CHAPTER 24
Varaa had been right. Har-Kaaska and a fairly large entourage of mounted human Ocelomeh and a couple more Mi-Anakka were waiting near the front entrance to the temple when they arrived. They’d been slowed somewhat by the carriage bearing Reverend Harkin, Father Orno, and the increasingly uncomfortable heads of their new logistics department. Samarez was more used to the presence of high officials than Finlay, but neither seemed pleased by the responsibilities heaped on them, or even how casually their momentous new roles were accepted. For his part, Lewis’s daily association with Varaa and Koaar made him think he was inured to the sight of Mi-Anakka—their fur, wide eyes, even tails no longer shocking—but Har-Kaaska brought all those differences back to mind at once, striking him as even more outlandish.
He was bigger, for one thing, almost as tall as Lewis, it seemed, and alone among his party was mounted on a bizarre bipedal creature as similar to a giant lizard as a fat duck, complete with a broad bill protruding from its face in front of small, questing, almost thoughtful black eyes. And like the alcaldes at the disrupted reception, Har-Kaaska wore gold scale armor in sharp contrast to his black-and-brownish-gray brindled pelt, each scale as small as that of a fish and individually engraved. Engraved gold greaves covered his shins from moccasins to knees, and to literally top it all, he wore a high-combed Morion-style helmet—also gold washed—with holes cut in the sides for his ears.
The big Mi-Anakka urged his strange mount forward, sitting near the same height as the alcalde of Uxmal, and fondly clasped his forearm. Then he regarded De Russy, Lewis, and Anson with eyes as bright yellow as the gold he wore and held his right hand up, palm out.
“In case you’re wondering, that’s King Har-Kaaska,” Varaa hissed. “Return the gesture, if you please. It’s a traditional greeting among warriors unknown to one another where he and I come from. It’s called ‘the sign of the empty hand,’ but since no one’s hand is truly empty in this land”—she snorted ironically—“consider it equivalent to your salutes. You need not bow,” she hastened to add.
It had never occurred to Lewis to bow, but he’d certainly render a salute. He and De Russy did so now, fingers almost touching the down-pointed brims of their wheel hats.
“Ave, great warriors from another land and world,” Har-Kaaska said, grinning. “Greetings,” he added. “I’ve not used this tongue in . . . many years. Forgive me if I stumble.”
Lewis wondered once again why any Mi-Anakka spoke English.
“Greetings, King Har-Kaaska,” De Russy replied. “We’re at your service.”
Har-Kaaska glanced at Varaa, then Periz. “As I understand it, we are at your service now. Perhaps my warmaster hasn’t fully explained. I’m no Caesar, or even alcalde like Periz. Nor do I rule any permanent ‘city-state.’ ” He kakked a Mi-Anakka chuckle. “I’m called ‘king’ because I lead all the Ocelomeh on this peninsula—I suppose they must call me something, but I exercise no control over Periz and his fellow alcaldes.” He gestured vaguely around. “My domain may be larger than theirs, but it includes only the forest and wildlands, not the cities. We protect their people and they provide for us.”
“So you’re mercenaries,” Reverend Harkin said lowly.
Har-Kaaska blinked at him. “I suppose, in a sense, but what does that make you?”
Lewis sent Harkin a sharp stare and eased Arete between them, holding up a hand. “Like you, as I understand it, the protection of these people from the greater evil is our primary concern, beyond any reward for ourselves aside from sustenance and support. But I don’t understand what you mean by being at our service.”
Har-Kaaska laughed. “You must be Captain Cayce, the ‘hardened yet idealistic warrior, motivated by honor, who thinks as sharply as he fights.’ ” He looked at De Russy. “And you’re the ‘statesman, organizer, diplomat in uniform, sensible enough to know you’re not a warrior, but ready to use your other skills.’ ” He glanced finally at Anson. “And you’re the ‘pure warrior, who fights for a vengeance he’ll never find—and perhaps other things more like Captain Cayce than he knows.’ ” He laughed again. “Do any of you disagree with those assessments? You see, though we’ve never met, I know you already. My warmaster has very diligently sent her reports.”
They all looked at Varaa, who shrugged. “I told King Har-Kaaska your way of war was closer to the Dominion’s than ours and you could raise an army to face it on more equal terms. You’ll note I’m equally objective in assessing my people as I am yours. Regardless, King Har-Kaaska had to know you, know who he was dealing with, before letting even more of his people join under your leadership.”
