When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Sir, did you know a Thomas Jackson? I understand he was in that engagement. He also graduated from West Point. He is a professor now at VMI.”

  “In that engagement? Son, if it hadn’t been for Major Jackson, I wouldn’t be alive today to be tellin’ you this tale. He and his men laid down a barrage of fire that gave cover to our cavalry. Received a commendation and a promotion for that.”

  One of the young men in uniform hooted incredulously. “Ol’ Fool Tom!”

  The older gentleman drew in his breath with an indignant puffing up of his chest. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly?”

  “My apologies, sir. A slip of the tongue,” the young man apologized quickly, for he didn’t want his indiscretion getting back to that particular professor.

  “No offense meant, sir, but we all feel that we’ve been in battle when in Professor Jackson’s class. Never seen such a stiff-necked, straight-backed, sour-faced man. Don’t know how many times I’ve been skinned by him.”

  “Heard tell his sour disposition is caused by dyspepsia.”

  “More likely from sucking lemons.”

  “And buttermilk. Never seen a man with such a likin’ for it.”

  “Was told it’d settle his stomach.”

  “Follows the regulations as if he’d written them himself. Preaching them to us like he was quoting from the Bible. Always vowing that we’re going to bring down the wrath of God on our irreverent heads.”

  “Professor Jackson isn’t one to forget and forgive, either. Placed one student on report because he was talking in class. Ended up in a court-martial, sir, and Old Jack had him expelled just months before his graduation.”

  “Reckon, boys, that you’ve had life too easy. Reckon if you intend on soldiering for the rest of your lives, unless you want them to be real short ones, then you’d better learn about discipline and proper military conduct,” the older gentleman, who apparently practiced what he preached, and had lived to reach his age of great wisdom, advised them unsympathetically. “Hard work and dedication, and following orders, that’s what makes a man strong, and keeps him alive in battle. I’ll tell you this much about ‘Fool Tom’ as you call him. I never saw a man work harder, show more dedication than he did. Just an orphan boy from the hill country when he came to West Point. He was at the bottom of his class. Didn’t know hardly a thing. When he graduated, he was almost at the top. Some of you might remember that. If lucky, you’ll get to serve under him one day.”

  “I’d almost wish that, sir, just to get in a good fight. Wish we were still at war with Mexico. Sometimes I wonder why I’m going to VMI, except that my brothers and uncles did. Waste of time. Don’t know how much good this kind of learning will do when it comes to fighting Indians.”

  “Reckon you might be right glad of that training in the next fight, ’cause I figure it won’t be quite so easy to separate the two sides. Easy enough to take aim on an Indian with a head feather, or on one of Santa Anna’s troops, one of them caballeros in fancy uniform, but reckon it’d be a damned sight harder to tell a store clerk from New York and a farmer from Georgia apart, seein’ how they’d probably be on different sides, but both wearin’ blue wool. Reckon we’d have to be changin’ our colors if it comes to a fight. Don’t know about that? Blue’s a mighty fine color, but you got to be able to tell one side from the other, especially when you got a lot of civilians fighting.”

  “You can’t actually believe there truly will be a war between the states, sir?” a serious young cadet demanded.

  “More ’n think it, boy. Too much talk now to stop it.”

  “I would have said there hasn’t been enough talk.”

  “Now when has a slow-talkin’, hotheaded Southerner ever listened to a fast-talkin’, coldhearted Northerner? Don’t talk the same language. I want to talk about tobacco and horses over a lil’ corn liquor, and all he talks about are factories and railroads, and tells me he’s joined a temperance league and helpin’ runaway slaves. No, sir, I say let’s have our own republic.”

  “I doubt we will be able to form one peacefully. You can expect opposition from those who have plans for the South. They won’t hold to havin’ us mindin’ our own business down here. It’ll stick in their craw.”

  “Could be. But no state has seceded yet,” young John Drayton said.

  “Give ’em time. They will. We’re not afraid of a little shooting.”

