Anson knew what he was thinking. “Do you remember falling? All the rest of us do, an’ apparently the ship fell with us.” He gestured at the stripped branches on trees, extending fifteen or twenty feet up. Somehow, that felt about right. Anson pointed back at Mary Riggs. “That”—he hesitated—“peculiar storm must’ve carried us inland on a wave surge of some kind, leavin’ the ship—us—here as it receded.” Lewis glanced at the ferny needles at his feet. They were damp, but unscoured by a flood. “You’ll note the lighter-built upper hull o’ the ship, weighted with all our people an’ broken masts, collapsed downward,” Anson continued. “Probably cushioned our landin’ a bit, but I expect anyone still on the deck below was crushed. The lower hold an’ hull look a little ruptured, but seem essentially intact.”
Lewis had registered the diminished but still poignant cries and murmurs of injured men, much like he would’ve heard at a field hospital after a battle, but now he identified the pitiful, muffled sounds only hurt and terrified horses made, coming from the cracked timbers enclosing the hold. There’d been seventy horses crammed in there, including his own beloved chestnut mare, Arete. He shook loose from Anson and Burton and glared at them. “I . . . apologize for my indisposition, but the day appears relatively advanced.” He gestured around. “I see you’ve ensured our men are under arms—which is good, since this can only be Yucatán and, officially hostile or not, the enemy could be present. But I also see a lot of men doing nothing—and virtually no effort to access the wreck.”
Anson scowled, but Coryon Burton nodded enthusiastically. “That’s why we need you, sir,” he began, redirecting Lewis’s attention to a clot of men involved in a hot debate. Lewis was relieved to see Lieutenants Olayne and Swain alive, if just as battered as he, but they and a cluster of NCOs were arguing loudly with a larger group of sailors around a bruised and bloodied Captain Holland.
“I may be a captain,” Anson said sourly, sarcastically, “but I’m only a ‘volunteer’ with four men in the eyes o’ your Lieutenant Olayne. He’s done a few things right, but I think his first taste of authority has overwhelmed him an’ he’s havin’ trouble gettin’ confused ’n’ scared men to cooperate. He wants to tear into the ship, but Captain Holland won’t have it.” He coughed. “Some o’ his sailors’ve got some rum in ’em, an’ maybe a bit embarrassed, are backin’ Holland to the hilt.”
“I see,” Lewis replied stiffly through another wave of dizziness, but he stepped toward the growing argument as briskly as he dared. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded loudly.
“Captain Cayce, thank God!” Olayne exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to form details to break into the ship for provisions and supplies—the ordinary routes from above are quite impossible—but this man”—he gestured at Holland—“has threatened violence if we attempt it!”
Lewis raised an eyebrow at the glowering Holland, but directed his gaze at Olayne. “Did you, in fact, refuse to take direction from Captain Anson?”
The young lieutenant was taken aback, startled by the question. “Well . . . of course. He’s a volunteer officer. I can’t give him orders, since he does outrank me, but neither can he give orders to a regular officer!”
“Wrong!” Lewis snapped. “And even if that were true, Captain Anson had his federal commission confirmed in my presence by General Zachary Taylor. His more recent promotion to captain came immediately after mine. That . . . two-minute seniority is the only reason I can command him instead of the other way around. Do I make myself clear?” Lewis took a breath. “On the other hand, since you seem to have taken the burden of command upon yourself, Lieutenant Olayne, I expect you’ve already set a perimeter around the wreck? Collected the dead for burial? Sent out scouts? Compiled a list of killed, injured, and missing?”
Coryon Burton coughed and Olayne stepped back, clearing his throat. “I’ve, uh, sent a few small parties out a short distance to search for water or warn of threats, but I thought getting in the ship was the most pressing concern.”
Lewis looked at Holland. “Perhaps it is, but you’ll see to those other things directly. Lieutenant Swain and his Rifles will provide security while you direct our artillerymen in constructing field fortifications around us as well.” Still looking at Holland, he continued, “Use debris from the ship and the timbers the dragoons tear off her to strengthen those defenses.”
