The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time

by Raymond Dean White

  The way she’d led that posse after the raiders, even after running into her husband and the kids, chasing the marauders down and killing almost every one of them...she’d do alright. Even if she didn’t have his depth of experience.

  But she was a woman and he doubted the men of the tribes would support her as leader. He knew it wouldn’t go over well in Deseret.

  Cantrell had surprised him by being level-headed and cool as ice during the one combat situation they encountered on their way to the Freeholds. Leadership potential there, Adam decided and he thought Jim would listen to suggestions.

  Daniel Windwalker was a good man, Adam thought and the way he’d turned defeat into victory when the King attacked the Cheyenne spoke well of his tactics and ability to think on his feet.

  But Michael Whitebear was a different story. Adam grimaced. The man was a local hero. Slayer of howitzers. A man lucky enough to attack a battalion alone and escape with his life. A man who Walt Beeman said was, “the guy who hobbled into Prince John’s camp on a crutch, killed a guard, scattered the horses and rescued two children.” Again with the incredible luck. Not that there was anything wrong with luck. Every soldier knew it was better to be lucky than good.

  Adam respected the courage and ability those deeds had taken, but he’d seen men like Michael before. They made great fighters and lousy soldiers. Too undisciplined.

  A man like Whitebear would depend on his luck, make decisions based on some flaky gut feeling and get a lot of other good men killed while coming through himself without a scratch. Adam was certain it would be a disaster for the Allied cause if Michael was placed in charge; so certain that he would not put his men under Michael’s command, even if it meant not joining the Alliance. And there was no doubt in his mind that Michael Whitebear was the man to beat.

  Adam scowled. He just didn’t like the man. His memory replayed the scene last night when they first met. He had said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitebear,” and extended his hand. Michael had taken it saying, “Mr. Whitebear was my dad. I’m Michael.”

  Figures, Adam thought. He never had cared for people who insisted on instant familiarity. Formality was a sign of respect. Years of being called Colonel and Sir had made that a part of his being.

  He shook his head, amazed that an intelligent, perceptive woman like Ellen Whitebear, could be married--and happily from what he’d seen--to a man like Michael.

  But Ellen Whitebear had only just begun to amaze Adam.

  She had devoted a great deal of thought to who should be in overall command, as well as other leadership positions. Political leadership was her forte, not military matters. She had a talent for building coalitions and holding them together, for planning and organizing. She wouldn’t lead the Allied Army, but she’d determine who did.

  *

  “Thank you, Daniel,” Ellen said as she stepped out of the Cheyenne leader’s tipi.

  “Your wisdom is sound,” Daniel replied as he followed her out. “I’ll support him and keep it under my hat.” He watched Ellen walk away, appreciating her beauty the way any healthy male would. But Daniel saw deeper than her skin. Along with Michael, he understood the strength of her vision and the clarity of her thoughts.

  Daniel thought Ellen moved a lot like...he shied away from any thought of the pretty musician he’d caught watching him on more than one occasion. He had no room in his life for a woman. The trust his wife had put in him, which he’d betrayed repeatedly...no, he might never trust himself to love again.

  A motion caught his eye. Susan Redfeather and Raymond Stormcloud walking down by the riverbank. Raymond held a courting flute in one hand and wore a puppy dog look on his face. Susan looked uncomfortable. With the practiced eye of a tribal leader, Daniel saw trouble developing.

  Susan, being basically kind and gentle under her tough-as-nails exterior, would want to let Raymond down without hurting him. Raymond, who was brave and honorable and about as deep as a pie pan, would take anything less than outright rejection as encouragement. Daniel sighed and turned away. He hoped it would work out okay.

  Ellen couldn’t suppress a smile as she headed for the next campground. Her plan was working.

  *

  “Honey,” Ellen said in that sweet tone of voice that told Michael he was not going to like what came next.

  “Uh oh...I mean, yes dear?” Might as well let her know he was on to her.

