Hells march, p.54
Hell's March, page 54
“We’ll bring the spare wheel from the caisson,” O’Roddy had suggested doubtfully, since Hanny—who had a bright piece of a spoke sticking in his left bicep—never stopped shooting, even while O’Roddy worked.
“No time,” Hanny snapped back. Something had . . . shifted in him when Ricken was killed. The older man wasn’t a friend, precisely, but he’d been a good man. More important, he was part of Hanny’s crew, his responsibility, his little “family,” and the Doms had destroyed him and hurt some others. He’d slipped into a different reality where the enemy sweeping toward them weren’t people anymore, just targets, like a swarm of ants he had to keep back. He wasn’t even really aiming the gun anymore. He didn’t have to. He’d already taken Ricken’s place at the handspike, heaving the trail from side to side to “point” it by eye after each shot, and it was rolled back into battery. Occasionally, he’d lunge forward and give the elevation screw a turn. Other than that, he just stood in the open, gauging the effect of his canister and hoarsely shouting for his hurt and exhausted men to “Load” and “Fire!”
O’Roddy had looked to the front and knew Hanny was right. The riflemen were dwindling, their fire slower and less accurate as barrels choked up with fouling. Few had the time—or spit—to moisten a cleaning patch to swab their barrels. Most clearly expected it to come to the bayonet and had already affixed the wicked blades adapted to their rifles. The two overworked guns and their brutal fans of shot were all that kept the Doms off the hill. Even if the spare wheel was already at hand, it would take half a minute to change it. Half a minute while countless musket balls saturated the space around a tightly packed detail of men holding a one-ton gun up on one wheel. If any were hit, the whole thing could crash down on the rest. And half a minute was two or three shots . . . Sergeant O’Roddy had shrugged and taken Apo’s place at the limber.
Now Apo was catching hell of another sort.
“Thumb that vent, god damn ye!” Hahessy roared as he quickly withdrew the rammer and stepped back around the right wheel. A musket ball struck the iron tire and sprayed him with sharp lead fragments that washed his left forearm in blood. He never noticed.
“I am,” Apo screamed at the much larger man.
“Thumb it harder, then, could ye? Heard a hiss from the vent, I did. If a spark lights a charge an’ blows me arm off, I’ll beat ye ta death with it, I will!”
Stepping up by Hanny, Barca wondered how the big Irishman heard anything after the beating his ears had taken. He could hardly imagine how they all stood any of it: the noise, loss of friends, the terror . . . His every instinct screeched for him to crouch and avoid the incoming fire. He’d thought the fight on the beach with the Holcanos and . . . lizard people, after they first arrived on this world, was the worst thing he’d ever experience. This was much worse, and for many more reasons he couldn’t even define. The sheer scope of it all was horrifying, even more than the Washboard had been. That was largely illusion, of course, since the numbers engaged were fairly close, but he could see more of everything, and it looked incomparably vast. He didn’t just want to crouch, he wanted to run back to the shot-bashed villa and hide. But Hahessy and Mac were the most exposed, in front of the gun, and they couldn’t crouch. Hanny wouldn’t, so neither could Barca. Of course, young Corporal Hannibal Cox didn’t seem to know Barca was even there.
Besides, even though the personal stakes hadn’t much changed—he discounted the strange conversation between Major Anson and General Agon and knew in his heart they’d win or die—the purpose behind the war had changed monumentally. That still eluded quite a few, no doubt, but regardless how elusive a true political union of the Yucatán still proved to be, Sira Periz, Colonel De Russy, Lewis Cayce, Har-Kaaska, Reverend Harkin, Father Orno—many more—were strongly united in what they saw as a sacred cause, and Barca particularly embraced the fact that the war had turned from simple survival and defense to a struggle against evil and a crusade of liberation. The latter could be harder. The people on the Yucatán—Ocelomeh, Uxmalos, virtually all the rest, even Holcanos—knew what freedom was. But the Doms—even their slaves—didn’t know any other way and change is never welcome. Sometimes even when it’s for the best. Convincing them might be the hardest part of all.
