Brimstone and Lily (Legacy Stone Adventures)

by Terry Kroenung

  Legs aching from fighting the sand, I slogged up the hill and into the woods, lungs on fire from the long slog up the beach. Behind me the first boat grounded. A dozen soldiers bounded over its sides, splashing into ankle-high water. The pelicans grumbled in their funny voices and waddled out of the way. Each bird looked like it had just fed. Their beak pouches hung heavy and wiggled with their unswallowed catch. None of the seagulls said hello to me, so I figured they weren’t Mabel’s crew, just ordinary sea birds. The Yankee infantry said hello, though, by firing at the spot where I’d ducked into the trees. Their bullets missed, since I’d dived straight into the trench on the crest of the low rise. At least they’re human. Easier to fight, maybe. Dark magick can’t stay out on the water, usually. Boy, I sure hope Sha’ira can do what she says she can, and soon.

  It looked to be about four o’clock, maybe a tad later. That seemed early, based on Tyrell’s setting-sun theory, but maybe their watches were off-kilter. Or maybe they wanted to pin us down so another attack could take us from the rear or flank. More likely, they just had no interest in coordinating with the Merchantry. We could be taking fire from ordinary Union soldiers looking to kill a few Rebs. Or they could be on one of the other sides in the Merchantry’s civil war, wanting to get me and the Stone for their own nasty purposes. All I knew was that .577 Minie balls thrummed overhead and just two of Tyrell’s troopers had made it into the trench yet.

  “Woo!” Jasper yelled, like he danced at a wild party. “Now this is more like it!”

  “Shush,” I told him, risking a quick look over the breastwork. “Folks gettin’ hurt ain’t supposed to be fun.”

  “Some great warrior you turned out to be. Crush the forces of darkness, as long as you don’t bruise ‘em.”

  “If I get my back to the wall and have no choice, that’s one thing. But I don’t want to make a habit of killin’.”

  “One of these days I need to sit you down and explain just what ‘war’ means, girlie.”

  “I know what it means. I had my lesson at Boatswain Swamp, thank you very much. Hush and let me think.”

  The Federals were having as much trouble wading up the sandy hill as I had. Since none of the Rebs had started shooting yet, the soldiers took the time to get in line for their advance. Instead of skirmish order they came on shoulder-to-shoulder, presenting a row of angled bayonets like a chorus line of hornets. I counted around forty of them, in two rows. Almost four-to-one. They meant to use their numbers advantage to take our position in one quick rush. From where I sat that looked likely.

  “Where is everybody?” I hollered. There were still only the three of us, one being the sergeant-major. “This is lookin’ to be a mighty short battle.”

  “Trouble on the flank,” the grizzled trooper said, staring down the sights of his carbine, an Enfield with a sawn barrel. Not as accurate as a regular musket, but he could carry it on his horse. “Afraid it’s just us, missy.”

  So that is their plan. Attack from two directions at once. There must be bushels of ‘em on the north side if Tyrell can’t spare more than three of us to hold off close to half a company. Good thing we’re in the woods. I doubt they know we’re here. When we pull out they might not even realize they’ve taken our position.

  “Can’t stay here,” I hissed. The Yankees were so close now they’d be able to hear me if I raised my voice. “We need to get out now and go help Tyrell.”

  “Welcome to the Army of Northern Virginia, Miss Verity,” he chuckled, pulling his hammer back to full-cock. “Never enough men, never enough powder, never enough food, never enough time. All we have plenty of is graves.” Two more enormous cannonballs landed nearby as he spoke.

  “This is stupid! We’ll be dead for nothin’. They’re takin’ these rifle pits either way, so we might as well pull back and live to fight ‘em over there.”

  “My orders are to hold at all costs, and that’s just what I’m gonna do. You want to skedaddle, go right ahead, little girl.”

  Men! Great glory-huntin’ boneheads. I wanted to use my Stone-strength to pick him up and hurl him across the clearing. In fact, I was well on my way to going through with it when I saw the most wonderful sight. That silly goofy flock of brown pelicans took flight as if a command had been given. They got on line just like the soldiers, not ten feet above the sand, and flapped toward them from behind. Their beaks opened to reveal that their pouches weren’t full of fish after all. Each bird carried three huge rats in its mouth. All at once, as if firing a volley, they dropped the angry rodents onto the Union troops.

