As a Blue Shirt, he hadn’t had to think much at all except to stay one step ahead of those who’d do him harm. He’d been as clever as anyone at not being caught, but it didn’t involve much thinking. It just seemed to come to him.
In St. Louis he’d lived for his nights of drinking and gambling and sometimes a woman when he felt the need. Not much thinking was called for and he liked it that way.
Now here he was, a cavalryman. He hadn’t wanted to be one. Once again life forced him into something against his will. Life did that a lot. A person was going along minding his own business and Life walked up and said, “A fine day to you!” and kicked him in the teeth.
He’d figured to serve his hitch and get the hell out. He had no interest in the army. His whole concern was to stay alive. But now something good had happened, really good, as he saw it, and he needed to think what to do.
James touched the two bars he’d sewn onto his uniform. Unlike a lot of the men, he was good at sewing. He had his mother to thank. She’d taught him how as a boy.
He was a corporal now. To some that might not be much, but to him it was a lot. He had made something of himself. Accidentally, to be sure, but a corporal was better than a private, and it had occurred to him that if he did well enough, if he applied himself, he might even make sergeant.
So here he was, sitting in the grass and thinking on whether he should reconsider this army business and take it more seriously.
James looked down at himself. He liked the uniform, the color of it, and the feel of it. He’d never owned boots and unlike a lot of the others, he rather enjoyed polishing them until they shone. He swung the Spencer carbine from behind his back and stared at it. Such a grand weapon. He never in his life imagined he’d have a rifle of any kind. Maybe it wasn’t his, strictly, but the army entrusted him with it, and that was enough.
The army. It wasn’t the hell he’d expected. The work wasn’t all that hard. At first he hadn’t liked getting rousted out of bed so early, but now he was used to it. The officers were decent enough. The bossing around they did they had to do because they were in charge, so he didn’t resent it as much as he might. And now as a corporal he got to do a wee bit of bossing around himself. He grinned at that.
Yes, James Marion Doyle, he told himself in his head, you’ve lucked into something here. Maybe he should make the most of it. The first step would be to learn to ride better. It was god-awful stupid for a cavalryman to ride as poorly as he did. He would work at it.
Coming to a decision, he got up, swung the carbine behind him, brushed himself off, and walked back. Finding Sergeant Heston wasn’t difficult; he listened for the bellows. The sergeant was tearing into a sloppily dressed recruit. James waited, and when the recruit withered and slunk off, he said boldly, “Sergeant, a word with you, if you please.”
“What is it, Corporal Doyle?”
James was suddenly nervous. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll try to be the best corporal I can be.”
Heston arched an eyebrow. “Well, now,” he said, and he almost smiled. “Like those bars, do you?”
James touched them as he had out on the knoll. “They mean more to me than I thought they would,” he admitted.
Sergeant Heston clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “That’s good to hear.” He pursed his lips and rocked on his heels. “I’ll give you some advice if you care to listen.”
“I’m all ears, Sergeant.”
“You’re not a bad soldier, Doyle. You’re not a great one, but you’re not bad.” Heston held up a hand when Doyle went to speak. “Stick to the basics. They’re simple enough. Always carry out orders to the letter. Always put the welfare of the men before anything. And never try to be a hero.”
“Sergeant?”
“What confuses you? That hero part? Sooner or later we’ll go up against the red devils we’re being sent to subdue. When that happens, do your duty. Keep a cool head. Don’t be reckless. Don’t jump into danger when there’s no need. I’ve seen too many your age who thought that courage was enough to see them through and it’s not.”
“It isn’t?”
“Doyle, anyone can be brave. All it takes is guts. Or as the captain might say, the will not to run when the arrows are flying. But to keep a calm head, there’s the trick. Stay calm and do your duty and you might last long enough to become like me.” Heston smiled.
“I’d like that, Sergeant.”
Heston coughed and said, “Well, then. Our visitors will be here soon and I have things to attend to. If there’s nothing else?”
“Visitors?”
“Have you forgotten, Doyle? It’s Sunday. We’re about to be swarmed with petticoats.”
“Oh. That’s right.” James had forgotten, what with his new bars and all.
“A last word of advice,” Sergeant Heston said, and grinned and winked. “A man must always remember what’s important in this life.”
“Petticoats are important, Sergeant?”
“They sure as hell are.”
17
James had had her on his mind all week. At night when he lay on his back staring at the top of the tent, he would see her golden tresses and her blue eyes and red lips and he would yearn in a way he had never yearned before.
James had known more than a few painted ladies back in Five Points. Ladies who liked a frolic. Ladies who didn’t expect a man to stick around after.
In St. Louis there were a few he fancied. He’d treat them to drinks and sometimes a meal, and he’d then get to it and be on with his life. He never wanted anything more. He never desired a home and kids and all of that. But when he thought about her, he sometimes daydreamed about the two of them with a house and a family. What was happening to him? he wondered. He’d only just met the girl, only ever seen her once and barely talked to her, and here he was, dreaming of the two of them together forever. It was silly.
