Hells march, p.36
Hell's March, page 36
“But . . . what about our horses, and where do we go?”
“Aboot haffa A Battery’s guns’re landed an’ we’re campin’ with the Rangers. See yon limber comin’ this way? It’ll pull ye off an’ take ye there. Yer horses’ll be sent along.”
Hanny hesitated a moment longer. “Why us?” he blurted.
McNabb scowled. “Why indeed, says I, if this is how ye act.” He shrugged. “If it makes ye feel better an’ gets ye on the move, we’ll be nosin’ aboot with the Rangers as a heavy battery. Might hafta move fast an’ be away fer a while. Twelve pounders’re too heavy, like I said, an so’re the captured eight pounders, even on their lovely new carriages.” Those guns were actually very well-made. The tubes, at least. But they were almost as big as 12pdrs and had smaller bores. That made them just about as heavy. “Twelve pounder howitzers might be best,” McNabb conceded, “but we’ll soon be in more open country an’ might need longer range.”
“Thanks, First Sergeant, but again, why us specifically?”
Mcnabb hesitated, torn between rude dismissal and relaying a genuine compliment. “Because Cap’n Hudgens offered ye up, that’s why,” he snarled, but relented. “Bein’ that yer his best section, that basturt Hahessy aside, an’ yer equipment’s in the best order fer a long march. First Sergeant Petty’s doin, no doubt. Now get yerselves an’ that goddamn equipment ashore! Yer jammin’ up the landin’!”
By the time they got the gun and limber unstrapped and hitched, the A Battery limber had already hauled off their caisson and returned. Now they rigged a long prolong rope to the ring on the end of the limber pole and a full six-up team pulled the whole thing ashore, the gun’s crew guiding the wheels by pushing or grabbing spokes to act as brakes. And even as the limbered gun crept down the ramps, teamsters shifted the other freight wagons to balance the load on the barge. It all struck Hanny Cox as very well organized and chaotic at once: men splashing down in the river up to their knees (not without urging), while still trying to keep the heavy weapon on the ramps. Horses straining, men shouting—some in fear as the limber wheels nearly fell off the ramp, likely crushing the men beside it. Finally, with a creaking rumble and a spray of grassy clods from the horse’s hooves, the Number Two gun bounced away on dry land, spokes blurring.
“What about us?” shouted Apo Tuin after them.
“I reckon ‘us’ hafta walk,” grumbled Preacher Mac.
“They’ll come get the battery wagon, won’t they?” Ap asked, still put out. “All our tents and things are in there.”
“Aye, they’ll be back,” McNabb assured, then grinned evilly. “By which time they’ll be here fer yer other gun.” He nodded down the bank, where the barge with the Number One gun was being pulled in. “Cheer up, lads,” he called behind with a wave, “there’s always the man harness!” That was a hated collection of leather straps that allowed men to be hitched to a vehicle.
“ ‘Man harness,’ my ass,” spat Private Ricken. Originally from Baltimore, the Number Three was the oldest man in the section.
“My ass!” cried Kini Hau from Uxmal. He was the youngest.
“I’m hungry, and that always makes me miss my mother more,” Apo complained.
“I’m hungry too,” Hanny agreed, then smiled a little shyly. “And I miss your sister!”
“Ha!” Apo exclaimed triumphantly. “I will write her and tell her that, after all these miles and months, you finally confess! I can even write some English now—not that she can read it. Why would she? I only learn because I’ll be an officer someday.”
Hanny blushed red, and Apo laughed at him. “Don’t worry, from where we are, you’ll probably see Izel again before she ever gets my letter—and if you were that color all the time, my mother wouldn’t think you are sick!”
