Two in the Field (46 page)

“Why would he bother?” Linc said skeptically. “Were you close when you served under him?”

“I earned his respect as a fighter—but you’re right, that wouldn’t do it.” O’Neill smiled slyly. “Custer is ambitious, and the Democrats have their eye on him for next year’s presidential election. He could be reminded that as the only Fenian commander who took the field I can deliver Irish votes all across the country. More than Tammanny Hall. More than most anybody who might be inclined to stump for him.”

“Would Custer have a chance?” I asked.

“The Democrats just lost twice to a popular war general,” O’Neill pointed out. “Custer has dash in the public mind. He
helped open up the west to the railroads. He opened the Black Hills to mining interests.”

“Got no use for him,” Linc said tersely.

O’Neill looked at me. “Custer refused to command colored cavalry in the war.”

“I’ll have to be your goddamn servant when we get to Fort Lincoln.”

“Hey, so far nobody asked you to come.”

“I’m
going,”
he said flatly. “And I’ll do what’s needed to get Tim back.”

“Cait will insist on going too,” O’Neill said.

“No way.”

“He’s her son, Sam,” he said. “And she might get more from Custer, who has a decided weakness for beauty.”

I was shaking my head emphatically when we heard her voice from the doorway. “I’ll not be left behind in any search for Tim.” She walked into the room and stood before me. “That’s final.”

“It’s no country for a woman,” I argued. “Linc and I will have tough going as it is. With you along, I’d spend all my time worrying about you.”

“It’s perhaps a new thought for you,” she said, “but why not allow
me
to worry about me?”

A faint chuckle came from O’Neill.

“Cait, where we’re going strong men die of exposure and sickness and hunger—assuming they survive all the snakes and grizzlies and Indians.”

“Aye,” she retorted, her brogue becoming evident, “t’isn’t country for a woman, I’ve no doubt. But is it fit for a boy?” Her eyes bored into mine. “My
son
is out there, Samuel. What manner of mother could stay behind? And what if you two don’t return? You’d have me just staying here, waiting blindly?”

Torn between wanting to keep her out of danger and wanting never to leave her again, I had no ready answer.

“Remember in Cincinnati, Samuel, when we brought Tim through the terrible fever?” Her tone was softer. “And I told you that if he went to his death, I’d surely follow?”

The memory of it was indelible.

“My words angered you then, as they do now,” she continued. “But if Tim survives, I’m bound to be part of saving him. And if he’s to be lost, I must know in my heart that I did all that I could.”

At least this time she wasn’t saying she’d be lost too. I looked to the others for support. Linc was busy examining the ground. O’Neill was regarding Cait from his bed with a rapturous expression, as if she were St. Brigid herself. Or, more aptly, Joan of Arc. What else to expect from somebody who gloried in bucking impossible odds and three times had invaded a neighboring nation?

“There’s another reason for my going,” Cait said. “I think you can guess it.”

I looked at her blankly.

“Oh, Samuel.” With a tiny sigh, as if dealing with a borderline simpleton, she reached for my hand; then, with a gentle smile said magic words: “Do you truly imagine I’ll let you go off again without me?”

O’Neill let out a snort of laughter as I was rendered speechless and more or less stupefied. I felt as if Grand Central’s roof had lifted off and cosmic fingers had descended to pinch my head and jolt my heart.

“I’m going, for a certainty,” Cait concluded, and reached out to Linc with her other hand.

And there it was: we three in it together.

We doodled upriver to the ratcheting of a steam-driven engine. The Missouri lived up to its nickname of Big Muddy, its broad
silt-laden channel winding sluggishly through the Dakota Territory. Only by sighting on bushes or trees could I see that we made any progress at all. Given the river’s frequent lazy meanders, it seemed that we could have matched the boat’s rate by simply walking in a straight line.

Most of the motley collection of passengers, all male, slept on the decks. We enjoyed separate rooms, a pricey luxury, but I figured we needed to conserve our energy while we could. Linc’s no-nonsense manner discouraged familiarity, and the two of us must have seemed formidable; crew and passengers were careful not to let their eyes wander too long in Cait’s direction.

While Linc sampled the incessant card games on deck, I spent long hours with Cait watching the shoreline inch past. We sat close together. It would have been romantic, especially in the warm evenings, had Tim not weighed on us so heavily. The good part was that our conversations, broken with long silences that came to seem natural, served to reacquaint us.

I learned that Andy’s brief visit had nourished her own badly depleted sense of family. And that she felt like an older sister to Kaija, who was entirely committed to the Elkhorn community and would take good care of Noola and Catriona.

“I believe she’s sweet on Linc,” Cait confided. “Do you think he feels the same?”

I shrugged. Linc might
feel
something, but showing it was a different matter.

“Several times he’s taken Kaija and Lily to visit the log house he’s building,” she said. “Perhaps he hopes they’ll share it.”

“Maybe so,” I said, doubting it. Given what had happened to Linc’s family, it was hard to imagine him taking up with Kaija. Few people were darker than he, few lighter than she. The country was a hundred years from even
starting
to be ready for something like that.

