Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  Periz blinked, surprised. “We don’t. Those who can’t live peacefully among us aren’t allowed to.” He frowned. “Sometimes a mob rises up and kills them, as perhaps nearly happened tonight,” he said with the first trace of apology in his tone, “but usually they’re whipped and sent into the terrible wild for God to decide their fate. To do otherwise would make us like the Doms.” He gestured at Varaa and Har-Kaaska. “We came here tonight to ensure your bad men would be whipped and banished. Not to kill them.”

  Lewis shook his head. “You came to demand of us, but now I’ll demand of you. The two murderers, at least, will have to die, Alcalde Periz. Hanged by a rope around their necks. And not only for what they did, but to show your people what’ll happen if they run from battle. We hang deserters too. Going forward, you will hang deserters, enemy spies, murderers, and rapists as well. We must be of one mind on this—we can’t have different laws for my people and yours—and until you join with the other cities and build your own country with equal laws for everyone, we’ll have to make do with the Articles of War. It’s the only way.” He was tired and took a tired breath. “That doesn’t make us anything like the Doms. We don’t kill people on a whim, for pleasure, or for any twisted notion that it’s God’s will. We do it to protect others from them, period. Releasing murderers and rapists into the wild . . . If the beasts don’t get them, they can only continue to prey on travelers and those living farthest from aid. That won’t do anymore, Alcalde Periz, not for any of us.” He saw Varaa nodding slightly, but Har-Kaaska was still inscrutable. Lewis took off his hat and ran fingers through sweaty hair. “Now that we know God has more than one world to watch over, I finally understand why His attention is so often elsewhere and we have to do the hard things ourselves from time to time.”

  * * *

  —

  UNDER A SUDDENLY dreary gray sky the following morning, in front of most of the city and all the troops gathered in the temple square—the only place capable of accommodating so many—Sergeant Hahessy was stripped of his rank by Major Reed and given forty lashes by the city punisher—a man at least as large and strong as Hahessy himself. The locals seemed pleased by that. Word of what happened had spread like the wind, and the familiar punishment seemed appropriate. Some might’ve been disappointed that Hahessy took it without a whimper, even outraged when he was led away by an Uxmalo healer instead of shoved bleeding through the city gate to fend for himself in the wild, but the two grisly hangings immediately after silenced any protest they might’ve made. No gallows was rigged, there hadn’t been time, but the executions were quickly, efficiently, even humanely performed under tall tripods; the platforms on which the guilty were placed were simply jerked out from under them so they could drop the specified distance. Both died quickly, necks cleanly broken, in vivid contrast to executions performed by the Doms.

  The hangings doubtless disturbed a populace unused to seeing condemned criminals die, but also seemed to strike them as appropriate. What’s more, the fact that all their leaders, Uxmalo, Ocelomeh, and American, along with Father Orno and Reverend Harkin, had gathered together to proclaim their guilt, pass the sentence, and see it carried out, probably did more than just heal the rift the crime nearly caused. And though initially met with hushed apprehension, Periz’s proclamation that in this time of emergency, this new punishment would be meted out to all convicted of heinous crimes, no matter who they were, the justice and certainty of shared rules and consequences brought the troops and locals closer as well. All had been nervous about what would happen next, but the promise of better behavior the hangings gave the people, and the equally strong assurance that the Americans wouldn’t abandon them came as a tremendous relief.

  “Odd,” Reverend Harkin said to Orno in the strangely comforted aftermath while people dispersed and the troops marched out the east gate for their daily training.

  “Odd how, my friend?” Orno asked.

  Harkin shrugged. “That suffering and death should relieve people so.”

  Orno put his hand on Harkin’s dark coat sleeve. “All else aside, my people are very afraid. They hate and fear the Dominion and its creatures, the Grik and Holcanos, but fear just as much how unprepared they are to face them. And even as they rely on your Americans for help, they believe your very presence made that long-dreaded confrontation inevitable. Combined with the disruption your arrival has brought to their generally peaceful little lives, they can’t help but be fearful, resentful, and grateful all at once!” Orno shook his head. “But after what happened last night, they awakened today with an even greater fear that you’d all be cast out. Or angered by everything else that’s occurred—the attack on your camp, the near riot last night. Major Cayce might simply choose to leave.

