Black Knights of the Hudson
Book III: Changing of the Guard
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 Andy and Marilyn
Chapter 1
Washington, November 1885
Gwyneth O’Donnell MacKendrick pulled the brush through her flaming hair. A few fine lines creased the outer corners of her dark green eyes. Although she was a year shy of thirty, she welcomed these mute testaments of maturity for they gave distance to the girl she had once been; something that was necessary in the new life begun when she arrived in the Capital. Three years after the death of her husband, Lieutenant James MacKendrick, no one would have guessed that Gwyneth was the daughter of an Army sergeant and an Irish one at that. A slight lilt was all that remained of her parents’ mother tongue for she worked hard at distancing herself from her heritage. Only when she was excited or tired or relaxed in the intimacy of close friends did the Irish get away from her. Her ready acceptance into the heady society of the Capital was a direct result of the MacKendrick family’s connections with some of the oldest families from the South: the Randolphs and Lees of Virginia, and the Rochards and Rutledges in South Carolina. Members of the old guard in Washington Society, whose social positions went back to the Colonies, had taken General Timothy MacKendrick’s widowed sister-in-law under their wings. With these old dragons behind her, no door was closed in Gwyneth’s face and no function denied her. Somewhere in those three years, the girl from the Army’s enlisted ranks acquired ambition; although not for her own sake. Gwyneth had ceased to care what happened to her on the day that James was brought home across the back of his mount; killed in an Apache raid. Like many an Irish widow before her, Gwyneth lavished all of her hopes, all of her dreams on the small head of her only child. She was determined that Jackson Lee would have everything his father had lost when James followed other Virginians to the Confederacy; even a general’s star if she could swing it. For that goal, no effort to ingratiate herself in the powerful ruling elite was too great.
Gwyneth overcame her shyness of the upper classes, as well as her personal loathing for the kind of hypocrisy she found in Washington, in order to pave Jack’s way for him. Money, she had been surprised to learn that first anguished summer after James died, was the least of her worries. Her husband had shared in his uncle Lafayette Randolph’s healthy bequest; a goodly fortune which was divided equally between himself and his brother, Timothy. James had never mentioned it to her for they had not needed it during his years at western Army posts. The inheritance had sat quietly in the bank; managed by Timothy’s careful hands. Then, there was the mansion in Georgetown that had also belonged to Lafayette Randolph. From the first night in it, even in her grieving numbness, the gracious house had seemed like a true sanctuary and her greatest fear had been that Timothy would want it for himself. However, Timothy’s wife Adria seemed disinclined to leave New York, where she had lived for much of her marriage, and Timothy made no mention of his own preferences. After three years, Gwyneth was secure enough to call the house her own.
“Mama, Mama!” a small boy danced into her bedroom and hugged her ecstatically. “Company is here!”
Gwyneth embraced the warm little body and glanced past Jack’s head to where the butler stood in the door. More than anything, it had been hard for her to become accustomed to servants; especially black servants. Michael Rozelle had come with the house. He had inherited the duty of butler from his father, Gerome. His surname was a variation of Rose Hill, the Randolph family estate in Virginia. Gwyneth had stopped being afraid of him when she had witnessed his easy give and take with Timothy. Michael was almost like a member of the family and did not limit his advice to only household matters. She had found him an intelligent, observant man and, when in doubt about etiquette or other social matters, had no hesitation in asking his advice. Marianne, the cook, was his wife. Although she had been born a slave in Alabama, rather than free like four generations of the Rozelles, Marianne was far from servile but carried herself with the dignity of a queen.
“Jack says there is company, Michael?”
“An officer is downstairs, Miss Gwyneth, says he is an old friend.”
“Did this old friend tell you his name?”
“No, he said he wanted to surprise you.”
“Now, I wonder who it can be. Shall we see, Jack?”
Jack nodded vigorously; his near sable hair glinting in the gas light and his gray eyes wide.
Mother and son descended the wide staircase hand in hand. The man who stood in the hall wore the bars of a first lieutenant. “It’s been a long time, Gwyneth.”
“Bill? Bill Brown! Whatever are you doing here in Washington?”
“Passing through on my way to Carlisle Barracks.”
“How grand it is to see you, Bill,” she stood on the lowest step; her hand extended to him like the gracious lady she had become.
Brown held her proffered hand far longer than was necessary. “You’ve changed, Gwyneth. I don’t see much of the girl that I once loved.”
“Now, Bill,” Gwyneth chided, as his fingers chafed her knuckles.
“Forgive me, Gwyneth, you quite take my breath away.”
“Now, you aren’t going to start that nonsense again, are you?” she freed her fingers and tried to look stern although her genuine pleasure in seeing her old chum softened the expression considerably.
“It wasn’t nonsense to love you, Gwyneth, we grew up together.”
“Yes, which means we know all about each other’s faults. You are my oldest friend, Bill, but I could never look upon you as anything else.”
“Sure?” his teeth showed under the full mustache he now sported.
“I am quite sure.”
“A man had to try. You look radiant, Gwyneth.”
“It comes of keeping up with Jack, so it does,” anxious to steer him to safer topics, Gwyneth presented her son to her friend.
To Jack’s obvious disgust, Bill patted the little boy on the head. Accustomed to manly handshakes from his Uncle Timothy and such notables as General of the Army, Philip Sheridan, Jack viewed the stranger with disapproval.
“Have you eaten, Bill?”
“I’ll get something at the hotel.”
“I’ll not have it. You’re staying for dinner and that way you can catch me up on the news.”
“I have quite a bit at that. Your parents send their love and your brother Sean is getting married.”
“Is he now? Mother didn’t mention it in her last letter.”
“She probably didn’t know herself. He popped the question just before I left the Post.”
Gwyneth led her guest into the dining room where Bill proceeded to fill her in on all the doings out at Jefferson Barracks where her parents and two of her brothers were stationed. One of the prices she had paid for her new social standing was a growing restraint between herself and her family. They did not approve of her campaign to turn herself into a Washington Society leader and her increasing distance hurt her father especially. Gwyneth minded that aspect of her metamorphoses more than she cared to admit but, in spite of it, was determined to proceed along the course she believed would best serve Jack. Her parents’ greatest criticism came when they learned that the boy was being raised in his father’s Episcopalian church rather than in his mother’s Catholic faith.
