by Andy Kutler
“Perfectly, Sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Kelsey followed Cal outside, the two men allowing Peter Kirch to slide by them as he entered the quarters. The boy pulled the door shut, approached the desk, and pulled an envelope from the inside of his shell jacket. “Sir, my ma wrote me again. Would you mind?”
Ethan held out his hand impatiently. “I thought you were reading with Mrs. Garrity.”
Kirch handed him the envelope. “Oh, yes Sir. I’ve got most of my letters down, and I can even read a few words. But Ma likes to use some mighty big words with lots of letters. And if I ask Mrs. Garrity, she’ll make me read it to her, and that will take all day, Sir.”
Ethan sighed, opening the envelope and unfolding the one-page note. A rain shower was passing through the camp and with the darkening sky Ethan had to turn up the kerosene lamp.
“Dear Peter,” he read aloud. “I hope this letter finds you safe. It seems like ages since you left the farm. Your father says that with the business in South Carolina, we will soon be at war. I know it is not likely to last very long, but I do hope any fighting will occur here in the East and not affect you and your regiment. Your brothers miss you a great deal. Jacob has been plowing the north field by himself. He has the strength of a man twice his age. Your father intends to seed it with wheat when the weather warms. Frederick turned eighteen last month, and I’m told by his brother that he has attracted the interest of every young woman in the township. We missed you greatly at the county fair, and remember fondly how your pigs always won first prize year after year. It is difficult for me to acknowledge this, but you have grown into a man now, serving in the same army my father and grandfather served in. Your father is still angry that you enlisted without his permission. At least, that is what he constantly says to the boys. But I know your father, Peter, and I assure you he is so very proud.”
Ethan read the next words to himself and smiled.
“What is it?” the boy asked, alarm in his voice.
“I have written to your commanding officer,” Ethan continued, “and requested that he keep you safe and away from possible harm.”
Kirch looked crestfallen. “She didn’t!”
Ethan, bemused, set the letter down and thumbed through the stack of correspondence on the corner of his desk. “Ah, yes. One letter from Elmira, New York.”
“Oh, lordy, Captain, I’m so sorry.”
Ethan patted the stack of correspondence. “Don’t worry, Kirch, it will be months before I get through all of this. You’ll probably be dead by then.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said a relieved Kirch.
Cal returned, shaking the rainwater from his kepi hat. “Left the new man with Walsh. He’s going to find a horse and saddle for him, then take him to the armory. I’ll take him riding off post when this lets up.”
“Why didn’t you have Travers set him up?”
“Kelsey says he and Travers didn’t get off to a good start. No surprise there. Walsh can handle things.”
Cal threw some kindling into the potbellied stove, rubbing his hands for warmth as Kirch approached him.
“Lieutenant, was wondering if I could talk to you right quick? Wouldn’t take a minute or two.”
“Sure, son. What’s on your mind?”
Kirch eyed Ethan nervously, who had resumed his harried writing. “In private, Sir?” he asked quietly.
Cal followed the boy outside. The rain was heavier now, and the two stayed under the overhang to avoid the worst of it. “What is it?”
The bugler took off his hat and gripped it in his hands, his eyes nervously looking at his feet. “Well Sir, there is a trooper in B Company, a friend of mine. We’ll just call him Henry.”
“Henry Pauls?”
Kirch quickly looked up. “You know him, Sir?”
“Not really. I remember he was Captain Rudman’s orderly for a spell. What about him?”
“Sir, is there any way I can tell you something without it coming back to me?”
“Kirch, I’ve got an inch of water in my boots already. Out with it.”
The boy hesitated, chewing hard on his lip. Cal looked in his eyes and could see something was tormenting the boy.
He softened his voice. “What is it, Peter?” he asked, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Kirch peeked up at the darkening sky, as a burst of lightening flashed across the horizon. “Well, Sir, you remember that storm we had last week? Just like this one?”
CHAPTER 6
“Step it up, Lieutenant,” Ethan said, slowing his pace. “Don’t those twenty dollar boots move any faster?”
