by Tinnean
The smooth, lacquered veneer and the abalone highlights were just part of it. Pa had added a few other embellishments that Sharps would never have spotted if Pa hadn’t pointed them out—the barrel concealed in the neck of the banjo, the small panel that, when pressed, allowed the trigger to drop down.
“I don’t have words for this, Pa. How did you figure how to make it?”
“It took a lot of doing.” Pa touched the side of his nose and grinned, and Sharps knew he wouldn’t reveal his secrets. “Come have supper, son, and tell me why Captain Marriott gave you a horse.”
Sharps stroked the shiny wood, then returned the banjo to its case and washed his hands at the pump in the kitchen. He was about to sit down at the table when he saw the frame on the wall and he crossed to examine it.
For meritorious achievement in the superior performance of his duties while serving under Colonel Beaumont Sebring, it gives me great pleasure to formally and publically commend Sergeant Zachary Taylor Browne. Sergeant Browne’s exceptional performance was in keeping with the highest traditions of the Federal Army of the Potomac.
With the Nation’s deepest gratitude for your service,
Andrew Johnson
“Oh, Pa.” It was the commendation he’d been given. He stroked his fingers along the wood of the frame. “This must have cost you a pretty penny.” He took his seat at the table.
“It doesn’t matter.” Pa smiled at him. “A paper that important deserves to be shown to advantage.” Pa put a plate of stew in front of him, and Sharps inhaled the heady aroma.
“I’ve missed your cooking,” he said in hopes of distracting Pa so he wouldn’t ask what Sharps’s meritorious achievement might be.
Pa teasingly cuffed his head. “Scamp.” He sat down, said grace, and picked up his fork. “Well?”
“Well?”
“Don’t make me take down your britches and tan your hide, young man. You promised to tell me what Captain Marriott did for you.”
Sharps grinned at him, then sobered and began to tell Pa about what had happened after the Second Battle of Bull Run.
* * * *
“Son of a bitch.” Pa wasn’t happy, not that Sharps had expected him to be. No man wanted to learn his son had almost been raped.
Sharps stretched an arm across the table and rested his palm on Pa’s fisted hand. “It’s all right. Captain Marriott stopped them. As a matter of fact, he threatened to kill them if they ever came near me again.”
“Did he?” Pa blew out a breath, and Sharps could see him forcing himself to relax. “He struck me as a good man, and I’m pleased to see my judgement wasn’t off.”
“Never. You’re the best judge of men I know.”
The skin of Pa’s weathered cheeks darkened as a blush ran up to his hairline. In spite of his age, and although his fair hair was peppered with gray, it was as thick as ever. He got to his feet, hobbled to the cupboard, and took down a bottle and two glasses.
“I reckon a boy who’s been through the war is old enough to have a drink.”
Sharps smiled. He didn’t drink now, but he wasn’t going to tell Pa he’d drunk plenty after President Lincoln had been assassinated.
Pa poured a couple of fingers into each glass, handed one to Sharps, then raised his own. “Welcome home, son. It’s good to have you back.”
“Th-thank you, Pa.” He smiled at his pa through a sheen of tears and took a cautious sip. He hadn’t had a drink after that April in ‘65. His work had been too important to risk it.
Pa, on the other hand, tossed back the amber liquor. He put down his glass and fiddled with his fingers for a few minutes. Finally, he asked, “What do you plan to do, son? You’re more than welcome to stay here—I’ve got a good business going on, and as I said, if you want, I’ll teach it to you—”
“You know I never had the aptitude for it.”
“That’s true. In that case…it’s not going to be easy to find a job, and you won’t think much of yourself if you just sit around the fire each day doing nothing.”
“I know, Pa. I’m a man now, and you shouldn’t be supporting me.” He went to his saddlebags, reached into one of them, and retrieved the pouch that contained gold coins. “This will help until I find something.” He spilled the contents onto the table, and Pa’s eyes grew wide.
“Do I want to know how you came by these coins?”
