Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  There were murmurs of alarm, but Varaa raised a hand. “We knew Don Discipo couldn’t be trusted to resist the enemy and they’d use him thus. That’s why Alcalde Truro’s been so nervous and King Har-Kaaska remained in his city.” She smiled slightly and blinked encouragement, adding, “Itzincab won’t fall. Aside from the regiment already formed here, most of the Ocelomeh everyone thought were coming to join us are in fact already there—as are many of the pike-trained troops from Pidra Blanca. Itzincab was presented as a ripe fruit to be plucked and pillaged, irresistible to the enemy’s irregular allies, but it’s a trap to hold them with sufficient warriors and supplies to resist them indefinitely.” She grinned more fiercely. “Har-Kaaska already repulsed a major attack—the Holcanos and Grik have no artillery at all—and virtually destroyed the Grik, at least. They constituted the bulk of the assault force, as usual. So severe were their losses, there’s word they may even abandon their allies at last, to preserve their very race!”

  The “Grik” as a species were as numberless as flies, but their small, fractious, territorial tribes rarely banded together. The current “confederation” joining so many under a single leader for so long, proclaiming itself a separate, superior “race” from the rest, had been a fragile anomaly. Attempts had been made to approach its leader over the years, to make peace, but the Grik shared too many traits with the Holcanos to prefer friendship with more settled peoples they considered their natural prey, and emissaries never returned. Now . . .

  “In any event,” Varaa ended triumphantly, “the Doms coming here will have no local support, no eyes in the forest but ours.”

  There were exclamations of delight as Varaa sank down on her bench, blinking satisfaction at Lewis. He smiled back. Warmaster indeed, he told himself. He’d known most of what she planned from the start—and it had been her plan to ensure all his army had to deal with were Doms—but he was frankly amazed it had worked.

  “Wonderful,” came the ironic voice of a man named Tukli, who aside from owning many of the fishing boats supplying food to the city, was known to be skeptical of their efforts to resist the Dominion. He was a sinewy little fellow with a broad, sweaty forehead he often wiped with a blue cloth matching his finely embroidered tunic. “That leaves only—what was it? Twenty thousand Doms coming here! What are we to do about them?”

  Lewis stood and nodded all around before staring straight at Tukli. “We fight them, sir.”

  “How?” came several voices at once. Lewis looked at Alcalde Periz, nodding nervously back. Even among these men—no one suspected any of the women—there might be spies for the Doms. Or at least a few who were willing to pass information for better treatment if all was lost.

  Lewis took a step back and pointed at a place on the great map near where Commissary was wrecked and the battle on the beach occurred. “Varaa’s scouts and Captain Anson’s Rangers place the enemy vanguard here. We can’t really meet them anywhere between here and there because of the forest and treacherous crossings—and by ‘treacherous,’ I mean there’ll be more of them when the floods subside. We’d be too far from our base of supply, and they could get around us.” He shook his head. “Really, if you consider the terrain, there isn’t anyplace to fight them on anything like equal terms on the other side of the Cipactli River, and it presents problems of its own. First, it would prevent retreat to the city if we’re defeated, and second”—he shrugged—“the same is true for it as the other crossings. All the Doms have to do is avoid battle until the river runs low, then cross at any point upstream between here and Itzincab—possibly joining with the Holcanos when they do.”

  “But . . .” someone said.

  Sira Periz narrowed her eyes. “Are you proposing we follow Itzincab’s example and fight them from the city?” she demanded. She looked at Coryon Burton. He was still haggard from his long ordeal but had been bathed, shaved, and given a new uniform. “Let me get this clear,” Sira continued sharply. “You’re saying that despite the fact that our new powder mill lies outside the city, and the great guns Lieutenant Burton observed, all we can do is defend the walls of Uxmal?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Lewis conceded dismally. “It’s the terrain, you see, and the fact there’s only the one meager road. What isn’t too thickly forested to move our troops through is just too damned flat. There isn’t any other place, and it’s our only hope.”

