Black Knights of the Hudson
Book II: Boots and Saddles
By Beverly C. Gray
Published by Beverly C. Gray at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Beverly C. Gray
This eBook is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Author’s Note: This work of historical fiction is intended for mature audiences and contains adult language, graphic scenes of battle, and adult situations.
For Manfred, my own warrior
Chapter 1
Tucson, June 1868
A battered stagecoach rattled over the dusty ground into the settlement of Tucson, Arizona. A tall passenger got out stiffly and picked up a valise. On general principle, he refused to carry a carpetbag but relied instead on an unobtrusive leather piece that had seen far better days. It had, in fact, accompanied him to West Point in the years before the War when the world was young. James brushed the dust from his dark hair and trim mustache. He narrowed dark gray eyes against the sun as he crossed the street to the tiny office maintained rather unenthusiastically by the Army. The headquarters of the Department of Arizona was in Los Angeles. However, some sort of a clearing-house was needed in Tucson to coordinate matters between the various posts that dotted the New Mexico and Arizona territories.
“Yes? What do you want?” snarled a hot, irritated corporal.
“I’m Col…Trooper MacKendrick. I’m here to report to the 3rd Cavalry.”
“You don’t say. I’m with the 3rd myself; on detached duty for now on account of a disagreement with my horse. Damn thing broke my leg and it ain’t healed right. What’d you say your name was?”
“James MacKendrick.”
“MacKendrick, MacKendrick. Say, you ain’t kin to that colonel of Sheridan’s are you?”
Will I ever find a place where Timothy is unknown? As much as I like him, it gets tiresome to be known as ‘Mothy MacKendrick’s older brother.
“‘Course, even if you are, I wouldn’t hold it against you. Man can’t help who his kin is.”
James blinked. That’s not normal; not for Timothy who is universally liked by enlisted men, servants, and dogs not to mention women and children. Now, why don’t you like my sterling brother, hmmm? “What did Colonel MacKendrick do to make you dislike him?”
“I ain’t got no use for fancy-pants officers who act like they own the whole gol-damned world,” the Corporal leaned back in his squeaky chair and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was just takin’ a nice friendly walk past an old farmhouse back in ‘64 in the Shenandoah. Anyways, I decided to go in and see for myself that the folks there weren’t hidin’ Ole Mosby or givin’ aid to the enemy. What do you think I found?”
“No idea.”
“Found me a Confedrut’ major; big as life and hidin’ out. Well, I decided to take him prisoner. He was biggern’ me so I kinda’ knocked him gentle-like on the head; jus’ to make him easier to manage, doncha’ know. So, I gets him all trussed up like a turkey for the axe and in rides this damn Colonel. This lady, it was her husband I found, commences to screechin’ like a biddy owl sayin’ I was killin’ her man and him grievous’ wounded and such-like.”
“Was he wounded?”
The Corporal scratched at his neck and admitted reluctantly, “Mebbe, a little. ‘Tweren’t no grievous’ wounded though, jus’ a nick in the arm. You know what that danged Colonel did? He hauled me up on charges in front of Sheridan hisself. Yes, sirree, Sheridan hisself! I got busted for it. Finally got sent out here and this is no place to be, let me tell you. ‘Course my enlistment’s almost up and then I can get out of this consarned Army.”
Good God. I’d have ripped the hide off him. Striking a wounded man is as low as you can get. Well, just shows that Timothy is the better officer. How did he keep his temper long enough to drag this scum to Sheridan for a court-martial? Is this the sort of man I’m going to have to serve with now?
The Army of the United States, numbering over a million men in arms in 1865, had shrunk so drastically after the War that there were now only about 38,000 men in the entire regular Army; many of whom were the dregs of society.
I was ready to be in the Cavalry, even as an enlisted man. I just forgot that I’d have to live and work with trash like this corporal. God, I was top of my class at the Academy, I was one of Jackson’s most able officers. Hell, I was an aide to Robert E. Lee. What am I doing here in an unmarked uniform where I have to show proper respect to a bastard like THIS?! Well, James my boy, you wanted back in. Let’s get on with it and make the best of it. Surely, they’re not all this bad. “Corporal, can you tell me the best way to reach the 3rd?”
“They’s supposed to be comin’ to town today, payday you know. ‘Spect you’d best wait until they show up.”
“Where is the best place to wait, Corporal…”
“Name’s Palmer. Best place is the Widow Flanagan’s saloon; ‘specially if it’s H Troop. Those Micks drink liquor like it was water in the middle of the desert. Miss Julie always gives the Army a special rate. Nice talkin’ to you,” Corporal Palmer put his feet on the desk and pulled his hat over his eyes.
Outside, James surveyed the street. The small town was dusty and pathetic as it lay panting beneath the hot sun; a far cry from the green hills of Virginia and the lush, coastal lands near Charleston. One thing that could be said for this desert land, his cough seemed far better. The heaviness in the chest, which had plagued him for several years, seemed to have eased considerably.
An hour later, James sat at a small round table, with a beer in front of him, and watched the inhabitants in the saloon. Some of them, cowboys by the look of them, were engaged in serious drinking and poker playing. One fellow, who looked like he could lift James and Timothy together with one hand, played a guitar and crooned softly to himself in a sweet, high tenor. James was also aware of the woman who owned the establishment. The Widow Flanagan was about thirty; with a wealth of blue-black hair and the biggest blackest eyes he had ever seen. Yet, for all that, her skin was a creamy white and her full lips the color of deep burgundy. She was a handsome woman; full bosomed and at the height of her attractiveness. She also had a way of looking at a man that turned him inside out. For the first time in years, James experienced certain stirrings he had forgotten about. The demanding years of War and the fatigue of Reconstruction melted away under the effect of the Widow’s big black eyes and James remembered that he was all of thirty-two years old. She joked with her customers while her eyes maintained contact with James; flashing an unmistakable invitation to him. She wore a plain cotton blouse and a brightly flowered skirt. A red satin ribbon confined her hair at the nape of her neck but allowed it to cascade down her back in a tumbling mass. She looked like a gypsy; save for that incredible white skin.
