He caught Private Hudgens looking searchingly at him, apparently consumed by the same doubts and fears. Felix sighed and pointed at the seething hell around Xenophon’s corpse, then shrugged as if asking the older man what to do. The artilleryman shrugged back. Taking a chance, Felix began reloading his rifle even while the Ocelomeh continued working on him. Private Hudgens nodded slightly and did the same with his musket. Far from trying to stop them, one of the buckskin-clad warriors retrieved Hudgens’s ramrod and handed it back. Varaa-Choon said nothing, but it was clear she was growing agitated; not at them, but at the time it was taking to treat them. The sun was quickly dropping below the tops of the trees, and a heavy gloom was descending.
“My name is Private Felix Meder of the United States Mounted Rifles,” Felix told Varaa-Choon very formally. “My companion is Private Hudgens, of the First United States Artillery.”
“Elijah Hudgens,” the artilleryman supplied, giving him a slight, grave nod.
Felix nodded back, then looked at Varaa-Choon and spoke again, as much for Hudgens—so the other man would know his thinking—as for Varaa-Choon. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us, but can’t allow that to happen to the others.” He indicated the seething wreck a short distance through the trees. “Even if they’ve protected themselves, what if they send searchers looking for us? We have to warn them,” he ended firmly.
“What others?” Varaa-Choon immediately demanded.
Still afraid he was betraying a sacred trust but convinced he must, Felix quickly explained where he and Hudgens came from. Varaa-Choon managed to look thoughtful, staring at a patch of lizardbird-crowded sky while her warriors finished treating the two men.
“About four miles, you say?” she asked. “But many more survivors? Probably too much activity for the lizardbirds, and they didn’t draw in the larger things,” she told one of her companions. “Do you think they’ll have fortified themselves? Buried the dead?” she asked Felix.
Suspicious again, Felix nodded. “This was potentially hostile territory, even . . . where we came from. Yes, the dead were being buried when we left, and the survivors were preparing defenses. There are some”—he paused—“experienced officers there.” He hoped that was the case. Anson seemed tough enough, but was apparently unwilling to take charge. Olayne knew what to do, just not how to do it. Perhaps Captain Cayce had come around? With the help of Swain and Burton, maybe others, even Olayne should make the impromptu camp relatively secure—against things they understood. But what about things they didn’t?
Varaa-Choon finally shook her head. “Night is coming. I see better in the dark than my warriors and can warn them, but they still have to see to fight.”
“It’s only an hour’s brisk walk to the ship,” Felix objected. “We have to warn our people!”
“In an hour, it will be quite dark in these woods, and you’ll be walking nowhere briskly in your condition,” Varaa-Choon countered, blinking in a way that seemed to emphasize what she’d said. “You’d never make it with your wounds, and without quick, proper treatment, they’ll turn bad anyway. You have no idea how quickly fevers strike on this world without anti-sepsis medicine.”
Another reference to a “different world.” What does she mean? Felix wondered feverishly while Varaa-Choon gestured around at her companions.
“Some of us could get there, but not with the two of you along. How well would we be received without you? Here, we were saviors and the situation was clear. But meeting armed and frightened men with fingers on their triggers, who’ve possibly already encountered other things to frighten them further . . . No, even if they didn’t shoot at us, we’d be relying on unknown strangers to shelter us through the night.” She regarded Felix with those huge, blue eyes. “Night is very dangerous for small groups in this land.”
The idea that this place could be more dangerous than it already was made Felix gulp. Still, “Then I’ll go back alone. I’ll tell them about you and they won’t shoot!”
“Very noble, but you would die—after you’ve been in our care,” Varaa-Choon said simply. “Not the best message to send them either, I think. No, if they prepare, they should do well enough.” She grinned. “And they’ll have accomplished something. More than most who come to this world—and perhaps more than they would where they came from, eh?” she added cryptically, glancing at Hudgens and back at Felix. “You young fellows as well.”
“We go back to the sanctuary, then. Take them to Father Orno like the others?” asked one of the men who’d escorted her in. He looked bigger and older than the rest, but his hair was still jet-black.
