"At the Astor in New York," Emil replied, "though I preferred his father as King Lear."
"Papa loved the Booths," Kathleen said, her voice suddenly filled with nostalgia.
"I didn't care for the youngest," Emil said, "too full of himself; a bit too much madness in that one's eyes."
"Maybe you have to be a bit mad to be an actor," Andrew said quietly.
A troupe of jugglers appeared on stage, the audience cheering them on at first but booing loudly, and with obvious relish, when the act did not progress beyond the simplest of routines. When one of them missed a throw, hitting his partner on the head with a club and knocking the man over, the audience broke into wild cheers of delight, the crestfallen team retreating to a barrage of heckles.
Several patriotic tableaux were next, starting with the signing of the Constitution of Rus, then the driving of the rail spike completing the MFL & S line to Roum, which drew a rowdy cheer from the railroad workers. Then came the killing of the traitorous senator Mikhail, his staged appearance drawing curses and hisses from the audience. Mikhail was shown groveling in cowardly fashion, a Merki standard behind him to clearly identify his loyalties, the Rus soldiers looking at him with exaggerated gestures of contempt. The staged tableau broke the traditional frozen form by the single action of a gun firing. Mikhail fell over and the audience broke into cheers. The final presentation was the triumph of the Rus over the Tugars, based upon a highly popular illustration in Gates' Illustrated Weekly paper. Part of the stage was filled with soldiers looking heroically off to a far horizon, the rest of it piled high with Tugar bodies. The staging even included a wind machine off in the wings, a propeller powered by hand crank which allowed the flags to flutter. The audience broke into a spontaneous rendition of "The Battle Cry of Freedom," sung in Rus, climaxed with wild c heering as the tableau team broke their rigid poses to accept the ovation.
The next act came out—a Rus choir singing several of their traditional love songs—and the entire audience joining in with enthusiasm. The love songs finished, the group started a round of songs brought to this world by the Yankees, and the audience sang along, a fair number of them weeping openly, especially when "All Quiet Along the Potomac" started.
It jarred Andrew back for a moment, for the song had cropped up again during the winter, a strange ironic pull from the old world. It was followed in turn by "When This Cruel War Is Over."
The two songs worked their old effect, with many of the veterans around him, including Emil and Kal, unashamedly wiping away their tears.
Andrew sat in the shadows of the presidential box, his hand in Kathleen's. She had always denounced such ballads as syrupy sentiment, but he could feel her hand pressing tightly into his.
Weeping sad and lonely, Hopes and fears how vain, Yet praying, when this cruel war is over, Praying that we meet again.
He tried not to look over at her, but he couldn't help himself as the chorus, singing in the deep Rus bass, picked up the final refrain. They said nothing, just looking at each other in the shadows. She had once said that she would never marry him, that she could not bear the anguish of another love going off to war like her first fiance, never to return. Yet she had reached out again.
It was thirteen days since the twin full moons. They must be coming by now. It could be tonight that his brief visit home would finish—definitely before the end of the week.
"I love you," he finally whispered, the only words he could bring himself to say.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, pressing his hand in tight between her breasts.
"You must come back," she said, her voice barely audible as the chorus continued. "I couldn't bear life without you."
He said nothing, not wanting her to hear the choking of his voice.
As the song ended most of the audience was silent, a few clapping weakly.
The theater darkened and Gregory appeared alone on the stage, dressed in the blue uniform of a union colonel, his left sleeve pinned up. Andrew looked around uncomfortably. Kathleen squeezed his hand and, feeling embarrassed, Andrew leaned back in his chair so that no one outside the box could see him.
Behind Gregory there was a flash of smoke, then flames appeared and behind the flames a backlit curtain was filled with the shadows of men marching. A nargas sounded, sending a chill down Andrew's spine, its strident call filling the hall, many in the audience shouting, some in anger, others in discomfort and fear. There was a rattle of simulated musketry, a deep kettledrum booming like cannon fire, bugles in the orchestra sounding the charge.
It was all quite effective, as good as anything he had ever seen on the stage, and Andrew felt strangely moved. The effects died away as if the battle were still being fought in the distance, the flames licking up behind Gregory.
"Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!" he began, his voice low, melodious, and filled with power.
Andrew felt a deep stirring as the young Rus officer continued to recite from Henry V.
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair Nature with hard-favour'd rage;
The boy's voice increased in pitch, rising to be heard as the rattle of musketry grew louder, the flames rose higher:
"And you, good yeomen.
Whose limbs were made in Rus, show us here The mettle of your pasture: let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like grey-hounds in the slips, Straining upon the start, the game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge, Cry, "Kesus and Perm for Rus, our Republic, and mankind!"
There was a moment of silence, and then as if a dam had burst the audience was on its feet, roaring its approval. Gregory turned to face the presidential box and, coming to attention, he saluted, not dropping his hand.
"Go on," Emil prompted, urging Andrew to stand up.
With tears in his eyes Andrew came to his feet, his knees feeling weak. He came to attention and saluted Gregory, and then turning to face the audience saluted them as well. The ovation rose to a sustained thunder.
