Hells march, p.55
Hell's March, page 55
“Fer what we’re about tae receive,” Mac grumbled, ramming a ball down his musket and affixing the bayonet.”
“Aye, back ta smellin’ their breath, it is,” Hahessy agreed, already loaded and running his thumb along the edge of the flint to test it. Originally in the 1st US Infantry himself, he knew what to do. He hadn’t been given a musket to “keep” before, but had Ricken’s weapon now. Hanny was loading and peering down the hill at the surging, yelling horde when Barca and Boogerbear joined him.
“Not sure whether ta use this gun for cover or pull back an’ hope it falls on the enemy,” Boogerbear quipped. The left wheel wasn’t the only damage. Many of the right wheel spokes were damaged as well, struck by musket balls. Even the axle was splintered in places. It was a miracle Hahessy and Mac were still alive.
“She’s covered all of us for quite a while,” Hanny snapped at the Ranger. Barca felt a surge of annoyance at Boogerbear’s casual disparagement himself. He was right, of course, but even Barca, much newer to artillery than the men around him, already felt protective of the guns in his section. It was often said “every cannoneer loves his gun, even if the bitch doesn’t love him back,” but this gun and its sister had saved their lives so far.
“No offense, fellas,” Boogerbear said mildly. “Just watch yourselves.” Aiming a Paterson at a wild-eyed Dom struggling upward toward him, he fired. Mac and Hahessy weren’t far behind him, then Hanny fired, and their different reloading drill began at a furious pace.
CHAPTER 31
This ain’t how you wanted it to go, is it?” Leonor asked Lewis Cayce, mounted beside him as always. Her short, dun-and-black-striped Sparky next to his tall, powerful, chestnut Arete made a contrasting but amiable pair. The battle was growing beyond anything she’d seen. Even if the numbers were similar to those at the Washboard, Agon hadn’t stacked his regiments like Don Frutos did, and many more troops were actually in action at once. The scope of it all, and the crashing volleys and chest-thumping cannon fire was awesome and terrible. At the same time, she watched Lewis closely as well because, though he seemed excited by the battle to a degree, she could also tell he was deeply troubled. His army, tired as it was, had maneuvered to contact almost flawlessly, keeping near-perfect alignment despite robust fences designed to keep large beasts from destroying outlying crops and a kind of stunted orchard of what looked like plum trees that would’ve badly scattered less-disciplined troops. He had to be proud, and the sight was indeed stirring, but the bulk of the fighting was now under way upon that very rarest of things: a plain practically made for a battle.
“No,” he confessed. “I wanted to get here first, of course, and force the enemy to attack a prepared position.” He gestured at the hill and line of mounted troops to the northwest. “Not just your father and his much smaller force. I’m afraid they’ll have suffered terribly. Still are.” He sighed. “And the last thing I wanted was a stand-up fight in the open, where the enemy’s numbers might still mean more than our better tactics and training. They can see everything we do, and any surprises will be difficult to create. So no matter what happens here today, it’s going to be bloody for everyone.” He paused. “There’s one thing your father might do,” he corrected, “that would kick a leg out from under Agon’s chair. If he sees it and is able,” he amended. “I’m sure he’ll see the opportunity when it comes,” he said with growing confidence, “I just don’t know if he’ll have the power to do anything about it.”
Leonor didn’t know what Lewis was talking about, but was certain her father would. She refused to finish that thought with the inevitable qualification: if he was still alive.
Har-Kaaska’s 2nd Division was still in four regimental blocks, two deep and two abreast, the 1st Itzincab and 2nd Ocelomeh in the lead, trading volleys with the heavier Dom regiments opposite them while both batteries of 8pdrs advanced with the infantry, slashing the enemy ranks with canister. Strangely, the Doms hadn’t extended their line to the east, which is what the 2nd Uxmal and 1st Techon remained in reserve to counter. It was as if Agon was still only thinking about matching Lewis’s movements and deployments instead of forcing or preventing them. That left 2nd Division’s reserve brigade a real reserve for the rest of the line, and another possible way to break the Doms. The 1st Uzmal and 1st US extended the line to the left, delivering searing, professional volleys as well. The 1st Ocelomeh and 3rd Pennsylvania were only lightly engaged at the moment, pushing hard against the re-forming regiments that had been assaulting Anson. A large percentage of those were still attacking the hill and its top was wreathed in smoke.