But Barca felt this battle was worse for another reason: his cause was threatened by a more capable and determined enemy with a real cause of their own, beyond expansion and subjugation for their own sakes. Agon and his army were fighting them to defend their country against the inarguably greater evil of the Blood Priests. A difference of degrees, perhaps, but a big difference to them.
2nd Division had marched straight out against the main Dom reserve while 1st Division, maintaining a tentative connection, advanced on the re-forming remnant of the attack on Anson’s blocking force. Of course a lot of those Doms are coming here now, Barca could see. Volleys erupted from long, thick lines of blue stretching to either side of colorful flags, facing return volleys from yellow-clad men under red flags and jagged gold crosses. It all looked so . . . conventional, and the plain was quickly shrouded with gunsmoke as thick as the earlier fog. But the great battle unfolding below is only secondary to what happens here, Barca knew. And I and these men on this hill are standing between the enemy and their cause as surely as they’re assailing ours. It was already bloodier than anything Barca had seen. It was going to get worse.
“Fire!” Hanny almost croaked. The damaged gun bucked back, lead canister balls deformed by their own stacking and sudden contact with the harder metal of the copper cylinder and bronze bore whistled when they flew. It couldn’t be said the attackers were charging, exactly, since they were just as exhausted as anyone and struggling, even crawling up the steepest slope of the hill, where many were actually under the guns—too close and too low to target. Most weren’t, and it really was like shooting ants—with a shotgun—and a great oval of dust and cut grass drifted downwind, leaving dozens of dead and scores of writhing, screaming wounded.
“Reload!” Hanny grated again, guiding the gun forward with the handspike, shifting it to point a little more to the left as Hahessy and Mac gingerly heaved on the wheels.
Barca finally spoke as Hanny stepped back. “The repair won’t hold for long.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Hanny replied, voice very old. “Canister chest on the caisson’s cleaned out. We only have five or six rounds left.”
“What about the other chests? Barca asked, berating himself. He should’ve found the answer already instead of just standing here, philosophizing. “Each should have ten rounds, standard,” he added.
“Already burnt through ’em,” Hanny replied, watching Andy’s replacement, a kid from Pidra Blanca they all called “Ricky,” stretch the lanyard and nod nervously at Apo. Apo shouted, “Ready!” when he saw everyone clear of the gun.
“Fire!” croaked Hanny.
Poom!
“Thumb that god damn vent!” Hahessy bellowed at Apo.
“I am, you great, fat . . . slash toad!” Apo almost squealed with fury. Hahessy laughed.
A young, red-eyed, powder-smudged rifleman ran up to Barca and saluted.
“Don’t do that here!” Hanny rasped at the kid. “I don’t know if Doms salute each other, but I suspect they do—and know what it means. You want to draw extra fire at our officers?”
“Yes, Corporal . . . I mean, no, Corporal! Lieutenant Barca, Captain Meder’s compliments, sir, and could you join him briefly by the wall around the villa?”
“Of course,” Barca said. He looked at Hanny and hesitated, worried about him on multiple levels, but all he could say was, “Carry on. You’re doing very well. I’ll be back in a moment.” Hanny waved.
Captain Felix Meder was strolling back and forth in front of a rubbled portion of the wall where enemy shot flying over the embattled section of guns had smashed it again and again. Musket balls whizzed and warbled thickly as they dropped even here, out of direct view of the ascending enemy, but Meder took no heed. He was swiping back and forth at flowery puffballs on top of tall weeds with the brass-tipped iron ramrod of the 1817 rifle slung over his shoulder when Barca joined him. Meder looked up, a half smile on his grimy, sweaty, boyish face. “We’re holding them,” he said by way of greeting. “God knows how they take it, but they do. And just keep coming.” He whacked savagely at another colorful puffball. “We can’t take it much longer, though. I’ve lost half my fellows, killed and hurt, and we’re short of ammunition.”
“We’re down to the last few rounds of canister,” Barca agreed. “Still a fair amount of solid shot and a few rounds of case we can cut fuses for muzzle bursts.” He shrugged and held his hands out at his sides.
