“The wind an’ surf’ll cover us,” Holland replied, talking almost normally. “The moon’s another hour away, an’ dark as it’s got, they won’t see us neither. That’s why we steered away before turnin’ back to ’em, so the campfires an’ lanterns onshore won’t backlight us.”
Burton looked down at the Hall carbine in his hands, then glanced at Buisine’s identical weapon. “I don’t know why we’re sneaking up on them. Why not simply announce ourselves?”
“We’ve been tryin’ that all day,” Holland said with a frustrated snort; then he sat glumly a moment while they drew closer to the dark ship. There was a feeble glow in the windows at the stern and only a single lantern on deck. No movement could be seen. “Just seemed the thing to do, strange as they’re behavin’,” Holland continued with a sigh. “Maybe it’s right, maybe not. I’ve always known what to do when my only concern was the sea. An’ believe me, she’s tricky an’ inscrutable as any foe. But after the last couple of days . . . my wits’re all adrift an’ I ain’t as bold as I was.” A hand brushed his craggy, stubbly cheeks. “Gettin’ old,” he murmured. “Too old for the choices Captain Cayce’ll face, an’ I don’t envy him,” he added cryptically. The ship was much closer, and he nodded ahead, warning his sailors, “Ease up on them oars, you pack o’ fishwives,” before addressing Burton in a lower voice. “Brits are odd folk. I fought ’em, you know. No people on earth as genteel an’ vicious at the very same time! Their man-o’-war’s men an’ soldiers’re terrible brave, as brave as any. Arrogant too, ’cause they think they own the world. That’s cost ’em from time to time. But because o’ that, an’ bein’ genteel, they’ll usually join a fight like we had today regardless that we don’t like each other. Women ashore should’a capped it. But genteel alone can be kin to shyness, an’ that makes me think there ain’t no man-o’-war’s men on that ship, nor soldiers neither. If there is, they ain’t been let to help by somebody who’s fit to shit with fear. Fear’s too unpredictable an’ I don’t ever trust it. So that begs the question: do we go gallopin’ an’ hallooin’ up to a ship full o’ fraidycats that likely have every gun stuffed to the muzzle with harmful objects, or do we put the sneak on ’em?”
They were under the guns now in any event, closing beneath the looming dark fo’c’sle.
“I suppose a case might be made either way,” Coryon whispered uncertainly—and was suddenly nearly pitched into the sea when something hit the boat. A large, pebbly-skinned creature rolled, flapping a webbed flipper as long as he was tall. Coryon saw a huge luminescent red eye behind long, tooth-studded jaws just before the thing sank from view.
“God save us!” Private Buisine cried out too loud. “There’s devils in the water as well!”
“Aye, by Jaysus!” shouted a sailor, slashing at the water where the thing went down with his oar. A musket flashed and cracked above them, launching a geyser of spray alongside.
“Belay that shootin’, above an’ below!” Holland roared as Coryon aimed at a smoky silhouette leaning over the fo’c’sle rail by the starboard cathead. “We’re from shore, come to check on your welfare, you gawpy looby!”
“Lord above!” came the excited response. “Beg pardon down there! Reckoned you was all dead, we did. Dead an’ ate up! I took you for another sea monster, primin’ to climb the side!”
“Well, we ain’t sea monsters, or all dead either, so stow that musket an’ throw down a line.”
The man above hesitated. “Mr. Semmes said we was to alert ’im for anythin’ unusual.”
“Then I’m sure he’s had a busy time,” Holland groused. The boat heaved again, and its crew cried out in alarm. “Hook on, Barry,” Holland told one of his sailors. “Throw down a line or we will be ate, an’ what use’ll we be to you then?” Holland shouted up.
Without another word exchanged, a Jacob’s ladder tumbled down the side of the ship and the men started up. They were met on the fo’c’sle by a roughly equal number of sailors, quickly gathering. All were armed and very nervous.
“I’m Semmes, first lieutenant of Tiger,” greeted a young-sounding man in shirtsleeves and weskit, holding a newly lighted lantern. He was taller than the rest and practically gaunt, but the light revealed large, intent eyes in a bony but boyish face. “Your presence would indicate there were survivors ashore.”
“Aye,” Holland returned bitterly, “no thanks to you. Despite my past differences with the Royal Navy, I’d expected better from a King’s ship!”
