The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

“Strange things to ask a man,” Brannigan pondered.

  “The sergeant major is a strange man, Jimmy. Or haven’t ye noticed? Him an’ his dark broodin’ looks fair give me the shivers, an’ that’s the truth of it. Do ye suppose he might have the evil eye?”

  Brannigan, himself only a casual believer in the superstitions so rampant among the immigrant Irish, started to answer derisively, only to be interrupted by the sound of the gate sentry calling the corporal of the guard.

  “Ah! That’ll be the mail wagon now.”

  “Mail wagon? Since when have we been taking a wagon on the mail run?”

  “I heard about it at headquarters this afternoon,” Brannigan enlightened him. “It seems we’re havin’ some visitors, and the mail detail picked ’em up.”

  Brannigan rose and walked toward the porch.

  “Why is it that ye never send me on the interestin’ runs?” asked O’Callan, who followed alongside.

  “Because it was A Troop’s turn, bucko. Now close yer mouth and let’s see who’s come to call on us.”

  They sipped their whiskey in silence, lost in the deep shadows on the porch, and watched as the big gates on the stockade swung open to admit the mail detail and wagon. O’Callan examined the wagon critically and nudged his friend in the ribs. “Where’s those visitors?”

  “Wait and see, Terry. Wait and see.”

  O’Callan and Brannigan nodded to the sergeant in charge as he and his detail rode slowly by the store. The wagon followed. They still could not see inside it. O’Callan turned away with a snort of impatience. “Well, if they’re gonna hide, I got no interest in ’em.”

  Brannigan continued watching the little procession as it rolled up to regimental headquarters and stopped. Then he pointed a sausage-thick finger at the caravan.

  “They must be of some importance, Terry. Sergeant Major MacDonald and the adjutant are out to meet ’em.”

  “Awh, who cares? Pass yer bottle.”

  Brannigan handed him the liquor. “Terry, is there any ocean in Arizona?”

  O’Callan laughed. “Are ye daft, Jimmy? O’ course there’s no ocean here.”

  “Then what the hell are they doin’ here at Fort Perdido?”

  “Jimmy, ’tis a bad habit, ye’ve picked up. Fort Perdido, indeed.” Then he turned curiously to see what transpired at headquarters.

  “Glory be! Sailors. As I live and breathe, that wagon was full o’ bloody sailors!”

  “That’s plumb unsettlin’, that’s what it is,” Brannigan said, amazed. “Let’s take our bottles back to the barracks an’ wait fer developments.”

  “That’s a fine idea, bucko,” agreed O’Callan. “We’re the only troop with no patrols out. If anything comes o’ this, it’ll be right in our laps.”

  The two sergeants crossed the parade ground slowly while keeping an eye on the activity in front of regimental headquarters. An excited Lance Corporal Charlie Bradley met them at the barracks door.

  “Who’s them funny-looking fellers, Sergeant O’Callan?”

  “From their appearance, I’d say they was sailors.” The largest body of water that Charlie had ever seen was the Rio Grande at flood time. He stared at the strangers a little bewildered. Then he licked his lips and rubbed dry palms together.

  “Sailors, huh? You mean like Jesus’ disciples?”

  “No, Bradley,” scoffed O’Callan. “Them disciples was fishermen. These are sailors that go on the ocean in ships o’ war.”

  “What are they doing here?” Charlie demanded. “We sure ain’t got no ships fer ’em to sail on ... and even if we did, water is scarcer than hens’ teeth out here.”

  “We don’ know a thing about it,” Brannigan answered.

  The two sergeants left Charlie gawking by the door and walked through the squad room to the partition that served as their quarters. Once inside, they flopped unmilitarily on their bunks and turned their attention back to the whiskey.

  “All I ask is to be left in peace,” O’Callan sighed wistfully.

  “Amen,” Brannigan answered.

  They drank in silence for a time, half-listening to the low murmurings of the troopers out in the squad area. A sharp knock on the partition startled them.

  The colonel’s orderly stepped in sharply. “Sergeant O’Callan, the regimental sergeant major says for you to report to headquarters immediately or even faster than that if you can.”

  “Awh, no!” wailed O’Callan. “And what does Black Harry want with me?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” the soldier shrugged off, slipping into informality after delivering his message. “But I heard him laughing with the adjutant and saying something about you joining the navy.”

