by Carla Kelly
When the dust settled, Susanna walked around the room, admiring the mismatched but suitable desks. She looked at a connecting door.
“Bachelor officer’s quarters,” he said. “Some overworked second lieutenant with no family lives there. We call them orphans. This building is referred to as the orphanage.”
He walked to a small desk with delicately turned legs, the best desk in the room. “This will be yours. Well?”
“This will do,” she said, feeling her spirits rise as she began to see a classroom in the dust, mouse nests and cobwebs. “I’d like to start school on Monday. Is there time for a miracle?”
“That’s barely a challenge for the U.S. Army,” Major Randolph said. “I probably have half a dozen stools in the hospital for the desks, and we can find more. The officer of the day is always looking for work projects for his guardhouse jailbirds, who can clean this room.”
He must have interpreted her dubious look correctly. “Mrs. Hopkins, you are in no danger! When I finish organizing this little work party, I’ll introduce you to Nick Martin. There is no prisoner who will do anything other than what he is told, once Nick fixes the stink eye on them.”
She looked in the post surgeon’s eyes. “You’re going to keep me safe, aren’t you?” she asked.
“To quote your cousin, the profane Stanley, ‘Damn straight,’” he told her. “I doubt we’ll ever have another teacher with three years’ matriculation at Oberlin College. You’re valuable.”
With a nod, Major Randolph left her in the dusty room. She watched his jaunty stride to the adjutant’s office, and then across the parade ground to the guardhouse, a man on a mission. The room was cold, but she took off her coat anyway, and her bonnet. Standing on the stool, she unhooked the draperies from the metal rods and sent them to the floor in a cloud of dust. “‘You’re valuable,’” she repeated out loud. “Major Randolph says so.”
By the time the corporal of the guard quick-marched a half dozen soldiers dressed in coats with a large P on the back into her classroom, three privates from the quartermaster department clattered up with brooms, buckets, mops and scrub brushes. The corporal found a keg somewhere and sat on it, as she handed each prisoner a broom and issued her own orders for the removal of the draperies.
No one had anything to say—Susanna didn’t know what was proper with prisoners—so they worked in silence until the bugler blew what must have been recall from fatigue, because the men put down their brooms and mops. The corporal stood up and spoke for the first time.
“We’ll be back here in one hour, ma’am,” he told her, as his prisoners lined up and marched out.
“Amazing,” she said, looking around at the bare room, which smelled strongly of pine soap now. She knew it was time for luncheon; the bugle said so.
Her stomach growled, but she sat on the stool, reluctant to return to her cousin’s quarters because she felt no welcome there. Probably Major Randolph had returned to his hospital.
Funny she should think of him. A moment later, she heard a man clear his throat and then tap on the open door. “Meditating? Nurturing second thoughts? Hungry?” the major asked, standing there.
“Two out of three,” she replied. “I quit second thoughts somewhere around Chicago.”
“Excellent!” He turned around. “She’ll be pleased to see you, Katie.”
As Susanna watched, the surgeon ushered in the woman who’d been on the porch yesterday. She was in an advanced stage of pregnancy, and possessed of lively green eyes and red hair.
Susanna stood up and gestured to the stool. “Please have a seat.”
The lady glanced at the surgeon. “Should I sit before I actually admit who I am?” she asked him, humor evident in her lovely brogue.
“I suspect she knows who you are,” Randolph replied. “Let me introduce Katie O’Leary, your neighbor through the wall.”
Susanna offered her hand, and Katie shook it before sitting down. She handed Susanna a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. “It’s only bread and butter with a lump of government beef that I mangled with my food grinder to make it less intimidating. That is, if you’re hungry.”
“I am. Did you bring a sandwich for yourself, Mrs. O’Leary?”
Katie nodded and pulled a second sandwich out of a cloth bag. “I have carrots for later.” She frowned. “Major, I didn’t prepare a morsel for you.”
Randolph held up his hand. “No worries. I think there is some kind of mystery chowder lurking in my quarters. I wanted you two to meet. I’ll be back later.”
