Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “Sir?”

  “Bring your men up behind at the double time, but send a detachment to secure that area where the forest protrudes on the beach. That’ll be our flank, understood? Bugler, I need your horse—no, stay atop her, just slide back. I need you as well.”

  As quickly as that, the specific battle plan Lewis longed to make earlier but couldn’t was formed on the fly. Mounting in front of the bugler, he dashed down on the beach ahead of the dragoons, followed by limbered guns behind only four horses apiece. Lieutenant Manley was pushing the rest of the men straight through the trees, and the ragged column they formed practically sprinted ahead through the brilliant white sand.

  “The colors, if you please,” Lewis called to one of the dragoons behind him. The dragoons, artillerymen, and riflemen had all been going to join existing units, so they had no colors of their own, but the dragoon quickly uncased a national flag, and the Stars and Stripes whipped around him on its short staff as he galloped forward. It was a stirring moment, but Lewis was entirely unprepared for the scene awaiting him when he led his ragged, gasping force around the point of the clump of trees and saw the raging mass of lizard monsters, only described to him before, surging forward against the pitiful barricade and desperate men behind it. The shock gave him pause, but only for an instant, and he urged the bugler’s horse forward to a point barely a hundred and fifty yards from the exposed enemy flank. Pulling back the reins, he cried, “Here, Lieutenant Olayne! Unlimber here, and load with double canister! Bugler, sound ‘Column into Line,’ then ‘Battery, Action Front!’ Over and over, do you hear?” He pointed at the beleaguered defenders. “You’re doing it for them, not us!”

  Fear of what lay before them must’ve gripped every man as they saw it, but they were too exhausted to flee even if they wanted to. Stopping to fight, even something so terrifying, actually came as a relief. Shock, fatigue, and inexperience combined to make Olayne’s scratch cannon crews take three times as long to unlimber, load, and aim their pieces as Lewis was accustomed to seeing, but the process was still complete in less than a minute. Some of the lizards were edging toward them, and arrows started coming from the trees, but a flurry of rifle and carbine fire discouraged that as Sergeant Hayne led dragoons and riflemen in clearing the little wooded peninsula. The rest of the dragoons dismounted and took a knee between the guns as their horses were led to the rear. Gasping, coughing artillerymen serving as infantry piled in behind them in little fifteen-yard-wide clumps, three ranks deep. This was all accomplished by the time all four 6pdrs were double-loaded with canister and the gunners raised their fists to signify their readiness. It was a small force, but it was lethal, and it came as a complete surprise.

  “Bugler, enough! I think they heard you,” shouted Lewis. “Now let them hear this! Battery, on my command . . . fire!”

  * * *

  “Down, girl!” Captain Anson shouted, forgetting to maintain the fiction of her gender and throwing his daughter to the sand. “Everybody down, behind the barricade!” he roared, dropping low himself. Not knowing why he’d order such a thing even if they heard him, few of the desperate defenders complied. But they hadn’t seen what he had. Hearing the bugle and braving the storm of spears arcing in, he’d quickly stepped up on an upright cask and gazed to the east—to see four beautiful, gleaming guns lined up from the trees to the water, with armed men hastily filling the spaces between them. Captain Cayce hadn’t waited—he wondered why he was surprised—but he knew exactly what the man would do now. One after another, great, fiery yellow-white clouds of smoke blossomed in front of the guns, followed by the thunderous roars and hundreds of quarter-pound balls screaming into the surging horde. Anson had been concerned because he knew, at this range, the giant shotgun blasts might disperse enough to overlap the breastworks—and so they did, killing or wounding several men. But the vast majority of the swarm of projectiles churned their way through the tightly packed lizards, down the length of the assault, completely unexpected. Each ball smashed through two, sometimes three warriors, sending a flurry of bone and shattered weapon fragments all around, killing or flaying others with secondary projectiles. The howitzers De Russy’s men had pulled from the wreck had done good service, but their crews were even greener than Cayce’s, and they’d never had a flank to savage. More to the point, they were just too slow at loading and firing, and the men around them couldn’t leave a gap for the crews to do their work. The sand made things worse. The howitzers could be loaded behind the line, but with the enemy so close, the infantrymen couldn’t afford to make a gap long enough to help heave them into battery, so they’d played almost no role in what all expected would be this final defense. The effect of Captain Cayce’s understrength battery of 6pdrs was utterly devastating, however, even before his men armed with muskets, rifles, and fast-shooting Hall carbines joined the slaughter.

