Gloria did not miss the honorific, and neither did anyone else in the saloon.
“Yes. Provisioning, perhaps, or ill health among horses and men?”
The man’s brow puckered. “How would you know this, unless you had spies among us? Which is impossible, considering the speed at which we came.”
“How, indeed. Are you quite sure you are fighting on the winning side, sir? I will hold nothing against you if you decide you are not.”
Now both the man’s brows rose in disbelief. “Sir, with all due respect, the Regent’s is the winning side. We have ten thousand men against half that number here.”
“Are you sure?”
“You are not the only ones with intelligence men.”
“Quite so. You insist upon returning, then?”
“I am duty bound to carry your answer to my commander.”
“Ah, my answer. I had almost forgotten. You may tell de Aragon that the sooner he returns to San Gregorio to await my pleasure—I have not yet decided between death or banishment—the less blood of his countrymen will be spilled. Once he does that, I will pardon those misguided men who have believed his lies, and they may return to farms and families without let or hindrance.”
The envoy stared. What did he expect? Gloria wondered. Abject surrender to a madman?
Then he bowed. “As you wish, sir.”
“I thank you for your bravery. It is not easy to stand in for a coward who could not face me himself.”
“Yes, sir. That is to say, no, sir.”
“Commander de Sola, see that this man and his party are conveyed to a neutral place where stray bullets from either side may not find a target.”
“At once, Your Serene Highness.”
At the portal, the envoy turned back. “Sir, they say you are mad and in the control of a witch.”
“Yes, I know. Do I strike you as mad?”
The man seemed to struggle between forces of equal strength—duty and belief. “I cannot say, sir. You seem very civil and honorable, for which I am grateful.”
“Does my fiancée strike you as being a witch?”
Gloria gave him her best smile, softened by sympathy.
“That is even more difficult to say. I have—I have heard—excuse me, senorita—”
“Do go on,” Gloria said with gentle encouragement.
“I have heard you called the iron dragon. But if I may say so, you do not appear to be such a thing, either.” He bowed from the waist this time, and was ushered out.
Gloria and Honoria exchanged an astonished glance. “Ten to one that name has been whispered to de Aragon, too,” Honoria said. “On the lips of his own men, no doubt, coming full circle in the nick of time. That is good news.” She shrugged out of her short formal jacket, and lifted the scarlet sash over her head. “Come, let us find Mr. Douglas and the captain, call the troops to arms, and give that slippery rascal the surprise of his life.”
It was only appropriate that Gloria should prepare to meet her Maker in the clothes that Commander de Sola had seen in his dream. When he saw the ruffled cream petticoats, drawn up to expose her boots for ease of movement, the man’s waistcoat with its brass buttons, and her husband’s bowler hat set upon her braided hair, a red rose tucked into its band, he turned pale.
“It is true, then,” he said to her. “This war turns upon you fighting on the Viceroy’s side.”
“So it would seem.” She touched his arm, and felt it jerk under her fingers, though—brave man that he was—he did not step away. “No matter what happens—no matter the strange things you see—know that I am as loyal to the Viceroy as you are. Do not doubt me or my friends, I beg you.”
“There is no room for doubt today, senorita,” he said, his eyes grave. “I have seen signs and wonders since you came here that I would never have believed. Even if you were to paint your face like the witch the northerners believe you are, I will hear no ill of you.”
Gloria could not help it. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “You may see signs and wonders yet,” she said. “Keep the faith. And watch for the rose. You will find friends and allies wearing it who are not to be underestimated.”
His gaze lifted to her hat. “It is the symbol of Santa Maria de Guadalupe, our patron saint,” he said. “I will do so. And now, let us prepare ourselves for battle. You and His Serene Highness will remain here, aboard the train?”
“Certainly not,” Honoria said. “We will be in an even safer place. We will be at the head of my loyal forces, striding to battle in the behemoth.”
