Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “A hell of a thing,” Holland commiserated.

  “I owe him my life, for my daughter’s,” Anson simply said, abandoning his deception at a volume only they could hear. Of course Holland knows “Leon” is a woman, Lewis realized. “As I owe it to you, Captain Lewis,” Anson went on. “You saved her, an’ Lieutenant Swain saved the rest of us.”

  “She doesn’t seem particularly appreciative,” Lewis retorted, abandoning the fiction of “Leon’s” gender as readily as Anson, with him and Holland at least.

  “She’ll come around. She’s only mad she had to be saved. Considers herself as able as any man and’ll blame herself for Mr. Swain’s death.” He frowned. “She’s had a hard road. My fault.”

  Lewis was naturally curious but wouldn’t pursue it now. Instead, he said, “Then she should know it made no difference to Lieutenant Swain who or what she is. I doubt he had any idea. He defended comrades he hardly knew, without thought, because it was his duty. I wish I’d made the effort to get to know him better, before he gave his life for us,” Lewis added regretfully.

  “It was a remarkably standoffish bunch in Mary Riggs before the wreck,” Holland noted. “But I think Mr. Swain recognized the leader you are—as I’ve begun to—an’ knew we need a good one to survive whatever mess we’re in. He protected you for the rest of us.”

  “Nonsense,” Lewis objected.

  Anson held up a hand. “What does it matter?” He glanced at Holland. “Despite all our earlier self-deludin’ denial an’ pretendin’, we’re—somehow—nowhere near where we should be. That’s certain.” He pointed over the barricade where men with lanterns were staring and poking at the dead monster. A fire was growing nearby, and the carcass looked even more lurid and outlandish. “Or that . . . whatever it is—might as well call it a ‘dragon’—ain’t where it should be. Given the bird-things and other critters, these woods, an’ the fact we’re higher an’ drier than reason can explain, I suspect we’re the ones who’ve been . . . misplaced.”

  “Aye,” Holland agreed sourly. “There’s more wrong with all this than anything I could imagine.” He suddenly grinned at Lewis. “I only thank God you’re in charge.”

  “Why?” Lewis demanded angrily.

  Anson shrugged. “Holland’s right. So was Mr. Swain. I saw it myself at Monterrey, now here. You don’t just twist your hands an’ dither. You lead.”

  “Right,” Lewis countered. “I ‘led’ Lieutenant Swain to his death. We never should’ve left the palisade.”

  “Maybe,” Anson conceded. “Or that dragon could’ve decided to sample live horses in the night, killing more men, deafened and distracted by our own maddened animals. Or the horses might’ve finally just broke loose in their panic, bustin’ themselves up an’ tramplin’ half a dozen fellas. But you’ll never know, because you acted.” He sighed. “I’m sure Captain Holland’ll agree, an’ if they don’t teach this at West Point, they should: makin’ any decision, even the wrong one, is always better than makin’ none.” He snorted. “Second worst in a crisis is a slow one, which turns to none as well.” He looked away, staring into the past. “You remember I had a limp when Leonor an’ I showed up at Fort Texas to meet Boogerbear an’ Sal an’ join up with Jack Hayes?”

  Lewis nodded vaguely. “I was there when you reported.”

  “We’d stopped at a stream a few days before, to water our horses. Just the two of us,” Anson said. “Lookin’ up the other side, we saw six mounted Comanches, just as surprised as us, but already raisin’ their weapons. Bows, mostly, but one had a Mexican ’scopet. That’s a kind of musket,” he added for Holland’s benefit. “Anyway, without even thinkin’, Leonor and I both pulled our revolvers and charged, shootin’ mostly wild. Leonor’s horse took a rushed, weak arrow in the neck that didn’t cause much harm. I took a graze from the ’scopet ball across the top of my thigh. But the Comanches were already runnin’ before we were across the stream. I’ve no idea if we even hit one.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They were prob’ly raidin’ for horses, an’ no horse is worth their life.” He patted one of the Colt’s Paterson revolvers at his side. “An’ they respect these little fellas. But it came down to the fact they’d shot their bolt an’ we hadn’t. Comanches’re dangerous and bloodthirsty as that dragon, I expect, but they ain’t fools. An’ we weren’t fool enough to chase ’em. ‘Good riddance,’ we said, an’ tended our hurts.

