Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “Fire!”

  Poom-shhh!

  More rapid firing came from the right, and suddenly there was Major Cayce himself, crashing through Doms on his big mare, slashing around with his saber. Captain Anson and Leonor were behind him, firing revolvers into faces, chests, backs . . . and there were more Rangers, even a few lancers, shooting carbines and pistols or savagely hacking through the recoiling press with their own heavy sabers.

  “Have a care with that bayonet, young fellow!” boomed a big, rather fat man, clinging on the back of a horse behind a crouching Private Willis. Hanny was astonished to recognize Reverend Harkin. “Make way! See to that man on the ground, will you? His wits have gone astray.” Sliding to the ground, Harkin paced forward with a rifle in his hands, apparently oblivious to Dom musket balls snatching holes in his big black coat as he called loudly, “Lord God! Lend your strength to those who repel the onslaught at the gate!” More guns, two of Olayne’s under Sergeant McNabb this time, creaked and rumbled forward, shirtless men streaked with sweat and grime wheezing at the spokes.

  Hanny looked around. The Doms were still fighting, and more were shooting again, but whatever pushed them on with such fury before had been beaten out of them by the trip-hammer blows of a reinvigorated 1st Uxmal, 1st US—and now Hanny saw Lara’s lancers and Joffrion’s dragoons charging down the gradual, convoluted slope from the southwest to meet the lighter but critical strike Major Cayce and some hastily gathered guns had made on the right. As he stood watching with other stunned and spent Pennsylvanians, the battle shifted away. Heavy smoke from furious firing was blowing in his face, but he saw individual Doms here and there finally, amazingly, start to turn and run. He dropped down by Sergeant Visser, sitting up now, holding his sleeve against his forehead. He was unspeakably relieved when a limping, bloody Preacher Mac and a dazed-looking Apo, each apparently supporting the other, collapsed in the grass beside them.

  “My wits are fine, damn—blast him,” Sergeant Visser growled.

  “Mine aren’t,” Hanny said.

  * * *

  “Cease firing!” croaked Captain Olayne as Lara and Joffrion’s charge went home and they entered the cone of fire in front of the battery he and Lieutenant Hudgens had combined to roll in the fight.

  “Cease firing!” Hudgens repeated, then added, “Service your pieces, for God’s sake, but load and hold!”

  “They’re running!” Leonor cried, voice filled with predatory glee as the lancers and dragoons almost literally peeled the enemy from in front of them. She started to spur her horse in pursuit.

  “Hold up, Lieutenant,” Lewis snapped as he would at anyone else. “We need to take this in.”

  Anson was using the unexpected pause to reload his revolvers and glanced up with approval. His face was almost as black as Barca’s except for the sweat streaks. So was Leonor’s and everyone else’s. Lewis knew why the perfect white gunsmoke left everything black—the powder was black to begin with and the charred remnant of its ingredients was even more so when it settled out of the smoke. Unless the air’s very dry, then it’s white, he mused vaguely, always struck by that irony.

  “Hear him, girl,” Anson chimed in. “We can’t go chasin’ ever’ which way like dogs after rabbits—an’ these ain’t rabbits. Load your pistols.”

  Lewis pointed. “Look.” From their mounted vantage they could see the Doms in front of De Russy’s Home Guards and half the 3rd Pennsylvania streaming after the regiments that retreated independently. De Russy or Varaa—whoever was really in charge—had actually pressed too far and could’ve been taken on the left flank in turn by the shattered regiments pulling back from here, but they’d had enough, giving De Russy’s pike and bayonet bristling ranks a wide berth as they aimed to rejoin the organized portion of their army. And that portion was still a major threat, advancing from its camp three regiments abreast, even as Captain Holland maintained a murderous fire from the sea. The few Dom guns still in the fight had split their attention between Tiger and Dukane’s diminished battery. Both were moving targets, however—hard to hit. Tiger was sailing back and forth, tacking and wearing, and Dukane kept shifting his guns as well, raining explosive case on the enemy as rapidly as he could.

  “What do you think?” Anson asked.

