Hells march, p.19
Hell's March, page 19
CHAPTER 11
2ND DIVISION
NORTH OF CAYAL
God help us!” swore Captain Justinian Olayne, still on his horse, bringing his battery up from behind the main south-facing line. His heart seemed to freeze as what looked like the whole 1st Itzincab began to collapse under the relentless weight of the Holcano assault on the left flank, down by the river. Men who’d been fighting desperately with pikes, shaky but determined against the whooping, shrieking horde, just seemed to snap and flee, streaming back through the 2nd Ocelomeh. That disrupted their volleys of arrows, and though they courageously tried to blunt the breakthrough with hand weapons, they couldn’t hold a line like the pikemen. The fighting there degenerated into a shapeless melee, and the 2nd Ocelomeh would have to pull back or be overrun. Worst of all, Olayne had seen it coming, known it would happen, and there hadn’t been a thing he could do.
King Har-Kaaska had resigned himself to falling under Colonel Cayce’s command when they met, but still resented Colonel Andrew Reed “taking over” what he considered “his” campaign when Reed arrived at Itzincab weeks before with his smartly dressed, well-armed new brigade of Uxmalos and Techonos. It was an impressive force, joined by the rest of Captain Emmel Dukane’s battery and two full batteries of captured Dom guns, all marching under crisp new regimental flags, the only things differentiating it at a distance from the still largely American 1st US and 3rd Pennsylvania. A long baggage train brought up the rear and the whole thing, without question, was the best-equipped, most professionally trained force the peninsular allies had yet assembled.
But “Colonel” King Har-Kaaska’s crusade against the Holcanos was a personal fight. Fully aware it was merely a necessary prelude to their bigger business with the Dominion, he’d still been reluctant to subordinate himself to Reed. He would’ve—probably—submitted more easily to Colonel Cayce. He’d won a great battle, after all. But after two decades of fighting Holcanos, Har-Kaaska was the “expert” here, the only real “professional,” his Ocelomeh the only true warriors. And the “city folk” soldiers and militia he led were the only other troops on this campaign who’d faced the enemy, and he was justly proud of how they’d driven the Holcanos from Itzincab and out of Puebla Arboras. He couldn’t think much of more townsfolk in new uniforms, no matter how well they looked or marched. His troops were the veterans, and he’d insisted they lead the division’s advance.
Colonel Reed, sensible to the logic in that—and Har-Kaaska’s feelings—didn’t press the issue. Now the somewhat loosely combined 2nd Division had advanced rapidly and fairly efficiently with few dangerous encounters with monsters and without meeting any serious resistance until Cayal itself finally loomed. Colonel Reed sent messengers urging Har-Kaaska to halt his brigade on the rocky, forested, ruin-covered high ground north of the city until the rest of the division came up, but Har-Kaaska pressed on, down to the plain, impatient to “chase” the Holcanos into the city from their surrounding camps as he’d done at Puebla Arboras. Once the enemy was trapped in its walls, they’d wait for Colonel Cayce to arrive. When they began their combined bombardment and assault, the Holcanos would know there’d be no escape, and Har-Kaaska rather hoped there’d be no surrender. The Holcanos would be eradicated once and for all.
But Don Discipo—or whoever commanded his warriors in battle—had learned his lesson at Puebla Arboras. Holcanos had no notion of defense, nor did they have the discipline for it. Besides, only in a stand-up fight could they bring their superior numbers to bear, and they’d prepared to take best advantage. They’d waited until Har-Kaaska’s brigade was committed to the field and a significant gap opened between it and the rest of the division before erupting from concealment inside the city, pouring through the gateless entryways, surging over walls, sweeping down from the trees to the west, even leaping up from depressions or from behind scattered ruins to swarm Har-Kaaska’s pike and bow-armed “veterans.”
The problem unfolding now, that Olayne—and others—had foreseen, was even though Har-Kaaska’s brigade reacted quickly, deployed as trained, and even fought with tenacity, they were really only veterans of pursuing the enemy and attacking relatively small groups they trapped. Now, beyond the simple horrifying surprise of it all, it seemed like the roles were reversed, and Olayne was frankly amazed they stood it as long as they did.