Besides talking of the colony, we reminisced about people and events in Cincinnati. But not about our own relationship. Cait seemed to accept our being together as natural once again, at least in these circumstances. And that worked for me. For now.

“Samuel?”

“Unh?” I’d dozed off in the stifling afternoon heat. The boat’s lethargic pace didn’t create much of a breeze.

“I haven’t thanked you for all you’ve done.”

“No need.”

“I believe there is.” She leaned and kissed my cheek, her body briefly against mine, a lovely pressure.

We arrived in Bismarck, a drab collection of weathered frame buildings, on our ninth day. I tried to arrange for us to disembark on the west bank, where Fort Abraham Lincoln stood three miles distant, but we were put off with the others at a Northern Pacific depot landing. There, a barge loaded with goods for the fort was about to cross the river, but we were refused a ride on it. Finally I hired a skiff to take us over.

Maddeningly, an army wagon that showed up to meet the barge also denied us. “Civilians need appointments,” a sweating teamster informed us as he hoisted crates and kegs. His voice held a touch of brogue. “Otherwise they can’t pass onto army property.”

“My son is in danger.” Cait’s eyes flashed with anger. “Aren’t you an Irishman?”

“Yes’m,” he acknowledged. “Private O’Connor.”

“Go tell your commanding officer that it’s none other than the grandnephew of General John O’Neill of the Fenian Army and the Irish Nebraska Colony In Exile who’s been kidnapped!”

“I admire General O’Neill,” he said solemnly, impressed by
her oratorical burst. “Alone he took up arms to battle for the Green.” He indicated his cargo. “This is for the infantry barracks on that bluff above the fort, but I’ll stop and deliver your message.”

“Can’t we go with you?” I pressed.

“Strict orders,” came the answer. “The colonel’s overrun by newspapermen and others curious to see him.”

We watched him drive off.

Mosquitoes were unbelievably thick beneath the cottonwoods where we waited for three hours. I pulled an extra shirt over my head; it didn’t help much. Cait and Linc, not so afflicted, thanked me for diverting the stinging pests.

“We each have our strengths,” I said sourly.

Finally a canvas-topped wagon arrived. We lifted our single trunk up and set off in clouds of insects and yellow alkali dust. The driver, another private, said that the area was notorious for skeeters stinging people through blankets, causing dogs to burrow, and driving cattle and horses mad.

Cheery little place.

Fort Lincoln stood on a plain between the Missouri and tablelands to the west. No stockade fence, simply buildings circling a parade ground. The private deposited us at a two-story house. “This is the C.O.’s residence.” He pointed to a shaded veranda. “Your trunk will be safe there.”

Despite the heat, troopers in suspenders and undershirts were knocking a baseball around. One stared at me as if in recognition. Dogs behind the house set up a cacophony of barking as we stepped onto the porch. A slim officer with curly golden hair came around the corner. His blue eyes flicked over us, then took in Cait more leisurely.

“Captain Custer,” he said. “May I help you?” His clipped delivery suggested that any help would be limited.

No way he’s Custer, I thought, studying him while Cait explained about Tim.

“You belong in General Ord’s jurisdiction,” he said. “Department of the Platte, a long way from here.”

“John O’Neill felt that General Custer would take particular interest in our plight,” Cait said sweetly. “We were instructed to convey that message.”

“General …” The blue eyes squinted. “Ah, I see. I am Captain Thomas Custer. You must be referring to my brother.”

“George Armstrong Custer,” I chipped in.

He gave me a withering look that said he knew his brother’s name. Then, to Cait: “He was breveted as a major general during the war, but his current rank is properly lieutenant colonel.”

I refrained from saying, “Whatever.”

“In any case, he’s not presently available.”

“He isn’t here?” Cait said anxiously.

“Well, he
will
be. That is, I suppose …”

“We’ll wait here,” she said. “Please inform him.”

A queen couldn’t have done it better.

Ignoring Linc altogether, Custer gave me a sharp stare, as if I were the cause of this snag, and asked my name.

I told him.

“Fowler!” boomed a voice behind me. “I knowed it! I seen you play!” It was the ballplayer who’d looked at me. He must have trailed along behind us. “Billy Davis,” he said, sticking out a hand, “formerly of Porkopolis. I come out to every Red Stockings match. Saw you lam that ball clean over the fence. You was a grand clouter!”

“You’re a ballist?” Custer said.

“Used to be.”

“In that case, Davis,” he told the trooper, “you’ll be the one to show them around the post.”

“But sir, we’re having our ball-tossing.”

“You play on Benteen’s nine, correct?”

“Generally I do that, sir, but these fellers asked for my help.”

“I’m sure Captain Benteen would want you to make time for our important ball-playing visitor,” Custer intoned, then glanced at me. “You’ll offer our men some pointers?”

“Sure,” I said. “Linc will too—he’s a hell of a ballplayer.”

Custer gave me another frosty stare and withdrew.

“No lost love between the Custers and Benteen,” Davis confided as he led us around the rectangle.