"So," Bleeker had said, mischief in his eyes, "what's your best memory of the time we served, gentlemen?" His gaze flicked from each to each, questioning.
"I'd have to say it was the time we got the bugler to sound retreat right behind the privy you were squatting in," drawled Mayfield. "Fastest I've seen a man hop in my life." There was a round of general laughter, and Bleeker flushed a bright red.
Seeing this, Stanton cleared his throat. The laughter faded, replaced by rapt attention. "In truth, I'd have to say that the best memory I have was of Stone's River, believe it or not." There was murmured dissent; Stone River had been a hard fight, and their regiment had born the brunt of much of it. "I don't know if you recall, but at one point that Mississippi regiment had come up against our line, screaming and yelling fit to wake the dead, and for a while it looked like we weren't going to hold. I'd run out of ammunition and had taken a step back from the line to see if I might take some from fellows of ours who had no more use for it, but when I looked up, there he was."
"Pap?"
Stanton nodded. "He was stroking his beard in that way he always did when he was upset, but otherwise you'd think he was watching fireworks on Independence Day. I looked up at him and said, 'Sir, I don't think we can hold here.' He looked down at me and said, 'What you or I think has no bearing on the day's affairs, soldier. We shall hold.' Then he looked away from me and took command of the regiment, plugging men into line here and getting us ammunition and water from the supply trains when we needed it sorely. And all the while he just stood there and stroked his beard, with the bullets crying by all around him. Rosey would have run back to Ohio had he been there, I think, but Pap didn't. He just let us know that it was expected that we'd hold, and by God, we held."
Bleeker and Mayfield clapped. Harris just nodded, and Stanton folded his arms in satisfaction. "Your turn, Aaron," he said. "How about you?"
"Apart from mess," interjected Harris dryly, and there was more laughter.
"I'll have you know that I loathed mess. That hardtack had so many worms in it that I saw a biscuit walk!" That provoked another round of hilarity, until Mayfield finally hushed the others to let Bleeker speak.
"Well," the man began, almost bashfully, "I think it might have been one of the times I was at headquarters. This was while you were a staff officer, Philip," he said with a nod to Mayfield, "and I'd come looking for you for some reason or other. In any case, I got lost and found myself in the telegraph tent, watching the general himself crouching over the operator's shoulder, asking if he'd gotten a reply yet. The man said that General Halleck didn't reply when he got messages, and Thomas stood up very straight and very tall at that. He was a big man, you know, and when he decided to use his height it was an awful sight." There were mutters of assent at that.
"He stared down at that telegraph operator and said, 'I am not concerned with the usual custom in dealing with other officers, corporal. I have sent a message and a request for a reply acknowledging receipt of that message, and I have heard nothing. Therefore, the message clearly was not received. You, corporal, may now re-send the entire communique at intervals of five minutes until such time as we receive the reply I have clearly requested.' And he towered over that poor boy of a clerk, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, and the boy turned around and began tap-tap-tapping away. He did it once, and then twice and then a third time, all with the general staring down at him like the Old Man of the Mountain. And after the third time, the telegraph began clacking. It was a message from Halleck, sure enough. Pap had out-stubborned him, which isn't something I'd seen before or since.
"Of course, it wasn't ten seconds after that when the general looked up and saw me there, and you can bet I had to do some fancy talking to keep from some serious unpleasantness."
Mayfield chuckled. "Did he believe you?"
Bleeker looked thoughtful. "I do not believe he did, but I think I amused him enough that I didn't end up in the stockade." Again the men laughed, while outside the Georgia scenery passed at a pleasant pace.
"How about you, Captain Mayfield?" Bleeker asked. "You've been content to tell tales on me, but how about your story?" The others joined in, cheering until Mayfield consented to speak. Truth be told, it didn't take all that long; Mayfield always liked to speak, and sometimes it had taken a bullet whizzing overhead from the other side of the entrenchments to get him to hold his peace.