As the evening wore on and Bill continued to enlighten her about the family doings, Gwyneth realized with a shock that she had grown even farther away than she had supposed. She could not muster more than a polite interest in the wedding plans; almost as if she was hearing about some nice young soldier she had once met instead of her own brother.
“I figured you’d be married again by now, Gwyneth,” Bill helped himself from the platter of roast chicken that Michael presented. “I think we’re set here, boy. You can come back to clear later.”
Michael placed the platter in the center of the table and took his customary post near the lowboy.
“Michael is not a waiter in a hotel, Bill. It’s the custom to have the butler remain in the dining room.”
Brown scowled slightly. “I’m not accustomed to having nig...servants listen to my intimate conversations.”
“Never mind that. You were saying?”
“Oh, yes. I’m surprised you haven’t remarried.”
“I’ll never remarry,” Gwyneth said. “Jimmy is the only husband I ever want.”
Brown shrugged. “Well, if you prefer a dead husband to a living man, Gwyneth, that’s your look out.”
“Yes, it is,” what is wrong with Bill. I didn’t expect him to grow into such an unpleasant man. He was rude to Michael for no reason that I can see.
“Look, does he have to be here?” Bill nodded at Jack who sat beside Gwyneth. He was perched on a fat dictionary to raise him closer to the level of the adults.
“He always attends informal dinners. He’s the man of the house, aren’t you, Jack?”
Jack nodded vigorously, his mouth full of fluffy biscuit.
“It’s not as if the kid can understand adult conversation, Gwyneth.”
Dinner proceeded uncomfortably after that remark. At the end, Gwyneth rose and smiled at Rozelle. “We’ll have coffee in the small drawing room, Michael.”
“Yes, Miss Gwyneth.”
Coffee arrived and conversation sputtered in fits and starts. Gwyneth glanced at Brown just as he raised his hand to stifle a yawn. “It was a shame about the Vice President.”
“What Vice President?”
“Vice President Hendricks.”
“What about him?”
“Why he died a few days ago in Indianapolis. Didn’t you know, Bill?”
“Can’t say I did, but then, I never pay any attention to politics.”
Since living in the Capital, Gwyneth inhaled politics as a matter of course. “President Cleveland isn’t very popular. There was so much excitement about him at first since he’s the first Democratic president we’ve had since Buchanan. Unfortunately, he’s made so many enemies by vetoing all the pension bills, trying to stop the free coinage of silver, and being rude to the Press. For some reason, the journalists don’t mind so much when General Sheridan is uncooperative but when the President makes snippy replies to their questions, they react with snide stories about him.”
Bill made no effort to hide his second yawn. “My, it is getting late. I’d better leave so that you can get that splendid young fellow to bed.”
“Jack’s all right. He often naps in my lap when I have guests.”
“I’ll wager the Diplomatic Corps loves that.”
Gwyneth flinched at the sarcastic tone. “Naturally, I don’t keep Jack up when it’s a large dinner party or a formal gathering.”
Brown got to his feet.
Why, he’s got a paunch on him. He’s not aging very gracefully and, since he’s still a first lieutenant, I suppose he won’t advance much beyond captain. Certainly not with such a mean spirit that he showed tonight.
“It was nice to see you, Gwyneth. Boy, get my hat.”
As the door closed behind him, Gwyneth turned to her impassive butler. “I am so sorry, Michael. I don’t understand why Lieutenant Brown was so rude to you.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Gwyneth. It’s not the first time someone has been rude to me. It won’t be the last either,” Michael looked down at Jack. “Would you like me to take him up for you?”
“No, thank you, Michael. I’ll take him myself,” now what does he mean by that? Ah well, sometimes Michael is a bit of a mystery to me. I suppose it’s because Bill treated him like a waiter.
“Have I really changed so much?” she whispered to her sleepy little boy as she carried him up the stairs.
Jack’s response was to put his arms around her neck and kiss her drowsily.
“Ah well, what if I have? I love your grandparents but I don’t want to spend my life as Sergeant O’Donnell’s widowed daughter. I want your playmates to be the sons of congressmen, ambassadors, and generals. Maybe I am being a cold-blooded society harpy about this but I have no choice. You will have what your Father was denied!”
She had just tucked her son into bed and was turning down the gas when a shadow loomed in the door. Startled, she whirled to defend the sleeping child from whatever threatened. “Timothy! Sure and you scared me to death.”
Her tall brother-in-law threw her an unrepentant grin and crossed to look down on his nephew. “I swear he’s doubled in size, Gwyneth.”
“He’s growing but not that fast. Don’t wake him, Silly Mman; I’ve just gotten him to bed.”
Timothy satisfied his paternal yen with a tweak of the little boy’s bedclothes. Then he offered his arm to Gwyneth. She glanced up into his clean-shaven face and sighed with gratitude at the brotherly bulwark of his arm. The light picked out dark gold highlights in his light brown hair and reflected in his sparkling gray eyes. “I have Little Phil downstairs. He needs settling.”
“Settling is it? Why on...oh, no. Timothy, you didn’t take the poor man to the White House tonight after all?”
“He took me and I don’t think he cares much for Democratic presidents.”
“I’ll get the whiskey.”
This late night call was something of a tradition that had begun upon Philip Sheridan’s arrival in Washington. While the feisty general loathed Timothy’s Boston-bred wife, he was utterly smitten by Timothy’s lovely sister-in-law. At least twice a week, he and Timothy wandered into Georgetown to visit Gwyneth and relax over her generous supply of food and beverage. Quite often other gentlemen would drop in as well. Without really planning for it to happen, Gwyneth’s home became something of a private club. The guests were just as apt to make high-level governmental decisions as they were to talk about baseball or play poker. The various wives did not mind when their husbands turned up in the wee hours after spending the evening at the gracious house in Georgetown. As long as their mates were under Gwyneth’s careful eye, the ladies were confident that things remained respectable. Gwyneth never allowed the men to overdo their libations and she had been known to stop a card game that had become too serious.
