CHAPTER 25
Leonor had never felt like this in her life. She knew Mistress Samantha and Mistress Angelique had been working on her for some time, but the final decision to become a “lady,” even if only briefly, had been momentous. And it came so suddenly, like the instantaneous choice to draw her revolvers and charge an enemy. There’d been the same flash of anger and anxiety, crowned by determination, but also a . . . sense of vulnerability she’d never even tasted in battle. Perhaps the strongest impulse was rebelliousness, however. Not against Captain Cayce or her father or the military conventions she’d flaunted; no one made her do that. But something inside her decided it was time to rebel against the dark part of her soul that had worked so long to construct the persona she’d assumed. There was another part, small and lonely, that still vaguely remembered a strong, happy mother who’d tolerated a willful little girl’s preference for the company of her father on the hunt or in the field over more feminine pursuits. And that hazy, barely remembered woman never begrudged her daughter doing “boy things,” because she knew her husband enjoyed the company. Leonor loved her mother even more for that, and had suddenly realized her bitter rejection of all things “girl” over the years had been like a rejection of her mother’s hopes for her as well. It was much more complicated than that, of course, and she couldn’t simply wall off everything that happened and all she’d become with the blue silk gown Mistress Samantha loaned her, but she and Mistress Angelique, barely older than she, if at all, had awakened those misty memories of a time when she had been a happy girl—along with everything else.
The gown was beautiful, but it felt so strange, so . . . useless when she put it on. And the shoes Samantha provided were uncomfortable and equally impractical. She’d groused half-heartedly, “How on earth can you ride in these? An’ you’d cripple yourself if you had to run. Can’t I just wear my boots?”
“You may not,” Angelique told her firmly.
Then came the makeup, something Leonor never even saw her mother use, and she sneezed when the light dusting of powder went up her nose. “You need little of this,” Angelique said with satisfaction, then added sardonically, “when you are clean.” Samantha tried to do something with her straight black hair but had little success. It was too short. She settled for combing it back and curling it lightly inward at the bottom with an iron before—triumphantly, Leonor thought—tightly gathering the spray of hair that resulted at the back of her head in a slick blue ribbon that matched the dress perfectly—and according to local custom, proclaimed her to be “available.” When Samantha was finished, she produced a wavy, wood-framed mirror, and Leonor regarded the image with fascination. “That ain’t me!” she exclaimed.
“Indeed it is, my dear,” Samantha assured, but Leonor shook her head in amazement. “I’m . . . I’m kinda pretty, huh? But damn, I look so . . . silly!” The ladies laughed and she hastily added, “No offense! Y’all look fine all the time, but I’m like a painted lizard.” She lifted the wide, pleated skirt. “Is there room for my pistol belt under here? I feel helpless as a painted lizard too.”
Samantha looked sympathetic. She’d gathered a great deal about what Leonor had been through, but Angelique shook her head. “This one night you will go unarmed and rely on the gentlemen to defend you—as is your right.”
Leonor was dubious and a little frightened.
The journey from the quarters the two European women shared, adjacent to Reverend Harkin’s and his “protection,” took them through the middle of the tiny parade ground on the bay side of the city, surrounded by all the new barracks for the soldiers. A few locals had begun to move in—Periz had been generous, and space remained plentiful—but even the local “regulars” were allowed to stay in their homes if they had them, as long as they reported promptly for duty, day or night. That left Leonor’s “debut” exposed mostly to men who recognized her. There was shock, even confusion, on quite a few faces, and all the talking and noise of the troops preparing for a night on the town, or others just now marching dustily in from the drill field, was abruptly swallowed by a surrealistic silence. Men simply froze, staring at her, mesmerized, dumbstruck. A few pipes dropped from open mouths, spilling their smoldering contents, and Leonor was torn between upwelling fury and a cringing impulse to run and hide.
