Alejandro did not know what to think, what to feel... She had used him. And he had been a blind goose and eaten it up. He felt anger, shame, utter embarrassment, and even a wistful sense of honor, all at once. Roberto had enough empathy not to chide him for his silly naïveté—after decades as a soldier and a diplomat, to be taken in so wholly, and by a woman, no less.
“Ai-ai-ai,” he sighed. “I have been masterfully played. She has used me as a rook to challenge her own two bishops of state!”
Roberto clapped a meaty hand on Alejandro’s shoulder and stood. “You used each other,” he said as he went over to the side table. “She got a wedge to drive between Sagasta and Cánovas, and you got an ambassador’s post and the oversight of an invading army.” He splashed cognac into two glasses and handed one to Alejandro. He raised his own glass.
“To being bested, and still coming out the winner.”
Alejandro raised his glass as well.
“Amen.”
Chapter 3
Wednesday, September 3rd, AD 1890
Outside Taneytown
Maryland
The carriage bucked, jarring its passengers.
“Mother of God,” Custer cursed.
Libbie scolded him. “Keep a civil tongue, Autie.”
“I just bit my civil tongue,” the president said, sucking at the wound. “Only the uncivil half is left.”
“Then keep it quiet altogether,” his wife said.
Custer looked out the window and kept silent. Libbie had been in a petulant mood since that morning when they’d set out from the White House.
The carriage broke out from among the trees and into a field where the heat of the midsummer’s day pressed a bright haze from the ground. The onion grass wilted and the catalpa trees drooped beneath the heat. The air was humid and suffocating, thick with the scent of moist decay. The road—little more than two ruts through a meadow—was guiding them across the countryside of Penn’s Sylvania and toward a meeting neither of them wanted to take.
“Hat in hand,” Libbie groused under her breath.
After twenty-six years of marriage, Custer knew his wife well enough to discern her tactics. Libbie never talked to herself; it was just her way of starting a conversation without being the first person to speak.
“Something troubling you, Sunshine?” Custer asked as he stared out the open window.
“I just don’t like it, Autie; your coming out here to him, hat in hand.”
“I’m not coming to him ‘hat in hand,’” he said, turning to face her.
“Oh, yes you are,” she said, eyes flashing. “The President of the United States, bumbling around the back-country, searching for a little flea bite farm miles from nowhere.”
He chuckled. “We’re only five miles from Taneytown.”
“And Taneytown is nowhere,” she said.
“Well, we’re hardly ‘bumbling,’” he said, trying to mollify her. “Samuel gave very specific instructions on how to get there.”
“Don’t jolly me along, Autie,” she said, slapping his thigh. “You’re out here a-begging. And you can’t paint it any differently than that.”
Her dark pin curls, so meticulously coiffed to frame her pretty face, stuck to brow and temple like leeches, but he knew it was more than just the heat had riled her. Her blood was up; he could see that plainly in the pulse along her neck, the hands balled into tiny fists, in the taut line along her jaw, and in the way she would only look at him with fleeting glances from the tail of her eye.
He put on a pouty face, made more comical now by the lingering paralysis from last year’s stroke. She glanced over, saw him, and hit his leg again. He pouted harder, putting his shoulders into it, looking up at her like a palsied pup.
The lilt at the corner of her mouth told him he’d won. She struggled to maintain her anger, but knew as well as he that the effort was futile. A giggle escaped her, and she slapped his thigh a third time, though more gently, as she conceded defeat.
“You know what I mean,” she said, unwilling to surrender without concessions. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Custer smiled and took her hand in his. “Yes, my dear, I do. But I need him to do this.”
“Then order him to do it. You are the President, are you not?”
He patted her hand and looked out the window. “You know it’s more complicated than that,” he told her.
There was a split-rail fence, now, running alongside the road and keeping zigzag pace with the carriage. The air was redolent with manure. They were getting close.
“He’s a capable man,” Custer continued, “but prideful in that way Southern gentlemen sometimes are. I need him to do this, but more to the point: I need him to want to do this.”
