by Andy Kutler
“What is the date here, son?” he asked, easing himself down.
“Kirch. Peter Kirch, but everyone just calls me Kirch. I think it’s the twenty-sixth. Is that right, Sergeant?”
A grunt came from the older man.
“No,” said Kelsey. “What year?”
“Sixty-one, of course.”
1861. Shit.
“This is an Army installation?”
“You mean a fort? Not exactly, sir. You might be thinking of Fort Pierce. We’re in Camp Chance, home to Companies A and B, Second Dragoons.”
“This is the First Platoon barracks, A Company,” added Walsh. “Lieutenant Garrity is the Platoon CO.”
“What’s a dragoon?”
The boy laughed. Kelsey didn’t, and the boy’s amusement quickly turned to bewilderment.
“What’s a dragoon?” Kirch parroted.
Kelsey couldn’t tell if the kid was incredulous or insulted. “Never mind. This camp, where is it?”
“Right smack in the middle of nowhere,” Kirch said brightly. “About fifty miles north of the border. Two hundred fifty miles south of Santa Fe.”
Santa Fe? Kelsey tried to piece it together. He was in the Southwest somewhere, New Mexico most likely. This was an Army post, whatever a dragoon was. Probably cavalry.
“Kirch!”
The powerful voice thundered across the barracks. Kelsey looked up and saw a tall, hulking figure taking up most of the door frame.
The young man paled, jumping from his cot. “Yes, First Sergeant!”
The tension in the kid’s voice was unmistakable.
“Get that man cleaned up,” the sergeant commanded, gesturing toward Kelsey. “Captain Royston wants to see him.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The visitor ignored Kelsey and sauntered over to the card game. He seemed older than the other men and had a stern look about him that Kelsey saw in so many of the Nevada’s complement of Marines. A man who enjoyed a fight. He was built like a Notre Dame linebacker and carried himself with the swagger of one. Kelsey assumed that a first sergeant was the Army equivalent of Chief Middleton. He had seen a soused Middleton tangle once with four MPs in Manila Bay, each armed with a Billy club. The four coppers knew Middleton by reputation. Despite the odds, they squared off against him, dread filling their eyes. It was the same dread he could see among the men in this barracks as their first sergeant paraded past each of them.
The man’s dark appearance was fitting. He had a swarthy complexion with hazel eyes and his hat was pulled down low over his forehead. He was an imposing, strapping man, at least a few inches taller than Kelsey, and his suspenders stretched across his broad shoulders and thick chest. He had a square chin, framed by a thick beard, and his nose was large and misshapen, as if it had absorbed a number of blows over the years. If he and Middleton ever met in a dark alley, someone would end up in a hospital.
Kirch’s reaction was hardly inconspicuous. Enlisted men in every military service had always been awed by their non-coms, but there was something different about this kid’s body language. He was almost quivering.
As for the man whose presence had put the entire barracks on edge, Kelsey had seen this before. An occasional boatswain or junior lieutenant, strutting below decks like they were John Paul Jones, barking at young sailors and reveling in the cowering they had caused.
The outsider quietly observed the card game for a minute, his attention on the sizable pile of money in front of Walsh.
“Avery, looks like the cards are calling your name today. We have a game on tonight, B Company stables after sundown. Just us sergeants, and Lieutenant Hammel of course. Deal you in?”
Walsh continued to stare at his hand. “I’ll have to pass, Sergeant.”
“Oh, come on now, Avery,” said the sergeant amiably. “Give a man a chance to win his money back.”
“Can’t. Back is all locked up. Need to get some rest if we’re going to be in the saddle all week.”
Kelsey thought he saw a flash of anger in the eyes of the first sergeant, but the same friendly smile remained fixed in place.
“Fair enough,” he said, “I’ll see you on the trail.”
The sergeant took several paces to the door but slowed as he passed Kelsey. “So who the fuck are you?”
“Just visiting. Who the fuck are you?”
The sergeant stopped and the barracks became instantly still. Even the card players had paused, stunned into silence by the newcomer’s words.
