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  Copyright © 2022 by Taylor Anderson

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Anderson, Taylor, 1963– author.

  Title: Hell’s march / Taylor Anderson.

  Description: New York: Ace, [2022] | Series: The Artillerymen series

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022001453 (print) | LCCN 2022001454 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593200742 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200766 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels. Classification: LCC PS3601.N5475 H45 2022 (print) | LCC PS3601.N5475 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001453

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001454

  Cover illustration by Liddell Jones

  Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  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_6.0_141011967_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Books by Taylor Anderson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map of the Yucatán Campaign

  Map of the Battle of Gran Lago

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my dad, and that entire fast-dwindling generation of heroes who stood in the light to hold back the darkness and formed me in so many ways. One was to recognize the very stark difference between good and evil while understanding that no human endeavor can be all one or the other. But “mostly good” isn’t just slightly better than “mostly evil.”

  Still reeling from the traumatic “passage” from their Earth to this . . . very different one, the people we first referred to as “1847 Americans” (due to the year they arrived, since we knew little more about them) were even less prepared to comprehend their circumstances than we were when the decrepit US Asiatic Fleet destroyer USS Walker was essentially chased to this world by the marauding Japanese in 1942. Still, in surprisingly short order, Lewis Cayce (formerly of the 3rd US Artillery) consolidated all the surviving artillerymen, infantrymen, dragoons, Mounted Rifles, and a handful of Texas Rangers—even a few Mexicans who’d been unluckily nearby onshore—from three appalling shipwrecks.

  Regardless of their confusion, the terrifying lethality of this world quickly convinced Cayce that they must all work together or die. Particularly after he discovered that the savage, unimaginable beasts all around them were the least of their concerns. Humans can be far more monstrous than the strangest, most ferocious animals, and the savage Holcano Indians, their few but shockingly Grik-like allies, and of course, the vile, blood-drenched “Holy Dominion” became a constant, looming menace.

  In less than a year, Lewis Cayce and his capable companions had united various city-states on the oddly shaped Yucatán Peninsula against the long-feared Dominion and its Holcano proxies, built and trained an army, and repulsed a numerically superior but arrogant to the point of incompetence “Dom” army at the “Battle of the Washboard.” It was a stunning victory that convinced the locals they had a chance to live free from fear of the most significant, diabolical power known to dwell in the “Americas” of this world.

  But Lewis Cayce knew that wasn’t the case. The Dominion was obsessed with conquest (and blood sacrifice) and would never allow “his” new people to live in peace. Any example of successful defiance would erode Dominion tyranny over its own people and had to be exterminated. Moreover, a purely defensive stance was ultimately doomed to failure. The Dominion had to be beaten, and the only way to do that was to attack. . . .

  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

  NOVEMBER 1847

  1ST DIVISION / NAUTLA / YUCATÁN PENINSULA

  The sun stood bright and hot over the “ruined” city of Nautla on the west coast of the Yucatán, which was being hacked back out of the dense surrounding forest even while other labor was under way to reclaim it. Like the larger, even more ancient Campeche to the south, it boasted finely fitted stone walls around impressive dwellings and other structures, as well as the seemingly ubiquitous central stepped pyramid that appeared to grace every city of any size in the region. Unlike distant Campeche, however, Nautla’s condition wasn’t a result of centuries of neglect. Right on the edge of the Contested Lands, or “La Tierra de Sangre,” largely controlled by Holcano Indians and furry-feathery, extremely ferocious, “Grik-like” beings (these struck most as a terrifying cross between vultures and alligators with their upright physiques, raptor claws, and toothy jaws), Nautla had received too much attention over the last several decades. First conquered by Holcanos about fifty years earlier, it became almost a traditional battlefield for Holcanos and Ocelomeh Jaguar Warriors to trade back and forth. The Ocelomeh were never as numerous and used imaginative tactics, especially after the arrival of Har-Kaaska and his Mi-Anakka (vaguely catlike folk from an unnamed land shipwrecked there twenty years before). They finally made a serious attempt to permanently liberate the city a decade ago, but never induced enough people to return and make it prosper. They gave up. It had “belonged” to the Holcanos ever since, though its only real inhabitants were bands of wild “garaaches,” essentially young feral Grik that hadn’t joined a tribe. They were a menace to everyone, even their own species, and Grik and Holcanos both hunted and ate them.

