Hells march, p.17
Hell's March, page 17
Conversation was light, and Sal’s eyes roved the room. It had been well-appointed, once, with carefully executed carving on high and low trim panels on the walls and around the doors. The exact shape of that carving was indistinguishable under half a century of haphazardly applied white paint, but the latest coat must be relatively fresh, because it reflected the glow of several gimballed lamps well enough to provide a bright, cheery light. Cheery only compared to the whitewashed walls of a jail cell, of course, since the only “window” was a square gunport open to the air, the gun itself under the table they ate on. Sal had painfully bumped his shin against the truck when he sat. To Captain Holland’s enthusiastic approval, a caramelized gelatinous bread pudding arrived for dessert, sweet and slimy and full of dried fruit. Sal took a few bites, but each spoonful seemed to slide down his throat like a lump of phlegm and land with a thud in his stomach. He gave up, and the young waiter took his plate with a wink of understanding. Sal tried to cleanse his palate with a gulp of Uxmalo beer, but that didn’t work too well.
“Now,” Holland boomed, slapping the table after his own empty pudding plate was removed. He wasn’t a big man and looked older than Moses, but could dominate a room a dozen times the size of the dining cabin with his personality and quarterdeck voice. “Let’s get down to it, hey?” He gestured around at Ixtli, Sal, and Hayne. “You’ve all met my Mr. Semmes an’ Mr. Sessions. I don’t believe you know Capitan Razine. I expect you’ve guessed he was skipper o’ one of our prizes. Roble Fuerte, in fact. He’ll be goin’ back to her with me an’ Second Lieutenant Sessions.” He paused and looked at Sal. “An’ you, Lieutenant Hernandez, after we air things out tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow at the dark, rather nervous-looking man. Sal hadn’t seen him eat much, come to that. “He don’t talk a helluva lot, uninvited,” Holland continued, “but don’t get the wrong impression. I didn’t make ’im come. After I told ’im what we mean to do, he volunteered. That took a hold full o’ guts, as you’ll see.”
Captain Ixtli nodded. “I’m sure,” he said dryly, then gestured at Sal and Hayne. “As I’m also sure my friends and I, and all our troops, are anxious to learn exactly what it is that we did not precisely volunteer for.”
Holland looked at him a moment as if stunned, then burst out laughing. “I reckon it never occurred to anyone you fellas’d turn down a chance like this, so nobody asked! Ha! Course, you can always back out. Stay aboard Tiger, where it’s liable ta be safe. . . .”
Sal and Hayne snorted simultaneously, and Ixtli rolled his eyes. “Captain Holland,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Will you tell us the mission? We understood you meant to mount an expedition to steal Isidra back from the Doms at Vera Cruz and take her home.” He shook his head. “But I’d imagine an operation like that would best be accomplished quietly, with a small force. Three ships and six hundred troops, not counting another hundred and fifty-odd crewmen, strikes me as . . . excessive, if you mean to employ stealth.” His tone was still dry, but a little harsh as well.
Holland waved a hand as if dismissing his concerns. “Sure, we’re goin’ ta get Isidra. That’s the priority.” Then he grinned and his eyes glittered. “But we’re also goin’ on a raid. Vera Cruz is the biggest Dom port on this side o’ the continent, the only one fit to supply forces goin’ against Uxmal. There’s shore batteries an’ a few warships most likely, but Capitan Razine says there’s nothin’ on this side o’ the world for ’em to guard against. Most of the troops’ve been pulled to join General Agon against us, or sent away for their Gran Cruzada against the New Brit Imperials. It’s a empty shell right now, an’ we’re gonna smash it!”
Sal leaned forward, his predatory gaze mirroring Holland’s now. “I volunteer,” he said with a grin.
“I as well, of course,” Ixtla said, then looked hard at Razine. “But what’s he here for, and why do we need him?” He might as well have said, “He’s a Dom. I don’t trust him.”
