Faded Coat of Blue

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll never get Charlie,” he told me. “And you won’t drag me down in shame.”

  His right hand rose from his lap again. This time it held a pistol. I thought he was going to aim it at me, of course.

  Before I could move he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  I should have stayed there. But even as I bent over the body and felt that sudden heaviness of death upon the boy, I could think only of his claim that Trenchard had beaten us. And that he was leaving for England that very night.

  There was gore on my hands from feeling the artery in his neck. I quickly wiped it off on the skirt of his tunic. For I feared the contagion of his bad blood. Then I plunged down the empty hallway and the stairs, hardly stopping to tell the bewildered sentry, “Lieutenant Livingston’s shot himself. Call the provost marshal’s guards.”

  I did not care what Livingston had said or thought or even done. Trenchard was the killer. Just as in war, where the real killers are not the boys with the bayonets, but the men in the rooms of state. Trenchard had killed Anthony Fowler with help from Livingston, and now he had killed Livingston with help from me. I was not about to let him dance off to England.

  I found a cab just by the President’s House and directed him to Mrs. Schutzengel’s. We were long enough into the holiday that little groups of revelers dotted the streets, singing patriotic songs in their drunkenness. At our destination, I paid the driver quickly and did not even wait for my change.

  Mrs. Schutzengel tried to greet me. Tyrone sat over a book in her parlor, pipe in his mouth. But I had not a word for them. Not yet. I hustled up the stairs to my room.

  Tyrone came in as I was loading the pistol the boys from my company had given me. “What’s this?” he said. “Another duel?”

  “Livingston’s dead. Shot himself. He shot Fowler. But Trenchard was behind it. And he’s not leaving Saturday. He’s leaving tonight.” I looked up at the sadness and trouble of the doctor’s face. “I’m going to stop him.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  I stood up and hoisted my frock coat, shoving the pistol into my waistband.

  “It is a serious business, Dr. Tyrone. And not your business now.”

  “As much as it is yours.”

  There was no time to argue. And the truth is I was glad to have him by me.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ll get Molloy on the way. He’s good in a scrap.”

  Trenchard’s rooms were on Franklin Square, which was not distant, though it was another matter socially. We found Molloy in the little park, which had been ruined by the bivouac of soldiers in the first months of the war. It had the look of an abandoned excavation. Molloy had got himself up in rags again. His face was so dirty you could hardly tell him from a heathen. Had we not known he was there, we would have wandered past the colorless bummer he had made of himself. His talent for deceit was such a gift it made you doubt the truth of other men.

  “Captain Jones,” he said, proud of his alertness now.

  “Where’s Trenchard? Is he inside?”

  “Oh, and they were pleasing the ladies today, him and the Bates fellow. Shining like lords, and saying their fond farewells, I’m thinking. While here’s poor Jimmy Molloy, missing the cockfight o‘ the century for the terrible duty ye put upon him.”

  “Is he in there now?”

  Molloy nodded toward the building. “His rooms are on the second floor. All full of meat and punch, he is. And full of himself, as well. He’s a fine ripe portrait of a man, that one. Tis sorry I am ye did not kill him when the chance come to ye.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said.

  Perhaps our fates are set out for us, although it troubles me to think so. I am not certain what might have been done differently. My choices fled me when the coach drew up before Trenchard’s door.

  His trunk must have been waiting, for the coachman no sooner gave his rap than the butler opened and the two men lugged the baggage down to the vehicle and strapped it to the shelf at the rear.

  “You, Molloy,” I said. “You’re to stop that coach from leaving. Take what it will.” I turned to Tyrone. “Go on with you and get the provost guards. Tell them what you must. Tell them murder. And tell them they’ll need officers to manage the business.”

  Tyrone stopped me with a hand on my upper arm.

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to hold Trenchard here. And Bates.”

  “But you have no witness now.”

  I looked at him. “God is my witness. I’ll do what I must.”

  And I tore away from the two of them. I had no plan. No idea of what I might say. Only my anger. And the Colt shoved into my trousers.

