Barca looked at Lewis again. “So, sir, though I do appreciate your intentions, I beg you’ll leave things as they are. Even mentioning my sense of obligation to the colonel might only embarrass and distress him.” He bit his lower lip. “He may not be . . . a professional soldier, but he is a staunch advocate for freedom and equality and an honorable man.”
Lewis nodded slowly. “Very well. If it’s as you say, I understand completely and apologize for intruding, nearly causing the very distress you’d like to avoid. I’m only glad I spoke to you about it first.”
CHAPTER 22
The long, grueling trek to Campeche had been a nightmare of painful shaking, rattling, fever-racked delirium, biting flies and other insects, and the constant, nauseating stench of the armabuey’s gaseous bowels. Capitan Arevalo lost all track of time, even who he was, and suffering and misery became the norm. He couldn’t remember life without it. In more lucid moments he tried to console himself that this was good and he was surely accumulating sufficient grace to enter paradise in the underworld when life finally fled him, but he couldn’t entirely abandon an impious yearning for the torment to end, no matter where his soul went. And very slowly, by degrees, he did begin to feel better, becoming aware of the continuing ministrations of the Holcano healer—she still sucked on his wound, but now only to remove the maggots she applied from time to time.
She gave him water then, from a reeking distended bladder, but he drank it with thanks. He was then allowed some dried fish to chew. By the end of that day he was sufficiently aware of his surroundings to note that the warrior chief Kisin was in about the same shape as he: weak and miserable, but alive and recovering. They began to talk, and it wasn’t long before he heard what sounded like a disappointed snort and saw the terrifying visage of General Soor peering in at them. He said something guttural to Kisin, probably in his own language, and the warrior grunted.
“What?” Arevalo asked, voice scratchy.
Kisin accepted water as well, cleared his throat, and said, “You may remember I predicted a hungry march. General Soor had been given to understand we’d both reached the point of recovery or death and was disappointed not to get at least one of us. I expect he and his few warriors will have to eat one of their own now.”
Arevalo shuddered, and Kisin regarded him, eyes still bright with a touch of fever. His leg stank, but not from mortification, only the rotting blood in the filthy bandage around it. “It’s their way. Ours too as a last resort, but the Blood Lizards need to eat more than we do and can’t go as long without. Won’t go as long.” He gestured forward with his head. “But it shouldn’t be long now, since we’ll be in Campeche by morning.”
“Not Nautla?” Arevalo asked, astonished. He’d obviously been delirious longer than he knew, and they’d come almost two hundred and fifty miles. At least twenty days, probably more. He tried to reconcile that, looking at himself, and saw how wretchedly wasted he was. Still, the healers must have fed him something. . . . He almost retched again at the mental image of a filthy bosom thrust in his face.
“There was nothing in Nautla,” Kisin replied. “I was awake when we passed through. Even the wild garaaches were gone—either already eaten by refugees or fled.” He sighed and lay back. “Of course, we may rejoin the rest of my people only to find them starving in Campeche as well. The city has been abandoned these many, many years.”
“Sacked by marauders from the sea, was it not?” Arevalo murmured.
“So some legends tell.”
The next day found Kisin’s dreary column of Holcanos and Concha Blood Lizards plodding out of the forest into the bleak landscape around the ancient city of Campeche. The road was bordered by rotting tree stumps and bramble-clotted fields once planted with crops. The city itself looked much like Uxmal, even Nautla, only considerably larger than both. Yet it was like a moldering, weed-choked corpse compared to Uxmal, worse even than Nautla, which the Holcanos themselves had ravaged more recently. There was life there, however, and more activity than Arevalo expected. They were in fact met by a squadron of Dominion lancers almost at once, its officer brusquely ordering the Holcanos and their “demons” to a dejected camp established for them south of the old city walls until Arevalo managed to rise from the box of the cart.
“I am Capitan Arevalo, envoy and advisor to Chief Kisin, war leader of all the Holcanos—who lies wounded here beside me,” he gasped. “Take us to your commandante at once, see to our medical needs, and”—he paused—“feed all those with us, even the demons.”
