“From what I’ve seen,” said Beauregard, “I’d take Hercules against those acrobats any time. Granted, if it’s a kicking fight, they’re high kickers, as high as Miss Sallie’s dancers, or just about. Never seen fighting like that—and hope I never will either: prettier than effective, I’d reckon. Also, not sure about that card sharp Fu Yu. I tried to tell him a lady’s fan has no chance against a gun, a tomahawk, or a knife.”
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing—just flipped his fan open and stared at me like a basilisk.”
“Don’t be fooled by appearances; he’s an impressive man. You saw his work on the chicken drive.”
“Why, yes, Yankee General, sir, that was an impressive bit of work—best I’ve ever seen from a Chinese magician on a chicken drive.”
I was glad to have my opinion confirmed. “So, what do you have there, Major?” I said, indicating the account book.
“Been toting up our supplies, and by my calculations we can hold this position longer than those Texas boys held the Alamo.”
“But with a different outcome, I trust.”
“Well, they had Travis and Crockett and Bowie . . .”
“Yes?
“. . . and we’ve got you, Yankee General, sir, and a critter company more irregular than Forrest’s cavalry.”
“We’ll have the saloon, tomorrow.”
“Well that’s something—bourbon for the officers.”
“Larsen’ll be cautious until his hired guns arrive; that’ll give us time. You can inventory the saloon in the morning; might be enough food there for another few days.”
“Food, yes, but, Yankee General, sir, you’ve given me an idea: that saloon probably has more bourbon than a Kentucky colonel has horses.”
“Well, yes, I suppose, Major. It is a saloon.”
“What I mean, sir, is that we could use that to great effect.”
“I doubt it, Major. You might be a drinking man, but an Oriental army led by a teetotaler and an Indian scout doesn’t need much medicinal whiskey. None of us can hold our liquor.”
“Actually, sir, I was thinking about our defensive position. Here we are at the hotel,” he said, planting the salt shaker. “Here’s the saloon next door,” he said, moving the pepper into position, “and this is the boarded-up church,” he said, repositioning the sugar bowl. “Now, Yankee General, sir, imagine the surrounding environs of Bloody Gulch, and what’s our greatest vulnerability?”
“Well, our salt and pepper shakers are effectively surrounded,” I said, plucking a couple of napkins from a neighboring table and placing them around the condiments, “we’re badly outnumbered; we can’t defend our chickens, let alone anything else; we lack artillery and most especially cavalry; and we can’t even pray for a miracle unless we fix up that church. If I had my druthers, Major—and the livery stable had the horses . . .” I plucked a knife from a set of silverware and used it to flip aside one of the napkins. “We’d charge out of here, with every man, woman, and child of Bloody Gulch securely mounted; and I’d race Larsen’s men to the safety of Fort Ellis—and beat them there as sure as Phil Sheridan. But besides being surrounded and outnumbered—and trapped—and our supplies limited to what we can requisition from the hotel, the saloon, and the General Store, I’d say we’re fine.”
“Well, sir, a man besieged can turn things to his own advantage, or so Marse Robert used to tell us. Think about a cornered wildcat. His one advantage is that no one can hit him from behind. His enemy—his tormentors—might be bigger, stronger, more numerous, but he knows exactly where they are: right in front of him. Turn that wildcat into a man, give him a rifle, put him behind some cover, and everything in front of him becomes a target.”
“Your point, Major?”
“My point, Yankee General, sir, is that we can turn our position here into a defensible, tight, little island by digging a trench—a sort of moat, like the Bloody Gulch itself—around our two strongholds, the hotel and the saloon—and incorporating the church and the school, because we don’t want them to fall to the vandals, do we? But more than that, sir, what if we lined the back half of the trench, behind the hotel and the saloon, with tin? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sir, but there are some tin roofs just cryin’ to be put to better use. We block that section off, fill it with liquor, and set it alight: no enemy could cross that. Instead of attacking us from all sides, we’d force our enemy to the front; and we can reinforce our front with some homemade obstacles and wire entanglements and maybe breastworks.”
“By Jove, Major, that’s brilliant.”
“Well, Yankee General, sir, we learned some hard lessons at Petersburg.”
