Hells march, p.43
Hell's March, page 43
He didn’t much care as long as he was fed and clothed. Freemen of the lowest class, such as he and most others in the army, were hideously executed for petty crimes more often than anyone else because there was little “honest” work to be had. Slaves did it all. So, in terms of food and clothing, slaves often had it better than freemen in the Dominion. That left those such as Sonez Rinco with roughly three choices: sell themselves into slavery, turn to crime and live short, brutal lives—and if you did that, you better join a gang or your life would be even shorter—or join the army or navy. He joined the army as soon as he was big enough. Recruiters didn’t care about age. Now he was starting to wonder if he’d made the right choice.
He’d missed General Agon’s previous campaign up the Camino Militar, but there were plenty of veterans in his regiment who loved to tell tales of the misery they’d endured on that long, hungry retreat back to Campeche after the Washboard. And no matter what the priests and officers said, there was no doubt in the ranks they’d been beaten. Still, they trusted General Agon. He’d shared their hardships, restructured and rebuilt the army with lessons learned, instituting hard new training that nevertheless made sense, and practically forbade the Blood Cardinal Don Frutos—derided as the “army killer” in the ranks—from even appearing in front of his troops. What most endeared him to the men, even the newest recruits, was he never allowed the Blood Priests to pester them—and most especially, “cull” them for the unusually harsh sacrifices they craved. Blood Priests may represent the rising power in the Dominion, but they were only loved in the oldest and largest cities, and perhaps along the Costa del Pacifico from whence they apparently sprang. In any event, less than perfectly equipped or not, the army had been confident when it marched north again.
That’s when everything started going wrong. The march was a nightmare, and the enemy (and monsters) plagued them all the way. Then came the bloody repulse in front of Nautla. The army was far from shattered, and though none were pleased by what it would cost, the men still expected to win. Suddenly, however, General Agon turned most of the army around, twenty-four thousand of the twenty-six thousand remaining after the costly attack, and set a grueling pace south. The men were confused until word leaked—on purpose and actually largely true—that His Supreme Holiness had descended to heaven and Don Frutos (under the influence of Blood Priests) had abandoned them yet again. He was a traitor to the Dominion and posed a threat to the rightful succession. They must catch him and destroy him. Despite the killing pace they maintained, most of the army was heartened by that. “Most” because there were some Blood Priest adherents, but the rest understood “restoring things to rights”—imperfect as they were—in their own country better than conquering unknown lands. Aside from the perks of pillage (uncertain against this enemy, at best), the troops got fed and paid the same whatever they did.
Until they didn’t.
There was almost nothing left at Campeche, and not a soul to meet them. All the stores Don Frutos couldn’t take had been burnt, and the single ship left in port, not nearly large enough to take his little army anywhere, had been scuttled. After what had already wound up being almost a 170-legua march, the men were in a sorry state. Uniforms were ragged, boots worn-out, and food was running dangerously low. But the whole army was enraged at Don Frutos, and it didn’t take as much urging to get it after him again as Sonez Rinco would’ve thought. He was as ready as the rest. Besides, the closest place they could resupply was in the direction they were already going—west, toward the town of Gran Lago, another sixty leguas away. All they could hope was they’d catch Don Frutos, or at least get to Gran Lago before he left it a wasteland.
Now the Army of God’s Vengeance was almost halfway there and had made camp after another exhausting day. Despite the efforts of the army’s better officers and NCOs, the camp was a sadly straggly affair. They’d long ago outpaced the heretic army, and the beasts roaming the moderately wooded, rolling coastal prairie were seen more as food than a threat. The ten 8pdrs they’d brought along (Agon left half his guns at Nautla to bang away, a few shots each day, until the enemy got wise or their ammunition ran out) could at least feed his men. Most went to their badly worn tents and collapsed as the sun plunged down in the west, and that was Sonez Rinco’s intent when he got off watch and went to join his sleeping tent mate under their two-man shelter. He’d just worked his loaded weapon (he’d been on guard, after all) into the conical arrangement of half a dozen muskets near the company firepit and draped the protective canvas covering back over them all when a harsh voice stopped him.