  Despite years of fighting in and around Nautla, the combatants hadn’t possessed the means to seriously damage its durable structures, and it remained largely intact. Troops under the command of the Blood Cardinal Don Frutos of the “Holy Dominion”—a power based on a warped mix of centuries-old Spanish Catholic Christianity and Mayan-Aztecan blood ritual, dominating most of what should’ve been Mexico and Central America and bent on conquest and subjugation—had briefly bombarded it when they passed through. They’d only been exercising their gun’s crews in preparation for knocking down the walls of the independent northern coastal city of Uxmal when they got there, so the damage hadn’t been severe.

  But Don Frutos had been stopped short of his objective at the “Battle of the Washboard” by a small army led by Major Lewis Cayce, composed of recognizably Christian natives of the Yucatán and their pagan Ocelomeh protectors and trained by American castaways from “another” earth who’d been bound for a different Vera Cruz to join Winfield Scott’s campaign against the president of Mexico. And just like this different earth, the geography of war had changed very little. The ultimate enemy (besides the land itself and wildly ferocious predators) styled himself “His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World,” and ironically ruled from the same . . . but different . . . Valley of Mexico. Major Cayce’s roughly seven hundred American survivors were no longer engaged in a political war, however—a spat between neighboring countries over past grievances and territory. They’d joine
d in a war of survival against an existential threat and had a cause they could all believe in: build a strong Union of threatened city-states, oppose the Dominion—and hopefully survive. The odds were very long indeed. Major Cayce followed his victory over the “Doms” by marching his still largely American Detached Expeditionary Force and the 1st Uxmal and 1st Ocelomeh Regiments down to fortify Nautla into an impassable strongpoint astride the Camino Militar. So far, the most difficult tasks had been rooting out garaaches, repairing the walls and backing them with earth to better resist Dom artillery, and cleaning out years of accumulated filth to make the place tolerably sanitary. The first priority in this respect had been to fill in the hopelessly fouled freshwater wells and dig new ones. Nautla was “alive” again in a sense, but as a formidable fort, not a city. It was in this light Lewis Cayce surveyed it now, standing on the south wall with a collection of his officers and some luminaries from Uxmal; friends, he hoped and believed.

  “This isn’t exactly what I meant when I urged you to take the war to the Doms,” said Alcaldesa Sira Periz in a dissatisfied tone. Tiny, dark, and beautiful, she’d become the ruler of Uxmal when her husband was killed in a treacherous parley before the Battle of the Washboard began. Her suite of advisors included a shrewd, also beautiful Englishwoman named Samantha Wilde and the oddly inseparable Reverend Samuel Harkin—a tall, bearded, overweight Presbyterian—and Father Orno—a short, slight, Uxmalo priest from a vaguely Jesuit tradition. They’d been brought down by the wiry, craggy-faced Captain Eric Holland in HMS Tiger, an elderly, lightly armed, retired British man-o’-war that had been carrying European passengers like Samantha away from the “old” Vera Cruz after General Scott’s invasion there. She’d only incidentally been close to the American Mary Riggs, Xenophon, and Commissary, and the sailing steamer Isidra (taking troops to join General Scott’s campaign) when they were all so . . . bizarrely and cataclysmically swept to this world by an appalling—some said “supernatural”—storm. Mary Riggs and Xenophon actually “fell” to earth miles inland, and Commissary crashed down on the beach. All were hopelessly wrecked with great loss of life except Isidra, now in the hands of the Doms, and Tiger, which they’d repaired and put to use. Old and decrepit on the world she came from, Tiger was the fastest, most capable ship the Allied cities had at their disposal. Sadly, most of her passengers had been carried away to “safety” by Isidra and had likely been gruesomely sacrificed to the bloodthirsty underworld God of the Doms. At best, they still lived in slavery.

  Sira Periz was dwarfed by most around her, standing near one of the new embrasures for cannon captured at the Washboard like a bronze-skinned pixie in a dark green dress covered by gold scale armor. As was customary for widows still in mourning, her long, jet-black hair hung loose around her shoulders. Uxmalo women accepting suitors gathered their hair behind their heads (to best display their pretty faces, believed most of the young American soldiers). Sira looked particularly small beside the tall, broad-shouldered Lewis Cayce. Instead of his usual dark blue shell jacket that all mounted forces now wore (distinguished only by red artillery trim in his case), he’d donned his fine, single-breasted frock coat and crimson sash under a white saber belt for the alcaldesa’s visit. Otherwise, he still wore the standard wheel hat and sky-blue trousers used by all the branches, but his trousers were tucked into knee-high boots, carefully blacked and polished by his scrawny, villainous-looking orderly, Corporal Willis, of the 1st Artillery. Lewis had apparently even allowed the man to closely trim his hair and thick brown beard. He was adamant that all the people in “his” army, Americans or not, maintain the highest degree of uniformity and hygiene—particularly under their strange circumstances—and demanded all the Allied cities provide proper uniforms for their people. Not only did he believe that men who looked like soldiers tended to act like them, he wanted all his troops, no matter where they were from or which regimental flags they flew (locals who hadn’t joined “American” units fought under their city-state flags), to look and feel like one combined army, united by a common cause.