  “I think we should invite Colonel Young to dinner this evening.”

  OOF! It was worse than he thought.

  “Aw Ellen, that man grates on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. He thinks I want to lead the Allied Army and he can’t stand the thought.” Ellen tried to interrupt, but Michael was on a roll. “I don’t know what I ever did to him, but the feeling’s mutual. Probably just bad chemistry. That and the fact that Mr. Spit and Polish thinks he’s God’s gift to our army. And before you try to defend him, I know that, next to you, the stiff-backed jerk is the best man for the job and I don’t mind telling you it irks me to admit it.”

  Michael was talking with his hands as he paced around the room. “But what really pisses me off is that he thinks he’s the only man for the job. You know I can’t stand that kind of arrogance. He’s a ramrod, darling. And you know where that term came from?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “A long time ago, cadets at West Point used to ram little rods up their butts to force themselves to stand and sit with their backs straight. Made’em look real gung-ho.”

  “Really?” She chuckled at the image.

  “Hell, I don’t know. I just made it up, but it fits.” He grinned, ear-to-ear and shrugged.

  Ellen broke into laughter and Michael joined her.

  When they recovered their composure he asked, “What would you like me to fix?” Michael did most of the cooking when he was home.

  *

  “This is really good, Mr...Michael,” Adam amended. When in Rome... And it was good too. Chicken fried rice no less. At a time when rice was almost as valuable as sugar. The meal stated clearly this was an important occasion.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Michael replied. He had not been invited to use Adam’s first name. “Care for more?”

  Across the table Ellen hid a smile. It wasn’t exactly like watching two small boys circling each other in a playground dispute. Instead it was two grown men being so painfully polite it was competitive.

  They know they need each other, she thought, but no one is going to make them enjoy it. God, they probably even think their mutual dislike is based on their differences.

  She saw their basic similarities. Both men were driven by Duty and Honor. Yet, Adam wanted to command the army so bad he could taste it and Michael could care less. Adam was logical and disciplined and Michael played things by ear. Inspired play, though, she admitted.

  Her husband’s tendency to launch himself into danger had given her more than one gray hair, but she’d come to accept and value his intuition. The two men had more in common than they realized.

  Michael had offered to tell Adam straight out he had no desire to be the commander of the Allied Army, hoping to reduce the friction between them, but Ellen had merely smiled and asked Michael to “let our Colonel sweat awhile longer.”

  After dinner, Adam left to see to his men, agreeing to rejoin the Whitebears at the concert.

  Michael’s eyes shifted to green as Ellen pulled a pair of nylons out of the dresser, unrolled them up her legs, fastened them to a garter belt and wiggled into a pink dress. She hadn’t worn a dress in ages and this was one of his favorites--a waistless silk shift that on a hanger looked shapeless as a flour sack, yet hugged every curve of her body just right, ending well above her knees. Her lips curved into a slight smile when she saw him looking at her.

  “Yowza!” he said, grinning.

  “And right back at you, Green-Eyes.” She’d insisted he wear his black pinstriped Armani suit, even though it meant splitting a leg of the pants to make room for hi
s cast. He’d put the finishing touches on his outfit with a black silk shirt and silver-gray tie.

  She dabbed a drop of clear fingernail polish on one of her nylons to stop a run in the heel and blew on it till it dried. Her shoes would cover the blemish.

  “I’m really going to miss nylons when the last pair is gone,” she sighed, “and makeup and a decent hair brush and curling irons.” She turned toward him. “And those are just the little things. Who knows how to make electric wire? Or nails? Or microchips? Or...?” She shrugged helplessly. She got like this once in awhile, feeling she hadn’t done enough to preserve the knowledge they would need to rebuild.

  Michael leapt to her defense. “Sweetheart, you’ve done an incredible job to allow us to save as much as we have. Remember the books?” One of their first scavenging expeditions had been to the Denver Public Library.

