She remained in his arms while time seemed to stand still, then drew a deep breath and stood back, searching his face as if seeking some impenetrable answer. “You do me great honor, Captain.”
With a racing heart, he sought to regain a semblance of normalcy. The woman had a dangerous way of making him forget caution. “Caleb?”
She ran a hand up and down his sleeve, as if appreciating their customary name game. “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “Caleb.”
Then she took his arm and together they walked toward her home.
On the way, they passed the barren ground and charred timbers standing in mute testimony to the fire that had destroyed the buffalo soldiers’ stable the previous January. A fire, she told him, believed to have been set by some bigoted person objecting to the buffalo soldiers’ presence at the fort.
As they skirted the scene, Caleb heard Lily whisper the poet’s words he had often muttered himself, “‘Man’s inhumanity to man.’”
* * *
Caleb walked slowly across the parade ground toward his quarters, thinking about Lily. He didn’t often find someone with whom he could share his views about emancipation. Many of his comrades from the North had shared his revulsion over the concept of slavery, but others were openly hostile about giving freedmen the right to vote. As for the buffalo soldiers, Caleb had found most of them to be decent fellows. One sergeant with whom he had fought had been a house slave in Virginia whose master had treated him so humanely that the soldier was at least as literate as Caleb himself. Reaching the porch, Caleb reflected how interesting it was that Lily’s experiences with the buffalo soldiers mirrored his own.
When he entered his quarters, Will was seated at the table, writing a letter. He looked up and grinned at Caleb. “Out sparking, were you?”
“Sparking?”
“That is surely what it looked like to me. Sitting with that pretty Miss Lily fawning over her dessert and then taking a bit of a stroll. Reminds me of how I courted Fannie.”
Caleb was still trying to understand. “Sparking? Courting? Is that what you think I was doing?”
“The signs are all there, Cap’n.”
Caleb collapsed onto a wooden bench. “We’re just friends.”
“Are you convinced that’s all?”
“Friendship. That’s all I’ve ever intended.”
Will laid down the pen and faced him. “That, my friend, is how it always starts, at least if the relationship has any future. Think about Fannie and me. If she says yes to my proposal, and I pray she will, then I’ll be marrying not only my sweetheart, but my best friend.”
“Marrying? Why, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.”
Will shot him a knowing look and before turning back to his letter, he simply said, “We’ll see. But if I was a wagering man...” He let the sentence die.
Suddenly feeling confined by the four walls of the room, Caleb headed for the door, grateful for the cooler evening air. He stood on the porch, his thoughts aboil, Will’s words flustering him. Courting? Was that what others thought he was doing? Worse yet, could that be Lily’s interpretation of his behavior, even though they both kept emphasizing friendship as the basis for their relationship?
If he was brutally honest, Caleb had to admit to flights of fancy where he’d imagined himself in the future with a wife like Lily. But that was a long ways down the road. Not now. Not here.
He shut his eyes against unwelcome memories of Rebecca. He had courted her once. He had loved her and, more fool he, had believed his affection was returned. He grunted in disgust. Not only was she faithless, but she had betrayed him with a man he had considered his friend. Will Creekmore’s insinuations about Lily had struck fear in his heart. No man walks twice into the same trap.
He sank down on the top step of the porch, his elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Had he given Lily a false impression? Truth be told, he had come close to kissing her on a couple of occasions and had enjoyed holding her in his arms, but any fellow would be likewise tempted. He tried replaying their encounters in his mind. Surely he’d never been less than gentlemanly.
The problem was, he would now have to be more guarded around her, lest he mislead her. Anyway, how could he possibly fall in love when his future was uncertain and his past was a cautionary lesson? Beyond that, how could he inflict his nightmares on Lily or any woman? What kind of a man could expect a wife to share his demons? Or exorcise them?
For a moment, he wished he was like Will Creekmore, so sure of his love and confident about his future. Caleb assumed he would one day find a suitable mate, but the timing was all wrong now. In some ways it was a pity because it would be difficult to ever find someone as intelligent and compassionate as Lily.
