by Hebby Roman
He patted the pockets of his dress coat, checking to make certain the two bottles of expensive French brandy, from the commander’s own stock, were still there and safely stoppered. Tonight, he would be approaching as many of the Mexican guests as possible to offer them brandy and to make small talk, trying to gather information. The commander hoped he might turn up some clue as to who had sent the bandits to steal the fort’s payroll.
Two other west-bound stages had made it through safely while they were in México but that proved nothing. At some point in time, whoever was behind the earlier raid would probably try again, unless they learned of the new way the fort’s wages were being transported.
Not only was Davie supposed to ferret out who was behind the raids, the commander hoped they could discover who was giving the Mexican outlaws their information. It was a tall order. There were four of them, counting himself, Captain MacTavish, First Lieutenant Bullis, and Second Lieutenant Gordon, who had known how the commander had decided to move the payroll.
The line sergeants hadn’t been privy to the change. In order to contain who was under suspicion and who wasn’t, the commander had decided that Dawes, even though he’d been promoted to Davie’s old position, wouldn’t be given the new orders until they uncovered who was in collusion with the Mexicans.
No matter how little Davie liked Dawes, he doubted the man would stoop to a criminal act, but the commander had been adamant to keep the knowledge contained.
A door slammed shut, and First Sergeant Felix Dawes emerged from his cabin. He secured his sidearm and checked his carbine. The twelve men of his patrol had formed on the parade ground, waiting for him.
The front door slammed again, and his wife, a thin blonde, who was holding an infant, came out and kissed his cheek. Dawes stroked her cheek and leaned close, saying something to her. He bent forward and kissed the baby’s forehead.
Davie’s heart turned over in his chest. A mixture of strange emotions coursed through him: envy for the Dawes family life, something he might never have, along with a sudden sense of shame for what he was about to do.
But he’d come this far, and there was no turning back. He pulled out a match and struck it against a rock. It flared. He put the match to the end of the fuse and crossed his fingers, silently counting under his breath.
Dawes came down the front steps and put his carbine into the scabbard, tied to his McClellan Army-regulation saddle. He looked back at the mounted men, massed there, waiting for him. Luckily, he didn’t look down.
Davie watched the seemingly-slow crawl of the flame along the fuse. He fisted his hands, fingers crossed, and waited. The fuse needed a few more seconds.
Dawes swung into the saddle and gathered his reins. He shifted his bulk and checked his stirrups. It was going to be close… very close. Davie knew it would be a matter of seconds between success and failure.
Bang! Pop! Crack!
The string of firecrackers sounded loud, despite the orchestra tuning up and a herd of women descending on the mess hall, carrying dishes, platters, and pans.
Dawes’ dun gelding jerked his head up, and his wide-set, brown eyes rolled back in his head. The horse neighed and stomped his hooves. Then the gelding reared, pawing the air. Dawes stuck with him, but the firecrackers kept going off.
Terrorized, the dun flung himself into the air, twisting and sun-fishing, coming down into a series of crow-hops. He lifted off the ground again and bowed his back, bucking harder than a wild mustang, fresh off the prairie.
Dawes went sailing through the air, landing in a heap in front of Corporal Livingstone’s mount.
The firecrackers were done—a hushed and appalled silence fell over the twelve men. The women’s auxiliary halted to watch. They stood in a ring, gazing down at the crumpled form of the First Sergeant.
Private Bates dismounted and grabbed the dun’s reins, hauling the horse close and talking low to him. The horse sidled and snorted, neighing and tossing his head. Bates hung on, and the gelding finally settled down.
A titter came from one of the women, and then a ripple of chuckles swept the crowd, and within a matter of seconds, everyone was laughing. The laughter rolled through the mob in waves.
Davie stood, showing himself. He threw his head back and slapped his thighs with both hands. He doubled over, laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks.
He’d gotten his own back!
