Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Aw, come on, Delilah, I’ll buy some of that rum bay cologne so you’ll let me kiss your hand,” Clay teased as they headed back toward the curtained kitchen.

  “I have not given you leave to call me by me first name, sir, and certainly you’re not going to kiss my hand. And if I did sell you the bay rum you would simply smell like bay rum and pickles. Now, wash up and put the money in the cash drawer. Also, I suggest that you freshen your breath, so that everyone you meet won’t think you’ve been putting up pickles. I’m going out back to pick the fresh herbs for the afternoon customers,” she said and majestically sailed out the back door.

  “What a woman,” Yancy said admiringly.

  “Maybe if you get lucky we can find you a Delilah tonight,” Clay said, grinning.

  Just east of the township of Lexington was an old road that ran from north to south. The Indians that had originally colonized the Shenandoah Valley called it the Great Warriors Trail. Then the Quakers and Amish had come in, and they called it the Valley Pike. The other colonists—the Long Knives, the English—called it the Great Wagon Road. They had come to the verdant valley from Pennsylvania and northern Virginia. Finally the state of Virginia had macadamized it, which made it the quickest and most comfortable road in the state, and then it was called the Valley Turnpike. It ran the length of the valley from Tennnessee to Maryland.

  Although Yancy had traveled many miles across America, he had never ventured east of Lexington. Virginia Military Institute was north and slightly west of town, and that had been the border of his wanderings beyond the Tremayne farm. Now as they rode the turnpike he saw that there were outposts and stores and farms as they rode northeast. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “We’re riding the Great Valley Road,” Clay answered grandly. “Been here more than one hundred and fifty years.”

  “History’s not my favorite subject,” Yancy grumbled. “Might as well go back to the institute and read a book.”

  “Ahh, but one thing you’re never going to find in your history book,” Clay retorted, “and that would be Star’s Starlight Saloon. Right up ahead.”

  Yancy looked ahead, then, as he was accustomed, he sniffed. He could see faint points of light ahead, and his sensitive hearing picked out noise—nothing of definition, just cacaphonic sounds that did not fit the night—and a very slight man-scent. He looked at Clay and repeated, “Star’s Starlight Saloon? Kind of redundant, isn’t it?”

  Clay stared at him, one sardonic eyebrow raised. “Redundant? So you’re such a grand gentleman after all?”

  Yancy blushed, though Clay couldn’t see it in the dark, and his voice sounded proud. “Grammar for the Southern Gentleman— ‘redundant: superfluous repetition.’ ”

  Clay laughed long and heartily. “I congratulate you, cousin. You’ve become an interesting man. You look like a savage Indian and converse like a gentleman. The women are going to eat you alive.”

  They proceeded to Star’s Starlight Saloon, hitched their horses, and went through the double oak-and-glass doors.

  Yancy stopped inside to look around and let his senses take everything in. The first of his senses that was assaulted was the most sensitive, as always—his sense of smell. The place smelled of unwashed men, horse manure mixed with mud, strong acrid cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and whiskey. He heard a tinny piano playing “Camptown Races.” Underneath the murmur of the crowd, he heard men placing bets and calling hands. His sharp gaze swept across the room, taking in the hard men and half-dressed women, and he saw that Clay had already crossed to the bar, ordered a drink, and was embracing a full-figured blond lady who giggled and embraced him with obvious recognition.

  Yancy moved to join him, and then his gaze, stunned, was fixed on a young woman standing at the piano, who was obviously getting ready to sing. She looked like Hannah Lapp. Or rather she looked like a somewhat vulgar copy of Hannah Lapp, but she still gave Yancy a small shock. She was small-boned, with ash brown hair streaked with blond. She had dark eyes and the same narrow shoulders as Hannah, with an erect bearing. She wore a very low-cut dress, and her hair was mussed, with tousles of curls hanging over her shoulders. But primly she crossed her hands and nodded to the pianist. He began a reedy “Ben Bolt.”

  Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt

  Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown…

  She sang earnestly, but her voice was drowned out by the din in the saloon, which did not lessen. Still, Yancy could hear her high fluted voice clearly.

  Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,

  And trembled with fear at your frown….

  The rest of the song was so sad and dreary that Yancy blocked it out, but he listened and watched the girl until she finished. Men crowded around her.

  Then Clay appeared in front of him with his blowsy blond woman. “This is the famous Star,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Star can make any man happy. Including you, Yancy. Here you go.”

  He handed Yancy a bottle, but Yancy hesitated. “Here, handsome,” Star said, tipping the bottle toward him. “It’s smooth, it’ll make you happy, and it’s on the house,” she said silkily.

  “Like you,” Clay said, planting a kiss on her reddened lips.

  “Only for you, Clay, my young devil,” she replied. “Just for you.”

  “You should be so lucky, Yancy,” he leered. “Maybe when you’re old enough to be a real man.”

  Star looked him up and down. “Indian, ain’t ya? Handsome Indian, too. Some places don’t welcome Indians ’cause the drink makes ’em crazy. But Clay here speaks for you, so I know you’ll behave.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Yancy said and took another swig. “And thanks for the good whiskey. It’s smooth and it makes me happy, ’specially since it’s on the house.”

  “Good manners, too, just like a real gentleman, even if he is a savage,” Star said admiringly.

  “You got that all wrong, Star,” Clay said. “I’m the savage.” He started kissing her passionately, and Yancy politely looked away. He took another swig of the whiskey then decided that he wanted to meet the pretty singer.

  “Miss Star, ma’am?” he interrupted, slightly nudging Clay on the arm.

  “What, cuz?” Clay asked lazily, looking up.

  “Who is that lady that was singing just now?” Yancy asked.

  Star looked around. “Oh, her? She’s one of my very best girls. Here, just wait a minute….” She disentangled herself from Clay and sashayed through the crowd. Pushing aside the men that surrounded the girl, she took her by the arm, whispered, and pointed.

  The girl nodded and followed Star back to where Clay and Yancy stood at the bar. Star grabbed Clay’s arm again, and the girl stopped and looked Yancy up and down. Then, as elegantly as any well-bred young woman, she curtsied.

  Instinctively, as Major Thomas Jackson had taught him to do with ladies, he bowed. “How do you do, ma’am,” he said. “May I introduce myself? I am Yancy Tremayne, at your service.”

  She smiled up at him and put one delicate hand to her half-exposed breast. “Well then, Mr. Yancy Tremayne, suh,” she said with an exaggerated Virginia accent, “muh name is whatevuh you would like it to be.” She curtsied low again.

  Star, Clay, and the girl burst into raucous laughter. “Don’t take it amiss, cousin,” Clay said with amusement. “These ladies are playful, and sometimes as gentlemen we don’t quite get the joke.”

  “I don’t get the joke,” Yancy said darkly.

  The girl took his arm gently and stared up into his eyes. She really was much like Hannah Lapp, except for her blatant worldliness. Her lips were reddened; her eyes were lined with kohl, and now that he was close to her, he could see the coldness in them. She looked hard, and he was sure she looked older than she really was. The skin of her throat and breast was smooth, but she already had tough lines around her eyes and mouth.

  “What is your name, ma’am?” he asked with all the gentleness he could muster.

  “Hmm. Let’
s see…Your name is Yancy? Then my name is Nancy,” she said with cold amusement.

  Clay laughed drunkenly. “And he’s riding a horse named Fancy! Oh, this is rich!”

  They all laughed for a ridiculously long period of time over this poor joke. Yancy had forgotten that he was riding Midnight, not Fancy. He took another drink, sat down on a barstool, and pulled Nancy—or whatever her name was—down on his lap. He kissed her…a lot.

  Time melted; time meant nothing. His sense of smell, and hearing, and sight, and even feeling was dulled.

  Drunkenly he looked up at a loud and annoying ruckus and saw Clay on the floor. Three men were working him over, one holding his arms and the other two landing blows on his chest and face. Yancy shoved Nancy aside, stood up on a barstool, and jumped into the melee. He felt his right fist connect with someone’s cheekbone, and then he kicked and felt a shinbone shatter. With his left fist he grabbed someone’s throat and squeezed, feeling the life slowly leaking out in short, frantic breaths.

