The Crimson Skew (10 page)

M
AJOR
M
ERRET'S COMPANY
passed into the Indian Territories on August seventh. None could tell where Pennsylvania ended and the Territories began, for the woods and hills looked much the same and the farms had long since dwindled. The craggy hills, barren in wide patches, allowed for easy passage; Theo and the rest of the trail crew had little work as the march progressed west. Every article they carried seemed heavier in the humid air: the canvas cots reeked of mildew and the Goodyear-lined packs were slick with moisture. At ten-hour,
they stopped with relief to take the midday meal.

Major Merret always ate in a tent, however brief their rest stop. A five-poled canvas affair, it could fit a small dining table that doubled as a desk, and it crouched amid the seated company like a spider at the center of its web. While Major Merret rested and the company stretched or slept on their packs, the cook prepared a meal of beans and onions.

The major had his own cook, who traveled with the supply wagon and protected the store of special foods packed and carried all the way from Virginia. Fortunately for the company men, the major's cook, Private Betts, was eminently corruptible, and for the right price could find clever ways of trimming off a hunk of choice ham or a link of sausage. Private Betts disliked the major as vehemently as did the rest of the company, but he knew the advantages of his position and kept his dislike well hidden behind an obsequious exterior. As a result, the major trusted Betts. To the extent that the major liked anyone, it could even be said that the major liked Betts.

So the company was particularly surprised when, in the middle of shoveling beans and onions into their hungry stomachs, they saw the major storming out of his tent, shouting for Private Betts. “Where is he?!” Major Merret shouted. “Where is that man?”

The company went silent. All eating ceased: spoons froze in the air, all eyes fixed on their commander, and no one moved. The major was fuming. His napkin, still tucked into the collar of his shirt, fluttered in a sudden breeze and flapped up to
cover his face. The major yanked the napkin away and glared.

“I believe he went to find water for washing, sir,” one of the men said.

“Find him and bring him to me,” the major shouted. He turned on his heel and strode back into his tent, shaking the very poles with the vigor of his entrance.

The company resumed its meal. Slowly at first and then more quickly, like a marble rolling downhill, word of what had caused the major's anger traveled outward. There was a hiccup of hesitant laughter. And then another. The sound rippled through the company, a genuine wave of laughter, to where Theo and Casanova sat side by side, eating their lunch with the other soldiers. Word had not yet reached them of what had happened to the major, but Theo smiled, enjoying the eruptions of mirth all around him.

And then it arrived. The man sitting next to Casanova leaned toward them, chuckling. “You'll never believe what happened. Someone went and put dirt in the major's lunch! Ate a few mouthfuls before he even noticed.”

Theo's smiled broadened, but Casanova, with a worried glance at Theo, frowned. “Someone? It wasn't Betts?”

The soldier shook his head. “Betts denies it. Says he left the fire for a minute and anyone might have done it.” As he finished his words, they saw Major Merret emerging once more from his tent. He called them to attention, and with a clattering of spoons and bowls, and the thud of packs hitting the ground, the men hurried into rows. Within seconds, they stood before
the major for a lesson in discipline, as they had three days earlier—with one difference. Now there was a current of laughter moving through them. It was not a joyous laughter, but a triumphant one: less delight than vindictive glee. It bubbled up at the sight of the major, red-faced, pacing back and forth in front of them, barely able to contain himself. Every man was imagining the moment when the major had taken a bite and chewed, then stopped, wondering at the strange texture, and then suddenly understood, with a jolt, that he had been made to eat dirt. The thought was contagious, irresistible.

“I want all of you to know,” the major began, without preamble, “exactly what will happen to this company if no one takes responsibility for this.” Betts, confused and shocked, stood at the flap of the tent. The major paused, creating one of the long silences that worked so effectively to cultivate fear during his discipline lessons.

Unfortunately for the major, his ponderous silence was cut short. Only a few seconds after issuing his threat so that it hung over the company like a cloud, a voice called out from the second row. “I take responsibility.”

The major jerked his head to see who had spoken.

“I take responsibility,” repeated the voice.

“State your name and step forward,” the major barked.

Theo stepped out from the second row and walked to stand before the company. “Theodore Constantine Thackary,” he said, refusing to add his title. Somehow, Theo managed to make his stance at attention look careless. He stared straight
ahead, as if the major did not exist, and the ghost of a smile lingered on his face.

The major glared at him.

“Private MacWilliams,” he said, turning toward the enormous man who had been the subject of the disciplinary lesson on August fourth.

“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied, stepping forward.

“Bring the spare harness from the back of the wagon.”

MacWilliams hesitated. “The harness for the mules?”

“Yes.”

Theo stood calmly, waiting for MacWilliams to return. The major was silent. The air of suspense began to thicken. MacWilliams walked as hurriedly as his girth would allow, returning with the heavy wooden yoke used to harness the mule when one animal rather than two hauled the wagon.

“Place the harness on Private Thackary,” the major said coolly.