Finally, she sauntered over to him and stood by his chair; her large round bosom touching his shoulder. “You’re new here, Soldier.”
“I just arrived on the stage.”
“Mind if I join you? My name is Julie.”
“Not at all,” he rose to stand politely while she seated herself.
She smiled approvingly. “My, my, makes me feel like a real lady, having you stand like that. Where do you come from? Now you do have a name, don’t you? Big, handsome man like you surely has a name.”
“It’s James and I’m from Virginia.”
“Virginia…I see. I wondered why a man like you would be a common trooper but now it’s pretty clear. Lots of you Southern boys have swallowed your pride and joined up to fight the Apache.”
“What do you mean, ‘a man like you’?” James took a sip of beer while their glances sparred and they talked in matter-of-fact tones. Damn, I’ve forgotten how it feels to have my very blood boil. This is ridiculous. I’m not a Plebe or Yearling to be so affected by a common trollop! Her eyes are so black I could drown in them and her mouth. If ever God designed a mouth for passion…
“You’re a man used to command, a man of presence, power. What were you, a major?”
“A colonel, but how can you tell?” her skin is so white, like new milk. Does it feel as soft as it looks? How did she guess, though? How could she tell that I was once amongst the mighty? Very well, I take back the common trollop. That was an insult. Whatever she is, that word is never to be used for her. Her voice is like velvet. I can feel it down to my toes. The softness, dulcet, a musician would call it.
“I grew up in the Army, James, married into it as well. I know a soldier when I see one, an officer. Were you a West Pointer?”
“Are you some sort of witch?” he smiled easily; with a smile he had seen Timothy use to devastating success. Look at how the light plays in her hair; black as I’ve ever seen and shiny like a raven’s wing. Reminds me of Byron: ‘she walks in beauty like the night’. Good grief, poetry? At my age?
She merely laughed in a friendly way and leaned forward on the table. That position gave him an unimpeded view down the front of her blouse.
Good God, did she do that on purpose? Look at that smile, of course she did. She knows she’s a looker and she intends for me to see as much as possible.
Julie reached across and covered his hand with her own. “It’s written all over you for anyone who bothers to look. How will you manage to take orders from lesser men, serve as a common trooper?”
“I don’t know. I’ll just have to do the best I can,” her skin is as soft as it looks, silken almost. If her hands are this soft, I can just imagine the rest of her. All the rounded bits.
“I imagine that is pretty good.”
Christ, the touch of her, her fragrance. If she doesn’t back off, I’m going to take her right here on this damned table and to hell with the rest of the customers.
“You look like you want to eat me alive.”
It would be interesting to try. James lifted the hand that covered his. She has exquisite hands with long fingers and beautifully tended nails. He turned the hand over and kissed her ever so lightly on the palm; just to gauge her reaction. I’m a bit rusty and I’ve never had Timothy’s irresistible charm. Still, I know a few tricks. Julie’s fingers curled as his lips moved gently over her palm and traced a line to her fingertips. She inhaled sharply and pulled her hand away as if his mouth had burned it.
“You have such power,” she whispered. “But you hold yourself on a tight leash, don’t you? I’ve been a widow for more than a year, James, I’m content to remain so. Still, I don’t mind an occasional bit of amusement, something we can both enjoy. Come with me, James,” she led him out the back, across an alley, and up a flight of stone steps.
Julie’s room was cozy and comfortable, although furnished sparsely. James was rooted just inside the door. How the hell did I get up here? I don’t tumble bar-maids! No, that doesn’t work anymore than trollop but…oh God, Marietta and the baby. I can’t betray their memory with a common whore! Stop that right now. Just tell her it was a mistake. She’s a nice woman. Maybe not what I’m used to; nothing like my Marietta or Aunt Dolly but I’ll wager she’s more of a lady than that Yankee gal Timothy married. Almost gentile with that soft voice and she deserves a polite refusal. What do you do in a situation like this, anyway? A nice handshake and thanks but no thanks? Of course, if I stayed...but what of those two graves in Richmond? It’s been so long though since Marietta and baby Hannah died. No, out of the question!
“Don’t look so scared. Sit down, take off your boots,” Julie pushed him onto the mattress.
Early afternoon sunshine streamed into the room and sparkled on the polished bureau. For all the room languished in the desert heat and dust, it was pristine, almost immaculate. Somehow, James was not surprised. Warm sunbeams danced along her body as she slowly undressed and he sat on the bed watching her in a sort of bewildered numbness. This can’t be happening. Her body is rounded in all the right places. I’ve never liked thin women. Even little Marietta had a woman’s curves. That skin looks like alabaster but I’ll wager it’s warm. This is no marble maiden, this is a woman and I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.
Julie stretched like a sleepy cat as she released the ribbon and her hair undulated around her bare shoulders. Black on white, gloss on silk. I can just make out the curve of her breast under that lock of black hair.
Julie stood by the bed and her hands began to wander lightly on his shoulders and down his arms. Then she lowered her head and nibbled at his lips. James didn’t move but his lips parted to the pressure of her mouth. Her tongue teased in between his teeth and then retreated; inviting his to follow. James’ arms stole hesitantly around her waist and he forsook her mouth to drop his face against her warm bosom. No, not marble, but warm, soft, wonder if she tastes as sweet as she looks...yup, she does. He pulled her down beside him and then lay her back against the mattress. Come here, you magnificent Woman. Lie with me and let me love you.