Yet it wasn’t so silly that he wasn’t among the many troopers waiting for the carriages and wagons to arrive. It wasn’t so silly that he hadn’t polished his boots. It wasn’t so silly that he hadn’t gone to the river and picked a handful of flowers and now had them secreted under his shirt.
The visitors arrived and spread among the soldiers. James craned his neck, checking each wagon and carriage, but didn’t see her. He moved about, searching without trying to appear too eager. He didn’t spot her anywhere. He had convinced himself she hadn’t come and was mentally calling himself all sorts of names for being so childish when a hand fell lightly on his arm from behind.
“Here you are, Private Doyle. Land sakes, we’ve been looking all over for you.”
James turned and his heart leaped into his throat. Mother and daughter were finely dressed and both had parasols over their shoulders.
Mrs. Craydon grinned and said, “Did you forget about us?”
“Oh, no, never,” James said. “I was searching for you my own self.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Margaret. She was staring at the ground, and holding a pie. He tried to greet her and his throat wouldn’t work. It was stuck, somehow.
Coughing, he forced out “It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am. Both of you.”
“Why, thank you,” Mrs. Craydon said. “I’ll tell you what. It’s such a gorgeous day, why don’t we go sit by the river and treat ourselves to what we brought?”
“That would be grand.” James was careful not to brush against them or touch them since he had heard that was how gentlemen behaved. “And it’s not Private Doyle anymore, ma’am.”
“It’s not?”
With considerable pride, James touched the inverted V. “It’s Corporal Doyle now.”
“Why, so it is,” Mrs. Craydon declared. “You’ve been promoted already? How marvelous. Isn’t it marvelous, Margaret? Take a look, will you? Congratulate the boy.”
Margaret dutifully raised her head. Her blue eyes glimmered as James remembered and her lips were ripe strawberries. “Congratulations,” she said softly.
&nb
sp; “Thank you.”
“Coming down with something, are you?” Mrs. Craydon asked.
“Ma’am?”
“Your voice. You sound kind of hoarse.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. It must be the dust.”
A lot of others were already along the river. James picked a spot where the bank sloped to the water’s edge. The ladies tucked their legs under them and gracefully sat. He perched next to the mother, but he would really rather sit next to Margaret.
Mrs. Craydon had a big bag. From it she took a pink blanket, which she spread on the grass. She set small plates out along with forks and a knife.
“You’ve thought of everything, ma’am,” James said.
“Well, we can’t have the ants getting in our food, now, can we?” Mrs. Craydon chuckled.
“I suppose not.”
Mrs. Craydon sat back with her arms across her knees. “You have the pie, Margaret. Why don’t you do the honors?”
Margaret placed the pie in the middle of the blanket and picked up the knife. “Apple.”
“I beg your pardon,” James said.
“It’s apple,” Margaret said so softly he could hardly hear her. “I hope you like it.”
“My mother used to bake apple pies when I was little. I liked them a lot.”
Mrs. Craydon wriggled and grinned. “Margaret made this one herself. I offered to help but she wouldn’t have it. Said she had to bake it for you with her own two hands.”
James’s skin grew warm as if with a heat rash. “She did that just for me?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Craydon confirmed with an emphatic nod. “That girl about shooed me out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, Ma,” Margaret said. She was blushing.
“If I am lying, may the good Lord strike me dead.”
Margaret cut the pie in half and then into quarters and then cut it again. She used the knife to pry a slice out and placed it on a plate and handed the plate to her mother.
“What are you doing, child?”
“Ladies first,” Margaret said. “That’s what you’ve always taught me.”
“No, no, no. In most circumstances. But we brought the pie for Pri—I’m sorry, for Corporal Doyle. So by rights the first slice should go to him.”
Margaret’s hands shifted and held the plate toward James, her face averted. “Corporal Doyle.”
“Thank you,” James said, and nearly dropped the plate accepting it. He quickly put it on his lap.
“Don’t forget to give him a fork,” Mrs. Craydon said.
They sat eating in the green grass with butterflies flitting about and the river flowing serenely past.
“Isn’t this nice?” Mrs. Craydon said.
“I’ve never known anything nicer,” James agreed. He was looking at Margaret when he said it.
The pie was delicious. James ate every last speck to show Margaret how much he liked it.
Mrs. Craydon finished hers, deposited her plate on the blanket, and unexpectedly stood. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Ma’am?” James said in some surprise.
“I have people I’d like to give my regards. Would you sit here with Margaret until I get back? I wouldn’t care to leave her without a chaperone, what with all these other young men around.” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Craydon twirled her parasol and walked off.
James was flabbergasted. He didn’t even know what a chaperone was. What was he supposed to do? To cover his consternation he said, “The pie was delicious, ma’am.”
“Please don’t,” Margaret said.
“Ma’am?”
“Call my mother ma’am but not me. Call me Margaret. Or Marge. Or the ones I like best, which are Peggy or Peg. But don’t ever call me ma’am. It makes me sound old.”
“I’m sorry,” James said. “I was being polite.”
“You do that well,” she said, and smiled.
“Peg,” James said.