It seemed as if a lone voice called out the words at first, to be joined within seconds by all those in the hall: "Mine eyes have seen the glory. . .."
Andrew joined in, his voice barely a whisper. He felt an arm go around his waist. Looking over her head he saw Kal standing beside her, his features drawn and solemn, hat over his heart.
The song died away, followed by yet another ovation. Andrew bowed his thanks to the audience and to all the actors who had come out on stage to join in "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and left the box, stepping out a side exit of the hall to avoid the crowd.
It was a warm spring night and he breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air after the smoke-filled stuffiness of the music hall. The crowd pouring out the front exits started up the hill toward the village green of the Yankee settlement, where an outdoor ball was still in progress, the faint strains of the music drifting along the street.
"The men have been planning that one for weeks," Pat said, coming out the backstage exit and wiping the greasepaint off of his face with a dirty handkerchief.
Andrew nodded his appreciation, still unable to reply. Kal and Emil stood beside him with approving grins.
"Rather embarrassing," Andrew finally whispered.
"Well, the boy was your orderly before he became a hero with a Congressional Medal of Merit, and an actor to boot. He remembered your saying how much you loved Henry V, and he wanted to do it."
Gregory came out the back door, still dressed in the blue uniform of a colonel of the 35th. Seeing Andrew, he nervously came to attention and saluted.
"I hope you liked it, sir."
Andrew stepped forward and patted Gregory on the shoulder.
"Embarrassed the hell out of me, but I loved it-Thank you."
The boy grinned with delight.
/> "How's that chest wound, son?" Emil asked.
"Fit as can be, sir. I just got my orders to report back."
Andrew smiled.
"Assistant Chief of Staff for Hans Schuder is a tough job, Gregory. You'll do all the real work and get none of the glory."
"Actually, sir, I was hoping for a field command," Gregory said.
"Take it easy for a while, son. You did your part last time—it's a miracle you lived."
"Your horse Mercury saw me through it, sir; all I did was ride along."
Andrew nodded.
"Give yourself a little more time to heal, get some experience with Hans, and we'll see about a field assignment in a couple of months."
"Thank you, sir!" The boy grinned with delight.
He backed away, saluted again, and then dashed off to where a girl, dressed in a simple peasant dress, waited in the shadows.
Andrew grinned as the two disappeared, arms around each other, the boy talking with animated excitement.
"Shall we go back to our place for some tea?" Kathleen asked. She paused for a moment to look over at Pat, who stood before them, looking rather ridiculous with streaks of makeup smeared into his red beard. Bob Fletcher stood behind him, still in a dress, grinning over his performance.
"And maybe a bit of the cruel," she whispered in a lilting voice, while giving Pat a conspiratorial wink.
"Now, Kathleen?" Emil interjected.
"Good heavens, Emil, too much abstinence might kill the poor suffering man."
" 'Tis true," Pat groaned. "I need a fortifier after the humiliations I suffered on the stage."
"Well, you volunteered for it," Emil replied. "Chief of Artillery behaving such."
"All in good fun," Kal said approvingly. "It shows none of us are too caught by our titles. Anyhow, a touch of the cruel, as you say, sounds most welcome."
The party stepped around to the front of the theater, exchanging pleasantries with the last of the crowd who had lingered to offer their best wishes and congratulations on the performance.
The theater was something new to the Rus, who before the arrival of the Yankees were more used to the occasional novelty acts and troupes of singers in the great square during market days, or to morality plays, usually of a somber nature, performed on the steps of the cathedral.
The love of Shakespeare, and parodies of him, of minstrel-styled shows, melodramas of the most overwrought kind with such titles as Her Love Betrayed, or the Boyar and the Peasant Girl, all interspersed with some of the more traditional Rus singing, was yet another touch of Yankee culture, translated and blended into Rus society. Two privates from the 44th New York, one of whom had briefly worked with a Traveling Tom show, had formed the theater group, obtaining backing to build a five hundred seat auditorium which was filled nearly every night.
Rivals had already opened a second theater near the end of last year on the north side of town, scrounging up leftover lumber and opening with a successful thirty-night run of The Merchant of Venice, translated into Rus and retitled The Boyar of Novrod, with Shylock recast as a former boyar. Though John had complained about the disappearance of some necessary resources and the waste of time spent on the theater, Andrew had wholeheartedly approved of the venture, suspecting that if anything it was John's Methodist sensibilities that were far more offended. He had agreed with John, though, that for now Julius Caesar would have to be censored for diplomatic reasons, as far as Marcus and the Roum were concerned.
Leaving the theater the group walked up the hill, following the last of the crowd. Andrew looked heavenward, soaking in the lingering warmth and enjoying the stars overhead. For an entire day he had managed to forget the pressure. There was really not much more he could do. The army was in place, the pickets fifty miles forward in the passes. This evening represented one final brief moment away, the first time home since the typhoid bout. The group laughed gaily about Pat's performance, the artilleryman joining in the fun with several rude comments about Bob.
