Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “What the hell?” Boogerbear rumbled.

  Leonor realized with a thrill of terror she quickly subdued that the thing looked like a gigantic cross between a turtle and a horned toad. It was heavily armored, with spiky projections around its protective shell, and wore another equally formidable shell on its head like a helmet. Bony protrusions protected small, beady red eyes. Four short legs supported it, at right angles to its body, and a strikingly long, spike-studded tail whipped menacingly behind it as it raised its head and snuffled the air.

  “It can’t see us,” Dwyer whispered shakily. “Not well, at any rate.”

  “It might hear us, you fool,” Anson hissed back. “Or smell us. Be silent. The rest of you, back away an’ give it a wide berth.”

  They backed their nervous horses as carefully as they could, each snapping twig renewing the creature’s belligerent attention, but soon they’d gained enough distance to go around. It utterly ignored them then, rooting violently along the base of a fallen tree, splintering rotten wood and greedily eating things in and around it. “That’s why there’s so little deadfall in the forest,” Boogerbear lowly rasped. “Critters like that tear dead trees to shreds.”

  “ ‘Critters like that’?” Dwyer softly, incredulously quoted. “Where have you seen ‘critters like that’ before?”

  Boogerbear glanced at the dragoon and shrugged. “Not sayin’ I have, but that’s what it does. Good thing it don’t see too good. Like a armadillo, it don’t have to, I guess. What’s gonna take ahold of it? Even the dragon that attacked the camp couldn’t harm it much.”

  “What could?” murmured one of the riflemen in a nervous tone. No one replied, and they pressed on to the north.

  The ground became more broken and they crossed a number of dry, rocky streambeds before they finally found a meager, stagnant pool of water. Flocks of lizardbirds exploded away as they approached, some clasping small fish in their jaws. The water looked foul and slimy and infested with bugs. Anson wouldn’t even let the horses drink it. Not yet.

  The forest began to thin, occasionally interspersed with grassy clearings, yet even as they finally smelled salt air and caught occasional glimmering glimpses of the sea they were reminded how fragile all their reasonable expectations had become because the clearings harbored the strangest beasts so far. Monstrous animals of different sorts as big as or bigger than a house grazed contentedly, also apparently oblivious to their presence. Some had long necks and tails, pulling and eating grass with great sweeping motions of disproportionately small heads, or plucking clusters of ferny leaves with piano key–like teeth from tree limbs high above. Others, lower to the ground but with heads just as excessively large, seemed to have no necks at all except for what was concealed under frilled and horny facial armor, like the “horned turtle,” only smoother and without a segmented appearance. Captain Anson took his patrol wide of them as well.

  “Buffalo act as peaceful as can be,” he told them softly, “until somethin’ gets close enough for ’em to notice.”

  Lieutenant Dwyer had had enough, and his voice carried a note of hysteria when he spoke. “Well, these aren’t buffalo, any more than that . . . thing eating a damned tree in the forest. I don’t know what they are. Does anyone? How could such creatures exist without someone knowing about them?!”

  There were mutters of agreement, and Leonor even heard the usually unflappable Sal Hernandez grimly say, “Estamos muertos y en el purgatorio.”

  “I figure they’re elephants,” Boogerbear said reassuringly. “I seen drawin’s of ’em once. In a book.”

  “Elephants like those things?” Dwyer demanded, almost shrill.

  Boogerbear hesitated, then confessed, “Not just like ’em, but I guess there might be different kinds. Maybe these’re the sorts from these parts.”

  “I don’t think there’s supposed to be elephants of any sort around here,” Leonor said, carefully controlling her tone. Damned if I’ll get all squeaky, like Dwyer, she insisted to herself. Boogerbear shrugged as if it made no difference to him.

  Her father must’ve heard the exchange but rode on in silence a moment before turning in his saddle to respond to them all in a voice just as low and calm as Boogerbear’s. “Yeah, the critters here are mighty strange. No question. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like ’em. But what’s even stranger is it’s a little past noon an’ we’ve come about seven miles. No wave carried our ship that far overland, leavin’ no sign of its passage.” He gestured around at the undisturbed foliage and dry ground, obvious to them all. “Of course somethin’s very damn wrong, so we better get hold of ourselves an’ stay sharp-eyed an’ thoughtful. We’re surrounded by mysteries an’ unknown threats. Focusin’ on what things ain’t—moderately self-evident by now—don’t help us watch out for what is.” He urged his horse ahead and continued briskly, “The sea’s close, an’ I suggest we concentrate on lookin’ for signs of habitation. At least a proper road or trail that’ll lead to such.”

