“Goddamn!” wailed a man at the breastworks as the arrows rained down. None hit anybody. “Won’t they just quit?”
“They quit when we kill ’em,” Sergeant Ulrich shouted gamely. “Stop wastin’ your breath an’ get ready for the bastards!”
“You don’t think we might get reinforcements? Captain Cayce said they’d come for us if we didn’t return,” Leonor asked her father as they crouched by Lara. Most of his men were around him, now armed with American muskets and bayonets.
“He will too,” Anson replied with certainty, “but he gave us until this evenin’. He won’t come until tomorrow mornin’, an’ if we’re . . . no longer occupyin’ the enemy, they’ll just turn on him and chop his column apart.”
“He’ll know there’s a fight here,” Leonor said with certainty. “Boogerbear an’ Sal would’ve seen it as they went, if nothin’ else. They’ll bring him today.”
“If they got through,” Anson cautioned his daughter.
The lizard warriors on the beach never pulled back to the trees. Responding to harsh-voiced commands, they just came on again, whipped into a frenzy but walking slowly, straight into the withering fire.
“They’re bringin’ the next assault to us fresh,” murmured someone in disbelief. His voice rose to near hysteria. “They’re dyin’ to block ’em from our fire so the ones behind can hit us without breakin’ a sweat, by God!”
“Shut up, you, or I’ll have you sweatin’ when this is done,” Sergeant Ulrich threatened, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
“Your men are finished,” Alferez Lara whispered at Anson. “This attack will break them.”
“So?” Anson whispered back. “What do you propose?”
“We leave,” Lara urged. “We go to the horses and ride out due west. Past the Indian pickets, there should now be few warriors.”
“Like hell,” Leonor hissed. “Run away? You’re just a damn coward.”
“No, he’s right,” Anson said, and Leonor gaped at him. The firing was intensifying, the men using their last measure of energy and hope to kill these terrible things before they came to grips again. Few could doubt it would be the last time, and there was no talking except for the growing, panicked calls for more ammunition. “Somebody has to break out an’ warn Captain Cayce so he isn’t caught out on the march,” Anson insisted. “That’s you,” he told his daughter, “along with Lara and his men, our dragoons, an’ however many mounted riflemen Major Reed’ll let me send with you. More riflemen came ashore from Isidra with the regular infantry while we were gone yesterday.” They were no longer whispering. The firing and roaring tumult of the terrible enemy had them shouting now, yet only Leonor, Anson, Lara, and, slightly to Leonor’s father’s apparent surprise, Barca had moved close enough to hear.
“You’ll ask Major Reed?” Lara spoke carefully. “He might stop us.”
“No. He’ll agree to the necessity. I’ve no idea if Colonel De Russy would.” Anson regarded Barca. “What do you think? You know him best.”
“Colonel De Russy’s a good man,” Barca temporized, “but he’s . . . strongly focused on here, right now.”
Leonor was furious. She knew her father was right about warning Captain Cayce, but he was the better choice to lead a breakout. He clearly meant to stay, and sending her was another blatant attempt to protect her. No, she’d remain by him as she always had, no matter what. “The dragoons can lead. They know the way. I won’t go,” she said stubbornly.
“You will,” Anson almost roared over the mounting thunder of battle. “For most of your life I’ve spoiled you badly, lettin’ you do as you wanted. Even to the point of takin’ you to war! That’s on my head. I couldn’t bear to be away from you after all we both lost an’ thought only I could protect you—even from the danger I took you to. I considered it less . . . evil than what you might face—had faced—alone.” He gestured at the advancing wall of monsters. “But this . . . ! This time, for once, you’ll do as I say!”
Leonor had looked away as he spoke, he probably thought in anger or shame, but now she held up a hand.
“I’ll accept no argu . . .” Anson began hotly, but Leonor cried out, “Listen!”
At first they only heard fighting. It had swelled to all-encompassing proportions, the men struggling to load and fire their balky, filthy muskets as fast as they could to kill just a few more terrifying monsters before they had to rely on their blood-crusty bayonets once more. That contest would be a short one, this time. The shielding rank of lizards were throwing their spears, taking a toll, and the defense was much weakened by casualties, exhaustion, and finally the mounting certainty of doom. But above the din, off to the east, there was a different, wholly unexpected sound.