  Perhaps it was my uniform. The butler only gave me a glance. I marched into that house as though I had a right to be there. And I believed I did.

  As I went in, I heard Molloy strike up a banter with the coachman behind me. Then I caught the other voices. Trenchard’s joking, and the answering laughter from Bates above my head.

  Stairs were still difficult with my leg, but I took them as quickly as I could. I made the second floor just as Trenchard and Bates stepped out of a doorway.

  No need of firearms. I raised my cane before their startled faces and gave Trenchard a thump on the shoulder. I nearly crumpled him.

  “Back in that room,” I said. I stabbed the cane toward Bates, who retreated immediately. Oh, there was shock on their snouts. But Trenchard was no coward. When he did not move, I poked him in the chest. And I made it hurt.

  “In there, you bastards,” I said. “And we’ll wait for the provost detail.”

  Trenchard was no coward. But it does not take a coward to feel fear. I saw it come to Trenchard’s eyes then. It is like any fight, see. You want to catch your opponent off his guard. Attack in the morning, when their camp is asleep. That is how you do it. Only you must do your killing before they have a chance to recover. That I failed to do.

  They did my bidding at first, though. I herded them into the room from which they had stepped, then shut the door behind us so no one could surprise me from behind. Twas a fine gentleman’s parlor, thick of cushion and drape, with the marble fireplace going and glasses but half drained on the drum table.

  “Are you mad, Jones?” Trenchard said. He rubbed his shoulder, but I could tell his mind was not on it. He would not have let me see his pain if he had not had greater concerns. “I’ll have you jailed for this.”

  “You’re the one who’ll see the dungeon,” I told him. Then I looked at Bates, who was watching for Trenchard’s lead. “The two of you. Murderers.”

  Trenchard tried a look of bafflement. “Whatever are you going on about?”

  “You know it,” I told him. “And well. You killed Anthony Fowler. By putting Livingston up to it. Out of no more reason than your pride.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Is it, then?” It was time to bluff. “Then it will be Livingston’s word against yours.”

  Their eyes changed. Trenchard’s mouth tightened. You could feel the desire to strike come over him. Bates looked horrified. He smoothed his hand back over his ginger hair, again and again.

  “I just left him,” I said. “In the provost marshal’s care.” I worked up the smile of a sergeant who has the goods on a lazy private. “You should never put your faith in a drunkard. For they’re given to blabbering.”

  “Whatever he says, it’s a lie,” Bates half-shouted. But a look from Trenchard silenced him.

  “Livingston’s a syphilitic fool,” Trenchard said. “There was trouble… between him and Fowler. Fowler always had to be the do-gooder. He threatened Livingston, told him if he didn’t do the honorable thing and break off his engagement, he’d let it out that Livingston was diseased.”

  “No,” I said. “That was your threat. And Livingston knows about your appointment in private rooms with Miss Cathcart. Oh, that got the boy talking. He’s already written out his statement.”


  “That drunk sonofabitch,” Bates said.

  But Trenchard did not take his eyes from me now. I felt as though I were facing down an animal that wanted to eat me alive.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Jones.”

  “No.”

  “Livingston shot him.”

  “I know. You may not hang. But you’ll taste the society of a prison.”

  “What… do you want?”

  “Justice.”

  He laughed. Bates tried to laugh with him, but could not manage it.

  “ ‘Justice’?” Trenchard said. “Don’t you mean revenge? Revenge on your betters? Look at you. You’re a crumpled, soiled thing, Jones. A nobody. And you’ll always be a nobody. You’re wasting your efforts.”

  “There will be justice.”

  “You don’t sound at all certain.” He smiled. “You know this is only a charade. You know you’re only making a spectacle of yourself. You have no one behind you, no one to back you.”

  I met his eyes and did not falter. “I will make a spectacle of you. And if I cannot have justice, I will have the public shaming of you. You’ll never raise your head again. I’ll make the world believe me. And if I cannot do that, I will still make them doubt you.”