The lancer commander, only a subteniente, gaped at the filthy, bloody-bandaged Arevalo, wearing no uniform, but coming from within this mass of heretics and animals, his voice had to be genuine. “I . . . Of course, Capitan. Please follow me. Sergento!” he called behind. “Race ahead and inform General Agon we’re coming.” He looked at the Holcanos with distaste—he pretended not to even see General Soor and his warriors. “And make sure rations are prepared and the surgeon is called.”
* * *
—
LYING ON CLEAN sheets on a cot in a hospital tent, Capitan Arevalo believed he was as close to paradise as he’d ever be, especially with the terrible filth washed off him, his thirst quenched, a small meal in his shrunken belly, and his wound properly cleaned and bandaged. He’d also just completed his report to the squat, powerfully built, and surprisingly solicitous General Agon, who’d begun by expressing his admiration for Arevalo’s father, whom he’d served under as a junior officer, and went on to assure him no disgrace for the Holcano and demon defeat could touch him. He’d had no command and wasn’t even at the battle, had actually been wounded protecting the leader of one of His Supreme Holiness’s allies. All that and the fact he’d survived his ordeal was perfect proof he had “singular value.” What made Arevalo happiest of all was that he needn’t go on to the Holy City, where His Supreme Holiness might question that value, because all he could report—and much more—was already known well enough that decisive steps were being taken.
Sitting on a stool by Arevalo’s bed, General Agon stoked a reed-stemmed clay pipe and lit it from a candle flame. “My Eastern Brigada of the Army of God is garrisoned in Mazumiapan, as you know. Its usual complement of four thousand men was almost up to strength, preparing to march west through the Holy City and join the Gran Cruzada against the Imperial invaders in Las Californias.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, I was ordered northeast and told to strip every garrison along the way to Campeche, which I was to occupy and prepare for the arrival of more troops coming with Blood Cardinal Don Frutos himself.”
Arevalo blinked. “I know these—you called them ‘Americanos’? Obviously, I know they’re dangerous, but I never dreamed they’d excite such concern. Has the Gran Cruzada been delayed?”
General Agon shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. There are a hundred and forty thousand men at Tepic, preparing to move on to join those already gathered at Culican.” Culican was the northwesternmost outpost of “civilization” in the Holy Dominion. Agon frowned. “Many will die crossing the terrible desert before they ever meet the enemy, so more men are always wanted, but my brigada and whatever Don Frutos brings will make little difference.” He puffed his pipe. “And that difference can be made up elsewhere. In any event, from what I’ve learned about these Americanos, we’re wise to deal with them before their half a thousand is joined by more heretic rebels.”
“If I may ask, how did you learn so much about them?”
Agon looked evasive for the first time. “Dispatches directly from the Holy City, at first. I assume spies somehow reported. And one of the Blood Priests lurking in the region, in a teetering city called Puebla Arboras, arrived here even before I did.” He frowned. “His name is Tranquilo, and he claims to have seen these Americanos, coming straight from Uxmal itself.” He shrugged. “And Puebla Arboras—Cayal first—is where your Holcano friends must go.” He said that whimsically so Arev
alo wouldn’t be offended, but his expression grew troubled. “Don Frutos specifically sent that he wants all the Holcanos prepared for a simultaneous campaign against the eastern heretic cities as we march up the coast and wants no heretics, pagans—or beasts, of course—with his army when it moves.”
“Kisin and his band would be useful scouts,” Arevalo said guardedly.
“Yes,” Agon said simply before going on. “Don Frutos has never been in the wilderness and doesn’t understand the importance of local guides. I believe he most fears the enemy will infiltrate spies among them. Ridiculous, of course. Holcanos and Ocelomeh can practically smell each other, but there it is.” He raised a brow at Arevalo. “One reason you’ll be so useful to me. You’ve been where we’re going.”
A sick attendant came in to check Arevalo, and General Agon stood. “One last thing. God clearly values you as a soldier or you wouldn’t be alive. And aside from your being the son of a prominent Dominion officer I held in the highest regard, I do value your experience. But stay clear of Don Frutos if you can. He’s a great favorite of the Blood Priests, who gain ever more influence.” He frowned. “Their methods grow more erratic and unpredictable. I suppose they think, combined with their power, that makes them more fearsome—and it does—but they value examples above all else . . . even making them of soldiers from prominent families.”
