Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  Lewis’s tone had turned quite bitter, and he was surprised he’d revealed so much to this woman he hardly knew. She moved her borrowed horse closer to his. “It sounds as if you’ve given this more thought than you realized,” she observed.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted guardedly.

  “It also explains your quest for a cause. Yours, it seems, has always been your army. Fortunate for me”—she smiled—“and for the rest that you’re the sort of soldier who can command obedience and trust even under the . . . strangest circumstances. But armies require more than mutual affection to remain effective and stay together. Your soldiers aren’t all as devoted to the army as you and must have a reason to stay in it.”

  “I know. That’s exactly why the army needs a cause beyond itself.”

  She tilted her head toward the training men, specifically the Uxmalos and Ocelomeh. “Do you think protecting them will be enough? They use slaves, you know.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledged, “though we don’t yet know to what extent. As to the ones they took in battle . . .” He suddenly remembered a similar talk he’d had with Captain Holland. “I suppose it would’ve been worse to slaughter them.” He looked back at her. “But whether they’re worth protecting or not, we’ll soon find out. If they are, all the better, and we can focus on the cause of building a union to protect. If not . . .” He hesitated. “We must make them so.” He snorted wryly. “And that takes us back to the beginning of this delightful conversation. We can’t let bigotry form and fester in the ranks. It’ll be hard enough to stamp out what’s already there. Our people must embrace the Uxmalos and whoever joins them as their own, but they must embrace us as well.” He smiled. “That means unguarded references to ‘creatures’ should be avoided. At least until we find out whether we share a similar sense of humor.”

  They both laughed at that, which was good for them. “Speaking of ‘creatures’ in the manner you meant,” Lewis continued, “and a fairly delicate one, it seems, how is your friend Mistress Angelique?”

  “Much better,” Samantha said warmly. “I’m so relieved. She even mustered the strength to help Dr. Newlin shift the wounded to the ship.” She pursed her lips. “She’s careful to keep away from the Indians, however. I don’t know how she’ll react when she learns she’ll have to remain among them forever. She’s really very sweet,” she defended, “but easily frightened.”

  “Unlike you.”

  Samantha allowed a most unladylike snort. “Not unlike me at all, I assure you!”

  “Nor I,” Lewis agreed easily. They laughed together again.

  * * *

  —

  LEONOR WAS WITH her father, both on borrowed horses, while Boogerbear and Alferez Lara coached the mounted troops on how to deliver the hardest blow in a charge. Boogerbear had helped smash bands of Comanches like that, and as Leonor now knew, Lara had been a lancer. The dragoons pretended boredom when Boogerbear spoke, but Leonor could tell they were keenly interested. Dragoons and mounted riflemen were trained to fight from horseback, but both—riflemen in particular—were best at riding to the fight and then dismounting to engage. Lancers never dismounted, and their nine-foot lances were their primary weapons. Whether they admitted it or not, Americans respected and feared Mexican lancers. They’d never faced such weapons, dropping in unison and charging home, unintimidated.

  “Enough,” Anson said. “Lieutenant Burton, dismiss the battalion. Time to take the horses to the water casks and cool ’em down. Give ’em a good brushin’,” he reminded. “We think we’re startin’ a long march in the mornin’, but most of the horses’ll have to drag those damned heavy guns.” He looked at the Indians among his listeners. “We’ve done what we set out to, for now.”

  Burton and the men started leading horses to shade. Leonor caught the sound of distant laughter and looked across the beach to where Lewis and Samantha were in the shade overhanging the road. A flash of some unpleasant emotion lit her chest, and she was taken aback by it. She couldn’t deny feeling a kind of . . . proprietary protectiveness toward Lewis, especially after all he’d done for them—and watching him sleep so exhausted and helpless when he finally nearly collapsed. I got no call to be jealous, though, or mad, she told herself. It ain’t like he’s mine. She frowned. But he don’t belong to that fine lady, neither, she told herself a little triumphantly.

