Hells march, p.56
Hell's March, page 56
Arevalo turned to Agon in horror but saw his general was down, leg pinned under his writhing black horse, face set in a grimace.
“My general!” he cried, leaping off his own animal and pulling a pistol from his sword belt. Drawing the hammer to full cock, he touched the wounded horse’s head behind its eye with the muzzle and squeezed the trigger. The pan flashed, and for an instant he thought the too-long-loaded weapon had misfired, but then it banged and jumped in his hand and the horse went stiff and quivered. Thrusting the smoking pistol back in his belt, he dragged General Agon clear. “Help me!” he roared at other stunned staff and messengers.
“I’m fine, the leg’s not broken,” Agon declared with a hiss. It might not be broken, but it clearly hurt. “Fetch me a fresh mount!” he shouted, then looked up at Arevalo and said, barely audible over the crashing surf of screaming and desperate fighting, growing quickly closer. “They beat us to it, didn’t they? That demonio Cayce beat me to it and charged his whole army at us!”
“I’m afraid so, my general,” Arevalo agreed as the first spurt of wounded, bewildered, or just terrified men started running past in the smoke. Most had no weapons.
* * *
All it took was a single musket ball shattering one more spoke and the Number Two gun started to fall with a snapping, crackling sound as loud as the fighting. The gun itself was no longer firing, and it wouldn’t have mattered if the wheel failed now, except for two things: First, they’d never move it if they had to pull back and it might still fall into enemy hands. Second, quite a few men were using it for cover as they fired their muskets, and in just the space of a breath, it was sure to collapse right on top of Preacher Mac and Hanny Cox, killing or maiming them both.
Barca saw it happening as if time had slowed to a crawl in one way, while leaving no time to even shout a warning. All he could do was drop the wounded Ranger’s carbine he’d been using and lace his fingers under the hub and heave with all the strength in his legs and back. He hadn’t even thought about it. Now he did. The last spokes are giving way. I’m too small and not nearly strong enough. Now the gun will crush me as well. That’s when he saw something he was even less prepared for. At the same instant he’d acted, the hulking Private Hahessy dropped his own musket and grabbed the top of the opposite wheel, heaving back with all his might. Corded muscles bulged through tattered and bloody shirtsleeves and vessels popped out on his reddening neck, his face a rictus of impossible effort. He didn’t have the right leverage, simply wasn’t heavy enough to counterweight nearly half of an unsupported ton, but between his effort and Barca’s, they slowed the inevitable long enough for others to shout warnings (neither could talk), and Apo to snatch the handspike from the trail and pass it under the axle. Another man took it, then another, then Kini Hau joined Apo on his end. Hanny and Mac scurried clear, as did Barca and Hahessy, finally relieved after several eternal seconds, and Apo shouted, “Let fall!” The four men on the handspike jumped clear, and the gun crashed down.
“Thank God!” Mac hissed, pulling his and Hanny’s muskets out from under the wreck. Neither was damaged, but anything the size of a man would’ve been smashed.
“What about me, damn ye?” gasped Hahessy in a surly tone retrieving his own weapon and resuming reloading it.
“Aye, an’ you too, ye mad, poxy Irishman!”
“Thank you both,” Hanny said. “Thank you all,” he added to Apo and the others, already rejoining the fight. Oddly, his tone sounded more like the “old” Hanny now. He seemed to notice it himself, and shook his head as if coming out of a daze.
Barca still stood with hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t know I had it in me.” He tried to laugh, but couldn’t.
“Me neither,” Hahessy said sharply, raising his musket to fire. After he did, he looked briefly back. “Seems there’s more to the both of us than either thought o’ the other, Lieutenant Barca,” he said roughly, “er even ourselves, come ta that,” he added before pulling another cartridge from the black leather box at his side and tearing the paper with his teeth. Priming his musket, he dumped the rest of the powder down the barrel, followed by the paper-wrapped ball, and rammed it all down. Raising the weapon, he quickly fired again. “Jus’ gonna stand congratulatin’ yourselves the rest o’ the day, are ye?” he demanded harshly. “The godless bastards’re nearly on us, an’ I’ll not stop ’em by me’self!”
