Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “We will all contribute equally,” Alcalde Ortiz pronounced, “and decide together where to fight.”

  “No,” Varaa now said emphatically, in both languages. “You’ve never told King Har-Kaaska or I how to defend your people, and we couldn’t do it if you did. Captain Cayce must lead our combined army and have the same free hand to fight where he thinks best.”

  “And who’ll determine what’s ‘equal’?” De Russy challenged. “Do you all have an equal number of men? Equal resources in food and raw materials?” He groped for a cigar in a pocket of his splendid dress coat and grimaced when he couldn’t find one. “You must decide this now, before we even attempt to do more.” Anson handed him one of his last cigars, and De Russy took it with thanks, but didn’t light it. “And once you decide, you must swear—swear before Father Orno—you’ll abide by your oaths until the Dominion’s driven back or destroyed.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Just as our men did today, you must ‘sign on’ for the ‘duration’ of the conflict to come.” He shook his head. “I’m not saying you can’t make changes from time to time, to deal with new things as they come along, but they must be agreed to by everyone, for the benefit of all.”

  Periz stepped closer to De Russy. Like his fellow alcaldes, his expression had turned chagrined as Varaa told him what the colonel said, but now it was firming with resolution. “Something like this, to build this Union and cooperate as you describe, might be impossible. In normal times it might take years to argue over.” He shook his head sadly. “But we are desperate,” he confessed. “In my hubris, I provoked Tranquilo and through him the Dominion.” He waved the denials of the others away and continued. “At worst, I only slightly accelerated the inevitable march of doom because we won’t abandon our faith and submit to the cruel tyranny of those such as Tranquilo, who’d be our masters if we let them.” He smiled sadly even as his strong face hardened. “So we don’t have years—perhaps not even months.” He turned his gaze to Lewis. “We will prepare to fight, and I beg you’ll show us how. I only pray we have time to gather sufficient men and resources to do it.” He turned back to De Russy. “Truro, Ortiz, and I—hopefully others—will remain alcaldes of our city-states, but will rely on you to advise us on how to coordinate our efforts. We have no choice but to trust you, and King Har-Kaaska, Varaa-Choon, Father Orno, and Reverend Harkin, to help us decide what’s fair, what’s equal, because it will be hard to do by ourselves.” He waved his hands a little nervously. “We’ve never done it before.”

  “Nonsense,” De Russy said with a smile. “The people you lead, from Uxmal, Pidra Blanca, Itzincab—they do like one another, I assume? They know and trade with one another. You can all bring different things to your alliance, the Union, and you can trade in those. I think you’ll find it’s not as difficult as you fear.”

  Harkin cleared his throat. “What of Don Discipo? I didn’t see him here. Will you tell him what you’ve decided?”

  Now Alcalde Ortiz almost wrung his hands. “We must, I suppose, as we have to tell all the alcaldes of the Yucatán. Our decision to fight will affect everyone, and they must decide for themselves,” he added earnestly.

  “Well,” Periz said abruptly, “even if Don Discipo has arrived by now, I see no need to tell him tonight. He’ll only object, and tonight’s a night for celebration, not angry debate!”

  Despite the profound change, upheaval, even genuine trauma of the conversation behind the ornately carved door (everyone, possibly De Russy in particular, felt like they’d been swept up by another terrible tempest), they rejoined the reception in a somewhat buoyant mood. Momentous things had been set in motion, but as is so often the case, everyone now felt an urgent determination to get on with it, no matter how fearful they were. Of the alcaldes, Ortiz still seemed a bit overwhelmed, but Periz and Truro immediately sought their wives and enthusiastically joined a boisterous dance. De Russy looked a little stunned, but pleased, and stayed back from the merriment with Father Orno and Reverend Harkin, huddled so intently no one dared approach. Lewis and Anson said nothing as they drifted back into the crowd with Lieutenant Burton and Alferez Lara close at hand. Leonor noticed them first, hanging around the periphery of women (and men) gathered around Samantha and Angelique. They were tirelessly answering questions about all sorts of things, from European high society to what people ate where they came from. When she saw the meeting break up, she made a beeline toward Meder and Hudgens. Lieutenant Burton intercepted her, however, as he strode toward the grand entrance.