  Leonor struggled to her feet as the attack immediately ground to a halt all along the line because even those shrieking, bewildered lizards thus far unaffected were trying to determine what happened, which direction to attack.

  “Have at ’em, damn you!” her father roared, even as the long-suffering infantry instinctively seized their opportunity and poured out a terrible fire. One of Lara’s men screamed and fell, an arrow through his upper chest, and more arrows rained down, hitting men and lizards alike.

  “They’ll focus on Cayce’s men, now,” Anson shouted at her, shoving his last empty pistol in his belt and unslinging his rifle. “His men are even more exposed, poor devils.” And that’s what Leonor thought was happening when the arrows suddenly stopped, but then she heard an entirely new sound, a different clamor of shouting and shrieking and high-pitched yipping in the trees, and for the first time that day she saw Indians run out on the beach.

  “They are joining the attack!” Lara called in dismay.

  “No,” she replied in growing wonder, “they’re runnin’ from somethin’!”

  It was true. Hundreds of red-painted men of every band she’d seen—and others—with black, white, now yellow and pink swirling highlights, surged into the open before they started taking heavy-shafted arrows through their bodies!

  “What in blazes . . . ?” Anson murmured, but it didn’t stop him shooting a lizard that turned with a cawing wail as if to flee down the beach to the west. Four more thunderclaps shook the air, from the left, and more canister, better aimed this time, swept through the center of the teetering, bleeding horde. It broke. As if one mind controlled them all, the terrible lizards turned to sprint for the west, ignoring the flashing muskets and hot lead still savaging them as they swept past the breastworks, survivors not paying it the slightest heed.

  Even before the front had cleared, however, it was plain another battle had commenced. Yelling and screeching, other Indians, unpainted and wearing leather tunics and leggings, were falling upon the painted men on the beach, trading arrowshots from mere yards and battling with flint-studded clubs and spears.

  “More Injuns!” bawled an exhausted soldier with a tone of desolation, raising his musket to aim at one of the newcomers.

  “Put that down!” snapped Sergeant Ulrich, voice raspy and raw. “Can’t you see they’re killin’ the ones that was helpin’ the bloody lizards? That puts ’em on our side, by my lights!”

  But the man Ulrich stopped wasn’t the only one still shooting. Spurred on by the sergeant’s obvious statement, Leonor prodded her father because he seemed almost mesmerized. He quickly shook it off and nodded. “Cease firing!” he shouted as loud as he could, dry throat turning the words to a croak. “Cease firing, damn you!” he managed a bit louder.

  Then sand was flying around galloping horses and Captain Lewis Cayce charged into view, saber raised, followed by Boogerbear, his color bearer, and a dozen dragoons. Several fired at the painted men while the bugler riding double with Lewis sounded “Cease Firing” at the corpse-covered barricade.

  Lewis is putting hi
mself between us and whoever these new Indians are! Leonor realized with astonishment, even though the fight wasn’t over. His men were doing it too. At least a hundred sky-blue-clad soldiers with bright yellow trim on their jackets pounded through the sand in a mob to join their leader, hoarsely yelling and pouring fire into their enemies as they arrived. The bugle went silent, and Lewis was having trouble controlling his horse as it squealed and danced among the corpses, an arrow in its left hindquarter.

  “In, boys, in!” came a strained cry Leonor recognized as Major Reed’s. She hadn’t seen him since the battle started, but he looked absolutely awful, waving his sword with his left hand, right arm in a bloody sling. “Back in the fight, my boys! That officer is my particular friend, and he just saved all our lives. You wouldn’t have him lose his, would you? Get after those painted devils before they escape! The painted ones only, mind. Leave the others alone! Use the bayonet!”