“Sanctuary?” Hudgens asked.
“A refuge of sorts for traveling Ocelomeh. Quite well hidden and protected. You’re lucky there was one so near and we were in it when you fell to this world,” Varaa absently explained before looking at her companion. “Father Orno will want to hear another account of your arrival.” She paused. “Strange that he chose to accompany us on this survey. Almost as if . . .” She shook her head. “Yes, the sanctuary for tonight,” Varaa-Choon said. “Tomorrow . . . we will see.”
CHAPTER 4
By the time the sun slipped beneath the trees and even the shattered clearing surrendered to darkness, the port (northern) side of the increasingly skeletal corpse of Mary Riggs had become the southern bastion of a large, waist-high stockade, constructed of fallen trees and the ship’s own salvaged timbers. Forty-six horses had been taken from the wreck in good condition, Arete among them, to Lewis’s relief, and eleven others had sound legs and should recover. The rest were either dead or had to be destroyed. Details buried 106 men, but dead horses were dragged out through the “gate” and about seventy-five yards into the forest. No one wanted to eat them—they’d recovered their provisions of salt pork and biscuit—but Lewis hesitated to have them burned. A sufficient fire to do the job would make a beacon at night and smoke by day, equally visible to friend or foe. Besides, after the dampness of . . . whatever happened to them . . . dried up during the day, he’d realized the forest around them was a tinderbox. He preferred to just leave the dead horses since he didn’t intend to linger long.
They’d finish unloading the ship by morning and prepare to make for the coast all together as soon as the next day, or the next, after a strong force scouted the route. Lewis would risk no more men wandering about in pairs. Half of those Olayne sent out hadn’t returned. Hopefully, they were simply lost and would find their way back. The other half had little to report besides the bizarre bird-things they’d all seen, which grew increasingly aggressive as the day wore on. Some had seen shadowy figures following or pacing them through the woods, but could provide no more details. Pickets placed outside the stockade—but well in sight of it—reported the same. Some were frightened by what their stressed and rampant imaginations made them think they saw, and Lewis was amazed none of them had fired on the shapes. In the meantime, dragoons had replaced the artillerymen at the breastworks and tired gunners now labored to heave the six shiny new Model 1841 6pdrs, their limbers, caissons, and other artillery vehicles, out of the wreck by lantern light. He smiled to hear Sergeant McNabb’s appraisal of the weapons hauled into the gathering night, his native speech rising closer to the surface than Lewis had heard before:
“Oh, would ye look at that one, then! Such a beauty she is, sparklin’ like the golden moon himself! I’ve trained on small guns, aye, as have many of ye, but they were sad, decrepit things from the second war for independence. It was enough to make ye weep an’ wonder whatever they might be good for. But these lovely ladies! They’re bigger but not much heavier, an’ look how ingeniously Mr. Mordechai devised these lovely trails! A single man could lift it. Get yer filthy grabbers off the brass of her barrel, damn your bones, Mr. Finlay! Clap on to the spokes like a Christian! That’s why they paint the bloody things, an’ the whole bloody carriage too, to keep bog trotters like you from stainin’ her fine, shiny barrel with yer
greasy damn fingers!”
McNabb’s caustic but good-natured diatribe went on like that, mixing humorous abuse on the men with loving admiration of the guns, as one by one he supervised their excavation and emplacement around the perimeter, each loaded with a round of canister and hastily crewed by men who at least knew how to fire it. Few were acquainted with the Hidden’s Patent percussion lock they were equipped with, however, and Lewis had to explain.
“It’s just a bloody great percussion cap, like the damn dragoons use on their carbines,” McNabb had said, holding one up when the first ammunition chest was opened for inspection.
“The new Model ’forty-two muskets use them as well,” Lewis had confirmed, “though I haven’t actually seen one. They say they’re to be rifled to fire hollow-base projectiles based on Minié’s principles, and fitted with long-range sights. In any event, percussion caps are the future, though I think the new friction primers might serve better for artillery.”
