Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “Critters won’t leave much,” Leonor said mildly, speaking for the first time.

  Lewis glared at her and answered hotly, even as he was struck by the apparent reversal of their ordinary tones, “Even better if all they find is gnawed armor and bones, and shreds of yellow uniforms.”

  Things were starting to happen, and Periz looked about to say or ask something else. Anson stepped forward and steered him and his attendants away, his daughter and now Samantha watching. “Major Cayce comes off all mild and friendly, but I’ve seen him like this before. He’ll get cold an’ calm when the fight starts, but when men’s lives he feels responsible for are on the line, he gets crazy to get on the move to do somethin’ for ’em. That’s one of the best things about him, in a way, ’cause he’d feel the same for me or you. But if I were you, I’d stay out of his way right now. Especially if you’re fixin’ to try an’ stop him.”

  Periz was blinking, much like Varaa would, but there was no meaning to it. “But the Doms!” he said at last. “They’re practically here!”

  “As we knew they would be, eventually,” Varaa said, stepping up beside Anson, tail whipping behind her.

  “But . . . they’re actually almost here! I somehow thought . . .”

  “They’d never really come?” Varaa asked severely. “That our preparations would simply scare them away? No, Alcalde Periz, the Doms are coming, and we’ll fight them. And as Lewis Cayce said, we’ll kill them. Make your peace with that, because there’ll be no more peace of any sort until we win—or die.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Somehow, the same grizzled old Ocelomeh warrior who found the vantage point where Lieutenant Burton watched the Dom buildup at Campeche was not only still alive but had managed to return from another dangerous scout up the road toward Uxmal. He found Coryon, Ixtla, and Espinoza, along with their six surviving dragoons, thirty-three lancers, and two of Ixtla’s six remaining mounted Ocelomeh (the others keeping watch behind), concealed in the sultry woods near the washboard glade, where the Americans made their last camp on their way to Uxmal.

  “They still don’t know we’re behind them?” Coryon asked when the man dropped from his horse and squatted in the leafy needles in front of him. He was referring to the Dominion lancers between them and Hayne’s detachment. “Those devils screening the main Dom army certainly know we’re here,” he added grimly. There’d been a few vicious scrapes on both sides of the dead city of Nautla, first when Coryon’s small force was caught from behind, and again when it was driven away from watching what the enemy did when they arrived there in force.

  Ixtla translated the question and reply. “So intent on pursuing Sergeant Hayne, they seem to have no notion of us. They don’t even watch behind them,” Ixtla added significantly. “It appears our efforts to prevent communication have been successful.” They’d caught and killed eight couriers. “I would expect them to start, however,” he continued sourly. “Even if only because they’ve had no contact with the army behind them. They’ll leave watchers to report its approach.”

  Espinoza grimaced. “If we don’t smash through the Doms ahead of us, we’ll be squeezed to death or forced aside into the woods, unable to report what we saw to our friends.”

  “Forty-odd of us against two hundred?” Coryon asked with a small, grim smile.

  “He says closer to three hundred,” Ixtla said with a glance at the scout.

  Espinoza tilted his head at the almost disinterested-looking man, now gnawing a strip of jerky. “Some of us should live to carry word.”

  Coryon reluctantly nodded. They’d lingered near Nautla long enough to watch the enemy begin to deploy as if for an attack and start practicing with their artillery against the city’s ruins. By Lewis Cayce’s standards, even those of the foot and coastal artillerymen he’d brought to this world, Dom gunnery was slow and inaccurate, their weapons of an older, heavy-for-caliber style, mounted on cumbersome, solid-wheel, split-trail carriages. But even Coryon could tell their field artillery was much more modern than the crude cannons they’d salvaged from the galleon. They also fired metal roundshot instead of stone. He didn’t know if it was iron or copper, but that didn’t matter, since their monstrous siege guns in particular had utterly shattered portions of the standing ruins of Nautla. They’d make equally short work of the walls around Uxmal from a distance even Lewis’s best guns couldn’t reply. “Some of us have to get through,” Coryon finally agreed aloud. “I don’t know Cayce well enough to say for sure, but he doesn’t strike me as the static defense sort. Why work so hard to make flying artillery out of foot artillery? I doubt he means to meet the Doms behind the walls of the city. But what if he has no choice? What if . . . others”—he glanced fleetingly at Ixtla—“feel so secure behind their walls they won’t let him go beyond them? He has to be told that can’t work.”