Holland raised both eyebrows. “Aye, he’s a ‘Dom,’ by birth an’ nationality, but even Varaa’ll tell ye there’s ‘true believers’ amongst ’em, an’ then there’s them as has ta believe, as it were. An’ what they believe is startin’ ta sag ta leeward as bad as them fat, primitive tubs out there.” He tilted his head aft, indicating the galleons in their wake, then went on to briefly describe the class structure of the Dominion as Razine had explained it. Varaa and Har-Kaaska knew it existed, but even they hadn’t had a complete understanding. The rising differences between the “traditional” Church and the Blood Priests seemed subtle and insignificant on the surface and didn’t seem to make much difference to them, but it was starting to cause a rift in the upper classes. “It makes little difference a’tall to common soldiers, slaves, an’ the lowest class of free folk either,” Holland continued, “which ain’t allowed ta even think about nothin’ but servin’ their betters er dyin’ tryin’—though I expect some o’ the Doms we licked at the Washboard might’a noted a crack er two in the dominance o’ the Dominion.” He bowed his head to Capitan Razine. “He’s a hidalgo, a kind o’ middle-class sort.”
“Lower middle class, in effect,” Capitan Razine corrected timidly, his English already fairly good after close to four months’ practice. He looked at Holland, stricken. “My apologies,” he quickly added. “I didn’t mean to interrupt!”
“No, no! Go ahead!” Holland encouraged.
Razine looked at the others, obviously still nervous, and cleared his throat. “I’m a hidalgo, a status even hombres libres—the lowest class of freemen—might aspire to, though the likelihood of them ever reaching it is small. I was born to it, as the son of a patricio who set me up in the shipping business. Roble Fuerte is—was—my second ship. Perhaps, one day, I might’ve ascended to the rank of patricio myself,” he said a little wistfully. “But as a man of property, who had to think to maintain and grow it, seeing to repairs, hiring crews, commissioning cargoes to pay for it all . . .”
“Ye hired yer crew, did ye?” Hayne asked, intrigued.
“Yes,” Razine confirmed. “Slaves are expensive and not only often lose their will to live, they have little motivation to become better sailors. Why should they? How will it improve their lot? Freemen work cheaper than the purchase price of a slave, live longer, learn more, and ultimately become more valuable sailors. They might become ship’s officers one day and save enough to buy a fishing boat. Perhaps become hidalgos themselves. In any event, I had to think, as I said, and at least vaguely recognized the oppressive nature of our system. . . .” He paused before whispering, “And our faith.
He looked at Holland. “I can’t describe the terror I knew when heretics took my ship. I knew what the priests would do to me for allowing it, and what the Blood Priests would do. . . .” He shuddered. “So I imagined whatever you might do would have to be worse.” He blinked and an expression of wonder crossed his face. “Therefore, when I and my crew were merely treated as men, detained but cared for and fed, questioned extensively but not abused, tortured, burnt, eaten . . .” Tears ran down his face. “Father Orno came to me many times and I learned a new history, a different gospel, that was purer, older . . . simply felt truer.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes with a napkin. “I willingly became a heretic too, finally understanding the faith forced upon me, on all my poor people since time on this world began, is a cruel, twisted lie.” He’d dropped his gaze to his hands on the table, still clutching the napkin between them. When he looked up, his expression was defiant. “I’m in your war now, in whatever capacity I can serve. Most of my crew as well. Win or lose, it’s a fight worth making.”
“Damned if I don’t believe him,” Sal murmured. Ixtla still looked suspicious, but Hayne was nodding.
“What about the crews of the other two ships?” Ixtla asked.
“Most were slaves,” supplied First Lieutenant Semmes with a frown. “Some of those recently taken along the borders of the Dominion were enthusiastic to join us and even now help work the prizes. Those with a . . . longer tradition of servitude remain too afraid to do much of anything and are being cared for. One of the other captains went mad, I’m afraid, and the other contrived to, well, smother himself with the mattress in his cell before we could talk to him much.”
“Damn,” Sal said. “Fella’d have to really work at that, I bet.”
“Still thought he was takin’ the easy way out, most likely,” Second Lieutenant Sessions agreed.
