CHAPTER 16
Two days later, under a cloudy, breezy, late-morning sky, the Detached Expeditionary Force finally emerged from the forest into a broad coastal vale surrounded by low, rolling, tree-cluttered hills. The gentle slopes and plain down by the last river they’d have to cross (the very first real one) were intensively irrigated and cultivated into a checkerboard of multicolored crops, mostly green, amber, and yellow, with something almost the red-purple of sorghum here and there. Outlying dwellings, interspersed among the fields, were generally modest in size but built of stone and covered with thatched roofs. Farmers and laborers wore the same rough—if still somewhat colorful—homespun smocks as the Uxmalos who’d joined the Americans at the beach, along with supple moccasin boots laced up to their knees and wide-brimmed straw hats differing only in age and condition. And many used the same massive armabueys as draft animals, though there were also perfectly ordinary oxen and burrows. All seemed to stop what they were doing to stare as the Ocelomeh first appeared.
The locals must’ve thought it strange to see Jaguar Warriors marching in column four abreast, and even in step to a degree, instead of just sauntering out of the woods in a pack as they usually did. Especially since they were accompanied by the rattle of unfamiliar-sounding drums and something like flutes in the dense trees behind. Then, to their astonishment—and possibly fear—a dozen dark- and light-blue-clad horsemen appeared on the track in a perfect column of twos, beneath a pair of festive-looking, odd-shaped flags held sharply aloft by a pair of riders. One was smaller, red above white, resembling two pointed pennants attached where they touched. Some who could read (a few Uxmalos could) recognized the numbers and letters painted on the fabric. The other flag was larger and a comparative riot of color, its red and white stripes and blue field full of white stars edged all around in gold.
More flags preceded a tightly packed procession of foot soldiers: hundreds of men dressed all alike in sky-blue uniforms, dark blue hats, and white cross belts. Some wore different-colored trim, but all carried muskets on their shoulders, many with wicked lance-point things on the ends of their barrels. This column was broken at intervals by teams of horses carrying men and pulling strangely shaped vehicles with more men on top. And behind each of these trailed a monstrous great gun—something Uxmalos also recognized and feared.
Most of these first spectators were essentially peasants. Everyone had heard of the strange people coming, who’d joined their Ocelomeh friends to defeat the Holcanos and Grik, but no one really expected this. There were hundreds of them and many great guns, all moving relentlessly forward like a gigantic centipede. The more learned might imagine a Dom army moving something like this, but they’d never seen that either, so they had no basis for comparison. The sight was thrilling, chilling, fascinating, and horrifying all at once. And the noise! Drums thundered all along the line, as did the strange, high-pitched instruments, but the men were loudly singing as well, roaring alien words to an equally unfamiliar—if not unpleasant—melody. It was the strangest thing most of the increasingly stunned spectators ever saw.
Lewis Cayce, riding at the head of the dragoons with De Russy, Anson, Reverend Harkin, and Mistress Samantha, was equally mesmerized by the city of Uxmal lying just across a long stone bridge, spanning what could clearly become a mighty river when it ran. Probably only knee-deep and a few dozen yards across at present, the Cipactli River’s eroded banks extended a great distance to either side of the lazy, silty stream. And almost reaching the base of high stone walls like some massive moat, it described an arc around the city to drain in a well-sheltered bay full of fishing boats. The gray, white-capping sea could just be glimpsed in the distance beyond a pair of breaking shoals. Lewis was surprised not to find Tiger already anchored in the bay, but the thought was pushed aside as the city reabsorbed his attention.
“My word!” cried Reverend Harkin over the music. “How much like the real Uxmal it appears!” The others looked at him questioningly. “I mean the one . . . where we came from, of course,” he clarified. “I’ve never been there myself, but a New York traveler and explorer named Stephens, serving as ‘special ambassador’ to this . . .” He shook his head in frustration. “That region a few years back, rather rediscovered an ancient city. He and an English artist named Catherwood documented the ruins in a pair of popular books.” He nodded ahead. “Those structures, minus the high wall, of course, remind me of Catherwood’s lithographs.” He squinted. “Though these don’t seem as ornate, or festooned with dire pagan images.”