“On both sides, Major, on both sides.”
“Sure enough, but I have something else in mind too. Have you ever seen a map of the Battle of New Orleans—not Beast Butler’s, but Old Hickory’s? His force was ragamuffin too—no Chinese acrobats to be sure, but pirates under Jean Lafitte, blacks and coloreds, free and slave, Indians I reckon, militia of course, and some good ole Southrons with squirrel guns facing off against the British army—and he forced the British to attack down a sort of funnel, as I recollect. Don’t know why we can’t do the same.”
“No reason indeed.”
“Now, of course, he did have field batteries, which we lack, and a real army and all, but . . .”
“But it’s a plan,” I said, warming to the idea.
“In my humble opinion, sir, Old Hickory was the best general this country ever had between Washington and Lee—and if that plan was good enough for him, I reckon we can get by with it too.”
“We might not have artillery, Major, but Larsen’s men aren’t redcoats, either.”
“No, sir, they aren’t. More to the point, then, Yankee General, sir, I have your permission to take possession of all such liquor as I require and to rip this town to pieces for our common defense?”
“Not only do you have my permission, Major, I order you to do it.”
“Thank, you, Yankee General, sir. We’ll start tomorrow with hammers and shovels—form a regular work party.”
“Well done.”
“Also, Yankee General, sir, Sergeant Bill Crow has returned from scouting the enemy. His report: they’re tightening the noose. Company men are posted at every farm. Indian war parties are riding patrols in between. We got Miss Isabel out in time, sir, but the others . . .”
I smacked my right fist into my left palm. “We’ll rescue them, Major. We have to.”
“Long and the short of it, sir, is that in Billy Jack’s estimation they’re pinning us in place—either for an Indian attack, like the one that roasted our English cousin, Delingpole, or for Larsen’s hired outlaws.”
“I left Larsen at the saloon. We could grab him now—make him a hostage.”
“I reckon he’s got a praetorian guard of pistoleros just waitin’ for you to try that, sir. They’d gun you down—in self-defense, mind you—and then we’re all at their mercy.”
“You’re right, Major, might not be prudent.”
“If it were to be done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done later, I reckon.”
“What was that, Major?”
“If we’re going to grab him, sir, I think we’d be well advised to grab him at a strategic time of our choosing. Billy Jack knows where the Company headquarters is, the Trading Post; he says there’s always a passel of Sioux and Cheyenne lingering around it, but . . .”
“No, I mean, what you just said—Hamlet?”
“Up North they might call it that, sir. But my point is that instead of grabbing him at the saloon, which they might be expecting, and might end up with you getting killed—what if we, in due time, slipped out and surprised at him at the Trading Post.”
“And run a gantlet of Indians?”
“At night—most’ll be asleep.”
I stuck my tongue in my cheek and was doubtful.
“I’m a gambling man by profession,” continued Beauregard, “and if
you want my professional opinion, I’d wait for the element of surprise. That’s what Mosby would do. And I reckon the moral effect on Larsen’s men—having him pulled from under their noses, at night, when they’ll wake up confused—would be a heap more powerful, as Billy Jack might say, than a run-of-the-mill gunfight in a saloon. Think about old George Washington at Trenton, sir.”
I gave a long commanding stare at Beauregard’s exposed eye; it betrayed nothing. “All right,” I said, “tomorrow morning we take possession of the saloon; then, in due course, at the Trading Post, we’ll capture Larsen.”
“In disguise,” said Beauregard. “As Indians.”
“As Indians?”
“Yes, Yankee General, sir: another element of surprise—sort of like those Boston boys at the Tea Party.”
“Very well, then, as Indians,” I agreed, without the slightest idea how we would do that.
Our roosters crowed us awake. Given our shortage of manpower, they acted as sentries and sounders of reveille. After accidentally sitting on Billy Jack (he was huddled under blankets and looking out the window, and my bleary eyes mistook him for a chair), I completed my morning ablutions and tripped down the stairs to the hotel parlor and breakfast.
Awaiting me was Rachel with plates of bacon and eggs and biscuits and cups of coffee for the two of us. “I knew you to be an early riser, General,” she said, “so I tried to be ready for you.”