  Coryon caught the expectant expressions on the tired faces gathered around. “Mount up,” he said, then looked at the old Ocelomeh. “Lead us back to the enemy, if you please.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Lewis’s rapidly assembled force, moving quickly, was nearing a rare, bald, grassy mound in the midst of a small clearing about three miles from the city. They’d thought of camping their refugee army there on its way to Uxmal, instead of at the more distant washboard glade, but it wasn’t as open, and the sinister trees would’ve been too close to the tents. It was perfect for what Lewis had in mind now. He and Anson, Varaa, and Leonor were riding at the head of the column, and Captain Wagley and Lieutenant Joffrion galloped forward to join them when Lewis called a halt. It had been oppressively humid in the dense woods, but when they left cover, the midafternoon sun beat brutally down. The place was like a narrow, grassy lake in the forest, barely two hundred yards wide but several hundred yards long, dominated by a rounded hump with large, weathered stones exposed at its summit. The short, browning blades of grass they remembered were now tall and green, drawing large beasts that munched contentedly in small herds differentiated by their bizarre shapes. A cloud of lizardbirds hovered over the trees to the south, joined by larger things that looked like flying Grik and acted like monstrous vultures. Those are the things that “flew off” when the boys went to inspect the dead pile the morning after Lieutenant Swain was killed, Lewis now knew. Some great predator must’ve made a kill over there. This many “prey” animals must surely attract them. He pursed his lips. Like the Uxmalos draw the Doms.

  A cloud of fine dust was rising beyond the rise. Moments later, six riders appeared, pounding toward them, dun-and-black-striped ponies laboring mightily. Two were obviously Boogerbear and Sergeant Buisine of the 3rd Dragoons, who’d accompanied a pair of Varaa’s Ocelomeh scouts. They’d been joined by more Jaguar Warriors, possibly those Sergeant Hayne met.

  Buisine saluted when the group drew up. “They’re coming, sir, maybe three hundred lancers. No guns or infantry, but they’re barely a mile and a half behind us.” He gestured to the strange Ocelomeh. “These fellas seen ’em. Others are screening their flanks. If they leave the road, we’ll know.”

  “They’re coming right at us?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lewis turned to look behind. Between Dukane’s section of two howitzers and their crews, Lieutenant Joffrion’s dragoons, and Lieutenant Felix Meder’s mounted riflemen—many riding double with some saddle-sore and resentful members of the 3rd Pennsylvania—Lewis had about four hundred men. An advantage in numbers, but they weren’t prepared for this. He wasn’t particularly prepared for the reception he had to conjure on the fly, but the position gave him his plan. “Captain Wagley, how many infantry do you have?”

  “About ninety, sir.”

  “Very well. Have them dismount and form a line at the top of that rise, refusing the road, flags flying. I’ll join you presently.” He looked at Joffrion and Felix as Wagley shouted commands, taken up by NCOs, and men slid gingerly down from the horses. “The dragoons and riflemen will dis
mount as well, horse holders to the rear, and take positions at the edge of these woods. No flags, and stay out of sight. Dukane,” he called to B Battery’s commander.

  “Sir?”

  “I hate to split your section in its first action, but we must.” He pointed vaguely northwest and southeast. “I want a gun on either side of the road, all the riflemen and dragoons between you.” He grinned. “You’ll be in position to rake the enemy without mercy after they ‘rout’ our infantry, do you understand?” Dawning comprehension came, and Lieutenant Dukane nodded with grim satisfaction. “We’ll lay ’em in fast and hot, sir.”