Fortunately, four of the A Battery limbers, all they had ashore as yet themselves, had been hitched to horses and came and got the section’s battery wagon, Sergeant “Mikey” O’Roddy’s forge wagon, and the Number One gun’s caisson—all of which came off the next barge before the gun and limber could—and pulled them up through the swelling camp toward where the Rangers and lancers had already erected tents inside the picket line thick with horses. Hanny’s crew climbed on the various vehicles. Looking around through a growing haze of soggy woodsmoke, Hanny was encouraged to see the chaos that dismayed him before he was almost entirely restricted to the riverside landing. There was still shouting and frustration as company streets were laid out and infantry came up in disorganized companies, but there was no longer the look of incurable disarray. Even that, in fact, seemed to be curing itself rather swiftly, and Hanny felt a growing pride in these men, most of whom had been townspeople, farmers, shopkeepers, and fishermen—practically peasant laborers—not long ago. Strikingly similar to his old comrades in the 3rd Pennsylvania, in that respect. And as Apo said, aside from the jumble at the constricted landing area, they’d all been doing this for months and countless miles. Once through that initial bottleneck, the men knew what to do. Hanny was only mystified by the reason for that. Why gather the whole army here, for the first time since they left Cayal? Preacher Mac answered as if he’d asked out loud.
“Colonel Cayce’s throwin’ the fear o’ the Lord into the natives. In a good way.”
“What do you mean?” Apo asked.
“While you was on the wheels an’ wadin’ in the river, I was on a tagline, dry on the barge, talkin’ tae First Sergeant McNabb—God pity his heathen soul. He told me these people were set tae run from a pack o’ them despicable Blood Priests, murderin’ their way up the river.” He waved around. “With all this—us—between ’em an’ evil, Colonel Cayce’s givin’ ’em back their spines, is he nae? Recruitin’ as well. Warriors here, an’ from as far around as they’ll spread the word, can fall right in, get trained on the march like we trained the Uxmalos in the 3rd Pennsylvania, an’ fight for their own selves. That’s important,” he added somberly.
“Why . . . sure. The more the merrier,” said Billy Randall, the Number Seven man.
“T’ain’t only numbers,” Mac scolded him. “We . . . us Americans’re so far from home, the only cause we got is ‘the cause’: doin’ right, an’ fightin’ for each other. Our ‘clan,’ as it were.” He nodded at Apo. “An’ that clan’s a’growin’. But fer some like young Apo, the farther we get from their homes, the less it might feel like we’re fightin’ tae save ’em. They get tae wonderin’ why, if we can lick the Doms when they come fer us, don’t we just stay home tae do it? They dinna ken ye can’t win on yer arse, an’ if that’s where ye stay, ye lose. Folk from here joinin’ up’ll remind ’em, an’ make nae mistake; Colonel Cayce means tae win.”
* * *
—
THE ARTILLERYMEN DETACHED to accompany Olayne’s battery, as well as Olayne’s own late arrivals, didn’t get much sleep that night. Hanny was still chief of the piece, and responsible for necessary maintenance on his gun and its supporting limbers and caisson, whether they needed it or not. Harness had to be checked and repaired (and added to, since Lieutenant Fitch, Olayne’s executive officer, told him they’d be given full six-up teams). That meant they’d be moving fast and their equipment would take a beating. Wheels were pulled and greased, which required four men, two on each end of the handspike lifting the axle one side at a time, while two more pulled the heavy, fifty-seven-inch wheel nearly off. They could rest for a moment then, with the end of the axle still supported just inside the knave box in the hub, while another man slathered on grease. The men on the handspike heaved up again while the wheel was spun into place and the washer and linchpin reinstalled. That was the easy part, for more reasons than one, and while they worked, the sun went down, sliding behind the trees and plunging them into darkness.
The most dangerous part was performed by the pitiful light of a ring of lanterns. Several men lifted the heavy trail high in the air and stood the gun tube “on its nose,” the muzzle sinking several inches in the soft black earth. It was preferred to lash the tube to a stout tree at this point, but they were camped in a cleared field, and the closest trees were inconvenient. Cap squares were loosed, and four men (always nervously) ringed the tube to support it, each pressing harder all the time and fighting the sense it was about to fall on them. Grunting and tightly embracing it, they looked like fervent pagan worshippers of some bronze phallic totem. The rest of the crew eased the carriage back to grease the cheek irons where the trunnions rested, as well as the coarse-threaded elevation screw. Only then was the carriage pushed back to the tube, trail high like a scorpion’s tail, until the trunnions cloncked back in the cheek irons and the cap squares were replaced. Finally, the trail was lowered, and the men were allowed a short break. Of course, then the gun tube had to be cleaned again and all excess grease wiped off.