“They are thirty dollar boots and you didn’t even let me finish my breakfast,” Cal grumbled, his long strides quickly making up ground. “You’d think we were headed to Santa Fe with a week of furlough.”
Ethan clapped his shoulder. “Where is the respect, Mr. Garrity? Your squadron commander once took on half the Mexican Army.”
“Actually, his company charged a rampart held by a few platoons of untrained conscripts, but by all means, let us inflate the legend a bit more. You were there, right?”
“I wish I had been.” But Ethan was just a schoolboy when the United States went to war with her neighbors.
He knew Cal was rolling his eyes, but Ethan was not fooled, knowing his subordinate respected their commanding officer as much as anyone in camp. For Ethan, it was more than just respect. From the day Gaylord entrusted him with command of an entire company, Ethan was humbled by the faith Gaylord had in him, and despite how imposing his new responsibilities were, Ethan was determined not to disappoint the man. He had accepted the fact long ago that he cared much more about Colonel Gaylord’s approval than that of his own father.
Ethan spoke little of his family, even to Cal. It was hardly a comfortable subject. As brusque and humorless as a man could be, his father Edward was an icon back in Wisconsin. A captain once of territorial militia, he had made a name for himself during the Black Hawk War back in 1832 and later leveraged that acclaim to win governorship of the Wisconsin Territory. He left office just before statehood in ’48, seeking to augment his political fortune with a financial one, and soon became one of the wealthiest industrialists in the state. It was also the time when his mother experienced the first symptoms of the disease that would ultimately consume her body.
It had surprised many, Edward included, when his oldest son left Madison at such a young age. Ethan had long scorned books and schoolwork, which explained his rather lackluster academic marks. Yet Edward knew the boy was bright, discerning and well-read. Believing Ethan would outgrow both his idleness and his rebellious nature, Edward had called in several political markers and managed to secure a nomination for Ethan at the prestigious United States Military Academy. But Ethan was averse to following his father into soldiering and instead pleaded for permission to attend the fledgling college in Madison with his friends. His father dismissed that idea and ordered Ethan to accept the Academy appointment.
They argued hotly about it, and often. Ethan knew his father’s almost desperate insistence had little to do with Ethan’s welfare and more about carrying on the political and financial legacy that Edward had built. The man’s vanity was his driving force, leaving him yearning for a son that admired and worshiped him, like the thousands of voters in their state who had twice enthusiastically sent him to the Governor’s House.
Ethan refused to be cowed into the position of prodigal son. He had witnessed too often his father’s unscrupulous business dealings and relentless browbeating of his associates. He could also not forget the stable of young ladies Edward hosted at their home while his wife was succumbing to cancer in a hospital bed. His brother had been too young to notice such things at the time. And so Ethan would let Thomas, who had always been awed by their father, worry about the family legacy and rub elbows with those strutting peacocks on the Hudson River. Ethan wanted nothing to do with any of it.
Yet he knew his father would force
the issue. Thus, before he had even reached his eighteenth birthday, Ethan whispered a farewell to Thomas and slipped out of his bedroom window on a frigid winter night. He left Madison with the clothes on his back and fifteen dollars in his pocket. It was 1855.
Ethan’s resourcefulness led him to Illinois and eventually Missouri. He looked for work there, knowing that he was now beyond the likely reach of his father. Those were difficult times, though, and jobs were hard to come by. After four months of working part-time for a wheelwright, a chance meeting changed the trajectory of his life. A rugged-looking man in an immaculate blue uniform adorned with brass buttons and orange piping found him nursing a beer and bought him another. The man was a sergeant with more than twenty years of Army service. He shared with Ethan the story of the United States Dragoons out West and their mission to tame the wild frontier and the Plains Indians. Ethan was mesmerized by the sergeant’s colorful tales, even as he suspected there was a bit of truth-stretching in them all.
