TRAINING

The Army – well, the first thing he did was to rearrange his birth year by two years, to claim the age of 21. He wasn't tall, and had a young look, but they needed recruits. They needed to build up the Army down in the chain of forts in Texas. He looked forward to being outfitted in the new uniform and equipped with the new Springfield rifle. Uniform and weapons came in due course, but not before he had to master the requirements of discipline and drill, which were perfunctory, to say the least.

In this place he was sorely troubled. So close to the delights and distractions of New York, he was confined to the cramped and dreary Governor's Island, a short ferry ride from Brooklyn. The tiny stretch of water was highly symbolic.

Setting foot on the Island, he felt that he might as well have stepped onto the moon, so alien did he feel. He was leaving behind his mother, his friends, his independence on the canal and the promises of New York City. Here was no Frances to stroke his head, to  arrange wildflowers and sing sweet, ancient songs. Here was no enigmatic Alphonse, clever cousin Titus or even an honest old van der Zwyl.

Just as the Israelites of old could not bear the trials of life in the desert with Moses, but yearned for the “fleshpots of Egypt”, Ira was suddenly aware of the enormous disparity of the two entities in such close proximity, New York City and Governor's Island. But he had signed in his own hand.

Some of his colleagues, however,  took the “Egyptian option” before long, possibly looking for nothing more than a square meal, as they were constantly hungry. They simply disappeared into the great city, either by ferry, or swimming across.  His companions too were a motley crew indeed. Few seemed to have joined for any patriotic purpose, and most were there for a job. There were many sons of migrants, largely Irish. Some others seemed reasonably well-off while others obviously had few choices, including some newly-arrived Germans with previous military experience but little English.

Ira felt equipped for the Army life, as he was comfortable with outdoor living, camping and hunting. He got to do none of this, but spent a great deal of time being broken in to the discipline of the parade ground. While the Springfield was the new weapon of choice for the regulars, they were not wasted on recruits, who were tortured with the exacting tasks of maintaining and servicing the old muskets, without the pleasure of discharging them. Sentry duty, in the unlikely event of an un-named attacker emerging from the waters of the harbour, was another pointless discipline which was both irksome and sleep-depriving.

Ira had not thought his life particularly easy, but was still not prepared for life in the ranks. Training seemed to be designed to establish the new recruits' position firmly at the bottom of the Army pecking order. One particularly unpleasant task was combing the shore of the island for the flotsam and jetsam of the great city which found a resting place there. Wood, lumber, packing cases, fruit, dead birds, fish, animals, and occasionally, humans, washed up on that sad little sandy spit, and it was an unpleasant and menial duty to be pressed into this task. Ira had already done a stint, and, as in everything he did, did it to the best of his ability.    

Even worse, he suffered a great indignity at the outset.

At an early kit inspection, his Sergeant, a mean fellow, but neither more nor less than Ira expected, took offence at the Madonna.

 

 “What's this?” he shrieked theatrically. “A strange object which is not Army issue, is it?”

A wan chuckle from a couple of lads.

 Warming to the task “Perhaps it is a holy statue is that it?”

 Ira groaned inwardly as he sensed what was coming.

 “Did yez bring it out from the old country?” in a passable Irish accent. A little more response from the boys. Encouraged, he continued mockingly

 

 “Bless me father, and me mammy and pappy and also me sixteen little brodders n sistors. I huv here t'holy mither who will work t'miracles for us, loike getting pappy out of the grog shop.”

 

A couple of loud guffaws here, but sudden silence from the majority.

 

“My name is Ira sir, but I am not Irish.”

 

Dead silence all round, and Sergeant Sykes' face went from ruddy to choleric and his eyes bulged. He snatched the Madonna up.

 

“You! –  report to me in ten minutes. I know the place for this piece of rubbish. All of you. Get to work and clean up this pig-sty. I'll inspect again before mess.” Ira was devastated.

 

 In a few minutes he presented himself in Sykes' small office. It was an unequal battle, thought Ira to himself as he faced up to the still irate Sergeant.  Although he was still dismayed and hurt by the loss of Madonna, he managed to remain detached during the petty storm of abuse delivered. While he dimly understood that he was a jumped-up foreigner of some sort, a wastrel for spending time on carving, had a ridiculous notion of himself and insolent to boot, he was more fascinated by the ugly volcanic map which was all too close, namely, Sergeant Sykes' florid and over-stressed face. Too many veins started off in a lively fashion only to die a short distance away. The creases of his face extended into his nose which wrinkled alarmingly, but Ira could not say exactly which breed of dog it resembled. Little flecks of foam gradually built up on Sykes lower lip, only to shoot off alarmingly when fired by the right plosive. Hypnotized by one of these, Ira flinched spontaneously as the offending missile shot forth. Sykes noticed, and could hardly speak at all.

 

 “Good heavens” thought Ira, “what would he be like in war-time”.

Oddly enough, these were almost the same words which Sykes now hissed at him.

For his insolence and bad behavior Ira was posted to extra guard duty, which was indeed an onerous punishment. Guard duty, however, was a reflective kind of task for those who are suitably equipped, and Ira began to reflect. He had not talked about his life much, except in answer to specific questions, nor had he shown his handiwork to any but the admitting officers and anyone who might have seen him unpacking and organizing his few possessions.

It seemed that, on a small amount of evidence, he had been cast as, at best, an exotic with refined tastes, and at worst, a shiftless loafer with perverted inclinations. Ira was pretty sure he was neither, but was dismayed that on such flimsy foundations others had built an opinion of him. He resolved not to forget this, but thought less of the human race for a couple of days.

He had been at a low ebb, and missing the presence of his talisman, began to realise the power of the symbol. Madonna had been a constant comfort and reminder of his old life, of his parents, Kate, the canal, the river, Alphonse, Titus and Sam. It had spoken for him when he needed it, and had declared him a man with a soul. He spent more time in a state of reflection down by the shore, where he looked with unseeing eyes at the city across the water.

Lights were bright and cosy, and ferries chugged past, warm and practical. He could see people on deck, couples and family groups, animated and gay, and he longed to be among them.

He thought of the Madonna and what she meant to him. Was it right, he wondered, to be so dependent on an inanimate object? Was his rejoinder to Sykes unwise? Possibly, he answered himself, but dignity demanded no less.