  The two privates had been effectively cut out and hauled away from their charges by what were probably equally highborn women by local standards. Felix Meder was profoundly uncomfortable. Women, beautiful women, kept . . . touching him in shocking ways, practically caressing him like no one ever had, and he was blushing beet red. Hudgens seemed happy as could be, immersing himself in the attention and snagging brightly painted mugs of the strange beer whenever someone passed with a sloshing crate of them.

  “What’s the matter with you?!” Meder hissed loudly at his friend. “What was the last thing Captain Cayce told us?”

  “Bee-hayve!” Hudgens belted out.

  “Yes, and stay with Mistress Samantha and Mistress Angelique!”

  “Only until they was comfterble,” Hudgens countered, waving back where they came from. “Which they were an’ still are, best I can tell. Now we’re stayin’ close to other ladies!” He beamed happily at a lithe, dark-eyed beauty who seemed fascinated by the eagles and A’s embossed on his brass jacket buttons. She giggled when he showed her his equally shiny US beltplate. Meder gently pushed small, probing hands away from his own beltplate and twisted before the girl could grab it again. That only showed her the engraved eagle on the pommel of the short sword in the scabbard on Hudgens’s belt, and she gurgled with glee. “You call this behaving?” Meder almost roared. “We’re just private soldiers, consorting—much too close—with high-class ladies!”

  “We’re officers, far as these girls’re concerned. Why else would we be here?”

  “They’ll find out what we are,” Meder insisted. “Look, I bet Captain Cayce brought us here to see if he wanted to nominate us for corporals. You’ll ruin it!”

  Hudgens belched loudly, provoking a chorus of laughter. “Why the bloody hell would we want to be corporals?” he asked, genuinely amazed.

  “Damn, you’re drunk too.”

  “Gettin’ there, mate.”

  Meder felt someone grab his arm and pull. He figured it was another young woman and tried to shake the grip, but it only tightened, hard. He turned to see the tall young Ranger who looked like a girl, and, grabbing Hudgens’s arm, helped pull the artilleryman out of the protesting press as well. Hudgens was sputtering, but the Ranger jerked a nod toward the large entrance where Lieutenant Burton was waiting.

  “He wants you two,” the Ranger said, and Meder did a double take. The voice didn’t sound as deep as he remembered. “You sound . . .”

  “She’s a girl too, you goose wit.” Hudgens grinned. “Din’t you know? I s’pect ever-body does but you by now.” Hudgens laughed. “Girls ever-where! Different world er no, I’m in heaven!”

  “I’ll send you to heaven, you brainless Brit,” Leonor seethed. “C’mon.”

  Together they joined Lieutenant Burton, lit against the dark night outside. His eyes lingered on the swaying Hudgens, and he frowned. “How are you armed?” he asked quietly.

  That sharpened Meder’s attention and even seemed to steady Hudgens. “We have no firearms, sir. We left them with the horses.” He shrugged. “I have my saber, and Private Hudgens his short sword.”

  “And I have only my saber as well,” Burton murmured.

  “I have my pistols,” Leonor reported.

  “Fine. Excellent.”

  “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” Meder asked.

  Burton glanced at him. “Probably nothing. I just . . . It’s
very dark out there. I was going to relieve Lieutenant Olayne and thought you fellows had enjoyed yourself enough to let a few dragoons have some fun. . . . Anyway, standing here, I noticed the torches outside have been extinguished and I don’t see any of the horse holders anymore. You remember, the men in gray tunics.”

  Leonor nodded, squinting. “Right. I don’t see anything movin’ at all. It looks like some of the carriage drivers are still out there, and I think I see Lieutenant Olayne an’ the dragoons standin’ together as before, horses tied to the caisson. . . .” She shook her head. “But it’s so damn dark, it could be anybody.” She started to turn. “I better report to my fath—I mean, Captain Anson.”