  The last thing he heard was, “That’s enough! You’re all under arrest!”

  He felt a stunning blow against his forehead, and everything went night black.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Yancy woke up, to his very great sorrow. His head felt like a busted melon; his eyes felt like there were great thumping hammers behind them. His mouth tasted like he had eaten cow dung, and his lips were dry and cracking and felt oddly fat. His body ached, from his fingertips to his toes. He tried very hard to go back to sleep, but such succor evaded him.

  He sat up, groaning like an old man. He saw a roughhewn ceiling very close to his head, and he saw that he was on a top bunk. Though the world swirled around him, he bent over to look into the bottom bunk.

  His cousin Clay lay there, one knee-booted leg hung over the side negligently. He snored.

  Very, very slowly and with much care, Yancy turned so that his legs hung off the bunk. Then, holding his breath, he jumped to the floor. He felt that he landed on steel spikes, from the pain that shot from his feet all the way up to, it seemed, the tips of his hair. Then the nausea hit him, and barely registering that the chamber pot was right by a row of steel bars, he bent over it and was horribly sick. Finally, shakily he stood up, wiped his sore mouth, and mumbled, “So this is jail. I don’t like it much.”

  He started to try to climb back into his bunk, when his cousin’s voice sounded, remote and reedy, “Not jail that made you sick, cousin. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “But what happened?” Yancy asked, bewildered. “I remember that girl named Nancy, and I remember you arguing with three big ol’ guys.”

  “I dunno,” Clay answered, “but I think the three big ol’ guys won.”

  A deputy came down the hall and banged on the bars.

  Yancy winced at the clanging noise that seemed to burst his eardrums.

  “Clay Tremayne, Yancy Tremayne, let’s go. You’ve been bailed out. Come on with me before I change my mind.”

  Even though Daniel Tremayne and Morgan Tremayne had only the remotest family connection, they looked oddly alike as they stood in the sheriff’s office. Both of them stood, their legs planted far apart, their arms crossed, their faces severe. Daniel, of course, was eleven years older and his face was more chiseled and worn. Morgan had fair, fine features and coloring, but his demeanor was so dignified and offended as to seem like the most righteous of preachers.

  As they entered, Yancy was as low as low, but Clay seemed airy and unconcerned, even though he pressed his right hand hard to his abdomen. “Hello, brother,” he said. “The good news is that they didn’t break my nose. The bad news is that I think they broke one of my ribs.”

  Morgan frowned darkly. “I ought to leave you here. Clay, that boy is sixteen years old. How could you do this? Are you ever going to grow up?”

  “Sixteen?” Clay was genuinely surprised. “He doesn’t look sixteen, and he sure doesn’t fight like he’s sixteen. Didn’t realize it. Sorry, cousin. I don’t think I would have led you into the den of iniquity if I’d known it.”

  “I may be sixteen, but I still make my own decisions,” Yancy grunted. “It’s not your fault, Clay. I made up my own mind.”

  Daniel uncrossed his arms and lifted Yancy’s face with one finger. “Not very pretty, son. Black eye and busted lip. Anything else hurt?”

  “Everything else,” Yancy answered sullenly, “but especially my shin.” He pulled up his breeches leg and pulled down his moccasins. There was a big black bruise on his right leg. “Someone kicked me.”

  “Probably one of those evil women,” Clay said, grinning, but then he grimaced and grabbed his ribs again.

  “Shut up, Clay,” Morgan said. “Don’t you ever get tired of this every year?”

  “Yes,” Clay answered smartly. “But by the time next December rolls around I’ll probably forget how tired I am of it.”

  Morgan rolled his eyes and muttered something unintelligible. Then he took his brother’s arm very gently. “C’mon, dummy. No, no, I’m not going to take you home for Mother to work you over. I’ll take you to your place and get the doctor.” Morgan looked over his shoulder as he helped his brother out the door. “Are you two all right, Uncle Daniel? Is there anything else I can do?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No, thank you, Morgan. I’m indebted to you for coming to get me.”