  ~*~

  O’Callan stepped into the sergeant major’s office and gaped at the sight that greeted him.

  A large, ruddy-faced man stood by MacDonald’s desks, his toothy grin haloed by coal-black mustache and chin whiskers. He wore a navy jumper with its broad collar and kerchief, topped off by a flat-topped hat. O’Callan looked pointedly at the bell-bottomed trousers, with their large flap in front held closed by thirteen buttons.

  “I beg yer pardon,” O’Callan blurted, confused. “But ’twould appear to me ye’ve got yer pants on backwards.”

  The stranger’s face crinkled into lines of humor and he burst forth in loud laughter. A ham-sized fist banged on MacDonald’s desk. Everyone else managed to look just slightly uncomfortable.

  “That’s a funny one, ain’t it? Like I as warin’ longjohns, right? I get it.”

  MacDonald grinned weakly. “This is Sergeant O’Callan.”

  The stranger stuck out one huge paw. “Pleased to know you. Murray Ormond, Boatswain’s Mate, United-States-By-God-Navy!”

  Such enthusiasm washed over O’Callan like a desert flashflood. He took the proffered hand and eyed the man warily for several long seconds before turning his attention back to MacDonald. Harry’s bland countenance revealed nothing.

  “The colonel’s orderly said ye wanted to see me, Sergeant Major.”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” MacDonald beamed. “We have a special assignment for you. Perhaps. Uh, Boatswain Ormond should explain his mission here. How should we address you, anyway?”

  “Awh, hell. We’re on friendly terms. Just call me Boats, that’s the navy way,” Ormond declared expansively.

  “Well, ye kin call me Sergeant,” O’Callan returned. “That’s the army way.”

  MacDonald attempted to be the diplomat. “That certainly seems rather stiff and formal on your part, O’Callan. If Boats lets you call him by a nickname, why don’t you let him call you Sarge?”

  “I don’t like nobody callin’ me Sarge,” O’Callan complained. “Not even another NCO.”

  MacDonald laughed. “Don’t be so stuffy, O’Callan. Well, Boats, go ahead and explain your mission to Sarge here.”

  “Sure will,” the gravel voice ground out. “We’re part of a weather watch, Sarge. The navy and the newly created U.S. Weather Bureau are setting up some temporary climate observation stations west of the Rocky Mountains and we’re gonna run some close tabs on the weather. What we’re really after is to see if there’s a pattern or connection between inland weather and what we get at sea.”

  “Sound like a waste o’ time to me,” O’Callan bristled. “At least, it seems ye’re preoccupied with the weather. In the army we perform our duties no matter what it’s like.”

  Despite his joviality, Ormond had already sensed O’Callan’s unfriendliness. “Have you ever experienced a gale out at sea, Sarge?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Then just imagine yourself up in the mountains you have around here.”

  O’Callan closed his eyes. “That I’m doin’.”

  “And imagine those mountains moving back and forth, suddenly sinking down to ground level and then shooting straight back up even higher than they were before. Think about ’em doing that over and over for days, maybe.”

  “That�
�d be bloody horrible,” said O’Callan breathlessly. “Every man or animal that was up there would be killed.”

  “That’s what a storm is like at sea. Only it’s water instead of land moving and crashing up and down like that.”

  “Interestin’,” O’Callan allowed, unimpressed. “Could ye give me duties to me, Sergeant Major?”

  “You’re to lead the escort patrol for the navy party and aid them in setting up their weather station on top of Dog Leg Butte.”

  “And how many are in their party?”

  “Let’s see: they have a lieutenant junior grade; Boats, here; and six sailors. Also, three civilian scientists from the weather bureau. Make it eleven in all,” MacDonald answered.

  O’Callan screwed up his face and began working the arithmetic in his head. “I don’t have no paper nor pencil, but mebbe I kin work this out. Here ... let me figger ... sixteen troopers plus seven swabs, hey? Six and seven are about fifteen, carry the one ... wait a minute, I’ll start again.”

  Ormond burst out in laughter once more. “Six and seven are about fifteen, eh? You’re a real card, Sarge.”