This night, Gwyneth was thankful to see that Sheridan was the only other guest. She was a little rattled by Bill’s obvious disapproval and was not up to coping with one of the livelier sessions.
Sheridan was not really irate and, in one of his more mellow moods, he chose to view most of the President’s more obtuse remarks with uncharacteristic charity. “Man just doesn’t understand the need for pensions. It isn’t right for a soldier to risk life and limb and not be able to get the financial support of the government for himself and his family if those sacrifices are indeed demanded. While there are many things a man with one leg can do, if he’s a laborer, he has a harder time of it without two good legs under him. Oh, bother. I don’t want to get wound up on this tonight. We saw a carriage leaving as we drove up. Anyone we know?”
Gwyneth frowned a little and asked her own question. “General Sheridan, do you think that Jack might be a bit spoiled?”
Phil scowled over the rim of his glass. “Jack is a splendid little boy. He isn’t the slightest bit spoiled.”
“Then, it isn’t strange that I let him sit up with my guests?”
Timothy, who sat beside her on the sofa, covered one of her hands in reassurance. “You’re just following family precedent. Aunt Dolly and Uncle Lafe permitted James and me to sit in when they had guests as soon as we stopped dribbling. Has someone been complaining about Jack?”
“Bill was here tonight and he didn’t approve of Jack joining us at dinner,” Gwyneth freed her hand so that she could place the tray of cookies in Sheridan’s reach.
“Bill?”
“Lieutenant Bill Brown. We grew up together. At one time everyone at Fort Bowie assumed we were going to get married for all that I was a sergeant’s daughter and his father was an officer.”
“They must have paired you in the cradle. You were only a girl when you married James.”
“Seventeen,” Gwyneth sighed.
“What about this Bill?” Sheridan leaned forward.
“He was my best friend when we were children. We played together and fought together.”
“Ahhh,” Timothy scrutinized her carefully.
Sheridan did not look pleased while Gwyneth wrinkled her nose at her brother-in-law. “It isn’t ‘ahhhh’ at all, at all.”
“Gwyneth, I know how much you and James loved each other but I also know he would want you to be happy with someone else if that is what you want.”
Sheridan’s glare turned into a glower. “Let’s not start that foolishness, MacKendrick. Gwyneth is fine just the way she is and we don’t want some blasted fellow trapping her into a marriage that will make her unhappy. A lieutenant, you said?”
Timothy fixed his superior with a stony gaze of his own. “I rather think that it is for Gwyneth to decide. After all, Phil, she’s a beautiful woman and is entitled to be more than just a mother. She should have a man around who will adore her and cherish her.”
“I don’t dispute that, MacKendrick. However, our Gwyneth can do better than some blasted junior officer. Now, let’s be systematic about this. Who do we know who is available?”
Gwyneth went from exasperation to amusement as her two self-appointed protectors began to trot out the names of potential suitors, dissected them cold-bloodedly as to qualifications, and then brought out another; all without once consulting her. Finally, when Timothy mentioned a certain commander and Phil disagreed vehemently because the man was Navy, she could contain her laughter no longer. The feelings of dissatisfaction engendered by Brown’s visit had been vanquished by the real affection these two men had for her; affection based strongly on the very qualities that had seemed to offend Brown.
“Sure and why would I want a lummox of a husband when I have the Army and the rest of Washington at my feet?” she inquired gaily. “Jack doesn’t need a father, so he doesn’t. Why, he has an entire city of uncles and brothers all around him and I have good friends to care for me.”
“What about this Bob person?” Sheridan asked belligerently.
“His name is Bill, General Sheridan.”
“Well, is this man apt to bother you?”
“No, he’s off to Carlisle.”
“You turned him down?” Timothy inquired.
“No.”
“Ah. He turned you down?”
“Oh Timothy,” Gwyneth laughed. “As Adria says, you can be such a blessed fool sometimes.”
“So I’ve been told. I don’t seem to be following this discussion at all, at all.”
Gwyneth tossed her head at his gentle mimicry while Sheridan helped himself to another cookie.
“Am I a cold-blooded society harpy?”
Sheridan’s roar came close to lifting off the roof. “WHAT!? Did he call you that? I’ll kill him! I’ll break him to private!”
“After I get done with him,” Timothy vowed.
“Calm down, the pair of you, Bill didn’t come right out and say so but I could see he was thinking it. Bill knew me when I was Kevin O’Donnell’s daughter. I have changed and I got the distinct impression that he didn’t approve of the woman I have become.”
“The woman you have become is a credit to James, to me, and to herself,” Timothy stated haughtily. “If this Ben...”
“Bill.”
“If this Bart can’t appreciate you he doesn’t deserve you. Why Gwyneth, you are a beautiful, witty, accomplished woman. Do you know how many Washington hostesses would give their second and third chins to have your grace and style?”
Gwyneth preened slightly. “To make matters worse, he was rude to Michael.”
“Rude to Michael?” Timothy frowned. “How?”
“He called him ‘boy’. Michael didn’t say anything of course but he got that look on his face.”
“What look?” inquired Sheridan while Timothy’s frown deepened.
“I can’t explain it. Sometimes, Michael just gets more...Michael. Very dignified.”
Timothy snorted. “Michael has better manners than I have. I’d have thrown him out of the house.”
“Would you?” Gwyneth tilted her head. “I don’t quite understand. I could tell that Michael was insulted at being treated like a waiter.”
Timothy relaxed suddenly and picked up a cookie. “You’re still a bit of an innocent, Gwyneth, when it comes to matters of race.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“That lieutenant wasn’t offended because Michael was a butler. He was offended because of Michael’s color. ‘Boy’ is one of the words Southerners, as well as like-minded Northerners, use to keep a black man in his place. It’s a way to demean and remind someone like Michael that he’s inferior.”
“But you’ve never treated him like that.”
“No, of course not. But you must realize that I grew up in my Uncle Lafe’s household. While they weren’t abolitionists, the Randolphs always treated their folk with respect. Even when they were slaves, they were considered people, not livestock. Not inferior either. Lafe’s best friend was Michael’s father. They grew up together and were closer than most brothers.”