"Since we're all telling stories about the general," he said, "I suppose I had best not disrupt the trend. I was at headquarters that day, doing some damn fool thing or other, and I ended up being called into a meeting between some of the generals to make sure everyone had a chair and so forth. Well, I'm not in there two minutes when they start yelling and howling at each other over whose fault something was or who was responsible for an attack not being made properly, and all in all it looked rightly like one of those stories you heard out of the Army of the Potomac. You know the ones, where you hear about this general or that one not acting fast enough in the field in hopes of getting the man over him cashiered, and never mind the boys who died as a result. There's all this yelling and screaming, and Rosey's nowhere to be found because he's been up all night yammering again, and you'd think the generals were fair about to come to blows.
"Into this walks General Thomas, and it stops. Dead. Silent. They were like little schoolboys caught at a game instead of lessons. Pap didn't say a word at first. He just looked around the tent, and when I felt his eyes on me, I tell you, I wanted to hide behind the stove even though I'd done nothing. It looked like those generals felt the same way. Finally, after he'd looked each of them up and down, he said 'Is there a problem here?'
And the lot of them, the same ones who'd been about to lay about with the camp stools and whatever else was at hand, just sort of all looked at their nice, neat polished boots and said 'No sir.' Then one by one they shuffled off, quiet as church mice. Damndest thing I ever saw." There was silence in the coach for a moment as each man considered what terrible power must have been brought to bear to make bickering generals actually fall quiet, and then Bleeker cleared his throat.
"Harris? If you're not feeling up to it, you don't have to...I mean, it's not necessary that..." His words trailed off into awkward silence.
Harris coughed once into a pink-stained handkerchief, then tucked the cloth away in a pocket. "No, no. I've got a tale, too." He coughed again, gently.
"I was one of the messengers at Chickamauga. We got hit hard early, and the general called back to headquarters for reinforcements. They never came. So he called for them again, and again none arrived. He told me, when I was selected to be the third runner back to Rosecrans, that he assumed the other two had been killed, and that everything rested on me. So I set off, and in due time I found my way to General Rosecrans' headquarters. I delivered my message and was told that reinforcements had been sent twice already, and that it seemed the entire Reb army must be in front of Thomas for him to be asking for more help. I was sent back, then, with the news that there would be more troops coming, but as I was making my way back, Pete Longstreet broke the line and all hell broke loose. I got caught up in it, and, well, the rest is history."
He rested his head on his hands for a minute. "But I'll never forget that he told me that everything rested in my hands. Never."
The others gave words of amazement and consolation; they'd never known this. Harris had vanished completely into the wash of men retreated to Chattanooga, and it had not been until well after the war that he'd reestablished contact with his old colleagues.
"Funny how all of the stories were about the Old Man, hmm?" said Stanton. "I think he's the real reason for this trip." The others nodded. Harris coughed, then gasped out "So it would seem" before another spasm rendered him incapable of speech. The others respected that silence as well, and it was without words that they at last came to Chattanooga in peace.
***
Bleeker waited until he heard the sound of Stanton's breathing (at least
he assumed it was Stanton's breathing) settle into a regular, rhythmic pattern that indicated the man was asleep. The steady clacking of the rails under the train's wheels made for a soothing background, except when Harris' ragged coughing cut through everything. The man had been friendly enough, but understandably reticent about being social. Too much time talking tended to bring on his terrible fits of coughing, and so to spare him the other three didn't seek him out for conversation. Harris spent most of the journey merely staring out the window, gazing at the scenery and trying his best to hide the blood he spat onto his handkerchiefs.
It was left to Mayfield and Bleeker to provide the bulk of the conversation, then. Stanton simply listened and nodded, and occasionally interjected some bit of dry wit, but generally it was left to the two men to carry the burden of the journey's jollity. Every so often they got off the train at a stop that offered the potential for amusement. They'd stayed one day in Memphis, and two in St. Louis before continuing their journey, but now there was nothing except dull prairie outside the, window, and duller towns every so often. With that in mind, the men had all turned in early, hoping for something a little different on the morrow. All four slept in the same Pullman car, which made for the occasional sleepless night when Harris' cough was particularly bad.