He turned to leave. “Major …” Susanna began.
He looked back, with a kind expression. “Mrs. Hopkins, make no bones about this—I respond better to Joe.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Susanna said automatically.
“Try it sometime,” he told her. “Until then, yes, what can I do for you?”
“I doubt this fireplace draws well.”
“I’ll have the quartermaster clerk send over our nearest approximation to a chimney sweep.”
“And that would be …”
He shrugged. “I have no idea, but I doctored two of the clerk’s children through a fearful round of diarrhea, and he will help me, by God. Good day, ladies.”
With another nod in their direction, he left. Susanna looked at Katie O’Leary. “What do you make of that?” she asked.
“It is simply Major Randolph,” Katie replied. She put her hand to her mouth as though trying to stop a laugh. “I don’t know that I’ve seen him quite this animated before.”
“I couldn’t possibly call him Joe.”
Katie shrugged, and eyed her sandwich. “I never knew Major Randolph not to mean what he says.”
“But you call him Major Randolph!” Susanna exclaimed.
“I do,” the woman replied simply. “He never suggested I call him Joe.” She laughed. “Let’s eat.”
Katie unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite, rolling her eyes. “My husband, Jim, loves Fort Laramie,” she said. “There’s nowhere nearby he must run to, to satisfy my midnight food cravings.”
“I take it you have other children,” Susanna said, enjoying the pleasant lilt to her companion’s voice. She took a bite of the sandwich and decided the government beef had been helped along magnificently by sweet relish. “Nice sandwich, Mrs. O’Leary.”
“It’s Katie,” the other woman said. “Surely we can stand on less ceremony than you choose with Major Randolph. I suppose your cousin has other names for me.”
Susanna felt her face grow warm. Before she could comment, Katie touched her arm.
“No fears! Jim is certain she calls us the trolls through the wall. We have one son, Rooney.” She patted her belly. “And another soon.”
“Your son …”
“… is home with my servant,” Katie finished. “Your cousin envies me because servants are hard to keep. Mary Martha is a corporal’s wife who helps me during the day.” She winked. “She’s Irish, too. I have it on good authority that she prefers me to your cousin.”
“Will you have any children in my school?”
Katie nodded. “Rooney is six, and he will go. I’ve taught him his letters and he can count to twenty-five.” She ate the last of her sandwich and pulled out a sack of carrots. “Yes, I can read and write, and no, we don’t swear through the walls to trouble little Stanley.”
“Emily has always enjoyed an exalted opinion of her own gentility,” Susanna said. “Stanley and I have had a few plain words about his bad habit, which you and I know can be blamed on his father!”
“That expression ‘swear like a trooper’ had to come from somewhere,” Katie joked. “What should I do? You may have my afternoon.”
That’s a charming way to put it, Susanna decided. No one except Katie O’Leary and Major Randolph have given me anything lately.
They decided Katie would sweep the floor while Susanna washed the windows. The corporal of the guard returned with two prisoners who wiped down the desks, then left. Susanna perched on a l
adder to reach the top of the tall windows, balancing a bucket of ammonia and water on the crosspiece.
“If you make it too clean, some lieutenant will claim it for his own quarters and eject you and your pupils,” Katie told her as she scrubbed.
“Over my dead body!” Susanna looked around, satisfied at the work of one day.
She sat on top of the ladder, already seeing her pupils studiously applying themselves at their desks. Katie had finished her sweeping and was sitting on the stool again, her hand against the small of her back.
“I’ve kept you here too long,” Susanna said as she climbed down. “Tell me about the families whose children I will be teaching.”
“I can sum up the families in two words,” Katie said, as she stood up. “High sticklers. They will expect far too much of you.”
“Daunting,” Susanna murmured.
“The children of the garrison are charming enough, but their mothers … They’re another matter.” She lowered her voice. “Remain above reproach and you will have smooth sailing.” She touched Susanna’s sleeve shyly. “I know you will do well.”
Until someone finds out I am not who they think I am, Susanna thought as she closed the door behind them. Joe, please be right. Let nothing come of Emily’s lie.