  They were almost surprised when they found it; a rough, double-rutted pathway made by wagons or carts that extended as far to the east and west as they could see in the gloom of overhanging trees. They paid it little heed at the moment because the wind and surf were roaring loud and the white-capped sea was clearly visible beyond the final tree line. Most gripping of all, however, was the scene on the beach and in the water beyond. Another ship lay broken, right at the water’s edge, foaming surf wrapping around and seething past to climb what would’ve been a picturesque white sand beach, if not for all the debris deposited there.

  Leonor’s heart plummeted at the sight until she saw living men, perhaps two or three hundred, and horses as well. Nearly all were moving about and doing things. A long line of motionless, sky-blue-clad bodies was stretched out on the sand, but other lines of men, in drawers and shirtsleeves or naked, were knee-deep in the surf, handing kegs, crates, and other baggage out of the wreck and collecting it all in large heaps above the tide line. Cook fires smoldered in pits in the sand, and shelters had been rigged for other motionless men, but though there’d been no apparent effort to establish defensive works, two 12pdr field howitzers stood sentinel over the busy survivors.

  Leonor knew little of ships, but even she could tell this had been the stores and personnel transport USS Commissary, her larger size and distinctive features still recognizable, if even more thoroughly smashed than Mary Riggs’s. Perhaps the sea had scattered her splintered flotsam considerably more, but it also looked like she’d somehow fallen farther. That made an odd kind of sense. Leonor couldn’t be sure, of course, since the land was so generally flat, but it stood to reason sea level was lower than where Mary Riggs had come to rest. If the ships actually had somehow “fallen” from the same plane, Commissary would’ve come down harder, and it was a wonder there weren’t even more human forms lying still in the sand, and any horses alive at all. What suddenly filled Leonor with hope, however, were the two other ships riding at anchor some distance away from shore. One was the steamer Isidra, a haze of coal smoke streaming downwind from her stack. The other could only be the former British frigate they’d seen right before the storm. Both were largely dismasted, though the frigate still had the lower sections of her foremast and mainmast. Isidra had no masts at all and was relying entirely on her engine. It looked like she’d found the other ship and brought her here under tow. Boats were plying back and forth between them, as well as between the ships and shore.

  “Well,” Captain Anson said with satisfaction, “not exactly a ‘settlement,’ but Captain Cayce should be satisfied to learn we’re not entirely stranded, after all.”

  “That steamer can’t carry everyone,” Dwyer pointed out, probably coming to the same count Leonor made. Close to six hundred men including those we left behind, but not counting those still afloat.

  “No, but it can fetch other ships.”

  An alarmed, wind-muffled shouting gre
eted the riders as they emerged onto the beach. A dozen or so infantrymen snatched bayonet-bristling muskets and black, white-strapped cartridge boxes from tripods and hurried in their direction, laboring through the fine, snowy sand and throwing little geysers from churning, hobnailed shoes.

  “Hold up,” called Leonor’s father. “Those fellas seem a little on edge. We’ll wait for ’em to come to us.”

  Captain Anson and his Rangers, including Leonor, had been the first to appear, and their irregular dress clearly left the approaching men unsure whether to point their muskets at them as they neared, but Dwyer’s dragoons and the riflemen noticeably reassured them. They looked calm, though winded, by the time they came to a stop. The sergeant in charge promptly shouldered his musket and brought his left arm across his body to perform a proper salute. “Lieutenant,” he said to Dwyer, eyes on Anson. “Sergeant Ulrich, B Company, Third Regiment of Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. Enlisted for the duration,” he quickly added with a glance back at Dwyer. Leonor chuckled inwardly. In spite of everything, the sergeant’s first impulse was to deter a regular officer’s contempt for short-term volunteers whose enlistments invariably seemed to expire right before major actions. Dwyer and Anson returned the salute, fingers touching their small wheel-hat visors, palm out, and Leonor’s father told the man who they were. Regardless of rank, Sergeant Ulrich seemed at a loss for who to address and compromised by glancing at both as he spoke. “Off one of the other ships, I guess? Please come with me. Colonel De Russy’ll be glad to see you and hear your news.”