Ira didn't know it, but he wasn't at the bottom of the pecking order, for the other fellows liked him, and he was prepared to speak up. Such boys can be enticing prey, and the task of shore-cleaning fell all too often to those who were passive. Ira felt sorry for them and felt that they were in that position because the Sykeses of this world need them. He encouraged them to speak up, and they were grateful. And so it was only with mild surprise, but a great deal of pleasure that he received an approach from  a timid but likeable young man a couple of days later. With a quick, knowing smile and a furtive gesture, he both greeted Ira and proffered something in a towel –  Madonna! “We think it's grand” he said in an accent Ira couldn't place.

Slightly worse for wear, and also water-affected, she had been rescued from the rubbish-shore by the lowly cleaning squad. Ira received his precious parcel with mild embarrassment, but great joy. The boy's demeanor was noticeably deferential and Ira  felt considerably mollified to think that someone could regard him with something like the respect which he had held for Alphonse.            

He wondered now how long Madonna might survive, and how he was to look after her in this strange, new life.

It was obvious, however, that something about Ira seemed to nettle Sykes. He found fault at every opportunity, but Ira by now treated this as a game. “Like water off a duck's back” he chanted inwardly to himself as Sykes sought to intimidate or ridicule. He accepted spiteful punishments with equanimity, telling himself this would not last forever. But there was no way in which he could bring himself to join in with Sykes' mean-minded bullying or grant him the satisfaction of reaction. This put him out of the friendship range of those who toadied to Sykes, but induced a great deal of respect from the others, grateful that they themselves were not a target.  

When some of the others offered him a night out, he gladly accepted. He felt he had been glum and not much fun, and that he should pull himself together.

His companions were the usual motley crew, and he realised that they regarded him as a serious fellow, perhaps a sobersides. That can't be helped thought Ira to himself, hoping at the same time that he wasn't a killjoy. That was partly the reason he accepted a large glass of something that made him splutter, but at least left him with a glow. He tried to digest this feeling, and reflected that he had always had his ale on the canal journeys, with no ill effect, and had begun to take wine with cousin Titus in the City. These he enjoyed in what he hoped was a manly, moderate way.

Pressed to take another glass, Ira refused, feeling that he needed to fully digest the first one. Miraculously, this started to happen almost at once. The hot sensation which he had experienced before turned to a smooth, comforting glow, and he realised that he had, indeed, quite a capacity for this liquor, whatever it might be.

It was evident that he was good at this for his companions were so friendly and encouraging that he felt it would only be bad form to refuse the next one.

This one gave him another surge, and he felt the energy rising up from his vitals to inform his face with a handsome glow. It was natural, he thought, to be rather the centre of attention, as he seemed to be. What a great bunch of men they were. How good it felt to be in their company. These were the men he would entrust with his life out in the West. What Indian could hope to shake their mighty brotherhood. How they sang, how they joked. Their voices were those of heroes and their wit was killing. Never had men been so droll.

Was that a third glass he had just swallowed? How easy – one hardly noticed it going down. And how this stuff oiled the intellect. How they drank in his stories of life on the Canal, and how they roared when he did his imitation of a preacher. When he tried to tell one of Sylvanus' stories about the Irish Intellectual, he was surprised to find himself suddenly removed from the circle by a wonderful man who thrust his face hard up against Ira's. “...not a good oidea bhoy.” What on Earth could he mean? How earnest he seemed to be with his very large face, and his eyes all out of focus. It was so droll that Ira roared laughing, then, hearing a song start up, jumped to join the throng, and sing louder than anyone. Someone played a piano, someone played a fiddle, and Ira chattered, drank and sang with abandon.

Floating on a cloud of merriment, Ira wished the night would never end, but some of his companions were not as good as he with the drink, for their faces began to look ugly and twisted. The songs turned into arguments, and before long there was pushing and shoving, accusations and insults. This, thought Ira, would never do, and he decided to take decisive action, using his powers of leadership.

He stepped on to a stool, and thence to a table, without disturbing a glass or flagon. He felt neat, in full possession of all faculties, mental and physical, and in complete command of the situation. He, Ira Coan, was a powerful drinker, about to assert authority over a drunken rabble – energy needing direction. He raised a hand high, forgetting that it was loaded, and a small shower of alcohol flew across the crowd. He looked down at the faces. Strangely, just a moment before, they were a faceless mob, but wasn't that Edward there. He looks very serious. And right behind him is Arthur, and he looks serious too. In fact everyone is looking at me. And I was going to say something wasn't I?

What was it? He looked up, and saw the flickering lamp, a couple of moths orbiting crazily. How funny they looked. Ira pointed to them, so self-important in their tiny way. That puts it all in context he meant to say. But no-one seemed to get the point, and when he looked back, they all swayed – together. How peculiar.

Feeling that he might lose their attention, for indeed they had been drinking and were not a group of men with great powers of concentration,  he took a deep breath, frowned to focus his mind, fixed them with a commanding gaze, and was greatly surprised to see their faces all rushing up at him.

He knew nothing else until the next day.

And on the next day, he felt both wretched and foolish. What a fine line there was between the life of the party and the object of hilarity. Any pretence of dignity had been drowned in a flood of alcohol. His parents would not recognise him nor would he want anyone to recognise him, confined, as he was, to restraint – a prisoner. Unable to answer roll call at sunrise he had been censured for drunkenness, to his mortification and shame.

Upon his release into the mainstream of recruit life again, Ira felt a small shift in the balance of attitudes toward him. If he had known what schadenfreude was, he could easily have attributed it to several who greeted him with expressions ranging from smirk to leer. On the other hand, many seemed to be sincerely sorry for an errant knight, and yet others seemed to positively welcome him to a club which shall remain nameless.

On balance, he began to feel he had not done too badly.

As the end of their training term approached, there was much speculation about their destination. As the 8th Regiment of New York Infantry, they expected to take over duties of companies already on service in the far West, namely, Forts Bliss, Quitman and Davis, servicing the States of Texas, Arizona and New Mexico. These were exotic locations peopled by exotic characters. There would be the Indians themselves, proud and warlike. There would be the men of the U.S. Army, professional Troopers and Cavalrymen, working with gimlet-eyed resolution  to police the great wilderness. There would be mountain men, old hunters and trappers who knew the backwoods better than their own children. There would be the eager miners making their way to the rich fields of California, and the worthy farmers looking for new land to bring under pasturage. The Mexican Peon too, would be grateful to the U.S. for bringing its new and civilised ways for them to share. Some grisly stories of massacres and mutinies were a little disturbing, but for the young cohort, most eyes were turned westward with keen anticipation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TRAVELLING SOUTH

It was an eager group who marched out in the early Spring of '66, and a smart-looking outfit too, Ira thought. Surely, they at least looked like soldiers and he, for one, could shoot well.  He had enjoyed weapons training and had applied himself to be a good shot. The weapon was still the old 69 calibre smooth bore musket, but they had been promised the new 58 rifled bore musket, which would greatly improve range and accuracy.