He was right. Hundreds of Doms were within pistol shot now, coming on with a grim new intensity. They knew the hill had been reinforced, and Boogerbear’s Rangers had already helped throw them back once, but there were more Doms as well, probably everyone not involved in the fight on the plain, and they fought like they knew this was it. This time, they’d sweep over the defenders and take the hill, or they’d never summon the strength and courage to try again. They were using it all up in one final effort. So were the men on the hill. The howitzers slammed out a final murderous spread of canister before their crews took up fallen weapons and fought from the cover of their guns like Barca’s section was already doing. Carbines thumped and boomed dully but continuously while riflemen dropped naked balls down fouling-choked barrels and fired without patches. Their excellent, deadly weapons were actually less accurate than muskets when used that way, and they’d have hell cleaning lead out of rifling, but they had to shoot faster to earn time for that later.
The wreck of the Number Two gun was near the center of the defensive crescent and drawing the most attention, so that’s where Boogerbear and Felix Meder both gravitated, Meder’s rifle still choosing Dom leaders when possible, Boogerbear’s pistols firing at screaming shapes clawing over the breastworks. The fighting was more intimate for the rest. Hanny, Apo, and Mac make a good team, Barca thought, two always jabbing or thrusting bayonets while one reloads and shoots their most troublesome opponent. That might not work if the Doms could reload as well, but most who’d reached the breastworks had inserted their plug bayonets—wicked weapons in their own right, but now their muskets were little more than spears. Barca whipped his “found” carbine to his shoulder and shot a smoke-shrouded figure poised to stab Hanny. The man’s black tricorn tumbled away in a spray of blood and bone as the Dom sprawled back on his comrades. Hanny sent him a quick, thankful nod before returning to his work. Damn, Barca thought, already reloading. I aimed as his chest.
Hahessy fought differently, roaring and cursing, stabbing and battering, brutally ripping bodies open with his bayonet or bashing out brains with the buttplate of his musket. His antics drew a crowd of enemies, as he no doubt intended, but he wasn’t fighting alone. Even as Barca reloaded his carbine, he noted little Kini Hau crouching behind Hahessy, stabbing at men who sought openings between the much larger man’s extravagant blows. They never practiced that, Barca knew. It just . . . happened. It dawned on him then that, after everything, Hahessy had found a home. Not only did someone—and it could’ve been anyone on this gun crew, at least—care enough about the unpleasant man to watch his back, Hahessy trusted them to do it. Well, he’s slowly proven he can be trusted, and especially so today, Barca mused.
With only a carbine and no pike, like many of the Rangers had brought, Barca stayed a little back from the main point of contact. Not all the Doms had plugged their muskets, and plenty of balls still whizzed through the smoky air around him. Glancing to the side, he saw Captain Meder standing calmly upright beside Boogerbear as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The big Ranger acted like he always did: no shouting, no gesturing, only telling breathless messengers what to tell someone else and sending them on their way, all while firing his revolvers or double-barrel shotgun at whatever target drew his eye. Sometimes he’d talk to Felix while they both reloaded.
Felix tried to act the same, but did occasionally shout encouragement to his men. He’s not a “proper’ ”officer, any more than I am, but he knows how to act like one, Barca thought.
“Ah, Lieutenant Barca! Good shot a moment ago!” Felix exclaimed loudly enough for some of those fighting to hear. High praise, coming from him, since Felix was probably the best marksman in the world with his rifle. His tone was cheerful enough, but just as brittle as Barca’s when he replied, “Thank you, sir. Hard to miss at that range.” Of course, he had missed what he aimed at, but that didn’t matter. He’d figuratively stepped up on the theater stage with the other actors, performing for the men. He appraised Boogerbear for an instant. No, Felix and I are the only actors here. He spoke again, as quietly as he could. “I’ve read quite a lot and know it’s often done. I’ve seen Colonel Cayce do it, but does it really help to stand in the open like this? Like targets?” To his surprise, Boogerbear answered.