Joe Randolph glanced at his watch and pocketed it again, pleased with his timing. The ladies stood on the broad porch at Old Bedlam. He had come from the quartermaster storehouse, followed by a dubious private with a long-handled brush.
“I hope you did not mop any floors,” he told Susanna as he joined them on the porch. “You see here Fort Laramie’s answer to a chimney sweep. Go to, lad. Be brave. Come, ladies.”
Katie O’Leary took his arm, but Mrs. Hopkins hung back. “It seems so early to return to quarters,” she murmured.
It’s that difficult there? he thought. “It’s almost time for recall from fatigue,” he told her. “I’ll squire Katie home, and take you to meet your fellow educationist for the enlisted men’s children.”
“I’d like that,” she said, and sat down to wait for him.
Home for Katie was only two doors from Old Bedlam, but he would always be a Virginian, and prone to good manners. “What do you think?” he asked Katie, when he knew the two of them were out of earshot.
“She’s sweet, but there is such sadness in her,” Katie said, as she opened her front door. “I remember how I used to worry about my Jim before every battle, but he always came home. I’d hate to be a widow, and on my own.”
He returned some answer, writhing inside to continue perpetuating a lie to such a kindly woman. He toyed briefly with telling her the truth, but only tipped his hat and thanked her for her time, so generously given.
Mrs. Hopkins was shivering on the porch when he returned to Old Bedlam. “You’d be warmer in Emily’s house,” he said.
“I know, but I’d rather meet the teacher,” she said quickly, then glanced over her shoulder. “The chimney sweep must have found a bird’s nest. He swears better than Stanley.”
So you want to change the subject? he asked himself. They walked across the parade ground to a storehouse by the bakery, where children were coming out. Susanna watched them, and he noted the interest on her intelligent face.
“Where does Fort Laramie find teachers for enlisted men’s children?” she asked.
“From the ranks. It’s fifty cents a day extra duty pay,” he told her. “Sometimes it’s a malingerer wanting to get out of more arduous fatigue detail. I’ve even seen prisoners, clinking about a classroom in chains. Seriously.” He gestured to the open door. “Sometimes we get lucky, as we did with Private Benedict.”
He watched her expression as she stepped into the commissary warehouse, where barrels of victuals lined the walls. The room smelled of raisins and apricots, pungent dried herring, and vinegar. Her smile grew as she saw the blackboard pretty much where Captain Dunklin had so snidely described it, leaning on top of bags of wheat.
“Not fancy,” he said, feeling apologetic.
“No, but I like raisins.”
“You won’t after a winter of nothing but raisins,” he assured her.
Seated at a packing crate desk, Private Benedict looked up as they approached. He was on his feet at attention then, snapping off a smart salute, which Major Randolph returned.
“Private, let me introduce Mrs. Hopkins, teacher for the officers’ children.”
She extended her hand with no reticence, to Joe’s pleasure.
“I’m delighted to meet a fellow teacher,” she told Private Benedict.
“Where’s your classroom, Mrs. Hopkins?”
“A place not nearly as pleasant-smelling as yours,” she said. “It’s that first floor room in Old Bedlam, complete with a chimney probably full of bats or birds, and maybe a ghost or two, if I can believe the corporal of the guard.”
They laughed together, comrades already. With a friend in Katie O’Leary and a colleague—however improbable—in Private Benedict, Mrs. Hopkins would rub along at Fort Laramie, Joe thought. Now if he could convince her to give him some spare time at the hospital …
The private offered Mrs. Hopkins his chair, and in no time they were deep in conversation. Joe perched himself on an apple barrel, content to watch her. He knew she must be tired after a day’s hard labor in an old building, but she had found a friend in Private Benedict.
He had admired blondes before, but Melissa’s brunette glory had always stirred him, especially the sight of her wavy dark hair spread on his pillow. He folded his arms and decided that Mrs. Hopkins’s blond hair, coupled with her brown eyes, could prove endlessly fascinating. He liked the trimness of her figure. Mrs. Hopkins was also tidy and impeccable of posture. She had a full, deep laugh, not ladylike, but so infectious.