CHAPTER 23
JULY 1, 1847
We’ll never make ’em proper soldiers,” groused the newly minted Second Lieutenant Elijah Hudgens to the equally “new” Second Lieutenant Felix Meder, glaring at excited young men in the 1st Uxmal who’d stacked their muskets after morning infantry drill on the “parade ground” where the Americans had camped on the east side of Uxmal two months before. These particular fellows were actually from Pidra Blanca—they called themselves “Los Pidros”—and would hopefully form the foundation for a regiment of their own someday. But watching them undergo their first day of training on a section of two 6pdrs from Hudgens’s C Battery wasn’t very encouraging.
Captain Cayce still required every soldier in the army they were building to have at least some proficiency with every weapon on the battlefield, being particularly insistent that infantrymen also be artillerymen and vice versa. Even mounted troops had to be familiarized, though the requirement was slightly relaxed for them. The dragoons, mounted riflemen, and Rangers—all six hundred so far—had their own horses now, as did a growing number of lancers Alferez, now Teniente, Lara was recruiting. Alcaldes Periz, Truro, and Ortiz were still purchasing or impressing as many of the strangely built, actually rather handsomely colored native animals as they could, but the problem remained that even though wild ones weren’t uncommon in more open country, there was no real “horse culture” in the Yucatán. The animals were difficult to domesticate and keep in a land where their training and confinement made them vulnerable to myriad relentless predators, sadly affecting their ability to thrive and multiply in rural captivity. That made them precious, and the army’s insatiable greed for them caused the first real friction with affluent locals until the alcalde’s representatives emphasized the stark choice between inconvenience or impalement by the Doms.
So just teaching recruits to ride and training (or retraining) horses took a great deal of the mounted troopers’ time, and the material they had to work with varied. Some horses had been the spirited mounts of the rich, but most had never been ridden at all, taught only to pull elaborate carriages and treated like pets. The latter took readily to artillery traces, though teaming them and actually making them work to pull heavy guns was difficult—as was the continued transformation of the foot artillery into a more mobile force. Fortunately, most artillerymen only had to know how to stay on a horse, or hold on to the handles of ammunition limber chests. They’d have to get better eventually, learning to direct the lead horses of the teams, but they could absorb that knowledge from those who already knew how at the same rate as the animals.
In any event, considering everything the American soldiers had been through, all the work there was, and that few had much more real experience than the animals and men they’d been tasked with training, it had been a stressful and exhausting time. Barracks had been built inside the walls of the city after the half-burned camp was abandoned and men with special skills in civilian life were recruited from the ranks and teamed with local businesspeople and craftsmen to create a logistical infrastructure. Others went out to the various mines, frontier croplands, and timber-cutting missions (all considered hazardous undertakings and largely performed by captive or convict labor) to see things for themselves and report what resources they could draw upon. Some with mercantile or industrial backgrounds coordinated with their local counterparts to discover the depth of supply the “Three Cities Alliance”—as some called it now—could realistically provide, and what they could do to broaden and increase it. All that seemed to be going fairly well, if slower than most would prefer, but slowest of all, and somewhat surprisingly under the circumstances, was the growth of the army.
Second Lieutenant Felix Meder (who’d hoped he and his friend were being groomed as corporals, only to be elected officers by the men and quickly confirmed by Cayce and De Russy) was now in charge of all their two hundred riflemen. Still attached to Olayne’s artillery for the present, they’d recovered enough rifles from the dead and the wrecks to eventually double Felix’s force. The same was true in respect to infantry muskets. The 1st Artillery and 1st and 3rd Infantry had lost more than half their men in the . . . event that brought them here and the battle that followed, but most of their weapons were serviceable or repairable. They could theoretically double their numbers with those alone. But Mary Riggs, Xenophon, and particularly Commissary carried more than a thousand new, unissued muskets combined, so just with what they already had, they should be able to field almost 3,500 well-armed troops. The artillery was in similar shape. There’d been the batteries of 6pdrs in Mary Riggs, 12pdr howitzers in Commissary, and another mixed battery of four 6pdrs and two heavy 12pdr field guns in Xenophon’s overturned hulk. The potential force was impressive. Unfortunately, much of the ammunition in the wrecked ships had been ruined, and they were only now getting real numbers of recruits from the Allied cities. At present, counting those they’d already trained—primarily Ocelomeh and a few Uxmalos—they might put a thousand men in the field, with enough ammunition for several hard fights.