~~~
Evening darkened the room when James awakened with a jerk. His head was heavy and he was sated from the after-effects of the lovemaking. He looked around the little room with a possessive joy. The oval portrait of a pretty dark-haired little girl drew his glance more than once. That’s her daughter Amelia; her little girl away at school in St. Louis, Julie said. That’s all I know about her other than she’s an Army widow and owns a saloon. I started to talk to her after but I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember the last time I slept so well. There’s time, I’ll find out more next time. It’s late though. I’d best get back to Julie’s saloon to see if anyone is looking for me.
James sat up on the creaking bed. The china ewer held fresh water and, whistling, he splashed some of it into the matching basin. Sometime while he slept, she had brushed his uniform and laid out his shaving things. It was just the sort of domestic touch that set her in a class by herself. Scrubbed, refreshed, and more relaxed than he had been in years, James sauntered back into the saloon.
The population had increased substantially with the arrival of a few more cowboys and townspeople as well as a small group of soldiers.
“Ah Julie, Darlin’, you serve the best whiskey this side of St. Louis, so you do,” a small stocky man with a brogue as thick as Irish peat patted her cheek in a familiar way. He wore a corporal’s chevrons and seemed to exude good fellowship.
“Now don’t go using your blarney on me, Dennis O’Brien, the rules of the house are still in effect. Cash only,” Julie returned his pat and began filling glasses.
Her sparkling black eyes met James’ and she smiled an intimate welcome. The seventeen soldiers intercepted the smile and turned to look at the recipient.
“Well now, what’s this?” the O’Brien put down his empty glass and investigated the tall figure who wore an unmarked uniform.
The other sixteen watched with alert interest as he confronted the figure that was more than a head taller. James realized that the little bandy-legged man seemed to expect something. He put his valise down, drew himself up to his impressive height and saluted smartly.
“Now that’s better,” O’Brien nodded approvingly.
“Will the Corporal and his party permit me the honor of buying them a drink?” James inquired.
O’Brien grinned in genuine friendliness. “That would be fine, Trooper…?”
“MacKendrick.”
“MacKendrick, is it. We were sent to look for you. Didn’t know your name though and glad you got here in one piece. What part of Ireland are you from, Lad?” O’Brien escorted him over to the two boards and barrels which comprised the bar as Julie observed the situation with a twinkle in her bright eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m not Irish.”
O’Brien stared up at the tall man in dismay. “Not Irish? Lads, he says he’s not Irish and with a foine name like MacKendrick too. If you’re not Irish, how are you after havin’ a grand name like that?”
“My grandfather was from Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh, he says. Now where is that?”
“Scotland.”
“Oh, now that’s a shame, that is. Of course, it’s better than bein’ English and maybe there was some Irish way back.”
“That’s likely, Dennis,” put in another corporal. “Me own sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law married a Scot.”
Several of the others submitted examples of respectable Irish-Scottish unions. O’Brien nodded solemnly at each piece of evidence and summed up matters for James. “So you see, Lad, there is always a chance that you have a drop of the right blood somehow. Anyway, we’ll put you on probation for a time,” O’Brien gave the tall recruit another appraising stare and drank the proceeds of the second round James had paid for so graciously.
James was not quite certain how to take the solemn tomfoolery of the seventeen men who all proudly bore the names of Éire. He was anxious to get off on the right foot for these men would be very much a part of his life. It was going to be hard adjusting to the ranks after a lifetime as an officer and he was determined not to add to the difficulty by gaining the enmity of his fellow troopers. As a result, he came across as modest, unassuming, and highly respectful of the others who were all corporals and privates. His self-contained ways and supposed awe of their rank carried far with the temperamental men of H Troop as well as his generosity with the round buying.
Unobtrusively, Julie murmured in James’ ear as her Mexican bar man filled their glasses for the third time. “I doubted that you’d win them over for the Irish of H Troop are a stiff-necked, clannish lot. I’m still a bit worried about you, once they realize they have a Confederate colonel in their midst.”
They settled down to some serious drinking. A short time later, the leader of their little group stomped into the saloon. He greeted Julie with affection and made a beeline for the bar. The soldiers did not like to sit at tables for, as O’Brien confided, it could interfere with the natural flow of the whiskey.
“Did you save any for me? Ah thank you, Lad. I looked high and low and could not find a trace of any new recruit. I suppose he’s gotten himself lost and we’ll have to go back without him though what the Major will say, tcha,” the sergeant shook his head sorrowfully as if he contemplated his commander’s displeasure. They were hard up for men, especially H Troop, and the loss of even a raw recruit was most annoying.
“We found him,” O’Brien stated.
“What’s that?”
“We found him,” Dennis reiterated with some pride and waved a hand at the quiet figure in their midst.
Sergeant Kevin O’Donnell peered at the towering man who wore the uniform with an almost careless grace. The sergeant was about thirty-six, James guessed, of medium height and had a head of blazing red hair and sharp green eyes. Freckles covered his face and his nose had been broken more than once. In that fleeting contact, James suspected that they were going to be friends.
O’Brien sighed regretfully. “He’s not Irish though.”
“Not Irish! I don’t know then,” O’Donnell took another long look at James. “H Troop is always Irish. It’s tradition.”
“His name’s MacKendrick, Scottish. We figure there’s got to be Irish in there somewhere. Maybe he can be a mascot, sort of adopted like,” O’Brien argued passionately.
“It might work at that. Julie, we seem to have gotten dry here and we have a long ride in the morning.”
“Permit me,” James hauled out some more coins and met Julie’s eyes with a look of bland innocence.
Julie’s mouth curved in mirth and, conceding his victory, she brought out a bottle of the best stuff in his honor.