  A ragged cheer arose, venting fear, relief, and a thirst for revenge. Clumsily, bone-weary men heaved human and lizard bodies aside to crawl over the barricade and join comrades who’d so unexpectedly rescued them. Most can barely stand, Leonor thought, and they won’t be of any use. But maybe just the fact they’re coming will help. Her father grabbed his blood-caked saber, still standing in the sand, where he thrust it earlier, and joined the rush—such as it was. He was headed toward Lewis, now sitting still on his injured, frightened mount while arrows whipped past him. Leonor went the other way, followed by Barca, toward the arrow-bristling, one-sided fort. The scene behind was nightmarish, with scores of wounded lying on damp, salty sand. Each lapping wave was pink with blood as it drained back out to sea.

  “What’s happening? Have we lost?” asked a young woman, looking up from where she knelt by a groaning soldier. Her tense voice carried a strong, upper-class British accent, and Leonor thought she might even be very pretty if her dark blonde hair, face, and expensive beige gown weren’t so covered with blood and her green eyes so sunken with worry and fatigue. Leonor barely recognized Dr. Newlin and Reverend Harkin, both equally drenched and drained. Her estimation of the fat preacher rose a notch. Only a few others were standing, mostly walking wounded helping as best they could, but a dark-haired woman stood utterly motionless behind the camp stool on which Colonel De Russy sat. She didn’t look as bad as the busy one, but her face was ashen, eyes unseeing. Leonor wondered if she was actually dead on her feet. De Russy’s expression was much the same as he stared down at the bright sword laid across his lap. Still bearing his musket, Barca went to the colonel.

  Leonor looked back at the Englishwoman as she strode toward the picketed horses. “We ain’t lost,” she said, untying Arete and Colonel Fannin (both were still saddled, she noted with shame and annoyance), then spoke back over her shoulder, “Don’t know if we won, though either.” Without another word, she climbed on Colonel Fannin’s back and led the other horse out.

  CHAPTER 10

  The fighting was ending—slowly. Their lizard allies were abandoning the garishly painted Holcanos, and they were being assailed from the east, south, and now north as well, as their would-be victims boiled out of their works. They’d seen certain victory turn to crushing defeat so quickly that many fled with the lizards. But a couple hundred had been enveloped as three or four hundred Ocelomeh blocked their retreat. Fighting furiously, even maniacally, they killed attackers on all sides with their lethal bows. Lewis made a fine target and drew more than his share of rushed arrows, but he wasn’t pressing forward anymore and there were more immediate threats. It tore at him to see a fearful number of Ocelomeh and his own men fall in those last, frenzied moments. But the trapped Holcanos were outnumbered and already low on arrows. Many were just as quickly shot down by muskets and bows, and the dragoons’ Hall carbines finally came into their own, maintaining a rapid, murderous fire.

  Probably hoping to break through to the woods, the Holcanos rushed the Ocelomeh, and the air was filled with high-pitched, bloodcurdling cries as the bitter enemies battled hand to hand. Still only briefly, however. These Indians, on both sides, fought as savagely as any Lewis ever heard of, but they were equally realistic. As soon as the Holcanos knew escape was impossible, they started tossing their weapons and dropping submissively into the sand. This didn’t save them all. Many were ruthlessly butchered as they sat waiting, expecting it, and Lewis was horrified to see some of his own men, particularly the vengeful infantrymen, join the brutal slaughter with their bayonets.

  “Enough!” he bellowed. “Bugler, sound ‘Cease Firing’ and ‘Fall In.’ Keep those men back, Sergeant McNabb,” he ordered before the foot artillerymen could join the growing massacre. “Lieutenant Manley, take charge of those infantry. I want them in formation at once!” He glanced distastefully at the carnage. To his further dismay, the Ocelomeh—whom he’d imagined to be at least vaguely civilized—were enthusiastically hacking the heads off their victims.

  “Don’t you dare try to stop ’em, Lewis,” came the wheezing voice of Captain Anson, now standing beside Boogerbear’s horse. Lewis was surprised how glad he was to find the torn and blood-spattered Ranger alive.

  “Of course not,” Lewis grumbled reluctantly, finally slamming his unbloodied saber back in its scabbard, “but our men will have no part in it.”