  “I believe what the alcaldesa means,” rumbled Reverend Harkin in his deep pulpit voice, “is that she hoped you might be able to do more than just come down and retake Nautla—and stop.”

  Lewis smiled. “I know. But that’s already more than the enemy would’ve expected. Even their General Agon, a cut above the rest, I believe, probably thought we’d lick our wounds at Uxmal and wait for them to come at us again. He can’t have any idea that King Har-Kaaska and Second Division have already driven down to relieve Itzincab in the east, and are pushing his Holcano allies back toward Puebla Arboras.” Puebla Arboras had been the southernmost “Allied” city, but its alcalde, Don Discipo, had given it over to the enemy. “Agon will see this as an aggressive step,” Lewis continued, “but still essentially defensive. More than he expected, like I said, and therefore as much as he’ll think we’re capable of. It’ll focus his attention.”

  Another tall man, Captain Giles Anson, formerly of the Texas Mounted Rifles (or Rangers), chuckled lightly. He was lankier than Lewis, with a graying beard, and wore the plain blue jacket of a Ranger. Instead of a saber belt, he was burdened by a pair of huge Walker Colts in holsters on a waistbelt, suspended by braces, and a pair of smaller Paterson Colts in holsters attached to them high on his chest, almost under his arms. “You know how our Lewis is,” he reminded with a combination of irony and fondness. The two men had known each other but hadn’t been friends before they wound up here. Now they were. “Always focusin’ the enemy on one thing . . .”

  “While he does another!” burst out Varaa-Choon, clapping her hands. Varaa was a Mi-Anakka, one of only six known on this continent and the first the Americans ever met. Wearing silver scale armor over a reddish leather tunic covering dark tan fur—and with a long, fluffy tail that often seemed to have a mind of its own—she was also most emphatically not human. She claimed to be forty, but there was no white fur around her nose and mouth, only lighter and darker highlights around impossibly large blue eyes the color of the afternoon sky. She and her then more numerous companions were shipwrecked here twenty years before and taken for minions of a feline deity the Ocelomeh worshipped in their distant past. (This was particularly strange since, though Mi-Anakka did bear a certain resemblance to cats, as far as anyone knew, there were no Jaguars on this world.)

  Their leader, now King Har-Kaaska, gradually corrected his follower’s beliefs, but Mi-Anakka remained in positions of leadership among the Jaguar Warriors, more effectively guiding them in their apparently self-appointed, mutually beneficial role as protectors to the more peaceful and civilized peoples of the Yucatán. Varaa Choon was Har-Kaaska’s female “Warmaster” and liaison to the Allied Army in the west. Devoted to her king and his interests, not to mention the Ocelomeh in the army, she’d also become a close friend to the Americans and was a trusted advisor and battlefield commander in her own right. Friend or not, there was only one subject she would never speak on, out of concern the Doms might eventually learn it too: where her people came from.

  “Like last time,” agreed Lieutenant Leonor Anson in a husky voice. The Ranger’s daughter was almost as tall as him, having effectively passed as a young man in her father’s Ranger company. Everyone knew she was a woman now, considered very pretty when she gave a rare smile instead of just boyishly handsome, and she no longer stuffed the shoulder-length black hair of her Mexican mother up in her hat. Nor did she tie it in back in the local style for a variety of reasons. She’d been . . . abused by straggling Mexican soldiers during the war for Texas’s independence a decade before, and the “girl” she’d been was virtually extinguished, her mother and brothers killed. Her father had been with Houston’s army, and she was all he had left. He couldn’t leave her behind again, so she grew up fighting Comanches and Mexican border incursions like a wildcat at his side. All that resulted in a somewhat . . . limited social development and an implacable hatred of Mexicans only now beginning to fade as she slowly befriended the young (newly promoted) Capitan Ramon Lara, also standing by. Lara was an agreeable young man, brave, resourceful, and funny, all of which earned Leonor’s respect. He’d been in charge of a scouting force of Mexican soldiers onshore that was also . . . brought . . . wherever they were, by the same freak occurrence that dumped the Americans here. He now led the 1st Yucatán Lancers under Captain Anson’s overall command, as were all the Rangers and dragoons.