Purgatory's Shore (Artillerymen # 1)

by Taylor Anderson

“I . . . can’t speak for the others, sir, but . . .” Burton glanced meaningfully at the red trim on Lewis’s jacket. “Just as there is rivalry between dragoons and Mounted Rifles, there exists a certain friction between mounted and foot artillery. It might also be . . .” The boy flushed again. “I can say for myself that your glorious experiences in battle have given me much to think about. Much to look forward to,” he quickly added, “but also to question—whether I can perform as you did.”

Only a butterbar would use the phrase "glorious experiences in battle".

an’ there’ll be much more fightin’ on the road from Vera Cruz to the halls of the Montezuma.”

As Captain Anson said, Lewis had been wounded at Monterrey: a musket ball in his lower chest. Only distance, inferior Mexican gunpowder, or divine providence stopped the ball from passing through the ribs it broke and cracking his liver open. So sure it had and he would die, Lewis took mad chances, exposing himself stupidly until the end of the battle—and he discovered the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. That had been part of the source of his “heroism,” as he prayed for another ball to give him a quick, clean death so he could avoid the lingering suffering he’d watched Major Ringgold endure. And in any event, he had to withstand it anyway. Relatively minor as it was, the wound turned septic due to all the filthy uniform fragments the ball carried under the skin, and Lewis nearly died. His chest still hurt, and the wound remained partially open, disgorging pus and rotten fibers of wool or cotton in addition to slivers of bone and tiny flakes of lead. Sometimes he wondered if it would ever heal—and if his mind had been damaged as badly.

Pandemonium had erupted as sailors raced up the ratlines and soldiers loudly scurried to rails, the capstan, windlass—anything they could grasp. “Get your men up,” Lewis shouted at the lieutenants still standing by while he looked to the west. If they were turning away from it, that had to be the direction of the threat—where those malevolent clouds had been. At first he saw nothing in the near-total blackness, then jagged ribbons of lightning rushed all across the horizon, lacing through the sky like thousands of silvery capillaries on some monstrous, greenish-black eye. More lighting, almost blue, then yellow, pulsed inside the terrible cloud—and Lewis saw what so alarmed Captain Holland. The thing was close, impossibly so, implying a tremendous velocity—wind like they’d never seen—pushing a rain squall heavy enough to whiten the sea at its feet as it thundered down upon them.

Unknown to the public, there’d always been women hiding in the ranks of the American Army, dressing and behaving as men. Some followed husbands and lovers, even fighting and dying beside them. Others of a different sort endured army life strictly for money, maintaining a periodic monopoly on certain services among an exclusive and captive, often protectively appreciative clientele. The practice wasn’t widespread, but was more common than any civilian would believe. Observant officers knew about it, but few took notice unless they had to. It often came down to whether the affected unit would be better or worse with or without its female influence.

Lewis blew out a breath. “Only a soldier, you might’ve said. But a good soldier is by definition a protective servant of his people whether he agrees with everything about them or not. I take that service seriously.” He shrugged. “My oath to the Constitution and duty is all I have.

“What the hell?” Boogerbear rumbled. Leonor realized with a thrill of terror she quickly subdued that the thing looked like a gigantic cross between a turtle and a horned toad. It was heavily armored, with spiky projections around its protective shell, and wore another equally formidable shell on its head like a helmet. Bony protrusions protected small, beady red eyes. Four short legs supported it, at right angles to its body, and a strikingly long, spike-studded tail whipped menacingly behind it as it raised its head and snuffled the air.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ankylosaurus

Lieutenant Dwyer could only stare at the man incredulously, realizing that no matter how well trained or professional these volunteer troops might be, politically appointed officers, often with no military experience at all, were one of the biggest problems with them.

The new Colt pistols her father so cherished were altogether different. Sent to him by an old friend and comrade named Samuel Walker, who’d helped Colt develop them, they were .44 caliber six-shooters instead of .36s. Equally important, each conical bullet was loaded atop up to four times as much powder, and the improved loading levers under the barrels made them easier to load. By any estimation, they were the most lethal handguns in the world, and Leonor’s father now used his to clear the way as they galloped east.