“Stay back, sir!” he shouted as Har-Kaaska himself thundered past on his great, improbable mount, waving a heavy-bladed sword with an ornate, almost delicate-looking guard and calling his staff, even the civilians still in his retinue, to follow him down to the cracking archers. He almost crashed into a galloping column of dragoons led by Coryon Burton and the recently (reluctantly) promoted Captain “Boogerbear” Beeryman, who bellowed, “Hold yer—whatever the hell that thing is—just a damn minute. You go down there, yer gonna get dead.” Probably only the imposing size of the big Ranger and his unusually large local horse could’ve given the excited Har-Kaaska pause and he checked his charge, but only to yell, “My people are being slaughtered and those . . . animals are smashing our flank!”
Boogerbear looked behind him. “Yep,” he agreed calmly. “Better pull your men back.”
Har-Kaaska blinked amazed anger, tail whipping like a striking snake. “They’ll destroy us all!” He gestured at Olayne’s battery: six 6pdrs moving up by hand to join all six of Emmel Dukane’s howitzers already in the wavering line of the rest of his Techonos, “Pidros,” and Ocelomeh facing south. “They’ll roll up our line!”
“They might,” Boogerbear replied in his maddeningly even way, “but it’ll take a spell longer an’ cost ’em a heap more before they do. Lookie yonder,” he added, nodding behind Har-Kaaska. The Mi-Anakka impatiently whirled his strange mount to see Captain Dukane himself urging both batteries of captured 8pdrs into line facing the collapsing flank. Behind them came the 2nd Uxmal arrayed in line of battle four ranks deep, marching to the rumbling thunder of their own drums while a pair of youngsters who’d mastered the fife played a rousing tune.
“ ‘Araby’s Daughter’!” Captain Olayne barked in amusement. “I wonder who taught them that?”
“I did,” Boogerbear said, waving at Major Manley. “Had to hum it, though. Don’t remember the words. Look behind you, Cap’n Olayne.”
Olayne had been watching his men move the guns, First Sergeant McNabb giving all the commands for distracted lieutenants, and hadn’t realized the 1st Techon was coming up behind his line in a longer formation two ranks deep with Colonel Reed and Father Orno riding in front, oblivious to sheeting arrows dropping men behind them. And the men themselves, who’d never tasted battle, looked grimly determined, admirably keeping their intervals and alignment even as men screamed and fell.
“I didn’t want a battle today,” Reed called out to Olayne with a dark glance at Har-Kaaska. “I certainly wasn’t expecting one. But I’m glad you were supporting these men as they pressed so close to the city or they would’ve been routed, I fear.”
Olayne bowed his head noncommittally. He’d been “supporting” Har-Kaaska ever since Lewis Cayce sent him to join the Ocelomeh king. He’d been uncomfortable with the polite rift in the division, understood Har-Kaaska’s pride had been wounded and he chafed under Reed’s command, was even leery of Har-Kaaska’s push forward to “chase the enemy into the city” to re-create the advantage they’d enjoyed at Puebla Arboras. These were very different circumstances, however, and their scouts had reported more Holcanos than they’d ever seen. Olayne was no expert in war—God knew he was still learning!—but perhaps King Har-Kaaska would take today’s lesson to heart. If he lived.
Olayne thought Reed should’ve confronted him, reined him in, but perhaps he’d feared a break? And the speed with which he brought up the rest of the trailing division made Olayne wonder if he hadn’t expected exactly what was happening and planned for it all along. . . .
Reed beckoned King Har-Kaaska toward him. “Please join Father Orno and I. We’ll give them a real battle now!”
“No,” Har-Kaaska ground out, then modified his tone. “No thank you. I must rally my warriors as they pull back on the left.”
“Of course,” Reed agreed. “Are your guns loaded, Captain Olayne?”
“Double canister, Colonel Reed.”
“Commence firing, if you please.”
With four batteries directly in what was becoming an L-shaped line, twenty-four cannon coughing lethal spreads of canister as fast as they could, and now infantry armed with captured and improved Dom muskets firing sheeting volleys, the slaughter was indescribable. But these Holcanos fought more like Grik than men, disdaining casualties and surging into the bloody, corpse-choked crescents in front of the guns as quickly as they formed. Perhaps the Blood Priests that had been among them had inspired a new fanaticism, or Don Discipo convinced them that, as they’d sought to exterminate the other peoples of the Yucatán, their enemies had come to do the same to them. Or maybe it was just that they’d been driven far enough, once too often, by enemies they disdained as less than them, hardly “people” at all, and their initial success against Har-Kaaska’s brigade gave them the sense they could crush their ancient enemy once and for all, made them insensible to losses, fear, even pain. To any who doubted, a quick glance behind them renewed their confidence.