  “Your people might’ve feared those things as well,” Orno continued, “and everyone’s ashamed of things. Now? It’s like the battle at the beach, in a way. Your people and the Ocelomeh grew close after fighting and suffering together. Now your people and the Uxmalos have suffered from mutual shame, which might be even worse. With as much suffering as we’ll all likely share in the future . . .” The little priest shrugged. “This day’s dreadful events might’ve been for the best.”

  Harkin felt big, heavy raindrops start pattering the wide brim of his hat. “Blast,” he murmured, then brightened. “My apologies. As dry as this land seems, a good rain is just the thing to settle the dust.”

  Orno was looking at the sky, more rain splashing his face. “It will do more than settle the dust. Today, tomorrow—perhaps Ixtla knows—the rains will come in earnest. Crops will thrive, the Cipactli River will rise, and preparations will become more difficult.”

  “Well,” Harkin said. “If I understand correctly, that means we have a couple of months before the Doms begin to move the forces King Har-Kaaska suggests are building near Campeche and Cayal. Time for Major Cayce to continue to train his army. He’ll adapt, I assure you.”

  “I never doubted it. But many of the things he so desperately needs—more gunpowder, for example, which can only be made when it’s dry, I believe—will have to wait. Even the mines for the copper shot he wants will flood and close. So yes, perhaps two months before the Doms march, but just as long before it’s dry enough to properly continue making ready for them.” They saw Lewis, Periz, Varaa, and Anson now, as the rain picked up and started falling in sheets. They were facing Har-Kaaska, Boogerbear, Lieutenant Burton, and Teniente Lara. Behind were drawn up Har-Kaaska’s warriors, as well as the Rangers, lancers, and dragoons that would both accompany Har-Kaaska and strike out on their own.

  “Septiembre, I believe,” Orno said, tugging Harkin’s coat and motioning toward the shelter of the temple. “In September we will know what’s coming, and what we have to stand against it.”

  CHAPTER 27

  LATE AUGUST 1847

  UXMAL

  “Rain and mud are everywhere, with every step we sink,

  Our uniforms are rotting off, and in our bunks we stink.”

  Private Hanny Cox’s little rhyme was met by tired, half-hearted chuckles that turned to groans as he and the men around him heaved with all their might on a bogged-down 6pdr, half-sunk in the slurry of a rutted forest path several miles south of Uxmal. His battalion of the 3rd Pennsylvania, a battalion of the 1st Uxmal, and Hudgens’s C Battery of the 1st US Artillery (along with a flanking battalion of Ocelomeh to discourage the forest monsters) had been on field manuevers for the last three days (and nights), and it hadn’t stopped raining the entire time. Everyone was exhausted and miserable, and a lot of the troops complained because the enemy wasn’t expected until the dry season. But Hanny knew they couldn’t count on that and it actually might rain even then. Besides, he figured if they learned to move troops and guns swiftly in these conditions, it almost couldn’t get harder. He, for one, welcomed the tough training for all their sakes. Just because he was more philosophical about it than most didn’t mean he enjoyed
it, however, and he’d been diverting himself and his comrades by coming up with little ditties, usually changing the words of famous works he’d read to fit their circumstances. He himself was pushing on a slippery spoke of the stranded gun, trying to get a purchase with sodden, mud-caked shoes that seemed to weigh ten pounds apiece while the four-up team of horses hitched to the limber strained in their traces, the gun’s crew dismounted and pushing and pulling as well.

  “What was that, Private?” Lieutenant Elijah Hudgens called down from his horse, squelching to and fro beside them. He was the one who’d “stolen” Hanny’s squad from the passing infantry to “muck aboot” in the mud, as McDonough put it, in the first place. Lieutenant Hudgens wasn’t covered all over in the stuff like Hanny and his comrades, but his oilcloth cape was saturated, and he was just as soaking wet under the rain as anyone.

  “Nothing, sir,” Hanny wheezed.

  “I ain’t exactly educated,” snorted Elijah Hudgens, “but even I know the source o’ that’un. P’raps we could hang one o’ those offensive little lizardbirds ’round your neck ta inspire your wit further. Are you a educated man, Private Cox?”

  Hanny was surprised the lieutenant remembered his name. He’d been just another private the day they stood against Hahessy together. “I’ve read a lot,” he confessed self-consciously, voice strained as he put his shoulder to the spoke.

