Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  The strange music stopped and so did they, both only then noticing they’d abandoned their efforts to follow the steps and finished by simply swaying back and forth—much closer together than they started. Lewis cleared his throat and gently urged her back in the direction of her father, who’d just finished dancing with Samantha. Leonor saw her father’s expression, still wide-eyed and torn between satisfaction for her, no doubt, and something between worry and outrage directed at Lewis at the sight of her flushing face and how the dance ended for them.

  Lewis cleared his throat again. “Perhaps you’d like the next dance with your daughter?” he asked Anson a little awkwardly.

  “Damn right,” the older man growled, then relented a little. “I’ve never had the pleasure before.” He glanced between Lewis and Samantha. “I’ve the two of you to thank for it now.”

  * * *

  No attack by snooping Dom ships or treachery by Blood Priests and their servants marred the reception for King Har-Kaaska. And it was as much for the Americans again as him, since that first event was so tragically interrupted. More important, all the people in the grand Audience Hall knew each other better now, and knew—with various degrees of commitment—they were in this together. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Building the army was a nuisance, of course, but so were the Holcanos and Grik. And making an army, supplying it, and sending enough sons to fill its ranks was less a nuisance than the Dominion would be if it came to Uxmal unopposed. Most people accepted that, intellectually, especially since the fighting that would constitute that “opposition” remained an abstract concept to peaceful people who couldn’t imagine the ghastly nature of the modern war their new American friends were preparing to wage.

  King Haar-Kaaska knew. Mi-Anakka and other species (mostly descendants of other transplanted humans), who’d built a civilization in the land he and his companions originally came from, had reached near military parity with what he saw of the Americans. They’d fought bloody wars of unification, then fallen into a terrible civil war that consumed vast armies across his homeland and slaughtered a generation. Since then, they’d fought to keep what he considered “real” Grik at arm’s length, and he could trace almost every tactical and technological innovation leading to how the Americans were equipped and trained by remembering his own history and how others who came to this world influenced his people. Unless there’d been another “crossover” there while he was here, he thought the Americans might be less than half a century “ahead” of what he knew. But what they’d done with those few decades!

  Now standing back from the press with Varaa beside him and a mug of wine in his hand, he watched the American “warmaster” Lewis Cayce awkwardly, even laughingly attempt to dance with a young woman in a sweeping blue gown amidst a swirl of others (quite a few wearing new dresses patterned after the foreign ladies), and the locally beloved music Har-Kaaska always found jarring. Varaa had told him the woman with Cayce was also a warrior, and she seemed oddly pleased by the pairing. “Both need to enjoy themselves very badly,” she’d said. It was clear to Har-Kaaska that Varaa liked them, and he wondered how objective she’d remain.

  “I suppose our human countrymen would find her beautiful, though she seems quite unconscious of it. But a warrior?” Har-Kaaska snorted. “Her appalling inability to master the few simple steps of the dance doesn’t recommend her agility in battle.”

  “She didn’t grow up in Caesar’s court as you did, my king,” Varaa admonished, “and this is the first time she’s ever tried to dance, or even worn a dress. I understand that she moves quite well in battle.”

  Har-Kaaska changed the subject. “Her dress wouldn’t be out of place at court,” he granted, “which is to be expected, I suppose.” One of the most recent “crossovers” to his land had been British sailors and passengers off a topsail schooner driven ashore in the terrible storm that swept her to this world in 1811. The ship brought people, yet another language, better weapons, technology, and a lovely design for fine, swift ships—as well as clothing styles still considered the height of fashion when Har-Kaaska and his Mi-Anakka companions last saw their homeland. It also brought news of Americans, who largely sprang from but weren’t British anymore. Caesar added this information to the rest he and his predecessors had gleaned across the ages, trying as always to make sense of the mishmash of other histories touching his land. “And there are other similarities between their home and ours,” Har-Kaaska continued. “Their infantry still relies on flintlocks, for example, though their newer weapons fired by ‘percussion caps’ are interesting.”

