Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “For Vera Cruz,” Anson confirmed.

  “I doubt he’ll find what he’s looking for,” Lewis murmured, dark and cryptic. “Who does that leave?”

  “Colonel De Russy of the Third Pennsylvania.” Anson lowered his voice and added delicately, “Who seems pretty flexible about delegatin’ authority. There’s also a Major Reed, who deserted Wicklow to stay with the regular infantry that came ashore to make room in Isidra for the civilians. Says he knows you. He led well enough, an’ there’s no doubtin’ his courage, but he’s hurt pretty bad. So . . .” Anson shrugged.

  Lewis removed his wheel hat and mopped sweat on his brow, gazing at the awful aftermath of the fighting around the barricade. “Well, for the present . . .” He paused and took a small sip from his canteen before noticing the greedy stares of the others. Murmuring an apology, he passed the canteen to Leonor. “We brought a little water. Our . . . allies promised more.” He looked at Anson. “Your, ah, son is right. Just when what we need most is rest, we have more to do. We have to see to our defenses, of course, and this is a terrible place for that. And there’s the wounded. We already had more than we could care for at Mary Riggs. Now this!”

  “At least there’s a doctor here, an’ helpers,” Leonor said, remembering Newlin and the Englishwoman.

  “That’s good,” Lewis said, “but just as important, we have to get everything out of Commissary’s wreck, down to the last candle stub or musket ball that might’ve rolled into a crack.”

  Anson was looking questioningly at him. “Come,” Lewis said. “Now that they seem to have finished their . . . victory celebration, you need to meet our new friends.” He frowned. “I don’t know that we are friends, exactly, since they only helped us to ensure our weapons didn’t fall into their enemy’s hands. But we’re going to need them, as you’ll see, so we’d best make sure they don’t come to view us as a nuisance.”

  Before they could proceed, Varaa-Choon, Koaar-Taak, Father Orno, and several older Ocelomeh strode over to them. Varaa was grinning widely and immediately addressed the fear Lewis confessed as she clasped his arm behind the hand he’d extended under the assumption she meant to shake it. Lewis clasped her arm in return, near the elbow, and felt strong muscles under the fur.

  “Captain Cayce! Father Orno has proclaimed you saviors of his people! This was the greatest victory ever achieved over the debased Holcanos and vile Dominion, and your people—like the Ocelomeh have long been—are now the brothers and protectors of the Uxmalos!” She made that kakking chuckle. “We fought so well together one might almost think we had a plan beyond ‘you go that way, I’ll go this way’! When King Har-Kaaska hears of this, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to name you friends and brothers to the Ocelomeh as well!”

  Lewis smiled with relief, glancing at Anson, Leonor, and Lieutenant Olayne, who’d joined them. “We’re honored.” He proceeded to introduce those closest and saw Varaa’s large eyes appraising Leonor. Coughing slightly, he nodded behind Varaa at the trees where Ocelomeh wounded were being carried and tended. “I see you have wounded. We do as well—quite a few. We need to see to them all.”

  “Of course,” Varaa agreed, more somber. “Our healers will do all they can to help yours.” She caught his look of concern. “I understand better than you know how . . . awkward it might be while brothers learn one another. As I told you, my birth people have long experience with that.” She gazed at the line of soldiers, now silent, straining to hear, and raised her voice. “Besides, suffering is a common language, and we’ve suffered together as we fought together! Few things bind brothers more firmly than that.” She spoke to Lewis again. “Still, we’ll go slow. For now, let’s secure this area as best we can. We never linger on battlefields because the smell of blood draws so many monsters, but there’s never been a battle on such a scale in such a small place, and there’s no help for it in this case. Perhaps your great guns can discourage the bigger beasts, and my warriors who weren’t engaged will keep pushing the broken enemy. They already found a number of horses the Holcanos stole!”

  She looked at Father Orno. “But more Ocelomeh and Uxmalos should already be on the way. They’ll come over the next several days, and we’ll begin moving your people and supplies to Uxmal itself.”

