Coryon nodded at the camp as well. More men were appearing, going about ordinary tasks. Like ordinary men. It seemed strange to be so afraid of them. “They don’t act worried. Why should they? We’re two hundred miles from Uxmal, in a straight line. Closer to three hundred by the path we took.”
“And who’d be mad enough to make such a trek during the rains?” asked Ixtla with a grin. “Distance, numbers, their very Dom arrogance, won’t let them imagine they’re under threat here.”
“They’re not, from us,” Alferez Espinoza pointed out wryly.
“No,” Ixtla agreed. “Not directly. But as soon as we report, our leaders will know they’re here and they are coming. That will hurt them,” he said with conviction.
Coryon looked thoughtful. “So where do you think all the Holcanos and Grik went?”
“Cayal,” Ixtla replied at once, “or even Puebla Arboras, if Don Discipo has given himself to Tranquilo. King Har-Kaaska and your ‘Boogerbear’ will know by now.”
“If they weren’t all eaten on the way,” groused Alferez Espinoza.
Ixtla grinned at them. “They took a ‘higher’ path with fewer swamps and gullies. Fewer predators to be revived by the rain. Besides, with Har-Kaaska’s skill and Boogerbear’s size—and matching lethality, I suspect—they won’t have been eaten. Just as important, they’ll know what to do.” He looked at Coryon and raised his eyebrows. “You command here. What shall we do?”
“We’re not supposed to engage unless they start it,” Espinoza reminded, thinking Coryon might be contemplating a raid.
Coryon had been thinking exactly that, scratching the sparse whiskers on his chin. His side whiskers had exploded, but he’d never have a full beard, he feared. He doubted he looked very dashing in his scruffy whiskers and rotting uniform. Unfortunately, trying to shave a face that never fully dried struck him as a good way to disfigure himself for life. So did getting caught by the Doms—very briefly, if what he heard was true—and what would it achieve? “We’ll send a report, of course,” he said reflectively, “but after all we went through to get here, I won’t just turn back now. Some of us, at least, have to watch and wait until they move. Give an exact report of that—and how many there are by then.”
* * *
EASTERN ARMY OF GOD ENCAMPMENT
CAMPECHE
“Un día hermosa!” exclaimed the Blood Cardinal Don Frutos del Gran Vale in “High Spanish” as he stepped out of an archway onto a platform adjacent to the center level of Campeche’s ancient pyramid. The stones where he stood were smooth and rounded where they joined by ages of weathering and still dark with moisture. That would change as the brilliant rising sun steamed them dry. Raising his arms at his sides, spreading his gold-embroidered, dark red robe like the wings of a bird about to take flight, Don Frutos seemed to be absorbing the sun’s rays into his gaunt, pale, and otherwise naked form. Turning to General Agon, short and stocky, dressed in his finest yellow-and-black uniform adorned with dripping gold lace, he blinked large black eyes and cracked narrow lips into something like a smile. The long, dark, pointed beard on his narrow face made his eyes seem unnaturally huge at times. “The sun again, Mi General. How I have longed to feel it.”
“Enjoy it, Your Holiness,” Agon replied. “The rainy season is not yet over.”
“Soon, though,” Don Frutos declared eagerly, gesturing out at the vast sea of tents and stirring troops infiltrating the ruins around them and even lapping against the base of the pyramid below. “While the Gran Cruzada continues to labor endlessly just to begin to lurch ponderously northwest to confront the heretical ‘New Britain Isles’ Imperials in the Californias, I will march this magnificent host to smash the heretics of the Yucatán forever. I will secure the largest territory brought wholly under Dominion rule in generations! All for the glory of God and His Supreme Holiness, of course,” he quickly added.
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Agon agreed, also looking out on the army. Even then, in the disorganized morning bustle, it was a glorious sight. He could only imagine what the Gran Cruzada must look like by now in its hundreds of thousands, but the Eastern Army of God was bigger than anything he’d ever seen, and he wondered what it would look like from higher. He determined to use this one pretty day to climb to the top of the pyramid. Glancing back at Don Frutos, he knew his lord would’ve preferred to be installed in a higher level himself, but the floors above were considered unsound and had even collapsed in places. At least the quarters prepared for him here were dry and cleaned and aired of timeless filth, even decorated enough to be livable, if not presentable to his peers. But what can one expect, even a Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, when one is on campaign? General Agon wondered irreverently.