Leonor didn’t know where her father was, and Sergeant Ulrich, the other man Leonor first met here, was calling commands for this part of the line. Too many junior officers had fallen early on, seeming to think they must expose themselves to inspire their men. That left men like Ulrich, and increasingly corporals and respected privates to lead.

Pouring a measure of gunpowder into her cupped left hand—Leonor never poured straight down a barrel from a flask—she dumped the charge in before spitting one of several lead balls she’d popped in her mouth down after it. She wouldn’t take time to patch the ball for accuracy, and didn’t even ram it down. Without the patch, the ball was loose enough to seat just by thumping the butt in the sand a couple of times. As quickly as that went, she wouldn’t trust that enough powder had trickled through the vent to the pan, but before she could prime it from the little horn dangling from her shooting pouch, the lizard monsters struck.

“That will only work so long,” Newlin realized aloud. “The regulars will stay in line for a while. At least most will, as long as you keep them fed. But the volunteers . . . ? They signed up ‘for the duration,’ but their war is suddenly over. How will you ‘keep them soldiers’ without a legal right to do so, and without resorting to tyranny—which would only scatter them anyway?” “That’s simple enough,” said Leonor, abruptly striding in among them. Lewis wondered how long she’d been listening but realized it didn’t matter. Her father would’ve told her if she, like Boogerbear, hadn’t already figured it out for herself. She stopped in front of Samantha, looking her up and down. “Fancy outfit,” she grudgingly told her. “Not very practical, though. I’d hate to try to fight in a getup like that.” Before Samantha could respond, Leonor turned to Lewis. “Simple,” she repeated. “First thing, we get everybody safe to that Uxmal place. Get set up an’ start everybody healin’. Keep ’em an army the whole time, though. Flags, drums, everything. Keep ’em proud an’ no lapse in discipline.” She looked at Captain Beck. “But break any junior officers an’ NCOs who live to lord it over fellas, an’ keep the discipline fair, with punishment fittin’ a crime for a change.” Singling Beck out for such criticism might’ve been unwarranted—Lewis barely knew him—but army discipline was notoriously capricious. Looking back at Lewis, Leonor continued, “Rumors’ll fly the whole time, o’ course, but when we get...

“But how do we keep them together? Keep them Americans?” Dr. Newlin insisted. Lewis already knew. Gazing at Leonor with even greater respect for her intellect, he spoke softly. “Our men will never stop being Americans, Doctor. Even immigrants new to the States already loved the idea of America, and many could already quote much of our Constitution by heart.”

“An interesting creature,” Samantha said brightly when they were alone. Lewis looked at her. “Person,” he stressed. “Of course,” Samantha assured. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a figure of speech.” Lewis gazed at her a moment, then nodded. “I’m sure. I guess I’m a little touchy. Considering all the sectional, cultural, racial, even political differences my troops already had and brought here with them—not even counting the friction between various branches, regulars, and volunteers . . .” He snorted. “Somehow, relations have remained surprisingly good between our people and . . . all these others. We have to keep it that way to survive, and it won’t last if we start thinking of them as less than we are.”

I believe the one, single flaw in the American Constitution is that it abandoned the notion laid down to your king in our Declaration of Independence, that all men are created equal.

“Let’s hear the ‘Old 1812’!” That particular piece was always a favorite and one they hadn’t played for Alcalde Periz and Varaa-Choon.

https://youtu.be/Lwv79oc6p7Q?si=FIhEJfTTBN52crVv

Lewis was looking down at the bloody, muddy squad of men, and Meder in particular, for some reason. “You don’t even have to tell me, I know,” he said. “You thought, ‘It’s only a little way off. We don’t need any help.’ ” He frowned. “But you do. We all do.” He nodded at Varaa. “And they need ours. But for now we have to let them guide our behavior. We don’t know enough about what’s lurking out here, in the woods, the grass, or the water. Until we do, no one ventures out without someone to advise them. Is that perfectly understood? We can’t lose people to ignorance!” Meder and Todd both nodded. So did the infantrymen.