Dawes groaned and scrabbled in the dirt. His left leg looked odd, bent behind him. His wife, still holding their baby, came hurtling down the front steps of the cabin and kneeled beside him, sobbing.
Dawes tried to lever himself off the ground. He sank back with a groan. He clutched his left leg and moaned.
Corporal Livingstone turned to Isabel Garza and barked an order, sending her scuttling for Dr. Irving.
Slowly, the seriousness of the situation settled in. The laughter died down.
Shame swamped Davie. His neck and face heated, and he knew he must be as red as a beet. And most likely, he’d lost his last stripe. He wouldn’t complain—knowing he deserved it. He hadn’t meant to hurt Dawes, just scare him a little. Who would have thought the dun could buck like a half-wild bronco?
When Davie lifted his head, he saw Crissy, standing in the crowd of women with her hand covering her mouth. She met his eye and glared at him. Shaking her head, she turned away.
Now he’d done it.
The small hope he’d had of getting back with Crissy shriveled. He’d gone by the commander’s cabin to see her, as soon as he’d returned from México, but she’d refused to talk to him, saying she had work to do.
He’d hoped to dance with her tonight. Maybe talk some. Now that wasn’t going to happen. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her—being away from her had made him realize he wanted her more than anything. They needed to talk, to figure out what kind of life they could make together.
It would seem, though, she didn’t want anything to do with him. And that hurt. He knew he’d hurt her, too, not knowing his own mind.
If he hadn’t been ordered to speak with the Mexicans and watch for suspicious activity, he wouldn’t have attended the celebration. With the way he was feeling, he’d prefer to creep off and dig himself a hole, hiding out like a hunted prairie dog. But he didn’t have that option.
Losing Crissy’s admiration and affection made his chest ache and tied his stomach into knots. He was miserable, and it was his own fault.
What did he have to celebrate?
* * *
Crissy placed the platter of cornbread on one of the long tables and dusted her hands. She arranged the red-and-white checkered napkins around the golden squares, hoping to keep them warm.
The ladies’ auxiliary had tasked every woman who lived on or near the fort with cooking tonight. She and Peggy had offered to make cornbread, and the commander had allowed them to use the spacious oven in his kitchen. They’d cooked pans and pans of cornbread, and she still had another large platter to fetch.
She’d been surprised, at first, when Katie MacTavish, the president of the ladies’ auxiliary, had approached her to help. She’d not expected to be welcomed by the officers’ wives. But, so far, it would seem her being chosen by the commander to keep his house had conferred her a kind of special status.
The women of the fort treated her as one of their own, obviously prepared to forget and forgive, which made her feel like a part of a larger society for the first time in her life since she’d left the convent.
Her mother and Dr. Irving would not be attending the dancing tonight, due to her mother’s delicate health. Or was it simply an excuse?
Crissy knew better. Her mother was proud of her daughter’s new position and acceptance by the community. She didn’t want to do anything to upset the situation.
On one hand, Crissy felt badly for her mother. On the other hand, she knew her Mama was, as always, prepared to make any sacrifice, wanting her daughter to have a better life t
han she had.
Peggy was staying with the other children who were too young to attend the dancing and adult celebration, which included the drinking of alcholic beverages. Katie MacTavish and four young girls, under the age of fifteen, were watching the children and keeping them busy, playing games.
Later, around ten o’clock, when the fireworks were set off, the children would be brought out to watch the sparkling displays over the parade ground. After the fireworks, it would be “lights out” for the children, while the adult dancing and revelry would continue into the wee hours of the morning.
Americans and Mexicans alike, from over one hundred miles away, had come for the celebration, some staying at the hotel in town, and others, camping out. No one was sure how many people would show up, but one thing was certain, the celebrating would go on most of the night.
The commander had said he’d make a brief appearance, but he wouldn’t stay for long, being in mourning.
Dr. Irving trotted past her, black satchel in hand. He tipped his hat and headed to the Dawes’ cabin. The soldiers had carried Sergeant Dawes, with his obviously broken leg, into the family’s cabin.
