Hells march, p.13
Hell's March, page 13
“The battery’s ready to fire, Colonel Cayce,” Hudgens announced.
Lewis glanced at his watch once more. “Commence firing. Space them out.”
Hudgens saluted and spun his horse around. “Battery! At the designated target”—he’d already told them what it was—“by the piece, from the left . . . commence firing!”
The section chief on the left drew his saber and roared, “Gun Number Six—fire!”
Gunmetal is more a kind of very slightly reddish brass than bronze and the artillerymen in C Battery were proud to keep their cannon barrels highly polished. The few rounds they’d already fired that day had tarnished the muzzles and areas at the breach around the vents, but the rest still glowed in the sunshine like fine reddish gold, incongruously set in black iron and dingy olive-painted carriages. With percussion primers for their Hidden’s Patent locks running low and no idea when (or if) they’d get more, the Number Four men had been guarding smoldering lengths of slow match (tightly braided cotton rope infused with saltpeter), threaded through holes in the ends of yard-long wooden linstocks. The first of these arced his arm over the wheel and touched the glowing end of his “match” to a quill primer filled with finely ground powder that the Number Three man had inserted in the vent. An even brighter reddish yellow jetted upward in a mushroom of smoke before the gun roared, louder with solid shot than canister, and stabbed the smoke it billowed with a spear of fire as bright as the sun. The dazzling tube kicked down at the muzzle, slamming against the carriage, and the whole thing leaped back in the grass.
A shrieking, tearing-canvas sound accompanied the flight of the shot Lewis and those with him could see as a blurry black dot, rising high above the point of aim before falling again. They lost it for an instant just before it struck the crumbling wall, spraying shards of shattered stone from a cloud of white dust. The infantrymen cheered, and a moan of fear began to mount from some of the Holcanos just as the same section chief cried, “Number Five gun, fire!” The performance was repeated, the shot striking amazingly close to the first and throwing even more whizzing fragments of stone. The center section chief, gauging the cadence, commanded his left 12pdr, “Gun Number Four—fire!” The 12pdr was an order of magnitude louder, hurling a shot twice as heavy with double the powder at the same initial velocity. It struck quicker, though, since it wasn’t twice the diameter and bucked less wind for the weight. It hit harder too, and a large section of the ruined wall no longer stood when the dust cloud cleared. The Number Three 12pdr blasted it again, but the round from the Number Two 6pdr was short, throwing up a geyser of dirt and grass more than a hundred yards in front of the target before bounding up and over the ruins. Hoots and jeers erupted from the infantry (though the Holcanos the shot barely missed weren’t as derisive), and Captain Hudgens sent Lewis a furtive, rueful look. The right section chief, First Sergeant Petty, was clearly mortified. Five hundred yards really was rather undemanding, especially with no one shooting back. His next command, “Number One gun—fire!” sounded comparatively harsh. That last 6pdr redeemed its neighbor, breaking more stone and tumbling a disproportionately large section of the wall.
“That’s enough for the moment, I believe,” Lewis called.
“Sorry about Number Two, sir,” Hudgens apologized, pausing as if deciding whether to explain.
“A creditable exercise,” Lewis said louder so the gunners could hear. He’d been forced to leave experienced artillerymen to man the captured guns at Nautla and train their crews, and he’d sent even more back to Uxmal for the same purpose. For as many new recruits as they had, these artillerymen had indeed done well.
“Thank you, sir,” Hudgens said, then called to the battery to cease firing. A few moments passed, and the Holcanos started shrieking and yipping and brandishing weapons defiantly once more, but not as loudly or unanimously as before.
“Wasted ammunition,” Leonor murmured again. “What was the point o’ that?”
Varaa blinked at her. “It showed what we could have done—and didn’t, and they’ll soon have another example.”
It came very quickly, and they all noted a marked response among the enemy, whose belligerent cries and actions turned to shouts of alarm, a jostling and thinning of their numbers and even yips of panic. Anson grinned at Varaa. “Seems they finally noticed Koaar an’ your Ocelomeh creepin’ up behind ’em.”