“But the most hideous and perverted difference is that instead of earning the right to keep the grace freely given by a loving God, a grace that sustains us in our toil and suffering, they must earn . . . their god’s grace (I can’t call him ‘ours’) through pain and suffering. Over the years, the bloody pagan rituals the Spanish found in this land twisted and subverted the Christianity they brought to such a shocking degree that even the meaning of our Lord and Savior’s crucifixion has been perverted. Instead of dying for our sins, to ensure our salvation, the brutal scourging and execution of Jesus has been turned to an example of what’s required by all to gain the grace required for salvation!” He shuddered. “What are you saying?” Samantha almost whispered, horrified. Varaa answered. “Doms believe they must be ‘cleansed’ by pain to earn the ‘grace’ of a bloodthirsty Maker who glories in their sacrifice to him. The more painful it is, the more notice he takes!” “That’s . . . ghastly!” Lieutenant Olayne objected. “Yes,” Father Orno agreed, eyes blazing.

“Just as bad,” Reverend Harkin went on, “they’ve integrated many . . . pagan practices into their faith. Human sacrifice is one. Ostensibly, it serves as an example of the ‘purification’ they must endure—and the victim is consoled with the assurance his or her soul will fly straight to their ‘heavenly underworld’—but it’s primarily a means of delighting and gaining the favor of their god for various reasons.” He glanced at Orno. “I understand it occurs quite frequently.” Reverend Harkin sat up straighter, proud belly straining against his waistcoat, but his expression was wreathed in gloom. “In any event, to answer your question, Colonel De Russy, Blood Priests are members of a newer, more aggressive sect of messengers and harbingers of that way of thinking now gaining power over”—he snorted—“their more ‘moderate’ bretheren. That power struggle within their ‘church’ makes little difference to us or our friends, however, since ‘moderate’ in this case seems only a question of relative enthusiasm for the effusion of blood rather than any meaningful doctrinal dispute.” He drew on his pipe and blew a frustrated gust of smoke. “One wouldn’t imagine such a depraved faith would attract many followers, but the Dominion has grown vast and powerful as much through the fear of conquest as the actual fact of it because those who resist . . .” He shook his head, perhaps still unbelieving.

They’ll build forts like this as good as the Romans, before long.”

Fact is, I’ve always been a reader. Good thing too. Next to bloody, hard-won experience—which you don’t always live through earnin’—readin’ history teaches you a lot about leadin’ men. If you really take it in,” he qualified, “you can pick up a lot of examples of what not to do!”

“I think you’ll agree it’s equally clear we aren’t simply—somehow—somewhere else on our known world. Captain Holland assures me the moon and stars are all where they belong, but even here—a hundred miles from where we were wrecked—we should be swimming instead of standing on an undiscovered land full of unknown creatures and people. All these things you know, but evidence amassed by the officers of this . . . Detached Expeditionary Force, and more presented by our new friends and allies”—he jerked a nod toward Varaa-Choon and Ixtla, who’d stepped up beside her horse—“convinces me our unexplainable presence here and isolation from all we’ve known is in fact”—he paused—“the result of some . . . unimaginable transportation from our own world to another one entirely.”

His expression hardened again. “But I did leave a home and family of sorts, just as dear to me in some ways as yours were to you. My home was all the United States of America, which I’ve devoted my life to defending, and my guiding ‘father,’ after God, was the Constitution I swore to uphold.” He took a breath. “And my ‘family’ has been the army. I hope I still have part of it with me as well.”