“No, Pa. I can’t talk about it, but it was honest, I promise you.” He’d come across a cache of Confederate gold, which he’d turned over to Colonel Sebring, who in turn had shared it with his men as they left his service. Sharps hadn’t expected it, but he’d been grateful.
“All right, Zachary. As you say, you’re a man now, and I’ll trust you to know what you’re doing.”
“Thank you.”
“But…”
Sharps stiffened. “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to take a look at that Remington you’re wearing on your hip.”
Sharps eased it out of its holster and handed it to Pa, butt first.
Pa ran his fingers over the walnut grip, over the sleek barrel. “This is a good weapon, a solid weapon. I assume you’ve used it?”
“Yes, Pa.” Colonel Sebring had given him the gun when Sharps had first begun working for him. Of course Sharps had the derringer Captain Marriott had given him—he kept it tucked in his boot—but the colonel had shaken his head at the sight of it, saying that peashooter might be good at close range, but he’d need something with more kick to it to keep danger at a distance.
“Well, at least you haven’t put notches in the handle.” Pa sighed.
Sharps unfastened the holster and met Pa’s somber gaze. “Only a fool would take pleasure in the number of lives he’s taken.
Pa rested a hand on Sharps’s shoulder and gave it an approving squeeze before handing the Remington back to him. Sharps slid it into the holster, wrapped the belt around it, and set it aside. There wouldn’t be any call for him to wear the gun while he was in the city.
“How about I play us some music?”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
Sharps breathed a silent sigh, relieved Pa hadn’t pressed the issue. Colonel Sebring had warned him to keep silent about his work during and after the war, and Sharps would have hated lying to his pa.
“Before you do, though, I’ve got something to show you.” Pa hauled himself to his feet and limped to the fireplace. He opened the box on the mantel and took out a small packet of letters. “These are from Captain Marriott. I thought you’d want to see them.” He handed them to Sharps.
There were only three envelopes, but two of them seemed to have a goodly number of pages in them.
“Why don’t I make us a pot of coffee while you read them?”
“Yes, Pa,” he responded absently. The first envelope held only a single sheet of paper. The letter was dated September, 1865 and detailed Captain Marriott’s arrival in Independence, Missouri. I’ll be taking out a wagon train heading for California on the California Trail in the spring, since it’s too late in the season to make a start just now, he wrote. In the meantime, I’m working as a deputy to the sheriff in this town. He concluded with, I hope this finds you well, and I hope Sharps is home and safe.
Both following letters, dated 1866 and most recently 1867, gave a day-to-day accounting of life on a wagon train. He wrote of children gathering buffalo chips, which were used as fuel for fires, of the loss of entire families due to illness, of wagons washed away with their occupants because of flash floods, or of the occasional attack by hostiles.
And each letter ended the same way. I hope this finds you well, and I hope Sharps is home and safe.
“Do you reckon there’ll be one for this year?”
“I have no doubt about it. They usually arrive at some time in the winter. Will you be here then?” Pa set two cups of coffee on the table.
“I’d like to. If you don’t mind?”
“Why would I mind? You’re my boy.”
Sharps smiled and ducked
his head to conceal his flush of pleasure. “Thank you, Pa.” He returned the letters to their wooden box.
“Have your coffee. You can play for me later.”
“All right.” The coffee was rich and flavorful. “I made coffee for Captain Marriott one time. He liked it a lot.” Remembrance of the captain’s praise still made him blush in pleasure.
“The captain thinks very highly of you.”
“Yes. I…” Sharps couldn’t tell his pa he loved the man. He didn’t think Pa would be upset, since Sharps and the captain had been through so much together, but it was something special to Sharps, something he wanted to keep tucked away in his heart. Even if he could never tell Captain Marriott of his feelings, Sharps would still know of them.
Later, he’d take out his harmonica and tap it against his palm. He’d put it to his lips and begin playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” one of Pa’s favorite songs.
Right now, though, he’d enjoy this cup of coffee and conversation with his pa.
