The beachhead itself had contracted considerably, and the men had—finally—erected breastworks, largely from wreckage but also the very crates and barrels of supplies and provisions they’d earlier worked so hard to consolidate. There was no shooting at the moment, and for a brief instant Leonor feared the savages had already overrun the place. Most of the tents were down, and she saw few standing horses. Bodies were everywhere, almost black against the still-startling white of the sand, and in the rapidly deepening half-light, many of the dead looked . . . very strange. Then her attention was drawn to the movement of other figures throwing hundreds of shovelfuls of sand on the breastworks, like an equal number of ant lions clearing their little traps. Most reassuring of all, a t’gallant mast had been taken from the ship and erected so that two flags might stream over the men below. The highest was that of the United States, with its thirteen stripes and twenty-eight stars. Below was the predominantly blue flag of Pennsylvania, with its draft horses and coat of arms, cradled by red banners with golden letters naming the 3rd Volunteer Regiment. “They’re still there,” she murmured, relieved beyond words.
“For now,” her father agreed grimly. “We better join ’em durin’ the lull.”
But the “lull” was over. A hissing, animal roar rose from the shot-pocked tree line, and a black cloud of arrows soared over hundreds of shapes pouring out on the beach, surging like a wave at the makeshift breastworks. For an instant, Anson and his party paused, shaken by what they saw, for the attackers racing down on the American infantrymen weren’t the same as those pursuing them. They weren’t even people. To Leonor’s disbelieving eyes, they looked like smaller versions of the terrible dragon that killed Lieutenant Swain. A steadier volley than those they heard earlier slammed into the monsters, scything them down, and a pair of howitzers coughed double loads of canister into the raging mass amid horrible, piercing squeals.
Arrows swept among Anson’s party as well, making one of the horses scream with pain, and more enemies—human this time—swarmed out on the beach behind them. “To the breastworks!” Anson roared, pointing ahead, “right along the water’s edge!”
Wet sand fountained behind the horses as they pounded forward at the edge of the surf. “Take ’em in!” Anson shouted at Leonor as he peeled around to bring up the rear, firing his pistols at their pursuers. Torn between her desire to aid her father and the sensibility of his command, Leonor charged on, Alferez Lara beside her. Luckily, Anson’s shooting and the fact they were mounted and clearly fleeing pursuit prevented anyone behind the breastworks from firing at them as most jumped their horses right over the waist-high barricade. One of the Mexican horses balked and almost threw its man, but made the jump on a second try. That left only Anson and the other rifleman, whose horse had been mortally wounded and couldn’t go on. The man slid off the dying animal and started to run. Anson wheeled, pistols empty once more, urging Colonel Fannin into a sprint. The big horse leaped the barricade just as the dismounted rifleman reached it, and an anxious volley flashed and clattered at the men running up behind them. Several fell, and the rest loosed arrows before darting away.
But the monsters making the frontal assault still came, several hundred smashing into the hasty works with obsidian-tipped spears and jagged flint-studded clubs, thrusting and bashing on and around bristling bayonets and musket barrels. The men with those muskets were almost all new to combat, and none had ever faced things like these: furry/feathery nightmare monsters that looked and moved like voracious, predatory birds—with the jaws, teeth, claws, and tails of some kind of terrible lizard—painted and festooned as garishly as the men Leonor had already been fighting. And they attacked like the very devils they resembled, stabbing and clubbing, biting and slashing, using all their weapons with savage effect. But veterans or not, the Pennsylvania Volunteers and regular infantry that had joined them resisted the onslaught with surprising tenacity and ferocity, even while wailing in terror or cursing in high-pitched tones. They fought the monsters like they never would any mere human opponent because the things were devils in their eyes and they were defending their souls as much as their lives.
