Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  He couldn’t see everything, the smoke was deep, but the retreating regiments—drawing men like iron filings to a magnet—were completely out of the fight. For whatever reason whoever led them turned away from the battle, he seemed intent on taking them back to Don Frutos intact. Then Lewis noted with alarm that the enemy lancers were moving at last, heading for the exposed and apparently unsupported left of Dukane’s battery. “First smart thing they’ve done,” he murmured, “and the most obvious.” The clearest threat at present, however, was the countercharge of nearly three whole regiments smashing primarily into half of the 3rd Pennsylvania and its tenuous contact with the 1st Uxmal—while the other half of the 3rd had joined De Russy’s charge. The 1st US and Dukane’s battery were firing into the Doms on the far side, but the Uxmalos, Olayne’s battery, and Wagley’s remaining Pennsylvanians were reeling back.

  “It’s that damn gap made by the fire,” Lewis cried. The fire had swept all the way to the trees, flaring again when it hit brush, scattering even more strange creatures. It had almost died away entirely on the plain, but the Uxmalos and Americans hadn’t completely rejoined before the Doms hit them. “Somebody over there has a brain, damn him,” Lewis growled. “That’s where we need to be!”

  “What about the lancers?” Anson asked.

  “They’ll be taken care of,” Lewis replied with complete certainty. “We need to find Captain Wagley and Major Reed.” Lightly kicking Arete, he surged ahead on the big mare, followed by Leonor, her father, and about thirty Rangers. An appalled and very saddle-sore Private Willis hesitated.

  “I’m coming with you!” cried Reverend Harkin, puffing up with his rifle.

  “Which you can have this fat sack o’ fleas to yourself, Preacher,” Willis offered, but Harkin was already clawing his way up behind. The horse groaned. “Nonsense,” Harkin wheezed. “Such a fine animal—he could carry three more. Hurry along after the major!”

  CHAPTER 36

  Teniente Ramon Lara was sitting on his horse at the head of his lancers in a draw on the south end of the washboard glade. The “draw” was only a depression when viewed from the east or west, and his lancers were actually somewhat elevated and probably visible to anyone directly to the north. He could see the retreating Doms a mile and a half away, for example, and they might’ve seen his three hundred blue-clad men if they looked his way. Maybe they did, but they seemed more concerned with the battle behind them—and the three regiments of Dom infantry that had finally stirred, marching out from their camp to meet them. But a runner had just come from Boogerbear, telling him of the Dom lancers, not yet in view, and warning him to make ready. Lara’s lancers, and indeed Boogerbear’s mostly Ocelomeh Rangers, had been ready and in position for quite a while. Now Lara turned to look at the men under his command, many more than he’d ever had. Aside from Alferez Rini and two others from the old world—both NCOs now—nearly all were Uxmalos, with a sprinkling from Pidra Blanca and Techon. Ocelomeh didn’t like being encumbered by the nine-foot weapons lancers had to carry and master. Lara was about to instruct Rini, sitting quietly beside him, to take his post when Boogerbear himself came tearing down from his vantage point atop the low ridge above the gully and pulled Dodger to a stop.

  “Is it time?” Lara asked.

  “Now or never.” Boogerbear nodded, long black beard wagging up and down. “I reckon there’s fifteen hundred o’ the devils, already in line, fixin’ to swoop down on Dukane an’ the First US. Near eight hundred o’ us, countin’ my Rangers an’ Joffrion’s dragoons, an’ we’ll hit their flank a bit from behind as they swing past—if we hurry. Roll ’em up like a ball o’ string,” he added with satisfaction, then shook his head. “Silly bastards. We never could’a done none o’ this if they had a half dozen decent scouts. Even bad scouts would’a told ’em that plain out yonder is a sack. Ain’t complainin’, mind”—he grinned—“an’ I reckon we’ll have educated a passel of ’em before the day’s through, so let’s make sure there ain’t many left!” He paused as if listening, then bolted back toward his Rangers. “Good luck, Tenny-entay!” he called behind him.

  “And to you, Lieutenant Beeryman,” Lara answered lowly before raising his voice. “Primeros Lanceros de Yucatán! Adelante en el galope!” The 1st Yucatán swept forward in line abreast, closely followed by Boogerbear’s Rangers, then Lieutenant Hans Joffrion’s two companies of the 3rd Dragoons. Lara almost immediately saw what the big Ranger described and thought they might’ve cut it too late; the Doms were right there. But like Boogerbear said, coming in behind them, they’d have precious seconds before their presence was fully apprehended.

