Hells march, p.7
Hell's March, page 7
“I understand you met this Major Cayce,” he said abruptly. “Both of you?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Agon. “Along with some of his equally remarkable officers.” Arevalo absently touched his chest under his left collarbone. The small pistol ball was still in there, as were . . . other notions it might’ve carried inside him. He’d earned a great deal of grace from his pain, but something in the face of the woman who shot him might’ve had a stronger impact on his soul.
“How did he strike you?”
“Competent,” Agon answered immediately, then after a pause, “confident. Whatever world he and his people are from, he’s seen more real war than I.”
“Can you beat him?”
Agon considered the condition of his troops. All needed more rest, a complete refit, and a lot more training. “How long do I have, and how many more troops and guns will I get?”
Don Hurac hesitated, considering. “That’s the hard part. Most of the might of the Dominion has already marched from Tepic to Culiacán, the northwesternmost outpost of civilization. Soon La Gran Cruzada will begin, marching across the Desert of Terrible Monsters to the Californias, to expel the heretics from the Empire of the New Britain Isles who dared plant a flag and a colony on our sacred soil!”
Arevalo wisely refrained from pointing out that the threat from the Yucatán was much closer and they actually had no settlements anywhere near where the “Imperials” planted their flag. Only a few explorers had ever returned from there—after claiming it all for the Dominion, of course. But the Imperials were an old, acknowledged adversary, and the Gran Cruzada to kick them off the continent had been building for almost three years. At this point, sheer inertia would carry it forward whether the Imperials were still there when it got there or not.
“I can replace the men you lost fairly quickly, perhaps a bit more,” Don Hurac mused. “They won’t be the best troops, but it sounds like you’ll want to retrain them in any event. That said, if Major Cayce is the man you say, I doubt he’ll sit on his laurels. You must go after him as quick as you can.”
“I agree, and that many men—properly prepared,” Agon qualified, “should be sufficient.” He rubbed his chin. “I still have perhaps a batallón of lancers. I don’t need any more. They’re poorly suited to action in the forests, and most we had were slaughtered. I’d rather have Holcano scouts if Don Frutos will abide them and we can peel them away from the operation in the east.” He pursed his lips. “Mounted messengers brought word that’s not going as well as hoped either. The last we heard, Don Discipo’s siege of Itzincab had been broken and the enemy was preparing to move south against Puebla Arboras itself.”
“I was not aware,” said Don Hurac, face grim. “I have no dragons there. Others may, but why would they? Who cares about Holcanos? As for Don Frutos, he will abide whatever you recommend, and by all means do use any Holcanos you can persuade to help you.” He waved airily. “Promise them whatever they want. What else do you need?”
“More cannon,” Agon instantly replied, then shrugged. “The enemy took all of ours.”
Don Hurac frowned. “That may be more difficult to arrange. I’ll do what I can.” He peered intently at General Agon. “Tell me the truth. Did Don Frutos really make you fire on your own men who fell back from the fight—in good order—and then flee the battle as Father Tranquilo said? Not that Tranquilo objected to shooting the men,” he added grimly.
Agon stiffened, and his face became a mask. “Don Frutos ordered me to punish troops retiring from the action without orders, as any Dominion commander would,” he said carefully, “and when we’d done all we could, he . . . led the army from the field.”
Don Hurac grunted. “Just as I thought. Well, you’ll have to make do with him. I can’t lead the campaign, and I can’t really get rid of him now that he’s . . .” He snorted something like amusement. “Exposed himself so, already. Besides, who would I trust more in his place? All the best fighting Blood Cardinals are off with La Gran Cruzada. They’ll enjoy the adventure, I’m sure. The horror stories I’ve heard of the desert—it’s not really a desert, you know. . . .” He smirked. “Besides, I don’t know who put him in charge in the first place, and he wouldn’t have taken it entirely upon himself. The fiasco with the prisoners in Vera Cruz, my own city . . .” He calmed himself before his fury could take him again. “Someone let him believe he could do what he wanted. I’ll try to find out.” He looked thoughtful. “Or maybe I won’t. I’m only third in line, you know. If someone closer has set him and the Blood Priests up for a fall, I’ve already done too much.” He shook his head. “But whatever happens, he may still lead the army, but you’ll command. I’ll make sure he understands that.”