  She slipped on a pair of low heeled pink shoes while she answered. “Yes, but Michael, you know how hard it is to learn some things from books. Look how many failures we had before we figured out how to mix Portland cement? We need people with the skills and right now that asshole King may be killing the last man who knows how to make synthetic rubber or high quality paper. When are we going to get serious about restoring civilization?”

  “We already have,” Michael said. He pulled her out onto the deck. “Look out there.”

  She leaned against him, heedless of the crutches he still needed to get around. The sun was down and as the sky slowly darkened thousands of people were making their way toward the bandstand. Sometimes she focused on all they had lost, but as she watched folks coming together from all over for an evening of music under the stars she remembered that not all the good things were gone.

  Michael kissed her lips lightly, careful not to smudge her lipstick and gestured toward the band shell. She nodded and carried his crutches down the stairs while he swung down using the railings for support.

  On stage, the forty-three members of the Troubled Land Band had merged with other groups of minstrels to form an orchestra. Adam had arrived early and held a couple of seats for Michael and Ellen. Polite conversation followed until the music began.

  Slowly, with majesty, the opening strains of Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini drifted out to the audience, caressing their ears and easing their hearts. The Emperor Waltz followed, then Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, Beethoven’s 5th, The Blue Danube Waltz and Bach’s Second Brandenburg Concerto. The audience sat spellbound as the final notes died away.

  Before applause could begin, Jacques and Denise Lachelle stepped up to their microphones and asked the audience to stand for a special selection. Denise freed her mike from its stand while Jacques moved back to his piano.

  Chairs shuffled as people stood. Michael glanced at Ellen, who wore a knowing smile.

  Denise Lachelle beamed a performer’s smile at the crowd and with an invisible cue to the orchestra began: “Oooh Say Can You See...

  By the closing bars of the Star Spangled Banner there were few dry eyes in the audience. Tears leaked down Michael’s cheeks and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ellen dabbing at her eyes, while beyond her, Adam blinked water from his. The two men turned toward each other and in unspoken accord shook hands. Love for America was something both men could agree on.

  None of the people at the War Council had heard such a concert for more than a dozen years. It was a memorable evening, one that left in many of those present a powerful longing to recreate the kind of civilization in which such events weren’t rarities.

  Since the War Council began, Ellen had encouraged a growing awareness among all of the delegates that by taking a common stand against the King they were just possibly taking the first step toward building a new and more vigorous nation. Already there was talk about forming a council of governments to discuss their similarities and differences, with the idea of molding a permanent mutual defense pact. Even the Tribes, whose recollections of life in the United States were not especially fond, could see the sense in making the Alliance permanent.

  *

  “I wanted to talk to you alone before tomorrow’s conference,” Ellen said to Adam as they walked down a riverside path. At her suggestion, Michael had invited the Lachelles and Jim Cantrell for a game of bridge. She had told Michael of her plan to have a heart-to-heart with Adam, revealing most of the details, watching warmly as his smile grew wider with understanding. He had chuckled as he left, telling her he would “love to be a fly on the wall.”

  “So let’s talk.” Adam was nothing if not blunt, even to those he liked.

  “You want the Command.”

  “Of course,” Adam replied, thinking, I deserve the Command.

  “I can see that you get it.”

  “Yes?” His eyebrows arched.

  “Or I can see you don’t,” Ellen said calmly.

  Adam jolted to a stop. It couldn’t be.

  “I have 63% of the delegates,” Ellen explained, turning to face him.

  Adam’s jaw dropped open. It all fell into place now. He could see it clearly. Her husband’s candidacy was a diversion to distract him from the real threat. Adam felt like kicking himself. All those friendly little chats she had with everyone when he assumed she was seeing to the needs of the Freehold’s guests, soothing ruffled egos to hold the coalition together. She’d been building a coalition alright. What an idiot! It wasn’t often that Adam felt genuinely stupid.

  “You’re bluffing!”