“Get those horses under cover!” roared a harried-looking, wide-eyed Major Reed, waving his sword to the rear, where an odd kind of tall, one-sided fort had been erected from timbers, gratings, and what appeared to be whole sections of the dead ship’s deck right near the water’s edge, obviously meant to give cover to animals, wounded, and the people tending them. With Isidra steaming away, Leonor was surprised to see the regular officer still here. “You!” Reed cried to a cluster of frightened young drummers. “Take these horses back with the others. We’ve already lost too many, and they’re terribly in the way!” Without pause, he turned to Alferez Lara. “Are you Mexican gentlemen here to fight with us? Very well. Some of you have lances, I see. Very useful here, if a bit long. Those with only musketoons can load behind the line and step up to fire—until a musket with a bayonet becomes available.” Lara merely nodded and passed the instructions to his men.
With the lizard creatures right on top of them, the flocks of arrows had ceased. For the moment, as long as the infantry at the breastworks held, it was relatively safe behind it. Regarding Anson and Leonor as they reloaded their weapons, Reed finally took a breath. “I see you encountered some trouble yourselves. I frankly never expected you to return.”
“I thought you’d gone when we saw only that British hulk still wallowin’ offshore,” Anson replied, noting the scowl on Reed’s flash-lit face, “an’ guessed we’d find this place overrun after we heard the fightin’.” He gestured at the barricade, where some of the men had gained enough of a respite to start loading and firing their muskets.
“Lieutenant Dwyer’s dragoons saved us,” Reed said. “They left shortly after you to scout a place for a fort and discovered the demons assembling. Demons and men,” he added meaningfully.
“We’ve met the men,” Leonor told him. “These . . . lizards’re somethin’ new.”
“In any event,” Reed continued, “though poor Lieutenant Dwyer was killed by an arrow, the rest of his party gave warning, and we were able to begin assembling defenses.” His scowl deepened. “Despite the fact no enemy ship seemed to threaten us, Colonel Wicklow was . . . alarmed by the nature of the threat reported and decided his first priority must be the safety of the civilians in his care.”
“He ran like a rabbit,” Leonor declared with contempt.
Reed glanced at her this time before continuing. “Neither I, nor the two admirable young ladies assisting Dr. Newlin, obeyed the colonel’s order to return to the ship. I was merely disobedient, refusing to abandon these men to their fate. The ladies believed the colonel’s excuse and stayed to extort his continued presence, hoping he’d consider their safety as well and never dreaming he’d actually leave them. They were disappointed. Even so, even in the face of this”—he waved his sword at the fighting, now murky with darkness and almost invisible except for stabbing flashes in the heavy smoke—“they’ve remained with Dr. Newlin, helping him deal with ghastly wounds.” He blinked. “The monsters, perhaps the men out there as well, apparently . . . snatch bites from their victims as opportunity allows.”
“What happened after that?” Anson asked impatiently.
“The first attack, by men, still caught us unprepared. They swept in and killed a good many fellows—especially the poor wounded—and chased off most of our horses. I think stealing horses was their primary aim, in fact”—he pointed his sword at the fighting, and his lips twisted—“to get them out before these things struck.”
Anson had finished pressing lead balls down on the powder charges he’d poured in the cylinder of his second Paterson and returned the loading tool, dangling from a watch chain, back into a vest pocket before putting the barrel back on and driving the wedge in place. Even as he methodically pinched five small percussion caps and pushed them on the ripples at the back of the cylinder, he
glanced back up at Reed. “So where do you want us?”
A howitzer boomed on the left, whistling canister swallowed by the shrieks of inhuman beasts, and Reed hesitated. “Here, if you please. Captain Beck of the First is a steady fellow and seems to have the left in hand. Colonel De Russy’s supposed to be in the center, but I fear he’s been somewhat . . . overwhelmed since the attack began. That fellow with him . . .”
“Reverend Harkin?” Leonor interrupted.
“Indeed. He was the first to declare our enemies ‘demons,’ and I fear that preyed heavily on Colonel De Russy’s mind. I’d like to return to the center myself.”
“Very well,” Anson agreed, and to Reed’s surprise, amid the fire and fury of battle, he chuckled. “Some of the Mexicans think we’re fightin’ demons too, in purgatory. I was startin’ to believe it myself, but . . . well, if they can still kill us, an’ we can kill them . . .” He shrugged. “Seems purgatory’d be harder to get out of than dyin’. But you tell De Russy when you see him, an’ that preacher too, even if that is where we are, we’re gonna have the place to ourselves before we’re done.” With that, he took his rifle from where it had been slung diagonally across his back and stepped up to join Alferez Lara behind the firing line.
