Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  Her father sat in a straight-back rocking chair by the window, reading the U.S. Army Ordnance Manual. All he ever read were the Bible and military manuals. He looked up and smiled, a mere quick softening of his thin lips. “You look very lovely, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” Flora said, pleased. She seated herself on the sofa. “Thank you for the new dress. Thank you for all of them. And especially for the riding habits.” Flora was an avid horsewoman.

  “You’re welcome, my dear, and seeing you tonight makes all that money that I’ve spent on those fripperies worthwhile.” Although the words were light, he had reverted to his stern manner.

  Colonel Philip St. George Cooke was every inch a soldier, a cavalryman. A handsome man, he had thick silver hair, intense, dark eyes, and a dashing, neatly trimmed mustache and short beard. He had a military bearing, always holding himself erect and always precise in his movements and speech. He was a rather humorless man, though not ill-tempered. He was simply austere.

  Now he said in his somber manner, “Flora, there is something I must tell you before we go to the ball. This morning Gerald Small came to see me.”

  Surprised, Flora asked, “Mr. Small was here this morning?”

  “No. He came to my office. He said he had to see the quartermaster, so he thought he would just stop by on his way. Rather unorthodox, I think…considering the topic.”

  Flora rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell me I was the topic. Oh Papa…I was? Oh, how like him! To just ‘stop by on his way’ to a business meeting to make a romantic gesture!”

  “Flora, perhaps he is not the most romantic of men, as you say, but he does come from a good family, and he is a fine, upstanding young man. The Smalls are very good people of business, and he is going to be a very wealthy man.”

  With exasperation Flora said, “Papa, we are not talking about investing money with him. Please do not tell me that he asked for my hand. Even though he’s been calling for the last month, he’s never made any sort of overture such as that. He’s usually too busy talking about his silly sawmill.”

  “No, Flora, it was not that he was asking my permission before he even asked you,” Colonel Cooke replied. “He was just, in the most gentleman-like manner, inquiring if his attentions toward you were viewed favorably by me.”

  She stared at him. “I was wrong. This is a business deal. What did he do next, suggest that you discuss prices?”

  Cooke frowned, and that was a stern thing indeed. “Flora, I’m surprised at you. That is crude, not at all something that I would expect a daughter of mine to say.”

  She was defiant for a moment, but then she dropped her head. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said quietly. “You’re right, of course. I beg your pardon, and I will attempt never to be crude again. It’s just that Mr. Small is so—so businesslike. He is not romantic at all. He rarely does speak of anything but business matters. And besides, you do want me to go to Philadelphia, don’t you? To enter society? I thought you didn’t want me to be stuck here with a penniless soldier or some nouveau riche merchant settler.”

  Cooke’s eyes softened slightly. “I don’t know why we’re arguing about him anyway. I knew you wouldn’t have him. And Flora, believe me when I tell you that I want what’s best for you. And I want you to have the kind of life and man and marriage that you want, whether it is here or in Philadelphia society. But Flora, do you know exactly what it is that you want?”

  “Maybe.” Flora shrugged. “But Father, I don’t—I want—that is—” She stopped awkwardly. Her father had been a good parent, in his way. He loved her dearly, Flora knew that. But there were some things that she could never explain to him, could never make him understand.

  Flora, in her secret heart, wanted a man to love her with a heat and a passion that would match her own. Though she was still an innocent, she knew that she could have deep and intense love—emotional, spiritual, and physical—for the man of her dreams. He would be dashing and careless and courageous, and she would start falling in love with him as soon as she met him. She had no face in her mind. Truth to tell, she didn’t care what he looked like. She just had a vague sense of a man with a commanding presence, with spirit and daring. But how could she tell her father—the stolid, unimaginative soldier—of her dreams?

  Suddenly she smiled affectionately at him. “Papa, I will tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life talking about sawmills. Now, sir, you look very smart and officer-like in your uniform. Will you consent to escort me to the Independence Ball?”

  Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, Flora reflected on the way to the ball, was not nearly so bleak as many of the army outposts were. It was finely situated on the gentle bluffs overlooking the Missouri River, in the easternmost part of the territory. The endless plains and prairies were only a few miles away, but Fort Leavenworth was still in fertile country, with the Missouri River to the east, the Little Platte River just to the south, and countless streams and tributaries crossing the green unsettled lands in between.

  A small town had sprung up, mainly because Fort Leavenworth was the eastern terminus for the Santa Fe Trail and the Oregon Trail, and so the fort had assumed great importance. The town—appropriately called Leavenworth—had been born to support the settlers moving west and the fort itself. Although it had only formally incorporated in 1854, it was already thriving and growing quickly.

  Accordingly, the fort had more and better accommodations and appointments than most. One of these was the Rookery, a fine two-story home with a wide veranda where the commanding officer lived. Another was the meetinghouse, a large hall where town meetings were held, where the troops assembled for instructions or visiting lecturers, and where festivals were held. One of these was the July 4th Independence Ball; this was the second annual one, she had learned, and the entire army post and most of the town’s citizens were expected to attend.

  Escorted by her father, Flora entered the ballroom and hungrily ran her eyes over the floor, delighted as always with the kaleidoscope of color created by the women’s dresses. Scarlet, emerald green, pink, and purple, all shades and hues, blended wonderfully as the couples danced a waltz. It was exactly the sort of thing that Flora delighted in, for she loved color, excitement, crowds, dancing, and music.

  As soon as they came in, Gerald Small rushed to Flora’s side. With a stiff smile, she offered him her gloved hand and he bent over it, a sort of deep dip as if he were bobbing for apples. As the thought occurred to Flora, her smile widened and her eyes sparkled. Gerald Small obviously mistook this for gladness to see him, and with some surprise, he returned her smile. It was an automatic, spare sort of smile, as if it was practiced. Flora suspected that it might be.

  Formal greetings were exchanged, then Colonel Cooke went to speak to a group of the older officers in a corner of the room, while Gerald began to shepherd Flora to the chairs lining the walls. With an inner sigh, she allowed him to lead her.

  Gerald Small was, like his name, a short, compact man, with ash-blond hair and mild blue eyes. His features, too, were small, with a thin, straight nose and short lips in a rather sharp-boned face. He always dressed stylishly, and tonight he wore a fawn-colored pair of trousers and a dark brown coat with a bowtie drooping fashionably down from around his neck.

  They reached the chairs and sat down. Gerald pulled his chair close to Flora, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a low voice, “I thought I was going to be late, for I have been literally in despair trying to find a skilled saw filer. I had heard that a man coming in the latest wagon train from Chicago was such a man. I questioned the wagon master and several of the trail hands and thought that perhaps this might have been one of the settlers named Odom, but when I finally located Mr. Odom, what do you think I found?”

  Already Flora was having trouble concentrating on this deadly boring conversation, but she managed to reply, “I don’t know, Mr. Small. What did you find?”

  “He was nothing but a common cutler,” Gerald groaned dramatic
ally. “A knife sharpener, for goodness’ sake! And so I have yet to find a saw filer, and it’s possible I may have to hire one from Kansas City! Can you imagine the cost of paying a skilled saw filer to move out here and begin work in a brand-new sawmill?”

  “No, I can hardly imagine it,” Flora said wearily. “Mr. Small, I know this is very forward of me, but they are beginning the polka, and I should love to dance. It is one of my particular favorites.”

  He looked bemused at Flora’s peculiar request—women simply did not ask men to dance—but gamely he took her arm. “Of course. I declare, I have been so worried about my saw filer that I quite forgot my manners. May I have this dance, Miss Cooke?”

  He was not a bad dancer, but he was mechanical, and his conversation during the dance was very much like his previous one—indeed, much like all his previous ones, Flora reflected. He led her around the floor, the oddly automatic movements seeming peculiar in the spirited dance, still lamenting about his saw filer and, also, if Flora was hearing him correctly, about something called a “pitman arm.”

