Once an Eagle (51 page)

“Yes,” Tommy answered dryly. “Just think of it.”

Then Colonel Howden's aide, Lieutenant Geyger, was standing in front of them, his body faintly inclined, giving them that distant, official smile. Sam murmured, “Lieutenant and Mrs. Samuel A. Damon,” for all the world as though they hadn't seen each other three hours before, and Lieutenant Geyger repeated their names to Captain Tyson, the post adjutant, who relayed this precious information to Lieutenant Colonel Pownall, the Second-in-Command, who passed it on to the CO. “For that is the way it is done in the Army,” Tommy murmured to herself, smiling, moving along the reception line. But tonight was different, for tonight Colonel Howden, instead of being his frosty, paternal self, was looking fiercely alert, almost pugnacious; he turned to his right, murmuring their names still again—and there was General Pershing, looking exactly as he had in France, tall and stern and with a twinkle in his eye, iron and old leather, everybody's dream of a grandfather-hero. His face broke into its quick, martial smile, deep lines outside the mustache, and he was saying, “George Caldwell's girl, of course, of course, how are you, my dear?” and to Sam: “Yes, the Night Clerk—Brigny, wasn't it? What a pleasure to see you again, my boy, a distinct pleasure!” He had taken Sam's hand in that grip that could make a man wince, his eyes sparkling, and she was glad she'd insisted on Sam's wearing his ribbons that one evening, even though it had brought them very close to a quarrel. “Howden,” General Pershing was saying, “you didn't tell me you had young Damon down here with you!”

“Why—I didn't think of it, General,” the Colonel said, glancing fearfully at them all. “I didn't realize you knew him … ”

“Know him!” The Iron Commander's eyes glinted with displeasure. “I pinned that Medal of Honor on him myself. He's one of nine names in my own private Pantheon of heroes, Howden. One of
nine.
”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Howden said, and gave Sam a startled look.

There were other officers who had come to Fort Dormer with the General of the Armies; they were standing to one side in a little group, as though not to dull the luster of the General's presence. They had the urbane, casual assurance of all staff officers, and she began greeting them perfunctorily—all at once she stopped. A tall captain with a long, straight nose and high cheekbones and cool amber eyes was bowing toward her and saying, “I had the honor of serving with your father briefly, Mrs. Damon.” She smiled in confusion. What was his name? Her heart still dancing from the encounter with Pershing, the sheer force in the man, the avalanche of memories he had released in her, she'd missed it.

“You probably don't remember me,” he was saying to Sam. “We met in France—”

“I remember it perfectly, Captain Massengale. A courtyard near St. Durance.”

“Ah, you
do
remember!” Massengale laughed easily, and she saw he was quite handsome; his face looked younger and less cold when he laughed. “I was afraid our meeting might have been swallowed up in the pressure of circumstances.”

“‘Days of tumult and tension,' you called them,” Sam answered; he was smiling, but there was a trace of iron in his voice Tommy had learned to recognize.

Captain Massengale watched him with faint amusement. “Did I, Damon?”

“Your very words, sir.”

“How remarkable you remembered them! Perhaps it was the alliteration.” He smiled, his lips curving broadly without affecting the expression in his eyes. “Well, they're over and gone now.
When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won—
”

“That will be ere the set of sun,”
Sam went on quietly.

Massengale's eyebrows rose. “How apt! No one thinks of that line. Danielsson here tells me you've become quite a military history buff. Is that true?”

Tommy watched the two men, not concentrating on what they were saying, listening only to the intonations of their voices, their changes in expression—a habit she had fallen into as a girl at post functions; you could learn more about people that way than by following the words. She was conscious of a current between the two men; they were cordial enough, they exchanged views and welcomed each other's opinions … but there was something—the merest shade of punctiliousness on Massengale's part, the faintest suggestion of overcorrectness on Sam's. They've had a quarrel, she decided abruptly, and the thought gave her a strange thrill of excitement. That time in France.