  “If they can create the facilities to make them here, they represent a real improvement,” Varaa agreed. “They lend themselves well to repeating weapons, like revolving pistols, and work in virtually any weather.”

  “A formidable advantage,” Har-Kaaska murmured in his own tongue when one of Alcalde Periz’s servants brought a large ceramic jug to replenish the visitors’ mugs, “and yet another thing we can’t allow to fall into the hands of the Doms. Still, I’m even more troubled by the steam-powered ship Isidra you described, though not for the same reasons as Captain Cayce. He worries only about her people, but must be made to fear that the ship may be in the possession of the enemy even more.”

  Har-Kaaska’s people knew the might and utility of steam and great engines were used to power cranes and other industrial and agricultural machines. No engine they’d ever made to move a vehicle had been as efficient as a large draft animal, however, and how could anything move a ship faster than the wind? But the advantage of a steamship became obvious to Har-Kaaska at once after Varaa told him she’d steamed away after losing her masts.

  “If the Doms have her, they’ll copy her,” he pressed. “Eventually, they’ll cross the sea and threaten our homeland.” He glanced at Varaa. “Encourage Captain Cayce to discover what happened to her. If the Doms have her, he must destroy her or get her back.” He blinked intensity. “Never forget, as much as I share your passion for our Ocelomeh and helping the people here against the Doms, my main purpose in staying here, probably forever, is to keep the Doms from our home. You and I accomplish this by remaining a thorn in their side, but Captain Cayce has brought us a spear.”

  “I was wondering why you decided to give the Americans so much support, essentially putting nearly all our Ocelomeh under Cayce’s command.”

  “Nearly all—over time,” Har-Kaaska reminded.

  “Either way, you must think he’ll beat the Doms.”

  Har-Kaaska looked at Varaa, wondering how honest he should be. Finally, he blinked resignation and sighed. “You forget that I was a prisoner of the Doms?” Varaa shook her head, but Har-Kaaska continued, displaying his fingers where nail-claws once were. “The Blood Priests hadn’t even risen yet, making them even worse, but their ordinary priests didn’t even attempt to torture me into ‘converting’ to their twisted faith because I was merely an animal.” He wiggled his fingers. “They only did this—and other things—to make me safer to handle, to display in a cage. And because they enjoyed it,” he added. “But I saw the Dominion as far as the Great Valley of Mexico before I escaped, and even before the Blood Priests,” he stressed, “I realized we could kill nine in ten of the ‘faithful,’ but the one who remained would spring back to preach their vile celebration of suffering—citing the very suffering we inflicted on them as proof of their perverted dogma!”

  The music had ended, and he watched Captain Cayce escort the young woman from the area set aside for dancers and noted the girl’s face was flushed bright red. Not from fatigue, if Varaa’s right about her. Perhaps embarrassment? he wondered. “No,” he continued, “I don’t think Captain Cayce—any of us—will win. No one we know of on this continent can, any more than our people could ever truly defeat the real Grik infesting most of Africaa.” His tail whipped aggressively behind him. “But he and his people have quality weapons and a strong core of military competence to buil
d around. Most important, as you reported, they’re idealistic and determined and have found a cause they believe in. With that combination”—he blinked deep sadness—“I think they—and we—will fight very hard and come closer to destroying the Doms than I ever imagined possible.” He sighed. “But there are simply too many of them, and their beliefs spread like a disease. As many as we kill, they’ll only make more. We’ll convulse the Dominion and bleed it half to death,” he said with unusual savagery, “and from what you told me of these American officers, the battle on the beach, and what little I’ve already observed of Captain Cayce, the Doms will face a war like they never imagined . . . but I expect we’ll lose in the end.” He blinked determination. “Not before we set them back a very long time, however, and that’s ‘cause’ enough for me!”

  * * *

  A different, livelier tune erupted, performed by some of De Russy’s Pennsylvanians and a fiddler from the 1st Artillery. There were exclamations of appreciation as the locals tried to adapt their own steps to the unfamiliar rhythm.