“But the Randolphs never had slaves, Timothy. When I visited Rose Hill with Jack, Anne commented that when she married Jared before the War, part of the marriage agreement was that any slave she brought to Rose Hill had to be freed.”
“That’s because my great-grandfather Christopher freed all the Rose Hill slaves by the terms of his Will. Before that, back to the Colonial times, the Randolphs owned slaves just like most of the wealthier people in Virginia.”
“I always knew you MacKendricks and Randolphs were special,” Gwyneth said.
“Not that special. Christopher Randolph simply followed the example of men like George Wythe and Thomas Jefferson. It took a few years for Rose Hill to recover too. Grandfather said it took time to figure out how to pay the workers that had never been paid before while still providing the food and care that they had received as slaves.”
“So Bill is a bigot,” odd, I never realized that about the Browns. It never came up. The only people of color around us were the Indians. I never even saw a black man until we went to Omaha for the Sioux uprising and encountered some of the black regiments; the Buffalo Soldiers as they’re called.
“Man is an idiot,” grumbled Sheridan. “He can’t be in MY Army.”
A small, white clad haunt wandered into the room; rubbing sleepy eyes. The orbs widened when their owner spied Generals Sheridan and MacKendrick. They positively gleamed at the sight of the platter.
“Cookies,” drawled Jack.
“Jack, my boyo, you are supposed to be in bed.”
Jack eluded Gwyneth’s quick hands and went to stand beside Sheridan; looking wistfully at the platter. From experience, the little boy knew the Commanding General of the Army was a real pushover.
“Oh, let him stay, Gwyneth,” Phil pulled the delighted Jack into his ample lap and proceeded to split the confection he had been holding with the child.
Gwyneth tried to look stern. “What are you doing up, Jack?”
Jack pretended not to hear for he was deep in a discussion with the general about the relative merits of maple sugar, pecans, and meringue.
“Jackson Lee.”
Both general and boy jumped at her firm voice: Jack because she only used his full name when she was getting annoyed and Sheridan because it reminded him of the pair of nemeses of every Federal officer who had fought in the late conflict.
“Mama?” Jack asked around the partial cookie in his mouth; his gray eyes very limpid.
“Why did you get out of bed? You know you aren’t supposed to do that.”
Jack chewed vigorously at his cookie just in case his mama got difficult and sent him back to bed before he was really ready to go. “I heard noise.”
“Oh? What sort of noise?”
Jack spread his arms wide; losing about a third of his treat in the process. “Big noise.”
“Like a great wind, no doubt,” Timothy remarked with a sly look at Sheridan. “I keep telling you that your bellow will wake the dead, Phil.”
“I recall some loud gales from your vicinity, too, MacKendrick,” Sheridan huffed. “Anyway, I don’t care. I like seeing the boy. He’s got a sharp mind for such a young’un. A very sharp mind indeed and he’ll go far.”
Jack responded to Sheridan’s approval with a crumby kiss; hugging the man with all the fierce strength in his little arms. Seeing the happy grin on her little son’s face, Gwyneth decided, as always, to let him stay. She grinned a bit ruefully at her brother-in-law. “I am a terrible mother, Timothy. He’ll have a tummy ache in the morning the way the General is stuffing him. I shouldn’t permit Jack to get around me the way he does but he’s having such a good time.”
Timothy glanced over to where Jack’s silken dark head rested companionably on Sheridan’s shoulder while the general recited one of his own children’s favorite stories to the eager little boy.
“He really isn’t spoiled, Gwyneth. Jack is precocious but he’s also one of the best-mannered children I’ve ever known. You’re doing very well by him and I know James would have been proud of both of you.”
Gwyneth gave a tired little sigh and let her head drop briefly to Timothy’s broad shoulder. I still miss Jimmy. I’ll always miss him. I’m accustomed to that perpetual, empty ache in my heart that he filled. Mother and all the others are wrong. The pain doesn’t go away and I’ve only learned to live with it. At least I have Timothy. More than anyone else, he seems to understand that my loss is something from which I’ll never recover. He misses Jimmy too. I’ve caught him watching Jack the same way I do for mannerisms that were Jimmy’s; that, perhaps in his son, something of him remains. Timothy is a good friend; it never occurred to me that a woman could be such good friends with a man and yet not be romantically entangled with him. I hope that Adria understands and does not begrudge me the times I spend with him We’ve never discussed it but she must know that she is the only one for Timothy just as Jimmy was the only one for me.
“Jack’s asleep. Shall I put him to bed for you, Gwyneth?” without waiting for her answer, Sheridan lifted the slumbering child and walked up to the nursery. With four children of his own, Sheridan had ample experience.
Timothy gave Gwyneth a reassuring hug. “Are you all right now, Honey? I could see that you were upset when we came in.”
“Not upset, exactly. More disappointed, I suppose. At first, it was like old times, seeing Bill. Then, the same thing happened that did the last time Mother and Da visited. We couldn’t find anything to talk about. It’s terribly sad.”
Timothy held her close for a minute. “I can’t quite comprehend these differences you’ve mentioned, Gwyneth. Even when most of my kin wore the gray, we were still family and cared about things the same way.”
“That Jack,” Sheridan chuckled as he joined them. “The little monkey woke up just as I put him down and demanded to know what I did with the last cookie.
“What did you tell him?” Timothy asked.
“Now you know I always tell the truth, ‘Mothy. I told Jack that I ‘et it. He stuck his tongue out at me and said I was mean. Then he went right to sleep.”
“That’s horrible,” appalled, Gwyneth stared at the General. “And the pair of you said he isn’t spoiled.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Sheridan avowed. “There are these four hellions who live north of here. Proper little Army brats they are and must take after their Mother.”
Timothy raised an expressive eyebrow. “Don’t start, Phil. My children are well-bred, well-behaved, obedient...”
“Monsters,” Sheridan finished cheerfully. “Except for Dorothea. When they were down on that last visit, she played like the little lady she is with my girls.”
“They are not monsters. They’re biddable and reasonable young people.”
“It must be wonderful to have children who do everything you ask without argument or question,” teased Gwyneth as she sided with Sheridan in this match.