  When the polka ended, he led her back to her chair, holding her arm. As they reached their seats, he said in her ear, “I shall fetch you some punch, as it is rather warm in here and I should like you to be refreshed. There is a matter of some importance I want to discuss with you when I return.”

  She took her seat, suddenly wishing she was going to hear more about the saw filer and Mr. Pitman’s arm.

  However, as usual, Flora was not alone for long. She had made three particular friends, two girls whose families were at the fort and one girl from town. They crowded around her, bringing their gentleman escorts at hand, and some other of the troops from the fort joined them. Flora found herself at the center of a crowd, and as always, she was entertaining them. Someone had complimented her on her hair, and she was telling the story of Ruby poking the flowers into it. “It was like she was sticking them into a vase, all every which way. I think if I hadn’t made her do it all over, I’d be looking like I was wearing an urn on my head,” she said drolly.

  Miss Leona Pruitt—who would have incurred Ruby’s wrath had she known it—had the “handsome Finch boy” on her arm and said warmly to Flora, “Oh, that’s nonsense, Flora. You always look so lovely, especially with all of your new clothes for your debut! And that new dress…Please, stand up and turn around. Let us see it!”

  Choruses of agreements followed, so Flora stood, held her skirts gracefully, and turned slowly.

  “Oh, it’s just beautiful,” Leona Pruitt sighed, a little enviously. She had six sisters, she was the fourth one, and she very rarely got a new ball dress.

  Flora had completed her turn and started to reply, but suddenly a man standing in a group rather far down the room caught her attention. He was tall with reddish hair and a fierce mustache and thick, long beard. He was barrel-chested and strong-looking, and Flora could have sworn that even at this distance she could sense an immense physical strength.

  Abruptly, midlaugh, he turned to look directly at her, and their eyes met. The smile faded from his face, and Flora’s eyes widened. To Flora, it seemed as if they stared at each other for a long time, but she knew it must only have been seconds.

  When she collected herself to turn back to the group, they were still saying admiring things about her new dress. She felt odd, answering them automatically, still sensing some sort of vague physical connection to the man. It was as if he were standing too close to her, and she felt uncomfortable. But of course he was not; she stole another quick glance, and he, too, had turned back to his acquaintances and was laughing again.

  Now she noticed Gerald at the fringe of the group, holding two cups of punch, and saying rather ineffectually to two dragoons who were crowded close, “Mm, excuse me? That is…if you would excuse me, please, um, sir? Private?”

  Admittedly the group was rather loud and merry, and for an instant, Flora felt sorry for Gerald. He never seemed to actually have any fun. She started to say something, to beckon him to her side.

  “Good evening, ladies, gentlemen,” a booming voice said. He was looking directly at Flora, and she froze. He was not quite six feet, but his sheer physical size made him seem like a big man. His dark blue dress uniform was of a 2nd lieutenant of the 1st U.S. Cavalry and was immaculate and pressed to perfection, his thigh-high cavalry boots shined to dark mirrors.

  She looked into his eyes and suddenly felt much too warm and knew her cheeks were flushing. He had blue eyes, hot blue like the July noon sky, and he looked at her as if he already knew her, all about her—too much about her.

  He stepped into the circle around her—people automatically moved aside for him—and stood looking down at her. He smiled at her, and the smile was gentle, but his eyes danced with devilment. “Hello, ma’am. I’m very new here, so I don’t know many people yet. But I would like to dance with you. The very next dance.”

  With a supreme effort, Flora collected herself. What was wrong with her anyway? She’d met at least a hundred soldiers in her life, many of them strong, handsome, dashing men. Here was another. And a very forward one at that.

  “Sir, I hope you feel welcome here at Fort Leavenworth, but I’m afraid we have not been properly introduced,” she said, much more stiffly than she intended. She sounded like her father, she reflected with exasperation.

  He turned around and looked at the people around Flora. They all stood close, waiting eagerly for the progression of the interesting scene. Except Gerald, who looked utterly taken aback.

