Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “Speaking of ‘refreshment,’ ” Anson strongly hinted.

  De Russy looked stricken. “Oh my! Yes, of course, please forgive me! I find myself so distracted. Barca! Cool water for these officers and their men at once!” He looked apologetically at Anson. “Or wine, if you prefer . . . ?”

  Anson shook his head, watching a young black man, little more than a boy in army dress, hurry to seize the big ceramic pitcher and a cluster of tin cups. “Just water, if you please.”

  “You brought no ‘quacks,’ Major Reed,” Newlin admonished wearily, “only men of good will, insufficiently trained. I’m content with them as long as they do as I ask and learn from it. Still, I would’ve been utterly overwhelmed if not for Mademoiselle Mercure, and particularly Mistress Wilde. They’re a better balm to the hurt than laudanum.”

  “Women? Here?” Lieutenant Dwyer asked, finally finding his voice after taking a cup of water from young Barca.

  “A depressing number of the creatures, I fear,” grumbled the other civilian from within his beard-covered face. Where De Russy was heavyset, this man was positively obese. “That British ship out there used to be the old fifty-gun Tiger. I’d wager she hasn’t more than twenty guns now, since betting on a certainty isn’t a sin. In any event, she was transporting European diplomats and merchants out of Vera Cruz. More to avoid fever than war, I’m sure, but there are certainly twenty or more women of all shapes and ages in her even now. The young ladies Dr. Newlin spoke of were indecently unaccompanied and brazenly resisted efforts to restrain them on the ship when they learned we had such dreadful casualties.” He shook his head sadly. “Women these days.” Looking back up, he introduced himself without bothering to stand. “Reverend Samuel Harkin, Congressman De Russy’s guest. I can do nothing to alleviate our dear soldiers’ aches and injuries, but can minister to them and recommend their immortal souls to Almighty God.”

  “Then maybe you ought to do that, an’ bury the dead ones quick,” Leonor practically snapped, surprising herself by speaking up. At least she’d used her “man voice,” more than second nature now, but Reverend Harkin’s tone and attitude stabbed her with a spike of annoyance. Chagrined to find everyone suddenly staring at her, she churned unapologetically on. “There are monsters in the woods, an’ we’ve ‘credibly’ seen ’em. They will scavenge your dead if you don’t get ’em decently in the ground before the smell attracts ’em in their hundreds. We’ve seen that too,” she added grimly.

  “My son’s right,” Captain Anson said, proceeding to give a quick, succinct, and dispassionate account of the wreck of Mary Riggs and its aftermath, the “dragon” that attacked the camp and killed Lieutenant Swain, and finally their journey here. Presenting the report in the same absolutely certain, matter-of-fact way he’d delivered others to General Zachary Taylor, De Russy—who paled noticeably throughout—had no choice but to believe it entirely.

  “My God,” De Russy murmured. “Yes, we must bury those poor fellows at once. I’d hoped to carry them to Vera Cruz, perhaps in Xenophon or Mary Riggs,” he explained. “A false hope now. And Isidra can’t even take us, or tow Tiger any farther, as I understand it. Her engine has been worked very hard.” He took a deep, regretful breath, glancing around. “In light of Captain Anson’s report, I’m less content to continue the plan already begun, but I don’t see we have any choice.”

  “What plan is that?” asked Anson.

  “Major Reed?” De Russy prompted, and the red-faced officer cleared his throat. Leonor could tell he wasn’t happy. “Isidra’s not undamaged herself, but she’s the only vessel that can continue on to Vera Cruz and report this disaster. Obviously, as Colonel De Russy said, she can’t carry us all.” He frowned. “Can’t carry what she has already, it seems. Colonel Wicklow of the First Infantry is the senior officer present and has decided to put his troops, horses, and military supplies ashore so De Russy can establish an impregnable position where all can gather and wait in safety for the transports Wicklow will dispatch from the fleet at Vera Cruz.” His expression soured. “This will, incidentally, make room for Tiger’s many passengers—and all their baggage, I presume. It wouldn’t do to inconvenience or upset wealthy, influential Europeans,” he added ironically. “With their history, I doubt Mexico would ally with the French, but Colonel Wicklow still imagines the British might join the war on their side.” He spread his hands. “In any event, it shouldn’t take more than a few weeks for sufficient transport for everyone to return.”