“It is,” Timothy replied. “It’s late and we’ll be off now. I’ll be going up to New York for a few days. Do you need me to get you or Jack anything?”
“No, just give my love to Adria and the children.”
“Always,” Timothy kissed her cheek.
Then he departed with Sheridan in tow; still arguing amicably over who had the better-behaved offspring.
Chapter 2
New York, December 1885
One of Timothy MacKendrick’s well-behaved offspring was rather rebellious as some early snow dusted the rowdy Christmas throngs of New York City. It was just after lunch and Philip stared glumly out of the library window. I expected to be lonely without Randolph and I am. We’re twins. We always did things together until now. I also expected to receive a number of pointed references to Randolph’s splendid adjustment to West Point from Mother, contrary to my own lack of direction, and I have. It just isn’t fair. Randy always planned to attend the Academy and wangled an appointment a year early. At seventeen, he is an exemplary Plebe. I can’t go into the military myself. I’d never be able to take orders or spend my life in uniform. Oh, soldiers are okay, I guess. After all, Randy and the General are soldiers but they’re special. Mother is the real problem. Now she’s got it into her head that I should go to Harvard and into law like her father and grandfather. She simply refuses to listen to any of my ideas. I sort of know what I want to do but there is no way I can convince her. Even if I can get around Mother, the General won’t even countenance it. Well, that blowing snow doesn’t have ideas either. I guess I’d better get back to the books.
“Sorry, Son, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Timothy stood just inside the library door.
“You’re not disturbing me, General. I was taking a breather.”
Timothy wandered over to the pile of volumes and began scanning their titles. “Thucydides, Caesar, Tacitus, Herodotus. Good Lord, this one is in Greek.”
Philip sighed.
“Pretty heavy stuff,” Timothy observed.
“I loathe Greek. The Latin isn’t so bad, though.”
Timothy, who had cheerfully forgotten what little Greek he had once known in his boyhood, continued turning over books.
“Goethe? Voltaire, in the original French. You can actually read all of them?”
“Oh yes, although the modern languages are less important at Harvard than the classical ones.”
“Harvard?” Timothy started to make a face but seemed to think better of it.
Philip, however, had no such scruples. “Mother has decided that I am going to become a lawyer and Harvard is the only place to accomplish that.”
Timothy cocked an expressive eyebrow. “There is a very nice little law school at William and Mary.”
“Not according to Mother there isn’t. She’s dead set on Harvard and she’s hired a tutor for me to ensure that I’ll have the proper preparation.”
“Hmm, and what is Philip set on?”
Philip shrugged.
“You know, you and I have never really sat down and discussed your future. Maybe it’s time we did,” Timothy sauntered over to his favorite chair; carrying the Caesar with him.
“I need to study. That tutor will be here tomorrow,” Philip said as he scowled at the formidable stack of books.
“Our discussion might be a wee bit more important right now than an afternoon session with a lot of dead scholars.”
Philip needed no further urging but picked up a footstool and lugged it over to Timothy. His dark hair fell forward on his forehead in a rebellious wave. He had inherited his mother’s gray-green eyes as well as her closed smile. He was not quite as tall as Randolph but he was still shooting up at an alarming rate. At seventeen he had just topped six feet and was quite proud of his inches. However, when he sat down on the stool, he hunched forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The effect was that of a gangly colt; all angles and awkwardness.
“You miss Randolph, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I always knew he was going to go to the Academy but it came a lot sooner than I expected. Frankly, I’m feeling a bit lost.”
Timothy nodded. “I was twelve when James went to West Point. I used to follow him around and make a general pest of myself. When he went to the Academy, I was so lonesome the first few months, I nearly cried myself to sleep every night.”
A loud crash from the hall had them both on their feet. Father and son hurried out of the library just in time to see a pair of legs disappearing, turtle-fashion, into the overturned umbrella-stand.
Philip shot a resigned grin at his father. “Do you suppose a leash would help?”
“I suggested it once and your Mother nearly bit my head off,” Timothy reached in, seized a tiny ankle, and slid his youngest son out of his improvised shell. “Fitzjames, you are a proper nuisance, do you know that?”
Fitzjames Henry MacKendrick was named Fitz for his godfather, Fitzhugh Lee; James, for Timothy’s dead brother; and Henry for his other godfather, Henry Sinclair born Spotted Wolf of the Cheyenne Nation. The child regarded his father and brother; looking up at them as if to gauge whether he was in serious trouble or not. He favored both of them with a cherubic smile. “Daddy.”
Philip snickered as two little arms lifted and Fitz was raised to his father’s chest from where he wrapped his arms around Timothy’s neck.
“General MacKendrick, I’m so sorry,” Angie, the upstairs maid, ran down the stairs. “It’s Ella’s afternoon off and I’m supposed to take care of Mister Fitzjames. When I started to put him down for his nap, I turned my back for just a minute and he lit out on me.”
“Don’t want an ole’ nap,” Fitz declared as he clung to his father. “Daddy.”
“We can skip the nap just this once.”
Angie shook her head. “Ella won’t like it.”
Delia, who had been in charge of the nursery from the time of Philip’s and Randolph’s birth, had married a Richmond doctor several years before. Ella, one of her younger Rozelle cousins from Rose Hill, had taken her place in the MacKendrick’s household.
“I’ll take responsibility for this little rascal,” Timothy joggled Fitz.
“Yes, General,” Angie headed back upstairs.
“Come on, Fitz, you can help us plan your Brother’s future.”
Fitzjames beamed owlishly at Philip as if he already knew it.
Timothy got resettled in his chair. Then he pulled out his watch so that Fitz would be occupied while he returned to the more serious matter at hand. “I know you have no interest in the Army, Philip.”
“I’m afraid not, General. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“Well, I know how much the Army means to you and I can guess how disappointed you are that I’m not going into uniform like Randy.”
“Philip, I have never had cause to be disappointed in you. Of course I’m pleased about Randolph going to West Point but it’s for his sake, not mine. He wanted it and I was delighted that he earned the chance to try. I am proud of all my children but I don’t expect them to be like me. You are individuals, Philip. I don’t want you to do something just to please your Mother or me.”