  “I know.” Turning to his other officers, already shouting commands, he raised his voice. “I’ll be with the infantry. Captain Anson will command here.” Anson started to protest, but Lewis shook his head. “When the enemy pushes the infantry back, and they will, I don’t know how close behind us they’ll be. We must make it convincing, mustn’t we, boys?” he called out to the foot soldiers already stepping off. A chorus of surprisingly good-natured jibes replied, and Lewis smiled before turning back to the dragoons and riflemen. “You men may have to be careful of your targets, and that’s why you’re back here: accurate rifles and rapid-fire carbines. If any of the enemy escapes, I don’t want them learning of those.” His voice turned grim. “That said, I don’t want them to escape. Once you break their charge, you’ll mount and give chase.” Some of the men actually cheered at that, and after a meaningful nod at Anson, Lewis turned Arete to follow the infantry. He wasn’t surprised when Varaa joined him, but he was to see Leonor urge her horse up on his other side. He’d assumed she’d stay with her father—would’ve preferred it—but sending her back might undermine the respect she’d earned from the men. Inwardly, he sighed.

  “How exciting, Major Cayce!” Varaa said. “I fully approve of your dispositions, by the way. I only wish more of my Ocelomeh were here to see what may be the very first battle ever fought by two modern armies on this continent!”

  “I don’t anticipate much of a ‘battle,’ if all goes well.”

  “But things so rarely do, do they?” Varra observed lightly, then her tone grew more serious. “I heard you say you expect the Doms to ‘break’?”

  “What of it?” Leonor asked, unable to keep her silence.

  Varaa blinked rapidly, and her tail flicked behind her. “I thought you understood. To the truly committed Dom, and their lancers are required to be such creatures, agonizing death is the very key to paradise. I doubt they’ll ‘break,’ as you imagine, and you may be proud to call this a ‘battle’ by the time it’s done.”

  They rode up beside Wagley, still on his horse, and took position behind his men as they went from column into line, forming two forty-three-man ranks directly astride the road. Lewis saw Sergeant Visser and a newly elected corporal he didn’t know striding behind the line as file closers. Visser’s musket was slung, but he had two iron ramrods in his hand. One had a worm screwed on the threaded end, a flower of fuzzy tow already twisted into it. If anyone’s musket got too fouled to load, he’d wet the tow and let the man swab his barrel. The other rammer had a screw for pulling the ball a nervous man might load without powder. That unlucky soldier would likely take a few blows from the rod as well. Lewis doubted they’d stand here long enough to need either implement, but Visser was prepared. He was mainly there to keep men from running and close the gaps when they fell.

  It was hot as hell, and sweat soaked the blue shell jacket Private Willis had quickly exchanged Lewis for his good coat. Looking around, the view struck him as surreal. The sky was an almost perfect, cloudless blue, the grass and trees the deepest green he’d ever seen. But there were huge, dangerous-looking beasts grazing disconcertingly close without any apparent concern. If anything, the occasional glares they sent from giant, cow-like eyes seemed almost contemptuous. As well they might be, Lewis realized. A 6pdr might lay one out, but a concentrated volley from all ninety of these men would probably only enrage it. He looked more carefully at one of the closer animals with two great horns protruding from its bony head like those of a rhinoceros. Thick, rough skin, bigger than elephants if not as tall, he decided, though there are taller things by the far trees, tiny heads on great long necks stripping leaves higher than any giraffe. He snorted to himself. And here we stand among them, almost as oblivious to them as they to us: a tiny clot of men in blue on this brilliant green rise, waiting for other men to come and fight. “It seems particularly ridiculous when you think about it like that,” he murmured absently aloud.

  “I hardly believe it’s happenin’,” Leonor said, as if her thoughts mirrored his. She confirmed his suspicion when Varaa asked her, “The battle? The Doms come at last?”

  “No,” she replied and gestured helplessly around. “Only that we’re fightin’ ’em here.”

  Varaa blinked. “The sun may soon prove a problem if the Doms delay until late afternoon, but I think Major Cayce has chosen a good place,” she assured.

  “That’s not what she means, Warmaster Varaa,” Lewis said lowly. “Not what I mean.”

  “Oh. Indeed.” Varaa looked around and kakked. “You get used to it, you know.”

  “I’m still not ‘used’ to you!” Leonor retorted.