  “Educated an’ imaginative too. Have you any notion what a dangerous mix that is for an infantryman? Bloody hell, why didn’t you get pinched for the artillery when you had your training? I remember now. You were pretty good. ’Specially as a gunner. You hit your mark, first try.”

  “Yes sir,” Hanny admitted, looking around at his squad-mates now. “I chose to stay with the infantry.”

  “In God’s name, why?” Elijah demanded in humorous horror, and the artillerymen on the mud-spattered piece laughed weakly.

  The truth was, Hanny had friends in the squad, friends for the first time in his life, and one of them was Apo Tuin, who had a sister he was crazy about. He couldn’t admit that, of course. “Well, sir,” he said instead, “the fact of the matter is, I may be tall, but I’m not very strong. Can’t even carry a musket. They had to make me color-bearer so they could pretend I was useful for something, even in the infantry.” He shook his head. “No sir, everything in the artillery is heavy, and I’m just not cut out for heaving cannons out of mudholes.”

  Everybody laughed at that, even Hudgens, but as he kicked his horse forward into the drizzling gloom he called back, “Everyone knows why they picked you for color-bearer, Private Cox, an’ it ain’t because you’re weak.”

  “He a nice officer,” Apo grunted, his English much improved. “He say nice thing to you. I tell Izel.”

  “Why should she care? Your mother won’t even let me come over anymore.”

  Apo’s eyes flashed with humor, visible even in the darkness. “Mi . . . mother y hermana don’t always care about same things.”

  “What’s that woman got against you, anyhow?” asked another of the fellows. Most of them had Uxmalo sweethearts by now, and Hanny’s crush was common knowledge. “You get too grabby or something?”

  “No!” Hanny snapped indignantly.

  Apo laughed. “She say Hanny es . . . demasiado blanco . . . too white, yes? She say he look sick. Make sick babies!”

  There was a little more laughter, but several of the men seemed more thoughtful than amused.

  “Aye, weel, they’d be skinny enow,” Preacher Mac finally said.

  More horses were splashing and plapping up behind them, and Hanny recognized Captain Anson and Teniente Lara leading a soggy, mixed squadron of Rangers and lancers. Most rumbled and splattered past without a glance, geysering globs of mud as they went, but he heard someone near the rear call out, “Hey, hold up there. Let’s give these fellas a hand.” Half a dozen riders pulled up, then fell back to join two already stopped. Hanny was surprised to see Leonor Anson, as rough and scruffy and lethal looking as always once more, but was even more startled to see Colonel De Russy’s servant Barca mounted beside her. “You don’t mind the delay?” Leonor asked him.

  “I’m in no hurry, Lieutenant,” Barca said with a smile. “I’m just along to ‘observe’ for the colonel.”

  “Fine. C’mon, fellas, let’s go up in front of the team an’ tie on to the traces.”

  Barca made a face and slid down from his horse. “I’ll help out here, I think. I can barely stay on a horse when all it’s doing is trying to carry me.”

  “You’re gonna get muddy”—Leonor laughed—“but suit yourself.”

  “I’m sure I’ll wash off fairly quickly,” Barca responded wryly, tying his horse to a tree and stepping over near Hanny. They all had a moment to rest then, while Leonor directed the addition of her men’s horses to the tired team.

  “You’re Private Hannibal Cox, aren’t you?” Barca asked.

  Hanny was startled again to find himself so well-known. “Uh, yes . . .” Then he was at a loss for how to address De Russy’s servant. Should he call him “sir” or what? He was practically an officer, wasn’t he? And Hanny’d watched him fight like the very devil on the beach. But before joining the army and leaving his rural home for the first time, Hanny had never seen a black person in his life. He knew about them, and slavery of course, and had seen it for himself both in New Orleans and here, where Holcano captives—more like prisoners of war, he figured—were set to labor, but he still wasn’t sure exactly how it worked back home. The notion that one person could own another, like a horse, was too hard to get his head around. He knew it was true and had been for ages. Rome was built by slaves. But unlike Holcano captives, not all black people back home were slaves. Some even owned slaves themselves! (He’d seen that in New Orleans too, which confused him even more.) One thing was sure, here, now: word had quietly but firmly gone around that Barca wasn’t anybody’s slave and De Russy, Cayce, Anson—all their senior officers—expected him to be treated with respect.

  “Yes sir,” Hanny finished, deciding he’d have said the same to anybody he didn’t know.