“I suspected as much,” Meder said, pointing at the gap in the wall with his rammer. “Think you can pass your guns through here? If we don’t get support damned quick—I’ve been sending runners, begging—we’ll have to pull back to a more defensible position before we’re overrun. The villa isn’t much more defensible,” he conceded, looking at the once picturesque main building, almost as battered as the wall around it, great gaping holes in the tile roof, “but it might give us a chance.” He turned back to the front when the guns roared again, eyes sweeping the bloody crescent to either side, taking in his riflemen, ramrods flashing in the sun as they pounded stubborn balls down their barrels, jets of fire and smoke from others, aiming over the breastworks. They’d suffered so much to get here and now fought so brilliantly, he couldn’t accept it was all for nothing just because, after all their long separate journeys, Agon got here a single day quicker with his army than Colonel Cayce with his.
Meder destroyed another puffball, belying his calm façade. “The hard part will be disengaging, of course, but the shameful part is that we’ll essentially be surrendering possession of the hill. Anson’ll have to pull back as well. I suspect the enemy only wants past us, so they might not linger to murder us all. Colonel Cayce will win the battle down there”—he gestured at the plain below with supreme confidence—“but if Agon escapes with the bulk of his army, we’ll lose the campaign.”
Barca rubbed his chin, agreeing with Meder’s assessment, but what could they do? Surely it was best to save what they could. No matter how the day turned out, the veterans who’d fought so long and well would be needed again. He focused on how to save them. With its damaged wheel, he wasn’t sure the Number Two gun could be moved any distance at all. He didn’t know how it stood where it was, much less managed the recoil. He’d seen Preacher Mac do his best to make sure it stood on the soundest spokes when they rolled it back into battery. “They’ll fit through, certainly, with plenty of men clearing the bigger stones and debris, but . . .”
“But,” Meder concurred, already knowing Barca’s objection. “The enemy will tear us up no matter what we do. If we move quickly, practically flee from our current position, the Doms’ll chase us and slaughter us from behind. If we go slowly, they’ll feel it and rush us. And as soon as we pull your guns—we can’t leave them for last and risk them being taken—the Doms’ll rush us anyway, and all my riflemen left to slow them will die. I . . . I’m not really an officer, and I just . . . don’t know how to do this!” he almost exploded in frustration.
Barca could sympathize. He felt much the same. And at least he’s conscious of the importance of my guns, he reflected. There’d been growing concern over situations like this. In addition to the obvious effect on morale that so motivated Anson earlier, the American guns, and particularly their carriages, were so superior to the enemy’s that they couldn’t let them have one to study and copy. The versatility, practicality, and especially mobility the American artillery system gave them, the design of guns, limbers, caissons . . . everything, was the greatest material advantage they enjoyed. American muskets were better quality than their Dom counterparts, but the principle was the same, and they weren’t that much more lethal. Hall carbines, when they worked, effectively doubled, even tripled the firepower of dragoons, and rifles could kill at longer range but loaded more slowly. There was always a trade-off. The revolvers a few of them had might’ve made a big difference if they had more, or could make them, but that just wasn’t possible. There wasn’t the necessary steel, tools, or probably knowledge among the Americans themselves. The most revolutionary contributions the Americans brought to the battlefield on this world were training, based on instruction and experience, and an artillery system incorporating the freshest cream of such thought from all over the world they came from. It was a century ahead of the enemy’s.
Agon’s army was catching up on training and experience. If he fielded the same kind of guns—and the allies had already proven Dom tubes were good enough to make the transition—the cause Barca fought for could take a fatal blow. Is that Meder’s primary concern? Even above his men? Barca wondered. To get my guns behind the wall and protect them from the enemy? Knowing young Meder the way he did, he suspected that was the case—and the sacrifice could break him.
Then they heard a different rumbling and looked at the Villa. Beyond it was the winding road leading down to the plain and distant city. It was also the semiprotected route they’d used to send messages to Major Anson, and they recognized the distinctive thunder of hooves. Lots of them. Further undermining his façade of calm, Felix Meder almost collapsed with relief when he saw the huge form and wild beard of Captain Bandy “Boogerbear” Beeryman appear around the villa, leading a dense cluster of Rangers. And as they kept coming past Boogerbear, who stopped in front of Meder and Barca, they swirled around to the right side of Barca’s guns and started dismounting, horse holders pulling animals through another gap in the wall around the villa while men with carbines and pikes rushed to join the exhausted, faltering riflemen and gunners.