“And?” Lewis asked.
It was Har-Kaaska’s turn to shrug. “I’m here, am I not? I’ve left scouts in place, of course, and must return to direct them. Varaa-Choon will stay with you, to learn your ways of war,” he added definitively before Varaa could suggest they exchange duties. He puffed himself up and gave her a canine-tipped smile. “I’m a king! Too old and too . . . set to learn to fight all over again. And there’ll still be need for the old ways.” He looked back at Lewis and De Russy. “But many of my people will be joining you for training. How the bulk will be used then . . . I will retain some say,” he warned. “The Holcanos and Grik are still out there, and one threat doesn’t simply vanish when another draws near. Often it’s quite the opposite.”
“How will we feed them all?” Samarez almost moaned.
Alcalde Periz cleared his throat. “Does . . . Does this mean my people need no longer participate in the trainings? They can resume their lives as they were, now that those better suited for war can relieve them?”
Lewis started to protest, to demand what he meant by “better suited,” but Har-Kaaska’s stern gaze beat him to it. “No. It means you must train harder and faster.” His eyes settled back on Lewis. “Word of your battle has flown as far as the Great Valley and City of Mexico. Troops, Dominion troops, are moving toward Campeche from all over the empire. Holcanos and Grik gather east of there, at Cayal. They may raid past Puebla Arboras toward Itzincab, at least.”
Lewis looked at Anson and raised an eyebrow. Just as they’d expected. “You’ll be going back soon?” he asked Har-Kaaska. “We were going to send scouts of our own. Maybe some can come with you.”
“Interestin’ fella,” Captain Anson said as Lewis rode with him back through the east gate and out on the busy parade ground. There’d be another reception at the Audience Hall that night, and Lewis and Varaa would post sufficient troops to ensure no recurrence of the previous unpleasantness. De Russy, the “logistics division,” and the two clergymen had stayed with Periz to help arrange things.
“Very interesting,” Lewis agreed. “Mi-Anakka look so very strange,” he suddenly blurted, “but they’re just people like us, after all.”
Anson looked at him oddly. “People, sure,” he agreed, “but I doubt even Reverend Harkin’s ready to allow they’re ‘like us’ just yet.” He frowned. “An’ they ain’t, you know. Not with tails an’ fur all over ’em.” He looked thoughtful. “But all the ‘His image’ stuff in the Good Book aside, they’re like us where it counts.” He patted his chest and the heart underneath. “Has to be hard for Har-Kaaska just to turn his people over to us.”
“With reservations,” Lewis reminded.
“Sure. But not that we’d treat ’em bad or teach ’em stuff too strange for ’em, even try to take ’em away from him. He only ‘reserved’ the right to call ’em back under his command if the need arises.”
“A ‘need’ defined as whatever he wants,” Lewis objected.
“I guess.” Anson said nothing as they rode along the wall to the north, toward the bay. 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. In the meantime, exploding case would be hoarded for battle, and any inexperienced gunners would have to rely on the tables of fire to set fuses. At present, the water around the boat amply demonstrated what kind of accuracy to expect from solid shot, and how to achieve it. A round from the first gun splashed down long, sending a plume of spray in the air. The second gun sent its shot skating along the top of the water, shattering wave crests, before slamming through the rotten wooden planks.
“Shows it’s better to shoot short and skate it in than miss completely,” Anson murmured, pulling Colonel Fannin to a stop.
A third gun roared, probably laid by Olayne himself, and the ball flew true and smashed right through the boat near the waterline, spraying jagged splinters in all directions.
“Best to hit what you’re shooting at,” Lewis quipped, “but you’re right.” He sighed. “We’ve got to increase ammunition flow so the men can practice more. We don’t have nearly enough to make professional artillerymen! And the infantry has it just as bad.”
“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. “But infantry on the firing line relies on volume of fire to survive,” he continued. “Fast loading and shooting with paper cartridges.” He snorted. “I never thought good paper would be as important as powder—and probably as hard to make. God knows how much the Uxmalos who salvaged the wrecks, even our people with them, destroyed when they burned the ships’ skeletons. I should’ve had them save every old newspaper, logbook, and journal, even outdated daily reports.”
Anson scratched his beard. “Well, there’s at least a few hundred pocket Bibles amongst the men. . . .”
Lewis shook his head. “No. Those little books are all some fellows have to cling to. I won’t take them away. Even if we did, it wouldn’t make much difference. I hope Mr. Finlay comes up with something.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe wood or leather tubes with stoppers, like we found with those Dom muskets?” He shook his head. “Too bulky.”