They were calling for the grand march now. General Pershing had taken the hand of Mrs. Howden, rank followed rank, and the column, smoothly assembled, wound back and forth through the long room to the strains of “Sabers and Spurs.” Tommy moved along with Sam near the end of the procession, disliking its formalized severity but constrained nevertheless to admire the mesmeric flow of polished leather, glinting buttons and insignia in the soft orange-gold light.

Then the band broke into “Rose of the Rio Grande” in honor of Colonel Howden, who was a native Texan, and the slow, glittering serpent broke up into couples. Tommy danced with a bachelor officer named Breslyn, and then Jack Cleghorne cut in, looking moody and roguish.

“Jack, you're a born fool,” she said, laughing. “You know you ought to be performing your duty dances.”

He shrugged. “Time enough for that. I want to talk to you.”

“No, you don't.”

“That's right. I don't. I want to bask in your reflected glory.”

“You'll pay for it, Mr. Madcap.”

“Everybody pays for everything.”

Everyone was dancing now; she saw General Pershing go by with Mrs. Howden, forcing her robust bulk along manfully, his face set in a hard, glassy smile. Sam was dancing with Major Kostmyer's wife; he winked at her once—the flick of one eyelid, his face grave—swung away again. The band was playing “Avalon,” a tune she loved, Jack was watching Irene Keller over her head and talking about nothing in particular, and then he stiffened and stopped, and looking up she saw it was Captain Massengale. Jack gave her an arch, significant glance from under his brows, and bowed out. Massengale swept her off and away with astonishing ease; he was a superb dancer.

“—You can't be a Pointer,” she protested.

He laughed. “Why not—has it gone out of fashion?”

“You don't dance like an Academy product. There's a marked absence of by-the-numbers marching and countermarching.”

“Oh, we're not as bad as all that, are we? … Of course”—he threw her the quick, utterly charming smile—“I forgot—you're a renegade. A very engaging one, however.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No, I learned at a dancing class in Albany called Monsieur Charbet's. He was a very correct Frenchman with black satin pumps and a pince-nez with a lovely long blue ribbon. He used to call in a flat, despotic voice he never had to raise: ‘Gardez les bienféances, mes jeunes gens! Bienféances et élégance. You do not pump, you do not prance, you are neither British guardsmen nor Apache tribesmen—grace and decorum!”' He laughed pleasantly. “I dislike acquired skills. What I value are the natural ones, the miraculous endowments—those attributes the Greek gods and goddesses sprayed their favorites with, like perfume. Those are the delightful talents. Don't you agree?”

Surprised, off-balance—this man apparently never said what you expected he would—she laughed. “I don't know—I've never thought much about it, I guess …”

“A daughter of the Army, without a violent opinion? I'm surprised at you … Take yourself, for instance. Your beauty, your élan, that quality of expectation—all that is nothing you acquired: it fell around you like a mantle and you wore it without thinking.”

She threw her head back. “You've never met me before … !”

“That doesn't matter. It's apparent in a moment—you have such a rich sense of enthusiasm, of life's windy mornings—you've no idea how thoroughly I envy that: you just
know
people are going to be good all day, and that the next garden is going to contain all the golden apples … ”

“I'd better get out of the desert, then!” She started to laugh, and stopped. When he was serious the high, Indian-like cheekbones gave his long face great force. She lowered her gaze and contented herself with dancing for a few moments, careful to keep her fingers from touching his shoulder bars and tarnishing them. She didn't know what to make of him. It was officers' club chatter, gallant and gay, running along the edge of impertinence—and yet there was a powerful current flowing underneath it: he was reaching toward her, in a way she couldn't quite fathom. Abruptly she said: “Are you married, Captain?”

His smile was easy and remote again. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking what an extraordinarily lively time of it a wife of yours would have.”

That pleased him immensely. “That's grand—I must tell that to Emily the next time she finds fault with me … I won't have to wait long!”