The first sergeant stood glowering at Kelsey with a look that had surely wilted many others before. Not Kelsey. Maybe because he was accustomed to dressing down his own men when they stepped out of line. Maybe because he knew a bully and an asshole when he saw one.
The man’s mouth finally curled into a sneering smile, his hands loosening from the fists they had balled into. It was the kind of smile a predator wears just before devouring his prey.
“Who am I? I’m the wrong man for you to be taking that attitude with, stranger.”
“Look at that bandage, Hiram,” Walsh called over, still studying his cards. “Man ain’t right in the head.”
“That’s for damn sure. Maybe one day you and I will run into each other outside this camp.”
“Maybe we will.”
The sergeant stepped back but his eyes were still drilling holes into Kelsey.
He turned to leave again, and paused next to Kirch on his way out. “You report to me later. Captain is thinking about recommending you for squadron bugler, but you’ll need another stripe for that. You and me need to go over some things.”
Kirch looked at his feet. “Yes, Sergeant.”
The man left the barracks and Kirch exhaled, his shoulders sagging as he dropped on to his cot. Walsh folded, tossing his cards in. He stood and walked by Kirch, patting the young man on the shoulder reassuringly while murmuring something in his ear.
“Problem?” asked Kelsey.
Walsh stood, shaking his head. “No problem. But you may want to watch your lip and stay on the right side of Sergeant Travers. The less he notices you the better.”
Kelsey looked at Walsh sharply. “What did you say?”
“I said stay on his right side, the less—”
“No, did you call him Travers?”
“Yep, First Sergeant Travers.”
It can’t be.
“You hear me?”
Kelsey felt his heartbeat rush and dropped down to his cot to steady himself. “Do you know where he’s from?”
Walsh fixed him with another scowl. “Hell no. Don’t know, don’t care. Think he spoke about coal country once, Appalachia maybe, or somewhere like that.
Travers. This is why I’m here. This is why I remember.
“You best finish dressing and wash your face up some,” Walsh said. “Kirch, where is Mrs. Garrity?”
The color had returned to the boy’s face. “She was working in her garden, said she’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Walsh turned to Kelsey. “Wash basin and towel are over in the corner. You need to look presentable for Mrs. Garrity.”
“You want me to meet this woman and keep your captain waiting?”
“Yes,” insisted Walsh and Kirch at the same time.
Kelsey shrugged and scrubbed his face as instructed. It was still streaked in dried blood and the water in the wash basin soon turned a dark crimson. He had just finished toweling off the last of it when he heard Kirch’s voice.
“All clear, ma’am. Everyone is decent.”
Kelsey turned as a woman come into the barracks, hesitant, as if she had interrupted a preacher’s sermon. “My apologies for the intrusion,” she announced.
The handful of soldiers inside immediately stood and removed their hats. She returned their smiles, pulling back her sun bonnet and letting it fall behind her, still tethered to her neck.
Whoa.
It was like a beam of light had been cast into the room. Her face was glistening with a mix of sweat
and dirt, and her dress was equally soiled. She was a mess, but from what Kelsey could see, the only difference between this woman and the reigning Miss America, who had visited the Nevada just weeks ago, was a bar of soap.
Her eyes were magnetic, a deep blue that stood out against her bronzed skin. Her straw-colored hair was pinned to the back of her head in a tight bun and she had a splash of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. She had a slender build, and though somewhat shrouded by the unflattering dress she wore, Kelsey could discern the small, well-placed curves.
She was a knockout, plain and simple.
“Sergeant Walsh, how is your wife these days? Agnes, isn’t it?” She had a musical voice and a Southern accent that Kelsey could not place.
“Yes ma’am, she’s fine and dandy, thank you for asking. She’s still in Albuquerque.”
“And your daughter?”
“The lass is almost three now. An Emerald Isle princess, that one.”
“When did you last see them?”
“Christmas, ma’am.”
“You haven’t seen your family in four months? That will not do. Perhaps we can arrange for them to join us at the Fourth of July celebration at Fort Pierce.”
