by Eric Flint
They shared a laugh at that. Sheff decided he liked Winfield Scott. Not that he could imagine ever being what you could call a real friend of the man, given the chasm of their origins. Although…who could say what the future might bring? As each year—each month—passed, Sheff was finding the future less and less predictable.
It was an enjoyable sensation, even a thrilling one, for an eighteen-year-old who could well remember how the future had looked not more than two years earlier. Extremely predictable, indeed. A life—probably a short one—filled with hard labor and poverty, ending in a grave. A pauper’s grave at that.
There was a little commotion at the door. “Ah, that’ll be the workmen,” said Scott. He gave the small bedroom a quick inspection. “We’ll have to move that dresser to another room. I’ll let Julia figure that out.”
He rose and went to the door, leaving Sheff to frown at the dresser.
Why would they need to move—
The answer came within five seconds. Two men entered, carrying between them a very large oak bookcase. It was bigger than any bookcase Sheff had ever seen, except the one in the parlor of the Wolfe Tone. Behind them came two more men, each bearing boxes. From the strain in their shoulders, heavy ones.
The next few minutes were simply confusing. Scott didn’t seem to feel that explanations were needed. But when it was all done, the dresser in the corner was gone, and the bookcase was in its place. Filled with books, now.
Sheff could hear Julia talking with the workmen in the corridor beyond. Trying to decide where to put the dresser, he imagined, but he didn’t spend any time worrying about that. None of his own clothes had been in it. All of his clothes, even the two uniforms, fit into the locker that was shoved under his bed.
“There you are, Captain,” Scott said, presenting the bookcase with an outstretched hand. “Mind you, it’s only on loan, and I’ll want it back when my peregrinations are finished. Since my partner chose to leave for a few months to fetch his family, I’ll let him handle the American side of the reporting. I’m off—tomorrow, in fact—for the first of several tours of the Oklahoma front. Colonel Taylor has agreed to give me an interview. I expect I’ll be visiting the Red River region as well. But by the time that’s all done, you should be fit for active duty again.”
He wagged a finger at Sheff. “Mind you, I’ll expect them all to be in the same good condition. Some of these books took me years to track down.”
Sheff ’s expression must have finally registered on Scott.
“What?” he exclaimed. “Patrick didn’t tell you? What a troll!”
But he was smiling, quite widely. “It’s my famous military library, Captain Sheff. Patrick felt that it was time you applied yourself to your work seriously instead of lolling about in comfort and ease. General Ross agrees, with the caveat that he expects to be able to borrow from them himself. And now, I must be off. Good day.”
He paused briefly at the door and looked back. “I spoke with the surgeon, by the way. Your wound seems to be quite similar to my own. The one I acquired at Lundy’s Lane. If so, Captain, expect it to hurt off and on for the rest of your life. But there shouldn’t be any other problem of any consequence. And if pain is a major concern to you, then you’d best start looking for a different line of work.”
He was gone.
Ten seconds later, his head reappeared in the door. “One last thing. If you’re still struggling with your reading, I’d recommend you start with the biographies. The technical manuals can be quite dismal.”
Gone again. Sheff stared at the bookcase.
After a while, defying the surgeon’s orders, Sheff levered himself out of bed and began to examine the titles.
Eventually, he decided on Julius Caesar’s The Gallic War. He had no idea who the Gallics had been, but at least he’d heard of Caesar. Now that he thought about it, in fact, that might be one of the busts in the hotel.
But maybe not. It was always hard to know with the Laird. Being as he was a man who hated tyranny, but never seemed to have any trouble being a tyrant himself when he thought he needed to be.
Not that Sheff cared. Like almost everyone in New Antrim, he’d seen tyranny at its most naked. No nebulous abstraction that someone like John Randolph might declaim against, but the real faces that had murdered his father.
So if it took a tyrant to deal with that tyranny, he’d surely be the tyrant’s legionnaire. Not hesitate for an instant, not though he waded through an ocean of blood.