The wall was eighteen to twenty feet high and, except for some geometric sculpture around a massive gate beyond the bridge, wore no adornments at all. It was a simple, straightforward, pragmatic defense against the monsters roaming this world. Still descending into the river valley, they could see buildings beyond it, and they were quite impressive indeed. There were a lot of dwellings and many people in Uxmal, and the principal building materials were stone for walls and thatch for roofs throughout, but larger buildings of various shapes looked almost classical: long, high rectangular structures with flat roofs built of skillfully shaped stone. Others were bigger up high than down low, which looked odd, but one in particular resembled a small, round-edged Egyptian pyramid with steps up one side and a small house on top. “That looks like Stephens’s ‘Governor’s Palace,’ ” Harkin said with growing enthusiasm as he pointed, “and that one resembles what he described as ‘The Nunnery,’ though I can’t imagine why. And that, of course, appears to be a version of his ‘Pyramid of the Dwarf Magician.’ ” He frowned. “That sounds very strange. Perhaps I misremember. In any event, except for ‘The Nunnery’ they’re all smaller than Catherwood rendered them and somewhat mixed about.” His customary gloomy expression returned. “I’m driven to speculate that whoever originally built this place, however long ago, must’ve come here the same way we did and rebuilt what they remembered.”
“Have you considered it might’ve been the other way around, Reverend Harkin?” Samantha asked innocently.
Harkin glowered at her. “Indeed I have, Mistress. I find myself considering a great many unexpected things.” He paused. “Perhaps Father Orno may enlighten us.” He looked around. “Where is the little fellow?”
Captain Anson snorted. “First time you’ve let him out of your sight in days and you’ve lost him.”
“He went ahead into the city with Varaa-Choon,” said Lewis. “Consul Koaar-Taak is leading the Ocelomeh. They’re mostly his, remember.”
They all grew silent for a while, enjoying the pageantry of their “triumphant” arrival. Lewis had taken Varaa’s advice to heart, determined to make an impression, and they’d camped early the day before in a broad, pleasant, parklike clearing with rising, rippling terrain someone had dubbed the “washboard glade” less than seven miles from the city so the troops could prepare themselves and their equipment. Varaa said there was only one other good place to camp before they reached Uxmal, and if they went that far, they might as well go all the way. But the soldiers needed to clean themselves and their weapons, brush wool uniforms and polish brass buttons, belt and cartridge box plates. Steel musket barrels and bayonets were brightened, and the bronze gunmetal cannon tubes were rubbed with fine sand to remove battle tarnish and buffed to a glittering, red-gold sheen. Dragoons, artillerymen, and mounted riflemen brushed the overworked horses late into the night and fed them much of their hoarded grain. The Uxmalos with them, and even some Ocelomeh at Ixtla’s direction, got into the spirit as well, cleaning carts full of salvage and even fetching water from a swampy pond to bathe the filth off their uncaring armabueys.
Lewis scratched his neck. Most of the men had even shaved or trimmed their hair, but not only had he been very busy, he didn’t trust Private Willis with a razor against his throat. His neck whiskers itched. His beard was going a little wild as well, and he needed to get it under control. He must set an example, after all. Anson’s beard remained perfectly groomed, as did Harkin’s and De Russy’s side whiskers. He’d have to inquire how they managed. But all the tiring activity that distracted him from his own appearance was paying off handsomely now. The little army marching down to Uxmal not only acted like the consolidated force it was growing into, it looked like a proper army as well—whether any of the locals had ever seen such a thing or not.
Townsfolk were gathering as the Ocelomeh neared the bridge. Many had probably been coming and going from the city on their daily affairs, but more were streaming out the great gate. The apparently well-to-do didn’t dress much different from anyone else they’d seen, though they wore a lot of gold and silver jewelry adorned with gems. And the quality of their clothing was much finer, of course. They still seemed to delight in color, and that was more varied among them as well.
Then, for the first time, the men saw Uxmalo women. Even dressed much like the men except for an absence of belts, smaller, triangular brimmed hats atop straight black hair, and more formfitting clothing on the younger ones, Lewis was taken aback by how heart-stoppingly beautiful many of them were. Even the older, broader women with silver-white hair were quite handsome. Their presence created a predictable sensation, making men forget the words to their song or fall out of step. The caustic and near-instantaneous verbal thrashing of NCOs quickly returned them to their duty.