* * *
Following the snake scare, Lily had experienced even greater difficulty abiding life on the prairie with all its hidden dangers. Despite the lack of an enclosed note, the latest package from Aunt Lavinia, containing new issues of Peterson’s Magazine and programmes from concerts, had only whetted her desire to escape. Her sole refuges were the hospital, where work kept dissatisfaction at bay, and the library, where she could lose herself in a book.
With Effie Hurlburt’s help, she was recruiting a group to offer a poetry reading during the first week in June. One of the Scots in the cavalry had volunteered to read Robert Burns’s “To a Mouse,” and Colonel Hurlburt had agreed to render Longfellow’s “The Wreck of the Hesperus.” Lily hoped Caleb would consent to read from Paradise Lost, but his troop was still out on a foray to root out small bands of Pawnees intent on preying upon the wagon trains.
One afternoon she and Effie found themselves alone in the quiet of the library as they searched for possible poems to include in the reading. Effie pulled out a slim volume including Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet “How Do I Love Thee?” and handed the book to Lily. “This is a moving poem. Amid all the rough-and-tumble of the men’s lives, they need an occasional sentimental touch. This might even bring a tear to the eye.”
Lily scanned the familiar poem cataloging the forms of true love. For an unknown reason, she found herself profoundly moved. Such a love as that described by the poetess was rare.
“Well?” Effie asked. “Would you be willing to read it?”
“Me?”
“Yes. The words lend themselves to a gentle female voice. I know you could do it justice.”
“You have more experience of love than I.”
“Experience? Yes. But there is nothing like the first tender beginnings of a romance.”
“I know nothing of that, either.”
Effie responded with an affectionate smile. “Are you so sure, my dear? The way you and Captain Montgomery look at one another is enough to remind me of those heady first days with Hurly.”
Lily was appalled. How could Effie jump to such a conclusion? “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are mistaken if you think there is aught but friendship between the captain and me.” She felt a compelling need to set the record straight. “In fact, I plan within a matter of months to be on my way to St. Louis to visit my aunt Lavinia. It is there I hope to establish my future.”
If she had thought to sidetrack Effie, she was mistaken. “Be that as it may, Lily, I know a love match when I see one.” Effie turned and replaced the book of poetry on the shelf. “Time will tell,” she murmured.
Later that evening when a serious case of malaria required her presence in the hospital, Lily welcomed the distraction. As the patients fell asleep one by one, she found herself sitting quietly through the early hours of the morning with only her thoughts for company. Surely Effie was wrong. Caleb had always made it clear that theirs was a friendship, nothing more. Surely it was her friend she was missing while his troop was out in the field, because she had to admit, she often wondered about Caleb and prayed for his safety and that of his men. Any friend would do likewise.
Love was something altogether different. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning had put it, “I love thee to the d
epth and breadth and height / My soul can reach...” Could a person ever achieve that degree of affection with another? Why Effie would think her capable of such feeling for Caleb, she couldn’t imagine.
Irritated by that line of thinking, Lily rose from her chair and walked slowly through the ward, checking on the men. She could not explain why she was terrified of snakes, but able to deal calmly with unpleasant illnesses and ugly wounds, even finding in her nursing a kind of fulfillment. Perhaps the answer lay in the fact that she felt useful and skillful.
She settled back in her chair and was nodding off when she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to find her father looking at her with concern. “Are you all right, daughter?”
“I’m fine, Papa. The men have been quite peaceful.”
“Why don’t you slip on home and get some rest now that I’m here?”
She stood and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.” She paused and then went on. “And thank you for giving me this training and the opportunity to be of use.”
“Lily, you are a highly qualified nurse, and I am proud of your dedication and skill.”
Later as Lily slipped into bed beside Rose, she glowed. That was high praise from her father. Just before falling asleep she mused that it had been a strange day. First Effie’s misconceptions about her relationship with Captain Montgomery, the thoughts about love the poem had raised for her and now her father’s rare and heartfelt compliment. Yet a niggling concern persisted. How would she use her skills in St. Louis? She doubted the crowd Lavinia moved among thought it fitting for a young woman to minister to the needs of the ailing or maimed.