Felix was sitting on his very own horse beside Elijah Hudgens and felt compelled to respond to his friend. “They’re coming along,” he defended half-heartedly. “It’s their first day on your guns, for God’s sake. The Uxmalos who were with us on the march have settled in well enough,” he encouraged, then added, to lighten his friend’s mood, “Besides, it takes longer to make good artillery than infantry.”
“But they ain’t even good infantry yet, are they?” Elijah Hudgens countered with growing anger. “What’re them dumb oxen teachin’ ’em before sendin’ ’em to us? Button whizzin’? Hunt the slipper?” The Pidros were jabbering like children, practically crawling on the guns, while red-faced Corporals Dodd and Petty roared at them to take the positions they’d been shown or rejoin their formations.
Felix chuckled at his friend, but when he spoke his voice was serious. “I feel like I’m not really one to talk, but compared to the Ocelomeh, they really are like a bunch of kids when it comes to war.” He gestured toward the rowdy recruits. “These people work hard in an unforgiving land with more dangers than we ever could’ve imagined before we came, but they know those dangers well enough to avoid them pretty well.” He shrugged. “There’s strikingly little disease, and people live well, especially in the cities. But war is foreign to them, like a lark. Like it was for me when I enlisted,” Felix confessed. “The Ocelomeh have seen to that, and they’ve good reason to be proud of their efforts. But protecting these people from their enemies so well for so long has left them unprepared for what they must do now.”
&nb
sp; “Aye,” Elijah Hudgens agreed, a little self-consciously. “I reckon yer right. Doesn’t help that we’re all learnin’ as we go along as well, an’ many o’ the new NCOs’re barely proficient at what they’re tryin’ ta teach. They ain’t got the confidence experience gives ’em ta spew the kind o’ authority other men see without thinkin’, without even fully understandin’ what they’re sayin’.”
Felix knew what Elijah meant and hoped that elusive spark would ignite in him one day, but officers and NCOs like that were rare. We’re lucky to have a few, he thought, but we need more. Fortunately, a mere moment later, one such man approached.
“What in blazes is goin’ on here?” demanded a thunderous voice, and Felix saw Sergeant McNabb’s stocky shape stalking over from another, much more organized-looking section of guns and crews nearby. “If they weren’t so much better behaved, I’d think they’d loosed a pack o’ bloody goats on the field an’ lured ’em on these beautiful guns by hidin’ flowers down the bores.” He glared at a young man with short black hair, little more than a boy, holding the spokes at the top of one of the fifty-seven-inch wheels just under the fellow, standing on the hub and bouncing up and down. “P’raps I’m mistaken. Are ye a goat, boy?”
“No . . . no se, Sar-jant.”
McNabb snatched the kid off the wheel and effortlessly flung him sprawling in the tall, lush grass. “Well, I do say, an’ don’t be talkin’ back to me!” He scowled, looking around while a longer-serving Uxmalo translated for him and the Pidros quickly fell back from the guns and formed a line at stiff attention. So they do know how to act, to a degree, Felix thought. He also saw McNabb’s eyes linger longest on the two corporals. “Yer all disgraces to the glorious uniforms ye wear,” he went on. “Uniforms Captain Cayce insisted yer people provide ye, knowin’ ye gotta look like soldiers if ye hope ta be one.” He shook his head, looking at the fine, lightweight, sky-blue copies of the uniform he wore. The only apparent differences, for now, were the wide-brimmed straw hats and heavy moccasins instead of boots or shoes. “Wasted effort by Captain Cayce, not tae mention them that wove an’ cut that cloth, then sewed it up fer ye,” McNabb pronounced. “Ye might look a bit like soldiers, but ye act no more like ’em than a bunch o’ bleedin’ blue birdies!”
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