A Call to Arms
Page 28
The lancers sat proud and erect in their saddles. They were Germans from town—he recognized some as customers—and they had uniforms, probably made by German wives and sisters determined to send their men to war properly dressed. Across the corner in Main Plaza a brass band had begun to play. He could hear the strains of “Dixie” from the doorway.
“Excuse me, young man,” said a voice behind him, and Jamie hastily moved out of the way.
The two ladies stepped past him with their bundle, barely glancing at the martial display. Such sights had become common in San Antonio this spring.
Mr. Webber came and leaned against the door frame, running a hand through his greying hair. “Think you might go for a soldier, Jamie?”
Jamie felt himself blushing. “I wouldn’t want to leave you in a bind, sir.”
A small smile crept onto Mr. Webber’s face. “Well, do as you think right,” he said.
Jamie watched the horses go by, picking out the ones he knew. Ranch horses, farm horses, cart horses. Brushed to within an inch of their lives and glowing under the hot sun, looking finer than they ever had.
“You rode with Kearny, didn’t you sir?” Jamie asked.
“I did indeed,” said Mr. Webber.
“Was it glorious?” Jamie asked.
Mr. Webber gazed at him, the smile twisting up one corner of his mouth. “To a young soldier everything is glorious,” he said, and walked away to put up the bolts of cloth left out on the table.
Jamie stayed by the door and watched the lancers out of sight, imagining himself among them, dressed in crisp grey with a spear in his hand and Poppa’s big gelding, Old Ben, under his saddle. Old Ben was needed on the ranch, though, and Jamie was small for his age. Likely he wouldn’t be accepted for the cavalry. Likely he’d stay here, being better suited for clerking than soldiering.
He was nineteen years old, he’d worked in the store since he was sixteen, and it seemed sometimes like he’d be here until he was grey as Mr. Webber. He sighed, and was about to turn back to the desk when he spotted a familiar wagon rolling up the street.
“Captain Martin!” he yelled, grinning, and stepped out onto the boardwalk waving his arms.
The driver of the wagon, wearing a dusty frock coat and a wide-brimmed cavalry hat, pulled up his team in front of the store. “Hey, there, Jamie!” he called. “Came to check on those blankets and beans.”
“Yes, sir!” said Jamie. “They just arrived this morning.”
“Good. Let’s fill up the wagon and I’ll send for the rest." Captain Martin jumped down and tossed his hat onto the seat. His teeth showed white against his sun-cured skin. Martin was an Assistant Quartermaster for the army and was constantly prowling San Antonio for supplies. Jamie liked his easy smile and offhanded kindness, and did his best to find everything the captain requested. Now he hurried to help Martin load the wagon with sacks of dried beans and bundled wool blankets.
“Have you ordered those tin plates yet?” asked Martin.
“Yes, sir! They should be here in a month,” answered Jamie.
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you to write again. I need a hundred more than I told you.”
“No trouble, sir. I ordered five hundred, just in case.”
“Son,” said Martin with a grin, “you’ve got the soul of a quartermaster.”
Jamie grinned back. “Come on in, I’ll write up the bill.”
They went inside, grateful for the cool dimness of the store. Not yet June, it was already sweltering in southern Texas. As Jamie neatly wrote out the captain’s bill, Mrs. Webber came out of the back with a tray full of glasses and a pitcher.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” she said. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Martin. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mr. Webber joined them, shaking hands with Martin. “How are the volunteers shaping up?”
“Helter-skelter,” said Martin. “Companies forming and disbanding and forming again. Then they disappear for Richmond.”
“In a hurry to get their share of glory,” said Mr. Webber with a smile.
“Well, they’re young,” said Martin.
Jamie sipped his lemonade and listened hungrily to every scrap of gossip Martin let fall about the troops headed east. When the captain rumbled away again in his wagon, Jamie went back to the desk to finish his tallies and daydreams. At six o’clock he tidied the desk and gave the store a quick sweep while Mr. Webber was locking up, then slipped out the back door.
Cocoa whickered at him from the corral behind Cutter Blacksmiths next door. “Hey, girl,” he said, stroking her soft, dark brown nose.
She came up to the fence and reached over to nuzzle his neck, and he laughed at the tickle of her whiskers. She might not be a war horse, but she was his—the only living creature who was all his own—and he’d loved her since he helped her stand up to reach for her first meal.
Jamie’s stomach growled. A hundred suppers were cooking in the town, their scents making his mouth water as he hurried to saddle the mare. He hauled himself onto her back, tightened the strings of his straw hat to keep off the sun, and rode down Soledad to the corner, turning west toward home.
As he passed the Military Plaza he searched it for signs of more new companies, but saw only the usual food vendors setting up for the evening. He clicked his tongue, urging Cocoa to trot a little faster past the savory smells of chili stew and fresh bread.
Before long they were out of town, and Cocoa nickered, asking for a gallop. Jamie gave her her head and they flew over the hills, past fields glittering with water from a spiderweb network of acequias that fed the young crops. Every year more farms sprang up along the Overland Trail west of town, bringing San Antonio a little closer to Russell’s Ranch.
The sun was starting to sink as Jamie turned down the lane to the broad, white ranch house, nestled under live oaks in the hollow of two hills. He unsaddled Cocoa and turned her loose in the corral, gave her some water and hay, then headed for the house. From inside he heard Poppa’s voice raised in anger, and a cold feeling settled in his stomach as he ran up the three steps and pulled open the door.
Poppa stood by the fireplace, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, a sure sign that he was truly angered. Nearby Momma sat in the rocking chair, weeping while sister Emmaline bent over her, murmuring words of comfort.
Daniel, the eldest, stood hugging baby brother Gabe who was just twelve. Everybody’s eyes were on Matthew, the center of all the fuss, standing in the middle of the room in a brand-new Confederate uniform.
Sample from Glorieta Pass by P. G. Nagle
Copyright © 1999, 2009 by P. G. Nagle. All rights reserved.
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About the Author
P. G. Nagle is the author of seventeen novels and two collections of short fiction, and co-editor of two anthologies. A native and lifelong resident of New Mexico, she has a special love of the outdoors, particularly New Mexico's wilds, where many of her stories are born.
Her shorter work has appeared in national magazines and anthologies. She is a founding member of Book View Café Publishing Cooperative.
Nagle lives in the mountains in New Mexico, surrounded by coyotes, birds, and starry skies, with her husband and two furry muses.
Also by P. G. Nagle
The Far Western Civil War Series
Glorieta Pass
The Guns of Valverde
Galveston
Red River
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