  Instead of answering directly, Lewis called, “Messengers!” A shabby, exhausted clot of horsemen gathered around him, as did Olayne, Hudgens, and suddenly even Major Reed. Lewis swept his eyes across them. “Where’s Captain Wagley?”

  “Gravely wounded, I’m afraid,” Reed reported mournfully, gesturing back toward the line of riddled limbers and caissons. “Shot through the body even before he gave his last command. Dr. Newlin holds out little hope.”

  Lewis caught a glimpse of the big, brutal, former sergeant Hahessy “helping” a lightly wounded 1st US comrade to the rear and wondered why the likes of him always seemed to be spared when promising young men like Wagley fell. He pursed his lips and jerked a nod before continuing. “First, we must get word to De Russy. Tell him to stop before he’s gobbled up—and I want as many of Burton’s dragoons and Meder’s riflemen back to their horses and here with me as possible. I hope De Russy won’t need them anymore, and I do,” he added cryptically. “What of Captain Manley?”

  “Up there,” Reed said, pointing at the reedy, blond-haired officer, still mounted and waving his sword and trotting back and forth behind the battered but proud 1st Uxmal, plodding after the retreating enemy alongside the 1st US, Lara’s lancers, and Joffrion’s dragoons—now hanging on their left.

  “Tell him to halt as well. All the infantry will stop their pursuit at once.” Lewis’s instinct would always be to press a beaten force, but this enemy wasn’t much more beaten than his—and still had a lot more men. He glanced around at the milling or collapsed remnant of half the 3rd Pennsylvania. “The First US is in good hands. Re-form these men yourself, Major Reed, then find a suitable officer to take them to rejoin the rest of their comrades with De Russy.”

  Reed frowned doubtfully. “I don’t know how much fight’s left in them.” He wiped his brow. “How much any of us have. And our ammunition’s almost exhausted.”

  “Nevertheless,” Lewis pressed relentlessly, “I want all our infantry in a continuous line, re-formed and reconsolidated and looking as sharp and ready as possible. Home Guards on the right, then the Third Pennsylvania. First US in the center, since they’ve suffered the least. To their left, I want the First Uxmal.” He looked at Olayne. “Gather every gun that will move, and you can pull and form a grand battery on that highest ground where Dukane just unlimbered. Lara’s and Joffrion’s lancers and dragoons will help you, then deploy on your left.”

  “It’s starting to sound like you won’t be here,” Reed noted suspiciously.

  “I won’t.”

  Reed sighed, unsurprised.

  The messengers and artillerymen galloped away, and Anson swiveled his head from side to side, looking toward the sea, then back up where Dukane had resumed firing his remaining howitzers, envisioning what Lewis had in mind. “A very long line, an’ a thin one.”

  “A display,” Lewis said harshly, largely still talking to Reed. “All flags flying, and music too. We’ll finally show the Doms most of what we have. Not as many as them, of course—if they can reorganize what we already handled, they must still have ten or twelve thousand—but more than we first stopped them with and many more than they thought we had.” He paused to observe Reed’s reaction. “And just enough ‘fight’ and ‘ammunition’ for you to stop them again, I think—if they choose to renew the action here.” He looked around. “There you are, Private Willis! And Reverend Harkin, I’m pleased to see you well.” Harkin had walked up to hear, and Willis had gingerly dismounted, now holding his horse. It looked as unhappy as he did.

  “Tolerably well,” Harkin said cheerfully, “though my coat has been badly abused.” He hefted his rifle. “A fine weap
on. I’m sure I hit three of the devils, down with the guards, and another when I came here. Spreading the Word and smiting the enemies of the Lord!”

  Lewis smiled. “I’m sure we all appreciate your efforts so far, your prayers in particular, but one more rifle won’t make a great difference. I’d be obliged if you’d coordinate with Dr. Newlin and his hospital corps.” He looked at Reed. “I do hope he made it there?” Reed nodded. “Good, then assemble more fatigue parties from whatever lightly wounded are capable of helping others to the surgeons. I’d also like you to make it your personal mission to see that water is brought to the men, if that’s not already in hand.”

