Devil's Battle, page 1
The Artillerymen Series
Purgatory’s Shore
Hell’s March
Devil’s Battle
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
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Copyright © 2023 by Taylor Anderson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Anderson, Taylor, 1963– author.
Title: Devil’s battle / Taylor Anderson.
Description: New York: Ace, [2023] | Series: The artillerymen series
Identifiers: LCCN 2022060589 (print) | LCCN 2022060590 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593200773 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200797 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3601.N5475 D48 2023 (print) | LCC PS3601.N5475 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230104
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060589
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060590
Cover art by Liddell Jones
Cover design by Adam Auerbach
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.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Books by Taylor Anderson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
US M1841 6pdr Gun
Map of The Yucatán, Holy Dominion, and Beyond
Map of the Battle Near Puebla
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_145068696_
To Silvia
US M1841 6pdr Gun
Tube
Breech
Muzzle
Hub
Spokes
Felloe
Tire
Stock
Trail
Cascabel
Elevation Screw
Brake Chain (partial)
Pointing Rings
Prolong Hooks
Lunette
Trail Handle
Prolong Rope
Cheek
Trunnion Plate
Trunnion
Cap Square
Axle Body
Vent
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:
BATTLE NEAR PUEBLA
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.
A bold campaign finally defeated the feared Holcanos, who, to everyone’s surprise, actually joined the Allied effort. A series of small battles against Dominion Blood Priests began to illustrate just how savage this war would be, and a final titanic battle against the already disillusioned Dominion army in the region under the command of General Agon not only opened the way to the heart of the Dominion, but earned the Army of the Yucatán even more unlikely allies.
As Lewis Cayce prepared his force for an unprecedented (in American military history) advance, rumors of a mysterious place far to the south called “El Paso del Fuego” began to arise, as did nagging concerns about just how secure the Allied rear would remain . . .
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
JULY 1848
Colonel Lewis Cayce, formerly of C Company, 3rd US Artillery, and now commander of what he still referred to as his Detached Expeditionary Force as well as the entire “Army of the Allied Cities of the Yucatán,” stood ramrod straight in his best (only, actually) dark blue frock coat. Carefully tailored to be stylishly tight and therefore, in his mind, unfit for combat, it could barely contain his wide, strong shoulders. A burgundy sash encircled his narrow waist beneath a freshly whitened leather sword belt, and his treasured, privately purchased and lightly embellished M1840 artillery officer’s saber hung at his side. Like his belt plate and gilded shoulder boards, as well as the single row of brass eagle buttons down the front of his coat, the saber’s polished steel scabbard gleamed brightly under the late-morning sun in a cloudless blue sky. Lewis’s often sullen orderly, Corporal Willis, had even bestirred himself sufficiently to put a shine on the scuffed and battered black leather knee boots he wore, as well as the abbreviated brim of his 1839-pattern “wheel” hat. The latter had faded considerably, but Willis had reshaped and restuffed the saucerlike top with fresh horsehair so it stood tall and crisply round on Lewis’s head like a big, blue mushroom.
Otherwise, the colonel’s brown hair and full beard had been neatly trimmed by Mistress Samantha Wilde, a lovely, remarkably capable Englishwoman stranded on “this” Earth alongside roughly six hundred surviving American soldiers. Despite his curmudgeonly persona, Corporal Willis was devoted to his colonel and wouldn’t deliberately harm him, but
His uniform for the day was completed by a new pair of sky-blue trousers—without the red artillery stripes—just arrived, along with a great many other supplies at this newly opened port by ship from the principal Allied city of Uxmal. Except for the dark blue hats, sky blue was the dominant uniform color of the entire combined army. It was mostly composed of infantry, after all, whose trousers and jackets were both that color, with white branch trim. All officers wore dark blue frock coats for dress occasions, but only mounted troopers had dark blue jackets—dragoons (yellow trim), lancers (red collars and cuffs), riflemen (white trim like the infantry), and Rangers (no trim at all). The mounted artillery had red trim, of course. That’s what Lewis preferred in the field. But everyone in the army wore sky-blue trousers and for this event, in front of the whole army—that part that was present—Lewis wanted it plain he was “of” them all, not just his cannoneers. Now he gazed forward, gray eyes peering through lids narrowed against the sun, taking in the scene before him.
“Gran Lago is quite impressive for what amounts to a ‘frontier’ city,” murmured the beefy, florid-faced Colonel Andrew Reed beside him. He was another “regular” from the “old army” originally sent to join General Winfield Scott’s campaign against the Mexican dictator Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Most believed General Scott had surely managed without their comparatively meager participation in that other war on another world, but the good people of Uxmal and other remote cities across the Yucatán Peninsula would probably already be dead or enslaved if . . . something (Reverend Harkin still maintained it was God) hadn’t brought them to this one instead. Reed was Lewis’s second in command and had assumed responsibility for the infantry, largely in regard to training and organization as new regiments of “locals” were formed. That duty had fallen to others now that he directly commanded 1st Division.
“It’s almost as large as Uxmal, in fact,” Reed added, tone a little tight as always of late. His implication was that this relative backwater of their sworn enemy on this world was on a par with the best they had. Lewis knew that wasn’t true on so many levels, but it might seem that way at a glance. Reed wasn’t shy; he had plenty of courage, but the farther they advanced from their new “home” in the Yucatán toward the heart of a far more numerous enemy that inspired righteous fury and superstitious dread in equal measure, the more uncomfortable he’d become.