  Filling with a growing relief, Lewis still couldn’t help glancing back at the wreck and the wallowing British ship. Varaa guessed his concern. “We’ll leave nothing for the Holcanos when they come sneaking back. I know the loss of your ships was tragic for you, but the salvage—just in iron!—is more valuable than you can imagine.” She gazed almost longingly out at HMS Tiger. “And that ship, of course . . . The Dominion navy is small, but more than sufficient to sink or capture it as it is. We can’t allow that. We’ll help repair it well enough to sail to Uxmal harbor before word gets back to the Doms, never fear.” Varaa looked around before clapping her hands together. “As you say, there’s much to do. Take us to meet the rest of your people so they can get over their first shock”—she blinked and kakked again—“and we’ll see what we can do to help.”

  Anson rushed to interject, “There’s a preacher named Harkin over there, a, ah, ‘priest’ with strict beliefs similar to those of a lot of our people,” he warned with a glance at Father Orno, who certainly looked and acted like a Jesuit. He looked back at Varaa. “And I’ve no idea what he’ll make of you,” he blurted. “There might be trouble.”

  Lewis frowned. There could be indeed. There were plenty of Catholics in the army, mostly Irish, but this “preacher” was doubtless Protestant. He’d have no love for what he might only see as a Catholic priest, and probably a nativist Jesuit.

  “Is he intelligent?” Varaa asked simply.

  Anson glanced at Lewis, then back at Varaa. “I guess. I don’t really know him.”

  “Does his faith require abject submission to its worldly representatives? Does it condone torture? Murder? Demand the ritualistic disfigurement and sacrifice of younglings?” Varaa demanded flatly, coldly.

  Taken aback, Anson angrily shook his head. “Of course not!”

  “Does yours?” Leonor interjected sharply, waving at the rough treatment of prisoners and ongoing beheadings.

  Varaa frowned. “A good point,” she conceded. “No one’s at their best after a battle, and all the Indios of this region take captives and trophies, but even if I understand their motivation—you know too little of our circumstances to judge—I’ve already chastised my Ocelomeh for their excess. And no, such things aren’t part of their faith. Particularly not of the Uxmalos.” Varaa looked back at Anson. “So if your ‘priest’ is capable of reason, he’ll recognize that any differences he has with Father Orno’s faith, that of the Ocelomeh, or even mine, for that matter, are insignificant compared to what the Doms would force on the world. Father Orno is very intelligent,” Varaa assured, “and if he can occasionally peel the misguided away from the Doms, he can gain the tolerance of any sensible, well-meaning man.”

  Anson arched his eyebrows at Lewis and pursed his lips.

  * * *

  —

  LEWIS BEGAN PASSING quiet orders to dazed-looking officers and NCOs as soon as they crossed the barricade. Meeting Major Andrew Reed, whom he did know very well, he briefly explained the situation to the pain- and surprise-addled officer, who was completely content to let Lewis take the lead for the present. Captain Holland came up with the caissons, water was distributed, and Reed echoed Lewis’s order that fatigue parties join the Ocelomeh in burying the Allied dead and moving everyone and everything up to the forest peninsula. There they’d cut trees, in and around it, to form a new defensive position. It was slightly elevated, there was shade, and most important, it would get them away from the enemy dead, which were simply too numerous to deal with. “Let the monsters have them and perhaps they’ll leave us alone,” Varaa-Choon had said, before suggesting they gather wood for fires as well.

  Dead tired as everyone w
as, the work commenced rapidly. These men had lost too many already injured friends in the first attack and were anxious to protect the rest, as well as themselves. More to the point, with the noisy fighting over, flocks of lizardbirds began returning to the copious carrion, and those who’d come with Lewis quickly assured the rest that lizardbirds were nothing compared to other things. More quickly than Lewis would’ve imagined, with American soldiers and Ocelomeh toiling together in somewhat uneasy harmony, the dead were buried (and in some cases even reunited with their proper heads), the new position was completed, and Captain Holland and his sailors, along with Olayne and some artillerymen, hauled loads of those too hurt to walk over to the peninsula on limbers and caissons. The guns had all been posted inside the new “fort.” Throughout all this, eyes were frequently drawn to HMS Tiger. They had a single, damaged boat, one of Commissary’s smaller ones that might be repaired, and Captain Holland had a couple of his men start on it, but Tiger wouldn’t send another despite frequent signals asking her to. Men were working on her, though not very many, and they seemed to be trying to jury-rig a bowsprit so she might hoist a headsail. It didn’t make sense. No one could really blame them for being too afraid to come ashore during the battle—no doubt they’d seen the nature of the enemy through their telescopes—but with the battle over, why stay away?