They walked toward the village green, drifting through the shadows. Many of the homes facing the square were still lit. In the center of the square, under the octagonal band shell, the band was playing a quadrille and couples swayed in the shadows. There had been a review and open-air ball for the men of the 35th and 44th and their ladies, which had continued even while the theater performance had gone on. Couples passed them in the shadows, with soft voices whispering, some in Rus, a few in Latin or Carthinian, others in English, some in a blending of all four.
The band struck up a quickstep and the couples, many not sure of the steps, laughed and danced about the shell, their shadows flickering in the torchlight.
Andrew stopped to watch them.
"Gentlemen, the house is open," Kathleen said quietly, "Pat, you know where the vodka's hidden."
"And be quiet," Kal interjected, "or my Ludmilla will come storming down on the lot of you for waking the baby."
Pat bowed a thank-you to Kathleen, and the small group who had fallen in with them crossed the green, weaving their way through the dancers.
"Reminds me of '64," Kathleen said, watching the dancers with a wistful smile.
"How's that?" Andrew asked.
"Second Army Corps held a ball on Washington's Birthday. It was a poignant, wonderful night, all the fine young officers and their ladies. They danced the night away, a final night of romance."
She paused.
"And three months later there was the Wilderness."
"Let's not think about it now," Andrew whispered.
She looked up at him and smiled.
"No, let's not."
He extended his hand, and she drifted into his embrace as the music shifted back to a waltz.
He had always felt clumsy when dancing, and yet for this moment they seemed to flow together, drifting across the green with all the young soldiers, the old veterans, the smiling girls shining with love, the wives with tears in their eyes. All seemed to know, yet all were caught, at least for that moment, in the dream that time would stand still for them, that the dance would go on, the music lingering forever. That this moment would become the reality, that the dream would hold off the darkness approaching from the south, at least until dawn. The couples swayed through the shadows and the band played on, its gentle sound drifting up to the stars.
Kal stood alone, watching them, holding his hat, head bowed as if in prayer, the grass beneath his feet damp with tears.
The dream had a soft, gentle quality to it, as if it floated on a breeze-wafted cloud. The field was green, the rich intensity of green that came only in the warmth of high spring, when every breath was ladened with the scent of life. It seemed to stretch on forever, a floating sea of green, the high stalks of grass wavering, shifting their color as the shadows of clouds drifted past like whitecaps flowing across a windswept ocean.
Somehow she felt aware that, after all, it was a dream. Curious, it wasn't here. No, this wasn't Valennia, it was back in the other world, back on Earth. She felt herself young, a girl again, fifteen. That's where she had seen this, out in Illinois, her father engineering the building of the rail line to Galena, the prairie a vast ocean marching to the far horizon.
If she but turned around he would be behind her, smiling his sad, distant smile. She could smell his tobacco, the faint scent of his afternoon brandy.
God, it was so beautiful, so unlike the stuffy closeness of Boston.
Is this a dream? It had to be. Daddy was dead, fifteen years was half a lifetime ago, but it all felt so real at this moment.
Why am I doing this, why am I dreaming this?
"Beautiful, is it not, Kathy darlin'."
She felt a cold shiver—it was Daddy's voice, and tears instantly clouded her vision.
"It's a dream," she whispered.
"Is it?" He laughed softly.
Now she remembered. This was her spot, the low knoll that she had found after Mama had died. It was where she was buried, just outside of town. She'd come here e
veryday to sit by her grave, to talk to her, to look out across the endless prairie, to find some comfort—and now she was back.
"I'm scared, Dado." Even as she spoke she heard her voice as that of a young girl, slipping into a touch of the brogue she had worked so hard to press out.
"You have every right to be scared," he whispered. She felt the gentle touch of a hand on her cheek, and she started to tremble.
"You're dead." She choked on the words.
"Not really, not for my Kathy darlin'. Nothing can part that cord, here or there. I'm always with you, Kathy my angel."
Without looking back she reached behind, and felt his hand touch hers.
The wind swept past, sighing, the high grass rustling, golden flowers filling the air with cool scent.
"You're crying."
The voice was gentle, different, as if from another land.
She felt the hand squeeze lightly and then, as if made of gossamer, the fabric of her dreams unraveled.
A soft ticking echoed. Insistent voices rushed in. A distant boom rattled, window panes shaking.
With a start she sat up, and there was a single arm around her shoulders. Another boom snapped, followed by two more, closer. There were the scents of wool, horse, and leather, and a voice whispered in her ear, "It's all right, darling, just another air attack on the factories."
A high, insistent cry now brought her fully awake. Andrew was sitting on the bed, his arm around her, rocking her back and forth. He was home, he had been since yesterday. There was the dance last night, they had danced the night away, and then afterwards . . . That's why she was sleeping now, in late morning. It had been such a long, wonderful night, the first time in nearly two months.
The cry was now a drawn-out yell for attention, and through her tears she saw Maddie sitting up on the bed beside her, scared by the bombing and the artillery fire sending up a reply, arms outstretched to be held. They must have fallen asleep together after Andrew had left.
The dream? She knew there had been a dream, but it was already fading even as she tried to cling to it. Reaching out, she pulled Maddie into her lap, so that all three of them were together.
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