  Lewis turned to gaze behind them, the leather of his Ringgold saddle creaking loudly. Nearly all the men had disappeared back in the woods, leaving only Anson, Felix Meder, Hans Joffrion, and Emmel Dukane in the open, about a hundred yards back. They’d be invisible to the approaching enemy but could still see Lewis.

  “There they are,” hissed Leonor, voice now focused and flat.

  Lewis looked back to the front. About four hundred yards to the west, two men had loped out of the forest track gloom aboard beautiful but entirely ordinary-looking black horses. The yellow and black of their uniforms looked a bit tattered and stained, but they also wore highly polished brass breastplates and helmets with long red plumes spilling from the top. Lances slightly longer than those of Lara’s men were held upright beside them, burnished tips glinting above flowing red ribbons.

  They saw the Americans at once and stopped, perfectly still and staring.

  “I wish we had some of Meder’s riflemen now,” Wagley said wistfully, nervously. Lewis had to remind himself this was the first time any of them (aside from Leonor and Varaa of course) ever laid eyes on the dreaded Doms. A shout echoed down in the woods, and the two men spurred forward. A moment later, the vanguard of the Dom column appeared. A few more shouts were all that were needed to send men flowing out to the sides of the road, advancing slowly until the first rank achieved a breadth of about a hundred yards. But the Doms kept coming, forming more lines behind the first until there were no fewer than five. And still they came on at a slow walk to within three hundred yards, unfurling a huge red flag with a crooked gold cross upon it.

  “Goddamn their souls,” Wagley said bitterly, voice cracking as he pulled on a chain around his neck and fingered a cross of his own. “What’ll happen now?” he asked. Lewis heard the nervous mutters of other men in the ranks, a few crossing themselves. He wasn’t nearly as confident as Reverend Harkin in respect to why they’d been brought to this world, but he too had a visceral reaction to the twisted flag of the enemy and all it represented. “Will they have a word with us first?” Wagley pressed.

  “I think not,” Varaa replied.

  “Uncase your colors,” Lewis said.

  “Uncase the colors!” Wagley cried. Only then did Lewis notice the color-bearer for the Stars and Stripes was the young, towheaded Private “Hanny” Cox, who’d stood up to the brutal Hahessy—twice now, if the rumors were true—and he’d doubtless saved some lives at the cantina. His comrades must’ve wanted to honor his courage. Another young man unrolled the blue banner of Pennsylvania, and both flags stood out just enough in the light, humid air to challenge the jagged Dom cross. The challenge was accepted with the blare of a horn, an anonymo
us shout that carried across the field, and the long lances of the leading line of horsemen came down with an admirable, intimidating unity, polished points unwaveringly aimed at the small clot of men on the rise.

  “It appears they’ve said all they intend to,” observed Lewis. In his mind, by lowering their lances, the Doms might as well have fired a volley.

  “Load!” Wagley shouted, confident he could dispense with twelve-count commands, even with all his new recruits, who practiced loading often enough they could probably do it in their sleep. Extracting cartridges from leather boxes at their sides, they bit the ends off, primed their muskets, and upended the paper tubes at the muzzles. Flashing steel ramrods seated lead balls still tied in the ends of the tubes before being returned to grooves in the stocks under the barrels. Lewis was impressed by the new men, and it seemed their “immersion training” had paid off.

  “Fix bayonets!” Wagley cried when the lancers were about two hundred and thirty yards distant. There was another rippling flash of polished steel in the sun as long, triangular blades were drawn and locked in place.

  “Those will come as an unpleasant surprise to the enemy,” Varaa observed beside Lewis.

  Leonor looked at her questioningly.

  “You’ve seen their weapons. Not unlike yours in their basic form, if not so finely made, but they think of musketry only as the music before the dance, and the bayonet’s their primary weapon. Your men can keep loading and shooting with bayonets in place. Theirs are like the short swords your artillerymen carry for various purposes, but when its tapered handle is inserted into their barrels instead of slipping so ingeniously over the outside, they can shoot no more.” Varaa flicked her tail and nodded at the lancers. “They’ll be coming on faster soon.”