His father had a fierce reputation on the battlefield, but he had only been a militiaman. And here was an opportunity, the sergeant told him, to join the most elite outfit in the entire Army. So, with barely a dollar left in his pocket and a hastily scribbled signature, the name mostly illegible after young Ethan’s fourth mug of beer, it was finished. Ethan had ironically fulfilled at least one of his father’s ambitions for his oldest son. He was a soldier now.
After completing his required cavalry training, he was sent to the Colorado region of the Utah Territory where he surprised himself at how easily he adapted to army life. He reveled in the challenges they encountered on the mountainous frontier and measuring up to the high standards of the Dragoons. He made corporal within a year, almost unheard of then, and fought with distinction in several minor skirmishes against the Kiowa and Cheyenne. When his two-year enlistment came due, the Army offered to make him a non-commissioned officer in exchange for extending his commitment for five more years.
Ethan wrestled with that decision. He had never seen himself as a career soldier but could not deny that he had finally found something he excelled at. His superiors certainly seemed impressed with his abilities. He discovered a pride and self-worth when hearing the praise and encouragement from his sergeants and lieutenants, words that were foreign to him throughout his adolescence.
So he stayed with the Dragoons. Hell, he had nowhere else to go.
A sergeant then, he sewed the extra stripe on himself and used the last of his meager savings for new boots and a dress uniform. Ethan continued to make his mark, rising to company first sergeant the following year. He had the good fortune to serve under a senior officer who mentored Ethan, recognizing that Ethan led men more ably than many of the post’s officers, including those who trained at the Virginia Military Institute, The Citadel, and even West Point.
On Christmas Day, 1858, Ethan was promoted again, this time making the rare leap into the officer corps. He was sent to Fort Washita in Indian Territory, where the Army was keeping watch on the Comanches. Once there, his star continued to rise. His subsequent captaincy, where he was selected over more senior lieutenants with much longer service records, sparked envy and some resentment among his peers. He wondered from time to time what his father would think of him, but he hadn’t seen or spoken to his father in nearly three years.
He was later transferred to the increasingly volatile New Mexico Territory, where he continued to thrive and was eventually awarded his own company by Nathan Gaylord, the squadron commander. While Ethan was aware that his superiors, most notably Colonel Gaylord, considered him a skilled officer, his new responsibilities left him burdened with self-doubt and the fear of failure. Cal had tried to convince him otherwise, frequently reminding Ethan of how well he had performed and insisting that his success was no aberration.
Despite his ascendency, Ethan was still restive about his military career. The Army had been generous to him and he loved his company. But the longer he remained, the more he sensed he was doing that which he had gone to so much trouble to avoid—following his father’s path. He knew his relationship with his father had nothing to do with the Army, and it was wrong to begrudge the institution for his father’s personal failings. He was conflicted nonetheless, wanting to succeed and impress his superiors without any comparisons, by others or himself, to his father. He had to get past that. He owed men like Major Gillingham back at Fort Washita and Colonel Gaylord here at Camp Chance his devotion and was determined to validate their faith in his abilities.
“I’d rather be cleaning the stables than attending these staff meetings,” Cal continued to grouse, bringing Ethan back to their conversation. “Half the officers here look at me like I gave the order to fire on Fort Sumter.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, much more than half.”
Ethan turned serious. “Not Gaylord.”
“For every Gaylord, there are three more like Thatch.”
The two officers bounced up the steps of the command post, the largest structure in the camp, their boots heavy on the cut pine. They entered the anteroom where a burly figure with a large cluster of stripes on his sleeve and a patch over his left eye rose from behind a desk.
“G’morning, Captain. Mr. Garrity,” said Hildebrand, the squadron sergeant major. Ethan knew he had earned the patch years ago fighting Seminole Indians in the swamps of Florida, though Sergeant Travers had warned against asking the man about the particulars. “You can go right in."
“Sergeant Major,” said Cal, “I understand you just became a grandfather?”
Hildebrand beamed. “Yes, Sir. A young boy, Christopher Jackson Burnett, born to my daughter in Baltimore.”