Leonor glanced around, taking in the fight. The screaming and shooting and clashing of weapons reflecting back from the wall of trees was almost as loud as the Battle of Monterrey—with fewer cannon. Most surprising was how well these green infantrymen had stepped up to oppose such unexpectedly terrifying creatures. Then again, scared or not, with the sea at their back it wasn’t like they could run. I’m scared too, she acknowledged to herself. Not like a decade ago—I was only fourteen! But now I know how to fight. She tossed Reed a sardonic salute along with a bitter, cryptic smile. “Well,” she said, “devils, lizards—whatever they are—the worst they can do is kill us.” Unslinging her own rifle and checking the priming, she walked to join her father.
CHAPTER 8
A musket flashed and cracked in the darkness, followed by another, and edgy riflemen and artillerymen shouted to one another behind the palisade around the wreck of Mary Riggs. “Hold your fire, damn you!” came Sergeant McNabb’s distinctive roar, reinforced by the higher-pitched, more excited voices of Lieutenants Burton and Olayne.
“What the devil?” Lewis Cayce demanded loudly, standing with a wince. It seemed the longer he and Captain Holland sat listening to the muted booming and watching the pulsing light show of the distant battle—for battle it had to be—the worse his old wound ached.
“I reckon the lads’re jumpy, is all,” Holland reassured him as they strode past tense men in the direction of the shots.
“Of course they are,” Lewis replied irritably, then confessed, “so am I. They’re nervous as cats and tired nearly to death. And on top of everything else”—he jerked his thumb behind him—“they still can’t sleep because they’ve been watching somebody fight somebody ever since the sun went down. I can’t help thinking that’s where Captain Anson is. I thought I was more worried than I should be when his party didn’t return before dark. Now I expect I wasn’t worried enough.” They drew to a stop where Sergeant McNabb was holding two artillery privates by the button-down loops on their shoulders in front of Burton and Olayne. “These was them,” McNabb accused, “shootin’ at nothin’, without orders!”
“It wasn’t nothin’,” one of the men complained indignantly. “We seen things movin’!”
“Is this true?” Olayne asked the other man, who cut his eyes accusingly at his companion.
“It is. But I never would’a fired if he didn’t.”
“Did it occur to either of you that we have people out there?” Burton demanded hotly, voice rising again. “You might’ve shot Captain Anson!”
“They didn’t,” called another distinctly gruff voice not far off in the trees in the direction the men had fired, “but they nearly got me—ol’ Boogerbear, that is. Corporal Beeryman, I mean. I heard a ball zip past, not a foot from my head!”
“I bet it was mine,” one of the miscreants gloated to the other. Sergeant McNabb shook them both.
“Come on in,” Lewis said with relief, but there was no immediate response.
Finally, the big Ranger called in again. “Just one thing; Cap’n Anson an’ some o’ the others ain’t here, but there’s more of us than you’d expect. We picked up some strays, an’ some new . . . acquaintances along the way back. I’ll caution they might give a fella a start. If you soldiers’ll take your fingers off your triggers an’ angle your muskets up an’ away, why, we’d be obliged to come in.”
Mystified, Lewis gave the order. Just to be safe, Olayne had Sergeant McNabb call the men to attention and shoulder their arms. Shapes began to stir in the trees, the watchfires painting bizarre, sinister shadows beyond them, but the soldiers began to relax when the Rangers Boogerbear and Hernandez led the mounted men in, followed by two of the dragoons they left with, and two of the mounted riflemen. The latter rode double, carrying a pair of bandaged soldiers. Olayne gasped with relieved surprise when he recognized Felix Meder and Elijah Hudgens. “Those are men I sent to scout while you were indisposed, sir. I feared they were lost!” Behind them rode four infantrymen: a lieutenant in the usual dark blue single-breasted frock coat, and three privates wearing the same sky-blue wool as most everyone else except for the white herringbone trim on their jackets. Their presence seemed to prove Anson had at least made contact with one of the other ships. Lewis was anxious to talk to them—until he saw the dozen people and pair of . . . other beings . . . bringing up the rear, on foot.