“Thank you so much, Rachel.”
“My pleasure, General. I was hoping we could talk.”
“Of course, my dear—what about?”
“About this town, about the trouble we’re in, about . . . you do—please tell me you do—have a plan to get us out of here, don’t you, General? The girls—Miss Saint-Jean’s girls and Isabel—seem to think we’re in danger.”
“We are—but there’s no reason to fret; the challenge is not beyond my military powers. In fact, I see our position as somewhat similar to that confronted by Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans—and that, my dear, led to one of the greatest victories in American military history. I intend to smash the enemy here and then ride our wagons over his bones to our next theatrical engagement.”
“You think we can?”
“I think it is a certainty. I expect we’ll have theatrical engagements from here to San Francisco and back again—perhaps all the way to New York.”
“No, I mean, you think we can escape?”
“The Largo Trading Company? This town? Of course! There’s nothing standing in our way aside from an army of company gunmen—untrained, I reckon; a handful of hired assassins; and outlaws have no discipline—and an unknown number of Sioux and Cheyenne war parties; and I’ve dealt with them before.”
“Yes, I saw one of those battles.”
“That one was a fluke. You know my reputation. You trusted me to lead you to safety—and look at you now, tucked away here in Bloody Gulch, as safe as a treed possum with a lifetime’s supply of fruit, crickets, and snails. It’s only a question of strategy. The major and I spent most of the night developing a defensive plan, drilling our Chinamen in infantry tactics, and thinking up appropriate punishments if they miss roll call this morning, which I expect they will. Whether we break out—which I would love to do—or if we massacre the enemy on our front porch, our victory is a foregone conclusion. The key question is a business one: should we head east or west for our next theatrical engagement?”
“I’m so glad you’re thinking of business,” said the unmistakably businesslike tones of Miss Saint-Jean, waltzing into the parlor. “My balance sheet could certainly use some—in the column dedicated to income and profits. But I assume, as usual, Marshal, that you’re planning on killing my customers rather than putting them in the stalls.” She wore a purple hat that reminded me of Robin Hood and a corset of royal purple that did not, along with black stockings and shoes with heels so long that they could have been used for dowsing rods. “I assume you don’t mind if I join you—I own this hotel now, don’t I?”
“And the saloon, ma’am. I hope to take possession this morning. I concluded negotiations last night.”
“You did, did you? For a good price, I hope.”
“One federal dollar, ma’am, which I paid on your behalf, after all you’ve done for me.”
“A grateful man is a rare find,” she said to Rachel. “I guess I’m obliged to you, Marshal, even if that dollar was mine to begin with.”
“I am not only grateful, ma’am, but dutiful and devoted. I intend to make your troop immortal in the memory of our countrymen. As men today venerate the memory of Andrew Jackson, so too will future generations remember with pride how Miss Sallie Saint-Jean’s Showgirls and Follies, commanded by General Custer, won the Battle of the Bloody Gulch Hotel, Spa, Saloon, and Theatre.”
“Uh, Marshal, I believe your name is not General Custer, but Marshal Armstrong,” reminded Miss Saint-Jean.
“Oh, yes, so it is.”
“I also believe I need some coffee.”
“Oh, I’ll get it for you,” said Rachel, and she skipped away to the kitchen with a lightness of foot that I credited to her recent work on the stage.
“So, you bought me a saloon. Well, I suppose I should be bubbling with gratitude; but in sheer business terms that saloon is probably worth what you paid for it; it’s lacking a certain something, don’t you think?”
“Customers, you mean.”
“Precisely—Boss Larsen won’t want his men drinking there anymore, will he? And given the rate at which you eliminate customers, I’m not sure you’re the best business partner I could have.”
“Ma’am, if you mean to impugn my business acumen, feel free. I do not claim to be a businessman. I am what I am—a soldier, a writer, and perhaps in my retirement I could join you on the stage. For now, I am impersonating a marshal and leading an army of acrobats—and doing so, I will remind you, at your suggestion.”
“My suggestion was that you put that badge of yours to good use. And I guess you are trying, Marshal. But good intentions, as I’ve told many a man, are not enough. A woman expects a man to be capable—to be handy—to do something, to be something.”