“A bugle,” Lara said excitedly. The infantrymen here, volunteers and regulars, had only used fifes and drums to signal. “Who has bugles?”
* * *
Captain Lewis Cayce had led a hundred and eighty men and all the horses (to pull his four-gun battery and mount a handful of dragoons) on a nightlong march through a tighter, more difficult tract of the tangled forest. Using minimal light—just three one-side lanterns spaced along the length of the column and making eerie shadows that frightened the men—it was a grueling, nerve-racking ordeal. Warmaster Varaa’s human Ocelomeh led and screened the blundering column to warn of large monsters and chase smaller ones away, but apparently the enigmatic cat-person had been right about big, noisy groups being relatively safe. And she wasn’t much worried about discovery by the enemy, at least until they reached the promised road. The going got easier then, and the weary little army made better time, drawing inexorably closer to the sound of battle.
Briskly walking near the head of the column, just behind their squad of Rangers and dragoons, with Ocelomeh scouts ahead, Lewis and Holland kept pestering Varaa for information. She seemed willing enough to give them dreaded, half-suspected answers to most of their questions and even revealed that her species, Mi-Anakka, wasn’t native to this land, though the willingness of their people here to follow and revere her kind implied there’d been other visitors in the past. She offered no other information along those lines. Through the combined efforts of Koaar and Boogerbear, who dropped back on his horse to help with Father Orno’s strange Spanish, however, they learned more about the priest and his “True Christians.” Some of Captain Holland’s sailors, forming a protective guard around the officers, were actually Indians from another Yucatán—for Varaa-Choon confirmed that was indeed essentially where they were—and they recognized some of the Mayan words and phrases mixed in. As best Lewis could tell, Father Orno was no more an actual “papist” than he was, and his people’s version of Christianity didn’t significantly (to Lewis) differ from that of most of the men under his command, from Roman Catholic to Presbyterian. It had, in fact, bridged most of the outstanding differences by focusing more on the actions and teachings of Jesus himself rather than strict adherence to any particular dogma. If anything, it was only rigid in its nondenominationalism.
And that was the root of his people’s problem.
The only “Pope” Father Orno knew was “His Supreme Holiness,” the religious and secular ruler of the “Holy Dominion,” which had, over time, apparently combined the somewhat militant Christianity brought to this world by a Spanish Manila-Acapulco galleon perhaps two centuries before with the barbaric and bloody rituals of “indigenous” peoples they encountered. Stubborn adherents to “true” beliefs, both Christian and native, were increasingly marginalized and persecuted, and ultimately forced to flee beyond the reach of the growing Dominion Empire. This attack by the always troublesome but previously religiously indifferent Holcanos and their Grik allies was merely the mask on the face of the Dominion, the sword in its hand, wielded to wipe out the “heretics” opposed to Dominion expansion. Lewis understood that well. The French and English had often used the Indians of North America—his North Amer
ica—as proxies and auxiliaries. But though there’d been elements of religious bigotry (Protestant versus Catholic) involved in those conflicts—many still lingering among Lewis’s own men—it seemed faith was the principal source of contention here. Lewis disliked religious disputes even more than political, especially when they were combined. But he hated tyranny in any form and found he rather liked Father Orno and immediately sympathized with his people. And even with only the most rudimentary understanding of the Dominion as yet, the mere fact its allies were attacking shipwrecked Americans was enough to dispose him against it.
“My Ocelomeh are here,” Koaar said suddenly, as a couple dozen ghostly figures materialized alongside the column from the gloom. One leather-clad figure trotted up and whispered in Koaar’s ear almost before Lewis knew they were there. He was disconcerted that they’d just appeared that way, without warning, but then it had been their own people screening the Americans who’d let them through. They could’ve wiped us out, he realized with an uncomfortable squirming sensation in his gut. Final proof we really are on the same side, I suppose.