They were both looking at him now, as though waiting for a reply to a question he had not heard, so busy was he in admiring Mrs. Hopkins. “Beg pardon?” he inquired.
Private Benedict asked again, “Sir, may I walk Mrs. Hopkins back to her quarters? I’d hate to keep you from work.”
Hell, no, he thought. He took a few deep breaths, surprised at his resistance to a kind offer. “Actually, I had hoped to quick march Mrs. Hopkins to my hospital and introduce her to the redoubtable Nick Martin.” Joe paused, hoping Susanna Hopkins would see his interest. He was not a man to encroach; blame his Virginian upbringing. “Mrs. Hopkins, it’s your choice.”
Please choose me, he pleaded silently, yearning for her approval like a schoolboy.
He realized he was holding his breath until Mrs. Hopkins replied. “Private, I trust we will have plenty of occasions to discuss both your pupils and mine.”
Private Benedict sketched a charming bow to her. “We will.”
“Good day, Private. We’ll speak again soon. Major, shall we go?”
When he was a boy, living on his father’s plantation, Joe Randolph had had a one-eyed dog. Brutus belied his name, being most tame and possessed of a self-effacing nature, at least until the post rider happened by.
Brutus became a different dog then, considering it his duty to give chase. The post rider always managed to escape Brutus’s retribution, until one day when the energized dog latched on to the horse’s tail.
The horse stopped, looked around at this source of discomfort, and did nothing. Joe remembered watching, eyes wide, as Brutus sank to the road and also did nothing. Once he had caught the post rider’s horse, he had no idea what to do with it.
Joseph Randolph, grown now but possibly no wiser, had no idea what to do with Mrs. Hopkins. He had never supposed she would abandon a conversation with a fellow educationist. But here she was, probably with nothing on her mind beyond avoiding her cousin’s house for another hour. That thought channeled him toward his best efforts to relieve at least some of her anxiety. He couldn’t call it a smooth recovery, but Mrs. Hopkins probably knew better than to expect miracles from men.
“Yes, I promised you Nick Martin and I suppose you are wondering why,”
he said, as they left the warehouse.
“True. I can control a classroom,” she assured him. She ducked her head against the wind that roared down the parade ground, and staggered with the force of it.
He steadied her automatically. “Some ladies in the regiment sew lead shot into their hems, to keep the wind from, well, doing what it does to skirts,” he told her.
“I’ll remember that.”
As they walked toward the hospital, the bugler in front of the guardhouse played recall from fatigue, or tried to play it, considering that the wind grabbed the notes and hurtled them toward Omaha as soon as he blew them.
“Soldiers have been known to commit suicide from too much wind,” he commented, then could have smacked himself. Do I not remember a single bit of idle chatter? he asked himself.
“One can scarcely blame them,” Mrs. Hopkins said. “Now, sir, Nick Martin.”
“Let us call him a deterrent,” Joe said as they struggled toward the hospital. “Some of your scholars have been running wild for years. They will not take kindly to a classroom. Sit Nick in the back row and you will have a most efficient monitor.”
“Has he nothing better to do?”
“Probably not. None of us know much about him,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the wind.
“He’s not a soldier?”
“I don’t really know. No garrison has declared him missing.” Joe chuckled. “Of course, there are company captains who would wish some of their worst miscreants to go missing.”
She gave him a long look. “You are being inscrutable, Major Randolph.”
“It’s all I can be. Nick showed up one hot August, rail-thin and full of lice. The adjutant brought him to me, and I cleaned him up.” He took a chance and put his arm around her as the wind strengthened. “He informed me that he was Saint Paul. Nick, not the adjutant.”
Joe smiled as her jaw dropped. “I would never lie to you, Mrs. Hopkins. I have no idea what his real name is.”
“Then why …”
“… is he Nick Martin? Jim O’Leary named him after the worst malcontent in his regiment during the Civil War.” Joe shrugged. “It seemed as good a name as any. Nick answers to it when he feels like it, or to Saint Paul.”