Semmes looked stricken. “Sir, I beg you . . . there was nothing we could do!” He gestured around at the perhaps dozen men now gathered. “We’re all there are, left merely as caretakers for the hulk until Captain Peese arranges a tow to fetch us.”
“Your captain left you?” Holland asked, unbelieving.
“Captain and owner,” Semmes corrected sourly. “Tiger is no King’s ship, sir. Captain Peese’s company bought her at auction when she was sold out of service.” He waved at the sailors again. “And you wrong these men. This crew was barely strong enough to sail her even before she was damaged, so many being dissatisfied with their treatment by Captain Peese that they jumped ship at Vera Cruz before we took on passengers and cargo.”
“You might have taken a hand with some of her guns,” Coryon Burton accused. Two cannon stood on either side of the fo’c’sle, securely lashed.
Semmes gaped at the young dragoon officer and actually laughed. “Aye, though her heavier guns are gone, she still bears twenty 12pdrs on the upper gun deck, and ten 6pdrs on the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle. But they haven’t been exercised since she left the service, and few of these men would know how to use them.” He glanced at Holland and shrugged. “Captain Peese only kept them, aye, and ensured the men kept them polished and painted, to make his passengers feel safe from pirates and savages. Your people on-shore seemed burdened enough without us dropping a few roundshot among them!”
Holland nodded, finally mollified. “Aye,” he agreed, “that might’ve done ’em in. It was very close.”
“But all is now well?” Semmes persisted. Holland frowned, looking at Tiger’s anxious sailors, then his own men, eyes lingering on Burton.
“Didn’t you see us signaling you?” Burton demanded.
Semmes looked down. “We did, but we couldn’t be quite certain who was signaling, could we?”
Holland pursed his weathered lips. “Perhaps not, from here,” he grudgingly allowed. “Well, with the help o’ . . . some locals, we won on the beach. But I reckon you saw the nature of our enemy? An’ you’ve seen the monster fish in the water. I’d be lyin’ if I told you ‘all’s well.’ An’ I wouldn’t count on your captain hirin’ a tow if I were you, or even him—or anyone in Isidra—returnin’. Small loss as far as Captain Peese goes, I say, an’ a few others as well,” he added with disgust. “But from what I learned from Father Orno—one o’ those locals I talked with durin’ the fightin’—what we call Vera Cruz is in the hands of the enemy. Even if Isidra tried to come back, without her sails, she ain’t got the coal to do it.”
“Unfortunate for you if the Mexicans expelled the Americans from their city,” Semmes agreed with false sympathy, “but it should make no difference to us.”
Holland blinked, then understood. “Oh, you’re wrong about that.” He pointed at the glittering little fires in the woods near the dark, distant beach. “We, they, are the only friends you got in the world. There are no ‘Mexicans’ in Vera Cruz. It’s controlled by the same people who stirred up the Indians and monsters we fought. Aye, they’ll come for you in time, an’ likely tow you away, but you’ll find it makes quite a difference when they do.” Forging ahead through the growing dismay, Holland waved at the beach again. “We’ll help you get sail on this ship, us an’ some of our new friends, an’ we’ll get you to a safe harbor. You’ll know more by then an’ can decide for yourselves what to do.”
* * *
Lewis c
lutched his aching side and grimaced, but the move was unnoticed in the darkness as he stood with Lieutenant Olayne, Varaa-Choon, and one of the older Ocelomeh warriors—a dark, brooding man named Ixtla. Captain Marvin Beck, senior infantry officer after Andrew Reed, was there as well. Together, near one of the 12pdr howitzers, its muzzle jutting past a fallen tree, they watched the shore below them seethe with indistinct shapes gorging on dead Grik and humans, or fighting for choice morsels. The sight, which left much to the imagination, thank God, was bad enough, but the rough tearing sounds and squishy slap of entrails being torn out, along with the chilling crunch of bones, was utterly revolting. Lewis had ordered everyone not on watch to sleep, but few could. Not yet.