Libby tsked and shook her head. “Men,” she said, as if it explained everything. “And they say women are vain.” She unfolded a fan of bone and white lace and tried to cool herself. “I still don’t see why you insisted on bringing me along on this...errand. You would have done just as well alone. I feel like a stage prop.”
Custer coughed up a surprised laugh and turned toward her. “At times you understand me completely, but at others...I’m amazed that you still find me such a cipher.” Libbie’s expression did not change. “My darling girl,” he said. “I am the stage prop on this trip, not you.” He chuckled at her perplexity. “You’ll see.”
The carriage swung around to the right and showed them a deep grove of walnut trees. The fence kept formation, curving alongside the carriage until they slowed and turned in through a gap in the rails. The road worsened as they drove between the thick boles with their large, green-husked fruit strewn like old cannon-shot across the pathway.
Custer pointed as buildings came into view. A low barn, a stable, a tall house, all river-rock foundations with white clapboard siding above.
“Nearly there,” he said. As they continued, he could see that the silvered shingles on the roofs of the outbuildings were covered with splotches of green moss and grey lichen, but the shakes of the main house were orange and freshly split. As the carriage slowed to a stop in the yard, Custer smelled new cedar and mown hay. The sound of hammering peppered the air.
Custer and Libby waited for the presidential security detail to debark and inspect the area. One guard, Hancock, went to the house to meet the woman who had come out onto the shaded porch. She was a tall, spare woman in a plain white frock and blue work apron. As Hancock spoke, her expression changed from curiosity to horror, eyes wide, hand over mouth. She turned and disappeared into the house. Custer heard her calling out.
“Charlie! John!”
Hancock came over and put his hand on the carriage door.
“What did you tell her?” Custer asked.
Hancock, red hair blazing in the sunlight, shrugged. “I went with the ‘just in the neighborhood’ line, sir. I told her that we were hoping to beg a glass of sweet tea for the First Lady, who had become a bit overheated.”
“Oh, Autie!” Libbie said. “She didn’t know we were coming? That’s just cruel.”
Hancock opened the door and extended his hand to assist Libbie. She took the offered help and, with a backward glare at her husband, stepped out into the yard. Custer stepped down after her and leaned on his cane.
The yard was quiet now—the hammering had ceased. Custer could hear hurried footsteps and the clinking of glass from within the house. A round-bellied man appeared in the doorway. He wore dusty denims and was pulling suspenders up over his hastily misbuttoned shirt. He raked a quick hand through dark but thinning hair, and bustled toward the carriage.
Hancock moved to intercept the eager fellow but Custer stopped him with a muffled cough.
“Mr. President,” their breathless host said. “Charles Tarbox, at your service!” He extended his hand, then half-withdrew it, unsure of the protocol.
Custer reached out and gripped the re-offered hand. It was rough from recent work and moist from a hasty wash-up.
“Mr. T
arbox,” Custer said. “A pleasure. This is the First Lady, Mrs. Custer. Libbie? Mr. Charles Tarbox.”
Tarbox lightly clasped her extended fingers and Custer continued as Libbie took his arm. “Please forgive our intrusion. We were traveling nearby and with this heat, well, John spoke so often of this beautiful farm of yours, I thought we might stop in and impose upon you for a glass of water.”
“Just a glass of water?” Tarbox said, suddenly deflated. “We were hoping you might stay a bit longer. To supper, perhaps?”
“Well...” Custer felt Libbie pinch his arm as she interrupted.
“We wouldn’t dream of imposing upon you and your family. In fact, I told Autie”—another pinch—”that we really needn’t have stopped at all.”
“Ah,” Tarbox said, looking back at the house. “Gussie will be so disappointed. She’s an avid reader of your books, Mrs. Custer.”
Custer watched as Libbie’s placid, well-practiced smile went slack, then returned, reinforced by her girlish dimple.
“Why, Sunshine,” Custer said. “I do believe you’re blushing.” This earned him yet another pinch.