Lewis nodded at his words, ignoring the sentiment. “Yes. And more important, we took it largely intact.”
Situated on the north coast of what should’ve been southeastern Mexico, Gran Lago stood on a narrow land bridge between the Gulf of Mexico and the great, brackish lake it was named for. Villas on expansive estates easily employed the slaves and lowborn freemen so it wasn’t surrounded by the miles-deep slums Lewis had been told to expect around principal enemy cities. It therefore had a picturesque, almost Mediterranean quality, durably constructed of cut stone, plastered coral, and well-kept adobe. All had been freshly whitewashed after the recent calamity and in honor of this day. The buildings—particularly the high, stepped pyramid and the walls surrounding it and the gathered onlookers and formations of troops on parade in the center of the city—gleamed almost painfully bright.
One of the easternmost outposts of the “Holy Dominion,” Gran Lago was well positioned to guard against the approach of monsters or invaders from “La Tierra de Sangre” beyond, and would’ve done so admirably if sufficiently defended. But the Dominion and the depraved Blood Priests who increasingly controlled it were arrogantly oblivious to the necessity for defense. Virtually all the troops for hundreds of miles not already called to participate in an even more distant campaign against a longer-standing enemy of the Dominion had been so intent on conquering the previously unaggressive and decidedly nonexpansionist cities of the Yucatán that Lewis was able to move his forces wide around them and force them to attack him here. There’d been action along the way, to be sure, but that only honed his already blooded and ever more professional army.
The great Battle of Gran Lago had broken more than the Dominion’s Eastern Army of God. It broke the—apparently—long-strained and dwindling faith of its commander, General Agon, and many of his surviving troops. There’d been other contributing factors, of course, but Agon’s defeat had clinched it. The Dominion was ruled by a twisted, comingled perversion of Christianity and older, darker faiths, born of a collision between Spaniards arriving in this world aboard a Manila-Acapulco galleon at least two centuries before, and descendants of Mayan, Aztec, and perhaps even more ancient castaways. With neither group able to dominate the other, a bizarre, unholy, monolithic “compromise” faith emerged that would suffer no dissent to exist. A totalitarian theocracy arose with the formation of the “Holy Dominion,” ruled by thirteen “Blood Cardinals” (one was supreme over the others), who were chosen by virtue of their blood ties to the founders. They insisted that God (in his underworld heaven) required suffering and blood sacrifice as a price for grace and salvation. Perhaps most bizarre of all, the suffering of his son, Jesus Christ, was proof—and held up as the example for all to emulate. Those who wouldn’t compromise the most basic tenets of their Christian or even old pagan beliefs were hunted to extinction or hounded into exile. That was the origin of the Americans’ very recognizably Christian allies in the Yucatán, in fact.
General Agon and the Eastern Army of God had suffered above and beyond what should’ve been required for salvation. Already beaten once and forced through multiple tortuous marches, they were abandoned by the zealous Blood Priests, a relatively new order that believed God must literally be nourished by the effusion of human blood, and who were not only the instigators of their misery, but had launched a coup in the Holy City of Mexico to diffuse the power of the Blood Cardinals and open that status to their own common selves. They’d complete their triumph by purging all who opposed them in a sea of blood that would, incidentally, glorify them even further in the eyes of their bloodthirsty God. It was insane, and even for the more “moderate” faithful—at least by degrees—too much. There would be civil war.
For Agon and the remainder of his army, however, the “old” faith of his enemy had proven triumphant. Again, it was obviously more complicated than that, but he’d converted to the Christian faith as espoused by the Uxmalo priest, Father Orno, and decreed that any of his troops who wished to remain and fight for the soul of the Dominion beside him must do the same. Father Orno and Reverend Harkin—a Presbyterian minister from Pennsylvania—had baptized seven thousand former Doms in the salty water of the great lake by the city. Today, in the plaza surrounding the pyramidal temple in the center of Gran Lago, General Agon would be baptized—and more—in front of his men and former enemies, in the presence of the few thousand civilians who’d remained in the city, and under the eyes of a God he was just getting to know.
“It’s all very exciting . . . if true,” gushed Samantha, ivory-framed fan nervously opening and closing in her hand as she voiced the qualifier present in all their minds. Samantha stood just beyond Colonel Reed in a tasteful new day dress she’d commissioned to her design, made by an elderly seamstress in the city who hadn’t possessed the physical ability or inclination to flee the approaching heretics. Quite a few had been in her position, resigned to their fate, believing they’d be eaten by demons and their souls destroyed. Worse, even if the city was “liberated” by their “own,” they’d be painfully “cleansed” to death. This was partially a punishment for allowing the city to fall in the first place, but more to scour the evil taint actually viewing the heretics would leave on their souls and make them acceptable in God’s presence once more. After Captain Holland, commanding HMS Tiger, “accidentally” conquered Vera Cruz during an effort to recapture an American steamship held there, Lewis knew it was mostly so no one lived to tell that the enemies of the Dominion weren’t “demons” after all. In any event, he’d encouraged his men and camp followers to be friendly with the locals, and the sutlers to do business with them if they could—all while remaining wary. Some of the locals doubtless even stayed to join them against their masters, but it was possible that many had remained to do them ill. The zealous disregard for human life—even their own—among the enemy “true believers,” particularly Blood Priests, was quite astonishing.