The number ended then and they drew apart and applauded. He made no move to leave her, which was surprising. The orchestra began to play “After You've Gone,” and the memories of France rolled back over her again. She thought of rainy nights at Savenay, with the sea wind swirling the leaves in drenched little tempests and the casements rattling, and the lonely, sepulchral murmur of the wards …

She blinked. General Pershing was dancing with Irene Keller; her fleshy, handsome face was glowing, her eyes rested on his in adoration, she was talking to him with rapid insistence. Tommy could imagine the pattern of plea and cajolery, self-deprecation and eye-fluttering adulation, all of it nicely calculated to display Bart Keller's desires and capabilities in the most attractive light. The bitch, she muttered under her breath. Well, there was always one on every post—and there she was, doing her damnedest in the three or four minutes she had. She would do it, too—she'd nail down Schofield or the Presidio or Monroe before she was through. General Pershing was entranced with her.

To turn the subject from herself Tommy said: “It was nice of the General to come down here into the wilds to visit us poor beggars in red.”

Massengale's expression changed—he was again dispassionate, reflective, astute. “The Chief likes to break precedent now and then,” he said evenly, watching Pershing and the Keller woman for a moment. “He feels it keeps people on their toes. We've covered a lot of ground on this trip. No post is less important to him than any other. We can't all sit on the right hand of the throne—but they also serve who only crawl through the cactus and the thistles.”

She cocked her head; his long, pale face wore a mournful smile. “Still, you'll admit there are more exciting places to serve, Captain.”

“Yes indeed. I don't believe in bromides when the facts are quite the reverse. However, the Chief holds that the good officer goes where he is assigned, and gives the best of which he's capable. But of course you know that as well as anyone here, don't you?”

She started to make a rather sharp retort—references to her Army upbringing had begun to irritate her increasingly—but his expression was friendly, sympathetic, quite guileless. She moved easily in his arms, following his lead, conscious of this undercurrent of excitement he had struck off in her. Being in his company, listening to him, you thought of power, of the rush of great events: barricades, and cabinets falling, and proclamations to cheering crowds from somber marble balconies … He will go far, she thought, watching the proud, ascetic discipline in his face, the strange amber eyes. He will become Chief of Staff, if events follow a logical course; or even if they don't. Yet—her eyes rested for the briefest second on his ribbons—he had no combat decorations; the French, Belgian and Italian ribbons were what a competent—a very competent—staff officer would get, if somebody in a position of influence was there to get them for him …

“Yes, I believe in serving where I'm assigned, too,” he was saying. Quick as her glance had been, he had intercepted it. “I've always thought the post of military attaché to our London embassy would be just about the sweetest cream puff of them all. However, there's a rumor that the man
in
that most delicious spot would prefer to be back in Washington … Life is a curious thing, isn't it? When I was seven—”

He broke off, disengaging himself so dexterously she started; looking up she saw General Pershing's squared, solid face, flushed now with dancing and the warmth of the club.

“You can't have all the young, beautiful ones to yourself, you know, Massengale,” the General said.

Tommy stared at him. He was going to dance with her: the General of the Armies, guest of honor at a formal dance-reception, had decided to dance with the wife of a lowly first lieutenant. She was conscious of a frieze of astonished, delighted, outraged faces at the edges of her vision. This simply wasn't done. But Black Jack Pershing was going to do it.

“It was merely a reconnaissance, sir,” Massengale was saying without a trace of surprise. “I was about ready to report in.”

The General laughed quietly, and stepped off with her. “Decided to dispense with protocol,” he informed her. “No reason the young fellows should have all the fun.—I can't
stand
women who have no sense of rhythm,” he said sternly. “No excuse for it.”

“You've certainly surrounded yourself with some exceptional officers, General.” It was the first thought that had come into her head. Everyone in the place seemed to be watching them. Colonel Pownall had stopped dancing entirely and was staring at them, his mouth open.

“What? Massengale? Yes, he's first rate. I'm very pleased with him. Wonderful balance of forcefulness and tact. Just what I needed on that damned Peruvian mission … ” His face turned rock hard at some recollection, then brightened again. “Tell me about your father, my dear.” They chatted for a while; the orchestra was playing “Chérie,” and Pershing now and then hummed a phrase of the refrain. Tommy felt like shrieking with laughter. She had the General all to herself now until he left her: no one in the armed forces of the Western World would dare to cut in on him.