Hells march, p.16
Hell's March, page 16
Sergeant O’Roddy had started out slow, making a capsquare lock—little more than a tall, thin wedge with a hole for a small chain in a rounded end, but now he was swinging his hammer incessantly, ringing the anvil as he shaped glowing orange iron his helpers pulled from the fire. Occasionally he’d pause a moment to wipe his sweaty brow, but only until the next piece was hot enough and the tongs were handed to him. Hanny was mesmerized watching heavy iron spikes, probably salvaged from one of the ships, become long, slender rods. These in turn were twisted around the horn of the anvil, split and twisted again, before being cut to length. Each piece came back to O’Roddy only three times more before the intricate shape of a trace hook was born (something like a letter Q, but with its back-bent tail in the middle) and dropped to sizzle in a bucket of water. Hanny likened the big man’s skill to magic, and Apo kept having to pull his attention back to his work.
The sun was behind the trees by the time they identified all the weapons with real problems, including Hanny’s, and they’d have to work fast or get lanterns. With the aborted “battle” over so early and only part of the army dealing with the aftermath, Hanny had hoped for some real rest for a change, but that wasn’t likely now. He had the lock off his musket and had just removed the broken mainspring—dutifully presenting the pieces to Scoochy—when First Sergeant Petty approached in the gathering gloom.
“Evenin’, Mikey,” said the scruffy-whiskered man, and Hanny looked at him more closely. Compared to the powerful O’Roddy, Petty’s frame rather matched his beard: somewhat short and scruffy. Not that his uniform was untidy or anything, he just didn’t wear it well. He must know his business, though, Hanny thought. He was the senior NCO in Captain Hudgens’s C Battery and chief of a section of 6pdrs.
“If Captain Hudgens sent you, I’ve got his capsquare lock. Your capsquare lock,” he corrected mischievously. “But I ain’t done the worm an’ I’m only half-finished with his hooks.”
“Nah, I come for another reason,” Petty said, glancing around, eyes landing on Hanny with recognition. He seemed about to speak again when thudding hooves heralded the arrival of Captain Felix Meder and several of his mounted riflemen. All wore the dark blue jackets of mounted troops, but they’d exchanged yellow trim for white to differentiate them from dragoons. Hanny admired Captain Meder. Barely older than himself, he (and his good friend Captain Hudgens) had both started on this world as private soldiers themselves. They’d also, along with First Sergeant McNabb, stood up for him when he stood up to Hahessy—and what seemed like half the army at the time. He was finally starting to warm to the idea of being a corporal, but that proved they were much more courageous than he and justly deserved quicker advancement.
Felix Meder saw Petty in the lengthening shadows and called out good-naturedly, “Your section nearly took the colonel’s head off today, First Sergeant! I’d say you need to reevaluate your choice of gunners.”
Petty nodded, unsmiling. “They weren’t none of ’em my choice. I just got put in charge of ’em. That bein’ the case, I’m ‘reevaluatin’ ’ now. That’s why I’m here.”
O’Roddy spat a huge stream of tobacco juice he’d been hoarding. “You gonna put me on a gun now too?” He menaced Petty with a glowing trace hook that was almost complete. “On top o’ ever’thin’ else I gotta do?”
Petty shook his head. “No, not you . . .”
“Good.” O’Roddy glared at Meder. “So what do you want . . . sir?”
Meder’s men had their 1817 rifles slung crossways on their backs. Meder’s own weapon was lying across his lap atop his Grimsley saddle. “The sling swivel on the back of my trigger guard broke, and I nearly dropped my rifle—the best-shooting rifle in the regiment,” he reported without boasting. “It might’ve been destroyed or at least badly damaged. I’d have hated that. I hoped I might persuade you to give its repair your personal attention. . . .”
O’Roddy was waving the glowing hook. “That I’ll do without complaint. Proper repair to honest damage to prevent worse to a weapon that does its duty is labor well spent,” he said piously, nodding at where Hanny and his friends were working. “Not like pokin’ out stopped vents an’ hammerin’ or replacin’ broke flints. Any idiot can do that!”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Felix said, gently handing his rifle down to Scoochy. “I knew I could count on you.” He looked back at Petty. “And you, First Sergeant. You expect to find your new gunner skulking among the fireflies?”