~~~
When Kevin O’Donnell said that they had a long ride he was not exaggerating. Fort Bowie was roughly 100 miles to the east of Tucson; a long 100 miles through the prickly Arizona terrain. James, who had made the tactical blunder of trying to match drinks with the Irish, endured the ride with a blistering headache for the first day. By the second, his head was better but he was suffering torment at the other end. His hard, conditioned body of the War years had softened in Charleston so he suffered stoically the saddle sores and aching muscles that marked his first ride with H Troop. He was happy, though, in spite of his discomfort; happier than he had been in years as he listened in silent enchantment to the boisterous tall-tales and good-natured ribbing of the Irish of his new family. He had missed the camaraderie of military men and, while O’Donnell and the others were a far cry from the company of Beauty Stuart and Fitz Lee, he was at peace. He even enjoyed the tough Army mount they had brought for him. It was a huge, black Army mule (H Troop rode only blacks) and its gait was the smoothest he’d ever encountered.
“What’s his name?” James asked O’Donnell.
“That’s sort of up to you, Lad,” O’Donnell grinned; pleased that the recruit was bearing up well in spite of the grueling ride.
“He has to have a name,” James went into a solitary committee and argued several potentials.
“Well, Lad?”
“Longstreet.”
O’Donnell’s sandy brows shot up at that. “Longstreet is it! Wasn’t he, well...” Kevin paused delicately.
“One of the South’s greatest generals,” elated, James dropped back to inform the rest of his new friends that his mule was duly christened.
O’Brien, who had overheard the discussion, trotted abreast of O’Donnell. “Are you thinking what I am, Kevin?”
O’Donnell met his eyes with a troubled grimace. “I think we’ve taken a Rebel viper to our bosoms.”
“The War is over, Kevin.”
“Maybe so but to have a Reb in OUR Company. What of Hugh, Little Patrick, and Martin?”
“I know but it was war and no doubt MacKendrick could name a few who didn’t come back.”
“We’ll see how it works out. I’m not promisin’ though. A Reb on top of not being Irish!”
~~~
They reached Fort Bowie. It was all of wood that had faded under the blistering sun. Closer inspection showed, however, that the camp was a bustling outfit. Major Brown, a veteran of the first Bull Run, Gettysburg, and Sheridan’s campaign in Virginia, brooked no nonsense; bullying and cajoling his command into strict obedience. He was mindful of their comforts, however, and was popular with his men. As they neared the gates, O’Donnell gave the order to close up and H Troop swung into a parade trot. They swept through the gates. A number of women gossiped on the boardwalks outside of their simple wooden quarters while children ran under foot. They pulled up in front of headquarters and Major Brown came out to check on his men. He always counted heads after a patrol came in; in the manner of a mother hen with too many chicks.
“Everything all right, O’Donnell?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fine, fine, that the new man?” his hard brown eyes moved over James’ face and then widened.
“Yes, Sir, name of MacKendrick.”
“MacKendrick, I see. Get him settled, Kevin, I’ll speak to him in the morning.”
“Yes, Sir, go on, Lads. I’ll be right along,” O’Donnell was a very perceptive man and had not missed the look of stunned recognition on Brown’s face. He pulled up to let his men ride past.
“Who is he, Sir?”
“A new trooper, O’Donnell, no more, no less.”
“Rather more than less I would say, Sir. If he is going to be with my lads, I have to a right to know more.”
Brown sighed and found it difficult to meet the sergeant's narrowed eyes.
“I already know he’s a Reb. What I want to know is what else?”
Major Brown put a hand on O’Donnell’s tired horse. “He is James MacKendrick. He graduated from West Point the same year I did at the top of our class. He resigned when Virginia seceded and was on Stonewall Jackson’s Staff. At the time of Lee’s surrender, he was a colonel and one of Robert E. Lee’s aides. If the War had lasted another year, he probably would have made a general. That enough for you, you bloody Irishman?”
Kevin gave a soundless whistle and turned in the saddle for another look at MacKendrick. “You could have warned me, Sir, before assigning him to my troop.”
“Didn’t know myself, O’Donnell,” muttered Brown with a surge of annoyance at headquarters. They could have warned me too. I detect the fine hand of one Colonel Timothy MacKendrick in all this. It’s just like ‘Mothy to send me someone like James. Dear Heaven, Colonel James MacKendrick as a common trooper! I should have read between the lines of that dispatch he sent to me. ‘For my sake and his, I ask you to give him every chance and opportunity’ and here I just assumed it was a political appointment of some sort. Some brat of a Congressman’s son who needed a disciplined hand.
“What do you want me to do with him, Sir?” O’Donnell inquired.
“Make him the best damned trooper we’ve got of course,” Brown pulled his hat down hard and strode off to his quarters. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Helen about ‘Mothy MacKendrick’s latest stunt. She’ll think it’s hilarious! Wish I did. James MacKendrick as a plain trooper, bah.
Chapter 2
Fort Bowie, February 1869
James was mistaken in his previous brag to Timothy that he would be a sergeant within the year. He obtained his third stripe a scant six months after he joined the regiment. In a short time, even Major Brown stopped worrying about his previous place at West Point and in the Confederate Army. No one was more surprised than James over his ease in settling into his new life. He had prayed for the character to accept his demotion in the military world but had not really expected to accomplish the miracle with such ease. His entire life had changed; changed so much that he was happy for the first time in many years. He was sleeping better, eating better, and losing the haggard look he’d worn for over seven years.
Payday rolled around again and James looked forward to a ride into town with the rest of H Troop. He had been out on a short patrol with three new recruits; the idea being to get them used to their mounts and vice versa. He pulled Longstreet to the side of the gates and kept a fatherly eye on his trio as they trotted into the Fort. All three had managed to get dumped at least once and were sitting rather gingerly in their saddles. James started to follow them when a speck of moving dust caught his attention. Some of the tribes often raced past the Fort to test the composure of the soldiers. No real incidents had yet occurred other than a few bad frights for both sides but the Army had learned not to drop its guard. James continued to watch in order to ascertain whether the dust would turn into Apaches, Hualpies or Pimas. Long before he saw them, he could hear their whoops.
