Hells march, p.21
Hell's March, page 21
“Four forces, actually,” Varaa told him, then grinned at Lewis. “I now understand your plan, my friend.”
“Four?” Harkin asked, surprised.
“The river is the third.”
“Ah. And that leaves the mounted detachment under Major Anson.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hope his timing’s as good as the Almighty’s,” Lewis said dryly. “A lot of lives’ll depend on it.”
Leonor looked at him, slightly alarmed. They were going into a sizable action, but this wasn’t the same man who commanded so confidently, almost . . . cheerfully at the Washboard. She wondered what the difference was. Looking to the front, she saw they’d narrowed the distance to about four hundred yards. More men would be getting hurt by their own people, firing into the enemy from the other side, but there was no help for that. And they’d soon risk hitting members of 2nd Division as well. Maybe that’s Lewis’s problem? she thought. This plan was so simple—he cooked it all up on the fly—but it’s also so damned . . . untidy. Unless it goes very wrong, he won’t get in the thick of it, an’ riskin’ our own people to each other’s fire is so wasteful that he can’t take any pleasure in the plan. It dawned on her then. We’ve come all this way for this fight, and he’s not going to get to enjoy it!
“They’re coming now,” Varaa said quietly.
Roughly half the Holcanos, it was impossible to tell for certain, had turned to face them, working themselves into a frenzy. A few dozen arrows were already lofting their way but couldn’t fly this far. Another pair of roundshot slashed through the warriors, and they seemed to convulse with fury before breaking into a mass sprint in their direction.
“Sound ‘halt,’ Private Hannity,” Lewis told the bugler. “The regiments will engage at their discretion.” He turned to a messenger as the notes cut through the drums and the rising, wailing fury of the enemy. “Ride to Captain Hudgens. Compliments, and have him cease firing and prepare his battery to follow our mounted assault.”
The messenger saluted and bolted away. Leonor cringed as she always did when Lewis was saluted on the battlefield. His uniform was the same as any mounted trooper’s at a glance, but salutes might single him out for disproportionate attention. If the young, excited dragoon had ridden past her, she might’ve struck him. They were effectively out of the battle at present, however. Everything was set in motion, and all they could do was watch. The bulk of the roaring horde seemed aimed at the middle right, at the juncture between the 1st Uxmal and 1st US, and independent or not, they echoed each other’s commands to load and present their weapons, even as the 3rd Pennsylvania loaded and prepared to fire into them obliquely. Apparently, Lewis’s commanders were concerned about the same things he was, shouting, “Front rank, ready! Aim straight at ’em! Don’t hold high! Fire!”
Nearly the whole line, a quarter of a mile long, erupted in a sheeting wall of flame and smoke with the enemy still a hundred and fifty yards away. Aiming dead-on at that distance, most of the musket balls would strike the earth before they got there, but many would bound up and hit the enemy. Quite a few did, and the mass of Holcanos staggered. “Rear rank, Ready! Fire!”
After that, the volleys were more staggered as companies reloaded and made ready at different rates, but the fire was almost continuous. And the closer the wave of painted, screeching warriors came, the more brutally they mauled them, peeling whole layers off the leading edge.
“Terrible,” Varaa said aloud, blue eyes wide, tail swishing.
“You feelin’ sorry for them savages?” Leonor asked, amazed.
“I am,” Harkin confessed lowly.
“Not sorry,” denied Varaa, “but . . . I believe this division has killed more Holcanos in the last half minute than my Ocelomeh did by themselves in twenty years. I’m glad we’re . . . ending their power, but that makes it no less terrible.”
“You didn’t feel that way about the Doms at the Washboard,” Lewis pointed out.
Varaa blinked. “No. You might argue there’s no difference between them; Doms and Holcanos are equally depraved. And you’d be right, in a way. But Holcanos are like cruel younglings, yes? They act as they do because they know no better, and in truth my Ocelomeh behaved little better toward them.” Her expression seemed to harden. “But the Doms are arguably the most ‘advanced’ civilization on this continent, and they do know better, or should.”