“Get more wood for the fire, pendejo,” said Cabo Estez, sitting by the little fire and roasting another hunk of one of the many beasts the artierros killed that day. Virtually an entire small herd of medium-large, four-legged, duck-faced things had been blasted down at the edge of a coastal marsh. Cowering from what they must’ve thought was terrible thunder in a low, gray sky, they’d been easily slaughtered and dragged onshore by artillery armabueys to provide more than enough meat for Agon’s troops. The extra was supposed to be cooked and carried, but many, like Cabo Estez, seemed intent on eating until they burst. Estez hadn’t moved since Sonez went on watch as far as the young soldado could tell.
Sonez stifled an angry retort. Estez was only a cabo, just one step above Sonez himself, but even with things somewhat . . . disordered, at present, discipline for insubordination remained swift, harsh, and even somewhat arbitrary. “Sí, Cabo,” Sonez groaned instead, turning to trudge back toward the thick stand of nearby trees his company had practically sprawled up against. That’s where he’d been just shortly before, and should’ve thought to carry wood back. “Hola, Artin,” he called to the youngster who’d relieved him. “It’s only me, back for wood.”
“You should’ve taken some with you,” Artin scolded.
Sonez sighed. “I know.” Then he stiffened. “Did you hear that?”
Artin considered, then shrugged. “Sounded like a horse snort to me. Maybe in the woods ahead. Might’ve been something else, but the big monsters usually stay away from our large camps.”
“No, it was a horse,” Sonez confirmed, “but what’s it doing out here? We don’t have many lancers, you know.” They had far more lancers than horses to carry them, and most had been formed as infantry with their carbines replaced with muskets. Moving out of the heavy woods and into a more open-field campaign than he’d expected, Agon managed to find mounts for more lancers, but still had less than a thousand. Most were scouting ahead, seeking signs of Don Frutos and Tranquilo. The rest were in the rear, on the watch for pursuing heretics. Few ranged out on the flanks, even in daylight, and wouldn’t be risked to monsters and nervous troops with itchy trigger fingers at night.
“Could be a courier,” Artin suggested tensely, “bearing orders forward from General Agon.”
Sonez shook his head when he heard the sound again. It was definitely a horse. But a courier would move amid the safety of the troops—and courier or lancers, there’d be other sounds of jingling bits, clanking sabers and canteens, not to mention the thud of hooves. They wouldn’t just stand out in the trees in the dark, like this one seemed to be doing. Sonez suddenly grinned. “It must be a loose horse!” he exclaimed. “We’ll be rewarded if we catch it.”
“You’re right!” Artin agreed, suddenly enthusiastic. “And it sounded very close.” Together, they crept forward. They’d just reached the edge of the trees when they heard the rush of many hooves in the soft ground cover where grass wouldn’t grow, and glimpsed the unmistakable forms of horsemen, even blacker than the surrounding night. Before that could register, there was an instant of swift movement in which Artin’s musket was snatched from loose fingers and both boys were clasped in iron grips from behind. In seconds, it seemed, they’d also been securely bound and gagged. A huge horseman appeared directly in front of them, speaking badly accented Spanya.
“Just relax, fellas,” the voice said in a low, deep, reasonable tone. “I reckon y’all’d get a helluva reward for catchin’ me, but if you make the slightest peep, them boys behind y’all’re gonna hafta cut yer throats to the neckbone. I’d rather they didn’t, ’cause I’d like somebody ta pass my regards ta yer gen’ral.” The dark shape of a wide-brimmed hat came off. “Cap’n Bandy Beeryman, First Rangers, at yer service. Don’t forget that. An’ I’m here ta pay a call with Cap’n—I mean ‘Major’—Giles Anson. Agon’ll remember him better’n me.” The hat was pulled back in place. “Now you two just sit an’ watch an’ take yer ease—an’ tell Gen’ral Agon what ya see. Shift ’em over yonder to the edge of the trees an’ tie ’em up where they can get a good look,” he said slightly louder.