McNabb had continued to stare dubiously at the object, shaped like a top hat and almost as big as a button, the “brim” of the hat jaggedly serrated like a sunburst. “Whatever was wrong with slow-match an’ linstocks, even portfires?”
Lewis had smiled. “Nothing, except you have to light them before you can use them, and that’s not always easily or quickly done. And quicker ignition means improved accuracy against moving targets.”
McNabb had seemed to agree with that, but continued to frown at the cap. “Do we have any friction primers?”
Now the moon was full and bright, and the temperature, never brutal during the day, remained balmy. Still, though no one was cold, mosquitoes were a growing problem. Lewis had denied requests to light fires to smoke the pests for the same reasons he’d prohibited a pyre for the horses. The only dubious relief the men got was by huddling near men with pipes or cigars, and even they’d been cautioned to be careful. Against Captain Holland’s objection, Lewis actually insisted the cooks make a fire, however, to feed the men. After all they’d been through, a cooked meal of whatever quality would go a long way toward raising their spirits.
“I see you found your hat,” Captain Giles Anson observed, joining him, Holland, Burton, Swain, and another dragoon lieutenant named Edgar Dwyer from New York, where they’d gathered for an “officers’ meeting” called by word of mouth. Lewis wanted no bugles. They’d been watching the loud, sweaty work inside the wreck while they waited. Anson was enjoying a large cigar and now benevolently blew clouds of smoke at the other officers. Most smiled appreciatively, but Coryon Burton pretended to gag.
“Yes,” Lewis said, taking the battered thing off and looking at it. He’d also washed the blood from his hair and face when he sat for a couple of stitches in his scalp applied by the giant, bearlike Ranger named Corporal Bandy Beeryman. Lewis discovered during an interesting conversation—closely watched by Anson’s “aide”—that the big, surprisingly soft-spoken man had done a lot of “doctorin’ ” and was appropriately known to his colleagues as “Boogerbear.” In any event, though Lewis looked better than he had earlier in the day, he still felt like hell. “Whoever designed these ridiculous hats must’ve thought they looked dashing,” he continued dubiously, “and I never dreamed I’d be glad to wear one. But the padding in the top probably saved my skull.” He put it back on. “I suppose I’d hate to lose it now.”
Lieutenant Olayne finally stepped up, the only other surviving officer, and shyly handed Lewis a shiny steel scabbard protecting a Model 1840 artillery saber, wrapped in a white belt and rectangular eagle buckle. “Thank you, Lieutenant!” Lewis said, genuinely glad to see the weapon. It was an Ames-made officer’s version of the standard horse artillery saber. Lewis had purchased it himself and had a few embellishments added. The blade was acid-etched with the customary large us surrounded by floral and martial panoplies, but the grip was covered with coarse sharkskin to prevent it turning or slipping in his hand, and the brass guard and pommel had been tastefully engraved around his cursive initials. Despite the fact it had seen a fair amount of use and the golden sword knot was battered and frayed, he kept the blade’s edge much sharper than most officers took the effort to do. Next to his horse, Arete, it was probably his most prized possession.
“Sergeant McNabb found your baggage,” Olayne confessed, also handing over a set of scuffed black leather pommel holsters, protecting a pair of .54 caliber Robert Johnson contract M1836 pistols. They were well-made weapons, and Lewis was surprisingly good with them considering they were smoothbores without rear sights, but they didn’t mean as much to him as the saber. “I’m afraid your trunk was shattered, however, and most of your things damaged by water. Perhaps your clothing will still serve when it’s been dried. Some of the lads are trying to salvage the other officer’s clothing as well.” He managed a tentative smile. “Your Ringgold saddle is safe”—dragoons and mounted riflemen mostly rode Grimsleys, and Ringgold saddles were expensive and rare—“and Private Willis is oiling the leather.”
Lewis chuckled, remembering the scrawny little soldier who didn’t want to share his water. “As punishment for something?”
“Sir? No sir. You need an orderly, and Sergeant McNabb said he volunteered.”
“Did he indeed?”