  The funny thing was, despite not expecting to—she’d never been around anyone like her—Leonor actually liked Samantha and didn’t know why her growing friendship with Lewis bothered her. She’s got no better chance with him than . . . well, than I have right now, she told herself. Lewis is set on his course, an’ from what I’ve seen, even a fine English lady can’t pull him off it till it’s done!

  She turned to tell her father they should take their horses to shade as well and caught him watching the pair with a strange expression. Seems he’s a little bothered too, she realized with a start. “C’mon, Father,” she said. When he looked at her with a blank expression, she added, “The horses,” and he finally nodded and smiled. “Of course.”

  * * *

  —

  TWO HOURS BEFORE dawn, the final tents were struck, breakfast served, fires put out, and the grand procession of four hundred Ocelomeh, nearly eleven hundred Uxmalos, their remaining sixty armabueys burdened with carts, the battery of 12pdrs, two sections of 6pdrs, and all the other American vehicles, three hundred and eleven Holcano captives, and six hundred and eighty-eight American soldiers set out on the long road to Uxmal. Shortly after the sun came up and the horsemen at the rear of the serpentine column were finally beginning to move, Tiger made sail, weighed her anchors, and beat out away from the shore. Exactly one week after their arrival on this different Earth, a week full of desperate fear and confusion, battle and hard toil, the little army Lewis had taken to calling the “Detached Expeditionary Force” unfurled its banners and marched into the new destiny he hoped it would make for itself.

  The Ocelomeh had pride of place in the lead—just as well, since there might still be clots of enemies, and they needed scouts familiar with the territory—but the remaining men of the 3rd Pennsylvania came next, followed by the artillery and most of its members still marching as infantry. The dismounted dragoons and riflemen were interspersed among all the units, and—today—the 1st US Infantry brought up the rear. Behind them came all the armabueys and their burdens and the gaggle of Uxmalos and captives. Captain Anson and the mounted men acted as a rear guard for the whole disorderly thing.

  As Lewis predicted, they were slowed to match the pace of the giant, lumbering armabueys, but it didn’t slow the infantry much. In fact, it was probably a godsend since they weren’t yet hardened to long marches. Besides, they were in no hurry. Uxmal was expecting them, and Alcalde Periz said they could take their time. Lewis only hoped the Uxmalos knew what they were expecting. But it was a leisurely march, and the men’s high spirits, lifted by moving again, doing something, slowly began to flag. None straggled or became unruly, but it was easy to see their excitement waning.

  Riding Arete at the head of the 3rd alongside De Russy, with Captain Beck and Lieutenant Manley walking behind, Lewis suddenly called out to some young drummers and fifers striding along, listlessly tapping out time on large drums with eagles painted on them. “Let’s hear the ‘Old 1812’!” That particular piece was always a favorite and one they hadn’t played for Alcalde Periz and Varaa-Choon. With considerably more enthusiasm than before, the drummers tapped louder, waiting for the fifers to retrieve and poise their instruments. At a slight nod, the drums thundered a flourish and the fifes joined in. Soon, so did musicians all along the column, and it seemed every man stepped a little brisker. Lewis smiled as Varaa-Choon came trotting back to join him, staring in wonder at the troops, listening to the music, seeing the effect it had.

  “By the Maker,” she cried, “that tune makes me want to go out and fight! I didn’t know you used music like
this, on the march!”

  Lewis was surprised. Of course they did. Everybody did—he thought. “Don’t the Doms?”

  “They use music,” Varaa said, nodding, “great loud horns. But not to entertain or inspire their people, only to intimidate others.” She turned to watch the marching men. “You must do this when you reach Uxmal,” she said as the tune finally came to an end.

  “We will,” Lewis assured. “But if you liked that, listen to this.” He raised his voice. “Who’s the best singer in the Third Pennsylvania?”

  “Sergeant Ulrich has a fine voice,” De Russy said.

  “Sergeant Ulrich!”

  “Sir?” the infantryman called from behind the musicians.

