“I don’t have any money.”
The cobbler shrugged. “They say it’s the root of all evil. Besides, there’s not much cash changing hands. I’ll take an I.O.U.”
The notion of an I.O.U. caused Josie to bristle. It was just another denomination in the imaginary economy, no better than a Confederate dollar. But since she had no other way to make a payment, there appeared to be little choice in the matter. Having never provided an I.O.U. before, she didn’t know how to proceed—whether she should spit on her palm, or else provide a written receipt. Finally, she blurted out, “I owe you.”
Apparently, an oral contract would suffice. With a nod, the cobbler started back up the stairs, saying, “Let’s conduct our business outside. You don’t want to enter my wagon unescorted—people will talk.”
Watching him disappear inside his caravan, Josie snorted—but perhaps she should be more conscientious. After all, her reputation was the only currency she had left.
It required numerous trips for the cobbler to amass his various tools outside. Some items Josie could identify by sight: a compact cauldron for melting rubber, great iron tongs for handling a boot. But other things, and their nominal purpose, she couldn’t have begun to guess—such as an array of glass ampoules, and something shaped like a wishbone. It was an impressive collection, to say the least. At a certain point, she wondered if he was taking everything out of his caravan in order to reorganize it. But after concluding his fourth circuit, he stopped to admire the mess.
“I hope there’s nothing missing,” she joked. Despite her attempt at humor, the cobbler’s expression remained blank.
“No, I think we have everything we’ll need. I’m just wondering if it’s going to rain. I wouldn’t want it to get wet—there’s some very expensive equipment here.”
Josie tried to imagine what might be most (or least) expensive. The sundry jars of shoe polish? Or the metal cast of a foot, flat like a duck’s bill? Still, he underwent the tedious process of returning more than half the items inside the caravan. Meanwhile, Josie, her feet still aching from the long walk, decided to sit down. Smoothing her dress against her thighs, she reclined on a log with her knees pressed together, continuing to regret the absence of her stockings.
“What brings you here?” the cobbler asked, as he continued to separate the objects. He didn’t seem particularly interested in her reply, not bothering to look up while he negotiated the clutter.
“A husband,” she answered. Having said the word aloud, she felt a flutter of anxiety. Josie’s idea of a champion had evolved over time, while walking down the stretch of beach. After all, why would a stranger come to her aid, or provide her with safe passage to Scotland? Wouldn’t it be easier to ask a spouse? Of course, it would require a groom of little or no guile, someone she could bend to her will. It would further require that Uncle Francis honor the contract, were he to discover them.
Briefly, the cobbler paused in his efforts. “You’re here to be wed?” When she nodded, hoping to convey confidence, he grunted. “You’ll need a license for that.”
“A license?”
“A wedding license,” he said. “I can make you one. Do you know your husband’s name?”
That he’d think to ask such a thing demonstrated the cobbler’s savvy. For her part, Josie should’ve been outraged—except, of course, she didn’t know his name, nor whom she might marry. Having to choose between feigned outrage or the slightest tinge of embarrassment, she found that neither came to her naturally.
“Not yet,” she said, making tiny circles in the air with her one good boot. “Is that a problem?”
The cobbler shrugged. “I can’t see why. You can make one up. Or leave it blank, to fill it in later. That might be easier, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“On what’s more important.” He grinned. “The husband or the license?”
“Like the chicken or the egg,” Josie laughed. She could appreciate the cobbler’s discretion. At the same time, she didn’t want to reveal herself too soon. “That’s the riddle, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed.”
Now that he’d stowed all the nonessential or expensive equipment (and with no rain to show for it), the cobbler seemed exhausted. Rather than commencing his work, he too took a seat, dragging over an anvil and squatting comically low to the ground. Judging from his hands and eyes, Josie tried to make an accurate guess of his age: older than she, but not so old as Uncle Francis.
“Can I make an observation?” he said.
“I’d be delighted if you did.”