  “Lanzas!” shouted Alferez Rini, and three hundred lances came down all together.

  “Cargar!” whooped Lara, drawing his saber, kicking with his spurs. Exploding into a thundering sprint behind and on the right of their still-trotting prey, the 1st Yucatán smashed into the enemy before they even got up to speed, impaling men on bowing and splintering lances, throwing them from their mounts or sending horses tumbling and crashing into others. Lara hadn’t seen it, but the effect was much like what the 1st Uxmal and 1st US did to the Dom infantry earlier, only this was on a larger, more intimate and savage scale, the screams of wounded and broken horses so much louder and more terrible than those of men. And Lara’s lancers didn’t stop. They’d struck right flank to right flank so those still slashing in after the first impact had fresh targets in front of them, spearing men in the back from behind. The catastrophe only spread from there, causing a ripple in the whole Dom line that became a convulsion of rearing animals and roaring men, trying to wheel and face the bewildering horror of complete and brutal surprise. Horses went out of control, dashing riders to the ground, where they were trampled or crushed, or smashing their legs between them. Some simply ran amok, riders helpless to stop them. The few men who gained control were either pinned by more lances or hacked down by sabers. And then the Rangers were among them, launching huge arrows from mere feet away or swinging the heavy flint-bladed clubs Ocelomeh liked so much.

  Boogerbear was shooting his brace of revolvers as fast as he could cock them, and men screamed and slumped in their saddles or fell and rolled in the tall dusty grass. Some of his men had musketoons taken from the lancers destroyed at what would become the conference site, but they were all fired in the first moments of the fight. Boogerbear’s pistols were empty almost as quickly, and so was his double-barrel shotgun. Yanking a dragoon saber from its scabbard he’d recently clipped to Dodger’s saddle, he slashed at the enemy. He had no skill with a long blade—would’ve done as well with an axe—but what he lacked in practice and art was more than made up for in power and ferocity. A very few Doms managed to draw their own musketoons or sabers, but it did them little good. Some of their attackers were shot or cut, but the blows were invariably rewarded by a fusillade of long-bladed arrows.

  And then came Joffrion’s dragoons, and the rout became a massacre as they added their sabers or rapid-fire Hall carbines to the fight. True to form and as expected, the Dom lancers never broke. Even their horses were unusually committed, but they were perhaps somewhat smarter. The shocking, overwhelming nature of the attack was sufficient to undermine the scruples of the most dedicated animal, and dozens, then hundreds were streaming away, some with riders, most without. In mere moments, it seemed, all that remained was to spear or shoot dismounted Doms still trying to win their bloody passage to heaven. Lara’s lancers, Joffrion’s dragoons, and Boogerbear’s Rangers were happy to send them on their way.

  “Oh my God,” Joffrion murmured, aghast. He’d just joined Boogerbear and was wiping sweat from his face with a blood-flecked pocket handkerchief. Now he used it to cover his mouth.

  “Stop that shit!” Boogerbear roared, pointing his saber at a cluster of Ocelomeh Rangers who’d jumped off their horses to take enemy heads. “Any man I find with a damn head when this is done is gonna eat it raw, you hear? Teeth, hair, eyes an’ all. Git bac
k on your horses, we ain’t done!” Heads arced in the air as men raced back to their mounts.

  Leaning carefully out to the side, Joffrion politely vomited. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured hoarsely, gently wiping his lips.

  “What now, Lieutenant Beeryman?” Lara asked, breathing hard as he guided his horse around a cluster of corpses to join them. Lara was covered in blood, some likely his judging by the way his right arm hung slack, saber dangling by the knot around his wrist. His eyes were burning with an inner triumph, however, and Boogerbear suddenly remembered he’d been at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma as well—on the other side. This was his first taste of victory in a really big fight, doing what he’d trained for and taught others to do as well. I hope his glad outlasts the sad—an’ pain that’ll come, Boogerbear mused. He wasn’t hurt, but probably looked just as bad. Splashed myself up some, he supposed.