It was more than Don Frutos’s insistence on “High Spanish” that bothered General Agon. Most high-ranking military officers used it because it had been the Spanish who’d brought so many military words and phrases to this world. Blood Cardinals had to know it to read ancient texts, but used it more as an affectation—he believed—since the True Faith was best preached in Spanya for the widest understanding. But since the Blood Cardinals spoke it all the time, a growing number of Blood Priests had started as well, angling for legitimacy in spite of their claim they were “closer to the common faithful and their stricter understanding of God’s will” than humbler, more traditional priests.
No matter that such “stricter understanding” is bloodily enforced by the Blood Priests themselves, Agon thought glumly. Like most soldiers, Agon was a traditionalist, even if his commander, Don Frutos, wasn’t. That bothered him even more. The majority of Blood Cardinals were opposed to the rise of the Blood Priests and viewed them as a threat. Don Frutos rarely demonstrated anything like what Agon would define as the . . . excessive piety of Blood Priests—except when it came to punishing those who displeased him—or really much authentic piety at all. He wasn’t impressed by Don Frutos’s strategic sense, apparently limited to simply marching his army against the enemy. Presumably, he expected his opponents to either surrender themselves to his “mercy” or be trod underfoot as the army marched on. He spoke enthusiastically of a “real battle” and seemed to desperately want one, but appeared disinterested in discussing what to do if they got it.
Most of all, perhaps, General Agon despised the self-important Blood Priests Don Frutos surrounded himself with—particularly the arrogant, grasping Father Tranquilo—to the exclusion of other priests the troops themselves favored, and Agon was tired of being caught between the Blood Priests and the Obispos (whom they sought to supplant). Since the very dawn of the True Faith on this world, Blood Cardinals could only be chosen from Obispos related by blood to that holy event that brought the spark of the True Faith here. Agon himself could claim a Filipino (whatever that was) crew member of that ancient Acapulco/Manila galleon as an indirect ancestor and might’ve aspired to become an Obispo himself. Priests without that blood connection never could, and only Obispos ever became Blood Cardinals. It was from the very small number of these, the virtual spiritual rulers of various provinces in the Holy Dominion, that His Supreme Holiness Himself was chosen to ascend. Blood Priests were a relatively new sect that styled themselves after the Blood Cardinals yet sought to achieve sufficient grace in God’s eyes to be elevated chiefly by the “grace” they spread around—in the form of actual blood and suffering. Agon was inured to that, since it was nothing new, but the extremes to which the Blood Priests went was bothersome to the traditionalists and, as far as he knew, all the properly ordained Blood Cardinals except Don Frutos.
Trying to keep the Blood Priests and Obispos from tearing out one another’s throats—or sacrificing half the army to bored Blood Priests sitting around without sufficient victims to cover themselves with grace—while simultaneously preparing the army to march was all so very tiresome. As much as I wish we had them for scouts, it’s just as well I sent all the Holcanos to Cayal or there wouldn’t be a
ny left by now, Agon mused.
With Cayal already on his mind, he was surprised a moment later when Don Frutos finally closed his robe and led him back into his chamber. Young female servants, all naked as well and painted in gold, scattered from the entrance, where they’d been waiting in case Don Frutos requested anything. He ignored them and said, a little evasively, “I, ah, have news from Cayal. Through Father Tranquilo. He reports that Don Discipo has openly declared himself for us at last and has opened Puebla Arboras to the Holcanos. A great number of them are moving there and will advance on the heretic city of Itzincab as closely coordinated with our own advance as possible.”
Agon blinked, stunned. “Indeed? How old is this news?”
Don Frutos waved the question away. “Quite recent. Astonishingly so,” he hedged. “Father Tranquilo has quite surprising resources when it comes to information.”