Varaa sniffed. “I assure you that Consul Koaar won’t be ‘creeping.’ ” She waved around. “Most Jaguaristas still carry bows, but ours are armed with muskets too. They’ll use the same formations as everyone in the open.” She kakked another chuckle. “There’s a time and place for everything. The woods are for creeping about, and the Ocelomeh are very good at that, but in the open”—she shrugged and blinked philosophically—“we must all make great, huge targets of ourselves to mass our fire. Mi-Anakka have known this as long as you, Major Anson,” she stated cryptically. “But with our captured weapons, the Ocelomeh may finally join you in a stand-up fight.”
“I think he meant they crept into position to deploy,” Lewis said dryly. They couldn’t see all the way to the far end of the clearing because the rubble of the ancient city had created a grass-covered mound in the middle. But the enemy’s behavior convinced Lewis that Varaa was right and it was time to make his next move. Holcanos didn’t know what “flags of truce” were. Parleys among their own contentious bands were always arranged in advance. After the restrained artillery demonstration and the rapidly deteriorating situation they were bound to recognize, Lewis was willing to bet someone over there would accept an obvious opportunity to talk. “Captain Hudgens, have your battery stand by for signals. You know what I’ll want?” Hudgens nodded, a little worriedly, it seemed. “Capitan Lara, please deploy your lancers and the Rangers on the left. Captain Meder, riflemen and dragoons on the right.”
“Push ahead on the flanks an’ try to look as scary as you can,” Anson told the young officers. He was in overall command of mounted forces (aside from artillery) and still found it ironic that “his” Rangers, riflemen, and dragoons worked together with Lara’s lancers so well. Of course, there was only a handful of “old-world” personnel among them. “But don’t get close enough they can reach you with arrows,” he cautioned. Both men saluted and turned their horses to go, Lara grinning and Meder looking grimly determined.
“Let’s go,” Lewis said. “You’re in charge, Major Beck,” he called to the commander of the 1st US. “If anything happens to us”—he paused and his expression turned grim—“destroy the enemy and press on to the rendezvous with Colonel Reed and King Har-Kaaska.”
“This is stupid,” Leonor grumbled, voice husky with disapproval as she joined Lewis, her father, Varaa, Reverend Harkin, and a dragoon bugler named Private Hannity who’d shadowed Lewis through most of the Battle of the Washboard (until he was wounded) as they cantered out on the grassy field in the direction of the enemy camp. Surprisingly, Corporal Willis kicked his horse and lurched along as well, muttering, “That’s for sure.”
Lewis looked at Anson, riding beside him on his big gelding, “Colonel Fannin.” Like Arete, Colonel Fannin had somehow survived the wreck of the Mary Riggs when they arrived on this world and, unlike his namesake, was a bold and fearless warrior. “Do I detect a measure of insubordination in our party?” he asked pleasantly.
“Ain’t insublimination,” groused the clearly unhappy Willis. “Which we’re goin’ with you, ain’t we? Just speakin’ our thinkin’—an’ we didn’t do it ’round nobody else. Still a free country to think what we want, ain’t it?”
Lewis chuckled. “The ‘free country’ you’re speaking of doesn’t exist on this world. Not yet. But that’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? And I encourage free thinking in the army, and even free speaking—at the appropriate times.”
“Which this ain’t,” Anson growled, guiding Colonel Fannin around a clump of Holcano corpses. “Why’s he even here?”
“I take my orderly dooties serious!” Willis proclaimed. “Even if it means I gotta trust my life to this vicious nag”—the horse he was riding fluppered indignantly—“so’s I can be near if the colonel needs me,” he ended piously.
“You’re just lookin’ out for yourself,” Leonor accused. “If somethin’ happens to Colonel Cayce, nobody else’d have you for an orderly an’ you’d be back on a gun crew or carryin’ a musket!”
“If I lived through what happened!” Willis snapped at her angrily. He really had changed a lot after the Battle of the Washboard, and Leonor’s accusation clearly cut him. “What’re you always hangin’ ’round him for?” he countered with a sneer. “Pertectin’ yer old man? Sure.” Instantly knowing he’d gone too far, Willis cringed when, despite her olive complexion, Leonor’s face went red and twisted with fury.