  “Weeks,” Leonor murmured.

  “An’ you, Major Reed?” Anson asked. “How many officers is Colonel Wicklow leavin’ us?”

  Clearly ill at ease, Reed shook his head. “My apologies in advance, but Colonel Wicklow believes, and I quote: ‘ably assisted by a few professional junior officers, Colonel De Russy should provide sufficient leadership for the volunteers and regulars entrusted to him.’ ” There were indignant sounds, and Reed glanced around in embarrassment, then focused on De Russy’s disappointed expression. “Personally, I believe Colonel Wicklow is . . . misguided, and I’d prefer to remain here myself, but he wants his senior officers to build his staff at Vera Cruz and prepare for the men’s arrival. As if that would’ve been done in any event,” he added with a touch of bitterness. “So. Unless Major Philips is found safe with Xenophon, Captain Cayce is next in line of seniority.” He sighed. “At least you have Cayce. I knew him before the war, and he’s a good man.”

  De Russy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes. Well. I suppose we must manage. Thank you for your candor, Major Reed, and I appreciate your personal sentiments.” He glanced around at the others. “But it looks as though we’ll need to make more room for the regular infantry and their supplies, as well as more animals.” He glanced at Anson, Dwyer, Boogerbear, Sal, and Leonor in front of him. “In addition to Mary Riggs’s survivors, of course. We’ll have to see to moving them here, and search for Xenophon.” He shook his head and blinked. “Mary Riggs truly is miles inland, you say?”

  “Probably eight or so,” Anson confirmed.

  “Extraordinary,” De Russy breathed. “Is that consistent with the distance you traveled, Ensign Lara?” he asked.

  The young Mexican officer shook his head. “I believe we first found ourselves perhaps four or five leguas distant? About fifteen miles? It took us all of yesterday to reach the coast, then much of today, following the shore, to find you here.”

  “And you saw . . . monsters like those Captain Anson described?”

  Lara drew in a deep breath, possibly surprised he’d been believed. “Sí. Yes. Many with the horns and long necks. Some like the ‘dragon,’ though not as large, but the ones we saw moved in groups. They were very frightening,” he confessed, “since they seemed intelligent enough to coordinate their pursuit. I’m sure only our numbers and occasional shots kept them away.”

  “Did you ever pass a settlement? Find water?”

  Lara hesitated. “Of all the things we saw, that may have been most disturbing. We came across ancient structures similar in ways to those we should expect here, but they were not all ruins—and not where they should be. One was recently abandoned and showed evidence of being sacked.

  “We also passed a settlement of sorts on the banks of a stream a short distance to the west, but the people there were naked savages, and my men were afraid to approach them. Even the Indians in my detachment could barely understand one word in ten.” He shook his head. “For that and other reasons, they seemed too strange to trust.”

  That admission struck Leonor harder than anything else Lara said, since it implied he trusted them—enemies—more than other people he saw in this land that should be his.

  De Russy stared searchingly at the man. “Then I presume another reason you approached us was to surrender?”

  Lara straightened in his chair. “No, Colonel. I will not surrender. I would, however, be pleased to maintain the current truce for ou
r mutual benefit.”

  “How would that benefit us?” Anson growled.

  Lara blinked at him, surprised by his vehemence. “Instead of the added uncertainty and possible nuisance of a hostile force in your proximity, you gain a friendly one of excellent horsemen who, while not familiar with where we are at present, are accustomed to life on la frontera.”

  “Extraordinary,” De Russy repeated, then grunted. “I’ll take it under advisement. Captain Anson, what are your views on my other priorities?”