The sparks swirling up from the forge did look like swarms of demented fireflies in the deepening darkness. Apo was lighting a lantern to aid their gun repair, but O’Roddy hadn’t asked for one. Hanny doubted he needed it.
“Maybe,” Petty said in his usual short way and looked at Hanny again. “Sergeant Visser said Corporal Cox was here, most likely, an’ there he is.”
“Hanny Cox,” Meder said, nodding satisfaction. “We know he’s not shy,” he added with a chuckle, “but can he shoot?”
“Me, sir?” Hanny almost squeaked, jumping up and saluting since he’d been “officially” noticed by an officer. Meder returned the salute and looked questioningly at Petty.
“I need a gunner for Number Two,” Petty said simply. “Better if he’s already a corporal since that crew ain’t got a man fit to be one. They ain’t all worthless an’ can move their gun smart enough,” he allowed, “but none’s showed the talent for hittin’ what he’s aimin’ at that Corporal Cox did durin’ trainin’.”
Artillery was the most lethal weapon on the battlefield and everyone, particularly infantrymen and mounted riflemen (often closest to the guns in battle), trained on them to some degree in case they were called to replace heavy casualties in action. Hanny had done fairly well, he thought, and even enjoyed it, but . . .
“I . . . I appreciate you thinking of me, First Sergeant,” he stammered, “but I’m in the Third Pennsylvania. I came here (he meant to “this world”) in the Third Pennsylvania. And what about my squad? They’re counting on me.” He didn’t add that the men in his squad, from another world and this one, were his only friends.
Petty frowned. “I expect I’ll be swapping half the gun detachment to Sergeant Visser. Let him make infantrymen out of ’em. You can bring your whole squad over if they want to come.”
“Sergeant Visser . . . he said it was all right?” Hanny asked. “He wants rid of me?”
Petty seemed genuinely surprised. “No. Fact is, he says you’ve become a passable infantryman—when your musket goes off.”
“Passable?” Hanny asked with a trace of bitterness.
Petty shrugged. “He also said you’ll make a better-than-average artilleryman since you’re the best corporal in the battalion, if not the whole Third Pennsylvania.”
Hanny felt his face heat and knew only darkness hid a deep blush.
Petty snorted. “I can’t credit that, o’ course, so I’ll only ask once an’ move on. Look, Sergeant Visser’s senior sergeant in Lieutenant Aiken’s platoon an’ has three other corporals. You got what, eight men in your squad? Countin’ everybody, Captain Cullin’s whole B Company has close to a hundred men who can point a musket at the enemy. Some o’ your chums might miss you, even Sergeant Visser might, but nobody’ll miss your shootin’. I need one man who can aim a big gun an’ kill as many Doms as that whole company”—he glanced at Felix Meder—“an’ who won’t take the colonel’s head off. What’ll it be?”
Hanny looked at Apo, obviously thrilled with the idea. McDonough was frowning, as usual, but nodding. “I always admired the great guns,” he confessed. “An’ artillerymen don’t walk everywhere,” he added.
“One thing just occurred to me, I better tell you,” Petty said, scratching his nose. “I got that damn Hahessy scoundrel in my section.”
Hanny felt a chill. He’d seen the big man watching him from time to time, more so recently as the story of his defiance was revived after his promotion.
“He hates me,” he murmured.
“He hates everybody,” Petty countered. “The damn First US dropped him on Captain Hudgens unawares when he called for skilled artillerymen after the Washboard. I got him now an’ can’t get rid of him. Nobody’ll take him.” He raised an eyebrow at Hanny. “He’s just a private now, o’ course, an’ I’ve heard you can handle him. Then again, if you’re afraid . . .”
Hanny felt a hot, prickly, rushing sensation run down his back and took a deep breath. “All right, First Sergeant Petty. I’ll do my best to justify your confidence in me.” He looked at his friends. “In us.”
Petty snorted. “Only things I’m ‘confident’ in is the Good Lord—an’ that we’ll all die in the end.” He looked at Sergeant O’Roddy. “Find someone else to fix muskets. I’m takin’ these boys with me.”