“Now, wait just a god damn . . .” Holland started angrily, but Lewis held his hand up. To his astonishment, the man piped down. Gazing intently at Olayne, he lowered his voice. “The men—all of us—have been through a frightening ordeal, but we . . .” He glanced around. There were a couple more young dragoon officers present whom he hadn’t met, and aside from the grizzled artillery sergeant, he didn’t know any of the NCOs. “We aren’t well acquainted, and I regret that, but we’ll get to know each other soon enough. For the moment, however, our first concern is to conquer our fear and reestablish order and discipline. We can’t allow the men to dwell on what’s happened, particularly since we have no answers for them. Give them something familiar to cling to—their duty—and keep their minds and bodies occupied. Dismissed.”
Olayne’s expression hardened into one of respect and determination before he and Lieutenant Swain, followed by the rest, spontaneously saluted and returned to their duty as well.
“Nicely done,” Anson remarked as the officers paced away and NCOs began barking for attention.
“Aye,” Holland grudgingly agreed, “an’ right for my men as well.” He frowned. “But I’ll argue the same with you as I did with those young gentlemen; I won’t have my ship broken open! We’ll help clear the topsides to get your precious horses out, but the hull’s still basically sound, an’ we might still need the ship.”
Lewis shook his head. “I understand how you feel, Captain Holland. I’d feel much the same myself. But if you step only a short distance away and take a broader, more objective view, so to speak, you’ll see your ship’s badly hogged and her back’s broken. I’m no sailor, but like most artillery graduates of the military academy, I’m something of an engineer. Even if we somehow managed to drag what’s left of Mary Riggs back to the sea, wherever and however far that may be”—he shrugged—“frankly impossible. Even with every horse inside her and every man pulling together, I assure you she’ll never swim again.” He took a deep breath. “And while we stand here arguing, the horses inside are suffering and dying, and there might be men in there as well. Aside from all that, we’re likely on a hostile shore, and we need all the cannon, ammunition, and other supplies, not to mention provisions, out at once. We can’t even move from this spot until we’re as organized and well equipped as possible. Do you understand?”
Holland wiped a grimy, blood-caked hand across his forehead. “Aye,” he murmured softly. “Aye,” he repeated more firmly, but gave Lewis a disconcerting look before turning to the twenty-odd sailors still behind him. About a third were black, or at least dark-skinned, so they might be Indians or even Mexicans themselves. Lewis figured more than a dozen must’ve been lost when the masts toppled, either crushed or thrown in the sea. “Fetch tools an’ work with Lieutenant Burton’s horse soldiers to free their beasts—if any survived in better shape than our poor ship. We may even free a few shipmates.” With the air of men who’d rather fight all the soldiers than help them break the wreck, the sailors began to disperse. Some grasped trailing lines and climbed back up on it while others moved in the direction of a bellowing dragoon sergeant. Lewis turned to Lieutenant Burton. “How many . . .”
“A hundred and twenty dragoons, fit for duty,” Burton answered without hesitation. “Twenty more injured to various degrees.” He cleared his throat. “We have begun gathering the dead, but just from the dragoons almost sixty are missing or lost.”
Lewis nodded, impressed again by the young officer. “Very well. You’re in charge of the wrecking detail, but make sure your NCOs take direction from our nautical fr
iends; they’ll have a better idea how to take their ship apart. Consider Captain Anson your company commander for the time being. The sailors will constitute Captain Holland’s company.”
“Will the sailors be armed?” Burton asked.
“Yes, if Captain Holland will vouch for their proficiency.”
“All of them?” Burton pressed, looking meaningfully at several dark-skinned men already back on the ship.
Lewis frowned, now somewhat disappointed in the young dragoon. “Leave that to Captain Holland’s discretion. He knows his men better than we do.”
“Will the artillerymen stay under Lieutenant Olayne?” Anson asked with a smile.
“Of course. Especially since it appears his seasick companion wasn’t among the survivors. And not only is he an active officer—now that he’s ashore—I suspect he’s learned a lesson. He just needs direction, and I’ll see to that.”