“Sure. You catch fellas lookin’ back now an’ then, prob’ly thinkin’ we’re crazy, but also that we ain’t scared. Steadies ’em. Can’t exactly lead from the front, right now. Mixed up on the line, nobody’d see us. So we lead from behind, as it were, but up close where we’re sharin’ the risk, see?”
“But what good does it do?” Felix asked.
Boogerbear seemed to consider that. “Once the metal starts flyin’, nobody’s fightin’ for the cause no more. That’s what brings ’em to the fight, but they forget it when the shootin’ starts. Country too. Even their homes an’ fam’lies. They might think o’ their poor, aged ma when they’re hurt, but they ain’t fightin’ for her. The good ones ain’t even fightin’ for themselves anymore, but for their pals around ’em. That’s their only real fam’ly in battle; fellas they respect, an’ want respect from. They won’t skedaddle with those fellas watchin’, nor us neither if they respect us. They ain’t as scared o’ the enemy, even o’ dyin’, as they are their pals—or us—thinkin’ they’re yella.”
“That’s why the Doms are fighting harder this time,” Barca deduced. “It’s not just fear of what’ll happen to them if they don’t. Not anymore. They’re fighting for their army, for each other as well.”
“Right.”
“What makes you fight, Captain Beeryman?” Felix asked.
Boogerbear shrugged. “Respect o’ my pals comes into it. Cap’n Anson, Leonor, Sal . . . even you fellas. But mostly, I’m good at it . . . an’ it’s kinda excitin’, ain’t it?” He confessed the last with the closest thing to bashfulness either had ever seen in him.
An explosion of blue wool fuzz and blood vapor sprayed Barca’s face, and Felix Meder was hurled to the ground. Boogerbear and Barca crouched by him, tearing his jacket open, launching brass buttons. Blood was quickly soaking his white shirt, and Boogerbear ripped that as well.
“Jesus, I’m shot!” Meder hissed.
“Yep,” Boogerbear agreed. “Ain’t too bad, though. Straight through, under the skin in yer side. Might’a nicked a short rib.” He tore more of the shirt apart and started packing it around the wound.
“I’ll live?”
“Prob’ly,” Boogerbear answered, matter-of-fact. “Seen lotsa fellas live through worse, even without the better medicine our healers got here.”
“Then help me up,” Meder gasped, starting to refasten his few remaining buttons.
“Felix!” Barca objected, “you should go to the rear!” He started to wave for stretcher bearers to approach from behind the villa wall, where they’d been collecting the wounded.
“No, I’m staying, and I’m standing. If Captain Beeryman’s right, my men at least will respect me more for it!”
Perhaps they did. Maybe everyone did, because the battle on the hill suddenly redoubled, the defenders fighting even harder, yelling louder. The riflemen had bayonets too, but as long as they could still shoot at all, they’d been less anxious to use them than the Rangers with their pikes, or the cluster of artillerymen with infantry experience. Now they charged forward, bayonets bristling and quickly turning red, Doms reeling back in surprise or agony.
“Let them have it!” Hanny Cox roared, voice cracking and breaking. Riflemen and Rangers around the howitzers pushed the enemy back far enough for the left gun’s crew to load it. Yellowish smoke exploded outward for the first time in a while, and there came the terrible, rapid whopping sound of dozens of balls striking flesh all at once. Doms screamed and moaned, some bellowed frustration—especially when they saw more exhausted, reeling, filthy reinforcements filing in from the left. Barca blinked in surprise to see the dragoons, Hall carbines dripping black water as someone—Coryon Burton!—ladled it on them as they passed by a bucket someone brought from a cistern. Firing grew as dragoons used their shirts to wipe soupy black crud off their breechblocks, cocked up at an angle, and dry them on shirttails hanging down past their jackets. Popping a couple of loud Uxmal caps to dry their weapons further, they loaded and rejoined the fight.