Dennis O’Brien wandered out and listened closely to the hollers that grew closer. “What do you make of that, Jimmy?”
From his first week at the Fort the Irish had dubbed him Jimmy and they would not listen when he suggested they stick with James. O’Donnell declared that the name was stuffy and gave the wrong impression. O’Brien avowed that it was a name for an officer. Not even his West Point brethren had managed to christen him with a nickname but the tough Irish troopers succeeded where all others had failed
“I’m not quite sure.”
O’Brien cocked his head. “Sounds more like Comanche or Cheyenne. ‘Course it isn’t likely since it's too far from their normal haunts. No Lad, I can’t rightly say who it is.”
“Could it be Chiricahua?” James had never encountered that fierce band of Apaches before although he had heard stories of their ferocity. It was said that even the Cheyenne and Comanche had reason to fear them.
“I don’t think so, Jimmy.”
In another minute the persons responsible for the heart-in-the-mouth screeches thundered over a small rise and streaked through the gates; barely missing Corporal O’Brien in the process.
“Oh the divil take them, the young rascals! May all the Saints in Heaven take ‘em by the seat of the breeches and paddle them ‘till they can’t sit down for a week!” he jumped up and down and swore in fluid fury for the pain in his left foot. He had twisted it severely when he threw himself out of the path of the galloping horses. “Kevin! O’Donnell! SERGEANT O’DONNELL! They’re at it again and if you don’t take a strap to the bloody little heathens, I WILL!”
James laughed so hard he nearly fell off Longstreet as O’Brien limped through the gates; threatening dire punishment for the individuals who had raced past him so heedlessly. James decided he had better mount a rescue before the irate Corporal made good his threat to lambaste the entire party. James was not concerned about the raiding party but he knew that O’Brien would never be able to handle Kevin if he had the effrontery to spank any of the high-spirited O’Donnell offspring. Such a catastrophe could lead to an outright feud with the hair-trigger Irish lining up in traditional clan alliances.
James urged Longstreet into a smart trot. At the stables, he found a heated dispute already in progress between the victor of the race to Fort Bowie and one of the defeated. As he swung down from Longstreet, the raised voices went shrill and a sudden flurry and tangle of limbs did a credible imitation of First Manassas. James waded through the multitude and separated two small combatants. One hand flew back and smacked him across the face. James staggered back; more surprised than anything else. The assault on the Sergeant had the desired effect, however, and the battle suddenly ceased in horrified shock.
“You hit him. You hit Sergeant Jimmy!” awed, one of the two aggressors gaped at his opponent.
The rest of the band stared with strong disapproval at their formerly idolized leader.
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t see you. I thought it was Cal or Mark, so I did,” the leader glanced around as if sensing the disaffection of loyal troops.
Sergeant Jimmy was the most respected and loved man at Fort Bowie; at least in the opinion of the youngest members of the Post’s military family. Typical Army brats, they had latched onto the man who made the least effort to gain their affection. They had heard the whispers about the man who had been a Johnny Reb and a colonel to boot. It was said that he had been on Stonewall Jackson’s Staff as well as Robert E. Lee’s and walked with the giants of the Confederacy: Stuart, Longstreet, and all the rest. They supposed he must be lonely and gave him unstintingly of their loyalty and now Sergeant O’Donnell’s eldest, their chosen leader, had hit their most cherished hero.
James looked at the bright red head that was held down in misery. “It was an accident and I’m not hurt in the slightest. Now listen, you’all. You nearly knocked Corporal O’Brien over in that wild charge of yours and he’s threatening to tear you limb from limb. If I were you, I’d head for home and hide for at least two days.”
“Two DAYS!” cried the aggressor who belonged to Major Brown.
“Two days, Bill.”
“We really have to be confined to quarters for two whole days?” the youngest O’Donnell brother could not believe the length of the confinement.
“Unless you prefer to have Corporal O’Brien dust your breeches for you.”
A general consensus seemed to be that two days might not be so very long after all and the tough little band began to disperse; young Brown to his quarters, the two Mavis’ to theirs, and the three younger O’Donnells. As James led Longstreet into a stall, he noticed Kevin’s eldest standing forlornly by the door; watching him in anguished silence.
“Care to lend a hand?” he asked as the slender figure drooped against a bale of hay.
The leader of the day’s charge nodded and began to work on Longstreet’s dusty withers. “I didn’t mean to hit you, Sergeant Jimmy.”
“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit old for such goins’ on?”
“No,” the small figure in the battered trousers and blue-gingham shirt continued to brush James’ mule with long soothing strokes.
“You’re thirteen now and practically a young lady. Most Southern girls at your age consider themselves to be full-fledged belles.”
She glanced at him; her mouth set in a thin line of defiance. “But I’m not a Southern girl, am I, nor am I ever likely to be a belle or even a fine lady. If I was pretty like Moira Kelly, it would be different.”
“I see. Is Moira pretty?” James sat on the edge of the manger so that he was more on her level.
“Well of course she is. Everyone says so.”
“I never gave it much thought,” remarked James.
She gazed slanch-wise at him with green eyes wide in disbelief.
“Gwyneth, it really does need to stop, you know. Whose idea was it to go outside of the gates today?”
“Well, I suppose it was mine.”
“I thought as much. The boys follow your lead and you could have gotten into serious trouble. You might have run into a hunting party.”
“They’d never bother us. Not a bunch of children.”
“Now don’t fool yourself. Just because things are quiet right now doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way. The Apaches might love to get hold of some Army children to hold as hostages.”
“Then the Regiment would rescue us.”
“It might be too late by the time we got to you. They might have killed you all by then. Besides, you wouldn’t want some of H Troop to get killed trying to rescue you, would you?”
“No, I suppose not. I never thought of that.”
“Well, just keep that in mind.”
“Sergeant Jimmy, you really aren’t mad at me are you?”