They still had the numbers and surged tight enough against the thinning lines that guns had to be pulled back and musketry faltered, men now relying on pikes once more, or bayonets. The nearly broken “veterans” Har-Kaaska had rallied and thrown back in the lines helped take up the slack. Well equipped and trained as they were, Reed’s new regiments had never used their modified bayonets in anger and the sand-filled sacks they’d practiced on weren’t covered with garish paint, didn’t scream and weave and leap and jump and try to stab them with spears or bash in their brains with flint-studded clubs.
“All guns are loaded, sir!” Olayne shouted back at Colonel Reed who still sat his horse by Father Orno. He wondered why they weren’t dead. Then again, just as the musketry had dwindled to sporadic pops barely audible over the roar of hand-to-hand fighting, few arrows now flew. He noticed Har-Kaaska had finally joined them, his bizarre mount almost bristling with arrows and covered with blood. It seemed not to notice. He’d left the flank to Major Manley, who seemed to be holding well. It was here in the front where the enemy was focused.
“Fine, fine,” Reed replied calmly. “Push them through and fire as soon as the muzzles are clear of our fellows. Try not to run anyone over. As soon as you’ve fired, pull them back and prepare to do it again, but wait until I give the word. Mr. Beeryman and Mr. Burton have taken half our mounted troops to the right and will attempt to annoy the enemy on his own left flank.” Olayne was wondering why they took only half when Reed continued. “Cut any dead or injured horses out of your limber traces and prepare to withdraw by prolong. Mr. Joffrion’s mounted men will assist you. They’ll provide cover, and lend a hand pulling if they must.” He nodded forward and frowned. “I hope Beeryman’s attack and your sudden barrage will give the enemy pause enough for our lads to take a breath and reload their muskets at last, but either way we must be ready to attempt to disengage. Pull back to the trees and the slope behind us. . . .” He fastened his gaze on Olayne. “Under no circumstances will you allow any of your guns to be taken. Is that perfectly understood?”
“Of course, sir,” Olayne replied indignantly.
Reed waved an apology. “Of course it is,” he agreed. “I . . . wasn’t expecting a fight today, you know. This is all my fault.”
“What remains of my brigade will hold the enemy back while you save as much of yours as you can, Colonel Reed,” Har-Kaaska said crisply, blinking determination. “This battle was my fault, as you well know. I’ve fought Holcanos most of my life and thought I knew what I was doing. But . . .” He waved around. “I’ve never fought a battle, not like this, and didn’t have the first idea. If we survive, you won’t find me dismissive of your orders again.”
Even over the roar of the fighting, they felt as much as heard the deep poom, poom, poom, poom, poom, poom! of a battery of guns, and they all turned to look southwest to see a line of blossoming white flowers of smoke above the blue-green grass on the outskirts of the great collection of dome-like tents on the gentle slope west of the ruined city.
“Dios salve a tus hijos! I thought we were certain the enemy had no artillery here!” Father Orno exclaimed. It was the first thing Olayne had heard him say that day, but he wasn’t looking. The roundshot arrived at about the time they heard the reports—and he watched it plow gory furrows through the right rear mass of Holcanos. Their paths of destruction were easy to trace by screams and flying debris and long spattering mists of blood that rose above them.
“Those aren’t Holcano guns!” he shouted gleefully. “Even if they were, they couldn’t all hit their own people at an angle that would miss us, even by accident!” Now he saw smoke rising above the city and darker smoke boiling from animal hide tents. “That’s Hudgens’s battery!” he shouted even louder. “Colonel Cayce’s here!” Without waiting for Reed’s order, he bellowed down the line, “A Battery, B Battery, push your guns forward and fire as you’re clear!”
