Purgatory's Shore Read online

  The Artillerymen Series

  Purgatory’s Shore

  The Destroyermen Series

  Into the Storm

  Crusade

  Maelstrom

  Distant Thunders

  Rising Tides

  Firestorm

  Iron Gray Sea

  Storm Surge

  Deadly Shores

  Straits of Hell

  Blood in the Water

  Devil’s Due

  River of Bones

  Pass of Fire

  Winds of Wrath

  ACE

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Taylor Anderson

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Anderson, Taylor, 1963– author.

  Title: Purgatory’s shore / Taylor Anderson.

  Description: New York : Ace, [2021] | Series: The Artillerymen Series

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021008728 (print) | LCCN 2021008729 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593200711 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200735 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3601.N5475 P87 2021 (print) | LCC PS3601.N5475 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008728

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008729

  Cover art by Liddel Jones

  Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan

  Interior art: Smoke background © swp23/Shutterstock.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0

  To:

  All my pals in the 1st Section

  C Company

  3rd US Artillery

  (You know who you are.)

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Titles by Taylor Anderson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map of the Yucatán, Holy Dominion, and Beyond

  Map of “The Washboard”

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE YUCATÁN, HOLY DOMINION, AND BEYOND

  Drawn from the embroidered atlas in Uxmal. Important roads including the coastal “Camino Militar” are depicted, as far as their extent is known. Larger cities are symbolized thus:

  US Battery (6 guns)

  Dom Battery (5 guns)

  I’m now as certain as it’s possible to be that innumerable “Earths,” perhaps entire universes, simultaneously coexist in the cosmos. That would explain a great many things, such as where various peoples and species (some sentient, others not) we find on “this” far different Earth originally came from, though the means (or purpose?) by which they—or we—were transported here through the ages remains frustratingly elusive.

  And “this” Earth remains as strange to me as are many of its inhabitants, perhaps influenced by indistinct but profound changes in the prehistoric past? It teems with descendants of creatures long extinct where we came from, and quite a few others that either came here like ourselves or sprang into being independent of our own fossil record. However different, it’s clearly “an” Earth because, aside from a few puzzling exceptions, the geography is roughly the same, though shorelines reflect a generally lower sea level. It’s my belief this is due to another (or a lingering) ice age, the Arctic and Antarctic expanses vastly expanded and hoarding more of the planet’s water. Indeed, with the exception of equatorial regions, temperatures all over the world are noticeably lower as well.

  But this is no scientific treatise, any more than my multivolume The Worlds I’ve Wondered—first published by the University of New Glasgow Press in 1956—pretended to be. In those books, I chiefly documented the adventures of myself and many others, essentially chased to this world aboard the decrepit US Asiatic Fleet destroyer USS Walker by the marauding Japanese. These volumes, Lands and Peoples, relate the often tragic sagas of others we’ve come to know, based as closely on their histories as possible. In many cases, their early experiences directly influenced ours, but I’ll leave the reader to draw those connections.

  Therefore, I shall begin with the tale of a group that arrived on this world almost exactly a century before us, whom we first referred to as the “1847 Americans.”

  Excerpt from the Foreword to Courtney Bradford’s

  Lands and Peoples—Destiny of the Damned, Vol. I,

  Library of Alex-aandra Press, 1959

  CHAPTER 1

  APRIL 5, 1847

  The world was shades of gray, reminding Captain Lewis Cayce—formerly of C Battery, 3rd United States Artillery Regiment—of different kinds of lead. The sea to the north of the Yucatán Peninsula was the blue-gray color of molten lead when it got too hot, and the sky had the chalky gray-white look of a corroded musket ball. The comparison struck Lewis Cayce as he leaned on the weathered windward rail of a wretched old barque-rigged whaler named Mary Riggs, wallowing down toward Vera Cruz, Mexico. There’d been more real lead in the air around him over the last year than he cared to remember, and a bloody-fingered surgeon had even plucked a particularly shiny wafer of it from his side after the Battle of Monterrey. Now that he was heading back to the fighting, to join General Winfield Scott’s push inland from Vera Cruz, he’d soon be exposed to a great deal more. Staring grimly across the choppy sea at three other ships straggling along in company, he decided the sea and sky were a portent.