Instead, and in spite of the horror all around them and the presence of a large number of very strange Indians, the forest peninsula seemed populated by ordinary soldiers going about quite ordinary tasks. Combined with the water salvaged from Commissary and more brought from Mary Riggs, there was plenty to last a few days, at least, and many had enjoyed their first hot meal since they were stranded. Lewis still worried about water. For such a green land, it seemed very dry. But Koaar assured him water would come soon. He assumed that meant the Uxmalos would bring it. So, soldiers and Ocelomeh, still a bit wary of each other but happy to be friends, ate and smoked each other’s pipes (the Ocelomeh had their own tobacco, harsh and strong but cut with herbs), and tried to learn to communicate. Other men, overtired and too keyed up to sleep, lounged around fires and smoked or chewed tobacco by themselves, thoughtfully cleaning their filthy weapons.
Musket flints were gently knapped until dull edges flaked away, leaving them sharp and ready to strike sparks again. More water was used to wash black fouling from bores grown so tight they’d become difficult to load. The usual hilarity ensued when a man used a tight wad of tow on his ramrod to compress the sludgy black water pooled in the breech of his gun to make it “piss” at an unsuspecting comrade by directing the vent and squirting a long jet of muck on his victim. Anyone who saw it exploded in laughter. It was a prank as old as firearms, and NCOs would normally jump on the men for doing it. There was always leniency for such things after a battle, however, and Lewis had instructed there be even more tonight. Let the men laugh if they could.
“Dr. Newlin,” he said as the spare man in spectacles approached, accompanied by someone else. “And Mistress Samantha,” he added, remembering the name of the woman who’d helped the doctor so heroically. She wore the same damaged gown as before, but the firelight revealed that her wet blonde hair and milky-white face and arms were clean. “We owe you both a huge debt.”
“It is we who are indebted to you, sir,” Samantha said with the slightest curtsey. Despite her appearance and fatigue, she managed to infuse the gesture with grace. “As Colonel De Russy said, without you and the fascinating Warmaster Varaa-Choon”—she beamed at the Mi-Anakka—“none of us would have survived.”
Lewis felt the same discomfort that always came over him around attractive women. He understood soldiers, but women had always mystified him. Worse, the few he’d courted and one he’d actually fallen for all ultimately proved to be vacuous, entitled, capricious creatures, more interested in an attachment to the Cayce name and land than to him. His father had wholeheartedly approved of them. Lewis knew not all women were like that and genuinely admired the wives of some of his friends—Major Reed’s, for example—but he’d tired of searching for one and devoted all his attention to the army. This Samantha Wilde was a different sort—as was Leonor, he quickly reminded himself. Both were brave, and . . . unselfishly useful and helpful (he couldn’t think of a better way to put it), while shunning convention to the extreme. That didn’t make him understand them, but he certainly respected them.
Before Lewis could compose a response to honor the Englishwoman’s contributions while making light of his own, Varaa jubilantly remarked, “Very true! The Ocelomeh and Captain Cayce saved you all, and we whipped the Holcano, Grik, and creeping Doms in the greatest fight in the memory of this continent.” Varaa gazed at Captain Beck. “I only regret we missed the first part.”
“So do I,” Beck wryly agreed. Of all the American officers, the dark-haired and relatively short but physically powerful Marvin Beck seemed to take the Ocelomeh, even the Mi-Anakka, most in stride. Lewis wondered if that was due to a childhood familiarity with peaceful Indians in the Wisconsin Territory, a generally friendly personality, or simple exhaustion. The latter, combined with relief, was probably the primary reason most of the men were so accepting, for now.
Lewis cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for all you’ve endured, ah . . .”
“ ‘Mistress Samantha’ will do nicely.”
“Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“A change of clothes would do very well, but I don’t suppose that’s possible. Mistress Angelique and I came ashore with nothing but what we were wearing. It never remotely occurred to us we’d be left behind.”
“Of course not,” said Olayne, anger in his voice. “But perhaps Captain Holland will secure your baggage,” he encouraged.
“Is Mistress Angelique quite well?” Lewis pressed.
Samantha pursed her lips. “She’s sleeping now, poor thing, but I believe she will recover. I never should’ve allowed her ashore with me. She’s French, you know, but our fathers are very close and involved in business together. Angelique and I have known each other since we were infants.” She stood straighter. “But I’m a soldier’s daughter. Tiger was dismasted but little hurt otherwise, and when I learned of the suffering ashore I had to offer my help—as I did after the Battle of Punniar, when Father helped defeat the Marathas,” she added proudly. “Poor Angelique had no such experience but refused to be left behind. That was before the other . . . unpleasantness began, of course,” she added darkly.