Sal Hernandez had appointed himself the “armed escort” for the ladies, Reverend Harkin, and Dr. Newlin. Now he glared challengingly around, one hand dropping to rest on a Paterson Colt at his side, the other absently twisting one corner of his monstrous black mustache. Combined with the look in his eyes, it was difficult to say which gesture was more intimidating. But Captain Cayce had been right. Most who watched her grim march in company with the others to the six-burro-drawn coach Father Orno had sent only grinned and nodded knowingly, quite a few with satisfaction. They had known, for a while at least, either from guessing or hearing rumors. And who knew how long and strong the speculation had run rampant? Leonor even reflected that, given their situation, she probably hadn’t maintained her persona as diligently as she had in the past.
A new confidence suddenly filled her, and she straightened as she walked, still clumsy in the uncomfortable shoes. The most important thing to her was that whether the expressions she’d glimpsed seemed surprised or not, she didn’t sense any hostility or outrage. That meant the men had accepted her as a steady fighter, no matter what else she was, and that was all that mattered.
The badly scarred (and finally sober) Lieutenant Sime was waiting to assist them into the coach. Clearly less observant or perceptive than most, he seemed utterly astonished at the sight of her. “M-my word,” he stuttered. “My word.”
“Don’t just stand there gawping, young man,” Dr. Newlin snapped. “Give the ladies a hand up.”
Sime complied mechanically, but continued muttering, “My word.”
Captain Cayce, Captain Anson, and Colonel De Russy were waiting on the steps of the Audience Hall when they arrived, nodding and smiling at extravagantly decorated Uxmalos passing into the great building. Leonor’s father gave a big smile when he saw Samantha Wilde, but looked confused when Leonor stepped down beside her. Then recognition came, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Major Reed was there as well, arm still supported by a dark blue sling matching his uniform, and Justinian Olayne stood beside him. Both were distracted at the moment. Leonor noted the different shoulder boards Olayne wore at once and quickly looked at Lewis’s coat. In addition to having been perfectly repaired, it now bore the rank of major. Samantha also noticed, smiling at Olayne as she advanced and touched a faded, gilded rectangle on his shoulder. “Major Cayce’s old ones, no doubt?”
Olayne reddened and jerked his eyes away from Leonor. He didn’t seem as surprised she was a woman as he was suddenly captivated by how she looked. “Uh . . . yes, Mistress. I’m proud to wear them.”
“Necessary promotions, my dear,” De Russy said. “It may have confused Major Reed’s men to have him taking orders from a mere captain.”
Reed bowed to all the ladies, with a special, gallant smile for Leonor, before holding up his good hand. “Not me. Even if I gave a damn about seniority, I’ve been helpless while you all did so much. And I don’t have Major Cayce’s combat experience.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m content to lead the infantry and leave decisions how to use it in someone else’s hands!”
“It’s not that simple, as you well know,” De Russy said a little impatiently. “I’m doing my best to learn to lead while I perform my other duties,” he continued with a glance at Reed’s sling and a touch of embarrassment, “but you’ve at least fought, and you must be Major Cayce’s second in command.”
“Of course, Colonel,” Reed assured. “I’ll advise and assist him any way I can.”
De Russy nodded, glad that was settled, then brightened as his gaze settled on Olayne. “And may I present Captain Olayne. Duly elected to lead his battery, we’ve put him in charge of all three. Despite his still-insufficient rank, I give you the commander of Batteries A, B, and C of the First US Regiment of Artillery!” He blinked. “On this world, of course. The local regiments are still being consolidated, but meager as it is, with Captain Anson’s leadership of all other mounted elements, the um, Detached Expeditionary Force and Army of the Allied Cities finally have an official coherent chain of command.” He looked at Lewis. “All under your overall authority. God grant that they prosper and grow.” Then, with a hesitant smile at Angelique Mercure, De Russy crooked an elbow out to his side. “Shall we, my dear?”