As Father Orno has described your ‘Constitution’ to me, and now the other alcaldes here, particularly its ‘Bill of Rights’ and the protections it guarantees to the various ‘states’ . . . This is a framework we might use, might build upon. Something that might even work.” He looked straight at Lewis. “Your ‘states’ have apparently managed it well enough to assemble your great army, so perhaps we can do the same.” He waved his hand at Ortiz and Truro. “They have agreed to try.” “It won’t be easy,” De Russy cautioned. “Even after half a century, we’re still pulling up some of the stumps.” He waited while Varaa and Lara tried to translate that. “And after our Union was established and won a war against its oppressor, keeping it together requires constant effort and compromise.” He frowned. “Honestly, some of those compromises have left enduring bitterness, and I occasionally wonder if our Union will endure.”

“And who’ll determine what’s ‘equal’?” De Russy challenged. “Do you all have an equal number of men? Equal resources in food and raw materials?” He groped for a cigar in a pocket of his splendid dress coat and grimaced when he couldn’t find one. “You must decide this now, before we even attempt to do more.” Anson handed him one of his last cigars, and De Russy took it with thanks, but didn’t light it. “And once you decide, you must swear—swear before Father Orno—you’ll abide by your oaths until the Dominion’s driven back or destroyed.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Just as our men did today, you must ‘sign on’ for the ‘duration’ of the conflict to come.” He shook his head. “I’m not saying you can’t make changes from time to time, to deal with new things as they come along, but they must be agreed to by everyone, for the benefit of all.”

Varaa and Burton were both sitting up, as if supporting each other, and Varaa said, “Finish him. You’re giving him what he wants.” Lewis’s mind reeled. “What he wants?” he asked dumbly. “You’ve forgotten already,” Varaa lamented, standing slowly and helping Burton to his feet. “They earn ‘grace’ through pain, and the worse it is, the better. The more ‘exalted’ they’ll be in their perverted afterlife.” “Lord,” Burton murmured. “I understand,” Varaa consoled. “It is hard to grasp. But here you see it before you.” She waved around. “He led these Holcanos against us, at Tranquilo’s command no doubt, utterly indifferent to their fates or even his own—beyond what’s happening now. The failure of the plan and all the suffering it caused is unimportant beside the grace we’re giving him as we speak!” “That’s madness,” Anson said, deeply troubled. “Of course it is!” Varaa actually yelled in frustration. “Yet that’s what we’re fighting, at its heart. A cultural and spiritual madness that promotes evil beyond anything I know on this world!” She glared at Leonor. “Kill him! Put him out of our misery!”

“On the other hand,” he continued more bleakly, “as I told the men when we got here, I wouldn’t be surprised if Periz and the other alcaldes eventually resort to conscription. That’s ‘involuntary servitude’ of a sort itself, but if the Doms are as bad as they say—and I’ve no reason to doubt it—I don’t even disapprove. Better that than what will happen to their families if the enemy wins. And even in the army, conscripts are still free men, fighting for freedom. I . . .” He hesitated, looking at Barca, who was now watching him with a strange expression. “I just wanted to say, to speak to you before I talk to the colonel . . . I’ll insist you have the same right as anyone to be a free man in this army, to choose whether to stay in his service or transfer to a combat unit of any branch.” He glanced at the dark-skinned Ocelomeh healer and tilted his head to the side with a slight smile. “If our time here has taught our people nothing else, they seem to have begun to grasp that white men—or black—are now a distinct minority, and skin color”—he thought of Varaa and actually chuckled—“or appearance in general, is no basis to judge the quality of an individual.” Lewis snorted. “Background either, since even some of our most . . . belligerently insular troops originally from England and Ireland have lately been heard to use the words ‘we’ and ‘us’ collectively. My point is, between that and your fighting reputation, you’d be welcome in any branch you chose.”

“Each o’ ye devils’ll learn every one o’ these positions—what they do an’ why, an’ in what order—even how to take on two or three at once in case yer friends’re knocked on the head. Ye’ll learn the drill till ye do it like a bloody dance an’ can do it in yer sleep! Then, if yer chosen fer a crew, we’ll let ye shoot the big buggers an’ start learnin’ ta slaughter the goddamn Doms!”