  “No, sir, there is no debt,” Morgan said firmly. “We’re family. Call on me and mine anytime for anything.”

  They went out the door and Yancy’s sharp ears caught the low sound of Clay still grumbling.

  Yancy pulled himself up straight and gazed into his father’s stern blue eyes. “Sir? Are you going to punish me?”

  “Before I answer, I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yancy answered solidly.

  Daniel narrowed his eyes and studied Yancy’s fractured face carefully. “So, did you have fun?”

  Yancy hesitated for long moments then answered, “It seemed like fun last night. But it’s no fun now, no sir.”

  “I see. But was it worth it?”

  Again Yancy thought carefully. “No sir, it was not. Now that I realize I have to face you, and Becky, and Grandmother, and—and—Major Jackson, I know it wasn’t worth it. Not at all. I’m so very sorry, Father.”

  Daniel nodded. “It’s good for a man to take responsibility for his actions.”

  Yancy looked up at his father with appealing, vulnerable dark eyes. “Sir, will you forgive me?”

  Daniel laid his hands on his son’s shoulders. “ ‘Neither do I condemn thee.’ Just don’t do it again, for my sake and your sake and Becky’s sake and Grandmother’s sake.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to find some other way that doesn’t hurt so much to have fun. But sir, what do you mean about not condemning me? What was that?”

  Daniel answered, “It’s a Bible verse, and it means that I can’t condemn you for anything that you’ve done, son. I’ve made my own mistakes, and I’ve seen my own sins. I can’t condemn you or anyone else. I just want to protect you and try to help you to have a good life. That’s all. And I’m hoping that a black eye and a fat lip will help you learn that lesson.”

  “Do you think my nose is broken?” Yancy asked anxiously.

  Daniel chuckled. “No, I think your pride is, which may be a very good thing. Just remember always, son, ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’ And that’s even worse than a broken nose.”

  Slowly they rode home, Yancy dreading every hoofbeat that brought him closer. It was a dreary day, with the sun hidden behind looming snow clouds. He shivered in the biting air, and it seemed as if every inch of his body ached. His left eye was swollen shut, and his lips felt like raw meat. He fully expected Becky and Grandmother to be very angry with him, but he was wrong.

  Becky met them on the veranda and threw her arms around him to hug him. “Oh, Yancy, you look awful! And with you so handsome, too!”

  They wen
t in and then Zemira hugged him. “You are your father’s son, that’s sure enough,” she said drily. “Come on in. Lie down on the sofa in the parlor. Daniel, take a rag and go get some icicles to put on that eye. Otherwise it’ll be swollen for days.” She bustled around, getting quilts to put over Yancy and pillows for his head.

  Becky said, “I’ll go heat up some soup. I know you’re probably starving, Yancy, but I doubt you’ll be able to chew anything much for a day or two.”

  Zemira finished making Yancy comfortable then pulled up a straight chair close to the sofa. “Looks like you and Clay had quite a party,” she said with a glimmer in her dark blue eyes.

  “Seems like I remember something about a party,” he sighed, speaking with difficulty because of his sore mouth. “But then it seems like it wasn’t very much fun, for a party.” He looked up at her woefully. “Grandmother—I’m so, so sorry. I know I’ve disappointed everyone so much. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. And I thought—I thought that you’d be really mad at me.”

  She smiled and gently smoothed back the lock of his hair that always seemed to fall over his forehead. “Being angry with you is not going to teach you anything. If you were younger, Daniel would probably feel obliged to punish you in some way. But in spite of the fact that you’re only sixteen, in the last year you’ve taken on a man’s job and a man’s burdens. And since you have a repentant attitude, we see that you’re taking responsibility for your actions. So there is no need for us to be angry with you, Yancy. I suspect you’re angry enough at yourself.”

  “You’re right about that, Grandmother,” he agreed caustically. “Talk about acting like a fool. I know you’re not supposed to swear to things, but right here and now I’m telling you I’m going to try very hard not to get myself in such a stupid position again.”