  As it turned out, Captain Anson was right to worry about how Reverend Harkin would react to the appearance of otherworldly beings in their midst. But he’d already seen the evil kind, so he was willing to reserve judgment on the Mi-Anakka who’d helped them. And as for Father Orno . . . Harkin had prepared himself for this expedition by acquiring a smattering of Spanish, so Father Orno, with the aid of Sal Hernandez, was able to convince him to do the same in all respects until he knew more. Besides, despite his admittedly pompous ways, Harkin was a dedicated servant of God who believed the requirements of the injured came before his own need to correct heathens, and he was simply too exhausted from his own attempts to help Dr. Newlin to press objections to any aid too strongly. Especially when it quickly became apparent the Ocelomeh healers not only really wanted to help, but Dr. Newlin himself was impressed by their skill. For the present, he’d accept that aid in the spirit it seemed to be meant while he rested and refortified himself for the theological battle to come.

  Now, as the shadows of late afternoon began to lengthen and Dr. Newlin supervised the placement of the last of his patients on a caisson drawn by Lieutenant Olayne and three other riders, Lewis watched Harkin as Newlin’s other equally tired and bloodstained helper (Reed told him her name was Samantha Wilde, daughter of the British vice-consul at Vera Cruz, of all things!) helped him remove a gore-stained apron. Both quickly washed themselves as best they could before joining the rest of the surviving officers and Ocelomeh leaders finally gathered around Colonel De Russy, the armed and bloody Barca, and the outwardly catatonic woman named Angelique Mercure, who hadn’t moved from behind them. She stirred at the sight of the Mi-Anakka, dead eyes coming to light with terror, but that was her only reaction.

  De Russy finally stirred as well, glancing up and around. His eyes also lit on Varaa-Choon and Koaar, but showed no surprise as he cleared his throat. “I must apologize,” he said dismally. “Apologize to you all. It distresses me profoundly to confess that I found myself personally . . . ill equipped to do anything about the events that have transpired. That doesn’t mean I’ve been unaware of them,” he hastily added, “I just simply never imagined . . .” He sighed, looking up at Lewis. “You’re Captain Cayce, are you not? Major Reed informed me that you and . . . our strange new friends are most responsible for our physical salvation. The initiative you took in consenting to an alliance with an unknown power”—he glanced at Varaa—“may have been unorthodox, but I see no basis for rebuke under the circumstances since that and your immediate forced march here with those same allies undoubtedly preserved our small force from a terrible extinction.” He looked at Anson. The Ranger had worked as hard as anyone, largely from his horse as Lewis had, but had found a moment to wash himself and his shirt in the surf. “And you, Captain Anson. In addition to the courage you displayed scouting the enemy camp and fighting back through his forces and leading an element of the defense, without the men you supplied to discover the enemy preparations for attack, as well as make contact with Warmaster Varaa-Choon’s Ocelomeh, Captain Lewis could never have known of our predicament in the first place. I commend you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Anson said sincerely, realizing what De Russy was going through. He was passing honest accolades in spite of finding himself lacking. Anson had to do the same. “I have to bring Alferez Lara an’ his men to your attention as well, sir,” he said. “We wouldn’t’ve made it back without ’em, an’ they fought alongside us throughout the action. I strongly recommend we invite ’em to join us indefinitely, with no requirement for surrender or parole.”

  “Of course,” De Russy agreed, peering at the youth in the Mexican uniform standing self-consciously beside Lieutenant Burton. “Do you still wish to join us, Alferez?” De Russy asked.

  “I believe it’s even more crucial to our mutual survival now than I did,” Lara said.