  Finally the man pointed to a soldier, a private in a 1st Cavalry uniform. “You! You’re Eccleston, aren’t you? Private Eccleston? Jerry Eccleston, is it?”

  “Sir, no sir,” he said, stepping forward and standing at painful attention. “I’m Private George Cary Eggleston, sir.”

  “Do you know this lady, Private Eggleston?” he demanded, gesturing to Flora.

  “Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ve been introduced to her, sir,” he answered, his boyish face turning deep crimson.

  “Then introduce us,” the lieutenant ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Eggleston said and then, still at attention, stepped to stand by the lieutenant’s and Flora’s side. “Lieutenant Stuart, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Flora Cooke, the daughter of our commanding officer, Colonel Philip St. George Cooke. Miss Cooke, it is my honor to present to you Second Lieutenant James Ewell Brown Stuart of the 1st Cavalry. He has just arrived here from a posting at Jefferson Barracks, near St. Louis.”

  Lieutenant Stuart took Flora’s hand, and even through her glove she could feel the heat from his lips as he pressed a kiss to her hand.

  Private Eggleston, with ill-disguised relief, stepped back, quickly grabbed a girl’s arm, and rushed off to the punch table.

  James Ewell Brown Stuart took Flora in his arms and swept her off right in the middle of a waltz. Already Flora could tell he was a wonderful dancer, both powerful and graceful. “My friends call me Jeb,” he said.

  Flora still felt a little breathless, but she was a resourceful woman, and the little charade of the introductions had given her time to calm down. “Do they, sir?” she replied lightly. “What do first acquaintances call you when they’ve only known you for about thirty seconds?”

  “Lieutenant Stuart. But I want you to call me Jeb.”

  “I will not, sir. We may have been properly introduced—of a sort—but I would never take such a liberty with a man I’ve just met.”

  “Hm. And so I suppose I may not call you Miss Flora?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Guess I’d better behave”—he sighed theatrically—“since you, Miss Cooke, are the daughter of my commanding officer. But you can still call me Jeb whenever you want to.”

  “I’m afraid at this time I don’t want to, Lieutenant,” Flora said, teasing him. She sensed the high spirits of her dancing partner and was quite sure he sensed hers as well.

  “You will,” he said airily. “Won’t be long, either. You
will.”

  Flora rolled her eyes. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty much,” he answered airily. “Aren’t you?”

  She was taken aback at his words.

  The dance ended, and Lieutenant Stuart took her back to her seat.

  Gerald, who was sitting alone waiting for her, rose, his finely modeled face rather sulky. “There you are, Flora. I thought you were supposed to wait for me to bring you some punch.”

  “I’m sorry, Gerald, but the waltz is my favorite, you know,” she said carelessly.

  “Thought it was the polka,” he muttered darkly.

  “No, not at all. The waltz,” she said brightly. Then she introduced the two men.

  Gerald looked up at the powerful bulk of Jeb Stuart and his penetrating eyes and fierce beard. To Flora, his face registered something close to contempt, as if he were a nobleman being introduced to a commoner. “How do you do, Lieutenant?” Gerald asked frigidly.

  “Much better, now that I’ve been introduced to Miss Cooke and have had the great pleasure of dancing with her.” He turned back to Flora, bowed slightly, and said, “Since you love to waltz, Miss Cooke, I’d like to claim the next one. Until then…” He moved to return to his group of friends, and Flora couldn’t help but watch him walk away. He knew it. When he reached them, he turned and winked at her.

  “Arrogant,” she breathed to herself, turning quickly back to Gerald.

  “I thought that I was to get you some punch, and then we were going to talk,” he said accusingly as they sat down. “The punch grew warm.”

  “I didn’t realize that we were on a timetable,” she said, a little sharply. “I understand those were your plans, but this is a dance, Mr. Small. People dance here.”

  “Yes, yes, dancing. But I have something very important I want to speak to you about, Miss Cooke.”

  “But—but surely we don’t have to have such a serious discussion right now, do we?” she pleaded. In spite of herself, her eyes kept searching out Lieutenant Stuart.