A couple of 6pdrs boomed in the distance, firing at a rotten old fishing boat anchored several hundred yards from shore. With suitable copper roundshot already being cast, they had enough for a little live-fire practice. And artillery trainees formed at least part of the crew whenever a big gun was fired. It was good for them to be around it, feel the roar and overpressure and observe the basics of what they could do. They were too short on exploding case shot to practice with it, however, and no one had figured out how to make more. Lewis had some ideas, but it would take time just to make the things to make things.

“There’s lead to make musket balls,” Anson pointed out. “But we’re still stuck with the gunpowder we brought until the very process for making more is improved,” Lewis retorted. “And what will the men use for paper cartridges then? Riflemen can load from flasks, since they’re not supposed to get close.” He pursed his lips at what he’d just said. “Supposed to” often fell victim to “had to” in battle, and he wanted their gunsmiths and blacksmiths (wildly important people now) to modify enough bayonets to fit their M1817 rifles if “had to” occurred.

“Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me. I never imagined myself an idealist,” Anson confessed at last. “An’ maybe I’ve let vengeance consume me too long,” he added lowly. “I’ve spent a decade burnin’ to get even for my family . . . for Leonor. But you never ‘get even’ for somethin’ like that. No way in hell to find the ones really responsible.” He sighed and looked out to sea, where Tiger was beating back east past the point, a little farther out. “An’ you can’t kill your way out of tryin’,” he murmured. “You only kill your soul, piece by piece.”

“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.

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.

He jerked back on the reins, stopping and whipping his horse’s head to the side, just as another arrow hissed past where his chest would’ve been an instant later. Snatching the double-barrel shotgun from the saddle boot, he wrenched his horse around and charged directly where the arrows came from, noting that the big Ocelomeh to his left was already down, an arrow through his throat. Silly bastard, he reflected philosophically. Guess I should’a been lookin’ his way too.

Always charge "into" an ambush.

Our men are feeling it now, Lewis judged, watching some waver, glancing behind as well. How could they not? Determined lancers are always intimidating, and no matter how many these inexperienced troops take down, there are still more of the enemy than of them. A young local in the rear rank, really just a boy, dropped his musket and tried to run. Sergeant Visser blocked him, whacking him brutally with one of his rammers, roaring, “Back in ranks, you gutless bastard, or I’ll see your backbone at the whipping post!” “We’ll overlook it just this once if he retrieves his weapon, Sergeant,” Lewis shouted over the din, catching a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes before the youngster scrambled back for his musket on all fours. Large, low-velocity balls whined and warbled past as some of the lancers, losing their primary weapons in the crush, fired musketoons. “Captain Wagley, dismiss your men to the rear. Run for it, lads! Make it look good. Pretend to be afraid!” He knew there’d be no pretending, but they could say so later. Sometimes that was all that mattered.

“I’ve never seen a Dom Bible. I don’t know if it exists. If so, I imagine a vile, vomitous manifesto, entirely fabricated to justify their evil ways. But even if it were the same as ours and they validate their hideous acts with words taken directly from it—which I suppose they could, selecting a phrase or sentence out of context here and there—it’s still the holy sentiment, the essence of the words they’ve perverted to their barbarous ends. I’d never do that.” He paused reflectively. “Though God alone knows how much blood’s been spilled on the world we came from because two people read the exact same words and came to different understandings!”

Evangelicals and "Christian" Nationalists.

Boogerbear withdrew a tobacco pouch from his haversack. “Have a chaw. I mixed some honey-like stuff—might be real honey; the bees look honest enough—with some local tobaccy. Chews pretty sweet an’ mild.” Reed took the pouch and fished out a wad of sticky leaves, pushing them into his mouth. “Thank God,” he murmured. “Thank you, Lieutenant Beeryman.” He chewed a moment before saying, “Very good. Listen,” he added awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to sound so nervy. I’m really not, you know.” He chuckled again. “And even if I was, I’m sure Major Cayce’s plan has taken that into account as well. He’s an extraordinary man and will make this as easy as possible on all of us. We’ll know what to do when the time comes—if everything goes as he expects.”