  MacDonald sensed O’Callan’s sudden anger and stepped in soothingly. “You figure out the details later, O’Callan. In the meantime, take Boats over to the NCO quarters and help him settle in.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major. C’mon, Boats.”

  O’Callan let him out of the headquarters toward the barracks. Ormond paused long enough to swing two large seabags across his brawny shoulders, then followed cheerfully. His every attempt at conversation met with a silent rebuff. O’Callan kicked the door open and bade the petty officer enter.

  Brannigan stood up at the sight of the sailor. “I’m First Sergeant James Brannigan,” he announced, holding out his hand.

  “Boatswain’s Mate Murray Ormond,” the sailor said, glad to find a friendly face.

  “Ye’re to call him ‘Boats,’” O’Callan remarked. “The next thing ye know, we’ll be callin’ the wagoners ‘Wheels.’”

  “You really know how to pop ’em,” Ormond managed through a laugh.

  “He’s to bunk in here,” O’Callan explained to Brannigan.

  “In that case, I’ll see to gettin’ ye a bunk from the quartermaster sergeant,” Brannigan offered.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” Ormond declined. He went over to his seabags. “A sailor carries his bed with him.” Deftly he pulled out a roll of white canvas.

  “Are ye gonna spread that out on the floor to sleep on?” O’Callan asked with faked solicitude, then winked at Brannigan.

  “Not at all, Sarge. This is called a hammock. I’ll take some line and have ’er rigged up in no time.”

  O’Callan began explaining Ormond’s mission and his role in it as he watched the sailor expertly flip a length of rope over a rafter. He summed up his explanation with his personal observation.

  “’Tis a waste o’ time, silly at best, an’ ’twill serve only to harass honest so’jers.”

  Ormond felt a sudden rush of anger. “I’m working on a project that might save many a shipmate’s life, Sarge. I’ll thank you not to poke fun at it.”

  “Don’t tell me how to talk in me own barracks room, Boats,” O’Callan spat, his voice high-pitched and querulous. “Ye got no right comin’ in here big as life and tyin’ a hummick up in the middle of the room.”

  “That’s hammock,” Ormond shot back. “And it certainly ain’t gonna hurt the appearance of this compartment.”

  “That’s room, I’ll thank ye to remember. An’ who the hell wants to sleep in a place all strung about with bloody rope?”

  “It’s a line, you goddamned landlubber,” shouted Ormond, “—And if you don’t watch your big mouth, I’m gonna sock you right between your runnin’ lights.”

  “What!” O’Callan yelled with indignation, sensing a battle royal in the making and eager for it.

  Brannigan came to his feet and stepped between the two. “No, lads, let’s cool down and relax.”

  “Relax!” O’Callan exploded. “Relax, the man says. An’ how the devil am I supposed to do that with this uppity Ulsterman tryin’ to rewrite the English language to conform to navy regulations?”

  Murray Ormond bristled, hiking up the sleeves of his blue jumper. “I don’t know what an Ulsterman is, but it don’t sound good. Maybe I should teach you a lesson on manners.”

  Jimmy Brannigan shoved them apart forcibly with his muscular arms. “Enough! Now, let’s everybody have a nice drink and sit down!”

  A beatific smile crossed O’Callan’s face. “A drink, is it? Sure an’ I’ll abide yer wishes fer that.”

  As the furious pair obeyed, Brannigan poured out a generous dollop of sutler’s whiskey for each and eyed the combative NCOs speculatively. Carefully, he handed them their tin cups. Then the first sergeant took a chair to begin a wary evening of staying between the two men as time ground on fitfully.

  Brannigan didn’t relax until taps finally sounded. After the noncoms had bedded down, the room grew silent, except for the heavy breathing of the three men trying to sleep. The last sound came from O’Callan. “I still say it’s a bloody hummick.”

  Fourteen

  Right after taking reveille the next morning, Brannigan hurried over to regimental headquarters. He burst into MacDonald’s office and came straight to the point without ceremony.

  “Sergeant Major, ye must take O’Callan off that escort detail fer the navy fellers.”

  MacDonald smiled evilly. “Now just what seems to be the problem, Sergeant Brannigan?”

  “Well, now, ’twould appear that O’Callan don’t get along too well with the boatswain.”