* * * *
As it turned out, he didn’t have much luck finding work. Oh, he was able to earn a few pennies here and there, sweeping out a saloon and emptying the spittoons in the morning or mucking out a stable, but the jobs never lasted longer than a day. There were more men than there were jobs, and no one was willing to keep on someone who looked as young as he did.
Colonel Sebring had seen to it Sharps had some specialized training, and he’d gone to a few detective agencies, but they’d turned him away, not only not believing he could do what he said, but not even willing to give him a chance to demonstrate his skill.
Without much choice, he took care spending his coins, and passed the days helping Pa where he could and working with Salida.
In spite of the poor job situation, he and Pa had a good summer and autumn, and December was mild enough that they had no snowfall. Pa gave him a new rifle for Christmas, made especially for him.
“This is beautiful, Pa.” Sharps cradled it in one arm and stroked the cool metal of the barrel with his other hand, tracing the engravings of ivy leaves that ran its length.
“I had a feeling the rifle I made for your birthday when you turned eleven wouldn’t do for you now, so I began working on this one after Captain Marriott left.”
“I reckon not.” Even though Sharps had shot up at least a foot in the years since he’d been away from home, he was still short, although Pa was too kind to say so.
Pa wrapped himself in the forest green blanket Sharps had given him and sat in his rocking chair, doing a little stroking of his own. “This is so soft, and the design is lovely. Whoever did this…she did a remarkable job. It will keep me warm on the cold winter nights yet to come, son. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Pa.” He felt a blush color his cheeks. He was the one who had knitted the blanket, hiding the yarn and the needles in the shed so Pa wouldn’t see what he was doing. He’d been reluctant to tell Pa how he’d come to learn how to knit. Colonel Sebring had tasked him with getting a family out of harm’s way. He was to lead them from New Orleans to the halfway point in Kentucky, where another of the colonel’s men would take them on to Canada and safety. During the first leg of the journey, the children had become fretful, and to distract them, he’d taken them up before him on his horse and sang softly or told stories of his ma’s people. Not too long afterward, he began to feel ill, but he’d managed to deliver the family to the halfway point and his counterpart took them on. Once again, Colonel Sebring found him, this time suffering from a high fever due to a case of the mumps. When he was no longer contagious, the colonel brought Sharps to his farm in Maryland, and Mrs. Sebring saw that Sharps was nursed back to health. She was a nice woman, and when she’d realized how restless he’d become as he recuperated, she’d taught him how to knit.
Pa nursed a cup of coffee between his palms and rocked back and forth. Captain Marriott’s latest letter, dated a month ago, had arrived in time for Christmas, and it spoke of the things that happened on the trail. “I’m thinking this might be my last trip out as wagon master,” the captain had written. “Since work on the transcontinental railroad will be completed soon and people will prefer the speedier method of travel, I may have the time to come by for a visit. I hope this finds you well, and I hope Sharps is home and safe.”
“A fine Christmas present, son. I’ll finally be able to tell him you’re home.” He grinned at Sharps as he sat down to write the letter. “There’s not much to keep us here. Suppose we head out to Independence and meet him there?”
“Sure, Pa.” He’d like that. It was kind of Pa to say there was nothing keeping him here, although in all truth there was. Pa was a skilled gunsmith, and his work was in demand.
The room was cozy and warm, and Sharps was sleepy from the large meal they’d just eaten. A nap would be a good idea. He stretched his legs toward the fire, enjoying the feeling of warmth on his toes.
The last thing he expected was for Pa to pause in his writing to say, “Your ma’s people thought well of men who lived with other men as man and wife. I think I told you that.”
“You did,” he murmured drowsily, “years ago. How do you feel about it, though?”
“I lived with them long enough to realize it shouldn’t matter a hill of beans who you love. I was never sure what you remembered from that time.”
“I remember Galegenoh and Waya.” He stumbled a bit over the names; it had been a long time since he’d spoken the language of the Aniyunwiya—the principled people. “They looked after me when Ma was sick, and then afterward, while you were grieving for her. They were kind to me after she died.”
