Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “I’m sure your men can hit something the size of a man and horse at two hundred yards if they aim a bit high,” Lewis prodded Wagley.

  The man gulped. “Front rank, make ready!”

  Forty-three men raised their weapons up in front of their faces, locks on the outside, and thumbed the cocks grasping lead-padded flints back to the second notch with an audible chorus of clicks.

  “At the tops of the riders’ heads, take aim!” Wagley shouted. The sun glinted off polished steel once more as long muskets and bayonets came down in a ripple and steadied on a horizontal plane for an instant before starting to bobble as each man endeavored to keep the little brass blade on his front barrel band centered near the rounded top of the back of his barrel while still pointing it where he’d been told. Their weapons had no rear sights, and most of these men were actually shorter than their weapons, with bayonets fixed, and couldn’t hold them like that for long, but Wagley hesitated, glancing at Lewis, as if afraid to utter the fateful word that would plunge them into war with a still-mysterious power known largely only for its relentless malignancy.

  Lewis understood how he felt. Yet despite some new nagging reservations about Alcalde Periz, perhaps even King Har-Kaaska, he was sure of Varaa. She’d left him no doubt the Doms were evil, the true demons in this land, and his own experience with the smallest of their “fingers,” Tranquilo, Discipo, the Holcanos and Grik, only confirmed what she said. “Fire!” he shouted, and with a flashing, smoky roar, the first volley boomed out with gratifying precision.

  They heard the big musket balls slam into human and animal flesh, thumping and smacking or clanking through armor. Men and horses screamed and squealed as they crashed to the ground or into one another.

  “Reload! Rear rank, take aim . . . fire!” The second volley was more ragged than the first but even more effective. Two hundred yards was a very great distance for any smoothbore musket, even the fine American examples, but the enemy was so closely spaced, few shots could fail to hit something. More horses screeched and rolled, crushing riders and throwing the front rank of lancers into confusion. But even as the survivors fought to control their animals, another horn sounded, and the following ranks charged through at a gallop. Lewis knew they had half a minute before the enemy was on them and those lances would tear them apart. “Pour it in, lads! Another two rounds each, as fast as you can, then we’ll run for the woods and take new positions!” He caught Wagley’s guilty stare and gave an encouraging smile. “My apologies, Captain. I got a little excited.”

  Wagley jerked a nod and shouted, “Independent, fire at will! A gallon of Uxmalo corn beer to the man who fires three shots before we retire!”

  “Cuttin’ it mighty close,” Leonor said over the crackle of muskets and growing thunder of hooves. She was inspecting the revolver she’d drawn, not looking at him.

  “If we retreat too quickly, they may suspect our trap,” Varaa told her before Lewis could. She’d taken the British-style musket from where she kept it slung diagonally across her back and was inspecting the priming, testing the sharpness of the flint with her thumb.

  “You said we can’t ‘break’ ’em, an’ they’re already takin’ more punishment than other lancers I’ve seen. They’ll smash us like a sack of eggs.”

  “I meant you won’t chase them away,” Varaa corrected. “They’ll fight you to the death”—she bowed her head at the woods and all the men and guns concealed there—“but the forest will break their charge and you may kill them at your leisure.”

  Lewis had his saber in his right hand and had withdrawn one of his M1836 pistols from its pommel holster with his left. “Just a few moments more, I think,” he said, eyes flitting back and forth between the woods and the dashing, bleeding Doms. The first crushing volleys had been replaced by continuous fire, and nearly every ball found its mark as the range wound down and the Doms were increasingly desperate to smash this lethal little obstacle. Their precise alignment had combined into a heaving, rushing horde, bristling with lances, leaping or falling over men and horses still being chopped from the front.

  Our men are feeling it now, Lewis judged, watching some waver, glancing behind as well. How could they not? Determined lancers are always intimidating, and no matter how many these inexperienced troops take down, there are still more of the enemy than of them. A young local in the rear rank, really just a boy, dropped his musket and tried to run. Sergeant Visser blocked him, whacking him brutally with one of his rammers, roaring, “Back in ranks, you gutless bastard, or I’ll see your backbone at the whipping post!”