All began to gather around the marching men and animals in evident delight, pacing them, yet somewhat to Lewis’s surprise, none tried to gaggle in amongst them. They appeared very pleased, but respectful—until they cried out jubilantly up ahead when Varaa-Choon and Father Orno galloped out the gate, quickly followed by Alcalde Periz, attended by more men on dark-striped horses. Most outdid Periz in their finery, wearing more riches by far, and several sat saddles so heavy with gold that their horses must’ve been hard-pressed. At least Periz—or Orno? Both?—is liked by his people, Lewis thought.
The Ocelomeh ground to a stop and Lewis called his own column to halt. For the first time since they left the trees, his men were silent, and they heard the growing uproar around them and from the city ahead. Lewis turned in his saddle to see hardened soldiers stiffen with pride and grins appear on unexpected faces. One even flashed across Private Willis’s face before the scruffy little man caught him looking. He turned back at the sound of hoofbeats and saw Alcalde Periz’s party pull up in the gap between the Americans and Ocelomeh. Forewarned, Lewis and his officers saluted Periz. The man bowed deeply in his saddle in response. He was smiling hugely in genuine pleasure, but his dark eyes moved a little nervously, expressing a measure of warning.
“We were right,” Varaa said lightly, grinning, her own eyes cutting toward the man by Periz. “That’s Alcalde Don Discipo. And his damned Blood Priest is in the city. Periz was not amused. Still, I suppose you’d better salute him and those others as well. The next in line is Ortiz, from Pidra Blanca—up the coast. Past him is Truro, from Itzincab. They’re good fellows. More are coming, but this is all who’s here.” She nodded at Lewis’s growing frown. “Don’t worry. None of them speak English. Just salute them and we’ll move along.” Varaa straightened. “My Ocelomeh fought with you and had the honor of leading you here, but now the honor shifts to you—for a variety of reasons.” Only then did Lewis realize Varaa’s Jaguar Warriors were moving aside, making way for the Americans to pass. “The alcaldes and their deputies will join your procession through the city while my people go around.” Varaa grinned again. “They’ll guard your supplies—and our captives and the booty in the armabuey carts—where space has been provided for your camp on the east side of the city, astride the Pidra Blanca road. Perhaps you’d send a few men with Koaar to help him lay it all out. I know how you like things just so.”
“But you’re coming with us?” Samantha pressed.
Varaa nodded. “Of course. Father Orno’s English is progressing, but he’s not ready to lead you through that.” Varaa tilted her head at the gate.
“Very well,” Lewis agreed. “Lieutenant Burton, detail a party to accompany our friends around the city and lay out company streets”—he paused—“and field fortifications as well, of course.”
Burton blinked at him. “Field . . . ? Yes sir.”
Lewis smiled and saluted the dignitaries. “Why do I suddenly feel like I was safer in the woods with the monsters, Varaa?”
Varaa blinked something (Lewis was increasingly convinced blinking conveyed meaning or emotions beyond a grin or a frown that her otherwise relatively unexpressive face couldn’t convey) and said, “Maybe you were, personally. I as well. Your men will be safe enough, even outside the wall. Large monsters rarely come close to the city. But the battle, your very presence, has thrown fuel on the fears I predicted, and Discipo’s Blood Priest has been doing his best to ignite them. Some, even besides him, might think you and I are problems more easily disposed of than the warriors we lead.”
Lewis controlled another frown. “Then let’s get this over with.” He raised his voice. “Forward, Captain Beck! Let’s give them the ‘Old 1812,’ boys!” he called behind. Marvin Beck gave the preparatory order to advance while drums tapped and exploded into the tune along with a dozen fifes when the men stepped off. The crowd roared with delight as the troops tramped over the bridge and through the gate, flags high, drums stuttering, fifes skirling loudly, every man marching in step with his glittering weapon high on his shoulder. Hundreds more people were just inside the gate, happily waving bright little pennants of every imaginable color and giving way to line the sides of a broad thoroughfare leading toward the four- or five-story pyramid situated near the center of the city. More men and women and scampering youngsters constantly gathered until there must’ve been thousands choking the open-air markets under thatch or bright fabric awnings, filling the patios of stone-columned buildings, and even cheering down from balconies and rooftops. The noise confined within the city’s walls nearly drowned the martial music. Lewis saw Alcalde Periz stiffen in his saddle, absorbing his share of the adulation with a broad smile on his beefy bronze face.
“It’s as if we’ve already won a war for them, not just survived a small battle,” De Russy shouted in Lewis’s ear, almost incredulous.