  “Very well, Major Cayce,” Harkin somberly replied. “Perhaps a more fitting task for me in any event—but I shall keep my rifle,” he added defiantly.

  “Of course. Private Willis?”

  Willis took a deep breath and looked up. “You’re gonna make me get back on this damned vicious nag, ain’t you, sir?”

  “With Reverend Harkin again, at first. He can find another horse at the hospital tents. Then I want you to ensure our reserves of ammunition are getting where they’re needed. No hoarding, no malingering. Do that well and you’ll be Corporal Willis.”

  Willis formed an aggrieved expression and shook his head. “Nobody’ll vote me to a corporal.”

  “Battlefield promotions don’t require a vote. Go.”

  Major Reed still looked troubled. “You said my First US has suffered the least, but where’s the First Ocelomeh?” He glanced at Anson. “And the rest of the Rangers? I know the Rangers helped smash the enemy lancers, but what of Consul Koaar’s troops? I haven’t seen them all day.” Reed’s tone actually held something like accusation.

  The roar of battle, so dreadfully intense short moments before, had dwindled to nearly nothing; a few musket shots still chased the retreating Doms and cannon still rumbled regularly over the washboard glade, but except for the cries of wounded, it was almost surreally quiet. The infantry was already responding to Lewis’s orders, raggedly shaking themselves out, redressing their lines, and shifting where he’d sent them. Varaa was visible in the distance, back on her horse and galloping up from where the Home Guards had stopped at last, around the coalescing crescent of men. Lewis was glad she was alive and seemingly unhurt. She clearly meant to rejoin him for what she knew was coming. Smiling at Reed, he spoke. “The enemy hasn’t seen the First Ocelomeh either, but they will.”

  Varaa arrived, horse blowing, both their tails high and swishing. Only at times like this, it seemed, did Lewis remember how truly strange she was. Especially when he saw how rapidly she was blinking. He’d picked up enough over time to recognize parts of what that blinking telegraphed in lieu of complex facial expressions—beyond a grin or frown—but sometimes it was too fast, or combined into meanings beyond his understanding. Like now.

  “De Russy?” Leonor asked. Of them all, she probably grasped the blinking best of all.

  “Alive,” Varaa said, “but I was forced to relieve him.” She held up a hand. “It wasn’t like at the beach,” she quickly assured. “Quite the opposite, in fact. He wouldn’t be stopped and tried to keep pushing even after you ordered a halt. Said he outranked you and would do as he pleased. The enemy was on the run and he’d win the battle.” She flicked her tail. “It was obvious, of course, how exposed we’d become, and . . .” She blinked. “He was seized by a kind of madness, the perfect reverse of what took him before. Young Mr. Barca tried to reason with him, and I believe hurtful things were said, but I ordered him relieved and—regrettably—restrained for a time. An unhappy business. Barca is still with him.”

  “Who’s in command, with you over here?”

  Varaa waved that away as if it was of no importance. “Oh, Alcalde Periz, of course. The Home Guards are Uxmalos, you know.”

  “He’s alive? Here?” Leonor blurted.

  Varaa blinked. “Ah. A sad misunderstanding, and I misspoke. A runner was sent to inform you, but perhaps he was killed. I’m sorry to tell you Alcalde Ikan Periz died within an hour of reaching the city. Sira Periz is the alcaldesa now. She immediately set all but a token force of Home Guards on the march to join us”—she glanced at the sun, now a little in the west—“though they’ll never get here before dark. She raced ahead in her mate’s bloodstained carriage with Father Orno, the Home Guard commander, and Mistress Samantha Wilde.”

  “Samantha’s here too?” Anson demanded hotly. “What the hell does she think she’s doing? A woman . . .” He stopped, looking blankly at his daughter, then Varaa. “Shit.”

  “She’s perfectly safe, I assure you,” Varaa said with a grin. “She and Barca are comforting Colonel De Russy.” She looked back at Lewis. “And as to who I really left in command, why, the guard captain, of course. He’s quite competent and rather good with a pike.” She nodded back the way she’d come, and they saw a mixed force of about a hundred mounted men already pounding up behind the redeploying troops in their direction, briefly held up by a gun being pulled by a depleted team of two horses. “I would’ve left Lieutenants Burton and Meder—able young fellows—but you called them here.”