Lewis turned to the others, evaluating their lantern-lit expressions. All were exhausted and aside from Captain Anson and perhaps Captain Holland, were visibly doing their best to control their anxiety. Not that Anson and Holland weren’t afraid—Lewis certainly was, and assumed they were as well—but they had experience leading men in battle or against the elements. They’d learned, of necessity, how to suppress or hide their fear. “Well, gentlemen,” he began wryly, attempting to lighten the mood, “we seem to be in good shape, all things considered. Our position is more secure, and the men have returned to their duty to the extent they’re already trading barbs about their respective service branches.” He nodded at Lieutenant Coryon Burton. “One of the dragoons, Private Buisine, is apparently a closely shaved squirrel.” He waited while the chuckles came and went. “You may have seen him scurry to the top of one of the closest undamaged trees.”
“Aye!” Holland exclaimed with real admiration. “Higher than Mary Riggs’s mainmast was. He’ll make a fine topman when he has his fill of horses.”
“In any event,” Lewis continued, “he scanned the horizon in all directions as best he could and never saw the sea, though he was sure the forest does end just a few miles to the north. No doubt the sea is below the treetop ‘horizon.’ ” They all took that as good news, continuing by apparently universal consent to avoid the searing question of how they got “a few miles” from the sea in the first place. Lewis pursed his lips. “Due to how flat the top of the forest seemed in other directions, Private Buisine concluded the ground below must be equally flat. Captain Anson confirmed that’s consistent with what he knows of the northern Yucatán, though he remains as mystified by the forest as Captain Holland.” He paused. “Buisine did note some anomalies, some distant hills or knobs, one of which appeared in his glass to have been made of shaped stones. And several were shrouded in a haze of wood smoke, so there are inhabitants nearby. We must be cautious. We’ve no idea whose side, if any, they’re on.” Gratefully accepting a cigar from Anson, he lit it from the other man’s and puffed it to life.
“Tomorrow the Rangers and a squad of dragoons will scout to the north for the best route to the coast. Hopefully, they’ll find our friends anchored there, or a friendly settlement where we can wait for transport.”
“Even an unfriendly settlement could be induced to change its tune,” Coryon Burton observed. “We have a full battery of guns and a couple hundred well-armed men.” He glanced around at the growing frowns. “They won’t know how unfit to fight we are,” he insisted. “The locals won’t resist us, and there can’t be enough Mexican troops in the vicinity to do so.”
Lewis wasn’t so sure, but nodded. “Friendly or not
, they won’t be molested,” he warned mildly, but no one could doubt his resolve. “That’s the plan. I suppose things could’ve been much worse indeed, and we should thank God they weren’t.”
“It couldn’t have been worse for my poor ship, the hundred an’ six men we buried, an’ the forty-two we can’t find”—Holland snorted—“but for the two hundred an’ eighty-two of us left, aye, I reckon you’re right.”
Lewis sobered. “Those are the final numbers?”
“My purser, Mr. Finlay, is a villainous thief, like all such creatures, an’ unfit for the labors that’ve occupied the rest of us,” Holland explained, then chuckled. “Sergeant McNabb threw him out of the ship! But in addition to startin’ an inventory of our stores, he seemed the logical choice to count everything else. Includin’ those we’ve lost.”
“His numbers came from the acting adjutants appointed for the various companies while you were . . . indisposed, sir,” supplied Lieutenant Swain. “Obviously, those numbers might . . . rearrange themselves since some of the injured may die, and the missing scouts are still listed among the living.”
“Pray they remain so,” Olayne murmured. He’d sent them out and had been right to do so, but his initial confusion prevented him from giving them better instructions and limiting the scope of their explorations. He’d confessed as much to Lewis, who’d consoled him that at least he’d tried to restore order and purpose, but Olayne was still struck by the losses his first brief “command” may have incurred.
“That’s enough, gentlemen,” Lewis said. “If there are no questions, we should get back to work. Captain Holland, please have your Mr. Sessions get with these officers or the adjutants they appointed to establish the same kind of watch your sailors observed while we were under way so at least some of them can get some sleep.”
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