  And riding atop the lead pelican was Ernie, wearing a black pirate scarf on his noggin.

  33/ Wats!

  “Juwius Mawcus Gwaccus,” he announced, nose high in the air. “Weader of the Woyal Mawines of the Eweventh Woman Wegion, wepwesenting the Penewope’s Kiss.”

  I guess it doesn’t matter how tough a veteran you are, or how many brutal battles you’ve been through. When a couple of big old ship rats land on you and start to chew up the vitals, you squeal like a little girl.

  That’s what happened to the disciplined lines of Federal infantry. Focused as they were on the enemy to their front, they never gave any thought to their upper flank. The bone-shaking noise of their own ship’s guns drowned out any sound the heavy birds made as they approached. And the sun lay to their front, throwing all telltale shadows behind them. With no warning huge gray-brown rodents plopped down on the unsuspecting men. In seconds that grim formation became a frantic writhing mass of screams. Some slapped at the rats as they felt them land on their kepis or their shoulders. Others dropped and rolled to knock them off. All of them let go of their muskets, slicing the air with high-pitched shrieks as terrible teeth gnawed at their eyes, their lips, their throats. Those of us who’ve lived on farms and in cities know how strong rats’ teeth are. I’ve seen them chew through steel cable myself. Human flesh proved to be no obstacle.

  In less than a minute the charge had turned into a rout. All the sturdy soldiers dashed back to their longboats, leaving a trail of blood and equipment behind them. Caps, muskets, cartridge boxes, canteens. It looked like Hansel and Gretel had run out of breadcrumbs. Sergeants screamed threats and insults at their men, but they might as well have been yelling at the moon. They all clambered back onto the boats and stayed there. Those who still had their Springfields made a half-hearted move to fire at the rats. All they accomplished was to waste a few Minie balls into the sand. Their whiskered enemies thumbed their noses at the soldiers and even waved their furry bottoms at them. Just to add to the rout, the pelicans plummeted in out of the sun. The momentum of their heavy bodies in a shallow dive bowled men over like ninepins. Some of the Federals flew over the sides of their boats and flopped into the surf. My witched ears heard giggles from the rats and hearty guffaws from the birds.

  My animal reinforcements made their way up to me where I knelt in the rifle pit. Both of the Rebs neared apoplexy, they laughed so hard. Tears ran down my face for the same reason. From the sounds inside my head Jasper must’ve thought it pretty funny, too. The pelicans arrived first, letting the rats skitter up the hill on their own. Almost twenty of the comical sea birds landed on the lip of the trench, lining up as proud as if they were Robert E. Lee’s personal guard. Boy, if Lee ever hears of this poor old McClellan will be dodgin’ vermin the rest of the war. Ernie, knitting needle spear in one little paw, stood up to his full four inches on the head of his transport and howled like a coyote.

  “Aroo! Fear us, for we are the mighty Pitcairn’s Flyin’ Squadron!”

  The pelicans responded by clacking their beaks in unison and stamping their broad webbed feet. Ernie’s bird, a husky brown fellow with a white face, lowered his head toward me. His mouse rider ran along the neck and leaped onto the top of the trench. I swooped my friend up and rubbed noses with him.

  “Hey! This in undignified in front of the men,” he complained with a half-smile.

  “Too bad, boyo,” I said. “I thought I’d lo
st you for good.”

  “Pfft! Lost? We just exercised discretion in pursuit of valor, that’s all.”

  That was just what the Yankees had done, though not for long. Already they showed signs of reforming on the beach, bound and determined to avenge their disgrace. The gunboat’s shells no longer roared at us. I had to make myself talk softer with that din gone.

  “What happened?”

  “Jumped by ravens in the bloody dark, that’s what happened.” Ernie must’ve thought he looked fierce with his black pirate head scarf fluttering in the breeze. I expected him to start saying ‘Aargh’ any minute. “Three of ‘em kept Roberta and me busy while the rest went for yer. By the time we’d dealt with the tossers the Bullies popped up and near knocked us outta the blessed sky. Then yer flapped away with your handsome young grayback and we couldn’t keep up.”

  I rolled my eyes and gave him a thin smile. “Turns out he ain’t so young, after all.”