Philip’s face shone. “You mean I don’t have to go to Harvard to become a lawyer?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t. I’d rather enlist than go into law.”
Timothy shifted Fitz. “Pay attention, Nuisance. You and I will be having a similar discussion in a few years.”
Fitz squirmed a bit. “Down,” he demanded. The library was the most fascinating room in the house and he did not get invited into it very often.
“I have an idea,” Philip got up and began pulling out assorted heavy tomes. “Here, Fitz, you can build a fort.”
For several minutes, the older boy sat on the floor with the younger; showing him how to stack the books into fortifications. A collection of small poetry books gave a crenulated wall effect when stacked on several larger volumes.
“How about engineering,” Timothy suggested. “You seem to have a knack for building things.”
“I’ve considered it, General, or architecture. When I was twelve I wanted to build a cathedral but I don’t want to do that now,” Philip rocked back on his heels. “I can’t draw well enough for one thing. I get pictures in my head but they keep coming out as words; not in lines or circles.”
“Very well, we know you don’t want to ‘jine the Cavalry’ or be buried in some dusty law office or design sky-scraping cathedrals. What’s next?”
“Actually, I do have an idea,” Philip became engrossed in the book-fort.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not sure you’ll approve,” I’m positive you won’t approve.
“Go on, Son. If I don’t approve, I’ll give you my reasons and then you can give me your own.”
Philip took a deep breath. “I want to write.”
Timothy’s brilliant eyes rested on Philip’s defensive face.
“Write what?”
“I want to study liberal arts: literature, history, languages, and things like that.”
“Then what?”
“Ummm, go to work for a newspaper,” Philip mumbled.
“I didn’t quite catch that, Philip.”
“I said that I wanted to go to work for a newspaper after college.”
“You want to be a journalist?”
Oops, Father isn’t quite as prejudiced about the Press as General Sheridan, but he’s still a Virginia aristocrat and even has some of the snobbery of his class. I know what he’s going to say. I can see him thinking it. ‘No true gentlemen engages in such a business, save as a hobby.’ All right, General, let’s get it over with. Remind me about my upbringing and how this will upset Mother. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“Whoa now, I haven’t decided yet. Why don’t you try to tell me why you have this fantast...er, interesting idea and then we’ll see.”
Philip got to his feet and walked back to the window. I know what I want to say but I don’t know if it will convince the General. “The Press has a lot of power, General, for good or ill. So many newspapers are used by their editors simply as political platforms; just look at how they manipulated the last election,” Philip peeked at his father but Timothy’s face remained impassive. “Some of the editors represent journalism at its best like Malone of the Evening Star. Although the paper reflects his views in the editorial page, the rest of it reports events in an unbiased fashion. I want to bring a professional level to journalism. I want to report the news without using it as a soap box for grinding my own axes.”
“It seems like a reasonable idea, Philip. However, is it possible to write without dragging in your own biases? Strikes me that it would be extremely difficult.”
“Difficult, yes, but it isn’t impossible. I’ll have definite opinions, everyone does. As I see it, all I really need to do is present the various sides of an issue.”
“You’ve done a great deal of thinking about this.”
“Yes, Sir, I have.”
“Have you decided which school might give you the proper background?”
“Walter Harris is going to start at Princeton next fall. Since I can’t go to the Academy with Randy, it might be nice to go there with Walter.”
Timothy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Princeton is a fine college. As for journalism, I’ll reserve judgment on that one.”
“I know you don’t approve, General.”
“It isn’t a question of my approval, Philip. You have had a number of advantages and I can’t quite picture you chasing stories into the Bowery. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try, Son. If you get a job on a paper and find it’s exactly as you expected, I’ll be the first to shake your hand. On the other hand, if it isn’t, I want you to feel free to try something else.”
“Thank you, Sir. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, Philip. You’re a fine young man and I am very proud of you.”
“There’s just one problem. What will Mother say?”
“I’m more concerned about Sheridan. When he finds out we have a budding reporter in the family, he may decide to court-martial me.”
“He wouldn’t!”
“We won’t tell him until you’re a managing editor,” Timothy chuckled. He stood and put an arm around Philip’s slender shoulders. “I’m glad you told me, Son.”
“I am too, General. I don’t know why I expected you to veto the idea without even listening. You’ve always been supportive.”
“When I’ve been here,” Timothy sighed. “I’ve lost so many years with you and your Brothers and Sister.
“We always understood, Father. We knew you had to be with General Sheridan.”
“Still, it must have been hard not having me around.”
“I had Randy, and later, Dolly and Fitzjames,” Philip answered softly. “That made a difference. If I had been any only child, it might have been harder. Besides, I know fellows whose fathers work in banks or on the Stock Exchange and see even less of them than we ever saw of you. When you were here, General, you gave us all of your attention. You never told us to leave you alone because you were busy.”
Timothy gave Philip a hard hug. “Thank you, Philip.”
“When are you going to tell Mother that I’m not going to Harvard?”
“When am I going to tell her? It was your idea.”
Who me?! I’ll never manage it.
Timothy patted him. “I know just how you feel, Philip. I’ll take care of it. I’ve had more experience dealing with your Mother’s emphatic negatives. I’ll tell her this evening sometime. If, during the night, you hear something squawking like a sea-gull, you’ll know I’ve mustered the courage to break it to her.”
“You’re a braver man than I,” Philip declared.
Timothy nodded solemnly. “I have to be. I’m the one who married her. Now, why don’t we put those books away? Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”
“No, General.”
“Splendid. You can come shopping with me and help me pick out some Christmas presents for your Mother and Sister.”
“I’d like that, General. What about Fitz?”
Timothy glanced down at his youngest and the nice little den he had managed to construct. “We’ll take him along and give Angie a breather. She looked terrified.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. Fitz is quite a handful.”
“My fault, he’s trying to live up to his namesake. Fitzhugh Lee was quite adept at getting himself into scrapes and I have a feeling that our Fitz is going to make a real effort to match his record.”