“How charming,” Libbie said, trying to cover her embarrassment. “And Gussie is...?”
Tarbox winced. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I mean Augusta, my sister.”
There was a clatter from the house and the tall woman they’d seen earlier came out and, with the housemaid’s help, set up a table and tray with glasses and a pitcher of dark tea with sliced lemon.
“Oh, here she is—please, ma’am,” he whispered in an aside. “Don’t let on I called her Gussie in front of you. She’d never forgive me.” Hands clasped in supplication, the man’s anguish was almost palpable.
Libbie relinquished her husband’s arm, reached out and slipped her hand under her host’s. “Our secret,” she said. “And now, Mr. Tarbox, why don’t you introduce me to your sister.”
“With pleasure!” he said, grinning broadly. He gestured toward the house. “Though I must say, I am surprised you two haven’t met. After all those years on the Kansa prairie, and with you knowing her husband John so well. But then again, she was always more of a ‘home front’ wife. Not the ‘front line’ sort like you were, ma’am.” He looked back at Custer. “John is here, by the way, Mr. President.”
“Is he?” Custer said, and he knew by Libbie’s glare that he’d escaped another pinch.
Tarbox introduced the Custers to his sister and, judging by Augusta’s rapt attention to Libbie’s every word, Custer guessed that they would stay to supper after all.
It wasn’t long before Augusta’s husband appeared at the doorway to the porch.
General John Meriwether’s last tour in the Territory had put some grey in his hair and taken some weight from his frame, but instead of making him appear old or frail, Custer thought it gave his old comrade-in-arms the appearance of having been honed, whetted like an well-used hunting knife. His eyes were deep-set and his cheeks high and hollowed.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” he said in his clear baritone voice. “While Charlie was banging on shingles I was on the downhill side of a manure pile. It took me a bit longer to make myself presentable.”
His grip, when Custer shook his hand, was still firm, and by the corner of a smile he saw tucked up underneath the bushy mustache, Custer knew that though the brother and sister had been gulled by the fiction surrounding the First Couple’s arrival, this old soldier knew better.
“Libbie,” he said, bowing and taking her hand. “I’d say you never looked lovelier, if I did not fear of making my wife jealous.” His Carolinian accent was relaxed and comforting. “I’m glad that you two have finally had a chance to meet. Augusta esteems you above all other women.”
“John, hush,” Augusta said, self-conscious.
They talked of easy things, of farms and horses and the improvements underway on the house. Libbie’s unpretentious manner and Meriwether’s long familiarity dispelled any odd feelings Augusta and Charlie had about the impromptu gathering with such celebrated company. And then, after a pleasant half-hour’s chat, Meriwether caught Custer’s glance and stood.
“Come along, Mr. President,” Meriwether said. “There’s a horse I think you’ll be interested to see.”
Tarbox looked up. “Oh? Which one?” He began to stand.
“No, no, Brother,” Meriwether said. “Don’t deprive the ladies of your company. We just have some catching up to do.”
Tarbox said, “Ah,” comprehending fully, and sat down with a sheepish smile.
“Mr. Tarbox, I hope you will forgive the rudeness a pair of self-indulgent old blades.” Custer rose and took his cane in hand. “Ladies,” he said with a bow. Then he turned to join Meriwether.
They stepped down from the verandah and walked around the house. The late summer sun paled every hue, from the yellow-green of leaves overhead to the bleached wood of the nearby fence rails. Cicada calls shimmered through the day’s heat, and the two men walked slowly. They did not speak for a time, but Custer saw Meriwether’s appraising look.
“Am I changed so much?” Custer asked.
Meriwether chuckled. “Actually, you are remarkably unchanged. The papers—”
“Bah!” Custer said. “They always exaggerate.”
“All the same, I expected something more than a cane and a slight hitch in your enunciation.”