  “Lead the way,” Anson said.

  “Private Cox, you’re with me,” Ulrich told a tall, skinny, towheaded kid. “The rest of you, carry on.” He glanced back at Anson. “Have to keep a guard up. Things . . .” He hesitated and frowned. “Things seem very queer hereabouts, and the lads’re uneasy.”

  “You don’t say?” Anson replied dryly. “Dismount,” he told his small command. “We’ll lead the horses from here.” He stepped down himself, unconsciously removing the pommel holsters from his saddle and, like always, draping them over his shoulder. Drawing a lot of stares, combining relief, concern, and tired indifference from men working to salvage the wreck, they followed Sergeant Ulrich and Private Cox through the well-organized labor up to a place where the forest protruded farther onto the beach. There was another unmanned 12pdr and a large number of tents and other shelters rigged directly to the trees. Leonor noted with surprise there were two more horses wearing unfamiliar saddles, blankets, and saddle rolls, held by an infantryman. Then it dawned on her the equipment wasn’t unfamiliar at all. Those are Mexican horses! A glance at her father told her he’d noticed as well, and his expression sharpened.

  “Just a little farther,” Sergeant Ulrich said. A broad fly had been erected under the trees, and quite a few men were seated on folding wooden chairs in a semicircle around a smallish table covered with bottles and a large porcelain pitcher.

  “Stay here,” Anson snapped at the men around him, tossing his horse’s reins to one of the riflemen and advancing with Dwyer toward the others, several of whom rose at his approach. Disregarding the order, Boogerbear, Sal Hernandez, and Leonor followed as they always did. Most of the men under the fly were American officers, apparently sitting closer to the table in order of seniority, but there were also a couple of civilians. One was a slight, tired-looking man of about forty, wearing spectacles, a civilian vest, and matching trousers. The fabric was dark but seemed stained with blood. The once-fluffy cravat around his neck was crumpled and soiled. The other was very large and round, and despite the sweat running on red, pudgy cheeks above a bristly beard, he still wore a coat and was dressed all in black.

  As suspected, there was also a young Mexican officer dressed in a medium blue tailcoat with scarlet collar, epaulettes, and cuffs, and dark blue breeches with scarlet seam stripes, tucked in a pair of black knee boots. To Leonor’s surprise, the eyes regarding her were almost purple, like fire-blued steel, and the man’s dark hair had a reddish tinge. By contrast, the enlisted companion behind him wore only fragments of military garb and looked half-black, half-Indian. Despite the obvious fact the officer, at least, had taken pains to make himself presentable, his face appeared haunted, and his uniform was anything but new and crisp. Leonor watched her father studiously ignore the Mexicans as he presented himself and Dwyer.

  A heavyset officer with graying side whiskers and a wisp of black hair on his sweaty, uncovered head was wearing the shoulder boards of a lieutenant colonel. Smiling, he stood and shook Anson’s and Dwyer’s hands. “I’m Colonel Ruberdeau De Russy, congressional representative of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Perhaps you’ve heard of me,” he added, smiling wider. “My beloved constituents call me ‘Rube.’ ” Noting the blank stares, he sighed and tugged self-deprecatingly at his uniform. “I’m currently otherwise occupied, as you see, by Governor Shunk’s appointment.” He frowned. “I’m proud to serve my country, of course, but I fear dear Governor Shunk’s true purpose was to whisk me off before the next election. I’ve considered challenging him. He’s not a well man, you know.” De Russy shook his head and beamed again. “But by God, what a relief it is to see you!” He gestured back at the rest of the party. “I assume you came ashore from one of the other ships? Was it Xenophon or Mary Riggs?” He waved up and down the coast. “Where does she lie?” He nodded out to sea. “I hope she’s in better condition than those floating wrecks. I find this delay in reaching our destination most inconvenient!”

  Lieutenant Dwyer could only stare at the man incredulously, realizing that no matter how well trained or professional these volunteer troops might be, politically appointed officers, often with no military experience at all, were one of the biggest problems with them.