“Small by your reckoning, perhaps,” Varaa yelled, “but larger than anything in their experience. And I fear Colonel De Russy is right. Many of these people will think the Holcanos and Grik are broken forever, and the Dominion menace is past—at least less pressing.”
“You don’t think so?” Captain Anson asked, but there wasn’t a question in his tone.
“I’m sure it’s not,” Varaa told him. “The Holcanos and Grik have been firmly chastised and would probably, by themselves, leave these people be for a time. But it can’t be much longer before word of their defeat reaches His Supreme Holiness—the Dom ‘Pope,’ ” she reminded, “at his capital in the Great Valley of Mexico.”
Lewis was still struck by the profound irony that their current ultimate enemy’s capital was in roughly the same place as the one they’d originally come to fight. But he’d been consoled to a degree that the seat of Dominion power was 350 leagues, or more than 1,200 miles, away.
Varaa nodded ahead as the avenue opened on a vast, grassy plaza surrounding the conical central structure. “That’s the Temple of the Lord Jesucristo, the pulpit where Father Orno preaches. It once had . . . a darker purpose,” she growled, glancing aside at Alcalde Discipo, then nodding at a group of men and women at the foot of the single long stairway leading up to the boxy structure on top of the pyramid. Most were dressed like Father Orno, in dark, simple garments buttoned up the front rather than being pulled over the head, and the only difference between men and women again seemed to be their head wear. The men wore wide-brimmed straw hats, painted brown or black, while the women’s hat brims were brilliant white triangles. All had long wooden staffs upraised with simple wooden crosses on top.
Others stood slightly apart from the rest. One was an apparently frail, stoop-shouldered old man, covered by a roughly woven bloodred cloak, hood thrown back to reveal long gray hair, a large nose, and tiny, beady black eyes like a ferret’s. He held a wooden staff as well, but its cross was a jagged, lightning-bolt-like thing, cast in gleaming gold. He was flanked by two hulking brutes in ordinary dress, except their knee-length tunics were also bloodred, with jagged yellow crosses stitched on their chests. They held spears with golden points.
“Discipo’s Blood Priest and his beasts,” Varaa snapped. “They’d happily return this temple to its former blood-drenched use and will be the eyes, ears, and perhaps daggers in the night for the Dom Pope until he stirs.” Her tail whipped behind her. “Or Father Orno gets them to declare themselves,” she added cryptically with something like hopeful anticipation. Lewis looked at De Russy and Anson, and they all merely shrugged.
The crowd noise respectfully diminished to almost nothing as the column entered the plaza and Father Orno galloped ahead to join the other clergy. He didn’t dismount, only turned his horse to face them, holding both hands high. Lewis respected the ease and familiarity with which the little priest exercised his calming, spiritual influence over so many people. He also noted that even as Orno had nodded and waved to each of his colleagues, he pointedly ignored the Blood Priest and his henchmen. Alcalde Periz’s fixed grin had turned to a grimace of anger.
“As I told you,” Varaa hissed at the American officers, “Blood Priests are all but banned from the city. They should be. Then again, just as they spy on us and foment dissension, it’s useful to keep a watch on them as well. But to find one standing here in this sacred place . . . It’s a calculated insult to Alcalde Periz. The captain of the city guard should’ve never allowed it.” Oddly, Lewis thought Varaa sounded almost gleeful.
“Then why is he there?” Samantha asked.
“To insult, as I said,” Varaa told them, then indicated the mass of people. “And to intimidate, of course.”
“Ah,” De Russy murmured with an arched-brow glance at Lewis, “then perhaps his presence will help.”
To Lewis’s confusion, Varaa nodded.
De Russy smiled and tried to flatten the bulge his sword belt pushed the front of his coat up into. “I’m a politician, you know, and I recognize others when I see them. I’ve just decided Alcalde Periz may be one of the best.” He nodded respect when Periz threw him a sudden, secret smile and continued, “We already know one of our most difficult tasks will be to remind people here, and throughout this region, that the war isn’t over, the threat of the Doms not past.” He tilted his head at the Blood Priest. “He’ll do it for us.” He snorted. “And though I’m sure our dear Alcalde Periz truly does detest his presence here, I’m equally sure he ordered his guards to allow it!”
“So all this—” Captain Anson began, but Periz himself interrupted in broken English.
“The union. We . . . build, begin today.”