Artin and Sonez were quickly secured, sitting on the ground and facing the camp. Only then could they tell there were dozens, maybe hundreds of horses in the dense trees behind them, milling and moving into line. That’s when Sonez realized how unlucky (or was it lucky?) he’d been to hear the one horse of so many. Everything on them that might’ve made a sound had been carefully muffled or left behind. Glancing back at the tired, sleepy camp, illuminated only by lingering cook fires like Cabo Estez’s, and a few candles burning in tents, he knew that if that unpleasant cabo hadn’t sent him for a few measly sticks of wood, he’d probably be dead in a few minutes.
Suddenly, the one calling himself “Beeryman” gave a terrifying, savage whoop, echoed by a rising roar of spine-tingling cries as the horsemen thundered out of the woods and down on the camp. Sonez could only estimate their number at three or four hundred. Almost instantly, they were shooting men by the fires—Sonez saw a rising Cabo Estez tumble face-first into the coals, throwing up a swirl of sparks, and others fell screaming or tried to run. Most of those were shot down from behind, and based on the high percentage of hits, Sonez suspected the attacker’s carbines—mostly cut-down Dominion muskets, it seemed—were loaded with handfuls of small shot instead of a single ball. Some riders fired down through the tents, and wails rose up inside them. Then the first tent caught fire. Within minutes, dozens were burning as whooping Rangers arced flaming arrows at them. Tents set fire to tents, and a burning cart was pulled on its side. Through much of the initial attack, Sonez saw the one called “Beeryman,” huge beard backlit by flames, firing again and again from a single pistol, each shot taking a toll. Then his horse reared, and he and many others pulled sabers from what appeared to be heavy cloth or leather scabbards—another reason they’d been so quiet!—and dashed deeper into the camp.
Probably confined to mere minutes, ten or fifteen at most, the mayhem seemed to last forever, with stabbing orange jets and thumps of muskets and tents erupting in flames much deeper in the camp than Sonez would’ve imagined, but eventually the bulk of destruction appeared to veer south again, back toward the same side of the camp the attack began. Soon Sonez decided most of the shooting came from his own panicked people, finally “ready” but only shooting at shadows—or each other. Then, long after the firing died away, it seemed half the army was busy fighting fires. Eventually, exhausted by their own trauma, what they’d seen, and fear of what might still happen to them, Sonez and Artin must’ve fallen asleep. The next thing they knew, the sky was turning red with dawn and an angry-looking sargento was glaring down at them in contempt while other men cut their bonds.
“You’ll be impaled for this, you miserable comedores de mierda! You’ll wish the heretics killed you instead of just tying you up after falling asleep on guard! We have three hundred dead! Who knows how many hurt.”
At the first mention of “impaling,” Artin went white with terror, but Sonez spoke up angrily. “I wasn’t on guard, Sargento, but Artin and I heard something and went to investigate. We were surprised from behind. We saw who did it, and they gave us a message for General Agon. I’m sure that’s the only reason we’re alive.”
“A message for the general,” the sargento murmured doubtfully.
“Yes,” Sonez snapped. “And he’ll want to hear it.”
* * *
“Major Anson,” Agon mused dourly to his assembled staff after the two young soldados were returned to their ravaged company. He’d considered having them impaled after all, as a warning against further negligence to the rest of the army—which had grown quite lax, he knew. But executing honestly innocent men was something Blood Priests would do, and he rebelled against the notion. Besides, it would only add to the terror and disgruntlement in the army—which he was sure was the primary purpose of the raid in the first place, and even he was somewhat stunned by the ruthlessness in which it was carried out. So many helpless, unarmed men, shot down! And yet the two young soldados bound and unhurt. That was as much a message as anything they could tell him. Then again, he was equally certain he was more responsible for the success of the raid than any other. With no previous evidence of close pursuit by the heretics, he’d grown complacent, and it was his job to maintain the standards he’d set before marching against Nautla, regardless of their privations and fatigue.
Well, they’ll get some rest today while we pick up the pieces, he supposed. With so much to be salvaged and tended to, particularly wounded men and morale, not to mention righting overturned wagons—whether they were really damaged or not—tent repair, scattered stands of arms to be inspected and fixed or replaced, and draft animals gathered. Scattered armabueys, rampaging about, had done more actual damage to all the above than the raiders. In any event, they hadn’t moved the army that day. Agon had ordered that it be better situated and protected, however, along with an increase in scouts and guards. “I believe I remember this ‘Beeryman,’ ” he added. “A very large, intimidating character, as young Sonez described.”