His eyes took in what looked for all the world like nine Indians dressed remarkably like native hunters he’d seen as a youngster in Tennessee before the shameful Indian Removal Act displaced them westward. Just as much as the slavery issue, that turned Lewis against his father’s political party and president. But even the strange hunter/warriors couldn’t hold his attention away from the dark little man in the wide-brimmed hat and long, black, collarless frock coat closed with at least a dozen silver buttons. Most shocking of all, he was walking beside creatures shaped like men carrying muskets, but with fur and tails . . . and faces more feline than human. Lewis’s mind reeled.
“It’s a joke, a costume,” Coryon Burton blurted defensively as the closest soldiers started reacting as well. Some cried out in surprise or fear, others in anger. One even tried to bring his musket to bear before he was slammed to the ground by McNabb.
“No,” Lewis murmured as one of the creatures paused and regarded him intently with wide, blue eyes. “It’s no joke, no costume. But I’m damned if I know what it is.”
“ ‘It’ is Varaa-Choon,” said the creature in careful but bizarrely accented English, “warmaster to the great Har-Kaaska, Jaguar King to these faithful Ocelomeh—‘Jaguar Warriors’—accompanying me.” It gestured at the “Indians.” “We rescued your wounded men from marauding gaaraches, as well as some few survivors of another ship that fell to earth as yours did.” It nodded at the man in the frock and hat. “Those others were more grievously injured and have already been started on their journey to Father Orno’s city for treatment. All will be returned to you.”
Lewis literally couldn’t speak, and men were moving closer from all along the palisade, pushing and shoving to see while their mood grew more panicky by the moment. All the calm Lewis had worked so hard to establish had vanished like a puff of smoke. They’d endured too much: been swept from the sea to fall from the sky, been attacked by strange monsters, and now there were Indians and talking cats. It was just too much. They were afraid, and Lewis was uncomfortably aware that fearful men tend to kill things that scare them.
Boogerbear and Sal Hernandez, still mounted, grimly drew their pistols and slammed their horses into the growing mob, pushing it back, while the two bandaged men shouted to overcome the tumult. “It’s true, it’s true! They’re friends!” t
he wounded rifleman cried. “I’m Felix Meder! Some of you know me, for God’s sake! Private Hudgens and I found Xenophon, upside down and smashed, with lizard monsters—‘gaaraches’—swarming all over it. They came for us, and we’d have been done for if these ‘Ocelomeh’ didn’t save us!”
“That’s how it is,” Boogerbear roared. “Other critters, like lizardy Injins, were after us, the same that’re attackin’ the footslogger survivors of Commissary now—where we came from—an’ these . . . Jaguaristas drove ’em off.” His eyes latched onto Lewis. “They’re here to talk to you, Cap’n Lewis, an’ you better listen!”
“Get back to your posts, you buncha useless gawpers!” Sergeant McNabb bellowed, quickly (if less forcefully) echoed by other NCOs. Lieutenant Olayne, to his credit, had recovered even faster than Lewis and added his stern orders to those of the visiting infantry officer, and now even Captain Holland. Lewis, with a dull twinge of shame—What’s wrong with me, damn it?—finally raised his own voice. “Go back where you were, men. Build up the watchfires. Nothing’s changed our circumstances, and we must stay on guard. I’ll talk to these visitors and learn what I can. Return to your posts, do your duty, and you’ll soon know whatever I do.”
There was grumbling, but Captain Cayce had earned the men’s respect. Moreover, his actions and level-headed leadership since their arrival had earned him more hopeful trust than most of these inexperienced but hard-bitten soldiers ever bestowed on an officer. Perhaps that was inevitable; they were afraid and had to trust somebody, but Lewis had felt that fragile trust begin to grow through the day and played on it now, while promising himself not to abuse it. He would tell the men—all he could—when he knew it.
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