The general population, however, did not all seem to share his good opinion, for they were frequently chiacked by derisive youths who appeared to have little else to do. Forbidden to reply, they zipped the lip and looked business-like.

The first part of the journey was by steamer, and Ira was curious about, and interested in, this form of transport. He was keen to travel southwards at last, away, he hoped, from ice and snow and endless  days of fog, rain and mist. As their craft drew away from the harbour, New York itself took on a new focus. From a great, sprawling metropolis, it shrank to a block bristling with towers, spires and warehouses, lifts, pulleys and derricks. Burnt offerings to the great gods of industry ascended in parallel plumes to the icy gey sky. Further away still, the city became a grimy smudge and the Atlantic winds threatened to tear their heads off. They wrapped against the cold, they huddled in the hold, they talked and sang and played cards and were also thoroughly sick. Their life lost its routine and they were cast into a limbo of blue white and grey. The accursed vessel pitched and rolled, the suffering men crawled between the decks and the heads, ejecting violently from both ends. Like most of his companions, he soon found himself thinking longingly of green woods, of sun-scorched earth, red and brown, of the animals who inhabited that natural element, never entrusting themselves to the foreign kingdom of the fishes and the crabs.  

His new companions didn't behave very well on the voyage, and deprived of the stern guardianship of their training sergeants, the company dissolved into a rabble, fractious and uncontrollable, with little serious effort made by their young commanding officer to discipline them. Fights were as frequent as they were pointless.

He found himself thinking of Frances' mother, Grandmother Mary, and the cosy comfort of his home state. As the youngest, he had first had to contend with his siblings for attention, and as they grew up and drifted away, he enjoyed more attention but was never more happy than on those occasions when he stayed with Mary and Griff Williams on their neat little farm. Like his father, they were religious, but in a quiet, undemonstrative way. Church with them was pleasantly routine and they were so accepting and undemanding that folks immediately relaxed with them. Ira remembered Mary's constant singing, always sounding young and girlish, while Griff tended their dairy farm, keeping everything in apple-pie order.

Unlike many other relatives, Mary never advanced to kiss or embrace him, but waited for the child to make the advance. She could converse with everyone from two to a hundred with perfect sincerity and considerable knowledge. Like Frances, she carried in her head the ancient bloodlines and tangled relationships of thousands. With her knowledge and memory, she was also one of the first people to consult in case of illness. She had a fine reputation as an entertaining conversationalist, whereas, in reality, she was the perfect listener. Many a guest departed   many confidences lighter than they had arrived, with no awareness of the fact at all.

Girls visiting Mary and Griff were just as likely to milk a cow as to make a cake, while boys could find themselves learning to crochet rather than chopping wood.    

Mary and Griff loved to entertain, and the house was happy and full. Children seemed to appear there out of nowhere, and Mary organised games, in the Summer evenings, which were considered magical by all, including newcomers to the County delighted at being so readily included.

Ira thought he would like to have a family too, and he thought if he could do as well as Mary and Griff he would be mightily pleased.

But for now, the steamer ploughed its clumsy way through the breakers, with no respite from the buffeting and swaying, no moment to relax and smoke, chugging every minute further and further away from that little dairy farm, the canal and Parish.

Ira shared his rough bunk with an Irishman, whom he knew quite well, but could hardly be bothered holding a conversation with. Pat was infuriatingly cheerful, and garrulous, with no sense of occasion at all, at all. His Irishness was so pronounced it was almost comical, and some folk read it as self-parody.

The illness of a couple of men grew worse and fear spread that the dreaded typhoid had struck. The afflicted were given as much room as possible, but over several days, their condition deteriorated. They died, and were buried at sea, requiring attendance by all. The religious service was short, severe but practical, and marked by the bitter, quiet grief of a broad-faced, fair-haired young woman. She was the widow of one of the men, and was there to accompany him to Texas as a washerwoman.

As though appeased by the sacrifice of two young men, the gods of the sea relented, the vessel now gliding smoothly through glassy seas. A following breeze stiffened the sails, and there was little wind to disturb the welcome sunshine that bathed the company in its welcome rays.

Ira would have liked to comfort the sorrowing young woman, whose name was Wilhelmina. He would have liked to be like Asahel, his half-brother, who seemed to radiate benevolence. Most of the travellers gave her a curt greeting, a cursory mumble of condolence, but were too awkward to engage in any meaningful talk. Ira saw no sign that religion was any kind of consolation either, but decided to talk, about anything. It was easier said than done, for she had little English. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the distraction, and soon Ira felt pleasure in helping her with the language. Soon he had help from his companions, and when conversation became too exhausting, they drew out some playing cards, and began to teach each other their favorite games. She and her late husband were Prussians setting out together for Texas, and had not been married long. He had never been sick before and was the last person she would have expected to be so quickly stricken. As the days passed, she became more confident with the language, but Ira became somewhat concerned at her dependence on him, and did his best to make sure she met as many people as possible.

Before reaching New Orleans, a brief squall sent them scurrying once more for cover, but mercifully, the alarm was short-lived and they entered the harbor desperate for land, a mere two weeks which had seemed like two months, after their departure. They still had to complete the final dash to Corpus Christi, but for the moment the respite on land was merciful.

They had lost two men to disease and one sailor had been lost – all with no enemy in sight. New Orleans was an eye-opener, with its lively racial mix, sub-tropical climate, its trade and its entertainment. Everywhere he went, the eye or the ear was seduced. Having heard of the reputation of the town, Ira was prepared to resist the vulgar appeals of the senses. What he saw surprised him, for there was much of taste and beauty to be enjoyed, and the town was not rigidly stratified like the sections of a New England city, but passed easily from business to pleasure to Church, and in that lifestyle lay its seductive power. Again, people were just different! Once or twice he could have sworn he saw Alphonse, and the music of the Erie came back to him strong and sweet. Here it poured forth from hotels, bars and homes. Much of the music was of a serious nature indeed, and was played with great affection and style. It was with regret that they said goodbye to New Orleans and three of their number who never returned to the ship. This was always a danger, it seemed, in visiting that city.