With a lingering look at Leonor, Anson offered his arm to Samantha. Leonor glared at Lewis, expecting the same reaction as her father’s, but if her transformation surprised him, he’d already hidden it well. He only smiled gently and said, “You’re beautiful, and I’m the luckiest man here tonight, to have you on my arm.” When he offered it, she felt the most amazing flaming chill inside as she thrust her hand through the waiting gap and ascended the stairs at his side.
Dancing was another entirely new experience, or attempted experience. She was so incredibly clumsy! But Lewis only laughed at himself, not her, and apologized that he’d never been any good at it. She felt that same freezing fire in her chest. She’d been this close to men before. Her father, Sal, Boogerbear, other Rangers or soldiers she barely knew who’d thought her just “one of the fellows” and made no effort to keep their distance when fighting or performing tasks. That very familiarity and informality probably did more to keep her from violently recoiling from any man after that one terrible time. Even Teniente Lara had been this close during the fight on the beach, and she hadn’t mentally drawn away from him as much as his uniform. But this was the first time she’d ever been so close to any man in a social setting, let alone allowed herself to be held—even as loosely as Lewis did it.
All washing and brushing aside, Lewis certainly smelled like a man. The scent of Arete was strong on him, as was the sweaty leather of his sword belt and boots. And whoever had fixed his coat couldn’t completely remove the aroma of sweaty wool. But those weren’t bad smells. They’d been in her nose all her life, worse often coming from her. She realized with a shock she liked him to hold her and was suddenly glad there were no pistol grips distorting her figure below her slim waist, bumping his right hand where he lightly laid it. She wondered briefly what he would’ve thought if there had been, then realized he wouldn’t have cared. That’s when she finally admitted to herself that she’d always admired him as more than a competent soldier. His broad shoulders and rough good looks seemed so intriguingly at odds with his disciplined, thoughtful manner. He was about ten years older than her but looked much younger this close—less tired and worn, as if he was actually enjoying himself.
The strange music stopped and so did they, both only then noticing they’d abandoned their efforts to follow the steps and finished by simply swaying back and forth—much closer together than they started. Lewis cleared his throat and gently urged her back in the direction of her father, who’d just finished dancing with Samantha. Leonor saw her father’s expression, still wide-eyed and torn between satisfaction for her, no doubt, and something between worry and outrage directed at Lewis at the sight of her flushing face and how the dance ended for them.
Lewis cleared his throat again. “Perhaps you’d like the next dance with your daughter?” he asked Anson a little awkwardly.
“Damn right,” the older man growled, then relented a little. “I’ve never had the pleasure before.” He glanced between Lewis and Samantha. “I’ve the two of you to thank for it now.”
No attack by snooping Dom ships or treachery by Blood Priests and their servants marred the reception for King Har-Kaaska. And it was as much for the Americans again as him, since that first event was so tragically interrupted. More important, all the people in the grand Audience Hall knew each other better now, and knew—with various degrees of commitment—they were in this together. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Building the army was a nuisance, of course, but so were the Holcanos and Grik. And making an army, supplying it, and sending enough sons to fill its ranks was less a nuisance than the Dominion would be if it came to Uxmal unopposed. Most people accepted that, intellectually, especially since the fighting that would constitute that “opposition” remained an abstract concept to peaceful people who couldn’t imagine the ghastly nature of the modern war their new American friends were preparing to wage.
King Haar-Kaaska knew. Mi-Anakka and other species (mostly descendants of other transplanted humans), who’d built a civilization in the land he and his companions originally came from, had reached near military parity with what he saw of the Americans. They’d fought bloody wars of unification, then fallen into a terrible civil war that consumed vast armies across his homeland and slaughtered a generation. Since then, they’d fought to keep what he considered “real” Grik at arm’s length, and he could trace almost every tactical and technological innovation leading to how the Americans were equipped and trained by remembering his own history and how others who came to this world influenced his people. Unless there’d been another “crossover” there while he was here, he thought the Americans might be less than half a century “ahead” of what he knew. But what they’d done with those few decades!