Chapter 22
Had the poor pigeon ever worked so hard in all its mechanical life? Evan wondered. Yes, they were designed for long distances between non-fixed addresses—airships—but as it buzzed between the behemoth and Swan, carrying messages of strategy and plans, it was certainly proving its value in the sprint in addition to the distance race.
The southern forces fell in behind the behemoth and Evan set it in motion. Excitement and nerves battled in his stomach. Could he ever have dreamed of this—leading a prince’s forces into battle, his friends close at hand? For besides himself, Captain Fremont and Gloria, and Honoria and Ella occupied the chambers of el Gigante.
Ella clung to her security line at the side of the viewing port next to him, breathless with awe. “Oh, if only Isabela could see you now—so magnificent!”
Hot blood flooded his cheeks and longing filled his heart. “I possess no magnificence at all, Ella—but the behemoth is certainly awe-inspiring.”
“You are not seeing what I see,” she told him with certainty.
He blushed all over again, concentrating fiercely on the behemoth’s stride so that he would not put it into an arroyo, trip, and send them all flat on their faces. “You must watch for the troops from San Luis Obispo de Tolosa,” he suggested. “I have no say in these matters, but if we can protect Isabela’s father and her friends from harm, I would be happy.”
Honoria joined them at the viewing port, passing an arm around Ella’s waist and squeezing her tight. “And as long as we are together, come what may, then I am happy.”
“I could have been spying for you,” Ella said reproachfully. “And here I am being completely useless, reduced to watching the spectacle from a safe height, like a princess.”
“You are far from useless,” Honoria told her. “Who was it told me not an hour ago of the dysentery that seems to be plaguing the northern troops?”
“A gift from heaven,” Captain Fremont called from his post above them, where he worked the behemoth’s arms. “I can see from here that there are fewer on the field than the ten thousand that Alice reported. Unless they have men in reserve behind a hill somewhere, they seem to have lost two thousand or more.”
Gloria and Ella grinned at each other, then turned to the viewing port as though their very concentration could help their side to victory.
No matter how many might have awakened this morning unable to fight, thanks to the loyal women preparing their food, there were a frightening number on the field before them. At the sight of the behemoth, a trumpet sounded the charge, and the opposing cavalry thundered down the gentle slope toward them.
“Captain!” Evan called.
“I have it.” The behemoth’s arms swung up, and clutched in its pincer was a long tree trunk that might once have been a support beam salvaged from the dam. “Brace!”
Evan brought the behemoth to a halt and bent its knees, and Captain Fremont swung the beam as though he were sweeping the northern force from the very floor of the desert. Horses and men went down screaming and the charge broke to either side of them, leaderless, its wedge formation destroyed.
The southern cavalry plunged into the disarray of the northern side, and the fighting with sword and pistol became savage.
“Evan, the cannon!” Gloria said suddenly. “Behind the charge, on limbers!”
“I see them—a dozen. They must be half a century old! Where did they find them? A museum?”
Smiling, he straightened and set the machine in motion once more. The cannon masters saw him coming, of course, cutting a swath through the cavalry with the beam. As the behemoth strode nearer they chivvied their six-horse teams into motion and wheeled the guns around into an arc, each carriage about ten yards from its neighbor. Working feverishly, they began to unlimber them.
In the distance, two carriages lay abandoned on the plain. A broken wheel had done for one, and a retreating cloud of dust revealed galloping horses somehow broken free of their traces. “It appears the cooks have been using their knives and saws for more than preparing game for the northern army,” Gloria observed with some satisfaction. “They began with fourteen.”
In his civilian service in building the dam, Evan had never shown the Californios what el Gigante’s arms had actually been designed to do. “Throw the beam!” he commanded, and the right arm swung forward, releasing it straight toward the centermost gun. Wood splintered and men and horses went flying, but not nearly enough. Eleven cannon remained.
“Looks like they weren’t expecting us this soon,” Honoria said, watching intently. “Those guns may be old, but they can still hurt us if they can get them loaded in time.”