Tonight, it was just making life difficult for Bleeker.
He rolled over and tried to adjust his voice to a quiet hiss. "David. David! Are you awake?"
"Hmm?" Mayfield shook his head groggily. "Aaron? Let a man sleep, for God's sake."
"In a minute," said Bleeker impatiently. "I need to talk with you."
"We talk all the damned day, Aaron. Can't it wait until morning?"
"No, it can't. And hush. You might wake him."
Mayfield propped himself up on an elbow. "Harris? The only thing that can wake him is another fit."
"No. Stanton."
"Stanton?" Mayfield sat up, and narrowly avoided banging his head on the underside of the bunk over his. "What's wrong with Stanton? Don't tell me he's been coughing, too?"
Bleeker shook his head impatiently, though he knew the gesture would be lost in the darkness of the sleeper car. "Not at all. But don't you think he's been acting a bit...odd?"
"How do you mean, 'odd?'"
"I mean," and Bleeker paused here, to organize his thoughts. "Odd. He stands perfectly still when he doesn't think you're watching him, and he barely eats (though you and I both know that in the old days he'd eat like a starving horse every chance he got), and he's always the first of us to bed and the last one awake in the morning. He doesn't blink enough, and I've not once seen him excuse himself to go to the privy, and, well, it's all just odd."
Mayfield yawned. "And next you'll tell me that he scares animals and small children, he can't abide garlic, and the sight of a cross turns him to ash. Well, old man, I hate to burst your bubble but he's been strolling about in the sunlight with us for how long? Go to sleep, and in the morning throw out those dime novels you bought in St. Louis. They're turning your mind to rubbish."
"I suppose you're right." Bleeker sighed. "But it just seems odd, all of it. Perhaps the years changed him more than I wanted them to."
"Perhaps. After all, they've changed all of us, and not for the better. Look at poor Harris."
"Poor Harris indeed. He's looking a bit better, though."
"It's the dry air, I think. Clears the lungs. Now get some sleep, or you'll catch something too, and I'll have no one to talk to but Stanton."
Bleeker laughed softly. "As you say. Sleep well, David."
"Good night, Aaron."
Within minutes Bleeker's gentle snoring filled the car. Stanton, staring unblinkingly at the bottom of the bunk above his, smiled.
Across the way, Harris coughed twice, weakly, and then was silent the rest of the night.
***
"Fort Lincoln Station! Last stop, end of the line! Fort Lincoln Station!"
The stagecoach shuddered to a halt in front of a slightly better than ramshackle building. A hot wind blew dust through the open windows of the carriage, leaving a fine white grit on everything. It was late in the day, fortunately, so the worst of the heat was draining off, but the men disembarking still felt like they were stepping into an oven.
"Good God, Aaron. You're telling me the Old Man came out here to live in this?" Mayfield was beet red and positively aglow with sweat as he stepped out of the train. Immediately, the fine white dust started to cake his features, giving him the look of a poorly embalmed clown.
Bleeker whistled for a porter, then shrugged. "So I was told. Apparently it was a health cure. He.had some sort of fit and was shipped out here to enjoy his retirement. Originally he had some sort of post waiting for him in Shan Fan, but needless to say that didn't pan out. Hmm. Now things get tricky, I think."
"You mean they haven't been already? Stanton stepped down from the train and looked around. He'd acquired a broad-brimmed hat somewhere en route, and it shadowed his features so that his eyes were invisible.
"Well, trickier," said Bleeker defensively. "Where is that porter? And does Harris need help? Stanton, why don't you go check on him?"
"No help necessary, thank you Aaron." Harris, his skin drawn tight over his thinning face, emerged from the darkness of the stage. At his lips he held a kerchief spotted with pink here and there, and he walked with the aid of a silver-handled cane. "And I must say, I am getting quite tired of you treating me like some kind of invalid." He laughed, and after a moment, the others laughed with him. An elderly porter emerged from the depths of the station house and, suitable financial encouragement in hand, arranged for the four and their baggage to be taken to Fort Lincoln Station's finest hotel.