He’d only gotten through the first few pages, though, when there was another commotion at the door. Julia Chinn came in with a white man Sheff had never seen before.
“Will this do?” she asked.
The man shook his head vigorously. “Impossible, Mrs. Johnson. Not for what you want. We really need a much larger room, where we can place at least three chairs.”
Julia nodded and gave Sheff a quick inspection. “Can you sit upright, Captain? For—” She cocked an inquiring head at the stranger.
“Two hours at a stretch, Mrs. Johnson. Though I’d prefer three.”
Julia turned back to Sheff. “Can you manage that?”
“Oh, sure, Miz Julia. Truth is, I’d find it a relief. I get real tired of lying in bed, no matter what the surgeon says.”
“Splendid. Let’s begin at once then, since Mr. Wiedeman has the day free, and that’s hardly ever true.”
Wiedeman gave Sheff a curt nod and left. Julia moved over to help Sheff out of the bed. “That’s Lyle Wiedeman, Captain Parker. He just arrived in town less than two weeks ago. Everyone’s thrilled, of course. First real artist we’ve ever had in New Antrim. Well, painter, at least. But for this purpose, a wood-carver like Antoinette simply wouldn’t do at all.”
It was odd hearing Miz Julia talking so properly. Not that she couldn’t when she wanted to. She always did, in fact, on the frequent occasions when General Ross’s wife, Eliza, came to visit. But Sheff wasn’t accustomed to hearing her talk like that when just he and the girls were around.
After she helped him to his feet, she shook her head, smiling widely, and indicated his bedclothes with a finger. “And that won’t do at all, either. Can you manage to put on your uniform, Captain? The dress uniform, I mean.”
“I might need some help with the coatee, Miz Julia, but I can do the rest. If you give me just a few minutes.”
“Certainly. But there’s one other thing, Captain, I’d much appreciate.”
“Yes, Miz Julia?”
“That. It won’t do all, either. Not any longer. So I must insist.”
The words were said sternly—whatever they meant—but she was smiling more widely than ever.
“I don’t understand, Miz Julia.”
“Mrs. Johnson, Captain. That’s my name. Please use it, henceforth.”
CHAPTER 43
By the time Sheff got into his uniform, Mrs. Johnson helping him with the coatee, and made it out into the boardinghouse’s salon, he discovered that the whole room had been rearranged. Lyle Wiedeman had an easel set up to one side, with a large blank canvas, and paints of various kind on a small table next to it. The divan that normally occupied pride of place in the room had been moved against one of the walls. The boardinghouse’s owner, Susan Wilson, was perched on its edge watching the activities, with her grandchildren—all six of them—filling the rest of the divan.
Fortunately, it was one of the crudely made but sturdy pieces of furniture produced by the McParland Furniture Company in Fort of 98. The young children were rambunctious, climbing all over the thing, and Mrs. Wilson was not being her usual stern taskmistress self. The widow’s dark eyes were bright with interest at the unusual goings-on in the rest of the room. Clearly enough, she was giving only a small part of her mind to the matter of the youngsters.
Sheff thought that might get sticky before too long. Literally sticky, what with all the paint bottles on Wiedeman’s little table—which was not sturdily built at all. He hoped that nothing disastrous would happen bef
ore the children’s two mothers and their uncle got back from work.
That would be a while yet, though. Susan Wilson’s daughters worked for one of the larger of New Antrim’s garment manufacturers, which, like all such, had long hours. The uncle, a partly disabled veteran since Second Arkansas Post, enjoyed one of the secured jobs set aside for such by the army’s commissariat. His hours of work were not particularly long, but he was sure to dawdle after work in one of the military saloons before finally wending his way home.
The husband of the younger of the Wilson daughters wouldn’t be returning for two weeks at the earliest, since his unit was on patrol somewhere in the Ouachitas. The husband of the older daughter would never be returning at all. He’d died at Second Arkansas in the fighting at the wall, not more than fifty feet from the spot where Sheff had been struck down.