Father Orno was already addressing the gathered throng, voice carrying through a large bell-mouthed speaking trumpet one of the other priests had handed him. Varaa, now joined by Ixtla, quickly translated as Orno first told of their discovery of the impending Holcano and Grik attack. Everyone would’ve known of that, of course, but then Orno got uncomfortably flowery for Lewis’s taste, describing how God Himself sent the “Americanos” from the very heavens to intervene on their behalf. Lewis heard Dr. Newlin snort derisively, but Reverend Harkin smiled and nodded.
Cheers erupted when Orno related how the combined American and Ocelomeh forces utterly routed the enemy, securing many captives and much plunder before coming to join the Uxmalos and teach them new ways that would forever secure their safety and prosperity.
The cheering was deafening then, and Lewis turned in his saddle to see many of his men joining in, some waving their wheel hats over their heads. He caught Captain Beck’s questioning look and shook his head. Let them celebrate. It’s good to be appreciated, he thought. I hope it lasts—and helps them get over what I’ll have to tell them.
Captain Anson reached over and patted his arm, redirecting his attention to the gathered priests. The rodent-faced Blood Priest seemed about to explode. Suddenly, taking even his guards by surprise, he strode out beside Father Orno’s horse and rudely tugged on his arm, gesturing at the speaking trumpet. With a graceful bow, Orno handed it over.
“Here it comes, I bet,” Anson said. He was right.
“Deja de animar!” the Blood Priest screeched through the trumpet, and now Alferez Lara, who’d also drifted forward to join the command group, quickly told them what he said. “Stop cheering!” he repeated. “I am Father Tranquilo, Blood Priest to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico, who reigns by the Grace of God as Emperor of the World! All who cheer these diabolical heretics will be damned in his eyes!” Remarkably, that did the trick, but Lewis doubted the silence came from obedience as much as shocked fury that a Blood Priest would dare command them here. Either way, Father Tranquilo—What a name! Lewis thought—seemed satisfied and proceeded to rant, “Your heathen Ocelomeh are not heroes, selflessly protecting you! And these savage foreigners”—he waved at the Americans—“were not sent by God! How utterly absurd! Only His Supreme Holiness acts directly for God in this world!” The man’s beady little eyes seemed to smolder. “And only the Devil floods it with his minions. The truth is that a peaceful village of Holcanos had invited some Godless garaaches among them to minister to them and show them their proper place as animals among men!” The little eyes stabbed at Varaa. “Even animals may serve in paradise if they earn sufficient grace. But the heathen Ocelomeh and their . . . Amigos del Diablo fell upon them without warning and mercilessly murdered them while they engaged in pious worship!” Incredulous shouts began to rise, and Alcalde Periz bellowed, “Lies, of course, but even if not, how could you know if you weren’t there—or spies from our enemies didn’t tell you?”
“God told me!” Father Tranquilo cried.
“Directly?!” Periz exclaimed in mock wonder. “I think not. God would only tell you and your kind to open their veins, perhaps in his mercy letting you think you were going to him as you die.”
Father Tranquilo stabbed a bony finger at Periz. “He will have no mercy on you.” He glowered at the crowd. “Worst of all, there were peaceful Dominion traders among the Holcanos when they were attacked, and some of them were slain by the devils in blue!” He glared straight at Lewis. “You know what that means, and I warn you now: the Dominion will never rest until the perpetrators of this heinous crime, the Ocelomeh and these . . . demonios extranjeros are disarmed and surrendered for cleansing!”
“Is that a threat?” Father Orno yelled. In spite of his volume, his voice seemed amazingly mild. “Do you, a Blood Priest, here only at our reluctant sufferance, dare to threaten the peaceful people of this land in the name of the Dominion, for the crime of protecting ourselves against the monsters your masters employ?” He looked around at the sea of suddenly hostile faces. “I just want to be clear.”
“Yes!” Tranquilo seethed, spittle flying from the hissing word. “I threaten all the people of this squalid land with eternal damnation! So helplessly, willfully ignorant of God and His ways, you celebrate these heretics when you should be falling upon them to tear out their beating hearts with your teeth!”
In spite of the angry shouts now rising around him, he turned his accusing finger on the people.
“If you won’t punish them, or give them over to the Holy Dominion, every degenerate man, infested woman, and verminous brat on this entire profane peninsula will be deemed as guilty as they. Every last one of you will be burned on the impaling stake, enduring agony without grace and death without life!”