CHAPTER 4
DECEMBER 1847
UXMAL
Welcome home, my dears!” cried a beefy, balding Colonel Ruberdeau De Russy when Sira Periz and Samantha Wilde stepped down Tiger’s gangway onto the new, enlarged Uxmal city dock. Handropes had been rigged, but Captain Holland and Father Orno escorted the ladies, hands on their elbows, nevertheless. The alcaldesa’s entourage followed close behind, along with a handful of Ocelomeh Rangers and dragoons under Captain Ixtla. Ranger Lieutenant Sal Hernandez and Dragoon Sergeant Thomas Hayne looked particularly confused to be here without their horses.
De Russy was in his finest uniform, cocked hat under his arm, more hair sprouting from his bushy cheeks than his head. With him was his “intended,” Angelique Mercure, clutching his elbow and bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet in a black-and-cream day dress that complemented her dark hair and rosy complexion as she called out greetings in French. Beside her, smiling gently, was De Russy’s young black “servant” named Barca, dressed simply in sky-blue infantry garb. Though not the only black man to come to this world—there were quite a few sailors as well—everyone now knew Barca was more De Russy’s keeper, like a trusted and influential aide, than servant. He was also a proven fighter, and Lewis Cayce had offered him a place in any line unit he chose. He preferred to stay with De Russy out of true loyalty, and everyone appreciated it. It was no secret the talented and intelligent but somewhat erratic colonel originally commanding the 3rd Pennsylvania Volunteers needed Barca’s reasoned counsel from time to time.
The florid-faced but solid as a rock Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Reed was there, with a wan but determined-looking Major Wagley, as well as Captain Emmel Dukane (whose B Battery brought so many of the captured cannon to Uxmal for refit and sent a section of its own guns with Captain Olayne). There were also numerous prominent citizens and some of Father Orno’s priests, and the Uxmalo Major Itzam (commanding the Home Guards) had brought a company of his sharpest-looking, musket-armed troops for an honor guard. All were at the head of a large, enthusiastic throng of welcomers that began assembling as soon as Tiger opened Uxmal Bay.
“And welcome to you, you old pirate,” De Russy told Captain Holland with a grin before he smiled at Orno, bowed to Sira Periz, and kissed Samantha’s hand.
Holland was looking askance at the large gathering. “Welcome or not, if I liked crowds, I never would’a gone to sea. I’ll be glad to get back to it.”
“As I understand, you’ll have to linger long enough to make a few preparations,” Sira said aside, then nodded and smiled at Major Itzam. “And you’ll be making a few shorter trips first.”
Holland looked at the captured Dom transports moored nearby, the men working on them also watching the alcaldesa’s arrival. “Aye” was all he said.
De Russy had been looking up the gangway. “You couldn’t convince Colonel Cayce to return with you, even briefly?” he asked worriedly. “I’d so hoped he’d come.” He glanced apologetically at Colonel Reed. “No offense, but the First Techon and Second Uxmal are almost ready to march, well equipped, and armed. I’d anticipated his opinion of them.”
“Colonel Cayce has the utmost confidence in Colonel Reed,” Samantha scolded lightly. “And Major Wagley as well,” she added with a smile.
Wagley raised a brow. “I’m beginning to think I’m not going back to the Third Pennsylvania?”
“Not yet,” Sira Periz temporized. “But this isn’t the place to discuss such things. Please, someone find something I can stand on to address my people, then we’ll reconvene in the map room of the Grand Audience Hall.”
A couple thousand Uxmalos must’ve gathered by now, brightly colored dress and wide straw hats lending a festive air to the otherwise dingy and smelly dockyard under the loom of Tiger’s tall masts and tightly furled sails. Standing on a cask that Reed self-consciously picked her up and set her on as respectfully as he could, Sira Periz made a rousing speech reminding her people of their victory at the Washboard (the offhand, alien name had stuck), and thanking them for their efforts supporting the army that protected them from extinction at the hands of the evil Dominion. She ended with a promise that all their hard work and sacrifice wouldn’t be for nothing and one day they’d breathe the air of the freedom they loved once again, without the fearful pall of the lurking Dominion and its Holcano pets, which had weighed on them for generations.