"So this isn't Fort Lincoln? The railroad clerk in Chattanooga had neglected to tell us that the train ran only as far as Virginia City and that we'd need to hire a stage to get to Fort Lincoln itself. Now you tell me that this place isn't our destination either?" Bleeker was red-faced with heat and fury, but it didn't seem to faze the porter much.
"Nossir. Fort Lincoln's out in the Maze, just over the channel. This is just the nearest town on the mainland, sir. Y'can't build a bridge over the channel to get to Fort Lincoln proper, y'see?"
"You can't" Stanton seemed intrigued. "Why not?"
The porter sighed, put down the bags he was carrying, and proceeded to count on his fingers. "Well, the first one they put up got knocked down by a 'quake. The second one got shot all to Hell by a Reb ironclad and promptly collapsed on the boat what shot her up. No survivors. The third one got chewed up good by a sea dragon of some sort, and what was left got set on fire by some Chinese spies up from Shan Fen who decided they didn't like the looks of the thing. The fourth one, now—"
"Fascinating, really," interjected Mayfield desperately. "Now about that hotel?"
Fort Lincoln Station turned out to be a dreary little collection of ramshackle buildings. The few near the railroad station, which thankfully included the hotel that the porter had recommended, were pleasant enough looking, but the further one went into town, the more the place devolved into ramshackle construction that looked like a strong wind could knock it over. "Makes it easy to rebuild if there's another quake" was the carriage driver's breeze explanation, and no one questioned him. Everything was coated in the fine white dust. "Normally 'taint this hot up here, but it's been a damn strange spring," offered the driver. "Come back next year. It'll be much cooler."
"Thank you, but no," was all that Bleeker said, and the four were delivered to their hotel without further incident. There, they determined that they would have to take a ferry over to Fort Lincoln in the morning, and that tickets could be obtained at this very hotel. Bleeker made the purchase for the four, and with plans laid, they headed up the broad staircase to their rooms and some well-deserved rest.
***
It was some hours later when Bleeker heard a knock on his door. "Yes?" he called, softly.
"Aaron? It's Stanton. I need to talk to you,"
came the muffled reply.
"One minute." Bleeker, clad in only his dressing gown, scurried to the lamp and lit it, then opened the door. Stanton, fully dressed, strode in.
"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" asked Bleeker as he shut the door, a little miffed.
"We need to have a little talk before the morning, I think. Before we get over to Fort Lincoln and see the Old Man." Stanton settled into the large chair in the corner of the room, leaving Bleeker to scramble for the bed and the modicum of dignity it offered.
"About what? So far things seem to be going splendidly. Even Harris is looking better. I think the journey agreed with him."
Stanton sighed. "Harris is part of what I need to discuss. No, never mind. You wouldn't understand."
"What wouldn't I understand?" Bleeker was indignant.
Stanton merely shook his head. "Aaron, you are, in your own way, a good man. Just remember that it's been almost fifteen years since Chickamauga. A lot can happen in that time. Men change. You've changed. Why would you expect that men like Harris and myself wouldn't change, either? Don't be surprised by what you might see on the morrow."
Bleeker blinked. "Why, I do believe that's one of the longest things you've ever said in the years that I've known you."
Stanton stood up and stretched. "On second thought, maybe I'm wrong. You haven't changed a bit, Aaron, though that might not be such a bad thing. Sleep well. Don't let your dreams or my stories trouble you." With that, he was gone, leaving Bleeker alone in his room as swiftly and as suddenly as if there'd never been anyone there at all.
Bleeker, to his credit, kept the light on in his room for only most of the night.
***
The trip over to Fort Lincoln in the morning was, thankfully, uneventful. Bleeker kept their rooms at the Terminus Hotel and decided to leave the baggage there, on the assumption that it would be less than a day's work to find their man, pay their respects and return. Mayfield expressed some reservations about the arrangements, but was overruled.
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 15