“Fire!” Evan shouted to Captain Fremont. “Before they can load the remaining guns!”
Captain Fremont straightened the behemoth’s left arm, which contained the Meriwether-Astor Manufacturing Works’ much more modern cannon, and took aim at the nearest gun. The shell was more powerful than the balls the old-fashioned cannon could fire, and its range was greater, too. Their shell exploded in one gun. Shrapnel blasted into the limber box behind it, and the powder and shot it contained exploded. The men at the adjacent cannon were just close enough that the explosion set their own limber afire, with the result a deafening and demoralizing second explosion.
“That’s three!” Evan cried. “Fire!”
A second shell was all the behemoth had until they could stop and reload—hence the need for the Gatling arm that had not operated since the battle of Resolution—but there was something to be said for brute force. Captain Fremont aimed the second shell at the fourth limber box with equally gratifying results. In the melee, Evan waded in to deal with the eight cannon remaining.
Men leaped, panicked, from them as Evan and Captain Fremont picked up a gun carriage here, kicked a wheel off there, and smashed a limber box next in line. The last crew, bravely manning their gun despite the oncoming threat, attempted to fire, but luckily for the behemoth, terror made their aim faulty. The cannonball clanged on the outside edge of the behemoth’s ironclad shoulder, sending Evan spinning off balance. He kept his head and moved one mighty foot back, bending the iron knees until the rocking stopped.
Ella, white-faced, swung from her safety line like a pendulum until Honoria caught her and set her on her feet. “That was close. They and their museum pieces nearly had the last laugh.”
Evan smashed a carriage wheel with more force than was strictly necessary. Behind them, the rearing horses’ lines snapped like embroidery thread and they galloped back toward the camp. Then he straightened and made a gradual turn toward the battle.
“We are behind them now,” Honoria said with satisfaction. “Can you pick up a cannon and simply throw it into their midst?”
“We can try,” came the cheerful voice from above.
The gun carriages might weigh half a ton, but the barrels were easier to manage. The behemoth lifted one and, like a Greek athlete doing the shot-put, heaved the bronze cannon into the fray.
But it was not enough.
“Toss the remaining carriages, burn the limber boxes, and we will cut our losses,” Honoria said. “This beast can do the same damage simply by taking a stroll through their forces.”
And so it proved to be. Throwing as many of the carriages as remained intact was the work of a few minutes each, throwing a limber box or two on the already burning fires produced satisfying and demoralizing explosions, and then they waded into the fray, swinging and stomping with abandon.
But it was still not enough. One massive machine, no matter how powerful, and five thousand southern troops were still outnumbered by the northern forces. As the sun reached its meridian, Evan began to tire. “I must rest,” he said, gasping for oxygen to fuel his exhausted limbs.
“You cannot,” Honoria told him grimly. “If we come to a stop, even to reload, they will swarm us. I do not think we can hold them off if they make us fall. You must keep moving.”
“Head for our side,” Gloria told him. “Behind our lines at least we can load two more shells and do as much damage as we can while you rest for a few minutes.”
But their side—so far away—Evan’s head swam and he felt he would give his very soul for a sip of water. He was hot and exhausted and his energy was running out of him like an outgoing tide.
“Why did I not teach a replacement?” he groaned. “I do not think I can make it down this slope without picking up so much speed the legs will get away on me. Then we will fall and then—”
“Let us help,” Gloria said. “Honoria, to his other side. Mimic the motions he is making.”
“But there is not room,” he protested.
Honoria’s foot slid into the truss next to his left, Gloria’s to his right, while their arms locked behind him. His own feet were moving, slower and slower, but with the additional weight on the trusses, perhaps it would not be so difficult. The behemoth responded, and he remembered just in time to make the knees bend as they stumped down the hill and crashed into a troop of horse just wheeling around to re-form.
“Onward!” Honoria cried, and the behemoth obeyed her. But even with the added strength, they still had three hundred yards of enemy forces to negotiate. “Do not give up!”