Sira Periz had always been beloved by her people, and her tragic ascension to power had touched their hearts. The fact she’d been present when they beat the Doms only made them love her more. Granted, few truly grasped the scope of the sacrifice they’d have to make to win this war, but her popularity and honesty with them would make it easier to bear. Now they cheered her loudly as she abruptly motioned Colonel Reed to help her down and then pressed him to lead her through the enthusiastic crush toward a string of carriages waiting to take them to the audience hall. Once she was in the lead carriage with De Russy, Reed, Itzam, Father Orno, Captain Ixtla, Samantha, and Angelique, De Russy was distressed to see tears streaming down her face.
“Whatever is the matter, my dear?”
“They cheered me,” she stated simply.
“But surely that’s a good thing?”
She smiled bleakly but shook her head. “I chastised Colonel Cayce because he didn’t seem to have made as much progress against the enemy as I hoped. I suppose I imagined he’d simply chase General Agon down and destroy his remaining force.” She sniffed wetly. “I know nothing of war. I thought his insistence on securing Nautla and waiting for reinforcements to make good his losses was squandering that opportunity, almost betraying the sacrifice of those already lost,” she confessed. “But now I understand. Even battered as Agon was, he still outnumbered what Colonel Cayce had, and the ruins of Campeche would stiffen his defense. A direct assault would’ve shattered our army and left the road open for the Doms to return here. At best, our conflict would’ve come to resemble that of the Holcanos and Ocelomeh over Nautla—just shoving back and forth for years—but the Dominion is vast, and we’d soon squander the cream of our lesser numbers.” She hesitated. “I wronged Colonel Cayce badly—again. He’s been preparing a bolder plan than I ever imagined. Frankly, bolder than I’m comfortable with, yet I gave him my wholehearted approval and promised every support. There’s great risk involved.” She sighed. “If he’s successful, he might secure peace and security for all the Yucatán for generations. Perhaps forever,” she added lowly, then gestured behind them with the handkerchief Samantha provided to wipe her tears. They could still hear cheering over the rumble of horse hooves and solid wheels on paving stones. “If he’s not . . .” She paused. “Regardless of what happens, so many of those happy people will be mourning the sons and husbands Colonel Cayce marches into hell.”
* * *
—
THE GRAND AUDIENCE Hall was a long, cut-stone structure with numerous entrances to its vast, airy interior. Access was gained by mounting wide steps up the sloping mound it was built on and passing under the shade of the high, heavy, pillar-supported, overhanging roof. To those from another world who’d actually visited or seen drawings, the result was that the second-largest building in Uxmal looked rather like an architectural cross between the Parthenon in Athens and a giant, rectangular mushroom. The largest building in the city was the Temple of the Lord Jesucristo, of course, standing in the center of its own manicured plaza adjacent to the one surrounding the Audience Hall. It was another of the apparently ubiquitous stepped pyramids that once had a darker purpose but was now the pulpit where Father Orno and his priests preached what had evolved over centuries into an amazingly direct, nondenominational form of Christianity that even the Presbyterian Reverend Harkin could find few arguments with. Most of the priests went directly there, but Father Orno, in his black version of the shell jacket, trousers, and wheel hat the Americans introduced, accompanied the others into the Audience Hall and through the door into a smaller, but still substantial chamber to one side. The space had none of the plaster carvings and decorations adorning the public room, and even great framing timbers and bare stone were visible. Its most striking features were a large wooden table surrounded by benches and an enormous embroidered atlas of the world known to the Uxmalos, from the sparsely populated Yucatán west to the Pacific Ocean, and up beyond the northern border of the Holy Dominion to a region known only as “El Desierto de Monstruos Terribles.” The detail of the atlas was amazing, and it included every known road and town carefully sewn in fine thread, the forests and mountains actually sculpted in multicolored yarn to create the impression one was looking down on the earth from a great height. It was more like an intricate model than a map. They’d all seen it before, of course, and it drew only glances now as some of those present converted the distance they’d just traveled to their relative positions, or thought of people they cared for who might be “there,” or “there.”