“It’s always the little stuff you have to worry about,” Anson conceded, then grinned. “On top of the big stuff.” He grunted. “Varaa sure nailed you down, tellin’ Har-Kaaska you’re ‘idealistic.’ ”
Lewis urged Arete onward, speaking over his shoulder. “You think so? Then that means she was right about your vengeance—and maybe you’re a little idealistic too.”
Anson caught up as they turned to follow the lapping waves on the shoreline, working their way around huge nets stretched between tripods to dry in the sun. Soon, they drew even with the 3rd Pennsylvania, performing close order drill with Uxmalos in its ranks, raising its number (so far) to almost five hundred. The 3rd looked a shambles at a glance, poorly executing the most basic maneuvers. And when Lieutenant (now elected Captain) Wagley called for them to deploy from column into line, the whole force disintegrated into chaos amid indignant shrieks and bellows of harried NCOs.
Lewis was intrigued by the different training methods used by the 3rd and 1st, but had given Wagley and Captain Beck their heads. Major Reed, commanding all the infantry now, seemed to agree. The Pennsylvanians were using “total immersion” to train their new men, the old hands guiding the recruits at their side. The whole regiment would suffer for a time, but Wagley believed the new men would catch on quicker by example.
Beck was more traditional, forming companies of recruits who knew nothing at first while keeping other companies intact and ready. There were good reasons for both approaches, and Lewis wondered which would be best.
“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.” He blew out a breath. “Then this war started”—he waved his hand helplessly—“the one back home, where we met. I was after revenge again. For her,” he added significantly. “For Leonor. For what a few shabby, undisciplined Mexican soldiers did. I never hated Mexicans as Mexicans, even after the Alamo an’ Goliad, an’ when I fought ’em at San Jacinto. There were Mexicans on our side too. Still are. Sal Hernandez’s been ate up for revenge—for both our families—as long as me.”
He squinted at Lewis. “Maybe we hated ourselves the most, for not bein’ there to protect ’em like we should, but fightin’ an’ hatin’ was all we had after . . . what happened. Worse, I still had my Leonor, but she was . . . broken inside in a way I couldn’t get at to fix. She couldn’t or wouldn’t go back to bein’ a child, an’ I couldn’t leave her again . . . So, Sal and I, an’ Boogerbear, finished raisin’ her together, spendin’ more time chasin’ Comanches an’ Mexican bandits than we did at home. After a while, Leonor wasn’t a ‘girl’ at all, anymore. She was a ‘pure warrior,’ like Varaa called me. When our Ranger company joined General Scott to kill Mexican soldiers again”—he looked away—“Leonor made me take her, swore she’d go however she could if I didn’t. I couldn’t have her makin’ her own way where I wouldn’t be close . . . the next time. So, God help me, I brought her.” He paused, and looked searchingly at Lewis. “What kind o’ father takes his little girl to war?” he demanded in a tone of self-disgust.
“The kind who loves her more than anything, I think,” Lewis said softly, suddenly realizing that somewhere along the line, he and this fierce Ranger he’d never really liked had become friends.
“The crazy thing is,” Anson continued, “I don’t even hate Mexican soldiers anymore. I didn’t know it at the time, but I figure the proof is Teniente Lara. I actually like the kid!” He waved toward the city walls. “An’ the people here could all be Mexicans, the way they look, an’ all I want is to help ’em. Feels strange. I guess that’s the ‘idealistic’ part Varaa saw. But lookin’ back, even when we were with General Taylor”—Anson’s lip quirked upward—“an’ you thought I was a murderous bastard, I wasn’t killin’ in hate anymore. It was war, an’ I was just doin’ my job. I’m better at fightin’ than anything else,” he confessed, then frowned. “But so’s Leonor now, an’ she still hates.” He hesitated. “You know she fought by Lara at the beach. I think she wants to like him. Might even learn to if he’d shed that Mexican uniform—but he’s got the Uxmalos makin’ more of ’em for his lancers!” He shook his head. “Leonor just can’t get over . . .”