  Anson tore his gaze from the bold young Mexican and managed a nod at De Russy. “Sounds as good a plan as any, but inhabited by ‘savages’ or not, I recommend we find a town or something to fortify instead of this exposed beach. Captain Cayce built a fort around our wreck, an’ it was a good thing he did. You should at least move a little inland an’ cut trees to build a stronghold. You will need the protection,” he said with certainty, “an’ it’ll give the men something to do. As for us”—he paused and pulled his watch from his vest and glanced at it before looking out from under the fly at the day—“I’d like to have a quick look at the settlement the . . . ensign described. Just myself, a couple of Rangers, an’ half the mounted riflemen. At the same time, Captain Cayce needs to know we found you. It won’t take near as long to get back as it did to get here. A party guided by Corporal Beeryman and the rest of the riflemen”—he gestured at Boogerbear—“should make it back before dark. At the same time, I agree with Alferez Lara that safety requires numbers. Have you any men or horses who can relieve Lieutenant Dwyer and his dragoons? They could use the time to find you a more defensible position nearby.”

  Leonor knew her father well enough to understand he wanted rid of Dwyer. He might be a good officer under ordinary circumstances, but he’d displayed both imprudence and fear. Not a good combination to lead a detachment back to Mary Riggs. Just as important, his men’s Hall carbines might be excellent for combat against human enemies at close range, but were too underpowered to much discourage the dangerous creatures they’d seen.

  De Russy made a moue. “I can certainly use your dragoons. I’ve no mounted men at all. I do have some horses, of course, and you can take your pick. They were intended for the dragoons or artillery in any event. For men, all I have are infantry. Perhaps a few know how to ride,” he added doubtfully. “I’ll ask for volunteers.”

  Leonor was sure more than a “few” could ride, but how many would willingly leave the illusory safety of this place?

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But what of you, Captain Anson?” Reverend Harkin grumbled. “Will your scout have sufficient numbers for safety?”

  Anson grinned. “From what I’ve seen, I’d say not—if I was coverin’ a lot of ground between two places the monsters are already gatherin’ at. For spyin’ on Lara’s ‘savages,’ the half dozen I’ll take may be too many.”

  “But you don’t even know where you’re going,” interjected Dr. Newlin.

  “Just gotta backtrack the Mexicans,” said Boogerbear as if anyone should’ve thought of that. “Long as they’re tellin’ the truth.”

  De Russy looked at Ramon Lara. “Will you lead Captain Anson back and show him what you saw?”

  Anson seemed taken aback, but Leonor seethed at the idea. Lara wasn’t just a Mexican; he was a Mexican soldier. She shuddered.

  “I will,” Lara said slowly, “if Captain Anson will promise not to murder me.”

  “You’ll be perfectly safe. From him at any rate,” De Russy assured him. When he stood and spoke again, he was talking to everyone. “In the meantime, we’ll continue salvaging what we can as the regular infantry comes ashore.” He looked at Major Reed. “When does Colonel Wicklow plan to abandon . . .” He smiled ironically. “Leave us?”

  “As soon as he can, sir. Morning at the latest.”

  “Very well. We all have a lot to do. Ensign Lara,” he said to the Mexican as he also rose from his chair, “I’ll give your offer of cooperation my utmost consideration. Perhaps I’ll have an answer by the time you return. I’m sure Captain Anson will have a recommendation by then as well. One way or another.”

  CHAPTER 7

  You don’t say much,” Alferez Ramon Lara cheerfully told Leonor. To her dismay, he’d chosen to fall back from where he’d been riding beside her father, pointing the way down the rough, rutted road they’d crossed earlier. The fact he was alone with them, having sent his companion to explain to his other men, didn’t make Leonor any easier around him. His threadbare uniform was different from that worn by the men who’d killed her mother and two brothers, and done . . . the things they had to her, but that didn’t make much difference either. It was close enough—he was close enough—that her skin crawled just to be around him. She couldn’t have rationally explained it any easier than her father could. She didn’t hate Mexicans any more than she could hate herself or her mother, or Sal Hernandez, whom she loved like a brother, but the uniform this Mexican wore made him a part of a separate, infinitely more barbaric species in her mind. She couldn’t help it.