  “The point is, though, as soon as we saw ’em, we had exactly two choices; fight or run. Doin’ nothin’ is never a choice, by definition, an’ we’d both be dead. Leonor an’ I both realized later that it never even occurred to us to run. Not because we weren’t scared, but because we know Comanches. If we hadn’t put ’em on the defensive an’ hurried their fire, they would’ve had whole seconds to take careful aim an’ shoot us or our horses. Even if they all missed—damned unlikely—they would’ve chased us. Now, whether their horses are actually better or not, Comanches’ll get more out of ’em an’ they’ll always run you down.” He paused and lit a cigar he’d fished from his vest. “So it would’ve been a runnin’ fight at best, maybe even endin’ the same if we found a place to turn on ’em, but they would’ve had more and longer chances to hurt or kill us first.”

  He looked intently at Lewis. “We made an instinctive decision, forcin’ them Comanches to do the same.” He shrugged. “Likely turned out best for all concerned. Tonight?” He patted his long-healed thigh. “Tonight we got hurt, an’ lost Lieutenant Swain”—he gestured over the palisade where the body was being carried in and more men—quite watchful—had gathered around the monster’s corpse—“but you didn’t ‘do nothin’’ when the trouble started, an’ you didn’t ‘do nothin’’ when my girl fell in front of that beast. Now you ain’t lettin’ the men ‘do nothin’’ but dwell on their fears. You act an’ you lead. An’ best choice or worst, it was a choice to confront a problem even if you didn’t understand it.” He took a long draw on his cigar, exhaling the smoke at the monster like a small re-creation of the blast of canister that cut it down. “Now, that ‘Comanche’ will trouble us no more, an’ the men are better prepared to face another.”

  “He’s right, Captain Lewis.” Holland nodded. “An’ sometimes, like last night, when that wicked storm fell on us, there isn’t a ‘right’ choice except doin’ your duty as best you can—an’ pray. That’s what I did, an’ you’ve done the first, at least, ever since you came to your senses. That’s enough for me, an’ the men’ve been steadied to see it.”

  Lewis sighed. He was exhausted, heartsick, and sore. Scared too. He’d even aggravated the old wound in his side that never seemed to heal. “Go to . . . your son, Captain Anson,” he said, resuming the fiction. “Angry at himself—and us—or not, he had a terrible fright.”

  Anson frowned. “Sure, but she won’t thank us for sympathy. Maybe someday . . .” He shook his head. “Someday she’ll tell you herself, if she wants.” He threw down his cigar and stamped it out. “But I’ll go find her, an’ try to get some sleep. I expect another busy day tomorrow.”

  “Count on it,” Lewis agreed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Captain Anson and Lieutenant Dwyer prepared to lead the three Rangers, six dragoons, and six mounted riflemen through the “gate” in the palisade about an hour after dawn. Sal Hernandez, Anson’s expert on horses, had selected the eighteen steadiest of the fifty now determined to be fit. Fifty was more than they thought they had yesterday, but Anson was taking an awfully large percentage. Lewis would’ve preferred he take six more—to pull a gun and carry its crew. It seemed only a cannon could be relied on to swiftly dispatch a dragon. Unfortunately, since they didn’t know if they’d find a road, a gun might severely hamper the scout. Besides, though Lewis was now confident Olayne’s foot artillerymen were reasonably proficient with the battery at their disposal, they weren’t horse artillerymen, relentlessly trained and drilled to swiftly maneuver a team of horses and three t
housand pounds of gun and limber, then accurately fire at a potentially moving target. As advanced as these new 6pdrs were, and the new 12pdr field howitzers that fit the same carriages, it was the “shoot and scoot” tactics that allowed American artillery to dominate its generally static Mexican counterpart and wreak such havoc on enemy infantry and cavalry. Only that training would make a gun on the march an asset instead of a hindrance against a rampaging monster at close range.

  “I’d like to tell you to start back by midday if you haven’t found anything,” Lewis wryly told the mounted officers, “but you’ll have to use your discretion.” They weren’t only looking for the coast. An exposed beach would be no improvement over their current situation. They needed a settlement of some kind and a reasonable route they all could take to get there. “And I don’t want you sending couriers back. That’ll only expose them to excessive hazards and diminish your force. But mark your progress, blaze trees as you go, and come back together by tomorrow evening at the latest. If you don’t, we will come looking the following morning.” He said that more for Lieutenant Dwyer’s benefit, as much to reassure him as to put it in his mind that others would be at risk if they tarried unnecessarily. Anson knew what he was doing, but if something happened to him, Dwyer must understand as well.