No-one seemed enamoured of the steamer on that last leg, but all were only anxious to finish the journey which wound up at Corpus Christi. The delights of the old city were not theirs long to explore, because they were soon westward bound, by foot, for over a thousand miles.

TEXAS

Summer had not yet set in, but the march was oppressive and hot. Not all coped well. But by sheer attrition the group became inured to the discipline of the march. More became ill and were left behind, and a few more reconsidered the wisdom of committing to this way way of life. Ira thought, chatted , sang and marched, marched, marched across the great distance to San Antonio. This city was charming after the dreary and torrid flatlands they had been traversing, and he enjoyed their stopover there. For more weeks again, his life paralleled the course of the Rio Grande, and he became increasingly more grateful for the presence of water in this climate. The relentlessness of the march claimed more spirit and some more bodies. It was a gloomy duty to bury a companion struck down by infection or illness, hoping against hope that the contagion had been buried with him. Each campfire, however, brought them twenty miles closer to journey's end and their new life. So much tedium, boredom and suffering, and they hadn't even begun the task for which they had joined.  

Now the land began to rise, and a steady uphill march became the norm. In the distance were hills and mountains, a grand change from the flat and sticky terrain they had grown so accustomed to. As if in response to the cooler air, the trees themselves stood taller and straighter, while deer and wildfowl were more active and sprightly. Hunting became more worthwhile, and the camp-fire more enjoyable as they went. The group already seemed more healthy, and there was little temptation for deserters to risk this empty wilderness.

Many weeks out from Corpus Christi the group arrived at Fort Davis, grateful for the opportunity to rest up. It was hard to believe the trail of bodies they had left behind them. Their memories were already fading, Ira was shocked to realise. How many of the dead would be mourned in due course by parents, spouses, siblings? How many of them would be just a figure on a company roll, erased within the month. Nothing achieved, nothing gained, all in the quest to civilize the West.

The column halted several miles short of Fort Davis. “There it is lads – home.” Truth to tell, it was a splendid sight. A collection of tents and a few huts nestled in the valley between towering bluffs, and they knew instinctively that it was given to few to experience, for better or worse, this kind of wilderness, so recently home to only the eagle, the panther and the red man. But this magnificent setting was not to be his home – yet. It was with some regret that they moved on after a couple of days respite, leaving two companies in Fort Davis. Onwards, into the far western corner of Texas, they marched, finally arriving at Fort Bliss.

It was a relief to adopt the routine of military life, with parade ground drills and weapons practice. And it was a relief to be able to rest in one place for the moment and to be sure of a reasonable supply of victuals. But there were some surprises right from the outset.

Coming off parade ground duty, Ira was astonished to see two Indian braves sauntering across the parade ground with not a care in the world. “Jesus Maria!” exclaimed a German to his left. “We are invaded. Call z'army.”

Were these the enemy he was here to suppress? He soon learned that this was a regular occurrence. In fact, the Indians were neither the feared Comanche or Apache, but the Tigeuroa who hated those tribes. On the basis that “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, they volunteered to work with the Army to track and hunt their foe, and were hence often to be seen at the base.

The base was well laid out, and had a more imposing and permanent air than he had been led to expect. The next little improvement was the issue of the updated 58 rifle musket to his company. It was a far superior weapon, and Ira enjoyed getting to know it. Vastly more accurate and with a superior range, it was a formidable weapon, and would buy time against an enemy by increasing the range at which he could be engaged.

He was disappointed to find his accuracy was down in the first round of target practice. Normally he would score well, and it was quite a puzzle until he realised that his neighbour had scored unusually well for an indifferent shot. He realised,with some relief and a certain chagrin, that he had switched to the wrong target during the session. He decided not to explain his error, as it might bring forth a volley of low-class witticism directed at soldiers who shoot at the wrong target, and the attendant dangers of serving with such a companion. No, he would just bear the current puzzlement and let them treat it as an aberration.

The barracks were reasonably comfortable and were equipped with a good quality band, which reduced the tedium of marching on many occasions, but more than this, it provided entertainment for the citizens of El Paso in a weekly concert. It was pleasant to hear them practising playing not only marches, but selections from operas, symphonic works, popular airs such as those by Foster, waltzes, scottisches and quadrilles. The townspeople all turned out, as well as many visitors. Into the bargain, visitors were drawn from miles around, providing a welcome ebb and flow of different characters with their own lives and stories.

Through El Paso also passed the Butterfield Mail express on its way to distant San Francisco. Miners too, from time to time still passed through, and although the original rush had long subsided, there were outbreaks of gold fever flaring up spasmodically, and like other fevers, it was highly infectious.

The life was hard and they were kept busy. Every man with a skill was co-opted into communal service. Ira's skills as a cooper were not to go long unappreciated, though he was determined not to be a civilian tradesman transplanted to Texas. He trained colleagues in the basic preparation of timbers, and found a couple who could be relied on to turn out good basic barrels and containers.

With his skill in woodwork, he was a natural to finish off joinery in many constructions which otherwise would have been quite rudimentary. Others passed on skills in construction, plastering, drainage and the like, not to mention sewing, darning and weaving skills. Doctoring animals was also everyone's business, and all in all, their's was an impressive outfit of self-reliant soldiers, equipped with a wide variety of skills. They tended to sleep well at night, and one would have thought there would be little energy left. This was not the case however, and visits to neighbouring towns were popular. Much entertainment was provided by the men themselves, and the amateur theatricals were much appreciated. Again, the skills within the group were of a high order.

This was not such a bad life, and Ira began to think he could cope with it for quite some time.

Wilhelmina meanwhile, was extremely busy, working at this relatively large post. Ira felt deeply for the stricken girl, and would have liked to console her. He had enjoyed their shipboard and prairie conversations, and had felt some sort of kinship with her. Nevertheless, out here, he was a young man with a gun, not marriage material, and he had no intention of being compromised. Did he flatter himself in thinking that, in her desperate plight, she might set her cap at him, forcing him into a decision?

It was not long before Wilhelmina sought him out, and he felt somewhat apprehensive. Her approach seemed bold and determined. Ira tried to match her mood, but was surprised when she embraced powerfully and kissed him declaring “Oh, luffly boy-I em so heppy. I marryink mit luffly Edgar.”

