The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  Sighing, Ethan slid down in his chair and tented his hands over his full belly.

  “A meal for a king, Emily.”

  “You’ll pardon the condition of our castle,” Cal replied, mimicking an English accent. “The maids are away at our country estate.”

  The Garritys’ living quarters, a ramshackle, two-room structure with a sod roof and floors of packed dirt, had barely enough space for a bed, the stove and a small dining table. Yet Cal knew how fortunate they were to have it. Camp Chance was hardly ideal for wives or children, hence the scarcity of both. While the camp provided the dragoons greater proximity to the border settlements, it lacked the protective walls and stout ramparts of the more formidable Fort Pierce. Conditions here were spartan, even for seasoned frontier soldiers accustomed to a hard life.

  Despite its vulnerabilities, there was little threat of an attack from the poorly-organized and lightly-armed Indians. Though there was certainly animosity between the soldiers and the local tribes, the latter knew too well the consequences of attacking the soldiers in camp. As well as the futility. Besides two full companies of dragoons, there was also the garrison infantry and a battery of light cannon.

  It was those factors that persuaded Colonel Gaylord to allow Cal to quarter with his wife in the camp. It wasn’t so much an exception; not a single other officer had requested the presence of their family here. The other wives preferred both the security and amenities of Fort Pierce. They would see their husbands only on occasion until late October, when the squadron returned to the fort for winter quartering.

  On paper, Gaylord managed an exception for Emily based on her prior experience assisting a post surgeon in West Texas. But Cal knew the rest of the story. When Emily first approached the camp commander, Gaylord had suggested her safety might be at risk and that Chance was no place for a woman. A tactical blunder on the colonel’s part, who would have been better off whacking a hornet’s nest with a stick. That thought made Cal smile as Emily refilled her own cup and returned to her chair.

  “So, why the grief from Gaylord about Terrell?” asked Cal.

  “I can’t explain it. Terrell is Terrell, and Gaylord knows that.”

  “Sergeant Walsh heard a story in the barracks. Says Terrell has been making advances on the wife of some cattle rancher down near Las Cruces.”

  Ethan guffawed. “A married woman? The French Army would have promoted him for that.”

  “Which raises the question, Ethan,” Emily said. “Are you ever going to tell us what he’s doing here?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” He switched to a poor imitation of a Southern drawl. “And as an officer and a gentleman I am bound to my word of honor.”

  Cal laughed, knowing better than to take any offense.

  From the day he met Ethan Royston, Cal had desperately wanted to dislike the Northerner. Ethan radiated self-confidence, too much for Cal’s liking. And he was sure the initial impression was mutual; he had seen Ethan bristle when he learned Cal had graduated from West Point. But as they got to talking on the ride west from Fort Worth, Cal sensed there was some substance to his companion, particularly as he shared stories of his experiences with the Cheyenne. When Ethan asked Cal what he would have done under such circumstances, Cal had the distinct impression his new colleague was not making idle conversation.

  Once they were assigned to the same company at Fort Pierce, Cal began to understand the depth of Ethan’s doubts about his adequacies as an officer and his want to impress others, particularly Colonel Gaylord. The self-confidence was mostly a façade, and the man expertly masked his insecurities with jocularity and glib humor. The signs became more apparent as the two men grew closer. Cal took note of Ethan constantly inviting his subordinates to offer their judgment. How fastidious he was about the appearance of his uniform. And how transparent his relief and pride were each time he received a few words of praise.

  Ethan had his share of ambition, they all did. But it was almost as if he were of two minds. The man desperately wanted promotion and command, yet he was also distressed by the enormity of the new responsibilities handed to him.

  Beyond the young man’s self-doubt, Cal saw an officer who cared a great deal about the soldiers serving under him. Perhaps too much, as there were times Cal would have applied a firmer hand to the enlisted men. Still, Cal had seen officers inclined in the other direction. And while Ethan certainly suffered from an occasional bout of naivety, he was honest, virtuous and hopeful, and had an uncommon, endearing earnestness that bound Cal to him.