Her eyes were heavy, but she managed brief prayers. The last word on her lips before she fell asleep was Caleb.
* * *
The ride had been long and hot. Columns of dust billowed behind the hooves of their many horses. Early on in the mission, Caleb had felt reinvigorated. Action was welcome after weeks of routine drilling, but the constant glare of the sun and the wind cutting across their faces had made parts of their trek unrelieved misery. Maddeningly, the marauding Indians had been canny in their efforts to elude the troops. Even when the army scouts located them, often by the time the column of riders arrived at the rendezvous point, the enemy had vanished into the endless rolling prairie. The high point, thus far, had been searching for and finding a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from his wagon train encampment.
Despite the heat and the lack of success in fighting the Indians, it was a comfort to be back in the saddle, performing familiar functions and sleeping under the stars. The final night’s bivouac was a scant ten miles from Fort Larned. After making a routine sweep among his men, most of whom were already asleep, he bedded down shortly before midnight.
He had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a sentry. “Horse thieves,” he muttered. Caleb struggled into his boots, grabbed his rifle and took off at a lope toward the perimeter where the horses were tethered.
The sentry whispered hoarsely, “Indians. They’re hiding among the horses.”
Caleb whistled for Bucephalus, then fired a warning shot in the air. Several more troops staggered toward them. “Rout them out before they steal our horses.”
Led by Caleb, several of the men plunged into the mass of horseflesh. With only a sliver of a moon for light, it was difficult to distinguish between horses and Indians, especially when they were adept at straddling an animal, clinging to the mane and dropping over the side so as to be undetectable.
Caleb leaped on Bucephalus, clutched his mane with one hand and prodded him forward. In the distance he could barely make out a group of eight horses slowly detaching from the herd. He galloped after them as they began moving more swiftly toward a nearby hill. To his right he noticed one of his cavalrymen. “Follow me!” he shouted. They charged into the open prairie fifty yards or so from the group of stolen horses. The Indians, slowed by the horses they were leading, tried to escape. By then a few more mounted cavalrymen had joined the hunt. When they narrowed the gap, Caleb yelled, “Spare the horses, but fire on the riders.”
In the ensuing fray, three cavalry horses broke loose and galloped off, but five still remained in enemy hands. Every time Caleb thought he had a clear aim, the Indians changed direction. Finally he drew a bead on the leader. With one shot, he succeeded in bringing him down. Almost simultaneously, other deafening shots rang out, felling two more thieves. One pinto tore for the hills, its rider bent low.
The remaining horses were rounded up by morning. Thankfully, no cavalry mounts had been lost. The three dead Indians would either teach their fellows a lesson or incite them to retribution. Yet Caleb took no satisfaction in killing. This was a war without rules and little way to distinguish peaceable Indians from their more hostile numbers.
After burying the dead and packing their gear, the troop made its way toward the fort. Even considering the excitement and danger of the night, Caleb, instead of feeling spent, was energized. They had foiled the horse thieves and were headed home at last. The steady rhythm of horses’ hooves and the creak-crack of saddle leather provided accompaniment for the mental exercise of preparing his report for the colonel. Before he knew it, they had crested the rise just beyond the fort. Something clenched within him, and he knew, despite Will Creekmore’s remarks about courting, he had been counting the hours until he would see Lily again. As they trotted into the fort, it was all he could do to keep his eyes forward instead of sweeping the scene for her slight figure.
After securing the horses and checking in at headquarters, he and Will headed for their home and the welcome bath that awaited them. Will unpacked quickly, bathed first and then strode toward the sutler’s to collect their mail.
Caleb had just finished shaving when Will burst through the door with a loud huzzah, waving a letter over his head. “She’s coming! My Fannie’s coming!” He danced a jig before stopping in his tracks, a large smile wreathing his face. “Cap’n,” he said in a wondering tone, “my Fannie is going to marry me.”