This was a complete surprise to Ira, who had not noticed anything resembling a courtship. Edgar was the delicate lad who had rescued Madonna from the littoral at the Island, and seemed to be the last candidate for bridegroom imaginable in the company, and he wondered how this relationship could have developed. After all, he had become a friend, felt some responsibility towards her and also fancied that he could read her quite well. He was mortified to think that she could engineer so dramatic a move without giving any inkling. Now he could not believe that she was unaware, as she appeared to be, of his discomfiture, even displeasure. Again, thought Ira, the ways of women are indeed passing strange.

“It's not so simple Willie, you can't just up and marry.”

“Uff course, Ira liebchen. Der captain Pitcher hess giffen permessione.”

Ira suddenly realised that Wilhelmina had others looking after her and was greatly relieved. An officially sanctioned marriage was highly desirable, as Edgar would now move to married quarters. Wilhelmina would have some official protection from marauding males in her new status and a good washerwoman would be retained, helping to sustain morale. Should a baby arrive sooner rather than later, it would at least have a father. Captain Pitcher was perhaps being kind – there was no way to know – but he was certainly being pragmatic.

The wedding itself was a low-key but pleasant affair, chaplain presiding, and a company gift to the couple of a fine heavy quilt newly-arrived from back East.

As the ceremony progressed, Ira felt his mind loosened, as it usually did on these formal occasions, and he wondered if he would ever be in this position. He thought he would like very much to be. But who would he partner on that great occasion? He had been much taken with the flashing eyes and rosy smiles of the Senoritas in the plazas of San Antonio and El Paso. Dressed in beautiful silks and bright colours they did not hold back. It was not as if they were simply attention-seeking, for among them were delicate and shy girls, every bit as modest as the girls back home, but their love of colour and form was so strong that it became a positive life-force which was powerfully attractive, and many Northerners had indeed married these girls.

The weather was still bitterly cold, with flurries of late snow sweeping the plains from time to time. There was a great deal of maintenance to perform, and trade help from the town was not always, in fact, hardly ever, available, so that any man with a specific skill was gratefully co-opted into army service. Those who had any skill at carpentry, joinery, smithing and the like soon found themselves with lists of tasks to perform, improving the comforts and amenities of the fort and raising their own status into the bargain. Some of these were offered  jobs by commercial enterprises in the towns should they retire from service and some ex-soldiers were already in these positions and doing well.

He was soon in service on the El Paso – San Antonio Road, escorting mail wagons, goods wagons, miners, settlers and travellers taking the Southern route to California, New Mexico or Arizona. It was longer than the path directly through the mountains, but was marginally easier. The duty was one which required constant vigilance, but was nevertheless, a routine task. It was not unpleasant, for it was out of doors and he was performing the task he had expected. Indians were the main object of concern, but were unlikely to attack a well-armed escort. Meanwhile, the travellers brought news from back East and provided entertainment in themselves. The Army had long since discovered that foot soldiers were of little use in conflict with the mounted Indians, for whom horses were not only a prized possession, but were a way of life. Wealth and prestige were measured in horses, which had become currency. Prestige would accrue to the brave who could steal horses, and horses captured in battle or from under the nose of the enemy, conferred even greater prestige.

It was well known that the Indian did not possess horses before the arrival of Europeans in the form of the Spanish. In only a very short time the Indians had become expert horsemen, and that animal had changed the very structure of Indian society, creating vast areas of marauding territory for warlike tribes who were able to harass hitherto unreachable neighbours. The ancient balances of tribal power were altered, and at this time, tribes were still in intense conflict with each other, making them vulnerable to the white intruder.

These were facts that Ira was vaguely aware of as he and his colleagues walked their horses in columns, making their way through the arid plain. In the hinterland were other soldiers, making their way across the wilderness in small groups, looking for signs of Indian movement and activity. These scouts were the antennae of the Army in these parts, and these patrols were the most dangerous part of Army life. For the moment, Ira was content to ride escort and to chat to the more interesting characters on the trail.

Spring was exhilarating, with fresh water from snow-melt swelling the Rio Grande till the fishing was good and the countryside burgeoned with fresh green shoots, bringing in deer and smaller game. Their mood was buoyant as the sun shone and new travellers passed through. The Mexicans prepared for Easter and altogether the atmosphere was festive. It was at this point that Ira was informed that he was to go on patrol.

 

ON PATROL

He was pleased to be going on patrol, for certain, but he could have wished the timing to be more propitious, for he had been looking forward to female company and to the Ball which he knew was being organised.

In fact, he had been practising his dancing with some of his friends. They had lost all pretence of shyness, having shared beds, bunks and blankets in trains, tents and steamers.

They sang to provide themselves with musical accompaniment, and, where duties allowed, practised to the rehearsals of the band – all wasted!

Instead of the more sophisticated ladies of the frontier, faces beautifully made up and wearing elegant feathers, he was more likely to have an appointment with the less sophisticated original inhabitants, faces also made up, and also wearing feathers in their hair. But the thought did not fill him with amorous desires.

He had seen the men coming in from patrol, and these were the ones who had really earned their stripes, if they had any. Bearded and dusty, they brought with them the spirit of the country, vast and ancient. Like ancient hermits, they kept their own counsel, and took a few days to re-socialise.    

Knowing that Ira was set for his first patrol, friends had fun at his expense. There were many jokes about haircuts and Indian customs. Although things were generally quiet, there was never any knowing just what might blow up. The Indians had been sold out time and time again, being corralled from state to state, to ever diminishing hunting lands and finally, reservations. At any moment, a party of braves might feel compelled to avenge insults or atrocities visited on them by lawless groups of white men, themselves beyond the reach of civilisation or law.

The first day's ride took them into New Mexico, and they routinely questioned travellers about Indian movements – numbers, disposition, mood and the like. Most of the Indians had long since realised the futility of resistance, but their code of honour gave them no way out. So, reflected Ira, the lifting of his scalp would not be a personal insult, but merely a social requirement of this warrior race. The thought did not comfort him.