He shut his mouth as Leonor herself came galloping up on the smallish striped horse she’d chosen for her own. She’d named him “Sparky” for the way his energy seemed to flare and die. He was very fast and would work hard until he got tired. After that, she couldn’t get him to do much at all. Anson disapproved of her choice, but Leonor liked the animal. At the moment, she was distantly followed by Samantha Wilde and Angelique Mercure sharing another horse. Both still rode sidesaddle, and the image struck Lewis as one of the strangest things he’d ever seen—aside from Har-Kaaska’s giant duck-lizard. . . . He grinned. And just about everything else over the last couple of months! Leonor stopped and nodded at Lewis and her father while Samantha and Angelique drew near. Lewis noted Leonor’s pretty but hard-edged face bore an expression he’d never seen. She looked angry, like almost always, but he would’ve sworn she also looked slightly embarrassed.
“There you are!” Samantha cried. “We’ve been looking everywhere.” She glared at Lewis. “Your ridiculous Private Willis swore you were still in the city, only you weren’t, of course. We went down to see Father Orno at the temple and discovered preparations for another reception already under way at the Audience Hall! Not only were you not there either; you sent no warning to us to get ready!”
Lewis and Anson exchanged looks. There was no excuse. They owed Samantha and Angelique a lot for all they’d done, assisting Dr. Newlin and adding their own insights from time to time. And of course, their very presence and generally bright natures helped maintain the men’s morale. Perhaps most important, they’d become excellent cultural ambassadors between the Americans and Uxmalos, making friends with highly placed local ladies and (ironically, considering neither was a citizen of the United States) demonstrating that—despite frequent appearances to the contrary now that the men were housed in barracks in the city and enjoyed regular leave to mingle with the civilians—Americans weren’t all just a bunch of smelly, uncouth barbarians. They’d even started a revolution in ladies’ fashion, and Angelique in particular was in much demand for her dress drawings. Finally, receptions like this weren’t just opportunities for social intercourse; the ladies obviously enjoyed them and deserved a chance to have fun.
“I apologize,” Lewis said sincerely. “I’m afraid Captain Anson and I have a lot on our minds and are very bad company.”
“Apology accepted, M’sieu,” Angelique said in her quickly improving English. “Colonel De Russy has already sent a note requesting the honor of escorting me,” she almost twittered, “but this time the two of you will dance with me as well.”
Anson bowed in his saddle. “Of course, Mistress.” He glanced at Samantha. “An’ who’ll escort you?”
Samantha laughed. “Captain Cayce endured that ‘honor’ last time and was badly wounded. And I imagine he had enough of my company while he was ill, whether he remembers it or not. I think it is your turn, Captain Anson.”
The Ranger bowed again. “Delighted.”
“I want to go,” Leonor blurted defiantly.
Anson looked at her in surprise. She’d attended the last reception and been in the fight as well. He had no objection to her going again, but didn’t understand her tone. “Well . . . sure. Why not?”
Leonor clenched her teeth. “I want to go as a girl, Father. Mistress Samantha’s offered to loan me a gown,” she went on rapidly. “She’s more”—she cut her eyes at Samantha—“girl-shaped than me, but we’re about the same height. . . .”
“And I can quickly alter a very suitable dress,” Samantha stated forcefully, daring either man to defy her. Anson looked helplessly at Lewis, but there was hope in his eyes as well. Perhaps there was a chance his daughter might become more than a hate-filled warrior after all.
Lewis was silent a moment, staring at the young women, then out across the parade ground, where men were preparing for war. Finally, he shrugged and smiled. “I’ve no objection. If anyone here hasn’t figured out Leonor is . . . a young lady by now, we should probably know who they are. They don’t have the brains to be trusted with deadly weapons.” His expression hardened. “Nor should that knowledge make any difference how she’s treated when it comes to her chosen profession. She’s proven how capable she is, and our strongest military ally and advisor, Varaa-Choon, is also female. Anyone who objects to whatever she wants to do—for the benefit of us all—will have me to answer to.”
Leonor actually grinned, and the effect was striking. Gone were the sharp, severe angles and hard intensity in her eyes. It was as if five hard years suddenly fell from her face. Anson cleared his throat. “Um, in light of this development, Mistress Samantha, perhaps you’ll release me from my obligation so I can escort my daughter?”
Samantha blinked astonishment. “I will not! As I said before, it’s your turn!” She shifted her gaze to Lewis and arched an eyebrow. “Leonor is not a child, nor does she require the protection of her father in all things any longer. She might even be better prepared to protect him in various circumstances than the reverse,” she pronounced, “and that’s something both of them might profit from learning!”
“But . . .” Anson balked.
Lewis licked his lips and said, “I’ll be honored to escort your daughter, Captain Anson. If she’s willing, and you have no objection.”