Walsh looked uncertain. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Garrity. But ain’t that sort of celebration just a wee bit of wishful thinking?”
Her smile broadened. “Why Sergeant, we’re in a vast territory in the wild, surrounded by thousands of Indians while we wait for war to break out back home. Wishful thinking is all we have at the moment.”
She turned his way. “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Kelsey.”
“Ma’am,” he responded, surprised. “You know my name?”
Kirch laughed, his exuberance returning. “She knows everything, mister.”
Kelsey could see all of the men were smiling now and breathing easier. She was a head turner, no doubt, but it was more than just her arresting features. They liked this woman. All of the strain that had filled the room when Travers entered the barracks had instantly vanished the second she took his place.
Who is she?
This bombshell was more out of place in this barracks than Kelsey was. And yet she seemed perfectly at ease. She gave Kelsey a warm smile while pulling off a pair of leather work gloves.
“I’m Emily Garrity, to answer your question. My husband is an officer here, and these men serve in his platoon. I’m sorry we couldn’t offer you better accommodations. And the clothes you came in with were beyond salvage.”
She turned to the boy. “Peter, please get this gentleman a plate of food and some refreshment. He looks as if he could use a pot of coffee.”
“The mess is closed, ma’am,” responded Kirch, “and the fires ain’t lit.”
“The fires aren’t lit. And talk to Mr. Sigourney and tell him it is I who made the request.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kirch said, parting from the barracks again.
Kelsey held up his hand. “I’m supposed to meet a captain.”
“Yes, that would be Captain Royston, our company commander. He can wait.”
This is one self-assured dame. “Our” commander?
He took a chance. “You don’t happen to have anyone here named Leavitt, do you?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Leavitt? Not that I am aware of.” She turned to Walsh who gave a quick shake of the head.
“What about a train? Are we near a train station?”
“I’m afraid not. Nearest railhead is some seven hundred miles away.” She regarded him curiously. “Your memory seems to be returning. Who is Leavitt? Are you supposed to meet him someplace? At a train station?”
Kelsey sat back on the cot, lost in thought. “I’d like some time alone now.”
“I would be happy to assist, Mr. Kelsey. This seems like quite the puzzle.”
“No, not now. I just need some rest.” He rubbed his temples, trying to process it all.
What the hell has Leavitt done? He said I wouldn’t remember. And now Travers. A coincidence?
Emily looked at him with sympathy. “I can certainly understand why, given your injury. But you should really see Captain Royston. I am sure it will only take a few minutes of your time.”
“I don’t work for Captain Royston,” snapped Kelsey. “And I said I need some time to think.”
The boy said it was sixty-one—1861, obviously. What the hell was happening in 1861? Wait—
“Mr. Kelsey, it is customary in this regiment that when a senior officer—”
“Enough!” he said, raising his voice. Even with the sharp pain that now throbbed behind his eye, he sensed the immediate quiet in the room. But he couldn’t worry about that now; he had to figure out how to play this.
One of the ranch hands used to talk about the Apache legend, Geronimo. Maybe that happened here. Or the Civil War, maybe that was it. But these men are wearing blue. They would be Northerners. She’s from the South. And the Civil War was fought in the east, not New Mexico or Arizona.
He was too far lost in thought to have noticed that Emily’s smile was gone now. “Sir, it is not necessary for you to—”
“Damn it, woman, do you have ever stop talking?” he shouted at her, even surprising himself.
Emily took a step back, jarred at the outburst, as Kelsey felt the sting from a smack to the back of his head. He doubled over, his head feeling as if a pile of bricks had fallen on it.
“Mind your manners, civilian,” snarled Walsh. “You ain’t talking to no bar maid.”
“Did I miss something here?” asked a new voice from the entryway. The soldiers braced themselves to attention as Kelsey, his face contorted in pain, looked up at the man. With some effort, perhaps force of habit, he managed to rise to his feet as well.
