Hells march, p.51
Hell's March, page 51
Hanny shook his head. There was good visibility in their immediate surroundings. Everything was gray, of course, but now they could see almost everything on the top of the hill. Unfortunately, they already knew the fog would linger down low, possibly even getting thicker for a time before the sun burnt it off. “Maybe a thousand yards?” Hanny guessed. “They must’ve moved their guns forward. They’d never reach us this high from where they were without digging holes for the trails, and the shot wouldn’t have hit as hard as it did even then.”
“Very well,” Barca said. “Elevate to three degrees and aim for the muzzle flashes. Commence independent fire!”
Dodd’s Number One gun roared and rolled back first, but Hanny waited, crouched over the trail, face resting on his left hand clutching the cascabel. As soon as he saw another distant flash, he tapped the trail with his right hand until Private Ricken shifted it with the handspike. When Hanny was satisfied the front sight was centered in the rear notch on the pendulum hausse, already set at three degrees, generally where he’d seen the fuzzy orange flower, he stepped back and raised his clenched fists to indicate the gun was on target. Ricken pierced the charge through the vent and primed the gun. The Number Four man, Andrew Morris, stretched the lanyard while Ricken tended the lock. When the lanyard was tight, Ricken stepped out from behind the right wheel and shouted, “Ready!”
Hanny roared, “Fire!” Morris briskly pulled the lanyard and the Number Two gun bellowed and bucked, the roundshot shrieking louder than usual with all the moisture in the air.
The Battle of Gran Lago had begun.
CHAPTER 29
JUNE 1848
THE BATTLE OF GRAN LAGO
Eight-pound roundshot whipped in out of the morning fog, practically invisible until the instant before it struck, sending up rocky debris and choking dust all along Anson’s line. A few hit the breastworks and added jagged splinters to the mix. Men were starting to get hurt and killed, and piercing screams rose above the distant roar of guns and the thumping crash of cannonballs.
“At least it’s only solid shot and they don’t have exploding case,” Captain Dukane calmly remarked to Anson as they strode between the two center section guns. They were still quiet. “Still, much better practice than before, and they can’t even see us,” Dukane added with grudging respect. The 6pdrs on the hill to the right, virtually invisible from the flat, went Poom! Poom!, marking their positions with dull jets of flame, reports somehow louder than usual, while oddly muffled as well.
Fog does strange things to sound, Anson thought. “A helluva lot better. Faster too,” he groused aloud as another strike showered them with gravel and clumps of soil. The shot bounded up over the berm and struck a horse behind them square in the belly. It squealed piteously as loops of shattered intestines uncoiled on the ground and it fell on top of them, kicking. “Why the hell aren’t you shooting back? You’ve got twelve pounders, for Christ’s sake.”
Dukane nodded patiently. “Yes, but unlike Barca’s six pounders on the hill and the two twelve pounder field guns in the rest of Mr. Olayne’s battery—sadly not yet arrived—my entire battery is composed of lightweight field howitzers. Fine weapons for firing shell or case, and canister at close range, but never designed to throw solid shot. They have chambered breeches, you see,” he explained, “smaller diameter than the bores, requiring lighter charges.” He shook his head as if mystified by Anson’s ignorance. “Even if I had some of the solid-shot ammunition for Olayne’s twelve pounders, my gunners would likely be unable to force the larger diameter charges to the breechface to be pierced—I’ve never tried it, and I’m sure I don’t know,” he added primly. “Even if they could, the heavier charge and shot would cause sufficient recoil to shake the carriages apart and damage the tubes.”
“I know all that. You have some case shot. Shoot it,” Anson countered with a scowl, wondering why some professional artillerymen felt compelled to explain everything with a treatise. Lewis ain’t like that—but he’s even worse, in a way, he suddenly realized. Just assumes anyone he respects for their intelligence already knows everything he does.”
Dukane looked stubborn. “I have some exploding case,” he agreed, “but not much. When it’s gone, there may be no more. The last pickets who came in said the enemy artillery is about a thousand yards out. Right at the limit of my effective range. I can’t just wildly throw the last of my case shot about at targets I can barely reach and can’t see.”