CHAPTER 9
FEBRUARY 1848
UXMAL
I’m startin’ to think this is gonna be a bigger show than we thought, at first,” Ranger Lieutenant Sal Hernandez mused aloud, absently twisting one end of his huge black mustache as he stood on the big new dock at Uxmal and gazed out at the bay. Like all mounted troopers, he wore a dark blue shell and sky-blue trousers, but there wasn’t any “branch trim” on either. Otherwise, he’d acquired a new, exceptionally well-made pair of knee-high boots and had a wide-brimmed natural tan-colored straw hat on his head. He pulled it down to shade his eyes from the glare reflecting off the water. A stiff breeze ruffled up waves and growing, glittering whitecaps threw up spray as a dozen or so broad-beamed, fore- and aft-rigged fishing boats plied back and forth carrying men to all three Dom transport prizes anchored a quarter mile out. (Tiger had taken another one.) All had been watered and provisioned before warping away from the dock days ago. Now, with yards crossed and anchors hove short, they looked ready for sea. They also looked dark and rather dumpy, with high forecastles and even higher poop decks compared to the even higher (because she was larger) but much sleeker lines of the old but much more “modern” Tiger anchored beyond them.
“Ye should’a known that all along, I’m thinkin’,” scoffed the shorter man beside him. Sergeant Thomas Hayne of the 3rd Dragoons looked as different from Hernandez as was possible. He had light brown hair and huge side whiskers, his face tanned but not dark. In contrast to Hernandez’s lanky frame, Hayne had the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, bull-necked physique that almost seemed required of Irish-born NCOs in the army—on whatever world they were on. There was yellow trim on his uniforms and his saber belt was as white as snow, as was the wide sling and hook supporting his precious Hall carbine. Sal’s belt and holsters for his pair of Paterson Colts were dark brown. “We came here with plenty o’ fellas ta sneak in an’ cut out Isidra, if that’s all they meant us ta do,” Hayne continued, “but they put us ta work, you, me, an’ Cap’n Ixtla, trainin’ two hundred men apiece.” He stopped and looked around. The dock was empty for a good distance in every direction, the closest possible listeners a pack of old women and even older men mending fishing nets while small children tormented strange-looking crabs with sticks. The wall of the city was behind them, now pierced for numerous cannon taken from a Dom wreck in the bay, as well as two enormous 36pdrs captured at the Washboard. Beyond the wall was the barracks area for the Detached Expeditionary Force and whatever other “regulars” remained in the city. “An’ not all that trainin’ was fer things we knew much about,” Hayne reminded. “Had ta teach us a bit for some o’ it, didn’t they?”
Sal Hernandez frowned. Hayne was right. Though most often employed as scouts, mounted dragoons and Rangers made excellent shock troops. Like cavalry, they were armed and trained to fight from the saddle and had the mobility to strike where least expected. Unlike cavalry, however, they were most effective at swooping in and dismounting to fight on foot, using brisk fire to block a column and force it to deploy before bolting, quickly adding mass to shaky infantry, or pressing a reeling enemy, even jumping on a flank left hanging in the air. When their job was done, they’d leap back on their horses and gallop wherever else they were needed. On the other hand, they weren’t best at getting around on foot, and that’s what they’d been practicing: learning to maneuver and keep together over long distances without their horses. They’d also been getting instruction from veteran Ocelomeh on sneaking around and using more brutal personal fighting techniques than most (besides Sal) were accustomed to. Sal actually supported all that and was pleased by the results. His battalion of two hundred new Rangers was more deadly than any so far, and he’d wished he could keep it all along.
He shrugged. “We came here expectin’ immediate work,” he reminded. “We been here three months. Granted, Cap’n Holland an’ Tiger been busy takin’ reinforcements to Major Itzam at Nautla, but I figured they decided to hold off on goin’ for Isidra just now.” He twisted his mustache again. “Might as well use us to get some new fellas ready to join up with Colonel Reed.”
“Then why just two hundred—six hundred total—when we could’a been workin’ with three times that many? Or four. Others have been,” Hayne reminded, waving vaguely around. “Other than the Ocelomeh, our raw material fer so-jers don’t know shite about war, but they’re sharp as paint.” He paused. “An’ what about the special trainin’?”