“You’re a lucky man, Will.”
“A blessed man,” the lieutenant corrected him. “Blessed beyond all measure.” He stared at the letter before slowly folding it and stowing it in his pocket. As if speaking only to himself, he said, “I am half a man without my Fannie.”
Caleb turned away, lest he reveal too much of himself. Thanks to Rebecca, he knew that feeling of being half a man. Yet he, too, had a restless urge to complete himself, to know the kind of love Will celebrated.
That evening after supper, he sat rocking on the porch with Will, who smoked a cigar, its pungent aroma perfuming the night air. Mourning doves cooed in the distance. From the enlisted men’s barracks came the sound of singing, the rich harmonies a plaintive reminder of so many nights around campfires.
Suddenly, his breath quickened. Lily came out of the library and stood for a moment, a small book clutched in her hand, scanning the officers’ quarters. She must have seen him then, for she raised her hand in greeting.
He nodded, incapable of speech even if it had been called for.
Then she picked up her skirt and walked toward her home.
Caleb leaned back in the rocker, the sounds and the smells of the fort a comfort to him amid his questions. Had Lily been looking for him as he had been looking for her? And why, despite the need to exercise reason, had the sight of her filled him with such spontaneous joy?
Chapter Seven
Not for the first time Caleb wondered why he had agreed to take part in the poetry reading. It was one thing to find personal enjoyment in the genre, but quite another to expose himself to possible ridicule by his men. At least his selection—Milton’s description of Satan’s fall from Heaven—had teeth in it. He stood at the back of the commissary, listening to the others rehearse. Major Hurlburt did a fine Longfellow, but the wife of a junior officer massacred her assigned Shakespearean sonnet.
Effie Hurlburt, self-appointed director of the production, positione
d the readers on the makeshift stage, then hurried to the back of the room to be certain each could be heard.
Caleb was surprised by Lily’s absence. With her love of poetry, she, of all people, should be involved. As if anticipating his unvoiced question, Effie returned to the front and reviewed the program. “You will begin, Sergeant.” She nodded at a barrel-chested man with oratorical skill who had selected “No More Words,” a Civil War poem. “Then we will follow in the order by which we practiced, ending with Miss Kellogg’s reading. Alas, duties at the hospital prevented her from joining us for rehearsal, but I assure you she will provide a fitting conclusion for our evening’s entertainment.” She paused, eyeing them in the manner of a strict schoolmarm. “Now then, are there any questions?”
“Do you think anyone will come?” asked a jittery company clerk.
“If I have anything to say about it.” Effie glanced smugly at the major. “And if I have to pull rank, I will.” She smiled encouragingly at the clerk. “Listen to me, son. This is fine entertainment. Afterward, the others will all wish they could so commandingly declaim poetry.”
Caleb mentally rolled his eyes. It would take more than that to impress some of the more jaded fellows, but even poetry trumped boredom.
As the group dispersed, Effie Hurlburt approached him. “Captain, would you kindly help me hang streamers from the walls? A bit of bunting will add a festive air to the proceedings.”
As they went about their work, Effie chattered about the weather and offered tidbits of fort gossip. Caleb couldn’t help wondering why she had selected him, rather than an enlisted man for this duty, but the answer soon came. When they finished, she turned to him. “For your labors, you deserve a reward. Escort me home for tea cakes and a spot of lemonade.” From the brisk way she began walking toward her house, he had little choice but to follow.
At her door, she led him in and urged him to sit in what was clearly the major’s armchair. When Caleb raised his eyebrows in question, she anticipated his concern. “You stay right there. Hurly’s in his office working on a dispatch, so we won’t be disturbed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will see to our refreshments.” She bustled from the room, leaving him to study the lacy antimacassars on the sofa and the Chinese vase on the fringed scarf atop the piano. It was almost as if Mrs. Hurlburt had lured him to her parlor for some purpose.
Laura Abbot Page 8