Lieutenant Burton was openly staring at Captain Holland in near amazement. Like every graduate of the military academy, he’d been immersed in math, history, engineering, and “natural and experimental philosophy.” The latter encompassing everything from astronomy and magnetism to drawing and geography. Tactics were taught, of course, but even they drew heavily on history—and classical philosophy.
Lewis managed a small smile. “Well said, Captain Holland. I never dreamed sailors could be so philosophical.”
“There’s nothin’ more philosophical than sailors, whether they’ve read Plato or not.”
“Plato did liken philosophers to ships’ navigators,” Burton allowed.
Lewis actually grinned. “But was he a sailor?”
“I misremember,” Holland said. “He talked like one. So did Socrates.”
In spite of the trauma of the night before, the day proceeded in a remarkably ordinary fashion. The sky was clear, and the air, though humid, wasn’t terribly hot. Men either continued to labor, grouping equipment and supplies for transport, or they drilled. All the men under Lewis’s practical command, even most of the sailors, were proficient with muskets, and they had a lot of them. Part of Mary Riggs’s cargo had been four hundred of the newer M1835 Springfields, in crates, destined for General Scott’s army. They were the same .69 caliber and functionally identical to the M1816 variations already carried by Olayne’s artillerymen, but were newer, more robust, and somewhat better shaped. Perhaps most significant, they’d been built to standards exacting enough to permit almost perfect parts interchangeability.
They weren’t needed at present, however, because the sailors could be issued weapons recovered from the fallen. The arming of “colored” sailors precipitated some grumbling (though not from Burton this time), until Lewis angrily reminded the men of their circumstances and how important it was to remain united and use every willing hand. Resistance vanished surprisingly quickly. Testing Burton further, Lewis required the dragoons to familiarize everyone, including the sailors, with their Hall carbines because there were extras of those as well. Burton made no objection. Finally, Lewis ordered Olayne to run an ongoing, rotating school of the piece at each of their six cannon positions, requiring him to use the howitzer drill he preferred. (Much as Lewis had admired him, Major Ringgold had prescribed different drills for guns and howitzers, some of the men’s duties reversed for no good reason Lewis could see.) Captain Holland’s remarks about “helpless turning to hopeless” had made a deep impression, and Lewis was determined that no man would find himself helpless if there was any manner of weapon at hand, no matter what horrors emerged from the woods.
And even the horror quickly faded as the day wore on. Constant labor and activity tired the men’s bodies and occupied their minds. The term “lizardbirds” quickly caught on to describe the odd little flying things that capered in the trees, screeching and cawing and contending with “ordinary” birds just as aggressive as themselves. And the men used the term derisively, not in fear, just as they’d say “buzzard.” The rising stench of the dead “dragon” became unreasonable by afternoon, but it remained constant proof the frightening things could be killed. Occasionally, a vagrant breeze carried the scent to the remaining horses. They rebelled again at first, but eventually grew accustomed to, if not comfortable with, it. Lewis wanted it gone but wasn’t about to try to move it with horses. By evening, he decided to burn it. Despite his concern about the dry conditions, it was simply understood there’d be watch fires after dark and fatigue parties had been dragging up brush all day. Lewis directed that a wide clearing be made around the corpse and more wood heaped upon it. All the long timbers they could tear off the wreck had gone into the palisade, so when the nearby brush was finally exhausted, Captain Holland set his sailors to gathering smaller debris: broken crates and barrels, the main and mizzen top platforms, the ship’s wheel, even the shattered furniture and fittings retrieved from his cabin after they pried the collapsed deck off. There’d be enough wood to last the night and even burn the monster, but they’d have to venture farther afield if they stayed there longer.
Lewis was exhausted again, his side aching more than ever, when he sat on one of a dozen or so recovered camp stools and waited for night to fall. It was the first time he’d been off his feet all day, and they ached badly as well. He hadn’t carried heavy hull planks or exerted himself in that line, but he’d been everywhere, supervising or observing everything, as much to help as just be seen. He’d assisted with Olayne’s artillery schools, mostly describing the differences between foot and horse tactics, finding eager listeners. Many were interested to hear about the battles of Palo Alto, Resaca de la Palma, Monterrey, and the dozens of smaller actions and skirmishes along the way, so he used that interest to keep pressing the advantages of rapid maneuver, deployment, and expert gunnery. He knew Olayne was anxious to learn more. He suspected some, like Sergeant McNabb, already did know more.
In any event, he’d tired his voice as well and now waited for dark with a measure of dread, worried about Captain Anson and his party. He wished he could’ve sat up on the bones of the wreck, to see farther—and especially to the north, where the scout had gone—but there simply wasn’t a place to do so safely anymore.
“Her whole rotten frame’ll collapse without hull timbers to stiffen it.” Captain Holland sighed wearily as if reading Lewis’s thoughts, easing onto a stool beside him. He snorted. “It’ll probably go down slow an’ creaky, like I just did.”