  Trenchard shook his head. “Such an angry little man.” He glanced sideward. “Isn’t he, Bates?”

  “Charlie… listen… this is no time to be fooling…”

  Trenchard smiled again, easing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “No. It’s no time for fooling. So tell me, Jones. What do you really want? Money? Position? What’s your price?”

  “I will have justice,” I repeated.

  “Then have it,” he said. He drew out a derringer. They are wee little guns, see, and cannot hit much beyond a few feet. But he was hardly a body length from me, and he pointed the two little barrels straight into my stomach.

  I felt the Colt resting against my shirt. Useless. I should never have carried a pistol if I had not the intention to draw it and use it from the first.

  “Anthony’s death is a burden to me still,” Trenchard ssid. “It was a regrettable necessity, and we all miss him.” He smiled. “He was funny, did you know that? Made a man laugh. A lovely companion, when you got him going. Bit of a crank on the Negro, but those lectures attracted marvelous women. Positively swooning, every one of them. A man could take his pick. But Anthony had to get it into his skull that he could save the world by marrying a prostitute…” He smiled, and tilted his head to summon Bates. “Take that damned stick away from him, would you, Billy? And you, Jones. Make no mistake. Your death would not be a burden to me. Give him the stick, now. Nicely.”

  I let Bates have my cane. He tossed it into the fire.

  “Now,” Trenchard said, “I suggest we all go for a ride. You will see me off, won’t you, Billy? Then you can see off Captain Jones.”

  “Charlie, I…”

  “You know what you owe me, Billy. Your family would disinherit you.”

  “Charlie, they’ll know. They’ll know we did it.”

  Trenchard grinned. “They’ll know you did it. But don’t worry. Daddy’s money will put it right.” He looked at me, head to foot, then back again. “Do you really think anybody’s going to care?”

  “I’ll see you in prison,” I told him.

  “Well, first you’ll see me to the rail depot. Then you can discuss your future with Captain Bates. Out now. Down the stairs and into the coach. Or I’ll put a bullet into your spine.”

  The stairs were harder going down than coming up. But I still had my pistol.

  I heard Bates laugh behind me. “Don’t he look like a little turtle, though, Charlie? Don’t he just?”

  We reached the street just as two provost men rode up. I could not see Trenchard, who stayed behind me, but he must have slipped the derringer into his pocket again, for the cavalrymen did not alert to the danger. They dismounted behind the coach, weapons holstered, and paused in the cast of the gaslamp. Too many officers for them to feel confident.

  Molloy stood in his rags, soothing the coach’s lead horse, treating it to his blarney. Our eyes met and I said:

  “Attock Fort.”

  Now there is only one man in the world other than me to whom such a battle cry would make sense, and though he was a lying, conniving, and blaspheming Irishman of the lowest orders, I was grateful for him that day.

  “Get in the coach,” Trenchard hissed. “No nonsense.”

  But Molloy come swaggering up the pavement, prancing like a minstrel in a blackface show. He called to the provost men and pointed, with a gesture big as the Hindoo Kush, at Trenchard and Bates.

  “There’s your murderers,” he called. “Them two fine ones there. And they’re bothering poor Captain Jones.”

  Mick Tyrone come legging it around the corner.

  “Everybody stop,” Trenchard shouted. “Stay where you are. Just stop.”

  Oh, there is beauty in surprise.

  I turned and gave Bates the full of my fist in his jaw. I had not the force of my good-legged days, still it dropped him to his knees. And I caught sight of Trenchard, with the great fear in him now. His derringer was out again, and pointed at me. Not three feet off, he pulled one of the triggers.

  It misfired. They are lovely, untrustworthy little weapons.

  One of the provost men went for his pistol. Trenchard turned the derringer on him, jerking the second trigger. This time the little pistol worked.

  The trooper staggered back a step, with a look of wonder on his face. The pistol dropped from his hand. “Cripes,” he said, “I’m shot.” And he sat down in the street.

  Now the derringer was useless, with one misfire and the other barrel discharged. But the second provost man just put his hands in the air. “For the love of God,” he said, “don’t shoot me, sir.”