Agon bowed. “I readily acknowledge that. His was the first explanation I had regarding why I was so suddenly and mysteriously ordered to march my Eastern Brigada of the Army of God to this place from Mazumiapan and prepare for more troops to arrive. Capitan Arevalo brought me the first details of the fighting, even if most were secondhand, but Tranquilo had a lot of very basic information, even some names and numbers, and knew about the Americano steamship even before you came to assume overall command and told me you’d been in Vera Cruz when it arrived.” He paused. “Nothing compared to the information I got directly from the captive you brought with you, however.”
“That’s certainly true!” Don Frutos actually gloated.
Agon grimaced slightly, thinking of that captive and imagining how Don Frutos had made him so pliable. Agon might be a true believer, but didn’t revel in the suffering of others like Blood Priests did. There were still a number of survivors in Isidra, of course; people of “singular value” who’d be preserved for a time. Others had been disposed of in the usual ways—perhaps some still lived?—but Agon himself had only seen that one single person who arrived on this world in that remarkable ship.
“Still,” Agon murmured, “your information was best, but Tranquilo’s was quickest by far. How does he do it? How can we possibly hope to coordinate our movements with the Holcanos, a hundred and thirty–odd leguas away, when we can’t yet know for certain when it will be dry enough for us to move?”
Don Frutos waved airily. “Tranquilo cultivates heretic spies all over, no doubt.”
Agon said no more, but didn’t believe “spies” could possibly move information as quickly as Don Frutos implied.
Don Frutos cleared his throat to change the subject, then commanded, “Tell me again, General. Leave out all the trivial details about sick and injured, the condition of our animals, and state of supplies. Another battalion of infantry came ashore from transports this last week, along with another pair of the great wall-smashing siege guns! How many troops will we have when we march? How many guns? I can’t wait to use them!”
CHAPTER 28
SEPTEMBER 1847
As predicted, almost to the day, the constant rains came to an end near the first of September. It was phenomenal. One day the rain was sheeting down as it had nearly every day for the last two months, but the next dawned bright and hot and incredibly muggy. Everyone said it would rain no more than one day in four for the next few weeks, then they’d be lucky if it rained once a month. De Russy and Periz had returned from their embassy to Pidra Blanca, Itzincab, and the hesitant city of Techon. After a meeting with Alcalde Truro and King Har-Kaaska (who’d confirmed their fears that Puebla Arboras was in open league with the Holcanos), they’d asked for no recruits from Itzincab. It might need all its people for defense. They did bring several hundred more volunteers from Pidra Blanca, as well as a few hundred men and a firm commitment to the alliance from Techon.
And even through the rains, much had been accomplished at Uxmal. The “powder monks” had abandoned their meager facility upriver and helped erect a new gunpowder mill near the city, harnessing the fervent flow of the Cipactli. Armabueys could carry on the work after the river slowed to a crawl. There’d been disagreement between the powder monks and some lads from Pennsylvania about the best kind of wood to use for gunpowder charcoal, even the best way to make it, but the Pennsylvania boys were stumped when the monks demanded to see a willow tree. They were forced to admit the grain of the wood the monks preferred looked as good as it could, and their primitive method of cooking it down would have to suffice for now. As they’d worked in large powder mills before, however, their experience was invaluable when it came to scaling up the operation. As soon as things dried out enough, they started making gunpowder in earnest.
Cottage industries for all sorts of things had sprung up. Aside from Anson and his Rangers with bullet molds for their own unique weapons, thirty more molds had been brought by soldiers or retrieved from armorers’ stores in the wrecks. That was actually more than anyone hoped, but less than half were .69 caliber for the musket balls they’d need the most, both for the infantry and hundreds of rounds of canister shells Lewis wanted for the cannon. The most numerous belonged to the riflemen, many of whom carried a .525 mold for their more precise .54 caliber weapons. These could also make projectiles for the dragoons’ Hall carbines and close-range canister rounds in a pinch. In any event, once they got started, none of the molds ever got cold, and Uxmalos—children, mostly—spent long days in front of hot furnaces casting lead balls as fast as they could. A couple of American blacksmiths forged and filed cherries to make “gang” molds to cast dozens of balls at a time, but without any rotary power, or even vices beyond those in the forge wagons, gang molds—any new molds—required a lot of time and effort.