  Emily cleared her throat and exaggerated her own accent. “According to Major Cavanaugh, you Yankees have no honor.”

  Cal gently placed the cup back in the saucer. It was their fine china, a wedding gift, completely out of place amid the earthen walls and manure-strewn pathways of Camp Chance. He looked at his wife.

  Just like her.

  “Speaking of that,” Ethan said, “have you two made a decision yet?”

  “No, not yet,” he replied softly, reaching over and squeezing Emily’s hand.

  “It’s Cal’s decision,” added Emily. She gave Cal the look she always did when she asserted herself, almost daring him to disagree.

  It still had the same effect on him. The way she arched her eyebrows. The way her smile warmed him and brightened the darkest of rooms.

  It had been nearly a decade since she had first flashed that smile at him. It was at her father’s shipbuilding yard in Norfolk, when they were introduced to each other as teenagers.

  During his school years, Cal spent his summers working as a clerk at his father’s sawmill in Brunswick County, Virginia, along the North Carolina border. Shortly after his seventeenth birthday, he rode with his father to the Peyton Shipyards in Norfolk to deliver a freight of cut lumber. And that was when he was introduced to sixteen-year-old Emily Peyton, a meeting he would later learn was not by chance, but arranged by their conspiring fathers who had served together as Virginia militia officers years ago in Mexico.

  The families had just sat down for tea at the Peyton home when Cal, a bit intoxicated by the faint sweetness of her perfume, was besieged by questions from this plucky young woman. Political questions. Questions about the new president, Franklin Pierce, and whether Cal could support a man from New Hampshire, even if he was a Democrat. Whether slavery should be outlawed in the new western land they called Kansas, or whether the people there should have sovereignty within their borders.

  Their fathers sat back in their chairs, unwilling to offer any aid to Cal, watching the two youngsters with amusement and approval.

  Her questions were difficult, fortunately, and enough to distract him from staring at her extraordinary features. He could not avoid, however, that penetrating gaze.

  She had certainly not inherited any of her father’s severe features. Just a few inches shorter than Cal, her neck was long and graceful, her cheekbones high. Her thick, straw-colored locks were pulled back tightly in a single braid. She was poised, self-assured and articulate, enough so to fluster a working-class boy like him into speechlessness. It did not help matters that Cal was unaccustomed to speaking to young ladies, and that few in his part of the state were as refined and feminine as Emily. Those that were, seemed to have little interest in him, and in the rare instances when they addressed him, he felt their eyes lingering on his face. A face that had been disfigured years ago, when an accident in the mill had sent razor-sharp splinters of wood rocketing through the air, one tearing young Cal’s flesh from his mouth to ear.

  She offered a hand to Cal when they said their farewells, a first touch that he would never forget. It was as if there was an electrical current between the two of them. But it was that smile and the eyebrows that tied his nerves into knots and caused him to stammer and stumble in their family parlor as he labored to put coherent arguments together in response to question after question.

  Cal returned to Brunswick County disheartened, certain that the anemic insights he had mustered ha
d done little to impress the fiery Miss Peyton. But his heart soared when he received a letter from her a month later. And then another.

  They saw little of each other during their courtship, though Emily turned out to be a prolific letter writer. He eventually moved on to West Point while she finished her schooling in Norfolk. They were patient, each knowing intuitively that it was a perfect match, and grew closer during the handful of holidays they were able to spend time together. They married two days after his graduation.

  That was three years ago. And even this evening, in the dull glow of their small fire, she was as striking and alluring as the day they met. Emily was still young, nearly two years younger than Cal. Yet she had grown into a woman of considerable charm and resourcefulness, wielding a resolve and tenacity that Cal had learned came from her mother and late grandmother. The Peyton women were a formidable bunch. Her father had warned him so.