Once again, MacWilliams hesitated. “How do you mean, sir?”

“Place the yoke on his neck.”

Theo turned, unbidden, to MacWilliams. “I won't kick like a mule, I promise,” he said, smiling.

There was a flutter of uneasy laughter from the company.

“Be silent,” the major said. “MacWilliams,” he said sternly.

MacWilliams, prodded into action, walked up to Theo and gingerly placed the heavy wooden yoke on his neck. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

Theo turned his head as much as he was able. “S'alright. Least I'm not pulling your weight around with this thing.”

MacWilliams looked at the boy with surprise and gave a faint smile. Then, his work complete, he stood back. Theo could not raise his head to face the company. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before the weight of the yoke became unbearable. In the silence that Merret allowed to grow, interrupted only by the footfalls as he paced back and forth, Theo imagined how he must look to the men before him: bowed, penitent, shamed. They could not see his face, so they could not know that he wasn't ashamed in the least. He was glad—glad to have paid Merret back in kind and glad to have drawn out of him this retribution that made the man look petty and vindictive.

Theo waited, looking down out of the corner of his eye, until the major had turned away from him. Then Theo shuffled his feet—with a hop back and a little kick: a pair of breezy dance steps. There was a familiar, low chuckle from somewhere in the company. Casanova was probably furious, but he could still be counted on to know what Theo was thinking. Around Casanova, there was more stifled laughter. The major came to a halt and turned. Theo felt content; his purpose had been accomplished. He had wanted to show the company that Merret could be made light of, and now they had seen it.

“Enough,” the major said, his voice thunderous. Somehow, though, it sounded less imposing than usual: more like an imitation of fury than fury itself. “We march west. As of this
morning, we are in enemy territory and will be prepared for attack at all times. You will wear the issued headgear. And Thackary,” he added, turning to Theo, “will travel with the mules.”

—10-Hour 40—

CASANOVA WATCH
ED AS
Theo was chained to the wagon. The rest of the company drifted away to break camp. Major Merret was already heading toward his tent, and Casanova, after a thoughtful pause, strode after him. He had never before been inside. When given permission to enter, he was surprised by how comfortable it was. Topping the cot was what looked like a real mattress and bedding, and a fine tufted carpet covered the coarse tent flooring. The major sat at his small writing desk, penning the last correspondence he would send before the company moved into the Indian Territories.

“What is it, Private Lakeside?” he asked, without looking up.

“I have come to make a request, Major,” Casanova said. He knew the major responded best to humility, if not outright self-abasement, and he trained his eyes on the floor and clasped his hands behind his back.

The major finally looked up at him. “Members of this company are not in the habit of requesting favors from their superiors.”

“I realize that, sir.”

The major paused. “Well, what is it?”

“I wish to speak with you about Theodore—Private Thackary.” Casanova paused, but the major said nothing. “He is just a child, sir,” Casanova continued. “He is only sixteen. He may be headstrong and impudent, but he does not have the physical strength that others do.” He paused. “I understand the punishment you ordered must be borne. But I would ask that you allow me to bear it in his stead.”

The major was silent. Casanova glanced up and saw Merret looking at him with a mixture of displeasure and curiosity. Finally he turned to his desk, folded and sealed his correspondence, and stood up. He walked past Casanova to the flap of his tent and leaned out. “Post this before we leave,” he said, handing it to the guard outside. Then he walked back and faced Casanova. He crossed his arms and studied the large man with the disfiguring scars. Then he smiled, and his words were light and sharp, like little shards of glass. “You're both Indians, aren't you?”

Casanova kept his eyes carefully on the ground. “Yes. I'm Indian. From near Six Nations City. Theo is from the southwestern Baldlands.”

Merret sighed. “Assorted as a peddler's wares,” he said with faint disgust, more to himself than to Casanova. Then his tone grew sharp once more. “Word around the company has it, Private Lakeside, that you are a great coward. Is this true?”

Casanova looked down at the major's polished boots. “Yes, sir. It is.”

“So I can expect that in our first battle you will take cover in
the nearest tree, cowering and fearing for your life.”

Casanova stared at the ground. “In my experience, sir,” he said quietly, “there are no battles. Only massacres.” He paused. “And whom would you call a hero in a massacre? Violence is not easily directed or contained, and it makes cowards of all men.”

“Are you suggesting I am unable to command my company?”

“Even the most brilliant commander cannot keep a guiding hand over the actions of others. Violence is its own thing. It defies control of even the Fates.” Casanova took a deep breath. He realized he had lost his humble tone all too quickly. The major was an expert at provocation. “Will you consider my request regarding Private Thackary, sir?”

Major Merret looked at Casanova with repugnance, as if discovering a rat in the bedding of his cot. “No, Private Lakeside, you may not carry the harness for Thackary. But if you are so eager to shoulder an extra burden, you may carry Thackary's pack along with yours as we march west.” He turned away. “You are
dismissed.”