  Lewis watched for a moment while his battered army struggled to complete the great crescent of troops he’d envisioned, but it wasn’t as great as he’d hoped. They’d lost a lot of men. Still, it would look intimidating to an enemy it already half defeated, particularly when every flag was set streaming over troops who appeared readier to renew the engagement than they were. And this was reinforced by music, each regiment attempting to play various airs together. The same rising wind forcing Tiger to stand off and on farther out, diminishing the effect of her fire, also badly confused the fifes and they became a sad jumble. The drummers redoubled their efforts, however, now dueling to play the loudest. The result was as good as Lewis could’ve hoped: an impression of light-heartedness and men cheerfully anxious to fight again.

  The riflemen and dragoons arrived quickly, horses still fresh, and Lewis leaned over in his saddle to shake Reed’s hand. “I must leave you, Andrew. Our infantry’s suffered enough today, more than I’d hoped or planned for,” he confessed. “It’s my expectation they’ve fired their last shots, but”—he squeezed Reed’s hand—“if you must fight again, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare. And maybe the rest of the Home Guards will arrive before then. I know you’ll do well.”

  “Good God!” cried Coryon Burton, standing in his stirrups to see more clearly even before his horse came to a stop. His outburst drew their attention back to the center of the field, where the three reserve enemy regiments had been advancing very slowly in spite of the galling barrages still coming from land and sea. The retreating forces, chivvied and wrangled into something like the formations they’d begun the day with, had seemed almost hesitant, marching slower as they approached their countrymen. The sight subconsciously stirred an odd sense of foreboding in Lewis, as well as a dreadful memory from his childhood: A scraggly stray dog started hanging around the house, and his father only fed it once that Lewis knew of (he’d done it after that), but the old man named it and it became utterly devoted to him. Unfortunately, rough play or mere instinct caused it to injure one of the old man’s beloved guinea fowl, and he savagely beat the animal with a limb. When the yelping, terrified dog retreated, he called it back. To Lewis’s dismay, it returned, head down, tail between its legs, uncertain and afraid but still devoted. His father proceeded to beat it to death.

  He’d never admired his father—he’d had his share of senselessly brutal beatings too—but the sickness and horror of that particular act stuck with him more than almost anything else from his childhood. The hideous abuse of trust perhaps most of all. Now he saw it again on an unimaginable scale, out on the battlefield before him. What nobody expected, even Varaa, was that Don Frutos and the Holy Dominion wouldn’t tolerate any degree of defeat. With less than thirty yards between them—Lewis had assumed the newcomers would l
et the ravaged troops pass through to the rear—there came the sound of bitter horns. Coryon Burton had reacted to the sight of Dom muskets coming down, leveling, and firing a seething volley into their own people.

  It happened more than half a mile away, and they saw the smoke and fire long before they heard the stuttering rumble of the volley and wailing screams of pain. And no one else around them said a word, too shocked to believe what they’d seen. Then there was another volley, and another, as rank after rank was commanded to fire on troops whose only crime was that a percentage—only a percentage—had endured too much for a while. Most would’ve been ready and willing to go at it again after a rest and some reorganization.

  “My God,” murmured Major Reed, then he exclaimed, “they’re not even shooting back! They’re just taking it!”

  A fourth volley came, and Lewis had no doubt there’d be a fifth, sixth, however many it took. Even soldiers who’d desperately fought these victims of mindless barbarity were starting to shout horrified protests, some even yelling they should “save” them.

  “They’re executing them, aren’t they?” Lewis demanded of Varaa. “Don Frutos is executing them! Did you know this would happen?”

  Eyes wide, Varaa shook her head. Usually so urbane, she seemed as affected as the rest. “I expected them to make examples—they crucify one in ten in a company for the least infraction by a single soldier—but this! I’ve never heard of anything like it!”