Sal shrugged again. “Maybe they’re just tryin’ it out, or maybe Colonel Reed’s short o’ horses an’ wants fellas ready to run around with the infantry if they have to. Quien sabe?”
“I know, at last,” said Captain Ixtla, stepping up from behind them and giving Hayne a start. The wind had covered his approach, and he looked around even more carefully than Hayne had, even peering down through the dock timbers looking for children playing in the low-tide mud. “I know some,” he amended with his perpetual frown.
Sal respected the older man. He’d been fighting Holcanos all his life and took charge of some of their special training himself. He knew Hayne trusted the former Ocelomeh war leader as well, having accompanied him and Coryon Burton on the miserable, punishing, tragic scout all the way to Campeche before the “real” war began. They’d been among the few survivors.
Itxla pointed out at the boats full of troops going alongside the former Dom galleons. “I know, for example, as you must by now, those men aren’t going to Colonel Reed.” He lowered his gruff voice still further. “Nor are they going to Nautla. That’s the story, of course; they’re the final reinforcements for Colonel Cayce’s command, waiting for General Agon’s approach, and we’re using the opportunity to work up the captured ships and their new crews.” He sighed. “I hope the enemy believes that.”
“You think there’s still spies in the city?” Sal asked.
“I’m certain of it. The question is, can they still get information out?”
Hayne grimaced. “Not easy, prob’ly. Not on foot. But what about them flyin’ spy lizards we been hearin’ about?”
“Not as big a concern as we feared at first,” Ixtla said with some relief. “New information from Colonel Cayce confirms they require skilled handlers and must have a base they know from which to operate. Mistress Samantha and Colonel De Russy liken their behavior to something they call ‘post pigeons.’ Do you know what they are?”
“Aye,” Hayne grumbled, “but these post pigeons’re considerable more frightenin’!”
Ixtla nodded out at the ships. “In any event, you may also have guessed that we’ll be accompanying our new battalions to their destination because they are and always have been ours. I hope you’ve maintained good relations with your troops and NCOs.”
“I already figgered that,” Hayne said, flicking his eyes at Sal. “My question is, what’ll we do with ’em?”
Ixtla glanced around again. “I have my suspicions, but all will soon be plain. I was sent to tell you to gather your kit, say your farewells—unhappy you’re being sent to Nautla, mind—and repair aboard Tiger at dusk. She sails with the tide.”
“Tiger?” Sal asked.
“Yes,” Ixtla confirmed. “We’ll be told”—he cracked the slightest smile at Hayne—“what we’ll do before transferring to whatever ship bears our respective battalions. That’ll be done when we’re far out to sea, no doubt.”
* * *
The little squadron sailed shortly after dark, clearing the treacherous crab claw shoals at the mouth of the bay by the light of the moon and steering straight out to sea. The wind was just forward of the galleons’ starboard beam, and they crept along, leaning alarmingly and sagging disgracefully to leeward—nerve-rackingly close to the shoals—before they were clear. Tiger had only her topsails set so she didn’t sprint too far ahead. The galleons—Flor had Ixtla’s infantry aboard, Viento Amistoso carried Hayne’s dragoons, and Hernandez’s Rangers were in Roble Fuerte—would sail much easier with the wind abaft the beam, but with their shape and no staysails, Captain Holland considered them hopeless slugs. Still, he kept them on a northerly course while he held an informal dinner and met with Ixtla, Hernandez, Hayne, his own executive officer, Mr. Semmes, Second Lieutenant Randall Sessions, and a dark, round little man Holland introduced as “Capitan Razine” clustered around him at one end of the table in what would’ve once been the old ship’s commodore’s dining cabin. They’d use the larger great cabin the next day, when the other ship captains and junior troop officers came aboard for a more detailed briefing, but the current space was more than sufficient for this smaller group.
Sal ate quickly. He was hungry, and the food was good. Actual roast beef instead of the meat of some unidentifiable creature, and boiled, salty squash. There were also the ever-present frijoles of two different types, but he was used to that and liked them. A kind of sweet brown corn bread was available in baskets, kept warm by blankets and periodically renewed or replaced by a young Uxmalo sailor who acted as a waiter for them all. Holland didn’t hold with any naval tradition of servants behind every diner. The men could refill their own glasses and carve their own meat.