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just trying how it sounded.”
“Oh.” Peg leaned back and gazed at the sky. “She did that on purpose, you know.”
“Did what?”
“She left us alone so we could talk.”
“That was nice of her.”
Peggy looked at him. She looked him right in the eye and asked, “What do you think of me, Corporal Doyle?”
“James. If I can call you Peg, you can call me James. That’s only right.”
“What do you think of me, James?”
James was unsure what he should say, so he hedged by answering, “I don’t really know you.”
“All right, then. Let me put it another way. Do you find me at all pretty?”
James was taken aback. Was this the shy girl of just a few minutes ago? “I think you’re pretty as can be.”
“Tell the truth,” Peg said. “I know I’m not a beauty. Oh, my hair is nice enough, and everyone says I have nice eyes. But my nose is too long and my ears are too big, and I am more plump than most girls my age, although you can’t really tell that, can you?”
“Why are you telling me all this?” James asked in extreme puzzlement.
“I’m being honest with you and I’d like for you to be honest with me.” Peg sat up. “I’ll ask you again. Do you find me at all pretty?”
“I’ve never met anyone prettier.”
“I don’t know how that can be, but all right.” Peg glanced about them. “Slide closer.”
“What?”
“Are you hard of hearing? Sit closer to me so we can talk without anyone hearing.” Peg patted the grass beside her. “We need to work this out before she comes back.”
If there was ever a time in his whole life when James was more confused, he couldn’t think of it. He slid over and immediately felt the warmth of her body through his uniform. It was like sitting next to the sun. “Work out what?”
“Us.”
“Peg,” he said, and took a deep breath, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Peggy studied his face, and nodded. “Lordy, you’re handsome.”
“You said that the last time.”
“And you haven’t gotten ugly since, so it’s still true. Maybe other girls wouldn’t agree, but to me you’re as handsome as can be.”
“Well, now,” James said.
“Listen,” Peg said, and glanced around again. “You know why we’re here, don’t you? All the mothers and their daughters?”
“To thank us for defending the frontier.”
“There’s that, yes. But for some of us there’s more. Some of the mothers bring their daughters to find them husbands. Or possible husbands, I should say.”
“They do?”
“God in heaven, how did you make corporal? Ma and me have been here half a dozen times, but I didn’t see anyone who interested me until I saw you.”
“Well, now.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“I can’t think of anything else.”
“All right. I think you’re handsome and you think I’m pretty. Is that enough for you to court me? Would you even like to?”
“Where did your shyness get to?” James bluntly asked. This was moving too fast. He needed to ponder on exactly what he did want.
“Confound it, James. Pay attention. I was raised on a farm in the middle of nowhere, and I hate it. I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife. A soldier’s wife, now, that would be different. There are no fields to plow and cows to milk. It’s more ladylike. And I’d like that. So I talked my ma into bringing me to these affairs, and I’ve been looking for a man to take me out of the life I hate and that man can be you if you want it to be. We have to start somewhere, so what I’m saying is you can court me. Write to me, visit me. And if you come to like me and I come to like you, then if you’re of a mind, you can ask for my hand and I will gladly give it to you.”
She said it so fast that James was a minute absorbing it all. “You make it sound like we’re start
ing up a business.”
“So?”
“Shouldn’t there be some romance somewhere?”
Peggy’s shy look returned. “That has to come natural. If the attraction is real, it will. You’ll have more than you’ll know what to do with, I promise.”
James coughed.
“For now we need to start it off right.” Peg adjusted her bonnet and smoothed her dress. “James Marion Doyle, do you want to court me?”
Thinking that Sergeant Heston would be proud of him, James grinned and said, “I sure do.”
18
The weeks became a routine of training for six days and Peg’s visits on Sundays.
James and his tent mates spent hours every evening talking and joking. He got to know them well. Dorf, for all his size and immense strength, was a kid at heart. Cormac was a rock and the best soldier of any of them. Newcomb had a breadth of knowledge far exceeding James’s own. James wondered how that could be since Newcomb spent his whole life on a small farm and then one day he discovered the answer. Newcomb liked to read and devoured everything in print he got his hands on.
To James it was nice to have friends again. He’d been in a gang for so long, the life of a loner didn’t suit him. One evening as he was about to turn in before lights out, he gazed about the tent. He really liked these men and they liked him. One for all, as Newcomb was always saying. Friends through thick and thin. It was a good feeling.
He had a lot more good feelings on Sundays. All week he looked forward to Peg’s coming, and each Sunday when he first caught sight of her, he’d feel a special warmth. Her mother always came to chaperone but then would considerately leave them alone for long spells. Those were the times he enjoyed the most. Peg was as much a friend as Dorf and Cormac and Newcomb, and so much more. Her smile meant the world to him, and he loved to hear her laugh. She told him all about how it was for her growing up, and he learned more about women from her than he had from anyone, even his mother.
Peg was delightfully feminine. She loved when he gave her flowers. She liked to go for strolls along the river, and when no one was looking, she would hold his hand and walk so close their bodies brushed.
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