Seeing the “whole battle” was an unusual phenomenon and sensation; they hadn’t even been able to do that at the Washboard because of the convoluted ground. This was how Leonor always imagined it must’ve been like at Waterloo, even though the various accounts her father made her read about it—or any battle—always made them seem “flatter” and more classically laid out than they could’ve been. Hindsight, even influencing participants’ accounts, added to that. But here, now, it was really that way, and she could see it all from Sparky’s saddle. So could the enemy. She suspected Agon himself was in a large mounted cluster behind the center of his army, surrounded by a cloud of red flags with crooked gold crosses on them. I bet he’s looking for Lewis, she thought. But Lewis’s small entourage shifted back and forth, and its members changed depending on where on the line he was. Only herself, Sal Hernandez, Reverend Harkin, Corporal Willis, and Dr. Newlin were “permanent” members, along with a large number of messengers. That doesn’t count Mistress Wilde, of course, Leonor mused. The Englishwoman hadn’t retreated to the baggage wagons as told, and now made herself scarce, fluttering around the periphery and trying to avoid Lewis’s notice. As focused as Lewis often got in battle, she might’ve even succeeded. Leonor thought not.
Then again . . . A dusty, exhausted messenger had been passed through the ring, dressed like a dragoon but with greasy hair braided down the sides of his head in the Pidra Blanca style. Not many Pidros with us, Leonor thought as the kid said something to Lewis, who grinned and nodded. “Fall back on the baggage wagons, get something to eat and a fresh mount. Try to make it back if you can, and hurry them along.” When the young man was gone, Lewis only said, “Colonel Itzam’s Third Division is less than eight miles away.” That’s when Leonor saw, all of a sudden, Lewis’s eyes flitting back and forth in that remote way he had when he became part of the battle, seeing, even feeling it all, as if it were unfolding in the palm of his hand. The missing piece of his puzzle was now in hand as well, and he could finally plan.
He couldn’t just summon that state of mind, and it usually came on him unaware. He’d hated it once and tried to fight how detached he became, thinking he was a monster. Now he vaguely feared it wouldn’t come when he needed it and he couldn’t do what he must without it. He’d never admit that, would consider it a weakness, but Leonor knew it bothered him, and the longer “it” took to come over him, the more he worried.
Now his jaw worked as he raised his glass and evaluated the enemy, looking at their faces to see how they felt, watched whether they loaded their weapons with firm or trembling hands, considered and rejected a dozen actions at once, or built on them and went down some very twisty “what if” trails. Injins prob’ly do that when they’re huntin’, Leonor thought. Knowin’ all the habits of their prey in general, they instinctively note the ground, wind direction, age of a track, an’ whether the critter was runnin’ or just amblin’ along. Then they get in the head of the particular critter they’re after: Is it goin’ to food or bed? Does it know somethin’s after it? Will it double back? Go high or low, an’ why? There were thousands of variables they probably never consciously calculated. They just knew. That’s how Lewis gets, Leonor thought, and was proud of her sudden insight.
“Marvin!” Lewis shouted after another somewhat extended volley by the First US as he urged Arete toward the regiment’s mounted commander, Major Marvin Beck. Beck’s aide, Lieutenant Malcom Harris, ducked a little when a Dom roundshot shrieked past, one of the first directed at them, and Beck gave him a look.
“Sir?” he replied to Lewis in the momentary near-quiet that followed. The Dom line was about seventy-five yards away and were loading at present as well, standing in a hedge of yellow-and-black-clad corpses. Lewis flinched visibly at the similar, if thankfully lesser, number of blue-clad forms lying around Beck’s men. This is already costing too much, and it’s killing him, Leonor thought grimly. But Lewis was “in” the battle now and didn’t let his feelings touch his voice when he said, “Enough of this foolishness. Time to move forward and get on with our business, don’t you think?” Pressing the enemy would be costly, but no more than this drawn-out, formalized butchery.
Beck grinned relief. “I do indeed, sir.”
