by Andy Kutler
The two friends looked at each other for several moments, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
“I think they knew you would tell me, Cal. They need to hear from me on this, and they will. But they won’t receive any satisfaction. I can’t just allow this to happen. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So I will address the men—all of the men—on this question. I won’t mention our conversation.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Emily suddenly rose from her chair. “Well now that you two have settled that little problem, maybe we can get started on that peach cobbler I made for you, Ethan. If there is one thing I do not abide at the dinner table, it’s politics.”
Ethan was too busy spooning sugar into his lukewarm coffee to notice the private smile shared between husband and wife.
CHAPTER 8
In a camp brimming with unbathed men and ubiquitous piles of horse manure, Cal Garrity found solace every night in the scent of his wife’s hair. Even this evening, as he lay beside Emily on their small bed, her head nestled on his chest and his fingers running through her thick tresses, it gave him comfort from the unease lingering within.
He inhaled deeply again. He knew she had washed her hair recently as he could still smell traces of the lilac soap she used. With the warmth of her bare breasts pressing against him, it was moments like these that reminded him what a fortunate man he was. Cal Garrity, of the disfigured face and unremarkable family background.
It was well past midnight. Cal would have to awaken in a few short hours as Ethan wanted the company to move out before sunrise. But Cal wasn’t ready to fall asleep just yet. He and his wife cherished this time of night, when their intimacy was more than just physical. Though they certainly enjoyed that too.
He recalled their first private conversation many years ago, what began as an innocuous discussion about their families. It was the first time he had formally called on her. A carriage had whisked them to a lush hilltop overlooking the Peyton Shipyards where a picnic lunch awaited. And yet before they had even tasted the baked ham, Emily had somehow transitioned from a tale about a stone wall her grandfather had constructed by himself at their summer estate to a rant on the economic consequences of the Compromise of 1850. It was a topic on the minds of few young women across the country, he was sure.
“Thirty-two,” he said that day, interrupting her in mid-sentence as she prattled on about Henry Clay and Stephen Douglas.
“Excuse me?”
“Thirty-two,” he repeated.
“Thirty-two what?”
“You have thirty-two freckles,” he said, gesturing to her face. “You also appear to have more on the left side than you do on the right. How did that happen?”
“Freckles?” she asked. “You are asking me about my freckles?”
“Yes. So, why?”
“Why what?” The irritation in her voice was clear.
“Why do you have more on your left side?”
“I have no idea why, perhaps—” She stopped. “Freckles, Mr. Garrity? Have you heard nothing I have said?”
“I have heard everything—”
“Perhaps you heard, but were not listening. One of my father’s men, Mr. Caldwell, says that is why the good Lord gave us two ears and one mouth. So we could listen twice as much as we talk.”
“There is no call to get upset—”
“Or perhaps you are simply uncomfortable with a female expressing her views on political issues. Would you rather we talk about my recipe for almond cake? It is delectable. Or should we discuss the latest fashions in Boston and Charleston? Is that what you would prefer?”
“I would prefer a bit more honesty.”
Emily’s face turned beet red. “I beg your pardon.”
Cal moved closer to her on the blanket. “You have told me how you believe in popular sovereignty, and shared your suspicion that those who wish to outlaw slavery in the new territories will eventually turn their abolition efforts to the Southern states. It is the argument that we hear from every merchant and manufacturer in this state, and read in every newspaper from Richmond to Blacksburg. It is the argument that Elias Peyton, shipbuilding titan, would make. Yet you, Emily Peyton, would not allow your father’s Negro coachman to bring us here. I heard you tell your Mr. Caldwell that. You seem to have no personal maid, unlike every other young woman in the Commonwealth aristocracy, and I would venture that you prepared this entire meal on your own. You are loyal to your family, as we all are, and it is a fine virtue. Perhaps you do not wish to appear disloyal, to me, a relative stranger. Perhaps you do not wish to offend me, not knowing for certain what my own views are on this matter. Or perhaps you believe in your inner core that the issue is not as simplistic as so many of our countrymen on both sides wish to make it. You, Emily Peyton, are a pragmatist, and based on your passionate but highly-informed tirades, as intelligent a young woman as I have ever met. And somewhere inside of you, there is both a yearning to challenge the accepted wisdom of our fair state, and an understanding of the consequences of doing so.”
She stared at him in silence for several moments, breathless and dumbstruck. Finally, her mouth curled into a broad smile.
“It appears you were not merely counting my freckles.”
“I needed to count the freckles to keep from staring into your eyes. I did not wish to be so…bold.”
“Audentes fortura iuvat.”
“Spanish?”
“Latin. We do learn things in that garish school my father sends me to. It means, Mr. Garrity, that fortune favors the bold.”
And so he kissed her.