“Look out—they are coming at us with ropes!” Ella shouted from the viewing port. “They plan to trip us!”
So simple, and yet so deadly. They were going to die, flat on their faces after all, marooned in the midst of the northern troops while their own fought savagely toward them.
And then—and then—
“What is that?” Ella pointed into the distance. “That glittering—is it Silver Wind?”
“It is far bigger than Silver Wind,” Gloria said, staring. “And it is moving fast. Evan, we cannot stop now. What if it is some northern auxiliary force and they have us surrounded?”
Flashing, undulating across the arroyos and hillocks of the plain, the extraordinary vision came closer. Evan dashed sweat out of his eyes and strained to identify what in the name of heaven this new threat could be.
And then in the distant skies, sailing behind the flashing silver array, came Swan.
“Alice!” Evan exclaimed as a rush of relief and joy flooded him. “Finally! Where have they been all this time?”
“Mother Mary!” shrieked Gloria in the next moment. “Evan, take heart—it is the witches, riding my mechanical horses!”
With an indrawn breath that was half gasp, half prayer, Evan got his legs moving in the trusses again. By now, the men on the edges of the northern force were looking over their shoulders, less able to identify the new threat than Evan and his friends had been. For who in this country had ever seen such a sight as this?
With a speed that he could not have believed possible, the silvery, deadly herd covered the distance remaining. Now he could see them clearly, and the sight nearly took his breath away. An enormous armored horse led the charge, its rider waving a pistol and urging on an unstoppable river of death that flowed behind him. The legs of the horses churned the dirt, scything it up and flinging dust into the sky. On the outer edges ran metallic feline shapes, stretching and compressing in a ground-eating gallop that soon brought them within reach of the northern horsemen on either flank, who were now screaming and wheeling to meet them.
With a crash that the occupants of the behemoth could hear even at such a distance, the metal troops ripped into the hem of the enemy, the very legs of the horses cutting man and
beast to ribbons. The Viceroy’s forces rallied, with captains galloping up and down, trumpets blowing and ordering both foot and horse into their divisions once again. They flowed into the gap behind the mechanical horde, cutting down the survivors on the ground and those mounted who, by some miracle, had survived the charge.
“Evan!” Honoria shouted. “The traitor—we must go after him before he slips away from the battle like the coward he is.”
As she spoke, the armored horse in the lead released both its shells, and in the resulting explosion the tide of the battle turned. Now, rather than plowing from the rear through an impenetrable wall of mounted soldiers, the behemoth waded through a tide of fleeing men and horses who had had no training whatever in fighting the mechanicals that their late Viceroy had bought and never received.
New hope and determination seemed to fuel Evan’s exhausted limbs, and he turned the behemoth about, stamping and injuring as many around him as he could. And there, watching from the ridge with his councilors, safely out of harm’s way, was the traitor de Aragon with a small armed guard.
“There you are, you devil,” Evan said with grim intent. “The time has come for an accounting. Captain!” he called to the man above him in the gunner’s chair.
“Aye!”
“We have one mission, and one only,” he said, moving with determination across the plain, faster than the fleeing foot soldiers and gaining momentum with each step. “We will snatch de Aragon off his horse and hold him high. He will not escape.”
“Yes indeed,” came the captain’s merry voice. “This is one juicy apple I shall be happy to pick. Will he bruise easily, do you think?”
“You may squeeze him in half until his blood runs red in the dirt, as far as I am concerned,” Gloria said savagely.
Captain Fremont laughed. “I love you when your blood is up, my darling,” he said. “Heads up, everyone, our friends approach!”
A shadow eased over them, and the troops that had managed to take a stand and wait for them below their commander’s vantage point lost control of their horses. Panicked beasts dodged and galloped as the airship settled into a holding pattern above their heads. The temperature inside the pilot’s chamber seemed to drop a couple of degrees in the welcome shade.
Fields of Gold: A steampunk adventure novel (Magnificent Devices Book 12) Page 21