“I appreciate you both looking after us,” Lewis quickly interjected. He’d have to be blind—had been blind—not to see that Leonor had . . . feelings for him. And he had to confess, to himself at least, he was drawn to her subdued but genuine beauty, intelligence, straightforward personality, even her hot temper and lethality. But now wasn’t the time for either of them to explore beyond the respectful, even companionable friendship that had developed between Lewis and most of his officers and advisors. That friendship didn’t always extend to others, and a usually restrained dislike had evolved between Leonor and Willis. God alone knew how often Leonor shot someone drawing a bead on him, and Willis had probably saved his life the first time they parleyed with Doms. Could that be the source of their rivalry? he wondered, but shook his head. “It’s a soldier’s right to gripe, even to their superiors in the proper circumstances”—he grinned—“which I guess these are. We have a few moments. Tell me, Lieutenant Anson,” he said to Leonor, “what’s your primary objection to what we’re doing?”
“The same as mine, I’m sure,” Varaa groused, covering for the young woman—since she wasn’t blind either. Her own face may not display complex emotions without the blinking that telegraphed them to those who could read it, but she recognized human expressions quite well and expected Leonor would embarrass herself if she answered now. “Holcanos are vermin, they’re scorpions,” she seethed, “and can’t be trusted as much as Doms in a meeting like this.” She glared at Lewis. “They won’t imagine we’d be stupid enough to come out here with the field commander of our whole war effort, but they’ll know we’re offering up the highest-ranking officers in our army”—she blinked—“me included! They all know me, and hate me more than anybody! They’re more likely to rush out and try to kill us than come out to talk!”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Reverend Harkin said, voice almost serene. “ ‘Behold, I have given you authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall hurt you,’ ” he quoted. “Luke, ten-nineteen,” he added, nodding out to the sides, where Rangers and lancers paced their advance on one side, riflemen and dragoons on the other. They were some distance away, considerably farther than the enemy would be when Lewis called a halt (he’d told them they’d stop at the halfway point—about two hundred and fifty yards, the absolute maximum distance Holcano and Ocelomeh bows could hurl their heavy arrows), and the enemy had only a handful of horses.
Anson barked a laugh. “I was gonna ask what you were doin’ here, Reverend,” he said.
“Not just to pull scripture about stomping scorpions out of his hat,” Lewis assured him. “Most of us have a fair amount of Spanya by now, which the Holcanos speak as well, but mine probably isn’t any better than yours.” He glanced speculatively at Leonor, knowing she’d picked up some, at least. Even Willis had, though his was atrocious. “But through his daily conversations with Father Orno, Reverend Harkin’s is as good as Varaa’s by now. Besides, he’s a ‘holy man.’ From what I understand, Holcanos have fairly odd beliefs and think their priests are like wizards with supernatural powers. They figure other people’s priests have powers too and avoid annoying them if they can.” He looked around and reined in Arete. “About here, I think.” The others dressed their horses on his and they formed a short, tight line with the dragoon bugler, Private Hannity (who’d wisely kept his thoughts to himself), stopping behind Lewis.
“Now what?” Varaa asked.
“Now we wait. With Consul Koaar still coming up—I see the new regimental flag,” he added with a wink and nod at Varaa. The 1st Ocelomeh had adopted a green flag with a rampant black jaguar outlined in gold. As far as anyone knew, there were no real jaguars on this world, so the flag was as fanciful as one from their old world featuring a dragon or griffin. “And our flankers are still advancing, so they should get the idea fairly quickly.”
He was right. Only moments later, what looked like every horse the Holcanos possessed—a total of nine—came galloping out in a gaggle through the milling defenders, thundering down upon them. The striped horses were painted with geometric red shapes, their bushy manes and tails stiffened and blacked. The riders were naked but for scanty breechclouts, red paint, and black tarred hair standing up stiff and straight like the crests of Grik. The biggest one wore a macabre necklace of what could only be dried eyes bouncing on his chest. All had huge bows and quivers full of arrows.