The gathering that had seemed destined to deteriorate into a brawl—and the resultant chaos and panic that would ensue when it was seen all control was lost—broke up amicably, directed to new purpose by shouting NCOs and Captain Holland’s surviving mates. Lewis knew how devastating chaos and panic could be, having seen it wreck a superior Mexican army at Resaca de la Palma, and breathed an inner sigh of relief. Soon, there came the sound of shouts and rending timbers as more men crawled over the collapsed upperworks, throwing down debris, while others attacked the hull planks, prying them off the stout ribs beneath. Artillerymen had stacked their muskets to carry heavy timbers toward a slowly forming breastworks. Others trimmed limbs and brush with their Roman-gladius-shaped short swords, the only thing Lewis ever really considered the weapons good for.
For a while then, only Lewis, Anson, and Holland stood together, though Lewis noted Anson’s “aide” a little to the side, glancing nervously at him from time to time. His daughter, I think, Lewis told himself, remembering more of the sparse details Giles Anson had shared about his former life, and likely the only family he has left. Lewis would say nothing. Unknown to the public, there’d always been women hiding in the ranks of the American Army, dressing and behaving as men. Some followed husbands and lovers, even fighting and dying beside them. Others of a different sort endured army life strictly for money, maintaining a periodic monopoly on certain services among an exclusive and captive, often protectively appreciative clientele. The practice wasn’t widespread, but was more common than any civilian would believe. Observant officers knew about it, but few took notice unless they had to. It often came down to whether the affected unit would be better or worse with or without its female influence. If the former, well, any unit’s performance reflected on its commander. If the latter . . . when women were “officially” discovered lurking in the ranks due to their behavior or appearance (often unconcealable pregnancy), or when a surgeon attended an injury, they were dismissed to fend for themselves wherever their unit was at the time. The fortunate ones might take up with camp followers or sutlers, always close by an army on the move. The irony was, when women joined a fight in extraordinary circumstances, like “Molly Pitcher,” for example, they were celebrated.
Could I leave my only surviving child behind, even to go to war, after losing her mother and brothers to the very people I’m fighting now? Lewis asked himself. He didn’t know. Looking at her now, he had another thought. And perhaps the girl hadn’t really given him a choice. He sighed and spoke. “I came here without a command of my own, expecting to wind up scouting gun positions or shuffling paperwork on somebody’s staff.”
“Well”—Anson chuckled darkly—“you have a command now—for however long it lasts.”
“It may be longer than you think,” Holland warned.
Lewis looked at the sailor in surprise, but Anson said, “As soon as we’re organized, I’ll lead a scout to the coast. It must be north, an’ it can’t be far. We’ll find one of our other ships lyin’ offshore.”
Holland shook his head. “I don’t think you understand.” He raised a tarnished sextant he’d been holding. “I can’t make our exact position without a horizon, but I’m tellin’ you no wind or wave from the west carried us four or five leagues to the south. Not in the short time we were in its grip. It may’ve seemed an eternity, but . . . whatever happened lasted only moments. It’s more like . . .” Holland shrugged. “I’ve been a sailor for forty-five years. I know these waters, and I know the sea. I know almost exactly where we were and could point to the very spot on the chart in my crushed cabin. We can’t’ve been heaved onto the land we knew. It’s more . . . like the shallows north of Yucatán came up from the sea beneath us.”
“That’s . . . ridiculous,” Lewis said softly. “And I’ll ask you to keep such wild notions to yourself,” he quickly added.
“Wild, aye,” Holland snapped, but he kept his voice down. “Yet true enough as far as where we can’t be.”
“But”—Lewis waved around at the trees—“these don’t grow on the bottom of the sea!”
Anson looked thoughtful. “I’ve been to Yucatán before, with a diplomatic mission after the Battle of Campeche.” He snorted at Lewis. “Yes, me. Diplomats need protection, after all. That was a good ways from . . . where we must be,” he confessed, “but I never heard tell of trees like these. They’re more like the piney woods in East Texas—only taller an’ thicker.”
“Then we’re obviously somewhere else!” Lewis exclaimed impatiently. “An island or something.”
“There’s no such island near where we were!” Holland insisted, then rolled his eyes at Anson. “An’ o’ course there’re no trees like these—or any others—on the bottom of the sea.” His expression turned haunted. “But while we debate where we are, you’ve already forgotten how we got here. In all my years . . . I’ve weathered fiercer blows, aye, an’ been dismasted too, but no storm ever done anything like the other things this one did. I . . . fear it could’ve thrown us on whatever shore it chose to.”