“Not yet, but if you keep dawdling I may work up to it,” he grinned at her. “Now scoot. I can finish up here.”
Gwyneth hesitated another moment and then heard the unmistakable tones of her father and a still-furious Dennis O’Brien. “Oh glory,” she scampered out the back to avoid them.
“...tell you, Kevin, I SAW them and that redheaded scatter muffin of a daughter of yours was leadin’ ‘em. There had to be fifty at the least.”
“Now, Dennis, you know as well as I do that there aren’t fifty brats on this Post. It’s exaggeratin’, you are.”
“Maybe not fifty, but enough to do some nasty bit of damage and four of ‘em had RED hair.”
“Were they wearin’ hats?”
“‘Course they were wearin’ hats. Only a pea-green recruit would go out in this sun without one and, whatever else they may be, OUR children have more time in service and know better.”
“OUR children, is it, and you a bachelor, Dennis. Now, if they were wearin’ hats, how could you be after seein’ the color of their hair?”
“Now don’t be changin’ the subject.”
“Dennis, my advice to you is to go soak your foot in some nice hot water so you can ride in with us to Tucson and have a grand time.”
“Not until I take a sweet bit of vengeance on those wild little heathen of yours. Hello Jimmy. Have you seen them?” Dennis peered about the stable.
“I haven’t seen a soul except Longstreet.”
“No? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Now, Jimmy, you wouldn’t be after tellin’ me a slight...er...”
“Are you callin’ me a liar, Dennis?” James asked in his quiet voice.
“Nooo, not a’tall, but I know how fond you are of the little heathen.”
O’Donnell interrupted. “That’s another thing, Dennis. I’m gettin’ tired of you callin’ my children heathen when their Mother and I have raised them to be good, God-fearin’ Catholics.”
“Kevin, Lad, Sergeant Darlin’, don’t you be gettin’ mad at me. I’m the injured party.”
“That’s why you should go soak your foot so it won’t swell any more. Jimmy, are you goin’ in to town with us? Dismissed, Corporal,” O’Donnell turned his back on the disgruntled O’Brien.
Dennis, seeing the futility of getting satisfaction, went off to find a more sympathetic audience.
“Well then, Jimmy, did you see who those wild horsemen were?”
“I did.”
“Did any of the little rowdies have red hair?”
“Hmmm.”
“That’s no answer, Jimmy.”
“I would say four of them had red hair.”
“They were really outside of the gates?”
“I’ve already spoken to Gwyneth about the dangers.”
“I’ll do more than speak to her and the boys. They’ve been warned before and I’ll not be havin’ open rebellion in the ranks. I suppose I’d best get it over. You wouldn’t care to tag along and give me moral support, would you?”
“If you throw in some of Brenna’s cooking.”
“Now don’t you go tryin’ to stay my hand!”
James listened in quiet amusement while Kevin, as he usually managed to do, talked himself out of disciplining his engaging brood. On the rare occasions when he actually worked up enough fatherly ire to punish a spirited offspring, he gave one quick dust on the breeches and apologized for an hour after. It never failed to amaze James that the O’Donnells weren’t absolute hellions. Save for their impulsive romps like today, they were well behaved. Far better, in fact, than Major Brown’s son, who was being raised with an iron-hand and showing every indication of being a complete rebel.
~~~
Julie’s saloon was its usual bustling self when H Troop crowded into its welcoming warmth.
“Ah, jus’ take a whiff of that, Lads. There is nothin’ like the smell of a good saloon!” O’Brien, good-temper having been restored during the long ride into town, clapped O’Donnell on the back.
The Mexican bar man pulled out some glasses and bottles for the soldiers. Several cowboys, already at the crowded bar, were jostled by the soldiers.
“Have you noticed,” commented one of them. “How the smell gets bad every time those blue-bellies come into town. First time I noticed it was at Shiloh. Stench fit to kill you come blowin’ across the field from the North.”
“Smell, is it you blatherin’, splay-foot.”
“O’Brien, hold your whist. It isn’t proper to be sayin’ such things to civilians,” O’Donnell took a dainty sip of his whiskey.
“You tell him, blue-belly. Keep that boy out of trouble. ‘Course, we know why you’re doin’ it. You don’t want to see him git whollopped.”
“What did you say?” O’Donnell asked the cowboy in a soft voice.
“I said I’d whollop him. I can whollop any blue-belly who ever lived.”
“Can you now?” O’Donnell gave him a long, appraising stare.
“Kevin, let me hit him, just a little one,” begged O’Brien.
James picked up his glass and wandered over to a table by the door where a thin man sat nursing a glass. “May I?”
“Feel free, Sergeant.”
James hauled a chair out and straddled it; his eyes resting on the little group at the bar.
“Please let me hit him, Kevin,” O’Brien was still pleading.
“I told you, Dennis, ‘tisn’t good manners. We’re supposed to be protectin’ civilians like him. Not beatin’ them up.”
“Protecting US? When did we ever need the protection of the likes of you? I said it before and I’ll say it again. I can lick any blue-belly that ever lived. ‘Specially a no’count Mick blue-belly.”
“Kevin! Now you HAVE to let me teach him a lesson!”
“Dennis, for the last time, you’re not showin’ good manners at all. Besides, you can’t hit him. I’m goin’ to,” O’Donnell deliberately put his glass down and prepared to swing.
The cowboy didn’t wait and, in seconds, a full brawl was under way. James took a long swallow of his whiskey and watched the battle with Olympian indifference.
“Jimmy, we could use a hand,” called O’Brien as he disappeared under three large cowboys.
James shook his head. O’Donnell shook off two attackers and stormed over to James. “Are you going to just sit there and watch?”
“Yup, just not in the mood tonight.”
“Well if you change your mind...” Kevin climbed onto the table and launched himself bodily at a cowboy.
“Your accent sounds like you belong on the other side of that fracas, Sergeant,” the thin-faced man observed.