  “In any event,” Lewis concluded, “good luck and be careful. We can’t spare anyone else.” He said the last with a glance at a party of Swain’s riflemen, digging his grave, adding to the long line of fresh mounds and crosses.

  “You’re just worried about your horse,” Anson retorted with a grin. His own bay gelding, Colonel Fannin (what a name for a horse, and Lewis doubted it was complimentary), had survived, but Leonor’s hadn’t been so lucky. Lewis insisted she take Arete, still unsure why. Partially, likely, it was an expression of esteem for her father. They might not be friends, exactly, but the man’s solid, objective support had been crucial thus far. He might also have meant it as a peace offering to the fiery Leonor, still outwardly angry at them both. And why should that matter to me? he asked himself, unaware his gaze had settled appraisingly on the girl. Her short black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin came from her Mexican mother, but her height and build and some of her features, though much softer, were straight from Giles Anson. Really evaluating her as a woman for the first time, Lewis realized she was actually very pretty and wondered how she’d ever fooled anyone. Then again, she always wore her sky-blue vest tightly buttoned and acted, spoke, and carried herself, even now, lounging on Lewis’s Ringgold saddle, amazingly like a man. Lewis shook his head, supposing that came from being raised like a man for the last eleven years.

  He cleared his throat and looked back at Anson. “That’s right,” he lightly agreed. “Arete’s the finest horse here, and I think of her like a daughter sometimes,” he added significantly.

  Anson nodded understanding and applied his spurs. Colonel Fannin groaned in protest and reluctantly broke into a fast walk. The others followed and the column snaked around the palisade to where it came in contact with the shattered stern of the ship before turning north, widely avoiding the dead pile. Moments later, they were swallowed by the forest.

  Lewis took a deep breath, pressed a hand to his aching side, and went to have a daylight look at the dead monster. A crowd was gathered around it again, mostly dragoons. All were armed. Olayne already had half his artillerymen drilling on the guns, the other half still sorting equipment and supplies. Lewis was about to ask the men if they had something better to do when he recognized his hypocrisy. He’d come to gawk as well.

  “You too?” Captain Holland asked, amused, falling in step beside him. There were also a couple of sailors and an indignant-looking Lieutenant Burton, clearly coming to send his men to their duties. Lewis shook his head at him and smiled. A scrawny little artilleryman, musket slung and bouncing against his back, was bringing up the rear, studiously staring at a large, sloshing mug as he hurried along. Lewis stopped short of the group around the carcass and waited. The man glanced up, surprised, almost dumping the mug on Lewis.

  “Which I been tryin’ to get this coffee to you, sir,” he accused.

  “You’re Private Willis,” Lewis stated, taking the cup and raising it to his lips. The steam felt good on his face, and the coffee—extra strong—felt even better going down.

  “I am. Detailed to be your orderly,” Willis added sourly.

  Lewis nodded. “Then you’ll have easy duty. I don’t require much.”

  “That’s what I was hopin’,” Willis said with open relief.

  Coryon Burton glared at him. “Sir, if you prefer . . .”

  Lewis chuckled. “No. Private Willis is only being honest, so I’ll return the courtesy. I don’t require much, and grumbling is a soldier’s right. But he’ll perform what few chores I ask to my perfect satisfaction, or his ‘easy duty’ will abruptly cease.”

  Willis gulped and Lewis turned to Captain Holland, holding up his cup. “They’ve found more sound water butts?”

  “ ‘Sound’ ain’t the word I’d use,” Holland replied, “but we saved enough that I reckon we’ve got days to find water rather than the hours we feared yesterday. After last night, coffee for all hands seemed appropriate.” The man sounded as vital as ever, but his face seemed to have added another brutal decade since the day before. Lewis started to step toward the dead monster again, which was looking—and smelling—even more horrible in daylight, but stopped when he heard snatches of what the soldiers around it were saying:

  “It’s some kinda giant freak alligator. We got alligators in Loosy-anna,” one man said.

  “Alabama too,” agreed another.

  “It ain’t no alligator!” a third objected.

  “Well . . . maybe not like I seen before, but it’s still just a big damn lizard. That’s a lizard’s head if there ever was one.”

  “I say it’s a lizard too,” proclaimed another onlooker.

  “Lizards don’t have fur.”

  “That ain’t fur. More like fuzzy feathers on a goose chick, only longer.”