  Anson glanced quickly at the Mexicans, then cleared his voice. “I’m relieved to see you as well, Colonel De Russy. More than I can say. But I regret to inform you Mary Riggs is in no better shape than Commissary, an’ she ‘lies’ onshore some distance to the south, nowhere near the water. Like you, we suffered casualties, an’ had other . . . unexpected adventures. I don’t know where Xenophon is, an’ don’t have any idea where we are. One thing’s sure: this ain’t the Yucatán shore we saw in the distance before that damn storm struck.”

  There was a babble of voices and De Russy sat back and scowled at the Mexican officer. “Oddly enough, that’s what this fellow’s been trying to tell us. My apologies, gentlemen. Allow me to present Alferez—which means ‘Ensign,’ I’m told—Ramon Lara, representing a detachment of a light mounted regiment. He came to parley, under a flag of truce,” he warned the Ranger.

  “This is not Yucatán!” the young man insisted in carefully precise English.

  “Then where are we?” Anson demanded hotly. “Farther west? Where?”

  “If I knew, I would tell you, but it cannot be to the west. All should be la jungla . . . jungle? Yes, jungle there. And here it should be . . . much different. This is nowhere I or any of my men know.” He sighed. “At the request of the government of Yucatán,” he said with a defiant glance at Anson, whom he apparently recognized as a Ranger, “my patrol was scouting the coastline for smugglers bringing arms to the rebels.” He looked back at the others. “But we also were much to the south of here. This should be the bottom of the sea! An unnatural storm came suddenly upon us and swept up my entire command as if by a tornado! It carried us into the sky and dropped us to earth, but not where we were before.” He looked back at Anson. “Six of my soldados and nine horses were killed. We could only mount all my men by distributing the baggage. But we too had further ‘adventures’ and were set upon by terrible monsters that could not be killed by bullets.” He looked at De Russy. “We fled to the coast, and here we found you.” He shrugged. “It appeared you had been ravaged by the same hellish storm. The same . . . la tormenta.” He frowned. “We may be enemies, but all are the enemies of hell. Seeing no alternative, I trusted that you would b
e honorable enough to respect a truce while we confer as common victims of El Diablo. The Devil.”

  “Nonsense!” cried a lieutenant. “Storms of hell? Monsters immune to bullets? This is the same madness that’s taken many here!”

  “You just came ashore, Lieutenant,” De Russy rebuked him in a tired tone, completely unlike his greeting.

  “You’ve seen the things the Mexican spoke of?” Anson asked.

  “Not as such,” De Russy demurred. “Some of the fellows, better woodsmen than I—and who isn’t!—described disconcerting tracks. Other men fired on grotesque shadows annoying the dead last night.” He bit his lip. “But that’s only to be expected, isn’t it?” He rolled his eyes upward. “And then there are these confounded birds, always swooping and nipping. Vicious little brutes! But no, we’ve been too busy saving ourselves and our equipment to mount a proper scout, and no one has precisely seen anything well enough to give a credible description”—his eyes narrowed at the impetuous lieutenant—“unless you credit the tales from the ships.”

  “They claim there are swarms of things in the water, like fish, that behave like small, insatiable sharks,” interjected the smaller civilian.”Some men killed in the storm were buried at sea, and the sailors swear they were torn to shreds before they even sank from sight.” He nodded at the men working around the wreck. “Thank God whatever got them doesn’t seem to take to shallow water.” He looked back at Anson, shaking his head. “But other sailors claim to have seen bigger things in the distance, huge things, swimming like porpoises but with great, rainbow-colored fins.” He pursed his lips. “The trauma of tragedy does things to the mind.”

  Standing with exhausted effort, he extended his hand as well. “Dr. Francis Newlin, at your service—though I hope you don’t need me just now.”

  “Dr. Newlin’s a civilian physician engaged by the officers of the Third Pennsylvania,” put in a ruddy-faced major sitting by De Russy, “and thank God for him. He’s better than the army quacks pretending to be so busy on Isidra. I brought a couple over this morning to help attend the hurt, but I fear their incompetence has only aggravated the doctor’s fatigue. He came here at our request for refreshment when our Mexican visitors came to call.”