“What’s a ’possum?” Varaa asked. Lewis raised an eyebrow at her, then, turning to the front, gently applied his spurs. “Let’s go.” “But what’s a ’possum!” Varaa demanded, racing after him. “Is it a good thing?”

The guns had barely stopped moving before men seized their spokes to roll them back into battery. Others were clearing and thumbing the vents and bringing fresh charges and shot from the limbers. Lewis watched the 12pdr crews race each other through the motions of his modified, standardized drill. The Number Two men on the left dashed their sponges in water buckets before swabbing hot barrels, then handing their implements to the Number Five men, took the ammunition brought in a pouch and thrust it in the muzzle. The Number One men to the right of the guns had been waiting, rammer heads poised. Now they leaned in, driving the fixed charges down to the breeches in single smooth strokes. Both gave them quick taps to make sure they were seated (or just for luck) before withdrawing their rammers and standing away. All this time—six entire seconds—the Number Three men had been pressing leather thumbstalls hard on the vents. Now they raced to the handspikes inserted in the trails of the carriages as the gunners stepped forward. Placing their sights, gunners aimed through the smoke, adjusting elevation with the screws and windage by hand signals to the Threes on the handspikes, who shifted the guns side to side. Taking their sights, the gunners stood clear and signaled they were satisfied. The Threes then returned to their places and stabbed brass picks in the vents they’d tended, piercing the woolen powder bags in front of the breech faces before securing the brass hammers on th...

“Of course I am, boy.” Visser nodded out at the washboard glade, quickly becoming a battlefield. “We’re next. You and I and some of the lads’re the only ones who already faced this enemy.” He glanced at Hanny’s friend Apo, the new color-bearer for the cased Pennsylvania flag. They’d recovered it after all the lancers that overran them were killed. Hanny was glad to have Apo beside him, but was worried about him too. Visser raised his voice. “Any man unafraid to step out there and face those devils has lost his intellects. But fear don’t make you a coward; it makes you a goddamn hero! It’s how you use your fear that counts, how you overcome it and do what needs doin’ in spite of it, hear?” He smiled back at Hanny. “Now tell me the truth.”

The enemy’s withered right regiments were attempting to turn and face their tormenters at last, but there wasn’t much left of them and the Dom Commander—was it General Agon?—was sending the regiments backing the two on his left, right in front of Lewis, to reinforce them. The confusion was terrible, made worse by the fact they were doing it under fire. Furthermore, Hudgens’s 6pdrs had come rattling up and unlimbered right on the line, immediately coughing sprays of lethal canister and decimating the men left in place. This compelled their commander to compound the confusion by trying to split the reinforcements he was sending to the flank and pull some back. The movement collapsed into chaos as the fresh 1st US marched out of the trees in time with their fifes and drums, banners flowing, and took its place by the 1st Uxmal. And on its left, due south of Lewis, Dukane came out with his six 12pdr howitzers. All opened up together on the increasingly terrified, milling mass of the Holy Dominion’s Army of God.

“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.

“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.”

“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 battlefie...

“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!”

Decimation

They had to tread carefully for the first part of the way out to meet the enemy, guiding their horses through the maze of bloody bodies still lying where they fell after the Allied stroke that finally broke the Doms’ furious but uncoordinated effort to smash through the 3rd Pennsylvania and 1st Uxmal. Even down here, Lewis saw the occasional American corpse. Their death was no more tragic than that of their indigenous allies, but Lewis felt especially responsible for them. They’d followed him into a war they had no stake in before he made it so and died in a land unimaginably distant from their homes. It made him very sad, but even more grimly angry as he approached the leaders of the invaders who killed them.