Custer nodded, recounting his injuries from the near-assassination. “There’s much that doesn’t show,” he said. “Writing is hard. Eating in polite company is a challenge, as you’ll see. There’s a ghost in my vision, and the pain makes me short-tempered. But it’s all...manageable.”
They entered the stable and Meriwether headed toward the far end.
“I was glad to read that young George had been found innocent of any wrongdoing in that affair. Ah, here we are.”
He gestured to the last stall along the row, and when Custer saw the horse within it, his heart shuddered and began to pound. The horse was a bloody sorrel, shiny, with copper-penny mane. There was a white blaze on his face, and white socks on all four feet.
“I’ll be damned,” Custer breathed. “It’s Vic.”
Of course, it wasn’t. Vic had fallen at the Battle of Kansa Bay, but this horse was the very image of that brave old steed, even down to the look in his eye.
Custer reached out his hand, let the horse settle, and stroked the velvet warmth of his muzzle. The horse breathed out and in, moist heat testing the air, and Custer was filled with a sudden melancholy, a lightning flash of hot grief. The memory of Vic’s death cut through his mind: he felt again Vic’s stuttered step as the arrows pierced his breast, saw his wide-eyed fear as they both fell, and heard the animal’s panicked scream cut short as Custer’s bullet turned his dying friend into a protective bulwark. The memories were sharp, unexpectedly so, and Custer’s eyes stung with emotion.
“Mr. President? Are you all right, sir?”
Custer frowned and cleared his throat. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Ghosts. Just ghosts.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Custer waved a hand, dismissing the issue. He gave the horse another pat and tucked the memories away. Time for business.
“I need your help, John.”
“I reckoned this wasn’t an accidental visit. What can I do for you? Does Jacob need help in the War Department?”
“No,” Custer said. “Well, yes, of course he does, but that’s not what I need from you. Nothing so...mundane.”
Meriwether leaned back against the stall’s door and skewered Custer with a glare. “Mundane?” he said. “That’s a word chosen to intrigue me, isn’t it?”
“Did it work?” Custer asked with a sidelong glance.
Meriwether shrugged. “I’m still listening.”
Custer turned and walked slowly back the way they’d come. “We’re in a difficult spot,” he said. “The nation, that is. I need your expertise and your experience.”
“Anything I can do,”
Meriwether said, joining him.
Custer looked up and squinted into the sunlight as they emerged from beneath the shaded eaves. The sharp tang of split wood danced atop the base aromas of hay and manure. A breeze freshened, caressing the distant meadow and sighing through the walnut branches.
“We’re in a pickle, John. What Morton started, Congress is determined to finish. They’re forcing us into a confrontation with Spain—not a good thing under the best of circumstances, but it’s all the worse for the fact that it’s just what Spain wants.”
He kept his measured pace, leading them back toward the verandah, timing his words to the ground ahead of them.
“Between the sinking of those ships in Havana and the schoolyard diplomacy of this Congress, we’re headed into a war. There’s nothing quite so inevitable as a war that both sides want to wage. The Senate has demanded a full blockade, but you and I both know it will be just a sideshow. The real theater is in the Territory.”
“Either way,” Meriwether said, “at least it’s going to happen in your own backyard. Better than halfway around the world.”
Custer shrugged. “True. But that backyard isn’t without its own...challenges.”
Meriwether laughed. “That’s a mild assessment.”
“Indeed.” They were nearly back at the front of the house. Custer could hear the quiet conversation and the clink of glass and china. He took another two steps and stopped at a place where he could be overheard without being seen.
“That’s why I need you,” he went on. “Your experience, your judgment, your mind, they’re priceless to me at this juncture. I need you, John. I need you, back out in the field. I don’t think we’ll succeed without you.”
Meriwether stared at him. “What? You need me where?”
Custer returned his gaze. “You heard me.”
Meriwether raised his eyebrows and stared off into space. “Back in the field?”
Custer went in for the kill. He could hear that the conversation and sounds of convivial refreshment had stalled. He stepped over to Meriwether and gripped his arm.
Beneath a Wounded Sky Page 4