Alcalde Periz exploded forward, galloping right up to the suddenly cringing Blood Priest and showering him with grassy clods of earth as he wrenched his striped horse to a stop. Tranquilo’s guards advanced with their weapons and, without thinking, Lewis spurred Arete and whipped out his saber, yelling, “Captain Anson, if you will. Everyone else, stand fast!”
Tranquilo’s guards hesitated as Lewis and Anson stopped by Periz, then dropped their spears when Anson pointed one of his huge revolvers at them and shouted, “Tiran tus armas!” Lewis suspected he’d used that phrase fairly often.
Periz hardly seemed to notice their presence but Lewis saw the corner of his mouth quirk upward. This was exactly what he’d hoped—probably expected—would happen. “Go!” Periz roared at the Blood Priest in his odd Spanish. “Get out of my sight! Slither back to your master in the Great Valley and tell him we’re ready if he comes! We’ll crush him like the Holcanos and Grik, and his survivors can slither home as well!”
A thunderous, raging roar swept through the plaza, and Tranquilo’s protectors pulled the sputtering Blood Priest back and away, ushering him out of sight around the temple.
“That’s actually . . . a bit more than I expected,” Captain Anson drawled at Lewis after he told him what Periz said as they returned to their place at the head of the American column.
“Periz and Orno, both pitched it in red hot!” De Russy exclaimed. “And look around you! These people, few of them warriors, are now anxious to fight! By God, I only thought I was a politician,” he confessed in admiration.
“They want to fight now,” Samantha corrected him. “How will they feel when it comes to it?” She looked directly at Lewis. “After weeks, perhaps months of training, marching their legs off, long after this moment of enthusiasm fades and fear begins to mount?” She added a touch of sarcasm. “What will they do when they finally meet the enemy and experience the ‘exquisite thrills’ of battle they’ve been content to let their Ocelomeh protectors enjoy in their place so long? Can you make an army of them, sir?”
Lewis looked at De Russy, Anson, Reverend Harkin, and Hernandez, then glanced behind him again. “If we can keep the army we’ve got together a little longer, I think we just might.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “And it’s time we got that settled.” He gestured around at the still-jubilant crowd with his head. “As soon as we finish this parade and make camp to our satisfaction, we’ll assemble the men and lay it all out. Everything we know.”
“But, sir,” Captain Beck began to protest, “maybe just a few more—”
“No, it’s time,” Lewis said decisively. “I only regret we didn’t do it sooner. They deserve to know. But when the whole story of the exchange we just witnessed gets around and the men realize how much all these extremely welcoming people need them . . .” He smiled sadly. “Let’s move out. And Captain Beck?”
“Sir?”
“I’d like to hear that ‘Blue Juniata’ again, I believe.”
A LARGE NUMBER of Uxmalos followed the army out the east gate, still cheering and watching as details were dismissed to erect tents or form fatigue parties to prepare yet another field fortification to protect the camp. “They’re getting better at that,” Lewis said grudgingly while he, Anson, and Samantha rode around the shaping perimeter. He and Anson were looking to their defenses, watching stakes they’d gathered along the way be driven into the ground and spadefuls of soil arch out of a shallow trench to land among them. Samantha was gazing at the watching Uxmalos. “Of course, they’ve had a lot of practice, now,” Lewis continued, “and just the hazards they already know have limited complaints about the extra work.”
“They’d still gripe after a long, hard march,” Anson predicted, then grinned. “But like you said, they see the sense in it. An’ look. Even some Uxmalo drovers an’ a few Ocelomeh are pitchin’ in.” He nodded in satisfaction. “It’s like they already feel like part of your army. They’ll build forts like this as good as the Romans, before long.”
Samantha turned her head to gape at him.
“What? You think Captain Cayce’s the only one of us provincials to read a book or two?”
Samantha pursed her lips, then nodded. “I suppose I did. Unforgivable, of course.”
Anson shrugged and smiled. “Not ‘unforgivable’ at all, an’ almost right, I bet. 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!” He gestured around. “First thing you learn is to use the ground. An’ if you can’t get ground you want, you make what you’ve got into what you need.”
“He’s right,” Lewis agreed, “and the ground commands armies as much as generals because men will almost always take the path of least resistance. If you catch your enemy doing that, you can tear him apart.”