  “We’ll overlook it just this once if he retrieves his weapon, Sergeant,” Lewis shouted over the din, catching a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes before the youngster scrambled back for his musket on all fours. Large, low-velocity balls whined and warbled past as some of the lancers, losing their primary weapons in the crush, fired musketoons. “Captain Wagley, dismiss your men to the rear. Run for it, lads! Make it look good. Pretend to be afraid!”

  He knew there’d be no pretending, but they could say so later. Sometimes that was all that mattered.

  It was as if the men had been panicking horses secured to a picket line and someone cut their leads. A few stood firm for a final shot, but almost as one the rest surged back, then turned and sprinted downslope for the trees. Varaa’s horse was giving her trouble, and she took a moment to settle it before raising her musket and firing at the yellow-and-black tide barely fifty yards distant. Lewis was sure she’d lingered deliberately, braving a thickening hail of musket and pistol balls just so the enemy would see her. And by the way the lancers whipped their horses bloody, it was apparent nothing enraged them like the very existence of her kind. Now she bolted, and quite a few Doms made as if to chase her alone. Arete sidestepped, and a lance head swept past Lewis’s shoulder. Without thinking, he whipped his saber across the Dom’s throat before he had a chance to recover. He tottered from his horse, clutching the spraying wound.

  “Go!” Leonor roared at Lewis, firing her revolver over the head of the man with the Pennsylvania colors as he tried to reach her horse. He was too slow. A lance head and a shower of blood exploded from his chest and he went down hard on his face. Lewis shot his killer with his pistol and then let it drop. “Let’s all go, shall we?” he shouted, seeing Wagley haul Hanny Cox and his flag up on the saddle in front of him. They were right at the head of the storm, with lances questing for them as they urged their horses into a sprint after Varaa. Leonor emptied her pistol at some of the men around them, and Lewis hacked another with his saber. Arete flinched when a lance head pricked her flank and sped even faster. Lewis risked a glimpse behind and saw all the Doms crest the rise, churning down upon them. It was lucky he did, because he was just able to deflect a lance aimed at his back with his saber. The Dom was going to thrust again, however, and already twisted so far around, Lewis couldn’t avoid the wicked blade again.

  Then the Dom dropped his lance and clutched his face with a scream. More Doms inexplicably tumbled from their saddles, and a black horse crashed down, throwing its broken rider. Lewis looked to his front and saw dozens of pearly-white smoke flowers blooming in the brush at the base of the trees. And there was Captain Anson, fully exposed and swathed in smoke atop his horse, Colonel Fannin, a huge revolver in each hand.

  “Kill them!” Anson roared. “Shoot the bastards down! Well done, riflemen! Let your dragoons give ’em a taste, Lieutenant Joffrion!” Carbines boomed rapidly, and more Dom lancers fell, the ones behind brought up short by surprise and the tumbling, rolling, screeching mounts. Lewis and Leonor wheeled in behind Anson as Varaa and Captain Wagley came up on the other side. Hanny Cox had jumped to the ground and now stood waving the big national flag over his head. Poom! went the 12pdr howitzer on the southeast end of the line, spewing its load of canister—forty-eight one-inch iron balls—into the milling Doms. Poom! went the other gun, shredding more men and animals. Both screamed
so shrilly, it was impossible to tell which was which. Poom! Poom! went the guns, again and again, at intervals of twenty seconds or less, combined with a relentless storm of rifle, carbine, and now musket balls again.

  A rational foe would’ve fled. The Doms had started with almost three hundred men, and not only had they quickly lost half that number; they were in a sack. Shock, the forest, the mass of dead and withering storm of lead had stalled their charge completely. Even given a cultural or psychological inability to withdraw, an enterprising leader might’ve rallied and shifted his survivors one way or another, perhaps overruning one of the guns that kept pounding, mulching them down. There was no commander of any sort by then, however, and the Dom lancers could only keep trying to do what they’d last been told. Wounded men urged bleeding horses at the clump of apparent officers gathered near that demonic thing, trying to get their shattered animals to climb over others if they must. All cried out in fury and despair as they were blown or shot to the ground. Some tried even then, dragging their mangled bodies, screaming in agony—but agony was good!