“Well, then, I think these might come in handy when you and the other sergeants are celebrating.” Cal reached into his blouse and pulled out a handful of thick, fragrant cigars.
“From the Carolinas,” Cal confirmed to Hildebrand’s questioning look. The veteran soldier bowed his head in gratitude and took the cigars, along with the officers’ overcoats.
They entered the spacious inner office, the room bright from the morning sun bursting through the large windows along two of the adobe walls. A cloud of tobacco smoke hovered under the vaulted ceiling high above. The back of the office was mostly occupied by the large desk belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Gaylord, Commander, 3rd Squadron, 2nd Dragoons. A sprawling map of the territory was tacked on the wall behind.
Ethan and Cal were the last to arrive. There was a strong slap on his shoulder and Ethan looked up to see Harris Rudman, his bunkmate who commanded the other company at the post.
"I hear they're going to throw you boys a little fiesta at the Atwell ranch,” chuckled the ruddy-faced New Yorker, his white teeth gleaming from behind a full beard.
"Hope not,” laughed Ethan. “That Mexican tequila took down half my company last time we were there. Welcome back, Harris. How’re things at Pierce?”
“Tense,” said Rudman, his good cheer evaporating. He lowered his voice, serious now. “Brawls breaking out, and not just among the enlisted. I heard one officer challenged another to a dual, if you can believe that. Had a drink with Jake Sommers, told me that General Cardin has already drafted the order releasing the Southern men. Going to let them keep their horses and side arms. Just waiting for the War Department to approve it.”
“The horses?” asked Ethan, surprised. “Washington won’t abide by that.”
“Agreed. And I think he knows that.” Rudman turned to Garrity. “How are you doing, Cal?”
“Just grand, Captain. Emily was hoping to see Cassandra before…well, soon.”
“Yes, Cassie is heartbroken about that. I have a letter from her to your wife. She said to me, ‘Harris, why can’t that girl be like the rest of the wives and stay here at Fort Pierce? All she has to keep her company down there is Mrs. Gaylord.’”
Cal smiled. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her that Mrs. Garrity is a bit set in her ways, and doesn’t understand tha
t the life of an officer’s spouse can result in certain hardships, such as separation from your husband for months at a time. But what I wanted to tell her was about how Mrs. Garrity spends three nights a week teaching some of these young troopers how to read and write. Or how she helps Doc Peters in the infirmary, even though she is not a trained nurse and receives no compensation. Or how she seems to know every trooper’s birthday, and how a freshly baked pie ends up in the barracks on those days. I wanted to tell Cassie that I agreed with her. Your wife isn’t like the rest of them.”
“But you didn’t,” prompted Ethan.
“Hell, no,” grinned Rudman. “Discretion is the better part of valor, and the secret to a lasting marriage.”
"Attention!" boomed Hildebrand from the back of the room. The officers ceased their conversations and stood upright as Colonel Gaylord entered the room followed by his adjutant.
"Please be seated, gentlemen. You may continue to smoke," said Gaylord as he moved toward the stove in the corner of the room. Major Thatch stood near the side wall as the officers filled the dozen or so chairs in front of Gaylord’s desk. A few lit tobacco pipes and cigars. Gaylord reached for the coffee pot sitting on top of the stove, and as he poured himself a cup, Ethan could see the pot tremble a bit.
Glancing around the room, Ethan was sure he was not the only one who noticed.
Nathan Gaylord was a legend in the 2nd Dragoons. Rudman told Ethan the story when he first reported to Camp Chance. Gaylord had enlisted in the Army at the age of thirteen as a drummer and found himself in several engagements against the British during the War of 1812. He eventually attended West Point, fought in Mexico, and was twice decorated for gallantry. As a frontier officer, he had successfully accomplished what few others in the West could not, building and managing a fragile peace with the indigenous Indian tribes. Why he still commanded just a squadron was a mystery to most, including Ethan. He knew Gaylord did not like to mince words with his superiors and shunned the political gamesmanship that pervaded the Army. Perhaps that is why the War Department entrusted him with but two companies of men.