Now standing back from the press with Varaa beside him and a mug of wine in his hand, he watched the American “warmaster” Lewis Cayce awkwardly, even laughingly attempt to dance with a young woman in a sweeping blue gown amidst a swirl of others (quite a few wearing new dresses patterned after the foreign ladies), and the locally beloved music Har-Kaaska always found jarring. Varaa had told him the woman with Cayce was also a warrior, and she seemed oddly pleased by the pairing. “Both need to enjoy themselves very badly,” she’d said. It was clear to Har-Kaaska that Varaa liked them, and he wondered how objective she’d remain.
“I suppose our human countrymen would find her beautiful, though she seems quite unconscious of it. But a warrior?” Har-Kaaska snorted. “Her appalling inability to master the few simple steps of the dance doesn’t recommend her agility in battle.”
“She didn’t grow up in Caesar’s court as you did, my king,” Varaa admonished, “and this is the first time she’s ever tried to dance, or even worn a dress. I understand that she moves quite well in battle.”
Har-Kaaska changed the subject. “Her dress wouldn’t be out of place at court,” he granted, “which is to be expected, I suppose.” One of the most recent “crossovers” to his land had been British sailors and passengers off a topsail schooner driven ashore in the terrible storm that swept her to this world in 1811. The ship brought people, yet another language, better weapons, technology, and a lovely design for fine, swift ships—as well as clothing styles still considered the height of fashion when Har-Kaaska and his Mi-Anakka companions last saw their homeland. It also brought news of Americans, who largely sprang from but weren’t British anymore. Caesar added this information to the rest he and his predecessors had gleaned across the ages, trying as always to make sense of the mishmash of other histories touching his land. “And there are other similarities between their home and ours,” Har-Kaaska continued. “Their infantry still relies on flintlocks, for example, though their newer weapons fired by ‘percussion caps’ are interesting.”
“If they can create the facilities to make them here, they represent a real improvement,” Varaa agreed. “They lend themselves well to repeating weapons, like revolving pistols, and work in virtually any weather.”
“A formidable advantage,” Har-Kaaska murmured in his own tongue when one of Alcalde Periz’s servants brought a large ceramic jug to replenish the visitors’ mugs, “and yet another thing we can’t allow to fall into the hands of the Doms. Still, I’m even more troubled by the steam-powered ship Isidra you described, though not for the same reasons as Captain Cayce. He worries only about her people, but must be made to fear that the ship may be in the possession of the enemy even more.”
Har-Kaaska’s people knew the might and utility of steam and great engines were used to power cranes and other industrial and agricultural machines. No engine they’d ever made to move a vehicle had been as efficient as a large draft animal, however, and how could anything move a ship faster than the wind? But the advantage of a steamship became obvious to Har-Kaaska at once after Varaa told him she’d steamed away after losing her masts.
“If the Doms have her, they’ll copy her,” he pressed. “Eventually, they’ll cross the sea and threaten our homeland.” He glanced at Varaa. “Encourage Captain Cayce to discover what happened to her. If the Doms have her, he must destroy her or get her back.” He blinked intensity. “Never forget, as much as I share your passion for our Ocelomeh and helping the people here against the Doms, my main purpose in staying here, probably forever, is to keep the Doms from our home. You and I accomplish this by remaining a thorn in their side, but Captain Cayce has brought us a spear.”
“I was wondering why you decided to give the Americans so much support, essentially putting nearly all our Ocelomeh under Cayce’s command.”
“Nearly all—over time,” Har-Kaaska reminded.
“Either way, you must think he’ll beat the Doms.”
Har-Kaaska looked at Varaa, wondering how honest he should be. Finally, he blinked resignation and sighed. “You forget that I was a prisoner of the Doms?” Varaa shook her head, but Har-Kaaska continued, displaying his fingers where nail-claws once were. “The Blood Priests hadn’t even risen yet, making them even worse, but their ordinary priests didn’t even attempt to torture me into ‘converting’ to their twisted faith because I was merely an animal.” He wiggled his fingers. “They only did this—and other things—to make me safer to handle, to display in a cage. And because they enjoyed it,” he added. “But I saw the Dominion as far as the Great Valley of Mexico before I escaped, and even before the Blood Priests,” he stressed, “I realized we could kill nine in ten of the ‘faithful,’ but the one who remained would spring back to preach their vile celebration of suffering—citing the very suffering we inflicted on them as proof of their perverted dogma!”