“Your ma wasn’t sick. She was expecting a baby. I lost them both.”
“Pa.”
“I’m not surprised you didn’t remember that. Galegenoh and Waya…They were good men.” Pa observed him from across the room. “Have you felt that way about anyone?”
“Pa?” He shot up in his chair, all thoughts of a nap flown, and he cleared his throat. He’d never lied to his pa. “How would you feel about it if I said yes?”
He smiled ruefully. “You were away from home for a long time, and you’re a man now.”
That didn’t answer Sharps’s question. Then again, knowing Pa, maybe it did.
“Do you understand why I asked you not to talk about your ma’s people, even though I loved her and was proud to be her husband?”
“Yes.”
“For that same reason, I ask you not to let anyone know if it turns out you care for a man in that manner. I know it’s not fair, and it shouldn’t be anyone’s business, but people tend to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
“All right, Pa.”
Pa yawned and set aside the paper and pencil. “I’ll finish this later.” He shifted to make himself more comfortable. “I’m going to take a nap.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” Sharps slouched back down in his chair and closed his eyes.
But before he slipped into a doze, he heard Pa murmur, “I would have liked grandchildren, but that was always in God’s hands.”
* * * *
Later that evening, after they woke, they sat before the fire with cups of coffee and slices of the tipsy cake Mrs. Pritchert, the widow lady next-door, had baked. Sharps had always enjoyed sweet desserts, and he had to admit the cake was good.
“I swear I really could get tipsy on this cake,” Pa said as he took another appreciative bite. “The sherry and the brandy Emma—that is to say, Mrs. Pritchert—adds to it…”
Sharps ducked his head to hide his smile. Somehow the widow had learned Pa’s family originally came from the south and had taken it on herself to bake it for him. Sharps had a feeling she had a soft spot for Pa, and he wondered if Pa had ever paid her a visit of an evening.
“If you want to remain behind—” he started to say.
“Why would I do that?”
“If you wanted to marry Mrs. Pritchert…?”
“I’ll never marry again.”<
br />
“Still, it’s nice to have someone take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself, boy.”
“Yes, Pa.” He hoped Pa didn’t hear the amusement in his voice.
“See you remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, let’s continue making our plans to head west in the spring.” Pa set aside his dessert and drew a piece of paper and a pencil toward him. “We’ll need a wagon to carry my tools and our supplies. We can bed down in it at night.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Pa wet the pencil point with the tip of his tongue and began writing down the supplies they’d need.
They’d have plenty of time to look for a wagon and decide whether they wanted oxen or mules to haul it.
* * * *
Only as it turned out, they didn’t have much time at all. That winter turned freezing cold and wet, and Pa got sick and passed away.
Sharps didn’t weep, but he grieved, because even though it had been seven years between the time he had marched off to war and then returned home, it felt as if his heart had become hollow.
After Pa was buried and his tools sold, Sharps packed up what they’d planned to take: the banjo, the rifle Pa had given him for Christmas and the blanket he’d given Pa, and the letters Captain Marriott had sent Pa—the letter Pa had been writing had never been sent off, since he’d never had the opportunity to finish it. And since Sharps had never been much of a letter writer and was planning on heading to Independence anyway, he saw no reason to finish it himself.
Because it would just be Sharps, he didn’t bother purchasing a wagon or even a pack mule. He’d done plenty of travelling with just what was in his saddlebags.
He said goodbye to Mrs. Pritchert, who lowered the apron she was weeping into long enough to hug him and kiss his cheek, saddled up Salida, and made the journey west alone.
Chapter 6
Sharps was jolted out of his memories of Pa, the War, and Captain Marriott when Salida came to an abrupt halt. She pawed the ground, nickered softly, and tossed her head. She was a smart animal, and it had taken Sharps only a couple of times closing his palm over her nostrils when other horses approached for her to learn when whinnying wasn’t a good idea.