  And, oh, did she have an effect on those around her. Had Colonel Gaylord tried to send her packing to Fort Pierce there would have been a mutiny in the camp. Her consideration for the enlisted men endeared her to virtually every soul in the squadron. Most surprising, given her affluent upbringing, was how effortlessly she had adjusted to army life, leaving behind her flowing gowns for the simple calico dresses and plain sun bonnets that were required in this often harsh environment.

  Ethan took another swallow of his coffee. “Why don’t you wait and see what happens over the next few weeks? Virginia hasn’t officially seceded yet—”

  Cal interrupted him, finally turning away from his wife. “The die is cast, Ethan. Once that state-wide referendum passes in Richmond, and it will pass, Virginia will leave the Union.”

  “Ethan,” Emily said softly, “Cal needs to decide soon. Major Thatch has already branded Cal a secessionist, and heaven knows what he’s telling General Cardin back at Fort Pierce. Between this business in South Carolina, and Major Cavanaugh’s departure, our friends and neighbors are expecting our return. The longer we wait, the more Cal jeopardizes his position there.”

  Cal gave Ethan a grim smile, signaling his agreement. Emily was right of course. It was getting increasingly difficult to maintain any neutrality or distance from the political strife in the East that had now enveloped the nation. The news from back home was grim. After Fort Sumter, a secession convention was convened in Richmond, with the attendees voting in favor of separating from the Union. Even though the initiative had to be approved by Virginia voters, scheduled for the middle of the following month, Virginia was already mobilizing for war.

  It had taken nearly a week for word of Fort Sumter to reach the camp and the tension quickly became palpable. Major Isaiah Cavanaugh, Gaylord’s then-adjutant and a Tennessean, and Captain Henry Rutledge, descendant of a famed South Carolinian signer of the Declaration of Independence, had rallied the handful of Southern officers and non-commissioned officers at Camp Chance. All but one filed into Gaylord’s office the following morning, resignations in hand.

  Gaylord had accepted each one without argument, offering the men a firm handshake and his well wishes. Despite his frustration, no one would ever accuse Nathan Gaylord of being a small man, and he allowed each officer to leave with their saber and sidearm. Cal saw the sorrow in the man’s eyes when those officers, men the colonel was fond of and respected, threw him a final salute. Gaylord then stood by helplessly as a third of his officers rode past the outer sentries for the last time.

  Cal Garrity, of course, was the only Southerner who elected to stay at the camp. He was also the only Virginian, and so long as Virginia considered herself a part of the United States, so did Cal. Even if it was only a technicality at this point.

  Emily wasn’t done. “Other than you, Ethan, we won’t have an ally in the world until Cal makes his decision.”

  Cal could see Ethan was sympathetic, nodding his understanding.

  No, he doesn’t understand. He wants to, but he can’t.

  “Tell him about the letter, Cal,” said Emily.

  “Right. I received a letter the other day from my father. The Governor of Virginia has offered me an appointment in the state militia. They need experienced officers to train their men, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “No surprise there,” shrugged Ethan. “You are West Point.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the kicker. Someone opened the letter before it got to me.”

  Ethan glanced at Emily and then back at Cal. “That can’t be.”

  “It wasn’t the first.”

  Ethan was visibly upset. “Why, that’s…intolerable. You should raise this with Gaylord. Or the Provost back at Pierce.”

  “You know that wouldn’t do any good.”

  Ethan paused, frustrated. “You’re probably right. Damn it, what the hell is happening to us?” He quickly looked at Emily. “Sorry.”

  “I know what damnation and hell are, Ethan Royston.”

  “Ethan, there is something else I need to mention to you. But I do this in the strictest confidence. I really do need your word on this one.”

  Ethan smiled. “You have my Yankee word.”

  Cal did not return the smile, his discomfort apparent. “I was approached yesterday by some of the enlisted men in my platoon and some from TJ’s.”

  “Who…?”

  “Southern men. They were enlisted men, but all pretty senior,” Cal added.

