an order and until he does you and your men have been ordered to hold this position! We plan our attack by the midmorning sun!" the smaller man screamed, doing his best to maintain an air of authority.

The bigger man responded in a louder voice, "We'll all die if we stay here! Good God look around you man! Shafter isn't here; he doesn't know what we need or even what's happening!"

"Are you saying that we should break command?" the smaller man said with an air of cold defiance. Silence followed this question, as the bigger man, still turned around, measured his response.

"No, damn you, I'm saying that instead of listening to a man drinking brandy in his tent five miles away, we take this bloody hill before we lose the whole army! My men aren't here because they signed some papers and were ordered to. We came because we knew the only freedom worth having is that you fight for. These are good boys, from the best schools and families; they don't need to be here. We are here to defend God and country and we can't do that when we're about to be BLOWN TO BITS AT THE BOTTOM OF A HILL!"

The smaller man had no response, sitting in his saddle with a deflated look. I felt a shiver of excitement run up my body, it was him; President freaking Roosevelt was just a few yards in front of me. What was I going to say? Not talking to him was out of the question, I had been presented with an opportunity that shouldn't have even been possible. It seems fate had somehow been rewritten, and this was its purpose.

I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder, nerves on edge from excitement. It was the Buffalo Soldier from the camp entrance earlier. He stared at me in respectful deference as if waiting for me to talk first.

"Uh hello?"

The scene felt awkward. Did he have something to say or was he merely acknowledging my presence through touch?