The information gleaned on that day was scant, but about what was expected. Buffalo hunting, war raiding and horse stealing were more rewarding a little further East, away from mountain country. At little risk of alarming any neighbouring red men, they camped and cooked in comfort. The sun plunged behind the mountains, and the temperature, likewise, plunged. The fire and their blankets were effective, and they slept well, changing watch although hardly necessary. Ira had found it hard to settle down to sleep and volunteered for the first watch. Out in the chapparal Ira was privy to a show of his own. In the inky blackness, little stirred. The fire was allowed to dwindle to a dim ruddy glow whose light failed before reaching the sleeping forms of his companions. The faintest hint of blue was fast fading over the mountains and the eye was drawn upwards to the diamond-encrusted heavens. In this clear, thin atmosphere the stars fairly blazed and it would be a dull soul who could contemplate them without awe.

Ira had turned twenty and as he perched, a lonely king of the wilderness, silent guardian of his sleeping companions, his mind wandered far from the desert. Across the magnificent starry vista floated a constellation of faces and forms. They were all the girls he had ever known and admired and the young women who had enchanted him from afar. In his half-dream he heard the sweet girlish piping of his former class mates, girls turned out neat as a pin, delicate faces shining in their earnest hymn singing. There was Kate, again and again, unfathomable green eyes, the ridiculous red hair and the challenging brogue, always lilting. The saucy senoritas who swayed so beguilingly, who looked away modestly but left left you with a glance full of – what? Just what was it? Ira never quite knew, except that it was electrifying.

What was he looking for in these girls if not the warmth, grace, humanity which would fill a void and make him complete? He liked his friends. He liked his life, but only as a boy's life. He wanted a man's life, and he wanted to meet the woman who would share it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and was surprised to hear a familiar, soft voice. It was Kate. He opened his eyes, and there she was, standing on a glorious golden sandy shore. Behind her the hills glowed emerald. She smiled her most beautiful smile.

He spoke to her “Kate, I have missed you so. I hope you are warm Kate. I hope your cough is gone and that you are happy. Are you with people you love. Do they look after you?” He reached out his arms to enfold her. She reached out for him, placing her palms on top of his shoulders.

“Ira, Ira, Ira” said Kate, in her lovely voice. “Ira , Ira, Ira” she went on, a little more loudly and insistently. Her voice was breaking up and cracking. She was shaking him roughly by the shoulders.

“Ira, Ira, wake up” hissed the angry voice of Sergeant Goodhew, who was shaking Ira roughly by the shoulders.

Ira came to with a start and a shock. His lovely visions shattered and collapsed in an early dew, and with a dry mouth and thumping heart he reviewed his situation. He was far out in the desert with fifteen extremely male companions and possibly hundreds of miles or several years away from the girl of his dreams.

“Don't worry lad – we've all done it. Turn in – I'm on now. I won't tell the others.”

Another lesson learned, thought Ira. It seems I always have to learn the hard way.

 

 

 

 

 

  

VISITING

It was in the Spring, too, that Ira had another strange experience. A couple of the younger band musicians asked him if he would like to go visiting. Anything out of the routine was highly welcome in this repetitive theater of action, and he accepted with some curiosity. It was a lengthy walk, but at the end of it they found themselves in a well-sheltered small box-canyon replete with an Indian village. He was shocked to find himself in the stronghold of the enemy, completely unarmed,  but was reassured by the relaxed demeanour of his young friends.

The tribe had assembled about ten wickiups all in superb condition. Groups of women sat cross-legged, some preparing gruel of some sort, while others braided and corded various fibres into yarns, strings and ropes. Naked children played happily, but shyly, often with their Indian dogs.

The women gave no sign of recognition and no-one smiled. This did not seem propitious to Ira. The boys halted outside one of the wickiups and called softly. A guttural muttered word or two was heard. Although Ira had no idea of the language, its meaning was clear – the master of the house was not receiving today. Unperturbed, the group proceeded to another, selected wickiup and this time received the appropriate response.

Lifting aside the heavy hide door-flap, they entered an ancient, primitive and surprisingly comfortable world. As his eyes became accustomed to the muted light, he saw that they were greeted with courtesy and deference, albeit in a muted and dignified manner. They were soon seated in the Indian manner, and the famous peace pipe was passed. The older Indian inhaled deeply, appearing to swallow the smoke. He passed the pipe along as from deep within he exhaled long and steady, like a volcano  venting. In due course the pipe arrived with Ira. His companion, Karl, motioned to him to inhale. He had already noticed that no-one wiped or cleaned the pipe as it passed, and from Karl's anxious look and muted dumb-show, he gathered that to do so would be offensive. He well knew that most dangers of infections were white to Indian, and that the native tribes had suffered grievously in this manner for many years. He inhaled, but not too deeply, sucking in extra air noisily. If anyone noticed, they were too polite to show it, and Ira passed the pipe to the next visitor.

The braves looked magnificent. In their leggings and moccasins they moved with grace and dignity. They looked taller than they were in reality because of their upright carriage and proud deportment. Their faces too were impressive, though hard for Ira to read. Their expressions did not lend themselves to subtlety and Ira looked in vain for a reassuring nod, a half-smile or a crinkle round the eye which might give an indication of inner thought. Conversation was earnest, though Ira understood not a word. Karl was chief interpreter, conversing in halting Indian, with much reference to a notebook journal of language which he himself had compiled.

“The Indians say, Ira, that the priests who formerly came here with the Spanish, could speak their language. They made books of it too, like mine-only bigger, y'mind. They say when the people got their freedom they destroyed everything – ranches, mission, cattle, books. But the priests left long ago. They thought they would be free, but now they say they were wrong. They think they were wrong to trust white men. Now they don't trust any white man – Washington, Mexico, Houston, it's all the same to them.”
“What about us?” asked Ira apprehensively.

“Oh they don't mind us. We are young. They can see they have nothing to fear from us – yet. They say they are coming to the fort before long.”

This was astonishing news to Ira. He had already seen the braves at the Fort, but were not these the militant Apache who had such a fearful reputation?

“They're not all the same Ira. This lot is a family group. They're a kind of sub-group or cousins. They are hunting, and they don't have a war party out at the moment. If they're called in they'll be there, tomahawks a swingin'. They can't do else, or it would be a disgrace.”

Here he turned away from Ira, for the conversation was flagging. Ira understood that he was being introduced to Bobby Two Deer, who fixed him with an unsentimental stare from unfathomable eyes of jet. Ira searched in vain for a sign of tenderness or even humanity. In white fashion, Bobby took Ira's hand and held it in a strong grip. Ira didn't feel he was being tested, but in the clasp felt only a genuine offering.