“Messengers,” Lewis called behind him. “General advance, signaled from here. Har-Kaaska will extend his line with the First Techon on the march, while detaching the Second Uxmal under Warmaster Varaa to the far left at the double time. I’ll join her as she passes, and Major Beck will command here after that.” Beck looked surprised but didn’t interrupt. “The enemy may try to match Har-Kaaska’s movement,” Lewis continued, “but will just as likely shy toward their center or try to refuse the flank. Either way, the First Itzincab and Second Ocelomeh will make the most of the confusion and charge while the First Techon performs a left wheel to smash that flank. Understood?”
“Sir!” cried an Itzincabo messenger.
“Very well,” Lewis said, then gestured for him to go. Pulling the striped, wide-eyed horse’s head around, the Itzincabo galloped off to the right.
“And we’re to just keep grinding forward?” Beck asked.
“Sorry, yes,” Lewis agreed. “The First US, Third Pennsylvania, and First Uxmal. Messengers to Major Ulrich and Major Manley,” he instructed. When two more riders raced off, he said, “I’ll signal you when we, meaning Varaa and the Second Uxmal, join Consul Koaar and the First Ocelomeh. When you sound the general advance and commence the assault, we’ll smash through the Doms on the left that remain in disarray and attempt to relieve Major Anson’s forces on the hill.”
“And we’ll have the Doms in a sack,” Beck mused.
“A weak, fraying sack by then, I fear,” Lewis warned, “but a sack after all, which can’t instill confidence. Agon’s no fool, and he knows Colonel Itzam and Third Division must be drawing near, which they are,” he assured, then snorted. “I expect another opportunity to talk to Agon, about then.”
“Understood,” Beck said.
“Good.” Lewis grinned. “Then let’s have some music to fight to! I recommend ‘The Old 1812.’ Agon will remember that.”
Drums thundered and fifes skirled, and the popular tune commenced and spread. The fighting continued, Doms still suffering the worst by far as massed musketry and canister swept into them, but seeming almost content to continue like this until the matter was resolved. Perhaps they were, or Agon was, imagining this the “proper” form a battle should take. Lewis wasn’t content at all and was relieved when Varaa arrived at the head of the Second Uxmal, trotting in column. He nodded a greeting at his Mi-Anakka friend, then turned Arete to the left. “Follow me,” he called. Leonor, Sal, and Corporal Willis did as a matter of course, but so did Reverend Harkin and Dr. Newlin. Samantha Wilde as well, though she held back by Varaa, who blinked questioningly at her.
“Shush, Varaa,” she said sternly. “If he hasn’t noticed I’m here, I shan’t take it well if you tell him.”
“Not me,” Varaa said, blinking and flipping her tail, arched up over her saddle cantle. “My perspective is different from most, even in my homeland, but I don’t believe anyone should be prevented from fighting a battle they believe in, certainly not simply because they’re female. Do you have a weapon?”
Samantha patted tooled and brass-accented pommel holsters. “A brace of captured Dom pistols. Quite nice ones, in fact, and carefully loaded just this morning,” she said with a touch of pride. “They were an engagement present of sorts from Major Anson,” she explained with an ironic smile.
“Good,” Varaa replied lowly. “Idiots get those around them killed. I’d consider you one if you hadn’t armed yourself.”
Leonor caught that exchange. So did Reverend Harkin, who didn’t tattle, but frowned very deep disapproval. Dr. Newlin pretended ignorance, and Willis, already unhappier than usual over the unprecedented amount of time he’d spent in a saddle, just said, “Shit,” likely expecting it would fall to him to protect her. It was possible Lewis, farther ahead, might still be unaware of Samantha. Or perhaps, having accepted Leonor’s status as a combatant as a matter of course, rather shared Varaa’s philosophy now. Either way, he had a new vision for the battle and nothing would distract him but changes in the battle itself. That was confirmed by the fact that, at some point during their ride around to the left flank of the army, he’d drawn his M1840 artillery saber without even seeming to realize it. Another sure sign he had, or was about to, set everything he thought necessary to victory in motion. There’ll be no keeping him out of it either, Leonor reflected resignedly. In truth, she was more than ready to join the fight herself.
The 1st Ocelomeh was already pressing hard when Lewis and Varaa brought the 2nd Uxmal in behind. The bloodied, exhausted opposition had never properly coalesced, and was still weakened by the loss of battalions assaulting the hill. Dom fire was desultory as the Ocelomeh—all dressed as regular infantry now—savaged them with disciplined volleys.