Anson sighed and nodded. “Good point. It’s just . . . It’s hard on the men—me too—to sit an’ take a beatin’ without shootin’ back. An’ I expect the Doms’ll be sendin’ infantry through their guns pretty soon.”
Barca’s guns fired again, and Dukane nodded up in their direction. “We are shooting back, and using the proper tools. Don’t worry, my howitzers will come into their own at closer range. And whether we see it or not, the enemy will have to cease firing for a time when they advance their infantry. I’ll send a few rounds of case their way when they do. That way, we should catch somebody, even if our fuses run fast. Something they’re notorious for, I’m afraid.”
“Well, at least somebody’s thinkin’,” Anson complimented. “I’m too used to the cut an’ slash, lunge an’ bolt of my Rangers. Probably should’a put you in charge o’ this part.”
Dukane shook his head. “Oh, no sir. I’m only pretending to be calm. I can manage my battery, but I’d be useless in command of us all!”
“How do you think I feel?” Anson murmured, but only to himself. That’s when they heard a blare of horns and the deep rolling thunder of kettle drums. Anson had heard those before, but the horns had only blared short sequences of notes like bugle calls passing orders. This was different. Even while the roundshot continued raining down, the horns commenced a harsh, menacing melody. It was jarringly repetitive, with the same series of notes played several times before they changed to a different sequence. Anson had heard that Santa Anna ordered the “Deguello” played every evening by his forces besieging the Alamo. It was an ancient Moorish piece that essentially meant “no quarter,” and the Doms could’ve easily brought it to this world. He had no idea what it sounded like, but it could be the same. It certainly had a singularly foreboding feel to it. But what would be the point of playing it? The only prisoners Doms took were for slaves or sacrifice.
The barrage began to lift, and Dukane told his center section to make ready. The sections on the right and left would follow his lead.
“Commence firing!” he shouted. The howitzers boomed and jerked back, brake chains and implement hooks clattering before breeches dropped back on elevation screws with clangs like broken bells. Dark spheres arced out of the smoke, jetting fuses tumbling before they were lost in the fog. Seconds later came bright snapping flashes in the gloom in the air above where they hoped the enemy infantry had advanced a little beyond the guns. The right section fired, both guns together, then the left two boomed as well. Barca’s 6pdrs fired, the shots a deeper, louder crack.
“I feel better already, Mr. Dukane,” Anson said loudly so all around could hear. “Keep it up.”
* * *
“This is startin’ to look like a battle,” Hahessy boomed as he rammed another fixed charge down the throat of the Number Two gun, giving it a couple taps for emphasis when it met the resistance of the breech. “Aye, a damned strange-lookin’ battle it is, an’ no mistake, but a battle nonetheless—with shots besides ours goin’ both ways for the now.”
It was very strange. The fog was still dense, but lower and shallower, thickening yet burning off under the full golden light of the rising sun. Those on the hill were almost entirely above it and had a fine view. After pausing for a while to the east, no doubt while the first wave of infantry passed through the guns, the artillery duel resumed with even greater fury as case shot exploded and the whole world seemed to pulse and flash with cloud-to-cloud lightning. The odd music the Doms were playing only added to the surrealism of the scene. Barca wished they could have music of their own to counter it, but the only mounted troops dedicated to an instrument were buglers. Others were fine musicians, but none would’ve traded a weapon for an instrument, at present.
A rider galloped to the top of the hill, seeming to materialize out of nothingness before looking around. Barca recognized Kisin, of all people, quickly followed by several more of his “guards.” Kisin saw him and trotted over behind riflemen crouched behind cover until he stopped beside Barca. His followers quickly caught up.
“What’re you doing here?” Barca asked.
“Looking for a place to hide, I bet,” said Apo Tuin, behind the Number Two gun limber as he placed another round in Billy Randall’s heavy leather haversack and motioned him forward.