  “Just Barca,” the young man said with a flash of teeth.

  “An’ I’m Apo,” the young Uxmalo pronounced, taking a quick gulp from the tinned American canteen he wore before nodding at his friend. “We call him ‘Hanny.’ ”

  “I’ve heard that,” Barca agreed. “A pleasure to meet you, Apo.” He looked back at Hanny. “We’re both named after the same man.”

  “Aye!” affirmed Preacher Mac. “Hannibal Barca!”

  “Who’s he?” asked one of the artillerymen resting against the other wheel of the gun.

  “He was a great Carthaginian general. Nearly brought Rome down,” Hanny said with a smile. “What’s your last name?”

  Barca’s own smile vanished. “It used to be Mounier, I suppose. I don’t . . . choose to have one now.”

  Hanny didn’t know what that meant or what to say.

  “Ready back there?” Leonor called.

  Barca’s smile returned as he nodded at the gun and grasped a spoke himself. “ ‘I will either find a way or make one!’ ” he quoted, and Hanny grinned.

  “All together now . . . heave!” roared Corporal Petty. With a squealing groan from the horses and a late panting surge by the men, the limber wheels finally jounced out of their hole, and the combined ton-and-a-half weight of the limber and gun splashed and slithered forward, dumping many of those pushing into the mucky pit they left.

  Hanny rose dripping out of the ooze, slinging it off, and saw Apo, McDonough, and several other men, even Barca, had fallen in as well and were just as covered as he. They all burst out laughing. What else could they do?

  “ ‘Many things which nature makes difficult become easy to the man who uses his brains,’ ” Hanny grumbled sarcastically, and the laughter grew. Probably only Barca and maybe McDono
ugh realized he was quoting Hannibal too.

  “Get outa there, you buncha mud ducks,” snapped Corporal Petty. “We gotta get movin’. You infantry, get yer muskets an’ run along. Sergeant Visser only borryed you to me.”

  Leonor had cast off the rope she’d looped around her big saddle horn and come back to collect Barca. Now she sat grinning. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said with mock impatience as Barca dragged himself out of the hole and stopped to stare at himself. “Well, it’s still raining. I suppose I will wash off.” He turned back to Hanny and the others. “Good luck, fellows. I expect you’ll be heading back to Uxmal tomorrow.” Untying his horse, he climbed back up and, together with the Rangers and lancers who’d helped free the gun, trotted on ahead.

  “Another nice officer,” Apo said, helping the others out of the mud.

  “I . . . don’t think he is one,” Hanny told him, heading toward where they’d stacked their soaked muskets by threes. There was no point bringing the colors out in this and he had a musket too. Now he inspected it sadly. The stock was swollen and the bright steel was rusting. It would take a lot of effort to polish it up again. If it had been loaded, it never would’ve fired.

  “Nay,” Preacher Mac said with a thoughtful expression on his face, “but I ken he’d make a good ’un if he ever had a chance.”

  Hanny tossed him his musket and cartridge box, then did the same for Apo while the other men retrieved their weapons from another tripod. “I bet he would too,” he said. “Maybe now, here, he’ll get that chance.”

  * * *

  SOUTH OF ITZINCAB

  Corporal Bandy “Boogerbear” Beeryman was riding a little to the right of a huge Ocelomeh warrior as they eased through the dripping forest, their horses’ hooves making hardly a sound on the wet carpet of leafy needles as they ranged ahead of the main party on its way to Don Discipo’s Puebla Arboras. Discipo was an outlaw in Boogerbear’s book, pure and simple. A man to be hanged if caught and therefore the sort to lay an ambush. Especially after how long King Har-Kaaska and his party were delayed at the city of Itzincab, bolstering its defenses (and the courage of its somewhat timid Alcalde Truro). Boogerbear sympathized with Truro. Situated near the very headwaters of the Cipactli River, his was the most remote and exposed of the three firmly Allied cities, and some of their most important mines were there. Still, despite worsening weather and almost daily rains, Boogerbear was glad to get moving and approved of the way his companions disdained known tracks and trails, yet still made decent time. He was also impressed. The trees all looked alike to him, and the ground rose so gently, it was almost impossible to tell. He wondered how they did it. He suspected he could’ve done it himself, not even being a “forest critter,” as long as he knew where they were going and could see the sky. But even if he could catch a glimpse through the trees above, this sky wouldn’t tell him anything.