“Be that as it may,” Holland interjected, “Capitan Razine has earned our trust. By his own admission, he’s no expert on the layout o’ the Dominion. His regular route took him to Cuba an’ Hispaniola, usually from Vera Cruz, but sometimes as far north as Tampico. Not much there, he says. An’ his voyage to supply the enemy—where they were supposed to be at Uxmal—was the first time he’d ever been to the Yucatán. His charts are pretty good for those areas. Don’t go as far south as I’d like, beyond the Yucatán,” he added with a furrowed brow, “an’ that worries me a bit. We still don’t know anything about what’s past what we called the Mosquito Kingdom.”
“What difference does it make?” Hayne asked.
“Only that Techolotla an’ Vera Cruz are the only shipbuildin’ centers he knows of, an’ he’s never seen ’em lay down a warship. Can’t imagine why they’d need ’em in the Atlantic”—Holland grinned—“till Tiger got here. But there was some. Still are a few, an’ we don’t know where they come from.” He regarded Capitan Razine. “Anyway, he’s along to help.”
“What help can he be?” Ixtla asked, still unconvinced by the Dom sailor and refusing to talk directly to him.
Razine cleared his throat again. “We have been gone too long for anyone to expect these particular ships to return to Vera Cruz, and the unexpected arrival of three in company might cause . . . curiosity in the commander of whatever garrison remains. There will be some Dominion troops, and I may need to respond to signals. Just as important, not all the rocks and shallows appear on the charts and for those accustomed to sailing this wonderful vessel, our . . . transports can be difficult to manage in confined waters. It’s best that I accompany Capitan Holland in Roble Fuerte to advise him on handling her and to respond to any challenge from shore. I strongly recommend the following ships watch us closely and do as we do. It would be unfortunate if we ran two aground just to bring one to anchor, and I doubt you can accomplish as much in your raid if two-thirds of your troops are lost.”
Holland was looking around the table, examining Ixtla, Hayne, then Sal. Something about Sal’s expression made him snort, and he focused back on Ixtla. “One thing you might’ve missed, Mr. Ixtla,” he said a little frostily. “I even get it,” he allowed in a slightly lighter tone. “All your life, the only good Dom’s been a dead Dom, but the thing you might’a neglected ta consider is that some, like Capitan Razine, ain’t necessarily bad, they just do bad for a culture enslavin’ ’em through fear as much as any folk they conquer. They’re misinformed—an’ afraid o’ them that’s doin’ all the informin’. Some might even be open ta the truth if we have a chance ta tell it.” He nodded at Razine. “As good a reason as any ta bring our new friend along. We can yammer at folks till we’re blue in the face an’ they’ll still just want ta kill us. They might listen to a word or two from one o’ their own.” He shrugged. “Worth a try.”
“We won’t be there long enough to convert anybody!” Sal objected, then paused. “Will we?”
Holland scratched the stubble on his chin. “Depends. Nothin’ much within a hundred miles ta reinforce the city. Let’s see how things go.”
CHAPTER 10
FEBRUARY 1848
1ST DIVISION / LA TIERRA DE SANGRE / THE BATTLE OF CAYAL
Lewis Cayce, Giles Anson, and Varaa-Choon were riding with the short, dark-haired, generally cheerful badger of a man named Major Marvin Beck at the front of the column, now led by Beck’s own 1st US Infantry. It was early morning, and sunlight filtered down through leaves of a far less confining forest than they’d been in for weeks. They’d curse the sun as the day wore on and its oppressive heat bore down, but 1st Division had been on the move for less than two hours, and many still marveled at the hint of a breeze like they hadn’t felt since plunging into the woods at Nautla.
Varaa had just joined them, begrudgingly confessing that a remarkably cooperative Kisin (now riding unrestrained with Anson’s Rangers) had confirmed they were within a day of their objective. Lewis didn’t doubt it. Decaying evidence of the outskirts of Cayal was all around; old ruins, collapsed and choked with vines, showed where outlying settlements once stood. Reverend Harkin had asked why the Holcanos didn’t restore and occupy them, but Varaa explained that, prior to their current unprecedented cooperation, the migratory Holcanos historically only used Cayal itself as a safe meeting place for their various bands (and Grik) to gather and consult, trade captives and daughters, or negotiate joint raids or brief alliances against one another. Kisin had also told her the Holcanos had started using Cayal as a trading hub with the Dominion, sending timber in the form of rafts piled high with hides, dried fish, cured meat, and valuable plunder down the Usuma River flowing beside the ancient city. This in exchange for tools, Dominion assistance against their enemies, and promised weapons that never came.