Again there was a distraction, as a squaw entered bearing a tray of meats from an outside fire. The fire within was warm and even, with the smoke ascending perfectly through the peak gap where the supporting poles interlocked. If only the fort chimneys worked so well, thought Ira, plagued, like all of them, by the soot and smoke which backed up through the Forts throughout the long and arduous Winter.

Ira eyed the delicacies dubiously, knowing full well that he had little alternative to actually consuming them.

As if reading his mind (was this everyone's favorite occupation?) Karl nodded towards the Indians. Have you ever seen such a fine-looking bunch, Ira? They eat like this all the time. So saying, he scooped up an evil-looking morsel. “Close your eyes! Open your mouth!”

In it went, and Ira chewed hastily and bolted the piece. It was good. He realised that he felt hungry, and thought he would try another.

“Use your knife – they think you must be backward for me to feed you. Just take one more good-size piece, Ira, and take your time. Tain't a meal, just afternoon tea.”  

It was not hard to discern the social order here, but Ira looked in vain for  the feminine touch. The women, at first glance, were hard to distinguish from the men, except that they were shorter and more stout, but few could be called pretty. Some of the younger ones could well have been, but it was difficult to actually see them and they preserved a considerable decorum. Most of the work around the village also seemed to done by the women.

At the conclusion of the visit Karl brought out some pouches of fresh tobacco, both leaf and plug, which were received with alacrity and appreciation by Bobby. This brought the strange little ritual to a close, and with formal salutation they took leave of their native hosts.

Ira was amazed that he had attended such an event, and on the return journey plied Karl with questions. Wasn't this dangerous, weren't they horse stealers and murderers, weren't they the enemy of the people?

Karl, for one so young, impressed Ira with his answers, which seemed to be very well informed.

“What's important to you, Ira?”

“What do you mean? Lots of things, I suppose.”

“Name one.”

“Well – honour. I expect a man to keep his word.”

“That's a good one – what else.”

“Oh – let's see. Thou shalt not kill. I like to sleep safe at night.”

“But you carry a musket and sword.”

“Only to protect myself, or to defend my country from her enemies.”

Ira began to see where this was heading and decided to play a little tricky, but Karl had already begun his refutation.

“If these people give y' their word, Ira, y' can trust them with y' life. They got a strict code, and if they don't obey it they're dropped from the tribe – then they have to live as renegades, outcasts.

Them outcasts can be very dangerous. They don't last long. If your folks broke their word everyone'd know 'bout it in y'r town, and it'd be a matter o' shame. Well, it's even more important to these people.  

They got their own classes too – only the higher caste do the war raiding. The next rank c'n build up status by horse stealin',  which is considered real honorable. If they did'n do these things, well, they'd be reckoned real cowardlike.

What I'm sayin' Ira – even in war, they got their honor. They got a points system. In battle, y'gotta take scalps – y'get points f'r hand to hand, f'r stealin' horse espeshly if its real cheeky-like.”

“Has Bobby taken scalps?” asked Ira.

“Y'didn notice?”

Ira had indeed noticed a strange kind of feathered stick, but had hoped it had something to do with horsetails.

“If ther's any white ones he's hidin' em f'r the moment.”

“Ah! A real gentleman, Bobby Two Deer” concluded Ira.

He was to visit the lodge and its like on numerous occasions and found the red man and his extended family fascinating. Some of the men  were even more fascinated than he was and grew quite close to the Indians. Ira always felt compromised in a professional sense. As a soldier, he was a servant of the Government, yet he knew that the red man had good cause to mistrust the promises made in the name of the Great White Father in Washington. If he grew any closer he might be in the position of having to betray a friend. Like many, he could see that the Indians' way of life held no place in the Manifest Destiny of the United States. Their way of life and their values allowed no symbiosis. In the meantime, he was part of an outfit to keep the peace on the prairie.

WE THREE KINGS

Ira found himself sharing leisure time with two of his companions in particular. Pat was the Irishman he had bunked with on the coastal voyage, while Hans Georg was a Prussian who had helped out with Wilhelmina in her grief. They were an odd couple to say the least, but seemed happy in each other's company, Pat's emotional volubility being perfectly complemented by the Prussian's dour exactitude. Ira couldn't quite see what his contribution was but thought it might have been that he at least spoke English, for conversations  could be comical.

“Well, Oi wonder jost who moight be d'king round dese parts” murmured Pat, lazily surveying a shimmering desert wilderness. Nothing moved in the heat, and only the clank and rattle of camp life made any impression on the silence. No bird called, no breeze sighed,  and  no-one answered him. “D'yez tink it moight be d'king o' d'fairies now? No-I spose y'r roight-he's livin too far away altoged'r. He loikes it more gentle-loike.”

Hans Georg snorted eloquent dismissal of this nonsense, but Ira rather liked the notion presented. “Tell me more about the King of the Fairies, Pat.”

“Oi couldn't do dat, Oira.T'would be bad lock t'tell. If I told yez, t'would bring down the angry man himself.” He paused, knowing full well he would have to explain.

“Alright Pat, who would that be?”  

“D'great one himself, Broian Boru, and his captains, Oira Boru and Hansie Boru.”   

“And Pat, would you yourself be descended from this Mr. Boru.”        

“Aye, dat I would.”     

“Yes, I thought so. And who are you descended from Hansie?”  

Hans Georg caught the drift, and promptly nominated Frederick the Great as his ancestor. Ira knew that Frederick had no children, and was about to point this out, when Hansie added “But not tellink Mrs. Friedrich.”

“Your secret is safe Hansi. Royal blood, eh, who would have thought it?”

“Royal blood is it? How is dat?”

“Friedrich, Frederick der Grosse.”

 Frederick d'grocer? Fred d'grocer?”

“Everyone know Friedrich.”

Before the conversation had a chance to degenerate further, Ira ventured “Looks like I'm the only commoner here. I have two royal friends, on my left, out of Prussia, by Dalliance, I have Freddy the grocer's grandson, and on my right, out of old Ireland, by Brian Boru and the King of the Fairies, I have Pat Boru.” So saying, he dug out his bayonet, and tapping them on the shoulder with it, pronounced, “”I anoint thee Sir Freddy” and “I anoint thee Sir Boru”, and rarely were they known, after that, by any other names than “Fred” and “Brew”.   