Now, seven years later, as the two were entwined on a glorified cot in the middle of the New Mexico desert, he stroked her hair, continuing to marvel at her willingness to endure such primitive surroundings. Emily had spent a lifetime sleeping on the most luxurious featherbeds from Philadelphia and under the finest European duvets. Tonight the two of them lay on their makeshift bunk, exhausted and perspiring from their lovemaking on a thin mattress that had been stuffed with straw rather than goose feathers. They had blankets to be sure; army blankets so musty they must have been requisitioned during the War of Independence.
And yet here she was, lying naked in his arms, as blissful and vivacious as the day they sat on that Norfolk hilltop. His arm was wrapped around her bare shoulder and he gently squeezed her close to him.
“You were saying?” she asked.
He hadn’t said a word. “Huh?”
“Before you unlaced my dress, quite quickly and expertly I might add, you were telling me what Harris had heard at Fort Pierce.”
“Ah yes,” he said, smiling as he remembered how quickly they had given in to their desire. “I seemed to have lost my train of thought after that.”
She poked him in the ribs. “So, what else did Harris tell you?”
“Well, the Promotion Board met. Gaylord’s recommendation was rejected.”
“Again,” she frowned.
“Again.”
She rolled over on her stomach, her chin perched on his chest as she looked up at him. “That is maddening, Cal. On what grounds?”
“Rudman didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
We both know the answer.
“Clearly they have no intention of promoting you. For heaven’s sake, you’re one grade above TJ Townes, who is not even a year out of the Academy.” She paused. “What will you do?”
“What can I do?”
“It’s as if they are pushing you to resign and return home.”
“That may indeed be their objective.”
There was no other logical explanation. The squadron commander’s endorsement alone should have carried the Board’s decision.
“Then why stay? This…indignity…would be a legitimate reason for resigning.”
“No. I’m not going to resign because I didn’t receive a promotion. Hell, half the officers in the West could resign on those grounds. The way I see it, I have
two choices. I either honor my oath and remain in this army, or I believe my first duty is to Virginia, and when she leaves, so do I.”
“Or…”
“Or what?”
She shifted to one elbow. “Or you could resign from this army, and not join our militia either.”
He smiled. “Right. I could simply pull up a chair and become a spectator. Perhaps sell tickets.”
“Don’t patronize me, Cal.”
He looked at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Who is to say that you have to serve in either army?”
“I’m a military officer, Em, it’s who I am.”
She sat up completely now. There was a fire in her eyes.
Uh oh.
“That is nonsense, Calvin Garrity. You are a fine soldier and a born leader. But I don’t want to hear any claptrap about destiny or your lot in life. Is it not true that you never considered West Point until we met?”
“Can you repeat the question? That’s a double negative when you—”
“Blazes Cal, I’m not laughing. True or false, you never considered applying to West Point until we met?”
He was quiet for a few moments. “True, only because—”
“And my father’s approval had nothing to do with that decision?”
It had everything to do with that decision. Elias Peyton wasn’t going to allow his daughter to marry the son of a miller unless he had a future.
“What is your point, Em?”
She took his chin in her hand. “I don’t want you running off to war because of me, Cal. Or because you think you need to prove yourself to my family or yours. Fight if you think it is the right thing to do, whatever side you believe is just. I will support you. But don’t do it to get in the good graces of my father or anyone else.”
“And if I chose to remain in this army?”
“I love Virginia, it’s my home. But you are my husband and I love you more. Where you go, I follow. Forever.”
He took her hand in his, interlocking their fingers.
God help anyone or anything that tries to keep me from her.
“Em, I need your advice on something else.”
He shared with her what young Kirch had told him. She was aghast, which he expected, but unsurprised, which he did not. He told her so.
“I always thought Travers to be vile,” she explained. “And I thought you did too.”
“I’ve never cared for the man. Objectively, he’s a good soldier and knows his job. Ethan relies on him in the field and rightly so. We need the sergeants to lean on the men, to push them. But Travers is a bully, plain and simple. Keeps it well hidden from Ethan and TJ. Still, I never figured he was capable of something like that.”
“What will you do?”
“What can I do? I gave my word to Kirch.”
“You told me.”
“You’re different. Em, the boy practically begged me to keep quiet. Travers has him scared out of his mind. Probably threatened the boy.”
Emily sat up again. “Cal, you cannot let this go. I understand your word and your honor. It’s what makes you…you. And I love you for it. But you must speak out. What if he’s done this to others? What if he does it to more? You must think of your conscience.”
“My conscience,” he muttered. “What will my conscience say if I betray the trust of one of my men?”
“Forget the secrecy, Cal. Why do you think Peter told you about this? You’re not a priest, and he wasn’t relieving a burden. However he conditioned it, he told you—you, Cal—for a reason.”
Cal was quiet for a full minute. Why the hell was he even considering protecting a man like Travers? Why was he so concerned about what the effect would be on the regiment if this became known?
His father and grandfather had taught him everything about personal honor and integrity. West Point had taught him about his duty to his men. How had he not seen this before now?
Emily broke the silence. “Who will you tell?” she asked.
“Who says I’m telling anyone?”
“I know you too well. Ethan?”