  “Virginia won’t,” John Drayton said, thinking of his sister in Maryland.

  “Want to bet on that?”

  “I’m a Virginian, and I believe in the Union. I don’t want to see it torn apart. I got kinfolks just across the mountains in Pennsylvania and Ohio. If Virginia seceded, and there’s war, then they’d be the enemy. I was talking to my father last month when I was home, and he can’t believe Virginia will leave the Union. At least the people up around Romney don’t want to secede, despite what John Brown did at Harper’s Ferry.”

  “Well, that’s surprising, considering that’s all we ever hear from you folks the other side of the Shenandoah. Always talking about separating from Virginia and setting up your own state government. Might just be getting your chance sooner than you thought. But as a state in the Union, or…”

  “I figure we’ll do just fine on our own if we secede. Better even. Tired of them interfering Northerners,” John’s brother, Talbot, declared.

  “Exactly. Can’t tell a man how to go about his business. And that’s what it comes down to. Stickin’ your nose in another man’s business. Best way to start up a fight. Reckon I’m not too old to lend a hand to you young bucks should it come to it,” the older man chuckled.

  “Don’t figure it’ll last very long, sir. Probably promote you to general, sir, they’ll need experienced officers.”

  “Won’t your leg trouble you?”

  “Nope. Can still ride, and I ain’t plannin’ on doin’ any walkin’, son. I’m cavalry.”

  “How’d you get that wound, sir? A Comanche arrow, you say?”

  “Yup, but should’ve been my scalp,” he claimed, running a loving hand through his fine, gray-streaked hair.

  “How did you escape, sir?”

  “The fact that I wasn’t Texan. Come face-to-face with this Comanche brave. Figured he was going to murder and scalp me right then and there, mean-eyed critter that he was.”

  “What happened to stop him? Did you shoot him?”

  “Nope, didn’t have time. As soon as that Comanche caught sight of the man standing beside me, he shoots me in the leg and leaves me to hobble around, that arrow sticking out of both sides of my leg, and believin’ I couldn’t reach my gun.”

  “Why did he do that? Why didn’t he kill you?”

  “’Cause I figure this Comanche wasn’t stupid. He knew the difference between a Virginian and a Texan, and as soon as he caught sight of that poor feller from the Brazos, he decided which of us he was goin’ to scalp. Speared him with his lance. Got him right through the heart, stickin’ him to the ground, then with a yippee yowlin’, he scalps him and hightails it into the rocks faster ’n a fox raidin’ the hen coop, and with both our horses in tow and wavin’ that lance he’d pulled back out of that feller, who was still squirmin’. Never seen anything happen so fast in my life. Just like lightning that Comanche rode in, took aim on us, jumped off his horse, scalped that feller, then was back up on his horse and ridin’ away and his moccasins had hardly touched ground once. Got off a couple of shots myself, but he’d dropped low on the other side of his horse, and I couldn’t even see him. Besides, don’t like shootin’ horses. And he was ridin’ a real purty lil’ pony.”

  Someone coughed politely, as if doubtful of such a tall tale.

  “Don’t believe me, eh?”

  “I do,” Palmer said. “I’ve heard some hair-raising tales from Justin Braedon. He’s from the territories.”

  “Ought to ask him, he’d know,” someone suggested, gesturing across the room.

  “Him? He wasn’t there,” the
storyteller said, eyeing with some disgust a tall man dressed in a black frock coat and trousers, the broadcloth of the finest quality, the cut and fit without fault, his waistcoat of black satin, the finely pleated linen of his shirt front and neat neckcloth of the purest white, the bow tied to perfection. “That fancy gent! He’d run scared if he caught sight of an Injun! Though they’d have been after him fast enough with that purty golden hair of his,” he chuckled.

  “Could well have been him doing the scalping, sir. That’s Neil Braedon, Adam Braedon’s cousin and Justin’s half brother. You remember Nathaniel Braedon? That’s his eldest son. Nathaniel Braedon was the one who left Royal Bay and went out to the territories,” Palmer explained. “A number of years ago Neil Braedon was visiting here, stayed at Royal Bay and traveled up North to school. He and Nathan are still good friends.”