“Maybe,” James met his eyes briefly and turned his attention back on the fight. He decided to give it a few more minutes to make sure it remained a friendly row and then join Julie. As was their custom, she had whisked out of sight when they first arrived to wait for him in her room.
“It’s been a long time, James.”
He turned back to the stranger. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to recall your name.”
“Roger Shore, we were at West Point together.”
“Shore,” James stared at him in disbelief. This can’t be Shore. He was big and hearty, a lot like Fitz Lee!
“We’ve all changed, some more than others, but I would have known you anywhere,” Shore stopped on a ragged cough. “I’m surprised to see you here. I heard you were with Jackson.”
“I was but, after the War, Timothy got me into the 3rd.”
“Lucky man to have someone like Timothy pulling for you,” Shore commented with a gentle wistfulness. “Of course, he wouldn’t have been able to help me any. Army doesn’t have much use for a one-armed man with consumption.”
“I...”
“Don’t say it, please. I get mighty tired of hearing that word. That’s all the Army said after I got back from Andersonville. Sorry. You did a fine job and we’re proud of you but we have no place for you. Sorry.”
James went cold inside at the name Shore dropped so casually. Andersonville, one of the Confederacy’s darkest moments. There is no way under God’s sun that we can ever atone for that horror.
“Looks like the fight is easing off a bit,” Shore continued in his mild voice.
James twisted around and saw Kevin dust off one of the cowboys as he led him to the bar.
“It’s nice seeing someone from the old days and it makes me feel less lonesome.”
“Are you in Tucson by yourself, Roger? What of your family?”
“All gone, James, I’m the only one left except for a couple of sisters-in-law. The doctor thought a dryer climate might help but he was wrong, of course.”
“All!” James was consumed with pity for the man who had had five brothers. The Shore boys were very close. All came to West Point, one right after the other. Roger was, let’s see, the fourth one. No, the fifth. The youngest was in Timothy’s class. Six brothers from the same family all taken by the War. How unfair, how wrong! A family shouldn’t lose every one of its sons like that. My Randolph cousins were hard hit too but at least Jared and Harry survived. They didn’t lose everyone.
“In a way it will be nice to be done with this. If there is a Heaven, I figure the boys are waiting and we’ll have some fine times,” Shore remarked as if he was merely going home to Baltimore after a brief absence.
James, who had been successful in putting the bitter sorrows of the War behind him, found himself catapulted right back into memories that still tore at his vitals. As if it had happened the day before, he saw the tattered men in gray leaving blood in their barefoot tracks; Lee’s worn face at Appomattox; Stuart, laughing just before he rode to his death at Yellow Tavern; and, inevitably, those anguished days when Jackson lay dying at Chancellorsville.
“Don’t be sad, James. Don't dwell on the horrors we saw on the battlefield. This is just a little leftover incident of the entire mess. I’d rather talk about the old days at West Point. Do you mind? I wouldn’t want to bring back any other hard memories.”
“Of course I don’t mind. You remember Fitz Lee and all the scrapes he got into?”
“Indeed I do. I was always right behind him too and scared to death we were going to get caught. I remember the time we hid Jervis’ trousers when he had to see the Commandant. He was so upset about missing his appointment that he gave up and reported in his drawers,” Shore’s wasted face brightened with a happy smile. “Do you remember Benny Havens and how we all went there the night we saved Flee from being thrown out of the Academy? Remember, James? Our entire class promised not to go out of bounds for a whole year if he was allowed to stay.”
“I remember very well. Fitz Lee’s transgressions finally caught up with him. Cousin Robert was the Superintendent then. Even if Fitz was his nephew, he was going to recommend a court-martial. Then our entire class went to him and pledged that not one of us would go out of bounds for the rest of the year, if he’d just give Fitz one more chance. As I recall, Roger, you were one of those who came up with the plan and convinced the rest of us to try to save Flee. We held to that pledge too. Cousin Robert Lee himself gave us permission to go to the hallowed halls of Haven’s to celebrate.”
“Good old Havens,” Shore murmured as he gazed at the bar.
Shore’s not seeing the dusty blue of enlisted men. He’s seeing cadets at that bar. It was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten that other gray; the gray that was not stained with battle and defeat. Oh God, Shore, not that, not the song. You’re breaking your heart, Shore, and mine along with it.
“Sing it with me, James, for old times.”
Hesitantly, James chimed in with his off-key baritone.
In the Army there’s sobriety,
Promotion’s very slow,
We’ll sing our reminiscences,
Of Benny Havens, oh.
Oh, Benny Havens, oh
Oh Benny Havens, oh
We’ll sing our reminiscences,
Of Benny Havens, oh.
James spent another hour with Roger. Julie returned during the fight but he did not notice. The dying man finally got to his feet. Smiling, he held out his left hand and James clasped it. “Good-bye, James, it was real nice seeing you.”
As soon as Shore was out the door, the troopers converged on James. Julie, after one look at his face, beat them to it and escorted him swiftly out the back.
James stood in the middle of the floor of her room.
“James,” Julie put her arms around his waist and gazed up into his face. Tears runneled freely down his face. “Oh, my dear.”
She led him to the bed and pulled him down so that they were both sitting on the edge. James put his head against her and began to cry; deep sobs which seemed to be wrenched from his very soul. He clung to her as he fought for breath between the tearing, animal sounds of grief as he wept for men like Roger Shore, for his youthful dreams of glory, and finally, for his lost General and the beloved wife he would never see again.