  Burton stopped her. “Not yet.” He paused. “It’s probably nothing, and I don’t want to raise alarm for no reason, but listen to me carefully. If something is wrong, I don’t think it’s treachery on the part of our hosts.” He grimaced, and his voice turned deadly serious. “So be very careful who you kill. The meeting I attended”—he waved behind—“well . . . just trust me when I say it can’t be anything official. But the people here have terrible enemies, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try something.” A thought seemed to strike him. “I didn’t expect to see that revolting Tranquilo fellow here, but I detected surprise that Don Discipo was absent as well.” He drove a fist into his palm and looked at Leonor. “I’ve changed my mind. Please discreetly report to Captain Anson at once and discover what he wants to do. I’ll remain here with Private Hudgens and Private Meder and join them in a smoke.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, Lieutenant Olayne will just step up here and join us and we’ll find all this was for nothing. Go!”

  Samantha had finally captured Lewis and forced him to join her for a dance that looked more bizarre and humiliating than anything he’d ever attempted, but Anson and Leonor appeared beside him before the music began. “Trouble?” he asked, almost hopefully.

  “Maybe.”

  “Really, Captain Anson!” Samantha protested with a smile. “You two are like a pair of turtles! The lengths to which you’ll go to support each other’s social isolation . . .” She paused, realizing he was serious.

  “Stay here,” Lewis told her, looking around. “No, find Mistress Angelique and join Colonel De Russy and Reverend Harkin by the doorway we went through earlier. If . . . something happens, duck inside and bar the entrance until we come for you.

  “What is it?” he asked Anson as they weaved through startled dancers, collecting Alferez Lara and Varaa, before heading for Alcalde Periz. He and Koaar were engaged in a cheerful discussion with prominent local citizens.

  “Maybe nothin’,” Anson unconsciously parroted Burton, “but Leonor has a bad feelin’ I’ve learned to trust. Lieutenant Burton thinks things are too dark an’ quiet outside.”

  Varaa’s big eyes narrowed to slits. “There are people whose only purpose tonight was to ensure there was sufficient light for anyone to walk home or reach their carriages. Even to leave the city if they wish. It should never be ‘too dark and quiet.’ ”

  Together, they maneuvered Periz and Koaar away from their companions before Lewis asked lowly through Varaa, “Where are your guards? You do have guards here, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Periz replied a little hotly, looking around as if to point them out. Uxmal had a small defense force to secure and police the city, but the enormity of the task before them had left him extra sensitive to the fact his people had always relied so much on the Ocelomeh. He blinked with surprise. “There should be several here. I can’t imagine where they’ve gone.”

  Lewis looked significantly at Anson. “Sir,” he said, “I recommend you gather the other alcaldes and your wives and join Colonel De Russy and Father Orno. Something’s up.”

  “I’ll come with you!” Periz said forcefully.

  Lewis spoke once more through Varaa. “Let me be plain, sir. I smell Tranquilo in this. If something happens to me, others can take my place and train our army. If you fall . . . I doubt your arrangement with the other cities will hold. There’ll be no army, certainly not larger than I and the Ocelomeh, and perhaps Uxmal itself can field. All your people will die,” he ended bluntly. At the same time, Varaa was quickly telling Koaar to assemble the few Ocelomeh present and protect the alcaldes. Lewis turned to Leonor. “Tell Lieutenant Burton and the others to remain where they are, as casual as possible. Try to stop anyone attempting to leave. Strike up conversations, whatever you must do.”

  “I stay with Burton?” Leonor asked unhappily.

  “If you please. You and Captain Anson are the only ones with pistols.” Anson didn’t have his huge Walker Colts, but like his daughter, always carried his smaller Patersons in twin holsters at his side.

  “What do you have in mind?” Anson asked. If he was uncomfortable being separated from his daughter, he gave no sign. Lewis suspected his confidence in her far outweighed his concern.

  “You, Varaa, Lara, and myself will go out one of the opposite entrances and work our way around.”

  Lara frowned, resting his hand on his own saber hilt. “Enemies may be watching everywhere.”

  “True, but if there’re enough for that, we’re already finished, whatever we do. Let’s go.”