  “Git somebody to patch you up, sling that arm at least, an’ I reckon your lancers an’ Joffrion’s dragoons oughta head over yonder.” He waved his bloody saber toward where the Dom counterattack had pushed the 1st Uxmal, 1st US, and part of the 3rd Pennsylvania almost back to where the gun’s caissons had stood shortly before.

  “What about you and your Rangers?” Lara asked.

  Boogerbear looked surprised. “Why, there’s still the Dom camp to account for, ain’t there?”

  * * *

  Private Hanny Cox had gotten his wish in a manner of speaking, exchanging the flag for a musket as “his” half of the 3rd Pennsylvania was battered relentlessly back. Still conscious of the honor of bearing the national colors in the firing line and feeling a little weak—but more like a fool as good men fell around him—he’d tied the flagstaff to the bullet-splintered spokes of a caisson and seized an M1816 Springfield musket and cartridge box from the body of a man with most of his face blown away. That occurred, and the splintered spokes too, because many of the enemy had taken things upon themselves as well, finally driving bayonets out of their barrels and firing independently as they surged against the thinning line. Firing was continuous, buffeting his ears, almost crushing his chest when one of Olayne’s 6pdrs went off right beside him, sweeping men down.

  “More canister!” cried Sergeant McNabb, serving as gunner on Olayne’s Number One gun.

  “Which there ain’t none!” replied a panicky voice.

  “Take it straight from the caisson, ye clatty bastard! They’ve already overrun the damned limber,” McNabb bellowed back. The horses hitched to the limber had been shot down in their traces, and Number One’s crew had pulled the gun back past it.

  “There ain’t none in our caisson, Sergeant! We shot it all up!”

  “Bring case,” McNabb shouted louder. “I’ll cut the fuses for a muzzle burst. Then rob another caisson!”

  Hanny wasn’t watching this, too absorbed with loading and firing his inherited musket while Doms shot back less than twenty yards away. Fumbling in the leather box at his side, he handled another cartridge, tore the paper with his teeth, and spat out bitter, salty black grains. Dashing a sprinkle of powder in the brass pan on the side of the lock, he slapped the steel down over it and let the musket slide until the butt hit his shoe. Pouring the rest of the powder down the barrel, he wadded the paper under the ball and pushed it all in the muzzle with his thumb. Drawing his rammer with a metallic shick, he inverted it and seated the ball. Whipping the rammer out, he returned it to its place, cocking the weapon all the way as he brought it to his shoulder. The front sight drifted for an instant until it found its own target in the press: a dark-haired kid about his age looking right at him and feverishly loading as well. Hanny squeezed the trigger. The cock leaped forward, flint striking steel. It managed to scrape only a single, meager reddish spark that missed the priming powder completely, however. Misfire! Hanny screamed at himself, lowering his weapon with a sense of horror and betrayal. Glancing up, he saw the kid he’d tried to shoot finish loading and aim deliberately at him.

  A vent jet sprayed his left cheek, and he flinched away from the blast.

  “Hateful little bastard,” Sergeant Visser declared and spit a stream of tobacco juice as the kid opposite Hanny folded and fell. “He was aiming for you in particular. What kind of scrub does that?” Visser had saved Hanny’s life.

  “I was aiming at him,” Hanny confessed miserably, taking the little brass hammer on a small ring of tools Visser offered, striking a rounded knob off his flint before closing the steel and handing the tools back.

  Visser had already reloaded and was raising his musket again. “Well,” he said, considering. “Then maybe he had cause. But you wouldn’t’ve killed him out of meanness, like he meant to do.” His voice clouded with anger. “I told all you bastards to hammer your goddamn flints!”

  “It isn’t my musket, Sergeant.”

  “Oh? Yeah. Where’s the flag?” he quickly demanded, and Hanny gestured behind them with his head.

  “Just as well,” Visser grunted after he fired again, nodding down to the right where the other half of the 3rd Pennsylvania, under the regimental flag, was still pushing alongside the pike-armed Home Guards, dismounted dragoons, and rifles. . . . The enemy had practically collapsed in front of them. “That Uxmalo boy Apo got knocked on the head. He’ll be all right,” he quickly added, knowing Hanny and Apo were friends, “but another local took up the regimental flag before Wagley sent everybody to the right of it to join De Russy. Damn flag’s gone down twice more, that I’ve seen, and some other poor bastard always takes it up again and gets shot. Better to have a shot-up caisson hold it than a fighting man right now. We need all we have.” A ball snatched the right side of his collar off, showering him with fuzzy blue and white fibers. He didn’t seem to notice. “I think they’re about to push us again.”