“That hole in your boot is well-earned, but the heel’s not as worn as the toe. However far you’ve traveled must’ve come all at once. Was it a long walk here?”
“It was,” she replied, feeling as if she were playing a parlor game.
“Where are you coming from?”
Here Josie paused. The cobbler seemed like a decent fellow, but still he remained a stranger to her.
“May I ask you something first?” she replied. “What’s your name?”
Sitting back, he thrust out his hand in introduction. “Danny.”
Immediately, her mind summoned the image of Danny Foye. “No—it can’t be! Really?”
“Have I said something funny?”
“Danny what?”
With his hand still extended, the cobbler—Danny—blinked. “Just Danny,” he said. “There’s no last names here.”
“No last names. But there are wedding licenses and I.O.U.s? How can the latter be true without the former? What sort of magical place is this?”
Withdrawing his hand, he gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Let me see—nice clothes, looking for a husband. I’d guess you’re pregnant, except for the boot. That’s a long way to walk for someone who’s expecting. Something else, then. Something bad.”
Though she could feel herself shrinking, Josie fought to maintain eye contact. Was it really so obvious, she wondered? Or had she seen so little of the world that she couldn’t guess the cobbler’s story at a glance?
“That’s why, Miss. No last names—it’s survival, not magic.”
“Josie,” she finally said, offering her own hand.
“Josie,” he repeated. Danny’s palm, when clasped, was firm and dry. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Tell me—how long before you can fix my boot?”
Swiping that same strong hand across his face, he produced a weary sigh. “May I be honest with you? The truth is, I’m not really a cobbler—not by trade, anyway.”
“But all those tools—”
“Either bartered for or won. Some have no use. Like that thing,” he said, poking his toe at a hinged piece of metal. “I’m not entirely sure what it’s for.”
In light of this revelation, Josie expected herself to feel angry, or betrayed, but instead she found it to be inconsequential. Her boot still existed, as did the hole; nothing had fundamentally changed.
“So your offer to fix my shoe?”
“I stand by what I said—no pun intended! You can’t walk around here barefoot, not if you plan to remain in good health. There’s a real cobbler by the Chinese laundry—Morris, his name is. I can introduce you. He’s oftentimes drunk, and he quarrels with his inventory, but he does good work.”
With a nod of her head, Josie assented. “Let’s go see him. And if it turns out he’s not a real cobbler, then maybe he can point us toward someone else. And so on and so forth, until I’ve met everyone in this camp.”
Rising from his anvil, Danny collected his stray pieces of artifice—most of which, Josie now observed, were obviously junk. In her willingness to believe him, she’d imbued everything with a false sense of purpose.
“Not to be rude,” she said. “But what is your true profession?”
He coiled a length of rope in his hands and gave her a thoughtful look. “Contracts—I bring people together.”
“Like you’re doing now, with me and Morris? Is that your play?”
/> Grinning, he said, “When I’ve made my play, you’ll know it.” And, with that, he carried an armful of equipment back inside his caravan.
A snatch of song carried through the trees: two voices, slurred with drink, yowling about goober peas. Josie assumed the revelers must hail from a neighboring caravan, though it seemed unwise for her to leap to conclusions. How willing she’d been to believe Danny! In truth, she rather liked him—the unfortunate coincidence of his name notwithstanding. He reminded her of Uncle Francis. Bringing people together—wasn’t that essentially what Uncle Francis did, except on a larger scale? Certainly, he had no qualms about stretching the truth. Should circumstances permit, perhaps Josie might introduce the two. They could open a Myers & Co. Store at the Logging Camp and install Danny as manager. It was the kind of idea that made her worthy of promotion, if not adoption. Too bad Uncle Francis wasn’t getting a son.
When the song reached her ears again, it sounded much closer than before. Rising from her log, Josie smoothed the fabric of her dress. Danny continued to tarry in his caravan, creating a great deal of noise, so she helped herself to a piece of equipment: the metal wishbone-looking thing, numbingly cold to the touch. When he came back outside, she could return it to him. In the meantime, Josie took some comfort in its heft.