  There were a variety of reactions to this announcement, ranging from horror on the faces of the locals to disbelief among Lewis’s officers. Only Anson, Holland, Leonor, and, oddly, Varaa and Samantha seemed unsurprised. Colonel De Russy bit his lip and whispered aside to Samantha Wilde. “I should’ve thought even I could come up with something better than that.”

  There was an insistent banging on the door to the grand audience chamber. Private Willis and Barca were closest to it and opened it a crack when Periz nodded to them. Willis listened to urgent whispering, then closed the door and turned, bemused, back to the expectant faces in the map room. Looking at Lewis, he saw him nod.

  “Which it was one o’ Boogerbear’s—I mean Lieutenant Beeryman’s Rangers. They glommed onto a pack o’ Doms with that damn Tranquilo bastard—’scuse me, ladies—comin’ to the city under a white goddamn flag. ’Scuse me. Boogerbear blindfolded ’em, trussed ’em up, an’ brought ’em in.” He paused. “Seems their high priest general witch doctor wants a palaver to discuss ‘terms’—he says. They already know about their lancers and’ll ‘honor’ us by meetin’ where we licked ’em. They swear to their prickly God there won’t be no troops but a honor guard of a hundred men within a mile o’ the place, an’ whoever comes from our side can bring the same.”

  Periz looked flabbergasted. “A truce? With Doms?” He looked at Lewis and Varaa, unsure.

  Varaa blinked something that looked like delight while her tail whipped behind her and Lewis nodded slightly. “Might as well hear what they have to say before the fighting starts.” He arched his eyebrows. “More fighting.”

  Periz stood, frowning at Father Orno and Reverend Harkin. “I suppose we must meet with Tranquilo to make further arrangements. All of you, please leave us. We’ll reconvene when we know more.”

  The room slowly emptied with a great deal of shuffling and shifting, eventually leaving only those seated at the big table. Nearly everyone who didn’t know his mind was glaring at Lewis, including Sira Periz.

  “Is a meeting so irregular?” Reverend Harkin asked.

  “Most irregular,” Father Orno murmured. “Doms never ‘negotiate.’ They impose their will and destroy anyone who stands in their way.”

  “Maybe the corpses of three hundred lancers changed their minds,” Leonor said.

  “No,” Orno denied. “Not by themselves. There must be more to this than we know.” He looked around. “The very idea of talking to us would never enter their heads,” he insisted.

  “Unless someone gave it to them,” Lewis said darkly, remembering USS Isidra again. He’d considered having Holland search for her, perhaps even looking into Vera Cruz, but had a horror of losing Tiger and all her people. Besides, she’d be their only warning if the Doms came from the sea.

  “So we go? We talk to . . . whoever represents them?” Periz asked with a slight quaver. He was afraid, and Lewis couldn’t blame him.

  “I say yeah,” Anson growled. “See who we’re up against, at least. Maybe get an idea how their leader thinks. How he’ll react.”

  Sira frowned at Lewis, looking between him and Anson. “Reacts to us crouching behind our walls and waiting for them to batter them down around us?” She paused when she saw Samantha’s smile and the near smirk on Leonor’s face. “Wait . . .” she said.

  De Russy regarded Lewis with dawning comprehension. “You’ve no intention of doing that, do you?”

  Lewis shrugged at Sira Periz, then grinned at De Russy. “Of course not. I thought you knew me better.” He glanced at the door w
here Private Willis still stood with a look of satisfaction pinching his narrow face. Barca seemed confused but relieved. “Most of those people who were here don’t know me at all,” he added. “And if even one lets our ‘defensive strategy’ slip to the Doms—which I’m sure Tranquilo will be aware of before he leaves . . .” He took a long breath and regarded his friends with a serious gaze, eyes finally resting on Periz and his wife. “The enemy will be even less prepared for something a few of us have been planning, almost since Har-Kaaska told us the Doms might be massing at Campeche.” He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, but considering how quickly Tranquilo threw his attack together the very first day we were here, there must still be enemy spies in the city. We had to hold our true plans close.”

  “You couldn’t even tell me?” De Russy asked, looking hurt.