“Foolish Uxmalo!” Kisin snarled. “Holcanos do not hide from a fight—as you city dwellers once hid behind your walls from Holcanos!” He looked back at Barca. “I come from the Anson to ask if you can see the enemy advance from up here, and judge its distance. I see for myself you cannot, as yet.”
“No,” Barca agreed. “It’s rather inconvenient. We’re fairly certain their infantry are coming, but don’t know how many or where they’re aimed. I suspect a large percentage are coming for us here, and every three shots, my gunners lower their elevation. Even if our shot falls short, it should bound into the enemy. Perhaps we’ll . . . hear the results of that when it does and gain a better idea where they are.”
“A fine idea!” Kisin enthused. “The . . . howitzers do the same, firing closer all the time, but will soon be out of their marvelous bomb shot. The Anson says Doms must have runners to go back to their guns and tell them when to stop shooting. When they do, even if we can’t see them, they should be in range of the canister I so admire”—he chuckled—“now that I’m on this side of it! Your way of war is very noisy, but exciting.”
“It’ll soon more closely resemble your way of war, when the enemy’s very close, but it’ll still be noisy.”
“I know!” Kisin exclaimed enthusiastically. “Where is your Capitan Meder? I will fight with him, on foot, when the time comes.”
“Don’t you need to report back to Major Anson?”
“I have nothing to report,” Kisin said, brows narrowing, “and he told me to wait until I did.”
In other words, he wanted rid of you too, Barca thought, then somewhat reluctantly, pointed toward the right of the line where Felix Meder was striding behind his riflemen. “You’ll find Captain Meder over there,” Barca said, then grinned. “Give him my respects—and apologies.”
“Apologies?” Kisin asked, already moving away.
“He’ll understand,” Barca shouted over the roar of the Number Two gun. The sheeesh of the shot was much shorter now, and they clearly heard muted screams when it stopped. “What’s your range?” Barca demanded.
“A touch under one degree of elevation,” Hanny shouted back, “so . . . six hundred yards or so. Maybe a bit more since we’re shooting down.”
“There’s something for you to report,” Barca called after Kisin.
Then, suddenly, Barca could see the enemy—at least the indistinct yellow and black lines of them through the thinner overhead fog as the rising sun did its work. Despite the sun, he felt a chill when he not only saw how many lines there were, but how close the first ones were. Hanny’s last shot had likely hit two or three lines back, skating through the fourth and fifth. . . .
“You see them?” he called to Hanny and Dodd.
“Yes sir,” they chorused.
“Engage the first rank, then. They’re not quite in canister range.” He whirled back to Kisin. “Major Anson still may not see them. There’s too much fog between him and them, but even if you hurry—and you better—the enemy’ll be in canister range when you reach him. Go!”
“I don’t take orders from you!” Kisin said haughtily.
Barca fumbled for the single shot pistol thrust in his belt. Colonel De Russy had given it to him, and it was a fine piece. He’d never fired it, but certainly knew how. “You’ll take that order, you arrogant savage, or I’ll blow you off your horse!”
“I will complain to the Anson.” Kisin sniffed.
“Fine,” Barca snapped. “If you tell him why I threatened you, he’ll probably shoot you himself. Now go, or we’re all dead. You too!”
With a final glance at the enemy, Kisin must’ve decided Barca was right and yanked his horse’s head around and pounded down the slope, his followers close behind.
“Good on ya, Mr. Barca! Can we get back ta business, then?” Hahessy shouted cheerfully, actually calming Barca’s stress-enhanced fury. A Dom roundshot slammed the slope just in front of the gun and sprayed dirt and shards of stone on Hahessy and Preacher Mac. “Heathen bastards!” Mac hissed, shaking his bleeding hand. “I’m fine,” he assured Hanny, and Hahessy laughed.
“Keep firing as fast as you can,” Barca told them. “How many rounds of canister are in that chest?” he asked Apo.
“Ten, sir.”
“We’ll need more than that,” Barca said grimly.
“One of the chests on the caisson has nothing but canister in it,” Apo reminded. “We can bring it up.”