Koaar spoke to Varaa-Choon in a completely unrecognizable language, presumably their own, and they began to step away. “I must leave you now,” Varaa said. They’d only vaguely planned their attack, hopefully employing their respective strengths, but Lewis still wished they could’ve prepared better. They just didn’t know each other well enough, so they had to keep it simple. “The road is clear, and you should come up on the side of the enemy attack by midmorning at the latest. Move more carefully the closer you get,” she warned. “I don’t know how you’ll use your men or great guns, but you must attack at once if you mean to save your people. Things are going hard for them. We go now to position ourselves behind the enemy, and your attack will be our signal to strike.” Varaa-Choon blinked rapidly, and Lewis got the impression she was just as worried about whether she could trust him. “Make haste,” she urged. “I’ll leave the scouts in front of you, and do keep Father Orno safe.”
“Are you sure you don’t need any of my men?” Lewis asked. “The dragoons, at least?”
Varaa hesitated. “Your riders would be welcome in an open ground fight, but we must move quickly and quietly through the forest. Horses can’t do both.” She grinned, displaying canines that gleamed in the darkness. “For this fight, at least, we’ll each do what we’re used to, until we learn from one another.” With that, she was gone, and so were the rest of her warriors, as if they’d melted into the trees.
“Spooky,” Captain Holland said. The sailor had insisted on coming, to lead his “company” of sailors. Lewis was glad. Holland had already proven his steadiness, and the way he walked with a brand-new 1835 Springfield cradled in his arm, he was at least as comfortable with a musket as his men. “They just come and go, like a puff o’ smoke.”
Lewis nodded. “Yes. I hope the enemy finds them equally surprising.” He paused. “I won’t even suggest that you keep your men back, since we may need every musket. I would, however, be obliged if you’d see to the safety of Father Orno.” He raised his voice. “You as well, Corporal Beeryman. You and Private Hernandez can not only converse with him better than most, but can carry him to safety if necessary.”
Sal and Boogerbear both pulled up their horses and waited for Lewis, Holland, and Father Orno to join them. “We’re here to fight,” Sal said simply. “Our captain and his . . . son are fighting now. We’ll help.”
Boogerbear glanced at his companion, then looked back at Lewis. “Sal’s right, sir, but so are you. Tell you what: we’ll take turns watchin’ over the padre. Why, he can hop up behind me now an’ save wear on his dogs. I wouldn’t mind polishin’ my Mex’kin, an’ maybe I can pick up some o’ his other lingo?”
Lewis was impressed by the giant, hairy Ranger. Before they set out, Lewis very roughly explained to all the men that the bizarre, terrible storm they’d endured had somehow swept them much farther than they’d imagined possible. It likely wasn’t purgatory (he’d said that with a laugh he hoped was convincing), but it certainly wasn’t hell or any other unholy or supernatural place. It was only unknown, very strange, and obviously dangerous due to the abundance of undiscovered creatures they’d encountered. Helpless, bookish naturalists became famous every day because of odd little places and beetles they stumbled across, so just think of the stories they’d be able to tell! He’d then motivated them for this endeavor by reminding them they were American soldiers who could overcome any obstacle if they stuck together, and rescuing their comrades trapped at the shore would increase their numbers and chances.
He’d revealed as much of what Varaa-Choon confirmed as he thought he could, as promised, but couldn’t bear to lay the full weight upon them just yet: that they were indeed on an entirely different world. Especially since he himself didn’t understand how, as Varaa-Choon tried to explain, this different world was still the same, only . . . altered in some way. All cultures had different legends explaining how that could be, how people from the world they knew—perhaps even others—were drawn here from time to time, but Varaa-Choon predictably dismissed all but her own belief that the “Maker of All Things” had made many worlds, as alike and as different as a handful of musket balls. He could do whatever he wanted with them, even taking from one to put on another.
Absolutely worst of all, as far as Varaa-Choon knew, no one had ever found a way back where they came from.