  Then it went wild. Trenchard dove for the fallen pistol, and got it. But I had my Colt up in my hand, the action primed.

  I would have put him down then and there, if Bates had not slammed me behind my bad knee.

  I went down flat. But Bates paid. The bullet meant for me caught him in the chest. And Trenchard was a deadly shot.

  Trenchard was on his feet again. He pistol-whipped the second trooper across the face and leapt up on the man’s horse. Mick Tyrone threw himself at the back of the animal, grabbing onto the saddle, and the horse spun round, lifting its hooves and dancing. Twas only the animal’s confusion that saved Tyrone from worse than he got. Trenchard let off a shot with the trooper’s pistol and Mick twisted back on the cobbles, with a bloody rip out of his arm.

  Trenchard lashed the horse. He had no spurs, but he kicked it hard and brought it around. I strained for a clear shot, but the coach got in the way. And Trenchard went off at a gallop.

  I ran into the street. Pistol raised. But I would as likely have hit an innocent as him at that range, with only the gaslamps to light my aim.

  I will tell you of the size and shape of my anger. Twas so great it conquered the worst of my fears. Bad leg or no, I scrambled onto the other trooper’s horse. I could only find one stirrup, and it sat me at a tilt. But I kicked the beast’s flanks and lashed her neck with the reins and shouted as I had seen and heard men do. They must have been stablemates and long companions, those two horses, for mine took off after Trenchard’s mount as if reading my thoughts. I clung to the saddle with my left hand, the pistol and a great tuft of mane in the other.

  Trenchard did not turn for the station. He galloped down K Street, heading west. I saw it all clearly then. He was riding for Georgetown and the Aqueduct to Virginia. Going South, where his father’s bonds would save him.

  Now I don’t know if the horse caught my rage, or if it only wanted to rejoin its companion, but we seemed to gain on Trenchard as the blocks fell away. Perhaps I only had the better of the horses. It is certain I was not the better rider. I bounced and banged and clung.

  Trenchard’s white blur of face glanced back at me.

  Where
strollers paused, I shouted, “Stop that man,” and many another silliness. But those citizens who were out for the evening air only looked on in curiosity. The war had brought them stranger sights, and greater madnesses, and we were none of their affair.

  I heard a frantic galloping come up behind me. Twas that no-good Molloy, on a nag he stole. Waving a pistol the size of a ham haunch.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” he yelped. “I’ve jined the bleedin‘ cavalry.”

  Trenchard fired back over his saddle. The bullet sizzled by.

  We came to the intersection with Pennsylvania Avenue, narrowing Trenchard’s lead all the while. But that only made him more dangerous, a killer on a poor horse. He fired again. The sound passed closer. I had all I could do to stay on my mount and could not fire. But Molloy had all the fearlessness of a drunk. He let go the reins and laid his pistol’s barrel across his left forearm. He must have seen a picture of a red Indian doing it in a weekly illustrated. And he fired. Trenchard’s horse reared.

  When Trenchard spurred the animal on again, blood shot from its flank like the jet of a fountain.

  Trenchard lashed the beast and hammered its neck with his pistol. A carriage pulled into the avenue and he almost collided with it. But he was horseman enough to pull up in time.

  He had not a block on us now. But the driver lost control of the carriage’s team and it come careening at us. My horse bolted onto the sidewalk and a gaslamp nearly took off my head. A fellow in a top hat backed against a building, with a look of indignation on his mug. Molloy got in a tangle betwixt the runaway carriage and an omnibus headed for Georgetown.

  I was more afraid to stop and think about what I was doing than I was of the bullets. It is the way of the old soldier. You go forward because it is the easiest thing of all.

  Wounded, Trenchard’s horse moped off its pace, no matter the whippings he gave it. He turned, saw me, and fired again, shattering the window of a grocer’s shop. Then he kicked the animal to life a last time and turned its head off to the left, leaving the avenue. Twas 21st Street, I think, though that chase will ever be something of a blur.