But Sheff didn’t give the matter of the children much of his mind, either. First, because he was too fascinated and puzzled by everything else. And second, because Imogene was in the room and wearing a fancy dress he’d never seen on her before. It looked brand-new and store-bought.
She was grinning at him and seemed to be on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement like a girl half her age. Sheff wouldn’t have thought much of it a year ago, when he’d first met her. She’d seemed so young, then, that the difference between a twelve-year-old and a six-year-old would have been minor.
But he couldn’t help notice it today. It was odd, really, the way the girl seemed to age, since he’d been moved into the room upstairs and got to see her all the time. As if she were a month older for every day that passed. Sheff would swear that was true, except he was pretty sure it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
He’d asked Cal about it, just the week before.
“You wish!” had been the unkind response.
Mrs. Johnson clapped her hands. “All right, everyone take their positions! Mr. Wiedeman’s time is valuable, and we can’t waste any of it.”
She pointed imperiously to one of the three chairs lined up in a row. “Captain Parker, you take the seat on the left.”
No sooner had he done so than Mrs. Johnson took the seat next to him, in the middle. The other seemed destined to remain vacant.
“Mama!” Adaline exclaimed. “Cal’s not here yet!”
For the first time, Sheff noticed the twin. It might be better to say that her presence registered on him. He realized now that she’d been in the room all along, wearing a dress very similar to her sister’s except in small details of color and trim. But, as often happened when Imogene was there also, he simply hadn’t paid any attention to her.
And there was another oddity. Sheff kept hearing people comment on the identical appearance of the two girls, leaving aside whatever clothing they might have on. Sheff would have thought they were insane, except he had a vague recollection of having once thought the same thing himself.
That was hard to imagine now. He could tell them apart instantly at any distance, rain or shine. He’d never had to test the matter, but he was just as sure he could tell them apart in pitch darkness, just from the sound of their voices. For that matter, just from listening to them breathe.
But he forced that last thought aside. Best not to dwell on the thought of listening to Imogene breathe, in the here and now. He had time to do that—and did, and would—every night that passed. In a bed covered by a blanket, where he didn’t have to worry about the possible indelicacy posed by the tight-fitting trousers of his dress uniform.
“Hush, Adaline!” her mother scolded. “Lieutenant McParland will be along soon enough. Something must have detained him. In the meantime, we can get started. Mr. Wiedeman tells me he’ll be concentrating on one part of the portrait at a time. So he can start with Sheff and Imogene. Be still, I say!”
Imogene came to stand behind him, and just to one side. A moment later, he felt her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
He stiffened slightly, casting a nervous glance at Mrs. Johnson. He’d been careful—very, very careful—not to engage in any sort of physical contact with Imogene. That would get him pitched out of the house in an instant, he was quite sure. And as much as he sometimes found the temptation difficult to resist, he managed. Whatever else he was, Sheffield Parker was patient and methodical. If it took him longer to get somewhere than it might take someone else, he’d get there all the more surely.
But, to his relief—and surprise—he saw that Mrs. Johnson was simply giving the hand on his shoulder a calm assessment.
“Not so close to the neck, Imogene. And keep your fingers still.”
That was it. Sheff had to tighten his jaw to keep it from dropping altogether.
“Begin when you’re ready, Mr. Wiedeman. Susan, I would recommend that you not allow that rascal to stand on the arm of the divan.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Wilson tore her eyes away from the tableau in the center of the room. “Andrew, you sit down! Right now, or I’ll smack you!”
“Everybody please be still,” Wiedeman commanded.
“Where’s Cal?” Adaline wailed.
Some part of Callender McParland felt like wailing, himself. The mission that the Laird had recruited him for as he’d been on his way to the boardinghouse—“recruited” as in “press-gang”—was now successfully completed.
They’d found Sam Houston, missing since the night before. He was sprawled on a pew in the city’s big Catholic church, just underneath the wall where the new painted carving of his wife was suspended.