“Fire!” Crash!
The smoke was so thick, the volleys so fast, they could barely see through it. Men started screaming or dropping out of line as heavy arrows swept straight in. The enemy had to be close. Special details helped the wounded or dragged the dead from the ranks. The toll was mounting, but not quickly, and despite the weight of fire, Leonor knew some Holcanos would live to burst through no matter what. Sure enough, shapes appeared in the smoke, and she put her hand on the grip of one of the Paterson Colts at her side.
“Get that fellow, someone!” cried Captain “Mal” Harris, commanding Beck’s 1st Battalion, when an enormous painted Holcano smashed roaring into the line, flailing from side to side with a huge club studded with jagged obsidian, bashing men down, the club quickly red. Bayonets jabbed, and a shot from the second rank turned the warrior’s head into a gory, hollow bowl. He collapsed, bowling more men down. A wave of shapes now raced out of the smoke, but they were met by the whole second-rank volley, pitching them down in a glittering spray of flash-lit blood.
“Well done, lads!” Harris shouted. “Front rank, reload and fire at will. Rear rank will maintain volley fire—as convenient.”
Lewis actually chuckled at the unorthodox command, but Leonor thought the order made sense and Lewis probably appreciated the young officer’s initiative. They’d soon see if his notion had merit—or perhaps not, she realized, because that’s when they heard another bugle some distance to the left, repeatedly sounding a series of notes. “Father’s here,” she told Varaa with a tone of satisfaction.
It was actually Capitan Ramon Lara and two hundred and eighty lancers, backed by Lieutenant Fisher’s hundred strong company of carbine- and saber-armed dragoons who swept down on the disordered western flank of the Holcanos who’d turned on 1st Division. It wasn’t a very large force, but the enemy only heard the thunder of hooves before the line of charging men, lances down, smashed into them out of the smoke. Piercing screams rent the air as clots of men were skewered and the lancers charged on through, leaving those they missed to the slashing sabers behind them. Holcanos farther on couldn’t see what was happening, but the growing, panicked press took on a mind of its own. Faced with the withering fire of infantry to their front and an unknown terror on their right, Holcanos shattered like a clay jug dropped on a rocky slope, its fragments streaming away downhill toward the river.
Lewis stood as high as he could in his stirrups, telescope to his eye. The smoke was pushing east with the charge, and he saw Anson doing the same thing to the Holcanos in front of 2nd Division, peeling them off and away from the embattled troops with an even larger force of Ocelomeh Rangers, Burton’s dragoons, and Felix Meder’s saber-armed riflemen.
“Sound ‘cease firing on the left,’ Private Hannity, then sound . . .” Lewis paused and considered. The division hadn’t performed any large maneuvers in a while. With so much confusion already, they didn’t need more. Besides, he remained an artilleryman at heart, not an infantryman, and it was possible his own orders would increase the confusion if he didn’t state them plainly. “Messengers! Tell Major Ulrich to advance the Third Pennsylvania two hundred paces and perform a right wheel, continuing to press east toward the river. The First US will perform a right wheel in place and rejoin the line. The First Uxmal will . . . damn, I don’t even know how to tell them what I want. I’ll go to Major Manley myself.” Without another word, he pulled Arete’s head around and cantered off to the right.
“Shit!” Corporal Willis exclaimed as he, Leonor, Varaa, and Reverend Harkin, as well as a confused Private Hannity and the remaining cluster of dragoons, spurred after him. “You can’t just be runnin’ off like that, Colonel!” Willis called louder, surly.
“Hush, fool,” Varaa scolded, sharing a look with Leonor. “Colonel Cayce isn’t thoughtlessly impulsive, nor is he a man to just sit and view a fight. Now he has something to do, and we’ll watch over him, yes?” Willis didn’t respond, bouncing in his saddle behind them. There was still savage fighting in front of the 1st Uxmal, and Lewis was shouting for the men to take care since some of the lancers and dragoons had already bashed their way this far. So had an increasing mob of Holcanos, however, fighting with the renewed fury of terror to escape whatever unknown thing was pushing panicked comrades into them.