The music had ended, and he watched Captain Cayce escort the young woman from the area set aside for dancers and noted the girl’s face was flushed bright red. Not from fatigue, if Varaa’s right about her. Perhaps embarrassment? he wondered. “No,” he continued, “I don’t think Captain Cayce—any of us—will win. No one we know of on this continent can, any more than our people could ever truly defeat the real Grik infesting most of Africaa.” His tail whipped aggressively behind him. “But he and his people have quality weapons and a strong core of military competence to build around. Most important, as you reported, they’re idealistic and determined and have found a cause they believe in. With that combination”—he blinked deep sadness—“I think they—and we—will fight very hard and come closer to destroying the Doms than I ever imagined possible.” He sighed. “But there are simply too many of them, and their beliefs spread like a disease. As many as we kill, they’ll only make more. We’ll convulse the Dominion and bleed it half to death,” he said with unusual savagery, “and from what you told me of these American officers, the battle on the beach, and what little I’ve already observed of Captain Cayce, the Doms will face a war like they never imagined . . . but I expect we’ll lose in the end.” He blinked determination. “Not before we set them back a very long time, however, and that’s ‘cause’ enough for me!”
A different, livelier tune erupted, performed by some of De Russy’s Pennsylvanians and a fiddler from the 1st Artillery. There were exclamations of appreciation as the locals tried to adapt their own steps to the unfamiliar rhythm.
Leonor held back when Anson tried to drag her into it. “I can’t dance to that!” she exclaimed.
“Why not? You did fine before,” Anson grumped, then relented with a grin. “Besides, nobody else here knows how to do it either!”
Lewis stood watching with Samantha Wilde. Strangely, he wasn’t uncomfortable around her anymore and hadn’t been for some time. Not only was he grateful for her attention while he was sick; her other aid to Dr. Newlin and the strong, positive influence she’d cultivated with the Uxmalo citizenry and especially Alcaldesa Periz had solidified his admiration. Being so busy with the army, he hadn’t even considered courting her, but despite an occasional air of flightiness too much like other women he’d known—he now understood she affected for her own amusement—he liked her quite a lot. Now, he was suddenly surprised to feel her hand on his arm.
“You’re a good man, Captain”—she smiled—“I mean Major Cayce.”
“My father—sister too—who both aspired to our version of aristocracy—your level of society, I suppose,” he bantered lightly, “would’ve disagreed.”
“For all the wrong reasons, no doubt,” Samantha assured. “But there’s no ‘level’ between us. Certainly not here. My father was—is—a soldier, just as you are.” She smiled. “As Captain Anson is.”
“Perhaps.” Lewis looked at her and quirked his lips upward. “I take it you’re growing fond of our daring Ranger? It’s obvious he’s fond of you.” He grinned. “Surely you’ve noticed the occasional . . . keen expression on his wooly face. Ever since we met you on the beach.”
Samantha laughed. “Somewhat surprisingly, considering the frequent contentiousness between our two countries, I’ve grown very fond of all your officers.” She looked at him intently. “You as well.” She opened a bone-framed oriental fan and waved it briskly. Another of her affectations, though somewhat appropriate in the warmth of the Audience Hall. “Quite amazing, is it not? Just as well, because under the circumstances Mistress Angelique and I may have no choice but to attach ourselves to one of you. We’re not fighters, you see, and we need protection. There’s no great rush, but that’s the way it is.” She pointed with her fan. “I believe dear Angelique has already ensnared Colonel De Russy, poor fellow. He had a wife back home, but seems to have quite forgotten her.”