  “Yeah? Well, him and me both, dearie. Anyways, we fell farther and farther behind, so rather than hunt for yer we decided to go back to the Kiss. And a bloody good thing, too, I’d say.”

  The rats scampered up and took their places on line between the pelicans, peeking out from between their toes. Up close they were a scruffy lot, looking tough with scars and matted fur. One that I took to be their leader, all black except for a white patch on his face that made him look like a raccoon, strutted out a couple of steps, came to attention, and saluted me by thumping his chest and sticking his arm out straight.

  “Juwius Mawcus Gwaccus,” he announced, nose high in the air. “Weader of the Woyal Mawines of the Eweventh Woman Wegion, wepwesenting the Penewope’s Kiss.”

  All the other rats saluted the same way, shouting, “Semper fidewis!” While I stared with my mouth hanging open, Ernie ran up my arm to stand next to my ear.

  “Speech impediment,” he confided. “All rats talk that way. A holdover from the time of Emperor Claudius, I’m told. Sensitive subject. Try not to notice.”

  Returning the salute, I sat up straight and replied in a low voice, “You have done great service this day, men. Your deeds will be inscribed in the annals of the bwavest wats.” I caught myself and winced. Ernie looked down and shook his head. “Uh, I mean the bravest rats.”

  “Hoo-wah!” the little critters shouted, snapping to parade rest.

  The head pelican, the bird that had carried Ernie into battle, now stepped out. He cleared his throat and gave the mouse an expectant look out of the corner of one eye. Ernie hopped back down onto the top of the trench. “And this,” he said in a grand manner, “is Bob.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Just Bob? Not Major Robert W. Fitzroy, Esquire, or somethin’ snappy like that?”

  “Naw,” the bird drawled in a deep backwoods southern accent, “jist Bob. But I do like the sound o’ that there Major Whatsis---”

  “Fine, fine, fine,” said Ernie in a rush. “We’ll discuss that later. Right now we have to move, before Billy Yank over there gets his courage back. Where are we needed, Miss Verity?”

  That reminded me with a jolt that we were flapping our gums while Tyrell held off some sort of flank attack. “Back this way,” I said, jerking my head north. “Leave part of the Flyin’ Squadron here as lookout. They can flap over and warn us if those Bluebellies start back this way. Give ‘em some Marines, too. The rest come with us to deal with whatever the trouble is yonder.”

  That’s how ten pelicans ended up waddling behind me, Ernie perched on my shoulder, as we picked our way through the woods, with the Roman rats fanning out to left and right. The sergeant-major came with us, too, leaving the other trooper in the trench to watch the sea. As we walked I pointed out snares and other nasty surprises to everybody so that only our enemies might get caught in them. At the east edge of the clearing we stopped to survey the terrain. Nothing moved in the open space. I listened with my Stone-aided hearing. Sha’ira still chanted in a low deep voice. Hope she’s about done with her dream messages. Off to our right the Reb soldiers whispered in their rifle pits. Beyond them came the sounds of mass movement of feet, some of them awful big feet. Now what?

  Tyrell appeared amongst the pines and waved for us to hurry over. He kept a finger to his lips, so we moved as quiet as we could. When he saw the rats and pelicans he frowned and cocked his head, but didn’t ask any fool questions. With a quick finger he told us to get into his flank trench and spread out. When that had been done he got next to me and pointed into the forest.

  I didn’t need magicked eyes to see our new foes. Their steel plate armor, even though painted green as camouflage, still caught the light in a way no tree ever could. Some had swords in hand, others gripped crossbows. Several carried ancient-style muskets, slow-matches glowing in their locks. Most wore curved-brim morion helmets, which made for easier breathing in the Virginia humidity. Now I could hear the creak and clank of metal against metal. The knights tried to be stealthy, but there was a limit to how hushed they could move.

  Behind them and to the right, another formation of attackers was even easier to spot. White trousers and white waistcoats made them look like summer snowmen. Their blue cutaway coats carried red trim. White crossbelts made large X’s on each chest. Impressive in the open field, but awful inconvenient for sneaking through woods, their tall black fur hats kept getting caught in low-hanging limbs. Each man carried a long flintlock musket and sported a magnificent moustache.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that uniform,” Tyrell breathed. “I’m not sure I like seeing it coming at me instead of marching alongside.”

  “Who are they?” I asked, squinting for a better look in the dying light. They seemed familiar.