Chapter 3
Washington, October 1869
A late October storm loomed to the east but the scuttling dark clouds were no blacker than Timothy MacKendrick’s spirit as he stood by the gaping hole. The Custises and Lees no longer dwelled at Arlington and the grounds had become the home of the honored dead. A gleaming casket rested on either side of the double grave; silent sentinels to Timothy’s sorrow. Adria stood at grim attention while an errant wind tore at her black veil and the Episcopal service plodded on to its inevitable conclusion. A few leaden drops of rain thudded dully upon the coffins’ lids as the funeral ended and the sympathetic crowd began to disperse. Timothy and Adria reached Lafayette’s lovely little mansion just as the storm gathered itself to wreak havoc on the city. Adria started up the sweeping staircase and paused, questioningly, on one of the lower steps as Timothy drifted down the hall to Lafe’s library. She hesitated a moment longer but then continued up the stairs when she heard the library door close.
Timothy stood woodenly in the middle of the room. A rosy light winked cheerfully in the fireplace and reflected in his light brown hair. The room radiated its customary warmth but Timothy did not even notice. Blindly, he found his way to the massive old desk that shone from years of polishing. He sat in the over-stuffed chair and stared at a pathetic pile of unopened letters that waited in helpless patience for a hand that would never open them. Two portraits on the west wall drew him from the desk. Tears spilled over the clenched muscles of his clean shaven face. His gray eyes shifted to the portrait on the left of the fair-haired woman who had been his mother and the dark haired man who so resembled his brother James. He dismissed the portrait of the man and woman he barely remembered. Instead, his wistful eyes remained for long moments on the other portrait. Charles Frazier had captured the essence of his Aunt Dorothea’s gentle smile and the soft gray eyes with their heavy fringe of dark lashes. His Uncle, General Lafayette Randolph, seemed real enough to speak; a candid smile lurking in his dark eyes as one hand rested devotedly on Dolly’s shoulder. For the first time in his life, Timothy felt orphaned and fought to suppress his unreasonable anger at the desertion. Unreasonable since Dorothea was better off now that she was free of that last wearying illness.
She had seemed better on Monday and Lafayette had gone on to the War Department. Timothy sat with Dorothea for a time after lunch. In the early afternoon she had died; serenely in her sleep as became her. He stayed in her room for an hour as he strove for the courage to go to Lafe and offer him his empty comfort. That was when Gerome told him Captain Dorman was downstairs. There was an urgent matter that required his immediate attention so he left Dorothea as Gerome took his place in the vigil beside her. Dorman said very little to him and just hurried him through the autumn streets. Timothy followed Dorman to the office where stunned officers had laid his uncle. A doctor placed a kindly hand on his sleeve and explained in a gentle voice that Lafe’s heart had simply stopped beating, there was nothing that could be done, and so on.
Desolated, Timothy turned from the portraits and went to the cheery blaze. They loved each other so much, even more than I love Adria and God knows I love my Woman so much it hurts sometimes. I’ve never known anyone else who loved each other the way they did. It was somehow magical. You could always tell when he was away. Dolly would sort of droop and then her entire being was radiant when he came back to her after an absence. There was always such a shine in his eyes when he spied her across a room. I know Dolly worried about Lafe alone without her. Reckon he just followed the only way he knew. Christ, Lafe, didn’t you realize that I still needed you, especially with Dolly gone? Timothy placed an arm along the mantel with his face hidden from the compassionate gazes of the portraits. The door sighed open and soft steps crossed to him. A hand gripped his shoulder hard.
Timothy raised his head and Gerome’s face swam into view. The man’s dark brown cheeks were as wet as his own. “Gerome.”
“Don’t talk, Mister Timothy. Just hang onto me.”
Grateful, Timothy clung to the bulwark of the butler’s strong arms. “It’s as bad for you as for me. You loved Lafe like a brother.”
“He was closer than my brother. We grew up together. I was never his servant, Son. We were best friends almost from the start; him living in the big house at Rose Hill, me in the cabins. Even then, when we were little, I knew I was going to take care of him and all he loved. When he married Miss Dolly, well, she was such a fine lady. I knew she was just right for him. I loved her too. It was my honor to take care of her when he was away and to take care of you and Mister James when you came to live with us.”
Timothy heard the heartbreak in Gerome’s voice. Even Adria, for all that she comes from Boston and grew up hearing about the equality of man, doesn’t understand this strange bond that existed between Lafe and Gerome, men of two colors from Virginia. Of course, Gerome was never a slave. Great-Grandfather freed all his slaves in his Will. None of the folks working at Rose Hill were slaves except for the very old like Peter who is more dignified than any man I’ve ever met. But free or not, they’re still black and for Lafe to have that kind of friendship with Gerome was unprecedented. He never talked about it, never explained it. I reckon he believed he didn’t have to explain it. It just was a fact, like the sunrise. It was as if Lafe never saw Gerome’s color. Just saw the decent man inside. I grew up with Gerome’s son, Michael. We used to play in the garden together but I never thought of him as a friend. Not like Fitz Lee or even Sheridan. I like Michael. He’s as fine a man as his father. I’d trust him with my life the way I’d trust anyone who comes from Rose Hill but it’s not the same kind of trust I have for James or Fitz. Oh Lafe, there’s still so much I don’t know. I counted on you to stay and Dolly. I can’t count on Adria. She’s so reserved. Self-centered and spoiled. I love her but she’s no good at comforting. I need to be held and told the world hasn’t ended.
Timothy’s shoulders heaved as he broke down entirely. Gerome held him tighter and shared his sobs.
~~~
Adria did not consider herself to be cold as she sat before the mirror of her dressing table. She assumed that Timothy had sense enough to come to her if he needed her. She sighed tremulously for the double death had hit her very hard as well. Dorothea had been her only close female friend while Lafayette had been like a storybook father. She had loved them far more than she ever loved her own parents. Tears burned at the back of her throat and glinted in her gray-green eyes as she fought against the aching grief. She stiffened her lip, determined to prove that she was a true daughter of Boston. Discipline is required at this juncture. I will not yield to feminine wailings. I’m a soldier’s wife. I’m sure Timothy isn’t crying like a fool. Well, I can be a good soldier too!