Lewis shifted uncomfortably, pondering that. De Russy and his wife hadn’t been parted by death, so any formal match between him and Angelique would certainly constitute bigamy. But Varaa was adamant none of them would ever see “home” again and De Russy’s wife would be informed her husband had been lost at sea. He’d be “dead” to her, eventually even declared so legally, so what was De Russy to do? Some of the men had taken that aspect of their stranding worse than others, and there’d even been a couple of suicides. Most seemed to approach their situation more philosophically, however. Like De Russy. Lewis decided not to worry about it now, though he doubted the young Frenchwoman would consent to any “informal” match. And De Russy would know that would set a bad example when it came to relations between their troops and the locals.
Lewis condensed all that thought into a noncommittal “Hmm,” then asked lightly, “And you? Who have you decided to ‘ensnare’? You’ll have quite a wide selection, you know.”
Samantha arched her eyebrows in amused surprise. “Really, how could you ask such a thing?” She grinned. “I’ll confess I had set my heart on either you or Captain Anson from the start. With all respect to Colonel De Russy, he was quite helpless during the fight on the beach. So was dear Angelique, for that matter. Both are adapting quickly and doing rather well, but action doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’re well suited for each other. I, on the other hand, like a man with more fire in his belly.” She snapped her fan closed. “I shall have to settle for the good Ranger—though I shouldn’t call it ‘settling.’ His years and rough, ‘wooly’ shell aside, he’d be quite a catch anywhere.”
Lewis nodded with mock disappointment, still not sure how seriously to take all this. “May I ask what took me out of consideration?”
Samantha looked at him, astonished. “Good heavens, don’t you know?” She pointed her fan at Leonor, now laughing like a girl with her father. Something about the scene almost broke Lewis’s composure. “Her heart is set on you, sir. Just look what one dance with you has done!” Samantha shook her head. “And unlike me, she is a fighter. A very lethal one! No, Major Cayce, you may be a fine man and a ‘good catch’ as well, but I won’t fight her for you. I told you before, Angelique and I must find husbands for security. Opposing that girl would make it all pointless, don’t you agree?”
Lewis was thunderstruck, unable to reply. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. He saw Lieutenant Felix Meder purposefully working his way through the crowd in his direction and, after excusing himself, stepped to meet him. De Russy was near, and he turned as well. “What is it?” Lewis demanded.
“Trouble, sir. Bad. At one of the cantinas the off-duty men were given leave to visit.”
Lewis nodded. He’d actually expected it sooner—just as he’d prepared himself to come down so hard there’d never be “bad” trouble again. He’d promised that capricious punishment would cease, but consequences for serious breaches of the Articles of War would be swift and terrible. “Very well,” he said.
“What’re you doing?” De Russy asked loudly over the music. Lewis explained and said he was going with Felix.
De Russy shook his head. “Lieutenant Meder, do you see Major Reed over there? He’s standing with Alcalde Periz and his wife, and that large woman in the purple . . . whatever it is.”
“Yes sir.”
“Inform him what’s happened. He’ll take care of it.”
Felix looked at Lewis, surprised. “You’re not coming, sir?”
Lewis glanced back at Leonor as the exuberant dance ended. The girl and her father were both breathing hard, eyes alight. The transformation in both was astounding. Then he saw Teniente Lara tentatively approach Leonor and begin to speak. After a moment, to Lewis’s amazement, Leonor gave a reluctant nod, and the pair waited patiently—at a wary distance—for the next piece of music. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.
“He is not,” De Russy said, turning his gaze on Lewis, who was looking at him again. “I may never be qualified to lead men in battle,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I understand things like this. Reed is your executive officer, and you must rely on him as more than just your commander of infantry. Get that in both your heads right away.” He turned back to Felix. “You’ll recall that Major Cayce’s evening was interrupted the last time he was here.” He smiled. “I believe it’s Major Reed’s turn. Have him inform Major Cayce if he can’t handle whatever has occurred, but I don’t expect that’ll be the case.”