“Just hold them, lads, don’t let them through!” Lewis shouted as he brought Arete to a stand by Major Manley, behind the Uxmalos. “They won’t press you long!” he assured. “Are you all right, Major?” he asked a pale Manley, whose side was soaked with blood. An Uxmalo lieutenant was trying to get him off his horse.
“I’m fine, sir,” Manley answered wanly. “An arrow went through the fat over my hip. I hardly feel it.”
Leonor pursed her lips. Manley didn’t have as much fat as a bird.
“All the same, you’d best step down and let your orderly have a look,” Lewis said.
“Orderly’s dead, I’m afraid. Another arrow,” Manley added bitterly.
“See to it, Corporal,” Lewis ordered Willis, who stepped down without complaint and helped the lieutenant get Manley off his horse. “Captain Suiz,” Lewis called to the Uxmalo officer commanding Manley’s 2nd Battalion. He was already jogging over. “The Third Pennsylvania and First US are forming a line at a right angle to yours, to the front. Maintain that relative position as they advance, shifting your line to the east. Contain the enemy in the box we’re building. Do you understand?”
“I think so, sir,” Suiz responded a little doubtfully, but shouted orders in rapid-fire Spanya that Leonor had difficulty following. Lewis seemed satisfied and glanced at Varaa. “Now we move the First Ocelomeh.” He paused and a trace of a smile flashed across his face as he looked at the others. “Well, come on.”
“You see?” Varaa told Leonor as they galloped behind him. “He only enjoys a battle when he’s in it, moving with it.”
“I ain’t sure ‘enjoy’ is the right word,” Leonor objected as across the field her father’s Rangers and dragoons ignited a similar explosion of violence in front of 2nd Division. The cannon were silent, thank God, and Leonor was glad Lewis had men like Justinian Olayne, who could be trusted to assess the situation and act accordingly. “I don’t know what the right word is, though,” she confessed.
“He doesn’t enjoy the killing,” Varaa agreed, “and I know he hates what he calls the ‘butcher’s bill.’ Quite an appropriate phrase. But never doubt he enjoys . . .” Varaa blinked rapidly and flicked her tail over the saddle cantle. “Savors living in the moment of battle, when every instant becomes an hour, a day, bursting with a thousand sights and sounds and doubts and certainties, overlaid by feelings of grief and fear and triumph and pride, even love and hate more intense than at any other time.”
Leonor could only nod. She knew what that was like herself, to a degree—especially the hate part—though she’d never thought of it so. It explained many things. Her father must feel it as well, possibly as much or more than Lewis (with a slightly narrower focus). She’d seen him exhibit even greater exhilaration in the smallest skirmish. Obviously, in spite of her earlier comment about how “terrible” this war was, Varaa felt the same, or she couldn’t have described it so well. She glanced at Reverend Harkin, huffing as hard as his horse, and saw the sweaty, righteous determination on his sagging face. What about him? she thought. How did he feel when he fought in the Battle of the Washboard? He did seem awful cheerful. But he’s savorin’ his holy crusade, an’ Lewis an’ Father an’ Varaa have the cause of beatin’ the Holy Dominion. What do I have? she asked herself. The cause, sure. The Doms’re worse than anything. But that ain’t enough, is it? Am I really so busted I can’t even spew all the hate in my soul at the Doms? Watching Lewis Cayce rein in Arete beside Consul Koaar-Taak and the cluster of men around him, including that bizarre Holcano named Kisin, she hoped that watching over Lewis—and her father—would continue to be enough “cause” for her. Could love truly conquer hate?