“Indeed. A difficult man to forget,” murmured Capitan Arevalo.
“But,” objected General Tun, now leaning on a cane when he wasn’t mounted, “why should Coronel Cayce dispatch his mounted forces to harass us here, now? I should think he’d be pleased to have us gone from Nautla, believing he ran us off. Could it be simply a ‘chase’ reflex. To pursue what he thinks is wounded prey?” He suddenly glared at Coronel Uza, in charge of their scouts and small force of lancers. “And why were you not aware of their approach?”
Uza frowned. “My general, we already knew Coronel Cayce’s mounted forces were . . . formidable. His Ranger, lancers, and dragoons—though I’m not sure why he maintains them as separate units. Each has its strengths, I suppose. As to why . . . There must be several reasons, but one was to show us he could. To frighten soldiers unaccustomed to attack by anyone in their sleep! Never has a Dominion army been treated so . . . brazenly as it was on the road up to Nautla, and again now, of course. As to why we didn’t detect them, I must point out we have only what amounts to a single batallón of horse while Cayce has three, at least. Possibly more. Even if only one came against us, they can remain concentrated while ours are scattered all over, in front and behind us, and off to the sides when we can manage it. A careful approach from any direction could avoid detection.”
He looked thoughtful. “Of course, even as we’ve reduced the size of our regimientos from three to two thousand, it seems their regimientos—horse and foot—have always numbered a thousand, often less. So each of their mounted ‘branches’ constitutes a regimiento in itself. I can see an advantage to that, both from an organizational and tactical standpoint.”
“And Cayce has unleashed his Ranger regiment against us. Again, why—and how—if he’s still so far behind that your scouts can’t see him?”
“They see him, my general,” Uza objected, clearly annoyed. “He comes down the Camino Militar directly behind us with an unequal but—as we know—quite formidable force. More than we can tangle with and still catch Don Frutos,” he reminded. “But all reports agree he’s still at least thirty leguas back. He can’t possibly catch us if we maintain our pace.”
“Obviously, his Rangers can,” Agon snapped back.
“Well . . . yes. Not only are they mounted, but absent artillery and supply wagons, they’re not tied to the Camino Militar.”
“Are they absent artillery?” General Tun asked very meaningfully. It was known the American artillery was much more mobile than their own. They’d never captured any to examine, but it looked considerably lighter and the carriages more ingeniously made in other ways to facilitate agility. Not to mention the fact it was drawn by horses instead of plodding armabueys.
Colonel Uza looked around. “I fervently hope so. But the other ‘why’ is obvious. The Rangers try to slow us so Coronel Cayce can catch up.” He gestured around at the unmoving, healing camp. “Which they have done. We cannot allow this again.”
“No, Coronel Uza,” Tun said harshly. “I suggest that you cannot allow it!”
Uza bridled and gathered a retort.
“Gentlemen, please,” Agon said, pressing fingers hard against his temples. “We must all do our part.” He looked at his old friend General Tun. “You’ll make sure the camp is as well protected as possible each night when we stop. Field fortifications, extra pickets and observers, even strong parties farther out on any reasonable avenue of approach.” He looked at Uza. “You’ll leave only a token force of lancers behind us, watching the approach of the main enemy army. You’ll do the same with those scouting ahead. As long as we don’t lose contact with them, all should be well.”
“And if we do?” Uza asked.
Agon shrugged. “Then we’ll know they’ve been attacked and destroyed and you’ll have a better idea where the attackers are. A force that size, ‘all together,’ as you say, can’t be difficult to track. You can then lead the bulk of your batallón against it and destroy it. In fact, for the time being, that’ll be your primary duty. I’ll no longer spread our lancers about in little, easily avoided or gobbled-up packets. Wherever and whenever the enemy is encountered, you must have the strength to strike him decisively.” He stood from his chair. “Tomorrow, we press on. We must stop Don Frutos and Tranquilo, and we can’t let Coronel Cayce slow us again.”