Chapter 3
Virginia, July 1887
Fireflies flirted in the early evening. Two tall young men had slipped out to escape the music and laughter as their boisterous Randolph cousins flocked around the newlyweds. The MacKendrick twins were visiting Rose Hill with their family; attending the wedding of one of their many cousins. A rather impressive guest list, including Governor Fitzhugh Lee, had filled the old brick mansion to overflowing. Not since the days before Sumter had the Randolph home seen such numbers.
Randolph walked rapidly down the trimmed lawn to the small dock that jutted into the James River. He was on the traditional summer leave that came between the third and second year.
Philip straggled after him. “Hey, hold up. Your legs are longer than mine and I never learned to quick march.”
Randolph paused to allow Philip to join him. He topped his younger twin by two inches and bore a strong resemblance to their father. They had been in Virginia for over three days and this was their first opportunity to be alone together in two long years.
“For someone who plans to write for a living, you’ve been a lousy correspondent or were you just too busy being a fourth classman?” Randolph observed as Philip caught his breath.
“First year Freshman,” Philip grinned. “West Point does it backwards, remember?”
Randolph drew back in offense. “What do you mean, backwards?”
Whew, who tightened his ramrod? I was teasing. “Well, take you. You’ve completed your third year and you’re starting your second. The rest of the academic world figures it the other way. Second or Sophomore year over, starting your third or Junior year.”
“Oh, never paid it any attention. So, tell me how your fourth...first year went,” Randolph perched on the dock rail. He was in uniform and Philip was surprised that the knife-creased trousers could bend enough to let Randolph sit even that little bit.
“The school work is okay. I’ve decided to focus on history and languages. English composition and literature are a must, of course. I’ll take the minimum in sciences that I need to graduate. My professors are pretty interesting. Oh, and I’ve been given a column in the college paper for next year. I’ve been elected Sophomore Class Treasurer for next year,” Philip paused as Randolph listened in polite silence. It must sound like kid stuff to Randy. Look at him. He’s a grown man now. We’re not just separated by distance now; he’s grown in these last two years. Beside him, I don’t feel much older than Fitzjames. “I’ve got a job!” Philip blurted.
“A job? What kind of job?” Randolph picked at a sliver of wood on the rail.
“As an office boy at the New York Bulletin. It’s just a small paper. Nothing like Mr. Malone’s Star but it will still give me experience around a press operation.”
“I suppose Mama arranged it with one of her friends.”
“No, she doesn’t know about it. Neither does the General. I got it on my own.”
“Oh, well, that sounds fine then,” Randolph peered down the river that had grown dark in the twilight.
There’s a gap between us. Something’s wrong. Yeah, Randy is a lot more mature but he doesn’t have that spark anymore, that gaiety he inherited from the General. He’s even a little diffident now as if he has to make sure something is funny before he laughs. “So, how does it feel to be halfway through your military training?” Philip inquired.
Randolph gave a sharp little laugh. “You can’t begin to imagine, Brother of mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“For one thing, the old school is not what it was in our Father’s time. I’d say it’s even in decline.”
“Randy!”
“You remember that Cousin Fitz Lee said it was noted for producing brilliant engineers, statesmen, and scholars, as well as soldiers?”
“Yes, it was when you got your appointment. I felt pretty left out the way the General and Cousin Fitz were fussing over you. Cousin Fitz said that thanks to the principles of Colonel Thayer, West Point would always be the place to hone and polish the natural brilliance of a man.”
Randolph snorted. “The only time they adhere to Thayer’s principles is when someone needs an excuse to justify some of the more inflexible aspects of cadet life. The instructors at West Point aren’t even the finest any more. The good professors in engineering and mathematics are all at the state universities because they can’t stomach the rigid hide-bound mentality there either. But I won’t let it lick me, Philip. I’m not going to let them beat me. I just have two years left and, now that I’m a Cow instead of a Yearling or Plebe...well, the Firsties aren’t interested anymore and the others are lower classmen,” Randolph broke off with a scowl and rubbed his wrist.
“Randy, was it the hazing? I’ve heard stories.”
Randolph immediately became defensive. “What sort of stories?”
“We have hazing at Princeton too, although, from what I’ve heard, nothing to compare with what you must have gone through.”
“Hazing is illegal,” retorted Randolph stiffly.
“So is drinking on campus but I know quite a few fellows who do it anyway,” Philip perched beside him on the rail.
Randolph turned to stare out at the river. His face had lost the last of its youthful curves and was lean with his new manhood. “I swore I’d never say a word about it. Not to you, not to Papa.”
“You used to confide in me, Randy. Was it really that bad?”
Randolph sighed and turned back. His gray eyes were somber as they met the gray-green eyes of the younger twin. “It was pretty awful. It wasn’t anything the way Papa described. Of course, things have changed at the Academy since the War. John J. Pershing, the Cadet Captain during my Plebe year, was pretty tough. He delighted in hazing although he was clever about it. He invented something called the ‘jumping jack’. He would get twenty or thirty of us out in the company street where he would order us to count off. Then he would pull an imaginary string and all the odd men had to throw their arms out. Then he would pull another so-called string and the even numbered plebes jumped with their legs out. It really tickled the upper classmen to see us all jumping around like demented marionettes. The sneaky thing was that if a tactical officer came by, Pershing could drop his ‘string’ and start drilling us.”
“That doesn’t sound too awful.” Philip said softly.
“No, compared to some it was pretty harmless. No one was really hurt by it,” Randolph acknowledged.
“Randy, were you ever hurt during the hazing?”
“A few times, I broke my wrist in ‘Beast Barracks’.”
“Randy!”
“It’s gotten vicious, Philip. Most of us don’t do much more than quiz the plebes with things like the definition of leather or play a few practical jokes. Unfortunately, there are a few cadets who are sadistic monsters and there’s not much we can do to stop them either.”
“Why can’t you?”
“It’s hard to catch them in the act and the younger cadets are afraid of being ostracized if they go to their tactical officers about it.”
“At least you’re free of it now.”
“Some of my classmates and I are going to do what we can to sort of police the other cadets. The Yearlings are the worst at hazing the Plebes and we can try to keep things from getting out of hand. Look, I don’t want to think about it or talk about it. The only reason I’m in this uniform tonight is I didn’t want Papa to wonder why I wasn’t wearing it. I need to go dance with Olivia, anyway. Maybe we can talk tomorrow afternoon. Oh, wait, I promised Olivia I’d take her riding.”