  “No.” Short, simple, direct, calm, honest and above all...believable.

  God, he thought, I’ve failed.

  It hurt even worse because he had never truly considered he might not persuade a majority to support him. Still, it could be worse, he thought. She out-politiced me, which shows she understands basic strategy. With me as second in command...

  “It will be a pleasure to serve under you,” Adam forced out with what he hoped bore a reasonable resemblance to sincerity. We need this alliance, but can I sell this at home?

  Ellen laughed, then stopped before he could bristle up. “You won’t be serving under me unless you give me no choice.”

  “You mean?” He wouldn’t be second in command? She couldn’t be throwing away an alliance with Deseret.

  “I mean I want you to command the Allied Army.”

  Ugh! Blind-sided again. Relief washed over him and he dredged up a smile.

  “Can we find a place to sit down before I hear your terms?” he asked. “I think I’m going to need to.”

  *

  Adam stopped just inside the door of the conference room to look things over before proceeding. Light streamed into the large open room through numerous skylights and windows, highlighting four long oak tables arranged in a loose square in the center of the room. Gaps between the tables allowed delegates who wished to address the War Council to move easily to the center of the square. High-backed wood chairs lined the tables and most of them were occupied. His chief competitors for the job of Allied Commander were already seated.

  Ellen Whitebear sat in the middle of the table that faced the entrance to the room, Michael on her right, Jim Cantrell on her left. Dan Osaka and other Freeholds delegates occupied the remaining seats at that table. Adam smiled as he noted the gavel lying near Ellen’s right hand. How appropriate.

  The table on Ellen’s right was reserved for Daniel Windwalker and the Tribes. The one on her left was for representatives of small communities and other unaffiliated groups, such as the Band, Jason Merriman’s Traveling Hospital, peddlers and clans of scavenger/merchants.

  The last table was for Adam and the delegation from Deseret. He nodded a greeting to several acquaintances as he walked to his seat.

  Ellen gaveled the meeting to order.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Our first order of business this morning is the appointment of the Allied Commander. This matter has deviled us all week and it’s time to lay it to rest.”

  Nodding heads and smiles greeted her announ
cement and she strode to the middle of the square, literally taking the floor.

  “Many of you have already made up your minds who you will support, but before we vote I’d like you to consider this. Our latest estimates place the invasion force at around 30,000 men, which means they outnumber us two to one. They have turned Nephi into a major seaport and as we speak they are gathering for an assault upon Provo.

  “You all know by now the population of Deseret is half again that of the rest of us combined. Deseret is our largest resource and our single most powerful ally. If the King takes Deseret, the rest of us, realistically, do not stand a chance. Therefore, if we are to stop the King’s Army and survive with our families, our homes and our freedoms intact, we must stop the invasion in Deseret!”

  Cheers from the Mormon delegation interrupted her. She waited for them to quiet down and continued.

  “To that end we are fortunate to have a man among us whose experience and proven leadership abilities are without equal, whose knowledge of the terrain is intimate and who already commands the loyalty of the people of Deseret. I am proud to offer into nomination for Commander of the Allied Armed Forces the name of Adam Young!” This time the cheers were deafening.

  The rest of the meeting went according to the script she and Adam had agreed upon the night before. Since most of the fighting would occur in Deseret, while most of the supplies came from the Freeholds, Adam and Ellen became the Allied Commanders, co-equal. He to command the army, while she ran logistics and held the alliance together whenever his lack of tact threatened to break it apart. Jim Cantrell was assigned to head up the Relief Army that would gather at the Freeholds and march to Deseret’s aid. Daniel Windwalker became Chief of Scouts.

  Their one point of disagreement had come when Ellen insisted Michael be placed in charge of the Allied Air Force, though the convincing way he ran Ellen’s diversionary campaign had convinced Adam there were depths to the man he had not suspected. Also, Ellen kept telling him Michael always rose to the occasion (which Adam was forced to admit fit with everything he had heard).