Lewis’s blood-crusty eyes narrowed at the sailor. “Superstitious nonsense,” he murmured without conviction. “Weather makes no choices.”
Anson was scratching the bushy beard on his chin. “What the devil are you sayin’?”
Holland looked speculatively at his ship as a long timber was wrenched away, pulling shrieking spikes from the ribs. Horses squealed in excitement and pain as daylight entered the hull. “The Devil’s as good an explanation as any,” he muttered. “An’ I’ll warrant if you do find one of our consorts, it won’t be anchored offshore. It’ll be lyin’ among these same god damn trees, as sprawled out an’ broken as my Mary Riggs.”
CHAPTER 3
Enough of this, let’s go back,” groused the young artilleryman, trudging southwest along a well-used trail through the forest ahead of Private Felix Meder of the Mounted Rifles.
“A little farther,” Felix said. “I can’t make sense of the tracks on this path—it’s too dry—but it’s almost as big and straight as a road. It has to go somewhere.”
Felix didn’t know the artilleryman with the strong British accent—identified only as “Private Hudgens” when they were arbitrarily paired—but though he seemed a little jaded, he wasn’t a malingerer. They’d already explored quite a distance from the wreck, and he was understandably reluctant to continue. Now he glanced back and sighed dejectedly, slinging the musket he’d been carrying at the ready. “Fancy yourself a yankee frontiersman, do you? Tracking your wily prey through the dark forest with that bloody rifle? There may be Mexicans in these woods, but you’ll find no savage red men.” He patted the musket. “Mexicans are civilized folk and fight like Froggies. I’d sooner have this. Get off three shots to your one.”
Felix sighed in turn. Perhaps he was a “yankee,” though his parents had immigrated to Ohio from Munich a year before he was born. And he had grown up in the woods with a squirrel rifle, steeped in tales of the frontiersmen who opened the country around the family farm a couple of
generations before. He revealed none of this and didn’t point out that he was at least three times as likely to hit his target with the rifle as the other man was with a musket, and at three times the distance as well. Not that distance meant much in these woods. “Your own lieutenant sent us to find water,” Felix pointed out.
“Aye”—Hudgens snorted—“an’ have a look about. I only hope Captain Cayce has woke up an’ taken charge. Word is, he’s a man of experience. Olayne’s even sillier than most young officers, born without the brains of a goose.” He chuckled. “An’ he was flustered as a new-hatched goose when he chose a half dozen pairs o’ fellows to have a scout.” He glared back at Felix. “But he only picked us because we had dry powder, all our kit, an’ you looked so bloody bored. Bored, damn you, after what happened, an’ I had the bad luck to be by you!”
“I wasn’t bored,” Felix almost whispered. He’d actually been in a kind of shock and had gathered his gear and made himself and his weapon ready without a conscious thought. Personally, he was glad Olayne had given him something to do.
“Well,” Hudgens stated, stopping and turning around, “even the lieutenant never meant us to trek for miles, for the rest o’ the day. There’s not a drop o’ water this way, nor even a dried-up stream. Aside from these damned trees, this is the flattest ground I ever trod. I’m bored now, an’ tired an’ hungry too. You seem a good lad, for a horse rifleman, an’ we’ve had our stroll. Time to go back.”
Felix considered. He wasn’t in charge, of course, and suspected the other man had at least five years on his own nineteen. But since neither wanted to be alone, turning back required his consent. That kind of put him in charge, in a way. “Just a bit farther, like I said.” He tilted his head to the sky. “We haven’t seen any animals, not even a squirrel, but have you noticed all the strange birds overhead?”
Hudgens scowled. “Aye,” he admitted. “Me old man was a fiend for birds an’ such. Dragged me through the salt marshes near every day when I was a nipper, like he was tryin’ to drown me. But I reckon it made me take notice o’ birds, an’ I never seen any like these. Some are straightforward, despite differences you’d expect in a strange land, but most look more like lizards to me. Or some kind o’ damn bloody bat.”
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