  “Can you lead the men in something they know?”

  “Yes sir. Patriotic or popular?”

  “Why don’t we save the patriotic airs for later?”

  “Yes sir.” Ulrich raised his voice. “ ‘Blue Juniata,’ boys!”

  And so they sang, two, three, eventually as many as five hundred voices thundering together to perform the jaunty, popular song about the Indian maiden Alfarata singing about her warrior lover as she canoed down the Juniata River. The men were happy, and Varaa-Choon was enthralled. So were the Ocelomeh, as Ixtla and Koaar rapidly, delightedly translated words that might’ve described their very own people. The Americans were perfectly willing to sing it again, and this time many Jaguar Warriors tried to join in.

  The road gradually veered from the coast as the scenic beach gave way to a swampy, mangrove-choked estuary they had to go around. There was a crossing point for the first of several small streams contributing to the marshy region, and the men, still in good spirits and not overtired, erected their first marching camp late that afternoon as the lowering sun sent gleaming streamers through the clouds. The forest had opened onto a broad, grassy, coastal plain only dotted with trees, but also holding clumps of bizarre, elephant-size beasts of several different kinds. Some were utterly massive, with long, whip-thin necks and tails. Others were comparatively squat, with protruding horns and bony frills covering their necks and shoulders. All seemed generally indifferent to their arrival, only moving a discreet distance away as the column slowly coiled in on itself and the men set up tents and threw up field fortifications that Lewis insisted upon. Higher spirits or not, no one complained or argued against the wisdom of that. Still, as their wonder at least briefly overcame their fear, the men seemed more adventurously interested in the giant creatures than Lewis was comfortable with. Worried they were more likely to go out and pester them than the other way around, he passed orders that only designated scouts and pickets should stray from camp, and they should always be accompanied by some of Varaa’s Jaguar Warriors until the threats around them were better understood.

  One of these pickets was Private Felix Meder, still sore from his wicked wounds, but feeling better than he would’ve expected. Obviously, judging by scars on many of the Ocelomeh, they were accustomed to dealing with such hurts, and the crusty old medicine man Father Orno turned him and Private Hudgens over to had fixed them up well enough to astonish Dr. Newlin. At present, Meder and another rifleman named Bill Todd were with a small squad of the 1st Infantry under a young lieutenant named Sime, going to inspect the brown, nearly stagnant water of the crossing the army would use the next day. The crossing looked straightforward, with a tended cut in the bristly mangrove-like trees along the bank where the rutted road dove under the water and out the other side, but the opaque water was very dark, and the air around it full of mosquitoes and a truly stupendous thunder of toads.

  Meder was . . . uncomfortable. They were only a couple hundred yards from the bustling, growing camp, but Lieutenant Sime led his party out without waiting for the Ocelomeh he was supposed to bring. Now he walked with his sword blade on his shoulder, occasionally swiping at flowers protruding from the grass.

  “Orders were to have a local with us,” one of Sime’s men reminded.

  “Captain Cayce’s acting like an old woman.” Sime scoffed. “Of course, he is only an artilleryman,” he allowed condescendingly. “We can get ourselves out of anything we get into”—he gestured around with his sword—“and it’s quite clear enough to see anything dangerous approaching. The trees along the water aren’t very thick at all, and otherwise there’s just this tall grass. We can see for miles.” His tone hardened, and he ended haughtily, “Besides, we don’t need those ridiculous savages leading us about by the hand.”

  Meder didn’t speak, but he disagreed. True, the woods weren’t as thick ahead, even beside the stream, but they were twisty mangroves, not tall trees. The gnarled roots provided sufficient hiding places for all sorts of frightening things. And the “grass” the lieutenant so casually dismissed stood as high as a man’s waist in places—more than adequate for predators to conceal themselves. Bill Todd had fought Seminoles in similar terrain and appeared to be thinking the same. Meder wouldn’t forget that when he and Elijah Hudgens were on their own, they nearly wound up eaten. If it hadn’t been for Varaa’s Ocelomeh, they would have, and he respected and appreciated the friendly native warriors. As for Captain Cayce, Meder’s estimation of his judgment was running fairly high. “Only an artilleryman” or not, Cayce had a better grasp of their situation than anyone else, especially this self-important little lieutenant, probably younger than everyone with him, Meder included. And Cayce respected and appreciated the Ocelomeh as well.