  “The best soldiers in the world,” he said, checking his pistol load. “Bonaparte’s Old Guard.”

  I gulped. So the Merchantry had decided to get serious. Their stoutest troops advanced on us, soldiers Napoleon had always depended on to carry the day for him. That made me wonder who the knights were, to be found in such illustrious company. I asked Tyrell that very question.

  “Infantry from Iberion. The very men who are driving the Moors from their land. The one who are conquering the New World. They have discipline and they are die-hard believers in their God and in their employer. Expect no mercy here today.”

  This is bad. From reading about both groups in school, I knew that one girl with a sword wouldn’t intimidate them much. About a hundred men faced us, none of them ragged desperate cannon fodder like the Hellfiend Legion. I could sense that more followed these and weren’t in sight yet. Plus, the Shades were due, probably as soon as it got dark. My hope of not having to kill anybody looked vain.

  I sent Ernie with a small detachment of his fighters to keep a watch around Sha’ira’s thicket. Tyrell told me that Romulus already guarded her, but I didn’t want to take any chances. She looked to be my greatest hope for us all getting out of this mess in one piece. I didn’t want any enemies surprising her while she drifted in her dream trance. No sooner had they gone than a shell screeched over the trees to shake the whole forest as it exploded above the clearing. My sensitive eardrums howled. Musket balls rattled off the trees and dug up mud around us.

  “Case shot!” the captain grimaced, picking up his cap and brushing it off. “Yankee artillery’s devilish good, even fired from a ship.”

  A pelican flapped past, croaking that the Federal soldiers had recovered their nerve and were charging the seaward trench. The lone Reb there had fallen back to the western rifle pits. We were taking it from north and east now. Outnumbered about twenty-to-one, things looked about as black as they could be. If the Ostium spat out Pluto’s Bane now, that’d be the carving on my tombstone. I glanced back at the bushes where Sha’ira still worked. No sign of any success that way.

  Our enemies abandoned all pretense of sneakiness and decided to end us once and for all. A volley from the Old Guard filled the forest with smoke. Crossbow bolts twanged through the twilight. None of us got hit
, our heads had been well down behind the breastwork. Knowing from experience how slow a Charleville musket would be to reload, especially in bad light in the woods, Tyrell shouted the order to fire. Well-protected, and with those bright white crossbelts for targets, the eight troopers poured bullets into Napoleon’s men. Over a dozen went down at once. The breechloaders and pistols did terrible execution, being able to fire so quick. It looked obvious that neither the Gaulles nor the Iberions had ever faced such a thing. Both came from a time where guns had little accuracy and poor rates of fire. Their usual plan to fire a volley or two and then go in with a screaming bayonet charge. Watching their men drop like mown wheat, the Merchantry commanders ordered just that maneuver.

  Tyrell had spent all day getting ready for such a thing. In the last light of day his preparations worked to perfection. The first line of onrushing attackers disappeared into a pit almost as deep as the one we sheltered in. But our trench didn’t have sharpened wooden stakes in the bottom. Shrieks of pain in various foreign languages jumped out of the hole, which the captain called a Malay Man Trap. When the soldiers just behind the first group of victims saw what had happened and tried to stop, many of them found themselves knocked into the pit by their comrades behind. Enraged screams and curses came our way, which grew louder as Tyrell’s sharpshooters picked off those foolish enough to stand still and shake their fists at us. Seeing that they were stymied, as the trench was too wide to jump across, the Old Guard hauled off their wounded and retreated out of range.

  Not so the conquistadors. Without breaking stride they ignored their casualties and spun to their right, intent on getting around the trap and flanking us. With the musket firing reduced for a moment, and taking advantage of a break between shots from the Yankee ship, Tyrell stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Two Norn horses beat their wings and rose above the treetops. Tied to their saddles were the ends of a long piece of fish net we’d found washed up on the beach. Over a dozen Iberions found themselves stuck in it like flies on a web. The luckless fighters struggled with frantic desperation, but that just tangled their armor joints even more. A couple of their friends who’d been a step behind and thus not caught tried to slash them free with their swords. Reb musket men dropped them at once, then turned their attentions to those wriggling in the net. Soon nobody moved on our left. The survivors had pulled back like Bonaparte’s men had done. Just that quick our attackers had been reduced to almost half-strength.