Anson arched both eyebrows. “Doesn’t always work that way chasin’ Comanches, I’ll tell you. They’ll lead you places a coyote couldn’t go.” He nodded. “But like anybody else, they come at you the easy way when they can.”
“Something to remember,” Lewis said lowly, then decided to change the subject as Leonor, Boogerbear, and Varaa-Choon trotted their horses up to join them. As he often did of late, Lewis wondered how he’d never realized Leonor was a woman during the campaign in Northern Mexico, culminating—for him—at Monterrey. He’d only seen what he expected, subconsciously defining what he now saw as a very pretty face as only boyishly handsome. Of course, the intense, even severe expression she almost always wore went a long way to support that delusion. It still disconcerted him. “You were looking at the locals, Mistress Samantha,” he prompted. “What’s your opinion of them?”
Samantha was grimacing at a procession of captives, still wearing weathered remnants of the grisly paint they’d fought in, being led away by armed Uxmalos and Ocelomeh, but her gaze settled back on the brightly garbed townsfolk still observing the newcomers. Some had gone boldly into the camp, likely to greet returning family members, but most remained respectfully, almost fearfully out of the way, making no effort to cross the defensive perimeter under construction. “They’re a good-looking people,” Samantha acknowledged. “Some of what must be the ‘quality,’ as they deem such things, seem rather soft and puffy”—she smiled—“but that’s probably universal. Otherwise, a large percentage seem strong and hardy, well suited to life on this dreadful, perpetual frontier.” Her eyes flicked mischievously at Lewis. “And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that their women are quite beautiful—even if their wardrobe does them no justice.”
Lewis felt his face heat. He had noticed that, of course, as had every man under his command, no doubt. He even somewhat shamefully hoped that might help soften the blow of truth he must reveal.
Samantha continued, “Still, all I can base an informed opinion on are the ones who joined us at the battle site, and upon the march.”
Lewis knew she and Angelique, along with Reverend Harkin, had spent quite a lot of time amongst those men.
“They strike me as an honest, friendly lot, no different from your soldiers.” She frowned slightly. “Aside from a generally shorter stature and darker skin, of course. Somewhat to my surprise, such dissimilarities have passed almost unnoticed thus far. I hope that indifference continues.”
Varaa spoke up. “I’ve learned a lot about the culture most of your people spring from, and it isn’t so different, deep down, from the Uxmalos. They too have a ‘democracy’ of sorts, with those who support the government through taxes on property or revenue eligible to select their alcaldes.” She grinned. “They can unselect them too.” Then she blinked something else and glanced sharply at Lewis. “And they have what you’d call ‘slave labor,’ though there’s no racial element to it, as seems to be the case where you came from. Only enemies are used so.” She shrugged. “Even then, I can only defend the practice by saying it’s been the way of these people since before they ever came to this world, hundreds of years ago, and I suppose it’s slightly less barbarous than slaughtering their foes to the last woman and child—as you just heard their enemies threaten to do to them.” She looked over at the encampment. “Nor have I seen much friction arise, attributable to Mistress Samantha’s ‘dissimilarities.’ Perhaps, as I’ve said before, it’s because we’ve already fought together. One who is pressed sorely in battle cares little about the appearance of whoever—or whatever—comes to his aid.” Her grin widened. “And after that initial shock—admit it, Captain Lewis, it was amusing!—your people have been amazingly accepting of me. If they can look past my dissimilarities, they can hardly notice those of the Uxmalos!”
Lewis was nodding. “I hope you’re right,” he said.
Samantha waved at the watchers. “Back to my point, these city folk appear little different from the Uxmalos we’ve already met.” She became more animated. “And I was extremely impressed by Alcalde Periz and Father Orno! My God, how they stirred their people, and led that detestable Tranquilo into the snare they set for him!”
“Colonel De Russy acknowledged that was masterfully done,” Lewis agreed. “Periz has certainly prepared his people to embrace the idea of what we’ve proposed, if only out of dire necessity.” He gazed into the camp, the tents and company streets already almost completely established, and saw what looked like a disturbance erupting near where the command tents and colors had been placed. Even as he watched, more men were drawn from what they were doing to see what was happening.
“Damn,” he muttered, whipping his horse around. “Periz has done his part. I only hope we don’t disintegrate before we do ours!” Jabbing Arete with his blunted spurs, he dashed into the camp, the others close behind.