  “An’ different colored.”

  “Lizards don’t have feathers neither.”

  “These ones do.”

  Lewis finally cleared his throat, and the men all stiffened. “Sir!” exclaimed one with corporal stripes. “Lieutenant Burton,” he added. “We’re back from down at the dead pile, like you sent us.”

  “I sent you at dawn and expected a report long since!”

  “Sorry, sir,” the corporal apologized. “I reckon we were kinda slow creepin’ up on it.” He waved at the dead monster. “Then we got distracted comin’ back.”

  “Very well,” Burton conceded impatiently, “what did you see?”

  The corporal hesitated, looking at the others. “Well, you wouldn’t credit it, an’ I don’t rightly know I do, but we thought we saw another critter kinda like this, only man-size, lift off an’ go flappin’ up through the trees!”

  “It was bright colored, like a parrot,” another man put in. Several nodded agreement.

  “Scared it off, though,” the corporal concluded. “Prob’ly about a hundred smaller flyin’ things too. Some other critters run off, but we didn’t see much o’ them.” He shrugged. “That was it.”

  “What do you mean?” Lewis asked.

  “I mean that’s all was there. The dead pile’s gone. Just bones scattered everywhere, broke up an’ chewed. Just the leavin’s, like when you shoot a deer when it’s warm an’ don’t find it till the next day. Coyotes don’t even leave fur, most times. Just gnawed-up bones on a dark spot in the grass.”

  “There were close to forty horses there,” Burton murmured in wonder.

  Lewis glanced down at the dead monster. “Clearly, this wasn’t the only large creature to visit last night.”

  “No sir,” one of the dragoons piped up. “There was even bigger tracks. Don’t know how many, ’
cause it’s all churned up, but sure as sure, more like this ’un.”

  “It ain’t a lizard!” protested the man who’d talked about feathers.

  “Is too. An’ I bet there was a thousand o’ them lizardbirds.”

  “Lizardbirds. I like that,” Holland agreed. “Simplest, most intuitive description of ’em, I suppose.”

  Lewis looked at him. “But the horses never had another fit.”

  Holland nodded toward the west. “The wind shifted. That kept the horses calm, an’ the smoke an’ firelight, the smell of this dead bugger here, maybe even the noise of our fight with him, kept the rest away.”

  Lewis frowned. “You men, get inside the palisade and get to work. The dragoons will be relieving the artillerymen in the wreck soon.”

  “You too,” Holland told the sailors.

  “Yes sir,” they all chorused, including Willis, and headed for the gate.

  Lewis was still looking at the monster with Holland and Burton. “So,” he said disgustedly, “if I’d just allowed the fires, or the wind had shifted earlier, Lieutenant Swain would still be alive.”

  “Most likely,” Holland agreed. “But nobody knew anything yesterday. You did your best with the nothin’ you knew, an’ a lot of good came from it.” He snorted at Lewis’s expression. “What? You think a sailor would’ve made better choices last night? An’ like I said, Lieutenant Swain—rest his soul—didn’t die in vain. The attack opened our eyes, an’ now we can proceed more carefully . . . more appropriately. Another thing.” He nodded in the direction the soldiers and sailors had gone. “You heard those fellas, talkin’ about ‘alligators’ an’ ‘lizards,’ but the only thing really spooked ’em was one might’ve jumped up an’ flown away.” He kicked the huge beast before them and actually shuddered. “Jesus, that gives me the shivers. Still, they might even decide this was a ‘dragon,’ like Mr. Anson, but they didn’t go on about ‘demons’ an’ ‘devils’—like I have in my head.” He looked squarely at Lewis. “I’m through with that because we killed this damn thing and I’ve a notion no mortal man’s gonna be killin’ demons an’ devils. The rest’ll feel the same, an’ that’ll make a difference. Those fellas might’ve sounded a little scared—they’ve a right to, by God—but they weren’t terrified an’ about to break like last night. Mr. Swain showed us the beasties can kill us, an’ that’s a terrible thing to be sure. But the sea could’a killed me any day of my life. The Mexicans might kill you soldiers if you ever get where you’re going.” His expression hardened. “But as long as I can fight the sea an’ you soldiers can fight your enemies, as long as our monsters can be killed, we ain’t helpless, see? Only helpless turns to hopeless, an’ Mr. Swain—and you, Captain Lewis—showed us we ain’t helpless a’tall.”