Corporal Livingstone had been reassigned to head up the patrol, and the troop of men were leaving the fort now.
Davie was childish and vindictive. He’d done what he’d said he would do, get back at Dawes. He couldn’t let well enough alone. Couldn’t forget and forgive.
She’d been wise to break off with him. He wasn’t the stuff of serious husband material. She should know from her mother’s experience, and she didn’t want to repeat the mistake of marrying a man who wasn’t ready for the responsibilities of wedded life.
Her mother disagreed, saying Davie was the man for her based on those blasted cards. Crissy snorted. Stuff and nonsense.
She might never marry, fulfilling her dream of returning to the convent. Or she might use her new position to gain experience as a housekeeper and offer her services elsewhere when the commander was transferred.
Her life lay ahead of her—and good things were happening. Soon, she’d have enough money saved to move her mother to a small adobe house for rent beside Jubilee Jackson’s place.
She couldn’t wait to have their own place and move from under Maxine’s gossipy grip. In a couple of more weeks, she’d have the money for a deposit and the first month’s rent.
By the time she returned with the last platter of cornbread, the orchestra had started the music with a lively Virginia reel. Several couples were dancing, the tables were sagging with food, and a line for the food had already formed up.
Crissy untied the apron at her waist and tucked it beneath a table. She smoothed the skirt of her new ice-blue, moiré silk dress. As soon as she knew they had enough money for necessities, she’d purchased the gown.
She’d bought the dress as a balm to her spirit after she and Davie had argued. And… because she had the money. It was worldly conceit on her part, she knew, but she was tired of her worn-out, handmade cotton and wool dresses in drab grays and browns.
Her mother and Dr. Irving had both approved of her purchase, saying how lovely she looked. It had pleased her mother, seeing her daughter dressed up, which made Crissy happy.
She gazed at the mess hall, transformed as it was, by the ladies’ auxiliary. The rafters were festooned with red, white, and blue bunting and behind the orchestra, was a huge American flag. Streamers of red, white, and blue hung from the rafters, too. And the serving tables were lined with cardboard depictions of the United States flag.
She loved holidays—holidays of all kind. Her parents had always made holidays special. The Fourth of July was fun, but her favorite holiday would always be Christmas.
It had been a magical time in San Antonio with luminarias lining the walkway beside the river, and the Noche Buena Posada on Christmas Eve, where the local town folk went from house to house, asking if there was room for the Holy Family. Her parents had always surprised her with a special gift on Christmas morning. They hadn’t had much money to decorate, but she remembered her mother going to the market and getting greenery, along with red-berried holly branches.
The ladies of the auxiliary hadn’t included her in the decorating, only asking her to help cook. But that was all right; she knew it would take time for them to accept her fully. At least, she was no longer living in the shadows.
She glanced at the crowd of Mexicans huddled on the opposite side of the hall. Most of them hadn’t lined up for the food. She wondered if they’d already eaten or didn’t like American cooking, having heard they preferred spicy food with lots of hot peppers.
It was strange, after the savage attack on the stagecoach, Commander Gregor had invited them to celebrate an American holiday at the fort. Being a good-hearted man, she knew he wanted to find a middle ground with their neighbors to the south, but she was surprised to find them included in the Fourth of July celebration.
The Mexicans were flamboyant dressers, even the men. Some wore wide-brimmed sombreros, others affected various versions of the cowboy hats worn on this side of the border.
The men sported white cotton shirts, partially covered by short, open vests, which were heavily braided and embroidered. Along the inseams of their close-fitting trousers, there was more braid and gold or silver ornamental buttons. Their trousers were slit at the bottom, some with lace-filled insets. And the tightness of their trousers made her face heat, leaving very little to the imagination.