“Stand at ease, men,” the officer said casually in a Southern drawl. He was tall, at least a few inches over six feet, and he had to stoop down to avoid the beam that crossed over the doorway. He had an athletic build and long limbs, reminding Kelsey of Quinn Bigsley, his one-time Bruin teammate who was laboring now in the minor leagues.
The man had thick, sandy blond hair, covered partly by a kepi hat, and a trim mustache that was a shade darker than his hair. But while Quinn had Hollywood features that once captivated every co-ed in Southern California, Kelsey had to flinch when he saw this man’s face. His left cheek had a jagged, inch-wide scar down the side, and the skin surrounding it had a smooth texture, almost like a severe burn.
The man wore epaulets on his shoulders with a single silver bar, which Kelsey knew to be Army insignia for a first lieutenant. His uniform was spotless, the gold sash around his waist perfectly knotted and his tunic buttoned to the collar.
Walsh approached him and they conferred quietly for a minute, the officer eyeing Kelsey as they spoke.
With a final nod to Walsh, he approached Kelsey. “That is quite a wrap you have there,” he said, gesturing toward the bandage on Kelsey’s head. Though he couldn’t place it, Kelsey knew why the accent sounded so familiar. It was the same as hers. The officer extended a hand and Kelsey shook it firmly.
“Cal Garrity. I’m told your name is Kelsey.”
He gave a small shrug. “That’s what everyone seems to think. Where’d you get that from?”
Garrity grinned. “Detective work. I have a team of Pinkertons on it. Is that your name?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Yes, you told the Doc that as well.”
“I spoke to a doctor?”
“When he was stitching you up. Doc Peters said you were pretty out of it, couldn’t remember your name or how you were injured.”
“I don’t even know how I got here. Or when.” Finally, the truth.
Garrity nodded, but Kelsey was uncertain whether the man believed him.
“We’ll help you figure that out.”
“Yes, we will,” said the woman.
The lieutenant turned to his wife. “What are you doing here, Em? This is a barracks, no place for a lady.�
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“I was receiving our visitor.”
“Mrs. Garrity is welcome in here anytime she pleases, Sir,” countered Walsh. Several others murmured in agreement.
“Yes, well, it didn’t sound to me like a very satisfying conversation.” He looked at Emily and gestured toward Kelsey. “Do you want me to have him shot?”
She gave it some consideration. “No,” she answered, eyeing Kelsey, “this one seems spirited, that’s all.”
Garrity grinned and turned toward Kelsey. “Well, that is a relief. These men have the day off and would not have taken kindly to drawing straws for a firing squad. You feel well enough to talk? Captain Royston would like to see you.”
He started to protest again but Garrity was no longer smiling. “It was a statement, Mr. Kelsey, not a question.”
Kelsey sighed in defeat and stood. He looked down at his bare feet. “I need shoes.”
“Oh, I got those here, mister.” Kirch reached under the cot and pulled out the Navy-issue white patent leather shoes. “I spit-shined them up for you,” he said, proudly holding the gleaming pair. Nearly everyone in the room chortled.
“I think some dandy in New Orleans is missing his lady shoes!” bellowed Walsh. The soldiers all roared with laughter and even Emily Garrity had to cover a giggle with her hand.
The lieutenant was trying to suppress his own smile. Unsuccessfully. “We can get you some boots at the sutler store. You have any money?”
Kelsey looked at him blankly as Emily stepped forward. “Money? My word, Calvin Garrity, have you no manners? His feet look the same size as yours. He can wear your old boots until he gets his own.”
“I’ve had those boots since West Point,” Cal protested. “Which—”
She held her hand up to shush him. “Which you haven’t worn in years.” Emily turned to another young soldier who had been playing cards. “William, please dash to our quarters. There is a large crate in the back corner by the fireplace. You’ll find an ancient pair of boots in there, probably worn by George Washington at Valley Forge. Off you go.”
“That’s not necessary, but I guess it wouldn’t do any good to argue with you,” asked Kelsey.
“No,” said Garrity and Walsh in unison.
“It was a statement, not a question.”