  “Very well.” De Russy looked at Reverend Harkin, then turned his gaze to Varaa-Choon. “I know nothing about you,” he said uncomfortably, “but I do know we’d all be dead without you and your warriors. Perhaps this truly is purgatory—a common sentiment just now, I understand—but I suppose even there it’s important to have friends.” He stood with a groan and sheathed his sword. “So, until I receive orders from a superior officer to the contrary, it’s my order that we be friends and you may rely on us to be of equal service to you as you were to us in our need.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Colonel De Russy,” Varaa-Choon said. Angelique Mercure jolted and made a little squeak at the sound of Varaa’s voice. Samantha Wilde went to her, possibly for the first time since the battle started, and the dark-haired girl almost melted against her.

  De Russy reluctantly turned back to face Lewis and spoke in a tone of brittle dignity. “I have one final order to give. In light of my current . . . inadequacies, and Major Reed’s dangerous wound—Dr. Newlin fears he may lose his arm and faces a lengthy incapacity at best—and in view of your own amply demonstrated leadership qualities, I hereby order you to assume military command of this combined American force upon these strange and unknown shores.”

  Lewis was staggered. He’d had enough of “overall” command, just of those forces stranded with Mary Riggs. He’d expected to assume more authority in their current situation, over all the artillery at least, and was prepared for that. But he’d been looking forward to dumping the rest back in someone else’s lap. On the other hand, De Russy was right. Lewis admired his integrity, but he was clearly unready for something like this. Reed should be . . . But no, Dr. Newlin’s already evacuated him to the new fort. I didn’t realize he was hurt that bad—but I didn’t stop doing what needed to be done long enough to check on him either, he realized with a touch of shame.

  That and his uncertainty must’ve shown on his bearded face, because De Russy’s expression turned sympathetic. “I’m a good politician, but was never a soldier before now. Turns out I’m not very good at that.” He straightened. “Not yet. I intend to learn at your side, Captain. Perhaps one day I can relieve you of the burden I’ve thrust upon you. Until then, our relations with the Ocelomeh and these other people—Uxmalos, was it?—will require the efforts of a diplomat—a politician, if you will—and I’ll focus my attention there while you do your best for our men. I promise not to interfere in any way, and yours will be the final say. Are we agreed?”

  Lewis caught Anson watching him, nodding almost imperceptibly, while Captain Holland was nodding outright with somewhat embarrassing enthusiasm. Then he saw Leonor’s expression, and it seemed as if she was pleading with him. Yes? No? He wondered which she meant.

  “Very well,
sir. If you think it’s best, then I agree,” he told De Russy.

  “Agree?” De Russy growled indignantly. “Of course you do. It was an order, after all, and I only asked you out of courtesy.” He sighed. “Now that command has been changed, what are your orders?”

  Lewis looked over the top of the one-sided fort and saw frightening shapes already moving among the enemy corpses. Only the caisson, a handful of dragoons, and a squad of infantry and Ocelomeh in equal numbers remained with them. Everyone else, American and Ocelomeh, had already gathered in the new fort up in the trees. Lights were there: lanterns and growing fires. Out to sea, HMS Tiger still wallowed, and Lewis wished he knew what was what with her. Holland, along with Lieutenant Burton, Private Buisine, and several sailors, would be putting off in the repaired boat after dark. Tiger was acting so strange, there was no telling how she’d receive visitors. Holland preferred to approach her as if she was hostile. That was risky, of course, but it was his show. Mine too, now, Lewis realized. From this point on, I’m responsible for everything and everyone. “It’s time to go,” he said at last. “What are your intentions, Captain Holland?”

  “We’ll shove off an’ lie in Commissary’s shadow until full dark, away from the feastin’ beasties an’ outa sight.” He shrugged. “Then we’ll head out an’ have a look.”

  “Be very careful,” Lewis warned, encompassing Burton and the others who’d go with his gaze. “We can’t spare you. Can’t spare anyone. Make for the lights of the new fort when you return.”

  Holland laughed. “Have no fear. I can’t spare me neither.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Won’t they hear us?” asked Coryon Burton as the sailors rowed the small boat across the choppy waves. Besides Captain Holland in the stern at the tiller, Burton and Private Buisine were the only ones not heaving an oar, and the noise they made, along with the slapping water, sounded terribly loud to him.