  “Especially you, my dear,” Samantha said, patting his hand on the table. “You’ve been very public and have no talent for evasion or deceit. If anyone suspected you were withholding some grand secret, they might’ve drugged you—or worse—to get it, or even targeted poor Angelique, hoping you’d confided in her.” De Russy and Angelique Mercure were practically betrothed.

  “I see,” he said stiffly.

  Lewis pressed on. “Now we have this . . . parley that Tranquilo proposes. We must attend,” he said firmly. “Not only to measure our enemy, as Captain Anson says, but it may provide the perfect opportunity to set our plan in motion.” He paused. “If you trust me, truly trust me as I trust all those in this room—and you’re prepared not to breathe a word of it beyond that door—I’ll tell you what we’re really going to do.”

  * * *

  —

  THE ARRANGEMENTS WERE made, and the meeting was set for the evening of three days after next. The Doms insisted they needed time to prepare facilities for a “suitable reception,” and that might even be true. Nobody knew what they meant by “suitable,” but they didn’t halt their army either. Nor did anyone in Uxmal waste time. A certain percentage of the Home Guards drilled incessantly or helped farmers bring in all the nearby crops a little early. People moved into the city from all over the countryside, herding goats; burros; swarms of fat, short-winged lizardbirds the locals called gallinas; and armabueys of every size from that of a dog to larger than an ox. These pulled carts heaped with fruit and squashes of every imaginable shape, long-eared corn and bean pods of countless colors. Uxmal began to bulge. Great batches of gunpowder were being combined into a paste from its various components and set out to dry. Flat, black, tile-shaped cakes were ground on the huge new ball mill by the river before being screened, sorted, filled into casks, and taken into the city. Some of those casks went to the scattered munitions manufactories, while more were trundled deep underground for storage in bunkers built during the rainy months. To any observer it looked exactly like Uxmal was preparing for a long, bitter siege.

  The Detached Expeditionary Force and Army of the Allied Cities drilled even more than ever, it seemed, noisily firing its first taste of “new” powder and copper shot from the cannons so their gunners could learn the different points of aim. The infantry did the same with their muskets (some new recruits for the very first time). Muskets were least affected, ballistically, and old hands even complimented the new powder as cleaner burning and more robust, if slightly more prone to absorb moisture from the humid air. And every evening, as they had for weeks, guns and troops moved again, creaking, clopping, and tramping in time on dark paving-stone streets, going on “night maneuvers” to get accustomed to marching and sleeping in this wild, dangerous land. The large, deliberate movements of so many men made predators less sure of themselves and prone to keep their distance. The locals generally approved of that. What most didn’t notice—hopefully no one did—was not all the guns and troops came back. And after the last two nights in particular, Home Guards marched out to meet them and escort them to strangely quiet barracks in a curiously disorganized way.

  It was midmorning on the day of the conference (no one knew quite what to call it) when Alcalde Periz—dressed in his showy, if not very practical, gold scale armor—awkwardly kissed his wife and joined Father Orno, Reverend Harkin, and Colonel De Russy in his ornate carriage, cheered somewhat hopefully by those nearby as they set off at a leisurely pace. Lewis, Anson, Varaa, and Leonor, of course, rode on either side of the carriage, speaking with the passengers through the open sides. Tranquilo had transparently hinted they should bring two carriages, one for servants—numbered as part of the honor guard, of course, but Lewis wanted as few “helpless” men in their party as possible and detailed Barca and Private Willis to “wait on the gentlemen, if necessary.” They rode with the escort. Barca had expected to go, even planned to, invited or not, but Willis hadn’t been happy, muttering about joining the “goddamn dragoons if I wanted a horse under my arse all day.” A block of twenty lancers under Alferez Espinoza led the way, followed by Coryon Burton and twenty dragoons. Twenty more dragoons under Sergeant Hayne followed the carriage and Lieutenant Hernandez’s Ocelomeh Rangers brought up the rear. They were only eighty or so instead of the hundred allowed, but all were fighters and more might be difficult to extricate if the need arose. Besides, Lewis thought, everyone else I’d like to have with us has other things to do.