  Ethan frowned as he realized where this was going. “The Texans. Dukes and Lehune. I can probably guess the others. Go on.”

  Cal hesitated for a moment. “Word must have gotten around about the offer from Governor Walton. They wanted to know if I would help them leave here and return home.”

  Ethan breathed deeply, his temper flaring. “You mean desert, don’t you? Officers can resign their commissions, but enlisted men…that would be desertion Cal, would it not?”

  “Ethan, you have to put yourself in their shoes.” Cal heard the edge in his own voice.

  “You’re in their shoes,” retorted Ethan. “You’re still here.”

  Cal leaned forward. “These men come from states that are no longer a part of this country. They have families back home, and the president has just called up volunteers to invade their borders.”

  “To preserve the Union,” corrected Ethan.

  “That’s not how they see it. Can’t you see the contradiction they are living by being here? Wearing this uniform? It is a question of honor and duty for each one of them.”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  The words hung there for several moments.

  “No, Ethan. They see their first duties as protecting the states they call home. And ask yourself, Ethan, if we have a war, would you really want these men serving under you anyway?”

  Ethan folded his arms and stared at the table. Cal could see this was a futile discussion. Ethan was his best friend, but like most Northerners, he could not appreciate the cultural differences that divided them. For Ethan, it was a basic political and moral question. One America. And he was hardly alone. There would be no fence-sitting among men like Ethan, TJ Townes, Thatch, Cavanaugh, the Texans and so many others. The issue was black and white for those men. Cal sometimes wondered if he was the only one who was conflicted by the matter.

  And then there was the other black and white issue.

  Ethan must have had the same thought. “Duty and honor. You make it sound almost noble, Cal. Fighting for your homes, your land, your freedom. That may be your cause, but it isn’t theirs. Doesn’t matter what your own views are.”

  “You know I think we should free the slaves, but—”

  “Ah,” Emily broke in, “my two favorite idealists.”

  Ethan looked at her. “Emily, I love you like a sister. I would walk through a brick wall for you. A volley of flaming arrows. I love your peach cobbler. And I know better than to ever start an argument with you. But on this one you are wrong. Even Cal is with me on this issue.”

  “Even Cal?” his friend echoed, grinning at him.

  �
��Oh, shush, Cal. What would you have us do, Ethan? Is the South really going to just free every slave in America?”

  “Your people brought them here, Emily…”

  “I wouldn’t continue this,” Cal warned him.

  “…it’s your responsibility.”

  “Actually Ethan, your people, Northern merchantmen, brought them here. My people purchased them.”

  “She’s got you on that one, Ethan.”

  “That’s a point in her favor?” Ethan asked, incredulous.

  Cal could see the fire stirring in Emily’s eyes as she touched Ethan’s forearm, willing him silently to see her point of view. Oh, how many times he had been subjected to that tactic.

  “Do not mistake me,” she said to Ethan. “I believe it is immoral for one man to be enslaved to another. You know I do. But without that labor, the South will die.”

  “It is free labor, and most of those plantations seem to be doing pretty well. Maybe the people who actually work the land should be given some of it.”

  “That will not happen, and you know it. But they should be paid a wage of some sort. I have urged my father to do so a number of times with our house servants. He will hear nothing of it. And the brutality by some has got to stop. But if Mr. Lincoln is prepared to wage a war to free our slaves, without any sort of compensation or alternative, he is issuing a sentence of death for the South.”

  There was silence for a minute. Ethan seemed to realize it would be imprudent to antagonize her any more. Emily too looked regretful for her outburst.

  She reached across the table and squeezed Ethan’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan gave her a smile, and it was genuine. “Don’t be. Cal warned me. And we do like our wives in the Second Dragoons a bit spirited.”

  He turned toward Cal, serious now. “I need to ask. These men who wish to leave. Do you intend—”

  “Ethan!” admonished Emily.

  But Ethan would not withdraw the question. He had to ask it. Cal knew that. And knew he had to answer.