  “Oh, hell!” MacDonald snapped. “O’Callan doesn’t get along with anybody. And I don’t have time to hear about his temperament. I want him to stay on the detail.” Dark beetle brows closed above the arched bridge of his nose.

  “But, Sergeant Major, if there’s anything could go wrong on this detail—much as I love the darlin’ lad—with Terry O’Callan in charge feelin’ as he does about that navy man, it’s bound to go wrong.”

  Brannigan continued to argue futilely for several minutes before backing down under Black Harry’s glare. He stalked back across the parade ground and reached his orderly room to find O’Callan waiting for him.

  “Would ye be doin’ me a favor, Jimmy?”

  “You want off the detail, right?”

  O’Callan smiled. “Ah, sure and ’tis easy to see we’ve been such good friends fer a long, long time. Ye kin practically read me mind.”

  “I’ve already tried, an’ ye’re to stay on the detail.” O’Callan grew desperate. “Try again, Jimmy lad,” he pleaded softly.

  “Shut up, Terry,” Brannigan said with equal softness. “I did me best, an’ that’s that.”

  “Yer’re the first sergeant, are ye not? Surely ye have influences ye ain’t tried yet, Jimmy.”

  “It’s outta me hands, I’m tellin’ ye,” Brannigan insisted. “The sergeant major has detailed ye fer the duty an’ that’s the end of it.”

  “And ye’re not even trying to help me,” O’Callan whispered. Then he filled his lungs and shouted angrily. “Ye’re doin’ nothin’ and just watchin’ me be sentenced to spendin’ weeks out on that desert with that son of a bitch Ormond!”

  “Watch yer mouth, Sergeant,” Brannigan warned him, suddenly formal.

  O’Callan leaned over on the desk, his face nearly the crimson of his fiery mustache. “Jimmy Brannigan, I’ll never forget this as long as I live.”

  Brannigan looked hard into O’Callan’s eyes. “It’s yer big feisty mouth that gits ye into these things, Terry O’Callan, Ye wouldn’t be friends with Ormond and now ye’re in a bad situation of yer own makin’. Much as I hate pointin’ that out, ’tis the truth.

  “If ye had an ounce o’ brains, ye’d make friends with the sailor and give him all the help ye could.”

  “Friends with Ormond? Ye’ll never see the day, Jimmy Brannig
an.” O’Callan grabbed his hat and charged, fuming, out of the orderly room.

  ~*~

  A nervous work detail assembled later that day. The soldiers and sailors involved in loading the three wagons for the weather expedition paid scant attention to each other. Instead they kept their eyes on O’Callan and Ormond.

  Ormond remained in the background as O’Callan and Lance Corporal Charlie Bradley supervised the loading of the rations and ammunition. When it came time to load the navy’s weather instruments, though, he stepped officiously into the picture.

  “Wait up there, Ormond,” O’Callan snapped.

  “I have waited, O’Callan. And now I’ll take over and see that our weather gear is stowed away properly.”

  “Don’t trouble yerself. Me an’ me young lance carp’ril are quite capable o’ handlin’ things.” Charlie, not realizing the seriousness of the rift between the two men, smiled easily. “We’d be right happy to take care of it for you, Boats.”

  “I’d rather take care of it myself,” Ormond said darkly.

  “Ye won’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do,” Ormond insisted.

  “No, ye don’t.”

  Ormond paused and pulled at his chin whiskers, an unconscious habit he had formed when tact meant more than the power of his fists. “This is navy property and I’m responsible for it.”

  O’Callan set his feet apart and stood solidly in front of Ormond. “I’ve been detailed as the noncommissioned officer in charge by me regimental sergeant major. And as such I’ll tend to every box, bag, bundle, or bucket that goes into these wagons. Do ye understand, Ormond?”

  Ormond controlled his temper. “You’ve made your point, O’Callan. Now hear this. I’ve tried to be reasonable and recognize your position as a petty officer—”

  “Petty, am I?” O’Callan shouted, face suffused with rage. “There’s only one way to settle this. Let’s fall out on the green behind the troop stables.”

  “That sounds like you want to fight.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m askin’ of ye, Ormond. Let’s go!” With a banty rooster strut, O’Callan led Ormond and the excited group of soldiers and sailors around behind the stables.