Sira Periz hesitated slightly before sitting near the center of the table in what had been her husband’s place. Samantha Wilde and Father Orno immediately sat on either side of her. De Russy, Barca, and Angelique sat opposite, flanked by Reed and Captain Holland. The rest found places wherever they cared to.
“Refreshments, anyone? No? Then let’s proceed,” said Sira Periz.
“You hinted that Colonel Cayce has a plan,” De Russy immediately urged.
“Colonel Cayce always has plans, it seems,” Samantha said airily, flipping her fan in mild irritation, “though he rarely shares them.” She was referring to the way he’d kept his intentions and dispositions so secret before the Battle of the Washboard, but his caution had been justified. Tranquilo (and Don Discipo) had installed countless spies, saboteurs, even assassins in the city over time. Many had been rooted out, but they couldn’t be sure they’d caught them all.
“Indeed,” De Russy somberly agreed, “though I think you’re being unfair.”
“Of course I am,” Samantha said, with a glance at Sira Periz. Even the alcaldesa hadn’t been trusted at first, with good reason. Her husband had initially favored Lewis’s plan for a union of the cities, but she’d been instrumental in turning him against it to the point he’d been tempted to seek a separate peace with the Doms. He hadn’t, and it cost him his life, but even before then, Sira had begun to lean the other way. She was wholly committed now, actively advocating for a union and determined that the entire Dominion be ground into dust.
“I’m sure we don’t know all of it, and that’s probably best,” Sira began.
“Then I suggest we stick to what we know—and what we’re supposed to do,” said Colonel Reed. He grinned. “With Colonel Cayce, there’s no point speculating about the rest.”
Sira nodded, then managed a real smile. “Very well. How is your Spanya coming along? Yours and Major Wagley’s?” Spanya wasn’t just the English word for the odd mix of Spanish and Mayan the locals spoke. Troops were learning English since it was easier for their American instructors, many of whom could barely understand one another, since they might’ve originally been English, Irish, Scottish, Swedish, French—the variety was astonishing—to train them that way. It was important they pick up some of the local lingo, however, for words that just didn’t translate.
“Not as well as I’d like,” Reed confessed guardedly.
“Pretty well,” Wagley boasted, and Reed glared at him.
“Good,” Sira said. “You’ll take the First Techon and Second Uxmal, along with various companies of reinforcements, down the Cipactli River road to join King Har-Kaaska at Puebla Arboras or beyond, if he’s begun his advance toward Cayal. You’ll relieve King Har-Kaaska in command of what has become ‘Second Division’—don’t worry, Har-Kaaska will expect it—and”—she blinked something like skepticism in the Mi-Anakka way—“at some point, Colonel Cayce will make contact with you.”
“Contact . . .” Reed said.
“Yes,” she said simply and turned her attention to Major Itzam. “Using Tiger, the prize ships, and whatever other transport he can arrange, Captain Holland will begin carrying two-thirds of the Uxmal Home Guards—ten thousand men—down to Nautla. The four thousand Pidra Blanca Guards now en route here will join you, though they may have to march down the Camino Militar.”
Major Itzam looked at Captain Holland. “Of course, Alcaldesa, but what will we do there?”
“Train, and continue fortifying the position in case General Agon attacks. Other than that, you’ll become our army there, designated ‘Third Division,’ in Colonel Cayce’s place while he leads ‘First Division,’ composed of the First US, Third Pennsylvania, First Uxmal, First Ocelomeh—and most of the Rangers, lancers, dragoons, and mobile field artillery”—she licked her lips—“across country to meet Colonel Reed in the vicinity of Cayal.”
All eyes turned to the big atlas, judging the distance through the terrible forest. “My God,” Wagley murmured. “He’ll lose half his men.”