“Colonel Cayce!” Consul Koaar greeted happily as Lewis and Leonor joined him, outpacing the rest.
“Consul.” Lewis smiled in return. “Captain Gomez.” He nodded at Koaar’s aide. “It seems you’ve prepared the enemy well for what we’re about to do.”
“I certainly hope so,” Koaar agreed. “What are we about to do?”
Lewis chuckled. “Warmaster Varaa is bringing the Second Uxmal up, and I’ve sent for Captain Olayne’s battery as well. It was . . . underutilized against the Dom center, and we can make better use of it. As soon as he arrives and the Uxmalos catch their breath, we’ll signal Major Beck, who’ll sound a ‘general advance.’ We’ll be part of that, but our objective is more ambitious than just pushing the enemy back.”
Koaar grinned, exposing wicked canines, tail whipping in anticipation.
* * *
“I can’t see anything for the smoke!” General Agon complained, straining to stand as high in his stirrups as he could and waving ineffectually at the dense, white, sulfurous cloud enveloping everything. It was as bad as the fog had been—except the fog hadn’t been thick with deadly, shrieking projectiles. It was also more localized. Capitan Ead Arevalo knew the capricious wind had pushed more smoke from the fighting on the hill and their own artillery down on them, and the visibility was actually better than he liked just a short distance to the front. He’d just returned from there—and it might be just as well his general couldn’t see what was happening. Agon had come to love the army he’d built, and desperately relied on it to save his country from the usurper Don Julio and the Blood Priests. He hadn’t sought this battle and would’ve avoided it if he could—the very idea of avoiding battle with heretics was proof of his dedication to his greater cause—but Arevalo’s short inspection showed him that cause was doomed. He had no doubt that Agon’s army was the best-trained, most highly disciplined (not only by fear) force the Holy Dominion had ever placed in the field, but he’d seen in a moment that it was slowly dying, like a stupendous serpiente, bristling with a thousand arrows. The men were standing firm, dealing death as they took it, but they simply couldn’t advance. That boiled down to the bitter fact that the enemy was better yet, man to man, and their sheer volume of fire had destroyed every effort to close with them. Attacks started well enough, the men still willing, but their cohesion shattered almost at once, often by artillery that just appeared in front of them out of the smoke as if by magic, and all the strength and coordination of the attack was lost. Those who could limped back to the line and kept fighting, but it was the best they could do. This he’d reluctantly reported to his general.
“We’ll wear them down eventually,” Arevalo consoled. “We still have the numbers.”
“But they’re killing us at least two to one,” Agon seethed back. “At that rate, they’ll soon have the ‘numbers’ to swamp us.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “Particularly when their other force arrives! No, our only chance is a concerted attack by everything we have all at once, up and down the line! Their demon-crewed artillery is moving to meet attacks they see building, but they don’t have enough guns to put them everywhere!” He clutched his ears in furious frustration. “And I want that damnable music stopped!”
The enemy had begun serenading them with the same jaunty tune they’d defeated them to at the Washboard and Agon had been enraged, remembering it all too well. No doubt many of the veterans in the ranks recalled it also. Other tunes followed, all bizarrely cheerful in some inexpressible way, yet undeniably martial at the same time. The thundering drums accompanying the squealing flutelike instruments saw to that. It reminded Arevalo of the irreverent dance music enjoyed by the lower classes, not appropriate for the solemnity of a battlefield at all, and he had a very strange thought: Battle is like a dance to them, even more than us. But our “proper” dances are very solemn, with carefully choreographed, ritualized, even religiously significant steps. Their . . . livelier music lends itself better to improvisation, even . . . spontaneity. He started to point that out to his general, abruptly sure it was significant, but he didn’t have time. A bugle sounded over the roar, echoed by others, and all the guns facing them flared in the smoke, pummeling their chests with pressure and ravaging horses or tossing men from saddles even here. A massive volley, thousands of smaller, duller flashes, swept down from the right, followed by screams of pain. It flowed right across in front of them and continued on to the left, but the thumping crackle of musketry was immediately joined by a growing roar, expectant, terrified, exultant, and savage.