Leaves rustled and parted, as strangers emerged from the foliage. The taller of the two, skinny to the point of being hunched, was looking intently at the caravan. The other man, whose rotund belly brought to mind a friar, was still humming a Rebel tune. Both men carried heavy cudgels.
“Well, look here, Nantz,” said the friar, with an unfriendly smile. “Danny’s got himself a friend. Hello, friend.”
Before she could reply, the second man growled, “You said it, Carmichael. How about putting that down, friend, before your arm tires?”
Josie’s eyes flitted toward the caravan, where she hoped to see Danny reappear. The two men stood on either side of her. She tried to imagine using the wishbone as a weapon, swinging it at the men’s heads; when she found that she couldn’t, she discarded it. The wind shuffled the leaves from green to white as the quality of light became opaque.
“Is he alone?” Carmichael asked, taking another step toward Josie. Nodding, she signaled in the affirmative, not trusting her voice.
“Good. Lemme tell you how it works. Me and Nantz is debt collectors—”
“Expert debt collectors,” Nantz interrupted, his eyes on the caravan.
“Right you are—expert debt collectors—and Danny’s debt is due. So we’re gonna straighten him out while you wait here. You be sure to keep your pretty mouth shut.” Leaning forward, he snarled, “Understood?”
Josie acquiesced, hugging her arms around her chest. Together, the two men approached the caravan, carelessly treading on strewn equipment. Danny was still engaged in whatever activity was delaying him; apparently, the noise he created had prevented him from overhearing their conversation. When the two men reached the steps, they swiftly breached the door, first Nantz and then Carmichael. There was a moment of silence, after which the caravan began to shake, all three voices competing at once.
Josie considered fleeing. Whatever business they had with Danny surely wasn’t her concern. But before she could decide one way or another, all the men came tumbling out—seemingly at the same time, though the door couldn’t accommodate their combined breadth.
“I can pay!” Danny keened. His face had been bloodied and his shirt was torn. “I can pay!”
“If you could pay,” Nantz reprimanded him, “we wouldn’t have to be here, now would we?”
“My things—”
“Trash,” Carmichael sneered, stepping on a glass ampoule to illustrate his point.
With his hair falling over his eyes, and his waxed moustache flecked with spit, Danny chanced to look upon her.
“The girl!” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Josie.
“What about her?”
“She owes me! She can pay!”
The triumvirate now faced Josie—Danny from his hands and knees, while his assailants loomed over him. The reek of desperation made her head swim.
“I fixed her boot,” Danny appealed to Carmichael. “She gave me her I.O.U. Take that as payment!”
“Did you? Give him an I.O.U.?”
When Josie failed to respond, Carmichael rolled his eyes. “Did you spit in your hand or not?”
Unable to form a sentence, let alone give voice to it, Josie emphatically shook her head.
“Oh, Danny,” Carmichael said. “Danny, Danny, Danny. You ain’t an Irishman, are you? No honor, those lousy Irish.” Then, wielding his cudgel, he brought it down on Danny’s ankle, producing a terrible crunching noise and causing him to scream.
“She’s my wife!” Danny shrieked. When this educed a momentary reprieve, he started to babble—rolling onto his back and clutching at his injury. “She’s my wife—I’ve got the license to prove it! Just go inside and check—it’s in my caravan.”
Carmichael glanced at Nantz. “Say—how many’s he made for you, Nantz?”
“Licenses? Three, at least.”
“I’ve got one that says I married my dog.” Resting his cudgel against his shoulder, Carmichael paused to reflect. “Not that I’d mind. She was a good dog.”
“Belle?” Nantz asked.
“No, Lulu—the one before. Belle couldn’t be bothered to lick her own a—.”