  “Remember him, I do. Hmmm, got the look of his pa about him,” he said grudgingly as he looked closer at the man who could have been any well-dressed gentleman of fashion enjoying a party.

  “Neil and his sister were kidnapped by the Comanche. He was raised as a Comanche brave until his father rescued him. His sister died in captivity. He spent half his life with the savages.”

  “Sure he isn’t the one who scalped that Texan?”

  “Why’d that Comanche kill the Texan and not you?”

  “’Cause, I reckon a Comanche hates a Texan almost as much as he does an Apache.”

  “Why is that? I thought the Indian just fought the white man.”

  “Figure they got their likes and dislikes same as us. The Comanche, now, they’re real friendly like with the Kiowa, and the Kiowa, they used to hate the Cheyenne and the Arapaho, leastways till they came to an understanding. A real pity, that, ’cause even though they still don’t like each other much, they ain’t fightin’ anymore, just causin’ trouble for the white man. Would have killed each other off, otherwise. But with the Apache, now, that’s an old enemy of the Comanche and they’re still fightin’. Lords of the plains, that’s what them Comanche think of themselves. Long time ago, the Comanche fought the Mexicans and the French, but they didn’t give them much trouble, and ended up tradin’ together in liquor, guns, and slaves. But now in come these pale faces, pushing their settlements into Comanche territory. These Texans, lovingly called soldados god dammes by their good neighbors south of the border, can be just as mean and ornery, and now they’re moving west across the Staked Plain, buffalo lands, where the most feared of the Comanche live. The Kwahadies. Best raiders you’ve ever seen. Once they get on a horse, no one can ride like them, or shoot as sharp. Can’t kill what you can’t catch hold of. And the Texans are finding that out. Surprise attacks, that’s the way of the Comanche. Them Comanche come striking into camp, stealing your horses, and your women, torturin’, mutilatin’, and murderin’ others that ain’t worth stealin’, burning you out, then just like that they’ve disappeared across them treeless plains and back into the mountains. Can’t catch them, I tell you. Like scorpions, they crawl around that terrain. They think ahead too. Set up another camp nearby, stocked with fast horses, then, after they’ve raided, they hop on their fresh mounts and ride for hundreds of miles without stopping for nothin’. Don’t leave no tracks neither. Some folk say that’s because they ride faster than the wind. But the Texans, now that they got themselves a state, they ain’t plannin’ on leavin’, especially seein’ how they won it from the Mexicans. So the fightin’ is gettin’ purty fierce. Don’t know how much longer them Rangers can handle things, and so far they only got infantrymen at them forts out on the frontier. Goin’ to need the cavalry if they’re goin’ to win.”

  “You think this Neil Braedon would give us a demonstration of how a Comanche brave rides and shoots?” someone asked.

  “I know he could demonstrate the war cry,” Palmer said, glancing around at the assembled guests and wondering how fast he could clear the room if he cut loose with the bloodcurdling cry he’d heard Nathan and Adam scream on many an occasion. He, and many a confused and cursing cadet, had been brought up out of bed like a bolt of lightning the first night he had been at school, when Justin, laughing himself off his bed at the reaction of his classmate, had given vent to his war hoop.

  “How about a contest? One of our best, like Guy Travers, going against Braedon?” came the suggestion.

  “No contest. Guy can ride better and shoot sharper than anyone in Virginia. He’s a Virginian.”

  “Well, boys, now I know Guy is mighty fine, none better in the state, however, if this Neil Braedon really was raised by the Comanche, then I’d have to bet on him.”

  “He’s also half-Virginian,” someone remembered.

  “Sir! You can’t be serious!”

  “So serious, young’un, that here’s my money. Are you that certain?”

  “I’ll take that bet.”

  “And I’ll double it!”