  “My God!” gasped Captain Wagley, face white with horror. “This is worse than those Grik things!”

  “Far worse,” Varaa agreed darkly, “because most would define these creatures as ‘people,’ yet their behavior is even more . . . mindlessly animalistic.”

  Even Captain Anson looked disturbed, staring out at the carnage, particularly when he saw a man with shattered legs, eyes glazed with shock, pain, and loss of blood, but still lit with determined hate, dragging himself toward them with a musketoon in his hands. He shot him.

  Poom! Poom!

  “My God!” repeated Wagley. “Can’t we cease firing now?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said, voice as dark as Varaa’s as he gazed at what was left of the once-proud column of lancers. A lot of horses had bolted when their riders fell, much more sensible than their masters, and less than a score were still standing before them, perhaps half with men still in the saddle. The way they just sat there, Lewis suspected they were dead. “Cease firing!” he shouted aloud. Many had already done so, and a sudden almost silence descended, broken only by the sounds of pain. There was no cheering. “Lieutenant Joffrion, mount your dragoons and take them back down the track. Ensure that none of the enemy escaped. Lieutenant Meder, mount your men as well and seize the enemy horses. Be so kind as to end the misery of any that are badly hurt.”

  “What about them?” Wagley demanded, waving at the bloody field under the afternoon sun. “What about the enemy wounded?”

  “They won’t surrender,” Varaa sighed. “It would be a kindness to them and safer for you to ‘end their misery’ as well.”

  “I won’t do it, damn you!” Wagley practically seethed. Lewis put a hand on his arm.

  “Of course not,” he said gently, “but have your men secure the enemy wounded before attempting to help them. Is that understood?”

  The dragoons had accepted their horses from the holders and now pounded off up the road. Felix Meder was looking around with a haunted expression while his own men mounted as well. Careful infantrymen were starting to pick through the dead and wounded while Wagley remained with Lewis, Anson, Leonor, and Varaa. Lewis noted that Hanny Cox had stopped waving the flag and stood as if stunned, now joined by a couple of friends. One was a short Uxmalo. All were breathing hard.

  “By the way, Captain Wagley,” Lewis said at last, “my compliments to you and your men for the way they stood today. This victory, such as it is, is theirs.” He paused. “How many did you lose?”

  “Eleven killed, sir. Only eleven,” Wagley answered wanly, as if hardly believing it himself. His voice firmed. “And six slightly hurt. Seems they got off awfully light, or died.”

  “We lost four in the woods,” Anson said. “Carbine fire,” he added by way of explanation. “We got off mighty light . . . considerin’.”

  “Yes, considerin’ how many there were, an’ they’re a pack o’ maniacs,” Leonor almost spat. She looked around, expression softening slightly. “Look,” she said, “all the big critters are gone.”

  “Even they must be in awe of the violence they saw today,” Varaa said, “as I confess to being.” Her tail whipped. “I do understand how you must feel, but to my certain knowledge, this ‘battle’—as it surely was—will be remembered as the greatest victory ever achieved over regular Dominion forces. You can be proud of that, at least. It will give the Uxmalos hope. It will give everyone hope.” She paused. “But don’t expect all your victories to be so one-sided. You’re better soldiers than they; I knew it at once. But there are a great many of them, and you haven’t faced their infantry yet”—she glanced at Lewis—“or their artillery.”

  “Is this truly the face of things to come?” Wagley softly asked, gazing at where some of his men had been forced to bayonet a wounded Dom who’d probably tried to kill them for helping him. “This is the kind of war we fight? Without mercy? Without honor?”

  Varaa hesitated. “Essentially, yes. The common Dominion soldier isn’t as . . . fanatical as their lancers. Most are conscripts, after all.” She blinked at Lewis. “I know what you’re thinking. You might break them. But their commanders are true believers, as bad as Tranquilo’s guard, and even their rank and file will treat you just as these men would have if they won. They’d have slaughtered us all, or perhaps tortured a few survivors for entertainment.” She looked at Wagley. “But there’ll be ‘honor’ enough, never fear. Ask Father Orno or Reverend Harkin. What could be more honorable than opposing evil for the benefit of others?”