Drunk as a skunk, as the saying went—except no skunk who ever lived would get this drunk. He was almost comatose.
The Laird took a deep breath. “What I figured,” Cal heard him mutter.
Standing next to Driscol, Charles Ball shook his head. “Like old times, isn’t it? Tarnation, he hasn’t had hardly a drop of whiskey in…how many months has it been, Patrick?”
“Twelve,” he replied stonily. “Exactly. God damn me for a fool, I plain forgot. His wife was murdered a year ago yesterday.”
On the Laird’s other side, Charles Crowell sighed. “Oh, Lord. I forgot, too.”
He heaved his massive shoulders and moved toward Houston. “Old times, Charles, as you say. I carried him before; I’ll do it again.”
“Wait,” said Driscol, putting a hand on the huge banker’s arm. His eyes were on the carving.
“For what?” asked Ball.
The Laird didn’t answer for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“No. The boy will have to deal with this soon enough. Not often, I’m hoping. Sam made it through a widowing, and moving his son to a new home, and fought and won a battle. But it’ll happen again. You know it and I know it. So go to the Wolfe Tone and bring little Andy here. It’s the best place to begin.”
Ball nodded. Crowell hesitated. “Are you sure—”
“No, he’s right,” said Ball. “You stay here with Patrick and watch over him. I’ll get the boy.”
“Tiana’ll have your hide, Patrick, when she finds out,” said Crowell.
“No, she won’t. She’ll not say a word. Times like this, she’s pure Cherokee.”
Driscol turned to Callender. “Thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant McParland, but it won’t be needed any longer. My apologies for detaining you.”
Cal left with Ball. At a dignified enough pace, until they got out of the church and went their separate ways. Then he starting walking as fast as he could.
Adaline would have his hide, for sure. And the worst of it was, he still couldn’t figure out exactly how he’d found himself in this fix. As close friends as they’d become, he understood what drove Sheff to his fixation on Imogene. But what was his excuse?
The girl was only thirteen! Cal wasn’t any sort of Puritan, sure, but some things a man just didn’t contemplate. And he wasn’t looking for a wife of any age. Not yet, anyway. Most men didn’t get married until they were ten years older than he was. He’d figured to do the same.
He still hadn’t
come to any conclusions by the time he reached the boardinghouse. Except the dim, growing, horrible sense that things just happened because they did. Whether a man planned them or not, or wanted them or not, they just went right ahead and happened all on their own.
Then he was ushered into the salon by Mrs. Wilson, and Adaline squealed the moment he came in, and the next thing he knew she’d raced over and was hugging him and—sure enough—her mother was fit to be tied.
“Adaline! You come back here right this instant! And stop behaving disgracefully!”
After about three seconds, Adaline obeyed. Cal was pretty sure that had been the most thrilling three seconds of his life.
The dragon’s glare now got leveled on him. Tarnation, he hadn’t done anything!
“Lieutenant McParland.”
But he’d look on the bright side. Might as well, since it was obvious the world would toss him however it would.
“How nice of you to come.”
An ice cream parlor had finally opened for business in New Antrim. Wildly popular, of course, with Cal as much as anyone. Whenever it was open, the line went around the block. But it wasn’t open very often, because ice was so hard to come by.
“Sit. Here. Please.”
Not any longer. Just bottle that voice.
When Adaline put her hand on his shoulder, he liked to fly out of the chair. But, to his astonishment, the dragon didn’t say a word.
Of course, if you could bottle the look in its eyes, you could probably freeze the whole chiefdom of Arkansas. And whenever Adaline so much as twitched a finger, the monster’s hiss was enough to freeze your blood.
Still. It was an awfully thrilling two hours, with that hand there the whole time. By the end of it, Cal was halfway reconciled to the inescapable chaos of existence.
“Mrs. Johnson,” said Sheff, sounding a bit timid.
“Yes, Captain Parker?”
“Ah…If I might ask, what’s the—I mean. What are we doing here?”