Burton handed the ladle to another man and came over by Barca. He looked positively ghastly. Red-eyed and covered in black fouling and blood, he resembled Barca’s artillerymen more than any dragoon he’d ever seen. “You all right, Felix?” Burton asked Meder. “You’ve got a new hole in you, and seem a tad pale.”
“Just disappointed. I thought my survival had raised the men’s spirits. I might’ve known it was the arrival of our dashing dragoons instead.”
“Not very dashing at present,” Burton denied, “and I doubt it was us.” He gestured forward. “See for yourself.”
As quickly as the firing had intensified, it was already falling off. The Doms weren’t exactly running away, but they were edging back, and as Burton, Barca, Meder, and Boogerbear moved up behind Hanny Cox and the rest of the gasping crew of the Number Two gun, they saw the enemy didn’t really have anywhere to go. The howitzers and Rangers had probably made taking the hill impossible, but the arrival of the dragoons only reinforced the futility of further attempts. To make matters worse, there was suddenly sky-blue-clad infantry with white crossbelts at the bottom of the hill, and the Doms were cut off. A line of that unexpected infantry was facing up at them now, not shooting, but three other lines were pouring volleys into a collapsing, disorganized mob trying to pull back to the east to rejoin the larger mass of Dom troops. And the other two sections of Hudgens’s battery were down there as well, quickly unlimbering. Hanny, Mac, Rini and Apo, even Hahessy, raised cracking voices in cheers as “their” other two 6pdrs and two 12pdrs added their weight to the argument.
More than that, though it was hard to be sure through the haze of smoke, it appeared the Doms on the other side, a couple of miles away, were peeling back to the center as well. Yes! Barca saw the new flags of 1st Techon and Second Ocelomeh hemming them in.
“Oh my,” Felix Meder whispered.
Barca thought he’d collapse against the wrecked gun carriage in relief, but something caught his eye. “What’s that?” he cried, pointing to their right where the hill curved back toward the lake. A dozen or so riders were galloping up, staying clear of retreating Dom infantry but exchanging a few shots all the same. All wore dark blue jackets and wheel hats so no one on the hill fired at them. Moments later, Colonel Cayce’s magnificent horse leaped over the breastworks between the Number Two gun and the howitzer to its left and trotted in an anxious circle, blowing hard.
“Well done! Well done, by God! You held them just long enough,” Lewis shouted for all to hear, saber still in his hand. It looked like it had seen some use. “It’s my fault it took us so long to arrive, and I’m very, very sorry. I should’ve known . . . but I did know you’d hold! You’re the best soldiers on this Godforsaken world, and I couldn’t be prouder of you all. . . .” He seemed close to tears. Leonor’s Sparky jumped the breastworks next, followed by Varaa, Sal Hernandez, Willis, several outrageously clean dragoons, Reverend Harkin, more dragoons . . . Barca—and Major Anson—would later learn Dr. Newlin had originally accompanied Colonel Cayce, but remained with Koaar as much to help with wounded as to force Samantha Wilde to stay with the larger force. The Englishwoman was popular with the army, and her attachment to Anson was well-known. That she’d tried to join him in the heat of battle only raised her stature, as did—amusingly—the argument Reverend Harkin finally used to prevail upon her: “My dear,” he’d said with perfect sincerity, gesturing sadly at the modest but fashionable day dress she wore, “I’m afraid you simply aren’t dressed for it.”
In any event, in spite of their suffering and misery and all they’d endured, in spite of Lewis’s confession (true or not, nobody cared), he hadn’t forgotten his mounted force at all, he’d come as fast as he could, saved them in grand fashion—and ridden right up a hill under fire to greet them himself. They cheered.
“Y’see?” Boogerbear said lowly to Barca. “He cares about ’em an’ respects ’em, so they care about him back. Even better, he gives ’em victories. They love him for that. Damned if they wouldn’t march through hell for him.” He shrugged. “I guess they kinda have.” Raising his voice, he called, “Hidy, Sal. Glad you made it.” Looking at Leonor, he beamed through the grime on his face and in his tangled beard.