Danny was still muttering to himself when the next blow caught him in the ribs. Josie felt weightless, her arms and legs buoyed by the air, as she watched the two men beat him to death. When he protected his face, they swung at his arms and legs. With every wound, Josie felt herself to be less corporeal, until finally she’d become a ghost, a silent, bloodless spectator. She never uttered a word; certainly, she never spoke in Danny’s defense. Floating away, she felt herself rising up, up, up, past the branches and the laundry lines, up until she got snagged in the highest limb.
Chapter 15
The Sergeant Major had always favored his right hand. Since losing it, he’d favored his left hand or nothing at all.
Penmanship could be frustrating, if not messy (he frequently smeared the ink), but he managed—drafting endless inventories of Fort Brogue’s supplies and writing letters to his younger sister, Clara, in Cincinnati, in which he joked about the awful weather. He parted his hair on the left, like the portraits of his late mother’s father. He cinched his belt backward and trimmed his nails with his teeth. Most time-consuming of all were the tasks that required two hands, like lacing his shoes. More often than not, he was reduced to tears of frustration. But if one devoted sufficient thought to it, one could forecast an entire day. By doing so, the Sergeant Major hoped to identify any pitfalls and to plan around them.
If the evening meal were to be soup or stew (easily gleaned from the kitchen staff), he’d dine with his men; but if dinner would require the use of a knife and fork, he would dine alone. There wasn’t any shame in having his food cut for him, but the association was that of a helpless child or a doddering old man. It was poor for morale, as well as for his self-esteem. Happily, soups and stews were a mainstay of the military. If it could be served in a cup, it could be served on the battlefield.
Another potential embarrassment was the necessity of saluting. In the U.S. Army, a soldier always saluted with his right hand, and a salute was always returned in kind. In order to avoid these situations, the Sergeant Major had refused every promotion put to him since the Battle of Vicksburg. For as long as he remained a non-commissioned officer, no enlisted man would be required to salute him; so long as nobody was saluting him, he didn’t have to salute back.
Everything happened in sequence, each event the product of its circumstances. To wit, the day of Miss Josephine’s disappearance had been ordinary from the start: breakfast alone, with his copy of the family Bible. Bound in white leather and embroidered with gold thread, the book was ostentatious but remained open of its weight, which the Sergea
nt Major found to be useful.
He was drinking coffee when he received the news: Miss Josephine was absent from her room, and no one knew where to find her. (Of the other turrets, not counting the Sergeant Major’s and Miss Josephine’s, a third housed Myers, and the fourth was reserved for guests, should a person be so misguided as to spend the night at Fort Brogue.) Absorbing this information, the Sergeant Major had thanked the dispatcher. And then, rather than hurrying, he’d calmly finished his cup—continuing to read until the Israelites had fled from Egypt.
Making his way across the parade ground, he encountered a half-dozen soldiers, running drills. The men’s jovial encouragement was suspended while he passed them, everyone standing at rigid attention, so he performed his best Myers Walk—stiff-kneed, and leading with his chin. This was greeted by much hooting and derision, though he managed to maintain a dispassionate expression. Only after he’d passed did he allow himself a smile.
When the Sergeant Major arrived at Miss Josephine’s turret, Harrison, the lieutenant who’d been assigned guard duty, was looking especially forlorn, his eyes fixed on the ground and his shoulders slumped to diminish his outsize height.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” the Sergeant Major said, attempting to make eye contact. “I gather we’ve had an eventful morning?”
“Yes, sir. No, sir—I don’t think. But that’s why, sir—so this morning—”
“Why not take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened?”
Stealing a glance at his superior, Harrison sighed. “Yes, sir—all right. So, last night was usual—Miss Josephine turned in before dark, and no one’s come or gone since.”
“And you were standing sentry this whole time? You’re absolutely certain she didn’t leave?”
“Certain,” Harrison replied, a little too emphatically. “All night long.”
“And this morning?”
“This morning, when she didn’t come down for breakfast, I went up to check her room. I didn’t want to barge in, so I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Finally, I called to say I was coming in. And the room was empty!”
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