“Well, I must say, madam, being the youngest general in the Union Army was certainly something; being a household name for military valor was certainly something; entertaining a wide readership with tales from my life on the plains was certainly something.” Before I could add that marrying you, Libbie, was certainly something, Rachel returned with a coffee pot in one hand and a cup for Miss Saint-Jean in the other. Her appearance prevented me from responding further to Miss Saint-Jean’s unwarranted remarks. Rachel set the pot on a trivet on the table, poured Miss Saint-Jean a cup, and said, “Would you like me to fry you some eggs, ma’am?”
“No, dearie, I’ve found that coffee is all I need—that and Marshal Armstrong’s counsel; it’s so helpful in navigating life’s calamities, most of which come from Marshal Armstrong.”
“If you want my advice,” I said commandingly, “I would say to stay here while I go to the saloon.”
“Whatever for?—I have been in a saloon before, Marshal.”
“It’s not that. It might not be safe.”
“Is anything safe when you’re involved?”
“I mean there is a chance that Larsen will have set a trap for me—or for us. He knows I’m coming to pick up the papers. He might have arranged an ambush.”
“I’ll take my chances, Marshal. There isn’t a man who’s ambushed me yet—except maybe you. Now finish up; I want to get to work. And where is that man Smithers? If he intends to stay in my employ, he needs to manage that kitchen.”
“Oh, I don’t mind doing it,” said Rachel. “I like being helpful.”
“Nonsense, no ward of Marshal Armstrong’s should be a scullery maid.” Then she inclined to Rachel and said, as if in confidence, “Never do something when a man can do it for you. They’re the ones who need things to do—and they might as well do them for us. Our job, d
earie, is to keep them busy, preoccupied, and entertained. Not a bad racket once you get the hang of it.”
I felt I should excuse myself from this womanly conversation, but just as I was about to stand and take my leave, I saw Beauregard and Billy Jack slouching on opposite sides of the doorway to the parlor; their opposing angles reminded me of the top half of a saltire.
“Good morning, ladies, and, Yankee General, sir. Thought I smelled coffee, and I reckoned you might need help drinking it.”
“Why, take a seat, Mr. Gillette,” said Miss Saint-Jean, “and you, Mr. Indian . . .”
“Sergeant Bill Crow,” I reminded.
“Sergeant Crow, will you please go find Mr. Smithers and threaten to scalp him unless he gets cooking in the kitchen? I have a bevy of young ladies who will soon be joining us and expecting their morning coffee.”
He saluted, which he needn’t have done—Miss Saint-Jean held no official rank in our army—and said, “Yes, ma’am,” and, as Indians do, seemingly evaporated.
Beauregard strutted in and I thought, not for the first time, how Southern gentlemen often seem to mistake themselves for high-stepping stallions.
Rachel said, “Let me get you a cup, Mr. Gillette.”
“I do declare, Miss Rachel, you are the sweetest child in creation.”
I eyed him with appropriate suspicion, but Miss Saint-Jean redirected the conversation.
“So, when does the Largo Trading Company lay siege to my hotel and my saloon?”
“I reckon we have at least a few days,” I said. “Larsen will wait for his hired gunmen.”
“And if they don’t oblige you on that?”
“We’ll be ready. But I think they will. Larsen’s a boss; he’s used to getting his way; he’ll be overconfident; he’ll think that because he’s got us surrounded he can take his time and do things his way. But we’ll have a few surprises for him.”
After our convivial breakfast, the four of us (Beauregard, Billy Jack, Miss Saint-Jean, and your devoted husband) strolled down to the saloon—at first with the careless happiness that follows a good meal and good company. But as we approached the saloon, I whispered for them to be quiet, and I put my hand on Miss Saint-Jean’s shoulder to restrain her from moving ahead. As I did so, I marveled at its perfect roundness; how strong and supple it felt; how much like your own shoulder, dearest Libbie; and I wondered whether women gain strength from opening their arms to the elements; whether they gain power from exposing stockinged legs to bracing drafts; whether they gain balance from walking in perilous high heels. I am, as you know, Libbie, not much of a scientist, but even my mind can be inspired to scientific inquiry with the proper stimulus.
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