  “We’ve got to get the participants first,” someone reminded them.

  “What do you think, Palmer? Do you think Guy would race against Neil Braedon?”

  Palmer rubbed his jaw, a thoughtful look in his soft blue eyes as he remembered his older brother’s angry, insulting remarks about Neil Braedon. He also knew his brother had lost a lot of money to the other man and would be more than anxious to win it back and even the score. For some reason, he had taken an intense dislike to Neil Braedon.

  “What do you think, Justin?” Palmer asked as his friend rejoined him, his fair-haired partner not straying too far from his side.

  “About what?”

  “About a race between brothers. Mine and yours. Guy and Neil. To see which is the fastest?”

  “We were talking about the Comanche, and Major Smythe, who saw action down in Texas, said that a Comanche was the best rider he’d ever seen, and if there were a race then the Comanche would be sure to win. Well, since the closest thing we got to a Comanche is Neil, and the best rider Virginia has to offer is Guy, we thought we could put it to the test.”

  Justin shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll get Neil to race.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t he good enough?”

  “Maybe not.” Guy Travers spoke, having come up to join them and overhearing the last of the conversation. “I’m willing to put my reputation on the line, but it seems to me all I’ve heard this week is how fine a rider Neil Braedon is, how accurate he is with a rifle, and how he can even throw a knife faster than another man can shoot. I feel like I should be down on bended knee before him,” Guy said, snorting slightly as he glanced around. “Well, seems to me that’s all it has been, talk. I haven’t seen any of this great skill we’ve heard so much about,” he challenged.

  Justin frowned, wondering what had gotten into Guy, he’d never seen him so argumentative. He was usually a splendid fellow. A gentleman born and bred, charming and amusing, and always a pleasure to be around.

  “In fact, seems to me, that all I’ve ever heard about, for years and years now, is the legendary Neil Braedon, Comanche brave. I’ve never seen proof of it. Have any of you?”

  “I’d let it drop, Guy,” Justin said softly. “He is my brother. And although a Braedon, he is also Comanche in spirit, if not in blood. And if he ever agreed to a race, then I would bet on him, because I am afraid you would lose.”

  Guy glanced at the younger man who had surprised him by his quick defense of his brother, for he had not thought they were especially close. Then he glanced at his own brother, ignoring the warning in Justin’s words. “How about you, Palmer? Would you be as stouthearted in support of your brother’s abilities?”

  Palmer took his elder brother’s arm, and leaning close, and smelling the brandy on his breath, said, “This really isn’t necessary. You do not have to prove anything to anybody, Guy. Everyone knows how fine a rider you are. And no one can shoot better.”

  “I think we do have something to prove, and I’m proposing a little cross-country race, which should test each man’s mettle,” Guy said. �
��So, how would you bet, little brother?”

  “On you, of course. As I’ve said, I’ve never seen anyone ride as well, except, perhaps, Leigh,” he added, hoping to add humor to the situation, but he had miscalculated badly, because the laughter that followed his remark seemed to mock Guy’s abilities even more.

  “Would the gentlemen have to ride sidesaddle or the lady, clad in breeches, astride?” someone joked.

  “Now, that would be a race,” someone suggested. “Leigh Travers against this Neil Braedon. Would still bet on a Travers, though,” he admitted, because everyone knew Leigh Travers, even if just a female, could ride as well, if not better, than her brother Guy.

  “The stakes could prove interesting in that race, especially if Neil Braedon won. I wonder what he would demand of the lady,” an uncouth individual remarked, his voice trailing away when he caught the glares sent his way by the Travers brothers and their friends.

  “Guy, you already owe Neil more than you can pay now. I don’t care how good you are, if luck isn’t riding with you, then you’ll lose. And your luck has been bad all week. Besides, what could you wager?” Palmer tried to talk sense to his older brother.

  “And even more to the point,” Adam said, having joined the group, but having remained quiet as he listened to the talk, “what would you ride? Rambler came up lame, didn’t he?”