* * *
“Howdy, Cap’n,” Captain Bandy Beeryman called out after he snapped at his men to lower their weapons and urged his horse, Dodger, out into a cut in the trees. Coryon Burton hadn’t seen anything but followed the big Ranger without hesitation. Lizardbirds exploded from the far side of the cut, and Giles Anson, Capitan Lara, and Lieutenant Fisher trotted out to meet them.
“It’s ‘Major’ now, you know,” Anson mock-scolded.
“I heard,” Boogerbear conceded. “An’ they call me ‘cap’n.’ ” He shrugged. “But that’s the damn name I known you by for fifteen years or more. Ain’t likely to change.”
Anson laughed and motioned his men to follow him out of the woods. “If there was anything ahead to worry about, Captain Beeryman would’ve already chased it off.” He grinned. “An’ Captain Burton of the dragoons as well, of course. How are you, Coryon?”
“Fine, sir. Glad to see you.” He smiled and nodded at Lara. “Never thought I’d be so glad to see a Mexican lancer!”
“Nor I an American dragoon!”
“We’ll join forces and form up in this cut,” Anson said, looking at Boogerbear. “I guess you’re here for the same reason we are?”
Boogerbear nodded. “Hit ’em in the flank.”
“Things look rough down there.” Only a few steps by their horses would take them over the crest above the battle.
“Startin’ to sting,” Boogerbear conceded. “Colonel Reed was gonna stop an’ fortify that high ground to the north while we skulked things out an’ waited for you. Made good sense. Ol’ Har-Kaaska got itchy, though, an’ kicked over a anthill. Reed came down to support him, but there’s a lot o’ goddamn ants.”
Anson was rubbing the graying whiskers on his chin. “That’s what we thought. Well, that’s the bad part. Good part is—” He was interrupted by a rolling battery fire from the south and grinned. “We got Hudgens’s guns set up, an’ Colonel Cayce’s advancin’ the whole division. Should be alongside the city by now. An’ the 1st Ocelomeh should be in the city. Enemy was so focused on you, they left the back door open.” He snorted. “Not sure there was a back door.”
Boogerbear was grinning now too. “Soon as them Holcanos get worked up enough, pinched in the nutcracker ’tween First an’ Second Divisions, we’ll go gallopin’ down an’ push ’em in the river! Sounds fun.” He glanced around. “That Joffrion kid is back yonder with more dragoons. Reed couldn’t spare all his mounted fellas, so there’s only a couple companies of us. Looks like you got twice as many. But where’s little Leonor at?”
Leonor was almost as tall as her father but would always be “little” to her “Uncle Boogerbear.”
Anson smirked. “Where do you think? Protectin’ her heroic Colonel Cayce. Barely remembers her old man anymore.”
“Just as well,” Boogerbear declared. “Good for her to care about somebody ’sides us—long as Cayce don’t break her heart.”
Anson knitted his brows. “That’s what I decided . . . once. They do seem to . . . fit in some sort of way. I know they like each other, but . . .” He looked at Lara and chuckled. “She an’ Lara ‘like’ each other, but I don’t think they’ll ever get past”—he lowered his voice—“that one big, deep-down difference. But there’s somethin’ ’tween her an’ Cayce too. Maybe they’re too much alike; too much the killer, in different ways.” He frowned. “Or maybe too broken or hurt. Cayce’s got a dark side, you know.”
Boogerbear nodded.
“Maybe Colonel Cayce rightly recognizes he’s too old for her,” Lara put in as neutrally as he dared, as if it was obvious.
“Barely ten years. That’s just about right,” Boogerbear retorted.
“Perhaps so, in a settled world, where a man takes a wife when he’s made his fortune and can comfortably provide for her,” Coryon Burton interjected, also overly casual.
Anson looked at him with wide eyes. “By God. You too? Does every man in this army have his sights on my wildcat daughter?”
Burton blushed under his tan. “Not me,” he objected. “With respect,” he quickly added. “But you might keep an eye on Mr. Meder and Mr. Hudgens.”
Boogerbear rumbled a chuckle and rolled his eyes. “Little Leonor, the delicate flower, pinin’ for a man ta provide for her. Won’t do them other fellas no good anyway. Leonor’s full-grown, an’ fixed on Colonel Cayce.” He looked at Anson. “Like Miss Samantha Wilde’s got her hooks in you. She’s with Second Division, by the by.”