Other chores continued. Implements like the worm and rammer staff were checked and repaired, if necessary, the sponge bucket filled with water and inspected for leaks, and all leather items—gunners’ haversacks, thumbstalls, etc.—were oiled and waxed. Apo Tuin, the Number Six man and only one with “dedicated” assistants (Numbers Five and Seven, Kini Hau and Billy Randall), inventoried the contents of the chests on the limbers and the two others on the caisson. This was done as much by feel as lantern light because no one wanted a flame too near. They oiled the locks and tested the key, counted ammunition (all four chests were full, with an unusually high percentage of canister), and made sure each was equipped with the necessary tools, like brass vent pricks, brushes, pliers, gimlets, lanyards, and any number of things. Apo then delved into his small, personal tool kit in the primary chest. In addition to duplicate tools, there were wrenches, a file, a folding knife, turnscrews, the all-important pendulum hausse sight for the gun, and the Hidden’s patent lock. They had more primers for it now, and unlike the problem faced—quite literally—by dragoons with their Hall carbines, it didn’t matter if artillery primers were more robust than necessary. A fiercer explosion might cut lanyards more often than usual, but lanyards could be quickly retied, and they had spares.
When Apo was finished and returned his tool kit and relocked the chest, he helped Hanny coordinate with Gun Number One’s Corporal Dodd to ensure the battery and forge wagons were properly maintained. This required only a few of each crew, and the rest were allowed to eat and relax. It was while this detail was under way that First Sergeant Petty joined them.
“Captain Hudgens an’ me were with Captain Olayne all day,” he said, as apologetically as he was capable of, which meant hardly anyone noticed. “Got our order of march. We’re ‘fourth section’ now, and’ll be spaced out by sections ’mongst the Rangers an’ lancers. Mostly guardin’ against rampagin’ monsters, I expect. Word is, the land opens up a fair bit ahead. There ain’t much of a road along the river, but we’ll follow it a ways before strikin’ out to the south an’ sorta followin’ it from out o’ sight, where we can pounce on them damn Blood Priests when we catch ’em.” He looked thoughtful. “Though I reckon Colonel Cayce wants ta get around behind ’em before we do any pouncin’. Don’t want none gettin’ away.”
“Colonel Cayce will be with us?” Hanny asked, surprised.
“Why, sure. Not much fightin’ to do, floatin’ down the river. Case you hadn’t noticed, our colonel does love a fight. Colonel Reed’ll be in charge o’ the barges. He’s ’sposed to come ashore at a little town about a hundred an’ fifty miles northwest, called Valle Escondido. About the size o’ this burg. We’ll meet him. There’s a couple more villages along the way.” Petty paused and concentrated. “Los Arboles an’ Agua Ancha. That’s them.” His expression darkened. “Blood Priests already been to at least one of ’em.” He looked around and nodded, then frowned. “Seems like you fellas have this sorted out, but where’s that damn Hahessy?”
Corporal Dodd wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I, uh . . . He knocked off with the other fellas we sent to eat and rest.”
“Did you specifically give him leave? Did he overwork his big stupid self? Get hurt? Pinch a finger?”
“No, First Sergeant.”
“So he just took off with the rest on his own,” Petty snarled. “Like he’ll do when them fellas pull extra duty to make up to these.” He motioned at the men still working.
“Probably so, First Sergeant,” Dodd confessed miserably.
Petty stood silent in the darkness awhile, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely gentle. “What is it with you, Dodd? You ain’t no coward. Why can’t you control that big Irish bastard?”
Still looking down, Dodd only shrugged. “He’s a good artilleryman—in action. Not many better. He’s strong and fearless, and good for the lads around him.”
“In action,” Petty stressed. “But he’s pure poison the rest of the time.”
“Yes.” Dodd agreed. “I just . . . can’t make him mind. If I put him on report every time he doesn’t, the rest of the crew’ll think I’m an ass. If I try to force him to mind, if I fight him, I’ll lose. Even if he doesn’t kill me, nobody’ll ever do what I say again.”
Hanny rather doubted that, suspecting Dodd would have more help than he thought. Then again, maybe not. Dodd had already let Hahessy abuse the rest of his crew too much.
“If you ain’t in control o’ yer crew, you ain’t the right chief fer it,” Petty growled. “May as well put Hahessy in charge. You already have, in a way.”