A throat cleared behind them, and they turned to see Private Willis holding a pair of steaming plates. “Which I brung supper,” he announced in a tone suggesting the effort almost killed him. The cook fire had burned through the day, wood smoke from local tree branches tarry and dark and hard to breathe, like pinyon pine, but now welcome because it discouraged mosquitoes. “Supper for both of you,” Willis stressed resentfully, “even though I ain’t no sailor’s orderly.”
“Heaven forbid,” Lewis acknowledged, receiving the plate of slimy salt pork mixed with beans.
“Obliged,” Holland said. Willis nodded, oblivious to the sarcasm. “Does there happen to be a fork? Or spoon?” Holland pressed. Willis started, as if he’d forgotten, then pulled a pair of bone-handled spoons from his pocket. Wiping each on his filthy trousers, he handed them over. “If there ain’t nothin’ else, I’ll get me somethin’ to eat.”
Lewis waved the spoon. “Go ahead. After you do, rig a place for me to sleep, if you can. I hope to get some tonight.”
“Which that’s what them four big tents are for. Dry storage an’ officers’ cots,” Willis complained. “I helped set ’em up, an’ don’t even get to sleep in one.”
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it, Private?”
“No sir.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll manage.” There wasn’t room within the palisade for wedge tents for all the men, but with the weather like it was, few would want them anyway. And it looked to Lewis like sufficient shelter from any possible rain had been rigged from sails if it was needed. “Report to Sergeant McNabb and see if he has other duties for you. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Willis sulked away, and Holland shook his head at his back. “Strange man.”
Lewis scooped steaming slop from his plate and ate it before glancing at Holland. “He doesn’t strike me as a very enthusiastic soldier. Clearly, he’s even less keen to be a servant.”
“Why put up with his sass? Throw him back an’ pick another.”
Lewis chuckled. “Better a bad servant than a bad soldier. Besides, his ‘sass,’ as you call it, amuses me. Particularly under the circumstances.” His expression turned dark. “I’m even rather sympathetic when it comes to discontented servants. There’s no real comparison, of course, but my father owned several slaves to work his Tennessee farm, and we disagreed so strongly about the very continued existence of slavery that we didn’t exchange a wo
rd for the last five years of his life. My mother was long dead when he passed, and I immediately freed his slaves and sold the farm.”
“A Whig soldier from Tennessee,” Holland wondered aloud, “fightin’ a war for a Democrat president—from Tennessee, no less.”
“Perhaps a Whig,” Lewis confessed uncomfortably, reluctant to talk politics even with a sailor, “but not the anti-Masonic sort.”
Holland fingered the golden square and compass hanging from his watch fob and accepted that. “Still, I wondered about your willingness to arm my colored sailors. My opinion on slavery’s a bit mixed since I’ve seen every sort. It’s been with us since the beginnin’ of time an’ still is—regardless of race—across most of the world. And I’ve seen a lot of the world.” He ate for a moment before continuing. “In ancient times, an’ even today, conquered people’re enslaved in war. Seems kindlier to work a man than kill him, I reckon, an’ a lot of those slaves get absorbed by the conquerin’ power. Become part of it. Most Injins adopt the captives they let live. But I never skippered no damn blackbirder, an’ I’m against takin’ slaves for commercial reasons, or a man’s race bein’ the justification for it. A man’s a man, no matter what color he is, an’ any man who sails with me’ll be judged by his skill an’ behavior. Not what shade he is.” He looked uncomfortable and belched lightly before glancing back at Lewis. “So, without a home, you’re a soldier first an’ last?”
Lewis blew out a breath. “Only a soldier, you might’ve said. But a good soldier is by definition a protective servant of his people whether he agrees with everything about them or not. I take that service seriously.” He shrugged. “My oath to the Constitution and duty is all I have. On the other hand, though I’ve never had a . . . an orderly before, and never met Private Willis before our current circumstances, I know his sort. His oath was a meal ticket, and it might be good for him to be of service to someone besides himself for a while.”
Holland chuckled.
The camp was growing quieter the darker it got, and Lieutenants Olayne and Burton, as well as Holland’s first mate, Mr. Sessions, drifted over to join them with their own plates. Burton technically had the “watch,” but the NCOs were shaping up to match their situation. They could be trusted to look after things while the officers took a short break. One, Sergeant Hayne, had followed Burton but had no plate. “Time to light the fires, sir?” he asked.
Lewis pulled his watch from his vest and consulted it. “May as well. Perhaps Captain Anson’s close enough to see them by now.”
“Yes sir,” Hayne said, and moved off to the first pile of firewood. A special armed detail would go out to fire the dragon.
“You think the scout will be back tonight?” Burton asked.
Lewis shook his head. “Not really. However far Captain Anson got, he’ll know how long it’ll take to return, and I doubt he’d travel such unknown country in darkness. If he and his companions aren’t safe in some settlement, he’ll have found a secure place to spend the night.”
“Not me,” Burton murmured, shaking his head. “And not poor Edgar—I mean Lieutenant Dwyer—on his own.”