“Thank God,” Meder murmured, stiffening his stance as more and more Rangers galloped past. Boogerbear had brought them all. The first battalion was considerably diminished and looked hard-used, but after a section of howitzers rattled and pulverized gravel under spinning wheels up behind them and started unlimbering on either side of Barca’s 6pdrs, a stronger, fresher battalion of Rangers brought up the rear and began reinforcing the line to the left. The volume of fire the defenders poured out quickly increased.
Boogerbear still sat on Dodger, calmly fishing a honey-sticky wad of local tobacco from a painted leather pouch before stuffing it in his cheek. Wiping his fingers on his dingy but still recognizably sky-blue trousers, he rumbled through the leaves in his mouth, “Sorry it took so long, fellas. ’Spect you were gettin’ anxious. Would’a got here quicker, but the dragoons’a been takin’ it hard too. Had ta lend a hand shovin’ them yella’ devils back before we could get all the way here.” He was looking around as he spoke. “Lordy, what a view! Colonel Cayce’s got the whole rest o’ the Dom army tangled up on the flat.” He spat a stream of brown juice and looked back at Barca and Meder. “Half o’ the first half still seems most in’trested in us, though. Shiftin’ this way at you an’ the dragoons.” He shrugged. “So Cap’n—I mean Major Anson’s slidin’ up this way hisself, backin’ the dragoons with lancers as he comes. Ever’thin’s gettin’ mighty sqwozed, an’ if Cayce hadn’t showed, ol’ Agon coulda’ just marched on past by the sea.” He spat again. “What do you need?”
“Your men are already falling in on the line where we need them,” Meder stated, relief still clear in his voice. Barca suspected the relief came mostly from having the decision he’d dreaded taken from him.
“Ammunition,” Barca said.
Boogerbear shook his head. “Ain’t got none for yer six pounders, but them howitzers were on the far left an’ have mostly full chests. They ought’a take up the slack. Their caissons are comin’, an’ Dukane might still bring the center section up. Can’t place it on the slope.”
“Rifle ammunition,” Meder abruptly added.
“On the way from the supply wagons,” Boogerbear assured. “You got water here, right?”
“Yes sir. Several cisterns, some cleaner than others. There’s no well.”
“But enough for the men an’ animals for a couple days?”
Meder considered the increased numbers and quality of water in the cisterns he’d seen. “Probably,” he conceded guardedly, clear he expected this all to be settled before then, one way or another. “There’s only one source I’d consider safe for men. If they have to drink from others, they may be . . . haunted with internal discomforts.”
Boogerbear finally stepped down from his horse and handed him off to a waiting youngster before waving away Meder’s concern. “Most’ll get over that. They won’t get over dyin’ o’ thirst.” Looking at the gap in the wall, he added, “I know what you were discussin’ back here, but it won’t come to that. It can’t,” he stressed, drawing his revolvers and inspecting them. “Now let’s get back in the fight.”
In spite of the reinforcements, or possibly because of them, even in the face of renewed, withering, small arms fire, canister coughing from the howitzers and the final rounds from the 6pdrs—all of which strewed the slope with screeching wounded and dead, the ground actually muddy with blood—the Doms charged.
“Muskets, damn it! I want our muskets!” Hanny Cox shouted back at Sergeant O’Roddy. The Number Two gun was teetering badly now, the sound spokes no longer directly under the axle (it was hard to ensure that since the gun actually jumped up an inch or so each time it leaped back). The spokes were rarely in the same place when rolled back into battery. They’d made do by stopping a little short or long of their initial mark when Mac shouted that they were “good.” The Number One gun kept firing solid shot with handfuls of gravel on top (First Sergeant Petty must understand how desperate they were to countenance scratching the gun’s beautiful new bore), but Number Two wouldn’t stand another shot. Most of its crew had once been infantry, however, and brought their Springfields with them. They weren’t supposed to, but Sergeant Visser in the 3rd Pennsylvania had been discreet. It was just as well. O’Roddy had already called the men forward from the caissons and forge wagon, bringing the weapons stored there, and they quickly handed them out, along with full cartridge boxes.