“I’d have to agree with you, First Sergeant”—Dodd sighed—“if any of the men were behind him. They don’t like him either. This is your section. Why can’t you just get rid of him?”
Petty shook his head. “Maybe I could have, once. Probably should have, when we cleaned out Gun Number Two. Now, it won’t do you any good. Igettin’ rid o’ him gonna make your crew respect you more? You need ta beat the shit out of ’im.”
“I can’t,” Dodd admitted.
Petty sighed. “So you said. Reckon I’ll have ta do it. Still won’t do you any good.” For some reason no one doubted the relatively short, even somewhat scrawny first sergeant could find a way to best the Irish giant. “Still won’t help you none.” Petty glowered.
“What if I do it?” Hanny suddenly blurted. The others looked at him and blinked. “I don’t mean fight him,” he quickly assured. “He’d fold me in half and tear up the pieces. But I have gotten the better of him a time or two, so to speak, and I think he respects that.” He smiled slightly. “I might at least survive a try at talking to him.” He glanced at the other chief. “And not on Corporal Dodd’s behalf, but the whole section. It’s my section too.”
“Put it that way, I prob’ly should deal with him myself,” Petty countered resignedly. “I hear Lieutenant Barca’s leanin’ toward takin’ the section—fine by me, I’m first sergeant for the whole damn battery, and I got other shit to do—but it’s my section for now, an’ Hahessy’ll just get worse if Mr. Barca takes over.”
“That’s for sure,” Hanny agreed. “Hahessy seems to hate everybody, and black men are close to the top of his list. But you can’t do it. Authority is at the very top, and I don’t have enough to matter to him.” He actually chuckled. “If you try to reason with him, you’ll have to kill him.”
Petty shrugged. “Fine. Give it a go. But make sure you got plenty of help you can trust in earshot when you do.” He glared at Dodd. “I can’t lose both my gunners to that maniac.”
Word began to spread that the infantry would remain in the vicinity of Santos del Rio for another whole day and night, recuperating from their long float and, more important, sorting the various regiments out a little better. They’d stagger their departure by as much as a day as well, allowing more spacing between divisions so 2nd Division could use the same site 1st Division abandoned ahead of it. No one believed there was a large Dom force in the vicinity, and that probably made the most sense. Indeed, they probably should’ve been doing it all along. But this kind of “advance” was new to everyone—even Colonel Cayce was essentially making it up as he went.
Near midnight, the moon was coming up and the camp was finally settling down, with nearly everyone ashore who’d camp there. Quite a few, especially late arrivals from 2nd Division, had simply given up, choosing to sleep on the barges. The new order of march would give them at least one day of rest ashore, possibly two. Tired himself, instead of rolling up in his blanket, more to keep the bugs off than to keep warm, Hanny Cox set out alone, looking for Private Daniel Hahessy. Apo, Mac, and Andrew Morris had told him to wake them if he did, but he decided to let them sleep. Besides, Hanny half expected Hahessy would know if anyone was around when they talked. That wouldn’t work.
Nobody in the section had erected tents and most just wadded up under gun tarps rigged as flies to protect them from the falling damp around the guns and limbers. Hanny thought he’d find the big Irishman snoring away with the rest of the crew of Gun Number One, but he didn’t. Even his bedroll was absent. No one was awake to ask, so Hanny continued his search. Campfires sputtered all around like orange reflections of the silvery stars, but there was little movement. There’d be pickets on and beyond the perimeter, of course, but there was little more than a fire watch otherwise: one or two men from each company lounging near the fires, smoking pipes and talking low, occasionally feeding sticks to the embers.
Hanny looked at them, sometimes exchanging a few quiet words, even asking if they’d seen Hahessy from time to time. No one liked the big man anymore, even in the infantry where he came from, but pretty much everyone knew who he was. After a while, Hanny began to fear he might’ve gone into the village, seeking amusement of the sort that caused him so much trouble in the past, getting him demoted and nearly hung. Following him there was impossible. Colonel Cayce had declared Santos del Rio off-limits and Hanny would only be suspected of evil intent himself, if caught. He’d just about given up when, down near the landing, a pair of watchmen allowed they’d seen a “big, hulking brute” with a blanket roll heading down toward the water. Hanny went to the river.