  Mary Riggs’s closest companion was USS Isidra, a neat little former Mexican side-wheel steamer captured at Frontera on the Grijalva River. She was crowded with regular infantry, officers’ horses and personal baggage, as well as most of the senior officers responsible for men on the other ship
s. USS Commissary was a government transport, loaded with munitions, supplies, and volunteer infantry. Xenophon had joined them en route and looked like another old whaler. Lewis suspected her cargo and circumstances were much the same as Mary Riggs’s.

  Worn down by decades of yearslong voyages, storms, and hard use associated with her former occupation, Mary Riggs was destined for the breakers or abandonment when she was purchased cheaply by a group of New Orleans investors at the outbreak of war between Mexico and the United States. There was money to be made by a transport for hire to the army, and she was hastily reconfigured to carry horses. She’d done that several times already, but this time she’d been loaded with far too many, as well as a half dozen cannon, limbers, several caissons, and a pair of forge wagons—before being packed to the bulwarks with four hundred men. She reeked unimaginably, the stench of her earlier life almost—but not quite—overwhelmed by the new combination of the manure and sweat of terrified horses, 430 (counting the crew) unwashed bodies, stale tobacco smoke, and most crushing of all, the waste and vomit of too many passengers as unused to the sea as the horses. At least here, by the windward rail of the laboring ship, the air Lewis breathed was slightly fresher.

  He wasn’t sick himself, being more accustomed to seafaring than most soldiers. He’d traveled up and down the East Coast several times in his career, and all the way to Europe with his former commander, Samuel Ringgold, a decade before. Perhaps a lifetime on horseback reinforced a certain resistance to the sickening motion of a ship as well. Besides, he’d already seen enough of this war, since its brutal beginning on the sandy, cordgrass plain of Palo Alto, that few things could turn his stomach anymore. But that was him. Most aboard the pitching vessel, leaning hard under a press of dingy canvas, were new recruits, and many were youngsters, as new to war as they were the sea, so he idly wondered why he had such a stretch of the coveted rail to himself. The fighting in Northern Mexico had hardened him in various ways, dulling what many old West Point classmates would’ve described as a general cheerfulness, but it hadn’t turned him aloof. Quite the contrary. Having watched a number of dear friends die (including Major Ringgold, whom he’d deeply respected) made him appreciate those who remained all the more. That’s what he thought, at least. But even he recognized those losses might’ve made him less anxious to make new friends, and it was possible that disposition was detectable by others.

  Still, besides the fact his gold-edged shoulder boards and black knee boots were the only indication he was an officer (he didn’t even own a frock coat anymore and preferred the dark blue enlisted fatigue jacket above sky-blue trousers), he assumed his isolation was due to his being the most senior army officer aboard—while not technically having a command. Half the troops in Mary Riggs were artillerymen who, besides their dark blue wheel hats (standard issue for all branches), wore sky-blue uniforms with yellow trim. Many had stitched nonregulation red bands around their hats and stripes down their trouser legs, aping the now famous “flying” horse artillery Lewis had belonged to, but they were “foot” artillery, mostly trained on massive coast defense guns. Some with longer service were probably familiar with lightweight field artillery, but few would’ve practiced the tactics of rapid maneuver and concentration of fire that Major Ringgold pioneered and had proven so successful. Even more strangely from Lewis’s point of view, they may not even serve as artillerymen when they joined General Scott. Some might be sent as replacements to artillery units already in the field, but they’d all been equipped with .69 caliber Model 1816 muskets and more thoroughly trained as infantry.

  Then there were the two hundred dragoons, armed with pistols and sabers and the odd-looking .52 caliber Model 1843 breechloading Hall carbines. Lewis was impressed by the volume of fire Halls could acheive, and even their short-range accuracy (much better than musketoons for mounted men), but they’d earned a reputation as troublesome, underpowered weapons. Men who carried them typically loved them or hated them—much like dragoons themselves were regarded by the rest of the army. They wore the same dark blue jackets as Lewis except theirs were trimmed with yellow instead of the horse artillery red Lewis still stubbornly wore. He didn’t command them either.