Lewis decided it was better to ease the men into that, as they likely came to suspect it for themselves. Obviously, Boogerbear already did, his sudden willingness to learn a local language making it clear he expected to be here a long time. But as far as Lewis knew, Boogerbear was like him and had no family. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for men who did when the full truth was known.
For the present, however, they’d soon have a fight on their hands. For the very first time since he rode with Major Ringgold and his battery out on the hot, muggy, cordgrass plain of Palo Alto, he found he wasn’t afraid of what the battle would “do” to him and actually relished the prospect. Compared to what they’d been through and the dread of what was to come, battle was straightforward and easy to understand.
He smiled at Father Orno, now grinning sincerely back. “By all means, ask him if he’d like a ride, though he seems fit enough to walk us all into the ground.”
The distant battle flared again, the sound deadened by the wind and surf churning the shore close at hand, but they were getting closer. The sky didn’t seem as dark either, and Lewis knew the long night was coming to an end. Lieutenant Olayne trotted up beside him, and they both chuckled at the irony: the “flying artilleryman” on foot, and the young foot artilleryman mounted on one of their few horses. “How are they holding up, Lieutenant?” Lewis asked.
“Tired, sir,” Olayne replied, face turning grave.
“Any stragglers?”
“None.” Olayne snorted. “The men on foot would rather march themselves to death than fall back and be eaten, but I fear for their strength in the fight. Even the men riding horses pulling the guns and caissons, or sitting on the limbers . . . One went to sleep and fell off a limber. He was nearly crushed to death by the gun hitched behind.” He shuddered at the thought of the narrow, wrought-iron tires bearing the full weight of a gun and carriage rolling over a man. It would practically cut him in half.
“Lucky,” Lewis said. “Was he seriously injured?”
“No. And I doubt he’ll fall asleep again.”
“He’ll have nightmares when he does,” Lewis predicted.
Olayne nodded ahead. “Still fighting. Can’t we give the men a short rest?”
Lewis sighed. “No. Our . . . allies are sure the enemy will mount their strongest attack shortly after dawn. If we stop even for a moment, as tired as everyone is, we’ll never get half of them moving again.”
Olayne nodded grimly.
They pressed on like that,
slogging along, far past exhaustion, as the sun rose up and the heat bore down. Sweat-gushing men were encouraged to drink their fill since they’d brought some of the water they’d saved from the wreck in casks secured to caissons. Varaa-Choon assured they’d have all the water they needed after the battle, and Lewis was uncomfortably aware he had to trust the Mi-Anakka in this as well. Lack of water could destroy his force just as surely as the battle, or any other form of treachery at this point. He feared he’d been too trusting, but what choice did he have? He’d been swayed by the testimony of Privates Hudgens and Meder—both riding to the fight on a limber in spite of their injuries—the Infantry Lieutenant Manley, now commanding the foot artillery armed with muskets, and the two Rangers, of course. Ultimately, he’d gone with his gut. If they couldn’t trust Varaa-Choon, they were all dead anyway.
Lieutenant Burton came galloping back, an Ocelomeh warrior clinging on behind. Reining up, he pushed a cloud of dust before him as the gasping horse dug in its hooves. “Just ahead, sir!” he declared. “This fellow has been watching.”
The man jabbered excitedly at Father Orno, who spoke with equal passion to Boogerbear and Sal Hernandez.
“They’ve brought up all their lizardy reserves an’ are fixin’ to make a big push. Our boys are hard up, weak, an’ wore out. They won’t make it through.”
The firing, much closer now, had been continuous but desultory for some time. Now they heard it rapidly quicken, growing more frenzied.
“How far?” Lewis demanded.
“Barely a quarter mile, sir,” Burton said. “Just around the bend in the road. It curves in on the other side of that spur of trees.”
Lewis’s head jerked back and forth as he took things in and made quick decisions. “Lieutenant Olayne, take all the guns down on the beach through this cut and advance them abreast at the run. Pray the sand is harder than it looks, but you’ll lash the horses to death if you must. Lieutenant Burton, all the dragoons will take up more of your fellows who are afoot and deploy between the guns when they unlimber. Lieutenant Manley?”
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