  The Number One gun fired with a double thunderclap, the case shot exploding just inches from the muzzle. Balls and shards of iron scythed through the enemy like canister, but not as effectively, and Doms pressed forward over their dead.

  “Give ’em a cheer, boys, and charge bayonets!” cried Captain Wagley somewhere behind, voice loud but strained. Hanny and Sergeant Visser and what was left of their part of the 3rd—Hanny didn’t know where Preacher Mac McDonough was—lowered their tight-clenched muskets and swept forward with a rasping, breathless “Huzza!” There was a terrific crash as men and weapons slammed together with a final crackle of musketry, but then there was only the screaming, heaving, roaring noise of desperate hand-to-hand fighting. It sounded like a ranting sea hurling a ship on a rocky shore, the splintering timbers and wails of the dying heralding the triumph of the elemental force. The only element here was a surging, frantic terror suffused with the rage and hatred it caused. Hanny bashed a Dom’s musket aside and—for the very first time—speared a man with the wicked triangular bayonet affixed to the muzzle of his musket. The man’s scream was lost in the din, but Hanny distinctly felt his life quiver out through the wood and steel in his hands before wrenching the weapon back. It appalled him, but he had no time to dwell on it because he instantly had to do it again or die. Sergeant Visser was an inspiration, bare headed and bloody, plying his bayonet with mechanical skill far beyond that of his opponents.

  And this was when the Doms’ earlier confusion, rigid tactics, and uninformed training combined with their current desperation to cost them most cruelly of all. Many who’d taken the previously unimaginable initiative to knock their bayonets back out and resume shooting—doing a lot of damage—had thoughtlessly flung the offending weapons away. Now they didn’t have them. They tried to fight anyway, of course, using their muskets as clubs. Effectively done, their numbers alone should’ve still been enough to overwhelm the exhausted, beleaguered Pennsylvanians, but they’d never really trained for that either. Hanny, Visser, and their desperate, dwindling comrades stabbed and battered the Doms to a standstill, just as the decimated 1st Uxmal (defending their very homes and loved ones, they�
��d stood the onslaught as well as any veteran regiment) fired a final deliberate volley from mere paces away and charged as well, followed immediately by the 1st US, the strongest remaining cohesive block of Allied troops.

  Hanny and the Doms in front of him, swinging muskets or jabbing with bayonets, couldn’t know any of this. The point of contact was so intermingled, the noise so great, nothing mattered but the next gasping breath. And Hanny had nothing left. His hands were bashed and bloody claws, clinging to a battered musket slick with blood. Even Sergeant Visser was down, struck on the head and dazed. Hanny was sure he had only seconds to live before a Dom ball struck him, a musket butt smashed his face, or a bayonet pierced his body. But something was happening to the Doms even before more firing flared and crackled and the next crash came from his left. The enemy was bunching together, pushed from the right, and Hanny vaguely heard the rasping but familiar voice of Lieutenant Hudgens roar, “Make way lads! Stand back, damn you!” and was almost run down by the big left wheel of a smoke-blackened gun pushing past him. He staggered back, numbly wondering why Hudgens was here instead of Olayne. Blowing men, stripped to red shirtsleeves, dropped the trail of the gun with a clank and crouched away from the wheels.

  “Fire!”

  Canister screeched, and a score or more Doms tumbled into a shoal of mewling mush. A young Uxmalo with a pair of bulging gunner’s haversacks over his shoulders actually tossed a heavy tin cylinder full of balls strapped to a wood sabot and powder bag over the gun. The wildly cursing Number One man caught it with one hand, holding a rammer staff in the other. Screaming “Thumb that vent, Goddamn you!” at the Three man already inside the right wheel, he stuffed the round in the muzzle. Smoke gushed around it as he slammed it to the breech, eyes clenched shut, before jerking the rammer out with an expression of surprise that a lingering ember hadn’t lit the charge and blown his whole arm off. His happiness lasted only a second before a Dom musket ball exploded from his chest, dropping him like a sack over the axle.