  “Some already have,” Anson pointed out. A few men reluctantly joining the growing, panting line that Manley, McNabb, and now Lieutenant Burton were shoving together had tucked bleeding scalps into their white leather belts. Lewis felt his hackles rise. Apparently reading his mind, Boogerbear leaned over to him. “Not yet, sir, if you don’t mind a word of advice.”

  Lewis nodded. The big man was right. Still, it horrified him to see the scalps, as well as the Ocelomeh happily slaughtering helpless men and dancing with their grisly, dripping trophies.

  “It’s what they do, Lewis,” Anson said, still trying to catch his breath. “The others have been doing it—an’ worse—to us,” he added grimly.

  At that moment, Sal Hernandez pounded up alongside Justinian Olayne, who’d secured his guns and left them under the protection of their crews, Hayne’s men, and Holland’s sailors. Holland had stayed back as well. Father Orno was behind Hernandez and leaped off the horse before it completely stopped, already angrily haranguing the Ocelomeh in his curious Spanish. Some went on with what they were doing, but most stopped their capering at once, looking down, dropping heads in the sand.

  “A priest?!” Anson exclaimed, astonished, understanding much of what Orno was saying. “I’m surprised enough by the warlike friends you brought, but where’d you find that fiery little fella?”

  Before Lewis could reply, shocked and fearful muttering erupted in the ragged line of Americans that Manley and his helpers were shaping, and there was no telling what might’ve happened if it hadn’t been mixed with men who came with Lewis. For it was then that Warmaster Varaa-Choon and Koaar-Taak pushed through their warriors, shouting just as angrily as Father Orno. Large eyes glaring, fur frizzed, teeth bared, and long tails held erect behind them, their outlandish nature couldn’t have been displayed to more jarring effect. Though heads continued to be taken, Ocelomeh abruptly started roughly tying prisoners and herding them together instead of killing them. Captain Anson gaped, but Boogerbear raised his voice over those swelling in the ranks. “We know these fellas, so y’all just simmer down!”

  Lewis nodded his thanks and exhaled a long breath. “It’s quite a story, Captain Anson, and they’re only part of it—as I’m sure you know already. Now at least we can compare what we’ve learned separately so we’re better prepared for what comes next.” His eye caught Leonor riding up, leading his horse. His relief to see Arete was a given and he’d wished he had her many times through the night, but he’d also been more concerned about the girl than he’d allowed himself to realize. She looked terrible, of course: battered, bruised, and bloody, yet erect and defiant in the saddle. She was certainly not beaten. He found hims
elf drawn to her strength, particularly when he noted how quickly her surprised glance at the Mi-Anakka, still talking to their human warriors, turned to keen interest. She then met Lewis’s gaze squarely as she slid off Colonel Fannin and handed the reins to Anson. “Your horse, Father,” she said. “The day’s just started an’ I know you won’t rest, so get up on him before you drop.” Turning back to Lewis, she advanced with Arete’s reins. “I’m obliged for the loan of your fine animal, sir. I apologize for takin’ her into danger, though I reckon she got me out of it. As did you.”

  Lewis stepped down himself, flustered and unsure what to say. Looking up at the bugler, he told him, “Your horse needs attention. See she gets it.” Turning back to Leonor, he took the reins she offered. “Thank you. I’m glad we could both be of service.”

  Anson was looking at his daughter, his expression similar to when he first saw Varaa and Koaar. “You berate me, then give Lewis the handsomest speech I ever heard out o’ your mouth.” He shook his head.

  Lewis was looking around, really seeing many things for the first time. He noted that the helpless British ship was still out there and wondered if it rendered any aid with its few guns. Probably not, he decided. The wind wouldn’t have let her bring many to bear, and she would’ve had to shoot right over the defenders. Without proper gun’s crews aboard, that could’ve been disastrous. Then he realized the steamer Isidra was gone. Could she have developed an unstoppable leak and sunk? “Who’s in command here now?” he asked.

  “Good question,” Anson replied bitterly. “Isidra left, with Colonel Wicklow, his toadies, an’ most of Tiger’s passengers.”

  “Wicklow left?” Lewis asked, incredulously.