  “You only have about twenty men,” Leonor scornfully snapped.

  Lara ignored her tone and shrugged. “You have a good eye for tracks. I have twenty-four.” He raised his voice so Anson and the riflemen could hear. “Some will be joining us momentarily.”

  Anson whirled his horse around, and he and Leonor already had their Patersons pointed at Lara’s face. He blinked, carefully keeping his hands away from his sword and pistol. “You Rangers have a reputation as killers, even down here. I admit I’m surprised to meet people who actually match the stories about them. But I told you about our reinforcements as a warning, not a threat. May I call my friends? There will only be four.” He smiled at Leonor. “We will then be equal in numbers.”

  Anson hesitated, then nodded. Lara took a wooden whistle from inside his tunic, hanging from his neck, and blew a single, piercing blast. Several moments passed before four horsemen appeared, approaching quickly but cautiously through the trees. To Leonor, only one—a sergeant—looked more like a soldier than the Rangers themselves. They acted like soldiers, however, two neatly attaching themselves to the back of the small column, while the other two positioned themselves on the flanks.

  “You see?” Lara said. “They are only here to help. They were not even close enough to watch us properly.”

  “We would’ve killed ’em if we saw ’em. You too,” Leonor hissed.

  Lara nodded somberly. “That’s why I told them to hold back until I signaled.”

  Anson holstered his revolver and spat, before fishing a cigar from his vest and putting it in his mouth. He didn’t light it. Turning, he started the column again. “I agreed there was safety in numbers, but not for what we’re doing.”

  Lara nodded as he urged his horse up alongside the Ranger. “But you also said we were already too many for stealth. Better to be safe. We don’t know if the savages at the village will be friendly, but we do know the monsters aren’t.” He lowered his voice and for the first time, sounded only like a young man, not a soldier. “I confess I’m afraid. Afraid of how we got here, of the monsters, the people and places we saw, and now I’m afraid of you Norte Americanos. All this has been too much for me, for my men, and most are not even real soldados, you know. Some have been at one time or another, but now? We’re more like . . . policia. Provincial police. The war has been very far away for the most part, and my men were glad not to be in it.” He shrugged again. “But we still had our duty, and so we were here. To be . . . taken up by whatever took us. I swear we know nothing more about how or why than you—and we’re just as afraid as you should be unless you’re insane.”

  Lara straightened in his saddle, and the soldier was back. “So. You didn’t kill us and we won’t kill you. We must work together against the things that will, at least until this pesadilla, this nightmare, is over.”

  Anson was nodding sligh
tly, a scowl on his face. “For now. Later, we’ll see.”

  Leonor caught his quick glance back at her and sent him a withering glare.

  They followed the road another two miles before Lara took them off it to the south. “The road looks little used—I wonder why?—but it leads right into the village. We came around it, crossing upstream after watching the savages from a little rise. The same rise is on this side of the stream, and we should see them from there as well.” The forest held a haze of wood smoke now and the echoing sounds of talking, chopping, and the occasional snap of large limbs being broken into firewood. They were very close. “We leave the horses here,” Lara said, and his sergeant detailed two men to hold theirs while two riflemen did the same for Anson. Six of them crept up the rise, finally reaching the crest. From there, they crawled on their bellies through dead, ferny leaves, working their way far enough to see down into a small, rather picturesque coastal valley sprawled around the village and the creek flowing through it.

  Leonor’s first impression was it was actually two villages, on both sides of the stream, because each roughly four- to six-acre collection of about a hundred hide-covered wickiup-like structures was enclosed within an impressive oval stockade of outward-leaning sharpened stakes six to eight feet long. There were little garden plots of vegetables beyond the stakes, but nothing that would attract large predators. The stream itself was spanned between them by a sturdy-looking, rough-hewn bridge, large enough to accommodate the two-wheeled box carts parked in abundance, as well as—and her mind reeled at this—the large collection of apparently docile draft animals that looked for all the world—