  Boogerbear had drifted over by Leonor, massaging her shoulder and tousling her hair like an annoying older brother. She punched him hard in the arm. “I don’t care about heapin’ honor on myself,” Boogerbear said, then added, offhand, voice as steady as ever, shading his eyes, “We got riders comin’.”

  Lewis started to call an alarm, wondering why no one else had, but realized the silhouettes topping the rise were their own people. They paused a moment, gazing down at the scene before them, then urged their animals on. It was only when Lewis saw the battered, rotten uniforms and sadly hungry look on tired, weatherworn faces that he knew these weren’t Joffrion’s men. “Lieutenant Burton, Ixtla, Alferez Espinoza!” he exclaimed, returning their awkward salutes. “I’m very glad to see you.” He squinted at the few men behind them. “Glad to see you all! Sergeant Hayne believed you might still be a few days out. We even sent Captain Holland and Tiger looking for you.”

  Burton licked cracked lips. “We have information, sir. Didn’t think it could wait.” He gestured somewhat helplessly around. “We’d planned to catch up to these fellows and try to break through to reach you, but”—he managed a tight smile—“I guess we don’t have to now. I didn’t really think we could.”

  “You see?” Varaa told Wagley. “Honor enough for all.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The map room in the Audience Hall was filled to capacity with all of Alcalde Periz and Father Orno’s closest advisors and influential locals involved in supporting their preparations. Varaa, Ixtla, and Consul Koaar represented the Ocelomeh, and virtually all of Lewis’s senior officers, including Captain Holland—just returned—were present. The place was packed, and benches had been crowded around the great wooden table dominating the center of the room. Other benches had been added until the entire space was filled with their close-packed ranks. To Lewis’s surprise, there were quite a few females (aside from Varaa, of course, and Leonor, who simply wouldn’t leave her father’s side). Or mine, it seems, Lewis considered, remembering how she’d nearly been overrun with the rest of them on the rise. It’s as if she feels compelled to serve as aide and protector to us both now.

  And Samantha Wilde sat at the main table with Sira Periz, the alcalde’s beautiful wife and segunda alcaldesa. Lewis had been so busy building the army that De Russy, Samantha, Angelique, Reverend Harkin, and to a lesser extent, Dr.
Newlin, had been obliged to represent the Americans at the near-nightly social functions. To many, De Russy had become the “American face” of the alliance, and Lewis hadn’t paid as much attention to local society as he should. He was therefore surprised to discover that in addition to owning property and various businesses, many other women were just as influential as Sira Periz, financing much of Uxmal’s industrial expansion with their own fortunes. Samantha had finally explained it to him. Though not allowed to fight like some Ocelomeh women and still somewhat constrained by conservative propriety, the ladies of Uxmal were theoretically equal to any man in every other way and were often Uxmal’s staunchest patriots. “They have the most to lose if they’re conquered by the Doms, after all,” Samantha had told him. “You men will likely only die, but besides the fact that women are mere property to the enemy, less valuable even than slaves for labor, they’ll lose their men, their sons, even their pride—which you can at least preserve on the battlefield.”

  And battle was the subject of this meeting. Word of the annihilation of the advance force of lancers had swept through the city, reinforced by glimpses of the few badly wounded prisoners brought in. News of a vast Dom army, just a week away, spread just as quickly. The reaction combined giddy celebration with abject terror. Lewis felt the sense of it even now, in this room, silently watching Periz stand and call them to order before giving a brief, glowing account of the action as Lewis and others reported it. Then he called Varaa to speak, and she stood.

  “I’ve just received word from King Har-Kaaska that Itzincab is besieged by Holcanos, Grik, and even some warriors from Puebla Arboras under Don Discipo. All their mines, crops—everything—is under enemy control, and the people surrounding Itzincab have been forced into the city.”