One thing going better than expected was the sand casting of copper round shot at the smelters near the mines. Men couldn’t go in the flooded mines until they were pumped out or drained so they poured roundshot after roundshot of surprisingly high quality that rarely needed more than a little attention from a file. Fortunately, files were known and used in Uxmal, though good ones were properly hardened almost by accident. At least the American armorers and blacksmiths didn’t have to wear their good ones out for such things. Wooden sabots required for best accuracy were something else, however, and were waiting on the completion of rotary tools as well. Lathes were under construction down by the river, to be powered by the same water (or armabueys) as the powder mill, but if the Doms came before they were ready and they used up all their fixed shot, they’d have to stuff wadding down the barrels of their cannon, navy fashion, and lose a lot of the accuracy they took for granted and relied on.
Uniforms were made from fine Uxmalo fabrics, of course, but leather accoutrements, saddles, and shoes had to be fashioned as well, as did buttons, tents, buckets, barrels, haversacks, blankets, and countless other things. A lot of that had been salvaged from the shipwrecks, but only a little more than the men who brought it needed. Nowhere near enough to equip even the modest force they absolutely had to have. And with all the new additions and Ocelomeh Har-Kaaska had sent, that “modest force” now numbered nearly nine thousand men. Less than half had undergone daily training to become proper soldiers, and little more than half of them carried firearms. There were still a few unissued muskets, but spares must remain in reserve to replace those damaged by experienced men.
In respect to arms, despite the hard work of the few Uxmalo gunsmiths, only a handful of new ones had been made. Facilities simply weren’t up to the task, and locals were accustomed to taking a year or more to complete a single fine piece. Worse, even rolled barrels had to be bored true, and rotary tools were the hang-up—again—because local gunmakers took all their barrels to a single man with a hand-turned cutting and lapping machine, not even a proper lathe, for final reaming and polishing. The American gunsmiths were deeply frustrated, insisting that in another month or two they could make all the tools they needed. The problem was, they might not have a month. They might not have a week
. Lewis instructed them to focus on keeping the weapons they had in repair. The unspoken expectation was that captured Dom weapons would soon be issued—if any of them lived to see that day.
In the meantime, Major Reed had followed Lewis’s example of making sure everyone knew how to use a musket, whether he had one or not. And he’d given special attention to bayonet practice, since rough-hewn musket-shaped pikes with forged iron blades could be used the very same way. In any event, by the time the rains stopped and De Russy, Periz, and Consul Koaar returned with Sal Hernandez and Boogerbear (Finlay and Samarez came straight back from Pidra Blanca), the Detached Expeditionary Force and Army of the Allied Cities could field five thousand men beyond the walls of Uxmal, retaining four thousand less well-trained “reserves” or “Home Guards” for defense. With all the guns from the wrecked Dom galleon properly mounted, any attacker would find the city a bloody proposition.
* * *
—
THE COMBINED ARMY would stand under a variety of flags (the blue saltire on white for Uxmal, a stylized beast of some sort on a red saltire in bright green for Pidra Blanca, now the red, white, and gold pennant of Techon beside the Stars and Stripes, not to mention all the regimental banners—and, somewhat ironically to some, a green, white, and red guidon over Lara’s lancers), but all the troops except a large contingent of Ocelomeh under Koaar, still armed with bows and spears, wore the very same uniform. There were variations, of course: different-color branch trim, for example—white for infantry (and Mounted Rifles), yellow for dragoons, red for artillery, and all the foot soldiers wore sky-blue and mounted troops had dark blue jackets. Even the uniforms of Lara’s lancers were hardly distinguishable aside from the coats, using the exact same trousers and wheel hats as everyone. Coats were medium blue, with tails and scarlet cuffs and collars.
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