  Leonor darted away while they made for the narrow, high-arched opening closest to the chamber they’d been in, but on the opposite side of the building. Some partygoers seemed distressed as they pushed brusquely past, but more by disappointment that the strangers were ignoring their attempts to get their attention than any kind of fear. Just short of the archway, Anson drew one of his long-barreled pistols and stepped in front of Lewis. “The torches’re still lit on this side,” he murmured in surprise, glancing through the opening. “I’ll go first an’ hop to the left. Follow quick, if there’s no response!”

  There wasn’t one, and Lewis’s steel heel plates and Lara’s hobnails clacked on the stone patio as they jogged after the Ranger, sabers in hands. Varaa had drawn her basket-hilt rapier, but her feet made no sound. Pulling up at the corner of the building behind a massive column, they hesitated a moment. It was darker here, and their eyes needed to adjust.

  “Wait, what the devil?” Lewis growled, pointing east. The city inside the walls was already slightly elevated above the river valley surrounding it, and the mound under the foundation of the alcalde’s Audience Hall allowed a view over the wall surrounding the city, particularly to the north toward the bay, but also to the east, where the Detached Expeditionary Force was camped. A great column of orange-tinged smoke was rising above it, more than all the campfires could’ve made, and Lewis had heard the sound of bugles and rolling drums, along with the occasional thump of a musket.

  CHAPTER 20

  My God, what a mess!” Captain Marvin Beck exclaimed miserably, gazing out at the camp. The well-meaning locals had brought a wonderful feast and a tasty beer he’d even sampled himself, but some had also brought a powerful spirit called “octli.” That took Beck by surprise, though he supposed it shouldn’t have, and it spread faster than he could stop. He couldn’t blame the men for taking the stuff; it was freely given in abundance, and the homesick soldiers had good reason to forget things for awhile. But with a few clearly innocent exceptions, most of the locals who so quickly doled out the milky-looking fluid just as quickly vanished. Beck had experience with unscrupulous sutlers descending on army camps, selling things the men wanted or needed (including forbidden booze) at exorbitant prices, but these charged nothing before they disappeared. That gave Beck an uncomfortable feeling. It was as if they knew they were doing wrong and were deliberately trying to disrupt the camp and incapacitate as many men as they could with drink. Worse, now that so many of the big painted jugs of octli were on the loose, even the big Ranger named “Boogerbear” doubted they could do much but “ride it out.” Shutting it down “in the middle,” as it were, might only breed fierce resentment and make it harder to rebuild discipline after the out
burst of inebriation passed. “Besides,” Boogerbear had told him philosophically, “they had a hell of a day. This is better than ’em dwellin’ on their loss—on bein’ lost—not to mention what they got to look forward to; they may be in the army forever, fightin’ the god damned Doms.” That last part made sense. Tranquilo’s threats had circulated, and the Dominion sounded like an unimaginably barbarous enemy, liable to “make the Comanches sick to their stomachs,” as Boogerbear had put it.

  Still, if the revelry was hard to watch, it was even harder to control. Men whirled squealing women around in dances they didn’t know, accompanied by the scrape of fiddles and laughing and roaring in all directions. Tents collapsed and cook pots clattered when drunken soldiers crashed into them. Beck was reminded of an account he’d read of the wild fur trade fairs in the far Rocky Mountains. He didn’t remember who’d said it, but the description of “maleness gone berserk” had amused him at the time. It didn’t now.

  “The very idea of a . . . party like this in a military camp was absurd in the first place!” he added to Lieutenant Manley and Lieutenant Sime. Manley was doing his best to keep things under control and ensure some of their people remained sober, but Sime was no use at all, practically drunk all the time himself from the laudanum he consumed to excess to deaden the pain from the terrible wound to his face.

  “We’ve got some good NCOs, at least,” Manley consoled, “and not just those we brought with us. Some of the new ones are keeping hold of enough men to respond to emergencies.”

  “I hope so,” Beck groused, looking around. “Where did that damned Ranger go? I want you and him to gather larger details to intervene if any fights break out.”

  “Yes sir,” Manley said. “I think that’s what he went to do. Some men”—he blinked—“and Ocelomeh, for that matter, chose to hold a, um, ‘spiritual service’ rather than debauch themselves, over on the other side of the medical tents. I expect the Ranger’s there.”