  And it wasn’t as if they were alone. Waiting just a bit to assure any onlookers they weren’t really part of the delegation, Lieutenant Felix Meder set off with the entire mounted A Company of his riflemen, followed by the rest of Burton’s dragoons and Lieutenant Hudgens’s two sections of four 6pdrs and their caissons. Three hundred more heavily armed men poised at the one-mile mark from the meeting place. The Doms’ll expect to see something there, Lewis told himself. They’d be suspicious if there wasn’t.

  A careful observer in Uxmal might’ve been extremely suspicious already because there weren’t even many of the Home Guards in evidence this morning and Captain Olayne’s 6pdrs and the 1st US Infantry never returned from their night march. And none of the Pennsylvanians with their curious blue flag seemed to be about, for that matter. In fact—such an observer might note with growing alarm—Tiger had put to sea before sunrise, and of all the cannon the Americans brought, only the two big 12pdr guns—not the lighter howitzers—were in evidence at all.

  There was nothing such a person could do about that now. Just as the great western gate swung closed behind the final caisson in Hudgens’s Battery, Segunda Alcaldesa Sira Periz and Samantha Wilde mounted the new battlement above the gate. Drums thundered and people gathered, more than Sira had ever seen in the city before. Finally, taking a speaking trumpet from one of Father Orno’s priests, she addressed the throng.

  “Despite what many of you may have heard or hoped, there can be no accommodation with the Dominion. This talk they’ve invited is a ruse to weaken our resolve and put us off our guard. Still,” she said after a pained sigh, “my brave husband will speak to them. He’ll do anything other than surrender us and our allies and our liberty to avoid war with the Dominion.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think he’ll succeed.” She gestured beyond the gate. “But one way or another, great things will happen out there over the next few days, and no one here will influence them.” She turned and placed her small hand on the arm of one of Felix Meder’s riflemen who’d stayed behind. “This man and others like him can hit a mark at three hundred paces with their fabulous . . . rifles. They’ll watch with me until my husband returns.” Her tone grew harsh. “No one will pass outside the gates until then, and anyone dropping over the walls must be assumed to be in league with the enemy and will be shot.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Even with everyone mounted or riding in Periz’s carriage—or on limbers and caissons, in the case of some of Hudgens’s artillerymen—the procession to meet the Doms set a leisurely pace. The time had been set for the “cool of the evening,” and there was no hurry to reach the clearing where they’d crushed the Dom lancers a few days before. Not th
is time. And it was just as well, because the humid heat of the day quickly spiked as they crossed the bridge over the briskly running Cipactli River, trudged up the gently sloping road flanked by harvested fields and abandoned farmhouses, finally threading their way into the great forest to the east. It was sweltering by then, and as before, the dense cover of trees relieved a little of the misery the bright sun inflicted. All the mounted forces were proud of their dark blue jackets, the only difference between the branches—Rifles, artillery, and dragoons—being the color of trim on their collars and shoulder straps, but they secretly envied the infantry’s sky-blue jackets on days like this. Spirits revived in the shade, and men who’d begun feeling oppressed started chatting again, as soldiers do.

  The men in the carriage had never stopped, nor had Lewis and Varaa for a time, joining their conversation, but everything they could do was already set in motion, and the discussion turned to anxious speculation about how the Doms would react if this or that happened, or what the meeting would be like. Lewis had planned for various contingencies, but couldn’t control everything and eventually tired of making assurances. Leonor and Anson had long since moved forward to talk with Alferez Espinoza and Coryon Burton, both now admiring the holsters Anson had commissioned in Uxmal. They were large and somewhat awkward looking, but beautifully tooled. Most important, they allowed him to carry both his Walker Colts at his sides, suspended from a waist belt held up by braces that put their weight on his shoulders. His Patersons were tucked in smaller, matching holsters under his arms. He’d also obtained a dragoon saber or still had the one he’d used on the beach fastened to his saddle. Always lethal, Anson looked downright piratical now.

  As if by mutual agreement, Lewis and Varaa drifted back from beside the carriage and the tedious exchange inside. There they found young Barca now riding alone. Willis was close, a little farther back, apparently amusing himself by grousing at Sergeant Hayne, who’d provided Willis’s horse.