  Leonor held back when Anson tried to drag her into it. “I can’t dance to that!” she exclaimed.

  “Why not? You did fine before,” Anson grumped, then relented with a grin. “Besides, nobody else here knows how to do it either!”

  Lewis stood watching with Samantha Wilde. Strangely, he wasn’t uncomfortable around her anymore and hadn’t been for some time. Not only was he grateful for her attention while he was sick; her other aid to Dr. Newlin and the strong, positive influence she’d cultivated with the Uxmalo citizenry and especially Alcaldesa Periz had solidified his admiration. Being so busy with the army, he hadn’t even considered courting her, but despite an occasional air of flightiness too much like other women he’d known—he now understood she affected for her own amusement—he liked her quite a lot. Now, he was suddenly surprised to feel her hand on his arm.

  “You’re a good man, Captain”—she smiled—“I mean Major Cayce.”

  “My father—sister too—who both aspired to our version of aristocracy—your level of society, I suppose,” he bantered lightly, “would’ve disagreed.”

  “For all the wrong reasons, no doubt,” Samantha assured. “But there’s no ‘level’ between us. Certainly not here. My father was—is—a soldier, just as you are.” She smiled. “As Captain Anson is.”

  “Perhaps.” Lewis looked at her and quirked his lips upward. “I take it you’re growing fond of our daring Ranger? It’s obvious he’s fond of you.” He grinned. “Surely you’ve noticed the occasional . . . keen expression on his wooly face. Ever since we met you on the beach.”

  Samantha laughed. “Somewhat surprisingly, considering the frequent contentiousness between our two countries, I’ve grown very fond of all your officers.” She looked at him intently. “You as well.” She opened a bone-framed oriental fan and waved it briskly. Another of her affectations, though somewhat appropriate in the warmth of the Audience Hall. “Quite amazing, is it not? Just as well, because under the circumstances Mistress Angelique and I may have no choice but to attach ourselves to one of you. We’re not fighters, you see, and we need protection. There’s no great rush, but that’s the way it is.” She pointed with her fan. “I believe dear Angelique has already ensnared Colonel De Russy, poor fellow. He had a wife back home, but seems to have quite forgotten her.”

  Lewis shifted uncomfortably, pondering that. De Russy and his wife hadn’t been parted by death, so any formal match between him and Angelique would certainly constitute bigamy. But Varaa was adamant none of them would ever see “home” again and De Russy’s wife would be informed her husband had been lost at sea. He’d be “dead” to her, eventually even declared so legally, so what was De Russy to do? Some of the men had taken that aspect of their stranding worse than others, and there’d even been a couple of suicides. Most seemed to approach their situation more philosophically, however. Like De Russy. Lewis decided not to worry about it now, though he doubted the young Frenchwoman would consent to any “informal” match. And De Russy would know that would set a bad example when it came to relations between their troops and the locals.

  Lewis condensed all that thought into a noncommittal “Hmm,” then asked lightly, “And you? Who have you decided to ‘ensnare’? You’ll have quite a wide selection, you know.”

  Samantha arched her eyebrows in amused surprise. “Really, how could you ask such a thing?” She grinned. “I’ll confess I had set my heart on either you or Captain Anson from the start. With all respect to Colonel De Russy, he was quite helpless during the fight on the beach. So was dear Angelique, for that matter. Both are adapting quickly and doing rather well, but action doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’re well suited for each other. I, on the other hand, like a man with more fire in his belly.” She snapped her fan closed. “I shall have to settle for the good Ranger—though I shouldn’t call it ‘settling.’ His years and rough, ‘wooly’ shell aside, he’d be quite a catch anywhere.”

  Lewis nodded with mock disappointment, still not sure how seriously to take all this. “May I ask what took me out of consideration?”

  Samantha looked at him, astonished. “Good heavens, don’t you know?” She pointed her fan at Leonor, now laughing like a girl with her father. Something about the scene almost broke Lewis’s composure. “Her heart is set on you, sir. Just look what one dance with you has done!” Samantha shook her head. “And unlike me, she is a fighter. A very lethal one! No, Major Cayce, you may be a fine man and a ‘good catch’ as well, but I won’t fight her for you. I told you before, Angelique and I must find husbands for security. Opposing that girl would make it all pointless, don’t you agree?”