“It’s all right, Randy. We’ll find some time.”
Randolph dropped off the pier and marched back up the path. Philip followed more slowly. He paused and picked up a stone. He tossed it from hand to hand a few times and then skipped it across the quiet surface of the river. Damn, I feel like something was cut out of me. Of course, he is anxious to spend time with Cousin Olivia. He’s been devoted to her since childhood. Cousin Harry loves to tell the story of how it was Randy who guided her first steps when he was all of four himself. Everyone knows that Randy and Olivia will be married as soon as he graduates. The General and Cousin Harry are as pleased as can be. Mother isn’t too keen. I suppose it’s the fact that she’s our cousin although we’re only second cousins. Maybe Randy is just suffering from moon and love. No, it’s more than that. There’s a wall between us now. I wonder if it will ever go away. Will we ever be close again?
~~~
Timothy had just done his duty on the dance floor and found himself in need of some masculine conversation. He wandered over to where Governor Lee was holding court amidst some loyal supporters. Fitzhugh Lee had carried out his determination to improve the situation in Virginia and his support of public education, along with his efforts to enlarge the Department of Agriculture, had made him a popular governor. He favored intensified industrialization and his policies insured that vast amounts of new capital found its way into the Old Dominion. His enlightened administration also ensured that the Democrats again had control of Virginia. Lee’s liberal approach to his governorship helped to break the hold the Republicans had on the black voters so that many former slaves began to join the Democrats, especially in eastern Virginia.
“Just trying to convince Fitz here that he should seek another term as Governor,” a cigar puffing, portly man informed the rest.
Timothy could not place his accent except to determine that he was not Virginia-born.
Lee smiled lazily and shrugged. “We’ll see, Matthew. I want to talk with you, ‘Mothy. In fact, Harry and I have both been watching for you. Have any plans for the morning?”
“No. Why?” suspiciously, he eyed Fitz and his favorite Randolph cousin.
“Fitz and I want to show you something.”
“Hmmhmm, what do you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Timothy laughed. “I’ll bet it is.”
“Now, ‘Mothy, don’t you trust us?” Fitz asked while Harry looked hurt.
“Should I?”
“It’s a very nice surprise,” Harry urged.
“Very well, I’ll go along with you but if I find a pail of molasses dropping down on me or...”
“Would we do that to an Army general?” Harry inquired innocently.
“Any time you get the chance.”
Fitz Lee got a faraway look in his eyes. “A Yankee general at that.”
“We’ll want to leave pretty early, Cousin,” Harry said.
~~~
As early sunlight streamed across the bed, Timothy eased a few ringlets of mahogany off his hand. Then he tried to slide out of the bed without bumping the long leg stretched along his own or the white curve of shoulder that had somehow wedged under his chin during the night.
“It’s not going to work, you know,” murmured Adria’s low silken tones.
Timothy sat on the edge of the bed and regarded his wife with amusement. “It’s not?”
“No, you just aren’t made for sneaking around.”
“Especially when SOMEONE has various bits and pieces of leg and arm and hair strewn about the bed.”
Adria blinked up at him. Her gray-green eyes were drowsy and her mouth opened in a wide yawn.
I can’t resist. She’s just too adorable when she’s this sleepy. Timothy leaned over and captured her lips with his own before she finished her yawn. Her hands moved up along his shoulders and she sighed into his mouth.
“What time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
“That’s far too early. The sun isn’t even up yet.”
Timothy peered at the window. “Then that’s awful bright moonlight, Sweetheart.”
“Well, breakfast won’t be ready,” she protested.
“Hmm, I can smell bacon all the way up here,” Timothy countered. “We’re at Rose Hill. They get up mighty early in the country.”
“They may but does it mean I have to follow their country custom? Besides, you’re on leave. Why do you have to get up at all?”
“I said I’d meet Fitz Lee and Harry. They want to discuss something.”
“Hmmm, I think it’s silly to get out of a nice bed when the sun is barely up,” Adria nestled into her pillow and drifted off again before Timothy had even stood up.
He dressed quietly in the linen suit he favored when he was in mufti in the summertime and headed downstairs. He was surprised by the number of cousins and visitors already awake. It had been a late night and most of the youngsters had not been in bed more than a couple of hours. His sons were at a sideboard that had been set up with an English-style breakfast so that the guests could serve themselves. Harry and Fitz Lee ate in companionable silence at one end of the massive cherry table and acknowledged Timothy’s arrival with a nod.
As Timothy started to fix a plate, something wrapped around his knee. He looked down at Fitzjames who beamed up at him.
“What have you done now?”
“Daddy.”
“Randolph, Philip, what has your Brother been doing?”
Philip placed a coddled egg on his plate. “Why do you think he’s been into anything, General?”
“He looks too angelic.”
Fitz let go of his father’s trousers; leaving two jammed handprints on the fabric. Timothy sighed plaintively. “Why do you always come to me when you’re in a scrape?”
Fitz just smiled.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Would you like to eat with us?”
Fitz shot a glance at Harry and his godfather, Governor Lee, and nodded vigorously.
“All right, go sit down while I fix you a plate and don’t touch anything.”
Philip put his own plate down and picked up a napkin. “Here Fitz, let me wipe your hands.”
Fitz submitted to his brother’s ministrations with resignation. “I didn’t do it on purpose, Philip. It was so easy to reach for the jam pot. It isn’t fair that a grownup left a spoon sitting on the edge. I couldn’t see it when I reached up.”
Harry and Governor Lee were both grinning when Timothy joined them. Young Fitz was perched on the edge of a chair between his godfather and Philip.
Lee chuckled. “Timothy, of all the children, little Fitz resembles you the most.”
“I don’t go around sticking my hand in jam pots,” Timothy tossed his head.
Harry joined Lee’s guffaw. “Maybe not, Cousin, I can recall a few times you ended up with sticky fingers all the same.”
“Hmmm hmm. Never mind. You said you wanted to discuss something?”
“Want to go for a ride, ‘Mothy?”