“But he isn’t on his own,” Lewis assured. “Regardless of the monsters and no matter where we all are, Captain Anson will behave as if he’s behind enemy lines. He rode with Ben McCulloch’s spy company and had a lot of practice at that. And through all his years in Texas, starting a decade before its revolution, he had to contend with Comanches. If he could dodge them that long, he can give dragons the slip.”
“But . . .” Olayne paused before giving voice to all their concerns. “What if he doesn’t return at all?”
Lewis regarded him levelly. “Then we’ll do as I told him we would. We’ll use the remaining horses to pull all the guns and other vehicles, loaded only with ammunition, provisions, and invalid injured. Then we’ll go looking for him. We can’t stay here indefinitely, and won’t stay long enough for lack of provisions and water to make us too weak to move.”
CHAPTER 6
Except for the ever-present lizardbirds and other things flitting through the dense forest canopy, Captain Anson’s scouting party encountered little else for the first hour of their trek. There were occasional shadows, enough to make them edgy, but there was no telling if they were cause for concern, or if they were even real. Eventually, riding behind Lieutenant Dwyer, who followed her father as closely as a dog, Leonor caught her tired mind wandering and her gaze fixed on the swishing tail of Dwyer’s horse. A fine judge of horseflesh, she had a low opinion of that animal, but was already deeply in love with Arete and figured Captain Lewis Cayce’s chestnut mare had the smoothest gait she’d ever known. The horse hardly jostled her even when it stepped over large obstacles, and Leonor wondered how Captain Cayce stayed awake on long marches sitting on the comfortably padded Ringgold saddle. At the same time, she could tell the horse had spirit and abundant energy in reserve. Why did he loan her to me, specifically? Leonor wondered again, though the answer was fairly obvious. Because he knows I’m a girl.
Of course she wasn’t a “girl”; she was already twenty-five—practically an “old maid” as such things were reckoned—but she was female, and Lewis Cayce knew. Yet, not only hadn’t he objected to her accompanying the scout, he’d loaned her his wonderful horse. What does that mean? She’d been around Lewis almost as often as her father, though she’d never spoken and he’d obviously never really noticed her. Not like he had during the terrible storm when their eyes finally met. She had to admit she’d wondered about him, what he was like to talk to. He seemed competent and intelligent and even occasionally allowed a humorous streak to surface from beneath a heavy gloom the war seemed to have laid upon him. She supposed he was fairly handsome after a fashion as well, but never thought they’d actually be acquainted. Still ain’t, she reflected, since the only thing I’ve ever said to him is “damn you!” The ungratefulness of that after he’d risked his life for her—as he probably would for anyone—made her smolder with shame. Perhaps she should apologize when they returned. But how would he take that? she wondered. Me, paradin’ in front of him, talking to him, with him now sure I’m a woman? Wouldn’t he have to take “official” notice then? Better I just thank him for the loan of his horse an’ get out of sight. Out of sight and mind, he’ll forget I exist—or can still pretend I’m just one of Father’s Rangers. Easier for us both if he never gets to know me better. All he needs to remember is I’ve ridden with Father an awful long time, been with him in battle for the last year an’ more. It ain’t like I’m suddenly less capable just because he finally knows what I am!
She knew about him from her father; that he was unmarried and something of a stoic, but very professional and keen about his duty. She also knew her father respected and liked him, but the feeling wasn’t exactly mutual, due to some of the tactics the Rangers employed. That fired her annoyance again, that he should be so judgmental. It never seemed to matter to people who didn’t know those tactics were a response, first to the opportunistic cruelty of the Comanches, then the wholesale, capricious brutality with which Antonio López de Santa Anna crushed all resistance to his despotic rule. People forgot it happened first in Zacatecas, then Coahuila. Texas had been next on his list even before it rebelled. When Santa Anna—stung by reversals at Gonzales and San Antonio de Béxar—marched north and exterminated the defenders of the Alamo, executed the surrendered garrison from Goliad, and sought to drive all “Americanos” across the Sabine River and out of Texas for good, he did so with the same stunning ruthlessness he’d used elsewhere. Those too slow to escape, like the Ansons, were often killed when caught. And the violence didn’t end after Santa Anna’s defeat at San Jacinto. The decade-long guerilla war between Texas and Mexico, along with its slow drip, drip, drip of blood, only intensified the antagonism.
Well, Leonor simmered, growing angry now, Lewis wasn’t there. He didn’t see. Didn’t have happen to him . . . what I did. Of course Father hat
es Mexican soldiers, and so do I.
The fact her mother had been Mexican and she and her brothers were half never affected her passion for revenge. They’d all been Texans—Texians, then—regardless of their heritage, and the things Santa Anna’s soldados did . . . And now they were fighting Santa Anna again. What did Lewis Cayce expect?
Dwyer’s horse suddenly screeched and hopped, nearly flinging the young dragoon into a tree. He managed to keep his mount but immediately fumbled for his carbine while Boogerbear, Sal Hernandez, and some of the other men surged forward, raising their weapons as well.
“Hold your fire, damn you!” Captain Anson hissed. He’d raised his own rifle but was just pointing it generally at a large moving shape the size of a freight wagon.
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