The Mexican women, especially compared to their American counterparts, were dressed in a showy manner, like their men. They had tall, ornamental combs in their hair, covered with yards of the finest filigreed black lace, trailing down their backs. Their white cotton blouses were frilled and ruched and cut low in the front. And their multi-colored skirts were large and bell-shaped with a plethora of petticoats beneath and festooned with much gold and silver braid.
Gazing at the Mexicans and their colorful costumes, she smoothed her own skirt. She was pleased that large bell skirts were no longer the fashion in the States. Now a more svelte silhouette was preferred, conforming to a woman’s natural figure. Still, she’d had to purchase and wear a corset for the gown to fit properly.
She wasn’t accustomed to wearing a corset, being slender enough to wear her everyday work dresses without one. The whale-boned corset chafed and made her take short, quick breaths. But she was proud of her dress, knowing it was one of the prettiest gowns at the celebration.
The opening reel was followed by a square dance, and next, the orchestra played a lively polka. The Mexicans joined the polka, entering into the dancing for the first time.
Betsy McDuff elbowed her in the side and inclined her head. “Aren’t you going to help with serving? Or will you just stand there, staring at those Mexican bucks?” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what the commander was thinking, inviting all these foreigners to our Independence celebration.”
Crissy jumped, startled from her thoughts. Betsy could be crude, but she had been staring at the Mexicans and thinking much the same thoughts. She glanced around and realized most of the ladies’ auxiliary was helping people to fill their plates.
“Oh, I didn’t know.” She turned to Betsy and stared at her worn-thin yellow poplin dress. “What are you helping with?”
“Me? Nothing.” Betsy fluffed her blonde hair. “I wasn’t asked to contribute to the food. I’ll not be serving.” She smiled, a tight, smug smile. “You’ve been included because you’re working for the commander. You’ll need to fall into line.”
Crissy bridled at Betsy’s pointed comment. But she refused to let the other woman get under her skin. Instead, she nodded and fetched her apron, tying it around her waist again.
She approached Lieutenant Bullis’ wife, Pattie, the vice-president of the ladies’ auxiliary. Pattie was serving the line of people by ladling out pinto beans.
Tapping Pattie’s shoulder, she asked, “What would you like for me to serve, Mrs. Bu
llis?” She wasn’t comfortable with using the officers’ wives first names. “I brought the cornbread.”
“Oh, Crissy, thank you for asking, but I believe we’ve enough help.” She inclined her head at the line of ladies serving. Then she hesitated and glanced at the end of the table.
“Though, I wonder if we’ll have enough napkins for everyone.” Pattie turned and looked at her. “You used to work for Isabel. Do you know if she’s got more napkins laundered?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll find out.”
“Thank you,” Pattie said. “Lordy, what a mob. Who would have thought?” She glanced at the Mexicans and arched her eyebrows. “Our commander is an unusual man, no doubt.”
“Yes, he is.”
She was singularly devoted to Lieutenant Colonel Gregor. He was a good and kind man—a fair man. He’d changed her life, and though she might question his decisions, as others did, he had her loyalty.
She had no idea where she would find Isabel, but the laundry, though the celebration was underway, was the obvious place to start.
Letting herself out the back door of the mess hall, she walked along the path to Sudsville. She didn’t miss the hard, back-breaking days at the laundry. But with a couple of exceptions, like Betsy, she missed the easy camaraderie of her fellow laundresses.
She saw Isabel, hurrying along the path with a straw basket slung over her arm.
“Isabel, are those napkins in the basket? I hope so,” Crissy said.
“Good evening to you, Miss.”
“Oh, uh, good evening, Isabel.” She hesitated, wondering at Isabel’s sharp tone. “Mrs. Bullis asked for more napkins and since I worked in the laundry—”
“Something you’ve apparently forgotten until Lieutenant Bullis’ wife reminded you.”
Crissy stepped back; her feelings hurt. “I’m sorry. But I came to you, the first day I knew I’d be working for the commander and let you know.”