  “I think we ought to go back, sir,” he told Lieutenant Sime, turning in the grass with his rifle up, halfway to his shoulder. Bill Todd was doing the same. Other infantrymen, perhaps remembering fighting in Florida as well, had caught their caution, unslinging muskets and looking around.

  “Nonsense.” Sime scoffed. “We’re there. I want to see how deep the crossing is.” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want to sink any of Captain Cayce’s precious cannon!”

  “No sir,” murmured a burly corporal with dry blood from the monsters they’d fought still darkening the wool of his jacket. One thing about wool: even bloodstains would fade as they dried and flaked out like dust. “Them cannon saved our arse, they did,” he added.

  Sime scowled. “We did well enough without them before Major Reed got so banged about. Now he’s off on that loathsome British ship! And why didn’t Captain Beck take command? Whoever heard of artillery officers commanding infantry? Outrageous!”

  Breaking out of the grass onto the rocky dirt road again, Sime led his men down the gentle slope to the water. Standing at its edge amid the booming, gronking shrieks of amphibians, he peered intently at the dark, creeping surface, half-covered with floating leaves, twigs, and what looked like rough, greenish-brown spheres the size of bodark apples. He wrinkled his nose. “It smells, and I can’t see the bottom at all,” he said loud enough to be heard over the roaring creatures. “These blasted frogs!” he complained, looking around to spot one.

  “I b’leve they’re toads,” the corporal corrected, just as loud. “Sound like toads.”

  Sime stared at him. “You amaze me. Toads, frogs, what possible difference could it make?”

  “Frogs can be ate,” the corporal said. “If they was frogs, these sound big enough to make a meal on one!”

  Several men chuckled, but Sime frowned with distaste. “How revolting. I wouldn’t eat either of them. I wish I had a stick,” he said louder. “Someone find a stick to test the depth, or I’ll choose one of you to wade across.” He paused, leaning closer to the water, inspecting the knobby, floating balls more closely. “Good heavens!” he blurted. “It’s looking at me!”

  The water exploded all over him, and something about six feet long, glistening pink and shaped like a long feather, whipped up and slapped him in the face. He screamed in pain and terror as it jerked him forward, headfirst, toward a gaping set of dripping jaws rimmed with sharklike teeth rising from the stream beneath a pair of greenish-brown spheres that reveale
d huge, liquid yellow eyes concealed behind their lids. The corporal had snatched the lieutenant before the thing, easily as big as a flat, pebble-skinned calf, could pull him into those terrible jaws, and the young man screamed even louder. Another tongue—it had to be a tongue—shot out of the water to the right of the first and struck the corporal’s arm. He yelled as hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny barbs ripped his sleeve and slashed the flesh beneath, but didn’t let go of his officer.

  “It’s tearing my face off!” sobbed Sime in terrible agony.

  Felix fired his rifle down the first monster’s open mouth and the jaws clamped shut, spraying blood from its own tongue, which the jagged teeth nearly severed. Todd shot the other creature and then the infantrymen were firing as well. The first one—it did look like a giant toad—abruptly disappeared under the water, but its blood-streaked tongue was still pulling Sime. Snatching the officer’s sword (he’d dropped it when he was attacked), Meder hacked at the thing, each blow punctuated by another screech as barbs tugged at the young man’s cheek and jaw, both now flowing with blood. The tongue finally parted and the corporal and lieutenant fell back from the stream, dragging themselves up and away. Another tongue darted out, striking an infantryman’s musket and gouging grooves in the fore stock and barrel band. The man cursed and recovered his aim before firing. Dark water geysered with blood.