* * *
With so many of its warriors still in the city, the 1st Ocelomeh was spread thin and didn’t present much of an obstacle by the river at first. The Holcanos were more interested in disengaging, however, and by the time most reached the river, recognized their peril, and tried to get around along its banks, the shifting 1st Uxmal had doubled its lines. Just as devastating, as soon as he’d pushed as far as he could, Capitan Lara recalled his lancers and dragoons back behind the 1st US and 3rd Pennsylvania as they pressed remorselessly on, joined by Hudgens’s battery in the line, advancing its guns by hand. All were free to deliver crisp volleys and devastating clouds of canister. Most important of all, Major Anson had communicated Lewis’s intent to Colonel Reed, and with 2nd Division’s own front now substantially clear, it was able to raggedly mirror 1st Division’s movement. Within half an hour, the desperate battle had turned to a rout, and the dying, almost helpless Holcanos, most of their arrows spent, were pressed on all sides against the sluggish but deep Usuma River. There was no escape.
As was their custom when all hope was lost, nearly four thousand Holcanos spontaneously started casting down weapons and sitting on the ground, stoically awaiting their fate. Many would die, they were sure. The scope of the battle had been beyond anything in their experience and so must be the wrath of their foes. Those who weren’t killed would face a life of captivity and menial labor. That was the way of things. When the firing finally stopped, however, there was no gleeful rush of shrieking Ocelomeh, wading among them and bashing out brains, cutting off heads or stabbing with obsidian or copper-bladed spears. There was only an eerie silence after a flurry of sharp commands as the smoke began to clear.
Lewis, Varaa, Leonor, Reverend Harkin, and Consul Koaar had moved out behind the 1st US to join Major Beck. Anson, Boogerbear, and Coryon Burton, each with a squad of their respective forces, escorted King Har-Kaaska, Alcalde Truro of Itzincab, Colonel Reed, and Father Orno out to meet them. Har-Kaaska’s strange mount was studded with broken-off arrows and streaked with blood but didn’t have any trouble keeping up with the horses. They were all blood-spattered too, as were their riders, and Har-Kaaska had a red-soaked bandage on his shoulder, held by a complex web of dingy cloth strips. His pained grin at seeing the rest of them safe was replaced by a rigid-tailed, blinking stare of fury when one of Koaar’s aides brought Kisin forward. The former Holcano war chief was covered in drying blood as well, enough to make him look painted again. The spear he’d seized during the fighting in the city had been taken by Koaar before he was allowed to approach. Har-Kaaska reached for his basket-hilt sword and winced at the pain in his shoulder. “Why is that murdering fiend still alive?” he demanded.
Varaa urged her mount toward him. “Because he’s on our side.”
Father Orno looked appalled, and Har-Kaaska glared at her, blinking astonishment. “What?” he roared. “He’s been our chief enemy for twenty years, responsible for countless atrocities! Do you know what he did at Puebla Arboras? It was . . . unimaginable!”
Kisin wearily kicked his own horse forward. It was a different animal than he’d entered the city with. “You’ve committed no ‘atrocities’ against my people?” he asked lowly. “And they do know some of what Don Discipo and his vile Blood Priest did at his own city because I told them? I only heard the worst after returning here, however, when Don Discipo came and threw me off as war chief.”
“So you say,” Har-Kaaska hissed.
“So we found him,” Varaa shot back, “wandering the wilderness with only his own band.”
“He fought well in the city, my king,” Koaar said begrudgingly, “and lost nearly all the warriors he took in there with us.”
“So what?” Har-Kaaska demanded.
Now Lewis eased Arete forward. “Let’s all take a breath, shall we? First, I’d like to say how happy I am to see you all. I wish our meeting had been . . . less chaotic and stressful,” he added dryly, “but it seems to have turned out . . . if not for the best, then at least fairly well.” He frowned. “At the moment. We’ll know more when we learn the extent of our casualties. I fear yours must’ve been heavy.”
Colonel Reed, face redder than usual, looked down, then met Lewis’s gaze. “I fear so as well,” he said. “The men fought splendidly, but we were badly outnumbered until your welcome arrival. Please accept my humblest apologies, Colonel Cayce.”
Har-Kaaska expelled a long breath. “You have nothing to apologize for, Colonel Reed. It was my fault,” he confessed. “After Puebla Arboras—Colonel Cayce hasn’t heard everything that happened there,” he inserted with a narrow-eyed glare at Kisin, “and I suppose I let my enthusiasm for revenge get the better of me.”