Garrity sighed in defeat. She did know him too well.
“Easier said than done. Ethan thinks that Travers walks on water when it comes to soldiering. This news would be about as welcome as…me, at Thatch’s dinner table.”
“I don’t see you as having a choice.”
“There’s another problem here, Em. The trooper involved, Kirch’s friend. This is a small camp and it will get out. Whatever happens to Travers, the boy’s life will be ruined. I wouldn’t be surprised if they discharged him immediately.”
“But he did nothing wrong!”
“It’s complicated, Em. The boy is from Alabama. If word spreads of what happened, and it will, we’ll have a riot on our hands with the Southern men.”
“That despicable man needs justice.”
“I agree. I just need to figure out how to do what’s best for the regiment, and make sure Travers receives the flogging he deserves.”
“So how do you take care of Travers without telling anyone?”
“That’s the trick,” he yawned, pulling the heavy blankets over the two of them. “But I prefer to work my miracles in the morning.”
His eyelids fell and within seconds he dozed off, knowing it would be short-lived.
CHAPTER 9
Cal finished buttoning his wool greatcoat, the glimmering light of the kerosene lamp bouncing off the brass buttons. With just a handful of dying embers left in the stove, the air in their quarters was nearly as frigid as that outside. Emily threw in fresh kindling and set a pot of water to boil. It was all a well-practiced routine.
Emily wore a heavy robe over her nightgown, her long golden hair tied in a single braid. She wrapped Cal’s service belt around his waist and hooked on the sheathed saber. She then moved to the table and began grinding a handful of coffee beans.
Cal could see she was preparing more coffee than usual. She knew how little he had slept that night.
He was finished wrestling with this decision. The war was not one of his choosing and his oath as an American Army officer was sacrosanct to Cal. But he kept coming back to one simple truth. Taking up arms against his family and neighbors was unthinkable. It would never happen.
He moved behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “It’s time, Em.”
She continued to turn the crank. “See you in half an hour?”
“No, Em. It is time.”
She stopped and turned to him. Emily knew him well enough to discern the conflict in his voice, the mix of conviction and sadness. Three simple words, and she immediately understood their meaning.
Emily nodded in agreement, a melancholy smile. “Yes,” she replied.
There was not a hint of surprise in her voice, let alone approval or disapproval. Just acceptance.
He moved to the window. The sky above remained pitch black but that would change soon, a faint light emerging on the horizon. Daybreak was less than an hour away. Torches lined the pathways outside, their flames dancing in the darkness, casting silhouettes of men and horses moving about the parade ground.
“I am going to miss this place.”
She joined him and put an arm around his waist. “This camp? The sweltering summers? The boredom and malaise between your patrols? The poor food, the horse dung clinging to our shoes, the lack of any culture or social events? You are going to miss all of that?”
He chuckled. “Yes.”
“Me, too,” she sighed.
He turned back to the window. “I do love what this land stands for. It’s like being right on the cusp of something grand. We’re building something out here, Em. People are starting their lives out here, building families, livelihoods, communities. They will have statehood out here someday. And this squadron has served a purpose. There’s no politics out here, at least there wasn’t until Fort Sumter blew the lid off everything.”
“But it is not our home, is it?”
<
br /> “No, it’s not. But maybe before we’re old and gray, we could build something ourselves back home. An enterprise of some sort.”
“We could go to Norfolk. My father—”
“No, that is your family’s enterprise. And I don’t want to take the mill either. I want something we can call our own.”
“Like what?”
“Who knows? We could become merchant traders or build a factory—”
“Factory?”
“—or buy a farmstead—”
“Buy a farmstead? Are you going to be a farmer, Cal?”
He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m getting ahead of myself.” He turned to her again and squeezed her hands. “We’ll leave New Mexico because that oath I took at West Point didn’t say anything about fighting Virginians. We’ll go home, and I’ll do my duty.” He gestured outside. “But that out there? I admire those people. It felt right protecting them and that is what I will miss. That is what I signed up for.”
He straightened his hat and moved to the door.
“Cal, are you going to tell Ethan today, about Sergeant Travers?”
Cal frowned. “Thanks for the reminder.”
He opened the door and his wife shivered as a cold wind swept through the small room.
“He’s a vicious man.”
“I agree.”
“You must tell Ethan then.”
Cal exhaled. “First chance I get.”
***
Ethan lay flat on his bunk, his arms folded behind his head. The room was completely dark, the only sound coming from Rudman’s rhythmic snoring in the other corner. It wasn’t close to sunup but Ethan had been awake and dressed for hours.
He had once approached every patrol with a mix of exhilaration and anxiety, but even Ethan found himself battling lethargy as the dragoon’s activities had become increasingly methodical and without incident. They hadn’t seen a hostile Navajo in nearly two months, which at least allowed Ethan to sleep away the nights much easier.
But last night had been different. Today would be different. What had kept him awake were the carefully selected words he had been rehearsing over and over these last few hours. Words the Army had never prepared him to deliver.