  Lewis was thunderstruck, unable to reply. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. He saw Lieutenant Felix Meder purposefully working his way through the crowd in his direction and, after excusing himself, stepped to meet him. De Russy was near, and he turned as well. “What is it?” Lewis demanded.

  “Trouble, sir. Bad. At one of the cantinas the off-duty men were given leave to visit.”

  Lewis nodded. He’d actually expected it sooner—just as he’d prepared himself to come down so hard there’d never be “bad” trouble again. He’d promised that capricious punishment would cease, but consequences for serious breaches of the Articles of War would be swift and terrible. “Very well,” he said.

  “What’re you doing?” De Russy asked loudly over the music. Lewis explained and said he was going with Felix.

  De Russy shook his head. “Lieutenant Meder, do you see Major Reed over there? He’s standing with Alcalde Periz and his wife, and that large woman in the purple . . . whatever it is.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Inform him what’s happened. He’ll take care of it.”

  Felix looked at Lewis, surprised. “You’re not coming, sir?”

  Lewis glanced back at Leonor as the exuberant dance ended. The girl and her father were both breathing hard, eyes alight. The transformation in both was astounding. Then he saw Teniente Lara tentatively approach Leonor and begin to speak. After a moment, to Lewis’s amazement, Leonor gave a reluctant nod, and the pair waited patiently—at a wary distance—for the next piece of music. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  “He is not,” De Russy said, turning his gaze on Lewis, who was looking at him again. “I may never be qualified to lead men in battle,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I understand things like this. Reed is your executive officer, and you must rely on him as more than just your commander of infantry. Get that in both your heads right away.” He turned back to Felix. “You’ll recall that Major Cayce’s evening was interrupted the last time he was here.” He smiled. “I believe it’s Major Reed’s turn. Have him inform Major Cayce if he can’t handle whatever has occurred, but I don’t expect that’ll be the case.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Bathed, hair combed, uniforms brushed, and buttons and beltplates polished
, Hanny Cox, Apo Tuin, “Preacher Mac” McDonough, and several other members of the 3rd Pennsylvania, Americans and Uxmalos, were sitting on benches by a long table at one of the “approved” open-air cantinas in the city. Hanny didn’t know the name of the place, if it even had one, but it was festively lit by colored overhead lamps, very busy, loud with local music, and the food—beans, rice, dark-colored squash, and something that tasted like chicken—was pretty good and not too expensive. There was no telling the American and local “regular” troops apart from a distance now, since wheel hats had been made and provided to all—much to the disappointment of those who already had them and would’ve preferred the more practical, wide-brimmed local headgear themselves.

  In any event, and especially after the attack on their camp, the American leadership had realized they couldn’t keep the men bottled up forever. It was dangerous, and it wasn’t right. But they couldn’t just unleash them all on the city at once, for disciplinary and security reasons. They settled on a rotating liberty schedule allowing two hundred or so out at a time, and this worked fairly well. The men accepted it, and the locals generally welcomed it. The approved cantinas hosted dances, or bailes, every night, and everyone, even the locals, seemed to enjoy them immensely. Plenty of pretty, young señoritas attended, and the men were well pleased by that. Despite being a port city, Uxmal had little commerce with others and got only a trickle of visitors by sea or land. It did offer some of the same . . . entertainments the men would’ve expected at ports back home, but in a different, more civilized, perhaps less worldly way, and the small supply of “professional ladies” had suddenly been swamped by high demand. Most of the young ladies at the bailes came innocently for the dancing and music, however, perhaps even hoping to catch a soldier’s eye for more traditional reasons. There was almost no rivalry between them and the professionals, since, in their minds, they weren’t after the same men. The subtle, long-established means of telling the difference between the ladies was deemed sufficient to avoid confusion and embarrassment, once the Americans knew what it was.