  Unknown to him, the real reasons he remained alone with his thoughts had more to do with the intensity of his gray-eyed gaze and the scorn it focused on the ship full of officers a quarter mile away, as well as the unconsciously unhappy frown within the short brown beard on his face. He was physically intimidating as well: taller than average, with wide, strong shoulders straining the seams of his jacket. Yet despite all that, nothing travels faster than rumors and speculation among bored and miserable soldiers, and virtually every man aboard Mary Riggs already knew who he was and at least a version of what he’d seen. There were few veterans among them, and only a handful who’d already fought Mexicans. Some Noncommissioned Officers (NCOs) had campaigned against Seminoles in Florida, and a few older European immigrants might’ve faced (or fought for) Napoleon in their youth, but most of these men had been shopkeepers, farmers, recent immigrants, even quite literally gutter sweepings drawn to the regular army by enlistment bonuses when the current war began. All were volunteers, but unlike volunteer regiments specifically raised for the war, they weren’t dreamy-eyed patriots looking for honor or glory or entranced by some notion it was the “manifest destiny” of Americans to spread their enlightened ideals (and themselves) across a continent. Most were in it for regular meals.

  That didn’t mean they’d be bad soldiers. The United States’ tiny standing army and increasingly professional officer corps had fought magnificently so far, but until recently it was composed of men with long service, even among the enlisted ranks, who probably had absorbed many of the ideals their country—native or adopted—was fighting for. These newer recruits, really part of “America” yet or not, were “regulars” now as well. And with all the hard training, sometimes seasoned with genuine abuse, their lot was no worse than that of soldiers in other armies of the world. Just as important, they hadn’t been forced to join. So most became good soldiers, proud of their regular status and loyal to one another—if not always yet the country they fought for. Some, especially foreigners, thought of themselves more as paid mercenaries than Americans, but that sometimes made them better soldiers, determined to prove they were Americans after all. In any event, as regulars, they were supposed to be professionals, and they were prepared to hold themselves to a higher standard than the short-term volunteer units they mocked. That made them . . . professionally curious . . . about what they were likely to face, so Captain Lewis Cayce had been the subject of much discussion among them—while his uninviting countenance made even the few junior officers aboard hesitant to approach him.

  There were exceptions. One was another full-bearded man (though his whiskers were streaked with gray), who seemed acquainted with Cayce and stopped to speak from time to time but never lingered. He was just as tall, if not as heavily built, and would’ve passed for a civilian if not for his own battered wheel hat (with the folding neck flap removed) and sky-blue military vest he wore over a black-striped shirt. Dark corduroy trousers were tucked into the tops of brown knee boots similar to the black ones Lewis wore. Word was he and several more men aboard were Texas Rangers who, like Captain Cayce, had been in Northern Mexico with Zachary Taylor. Many wondered about their presence, since rumor had it General Scott didn’t like their bloodthirsty reputation.

  Another exception was a young dragoon lieutenant who—after three days at sea—finally seemed to gather the courage to approach the brooding artilleryman.

  “If I may be so bold, sir,” came a somewhat anxious voice, suddenly at Lewis’s side, “aren’t you excited to get back to the war?”

  The words jolted Lewis from his dark reverie, and he looked momentarily stricken before turning, almost thankfully, to face his visitor. Dressed in the stylishly tight junior officer’s frock coat, he looked ridiculously thin and boyish, even with the p
illow quilting under a single row of glistening buttons intended to make his chest look bigger. Wispy blond side whiskers had formed on his cheeks, a premature attempt to emulate those so many of the men sported, occasionally to outrageous excess. The youngster belatedly saluted. “Second Lieutenant Coryon Burton, sir. North Carolina. Class of ’forty-six.”

  Lewis returned the salute, still leaning on the rail. “Captain Cayce,” he replied. “Of Tennessee, originally. Now just the army,” he added wryly. That was certainly true. A West Point Class of 1830 graduate, he’d been in the army almost half his thirty-eight years. Peacetime promotion came very slowly, and he’d still been a first lieutenant when the war began.

  “Yes sir, I know,” the youth blurted. “All the fellows are talking about you.” His accent softened the words under the excited tone, and Lewis vaguely envied him that. His own birth accent had almost entirely vanished.

  “All the fellows?” Lewis asked, amused, as Burton began to redden. “I wonder what they say.”

  “Nothing bad,” the young dragoon quickly assured. “They, ah, that is to say, it seems to be the consensus that you’re a hero.”

  Lewis grunted and glanced around. “Is it indeed? I haven’t told anyone so. I haven’t even spoken to any of them. Even the artillery lieutenants aboard.”

  That had struck Lewis odd, that neither young artillery officer had presented himself out of courtesy. They weren’t required to, since he wasn’t their commander and they were all—essentially—just passengers on the same ship for now, but it wasn’t good manners.

  “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.”