“I hope she feels better,” Lewis told her sincerely, then turned his attention to Dr. Newlin. “The wounded are comfortable?”
“Tolerably,” Newlin replied. “There are very many, and the army surgeons were murdered with the rest of the wounded we foolishly left so exposed.” Newlin sighed, then belatedly bowed his head to Varaa. “Father Orno and the healers you loaned me are wonderfully accomplished, and their remedies appear at least as efficacious as any I know. Particularly in terms of pain relief.” His puffy red eyes turned back to Lewis. “Your large, hairy Ranger friend told me Father Orno practically insisted I get some sleep.” He smiled. “My confidence in him and my meager stamina compel me to obey.” He cast an accusing glance at Samantha. “Very soon. My few remaining assistants should do the same. You really must rest, my dear.”
“I shall,” she assured, “but I couldn’t relax before expressing my gratitude to our rescuers—and possibly, finally, learning more about our predicament. Speculation is rampant, but the only details that agree came with the men Captain Cayce brought.” She turned her head to Varaa. “I assume you provided them?”
Varaa’s big eyes looked at Lewis, who frowned. A moment later, he shrugged. “Tell them. I didn’t tell the men everything, and only a few know all we’re capable of understanding: myself, Captain Holland, and now Captain Anson.” He shook his head, wincing at the pain in his side once again. “But that’s not enough. I need more people to know because I’ll need their help. Besides, it might almost be better if word came out slowly, in bits and pieces.” He took a deep breath, stretching the wound in his side. “So, if you promise to be discreet, informing only those who are responsible, I’d be grateful if Varaa-Choon would do her best to explain once more.” He looked at Newlin, Olayne, and Captain Beck. “To all of you. I warn you, though, the truth is likely even more frightening than you expect.”
“Oh dear,” Newlin said worriedly. “Very well. Lance the boil, I say.” Samantha said nothing, but looked at the Mi-Anakka expectantly. So did Lieutenant Olayne. Captain Beck merely nodded, sure he could cope. He was right, but only bar
ely. “Dear God,” he murmured when Varaa finished. “Preposterous!” sputtered Dr. Newlin. Olayne seemed downcast but unsurprised. “Amazing,” said Samantha, excited but clearly troubled. “You say we can’t go back—from wherever we are?”
“No way is known,” Varaa confirmed.
Samantha looked at Lewis and almost reached for him. Dropping her hand, she looked down instead. “Poor Father,” she murmured. “He’ll think I’m lost.”
“We are lost!” Beck exclaimed, almost loud enough to carry to the nearby artillerymen.
“Get hold of yourself, Captain!” Lewis hissed. “Yes, we’re lost to the world we knew, and for that reason we bear a heavier responsibility to our men than we ever have.” He was growing angry. “Why do you think I hesitated to take command, damn you? I already knew! But the only hope our people have is that we’ll stay strong, keep them together, keep them soldiers, and set an example of courage and confidence. Do you understand?”
Slowly, Captain Beck nodded.
“That will only work so long,” Newlin realized aloud. “The regulars will stay in line for a while. At least most will, as long as you keep them fed. But the volunteers . . . ? They signed up ‘for the duration,’ but their war is suddenly over. How will you ‘keep them soldiers’ without a legal right to do so, and without resorting to tyranny—which would only scatter them anyway?”
“That’s simple enough,” said Leonor, abruptly striding in among them. Lewis wondered how long she’d been listening but realized it didn’t matter. Her father would’ve told her if she, like Boogerbear, hadn’t already figured it out for herself. She stopped in front of Samantha, looking her up and down. “Fancy outfit,” she grudgingly told her. “Not very practical, though. I’d hate to try to fight in a getup like that.” Before Samantha could respond, Leonor turned to Lewis. “Simple,” she repeated. “First thing, we get everybody safe to that Uxmal place. Get set up an’ start everybody healin’. Keep ’em an army the whole time, though. Flags, drums, everything. Keep ’em proud an’ no lapse in discipline.” She looked at Captain Beck. “But break any junior officers an’ NCOs who live to lord it over fellas, an’ keep the discipline fair, with punishment fittin’ a crime for a change.”
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