The problem with that, of course, was that each full chest weighed close to six hundred pounds, and it took time and considerable effort to change them out.
“No. We’ll refill your empty slots by hand. Section!” he called louder. “Send your Number Five men to the caissons and form details from the replacements to bring canister forward. Use as many men as you can find haversacks for!” That was so they wouldn’t be running around in the open with vulnerable cloth bags filled with a pound and a quarter of powder in their hands. All it would take was a spark.
“They’re almost in canister range now, Lieutenant,” Dodd shouted.
“Already are,” Hanny countered, voice with an edge. Barca had been right, and it looked like the ranks angling for their position were deeper than others. Captain Meder was shouting, and perhaps a quarter of his men rested their M1817 rifles rested on the breastworks and started firing. Barca never would’ve said so, but he’d believed Meder had boasted a little about the skill of his riflemen. Not so. Even as he watched, fog-fuzzy shapes collapsed under their fire, and mounted men—likely officers—tumbled from horses as far away as four hundred yards. Barca was deeply impressed.
“Load canister!” Hanny yelled. Apo dropped a canister round in Billy Randall’s haversack while Kini Hau raced to the rear with his own haversack flapping.
Rifles were crackling continuously now, and Barca raised his small telescope (another gift from De Russy). He could see a lot better now, the riflemen taking an increasing toll, but the broader view reinforced his inner horror. It looked like Agon was only sending half his men—a large, hazy block remained back where the enemy guns had been the night before and was moving very slowly if at all. But the “half” already committed to the assault, along with most of the enemy cannon being laboriously pushed forward by hand, outnumbered Anson’s whole blocking force three or four to one.
“Fire!” Hanny cried, and the Number Two gun vomited the curiously yellowish smoke only canister produced. Barca watched a broad pattern of dust clouds erupt around the center of the closest Doms, and a dozen or more went down. Poom-poom, poom-poom, poom-poom! went the three, two-gun sections of Dukane’s battery and Barca looked to his left. The fog was vanishing fast, and he was surprised how the visibility had improved. Aiming his glass at the enemy in front of the “main” line, he saw more dozens hacked out of the leading ranks as if by three big bites, yet the rest continued relentlessly on, a few clearly wounded staggering along to keep up.
“Fire!” roared Corporal Dodd, his pattern of .69 caliber balls nearly equaling an infantry company volley squalling downrange and sweeping away another eight or ten yellow-clad men. When the enemy was closer, even the balls that missed would be lethal when they bounced up from the hard ground.
We have to keep chewing on them, Barca thought, nibble them down before they get in range of our men with carbines—because by then, we’ll nearly be in range of their bayonets. He took a long breath. He’d been in battle before and fought bravely enough to be widely noticed. That was just the thing, however; he’d “only” been fighting desperately for his very life, but that was all he’d had to worry about. He’d never been in charge of anyone but himself in battle, and it looked increasingly like his and Meder’s defense of the hill might decide whether any of Anson’s force survived. And, God in heaven, he thought with another icy spike of horror, there are so many of them! We’ll never stop them.
Something hot and wet sprayed him just as it seemed a terrible gust of wind slammed him back against the Number Two limber. The horse on the right, just in front of the splinter bar, collapsed with a terrified shriek, but dropped utterly bonelessly, gasping on the ground, blood spewing from its nostrils. A solid shot had blown through the animal’s withers, pulverizing its spine, before passing close enough for displaced air to physically move him. It cracked heavily into a wall of the villa and rolled slowly back in his direction. Copper shot, just like we’ve begun to use, he thought dazedly. Very bright where it struck.
“You all right, Lieutenant?” Apo Tuin asked, peering at him over the limber chest lid he’d just closed. The young Uxmalo sounded concerned, and it dawned on Barca he’d been drenched by horse blood. He was lucky none of the bone hit him. The horse had already shuddered and died, and he felt terribly sorry for it—and equally sorry for himself. Then he heard Hanny, one of his men, scream, “Load canister!”