In any event, the land was clearly changing, the forest more open at last (also revealing increasing numbers of bizarre, frightening creatures fleeing their advance through younger, sparser growth). The ground was more broken as well, crossed by streams tumbling from distant hills that sucked showers from the sky year-round. No doubt the streams—the best water they’d found—fed the Usuma River.
“And Kisin remains confident Don Discipo still holds sway over seven or eight thousand Holcanos?” Lewis asked Varaa.
“Warriors,” Varaa stressed. “Likely three times that many women and younglings. The Maker knows how they’ve fed them so long, cooped in one place.”
“Fish,” Major Beck abruptly said, then explained more self-consciously than usual, “As you know, that damned Kisin wants his Holcanos back and doesn’t know if they’ll follow him. The ones we don’t kill, that is. Especially if they can’t eat people anymore. I overheard Reverend Harkin going on at him about throwing away sin and such, and gathering men to his cause. I know enough Spanya to catch his drift, but the reverend speaks it like a native.”
“Well?” prodded Anson, interested.
“Harkin told Kisin about Peter, how Jesus told him to throw out his net again, even though Peter and his fellows hadn’t caught anything all night. When they did as He told them, their net filled up smartly and liked to burst.”
“What did Kisin say?” Lewis asked.
Beck shook his head. “Said Don Discipo had kept Holcano women busy with nets across the river, filling them every day, so he didn’t see anything special in that.”
“How did the reverend respond?”
Beck chuckled. “Pretty well. Asked Kisin if he ever thought of that. Kisin got huffy and said, ‘Of course not.’ Holcanos are hunters, not ‘city-squatting fishermen.’ That’s when Harkin started in on pride, and how it was the worst sin of all and turned the Devil bad in the first place. Kisin got a little worried since his name kind of means ‘Devil’ to some, but Harkin assured him there’s only one Devil and his name is Lucifer. Kisin allowed he might’ve heard of the fellow, and it was a relief to know he didn’t have to be bad all the time. Figured being the Devil was more responsibility than he wanted.”
Lewis laughed, and even Varaa kakked a Mi-Anakka chuckle.
“But Kisin asked how Don Discipo came up with the same notion for feeding folks that Jesus did. Harkin said the Devil—who’s wholly in charge of the Dominion and started all this in the first place—can give people good ideas for bad reasons. Besides, Don Discipo’s a ‘city squatter’ himself. There’s no river by Puebla Arboras, but he’d seen them fish that way at Itzincab, on the Cipactli River.” Beck was holding his reins in his left hand and held his right out, palm up. “Anyway,” he said, “they’re eating lots of fish.”
There came a sudden low rumble in the distance, like thunder, but the open sky above held not a single cloud. The sound came again and again, still dull and distant, but Lewis knew what it was. “Artillery,” he growled. “Kisin swore there was no artillery in Cayal. It must be ours. Second Division’s,” he clarified.
“A long slog for us an’ them to both reach our objective so close to the same time,” Anson said.
Lewis looked at him. “Who knows if we are? We’ve had no communication, and they might’ve been here a week or two already.” He frowned at Varaa. “I hope your King Har-Kaaska hasn’t gotten bored just sitting there and decided to storm the city. That could cause . . . problems.” He paused, letting an unusual tone of annoyance creep into his voice. “Major Anson, go forward, if you please. If that’s our artillery firing on the city, it’s near enough that our scouts should’ve already found the place and reported its presence. Secure an early report from them—and find that villainous Kisin, if you can.” He flicked a glance at Varaa when Anson urged Colonel Fannin ahead at a canter. “Unfamiliar wilderness or not, your Ocelomeh claim to know it to a degree and constitute the core of Anson’s Rangers. On top of that, Kisin was just through here. I’m weary of stumbling upon enemies in the forest!” He raised his voice. “Major Beck? Let’s pick up the pace, shall we?”