Anson’s hands strayed to his big pistols, and Leonor actually drew one of her revolvers, but Lewis merely said, “Easy, now. They’re scared to death and want to get even.”
“He’s right,” Varaa said, averting her gaze to the sky as if intrigued by the shape of a cloud. “Stand fast. Don’t even look at them. Pretend they’re beneath our notice.”
“Like hell,” Willis hissed. “Buggers are comin’ to kill us!”
“I’d say so too, if they were Comanches,” Anson said through his teeth, “but I gotta trust Varaa with these devils. Remember, they let the lizard folks do the hard fightin’ on the beach.” He laughed out loud at Varaa as if she’d said something funny.
“I’ll not avert my gaze from evil,” Harkin said lowly, raising the small gold cross he habitually wore on a chain around his neck, holding it as if to menace the nearing Holcanos, who started whooping and yipping fiercely.
“Suit yourself, Reverend,” Lewis said. “They’d probably expect you to look at them regardless—if they guess what you are.” He turned in his Ringgold saddle to gaze at Private Hannity. “Lick your lips and keep that bugle handy.”
“I . . . I’ll try, sir,” Hannity replied shakily, “but it’s hard to conjure much spit right now.”
“Just do your best, son,” Lewis encouraged as the nine Holcanos arrived, yelling and shouting.
Even Willis managed to look disinterested as the garish enemy galloped around them in a big, ragged circle, hooting, screeching, even respectably imitating the roars of mighty monsters they’d seen. Through it all, for perhaps half a minute, only Reverend Harkin watched them, his searing gaze in no way diminished by his sagging skin and loose-fitting clothes. Eventually, the enemy representatives began to slow, their cries growing less strident, but Lewis caught movement in the distance to his left and saw a platoon of lancers cantering toward them. He cleared his throat.
“Reverend Harkin, you might introduce yourself and warn these fellows to stop their capering if they want to talk.” He jerked his head toward the lancers. Lara was leading them, of course. “Before those men come and kill them.”
Harkin did so, loudly and with admirable authority. The Holcanos bristled, but when they noticed the closing lancers for themselves, the biggest man among them—even bigger than Lewis—gave a shout, and the rest somewhat sullenly gathered themselves in front of Lewis’s little line of officers.
“I know that guy,” Anson said in surprise, referring to the giant Holcano, now glaring at him in recognition as well.
“Me too,” agreed Leonor.
“How nice,” Varaa said cheerfully, flipping her tail. “It seems I was mistaken. I believe he hates the two of you even more than me!”
Lewis understood the big man perfectly when he barked, “You stopped fighting to talk. We stopped fighting to talk. Tell the long-spear-men to go or we will fight again!”
Harkin began to respond, but Lewis beat him to it. “I’m Colonel Lewis Cayce, commanding all the Allied Armies of the Yucatán. I’ll have them stop and we can talk, but if you still wanted a fight you wouldn’t have already run from one, and you wouldn’t be here now. You and all your people are surrounded, and you’re still alive only because I allow it.”
The big man’s face contorted with rage. “I am Kisin! War chief of all the Holcanos! I could kill you all by myself right now and take your heads back for my wives to cook!”
“How’d that work the last time we met, El Apestoso?” Anson interjected fairly fluently, referring to another name for the God the big Holcano styled himself after. Varaa once told him it meant “the stinky one,” or something like that.
If Kisin’s tarred crest could’ve bristled more, it would have. “You do not fight fair!” he objected. “You use magical pistols!”
Anson patted the Walker Colts on his waist belt. “Still got ’em.” He nodded at a huge, puckered scar on Kisin’s thigh, the result of a bad compound fracture, and patted Colonel Fannin’s neck. “Actually surprised you survived that. How do you get around on foot? But my pistols didn’t do that, my horse did. Still got him too.”
Kisin was seething, but managed to nod at Lewis. “Stop the long-spear-men now and we will talk,” he grated.