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CAMELS

The seasons came and went, and Ira, without knowing it, grew a little taller, became a little stronger and perhaps even a little wiser. Occasional patrols scraped in a man short, from Indian trouble, an accident, illness or infection. There was usually someone coming to or going from the Mortuary. Quite a little community was growing under the ground at the various Forts. Occasionally horses disappeared, especially galling when on patrol. Indians were expert in disguise and could blend with the grass only feet away from the unsuspecting trooper.

Whole seasons were spent at Davis and Quitman as companies were rotated to provide wider experience and a break in routine.  

It was at Quitman that he first saw them. In fact, you could almost say his horse saw them first – or, at least, smelt them. They were the famous camels, brought in by Jeff Davis and passing through the Forts while the Army tried to find ways of using them. There was no way his horse would approach any closer so thoroughly was he spooked. So Ira stabled him well out of the way and took some time to inspect the beasts. They were huge and smelt evil. He had been warned of their ugly nature and their propensity to spit and kick. Nevertheless, they were intriguing and their capacity for work and travel was prodigious. Two Egyptian drivers tended them and were kept busy. Currently they transported various goods to and from various towns, villages and Forts.

He decided to just sit near them and observe for a while, the meantime whittling idly. They certainly smelled rank, but Ira had smelt worse, and they were healthy-looking animals. He began to warm to them after a while, as they seemed to have definite personalities.

Saddling the animals was tricky, but as he watched, he saw how it was done and felt that should he need to, he could manage it himself. The Egyptians too, were exotic in themselves, performing their tasks with great skill and very little English. In the middle of their preparations they suddenly produced small mats, and knelt upon them, bowing deeply and intoning – and suddenly Ira recalled some vague scrap of information about Muslim prayer customs. He put down his whittling, and composed himself as if in Church. After their prayers, they seemed to appreciate his respectfulness. Ahmud  demonstrated  the kneeling and standing commands, also “go” and “stop”. Feeling that this was a lesson, Ira concentrated, and just as he suspected, he was handed the crop  and allowed to command the beast. It was obviously no small task for these animals to kneel and rise, but Ira was shown how to be firm. The animals had already been trained, and it was important to maintain the tone of command. He felt honoured by the experience, but didn't know how to thank them, so he advanced and formally shook hands.

 

 

 

 

THE VISION SPLENDID

Ira kept up a steady, though irregular correspondence with his parents. He often felt there was nothing of interest to write about, as life was fairly routine. He managed to get himself on to a Northward tour which took them deep into Arizona and to the Grand Canyon. This was worth writing about, and he enjoyed sharing the experience with them. They could glean information about his other enthusiasms from comments in letters such as this one.

Fort Bliss                                                                                                                                                                         July                                                                                                                                                                   Dear Mother and Father,      

I trust this letter finds you well as always. I think of you often and always remember you in my prayers at night. We had some folks from Syracuse pass through last week and they tell me the Summer was a good one for grains and fruit and there is still plenty of good work on the Canal. I suppose there are more mills springing up in town. I hear the new Church is doing fine. Are you still getting there often. Are we still sharing the church at home? Say hello to Asahel and his family, and remember me to my brothers and sisters. I think of them all. I am keeping well. I suppose I am lucky as so many men get sick but I don't. I have two stripes now so I am a full Corporal. That means a bit more money and also a bit more responsibility. I have to be a bit tougher sometimes. We had two desertions last week. I understand why, but if they desert they better do it good, as I wouldn't want to be caught if I was them. Have you heard from cousin Titus? I think I told you I had a letter from my old friend Sam and he is a pilot on the Mississippi just as he always wanted. His letters are very funny and I showed some of the boys. They all laughed. As I told you, he is very smart. He could be a writer. Someone else came to the fort. She is Miss Dickson, the daughter of old Captain Dickson, who is a true gentleman. Miss Dickson is very beautiful and she plays the violin. All the fellows at the fort want to marry her but I do not think  any of them will be the fortunate man. I will finish now and wish you good health from        

Your loving son, Ira.

There was, indeed, a different atmosphere at the Fort. Ira had noticed the buzz upon returning from a routine patrol. It didn't take long to establish the cause of the excitement, but knowing the social constraints of the post, Ira discounted reports of the new arrival as the over-heated imaginations of deprived men. Consequently, he was not prepared for the vision which sallied forth from the Officers' family quarters, proceeding like a Queen across the parade ground, making for the Band rehearsal room. Camels, Grand Canyon and Indian braves all receded before the lovely vision of Miss Margaret Dickson. Ira tried not to stare, but it was impossible, nor was he the only one. Not only was her oval face blessed with a peaches and cream complexion,  she was possessed of a superb figure. This paragon seemed to have stepped straight out of an Eighteenth Century Court, and for the moment blessed the Western part of Texas with her presence.

Soon afterward they heard a familiar, yet unfamiliar, sound. It sounded like a fiddle being tuned. This was a sound they were all familiar with, for there were good fiddlers passing through, playing at Balls and the like. This sounded more serious and the tuning was careful and exact. Gradually the tuning turned into a couple of simple melodic exercises, then some music of considerable muscle. It sounded like the playing of some visiting Italian or Frenchman back in New York, and the music, he couldn't quite tell, sounded like Mozart and Bach and something modern, again he couldn't say what. Soon there was a little knot of men listening as respectfully as any crowd at the Symphony Hall. The violin playing ceased, a lock or two snapped, the door swung open, and out marched Miss Dickson, in a regal procession of one. The men stared mutely, with one alone having the presence of mind to say “Good morning Margaret.”

Margaret was the finest Champagne amongst an army of beer bottles, and did a great deal for morale. Men marched more briskly, stood taller and spoke louder when she was around. Many wondered what on earth she was doing in this far-flung frontier post, being a major distraction. Others claimed she was the civilization they were there to defend. Of most of this attention she appeared oblivious. All unmarried officers wished to meet her and talk, and while dear old Captain Dickson  was trusting and courteous, his wife, Mary, wasn't. It was said to be a brave man indeed who crossed Mary, and she guarded her twenty-year old bombshell with ill-concealed suspicion. Ira was therefore puzzled but pleased when his Commanding Officer, Captain Pitcher, asked him in.

“Coan! They tel me you're a fine cooper, is that right?”                                                                                                                                 

“I believe so, Captain” without false modesty.

“And they tell me you do a bit more than that.”

“I'm not sure what you're getting at Sir.”

“Fancy work. Carving, woodwork. That sort of thing.”

“From time to time sir, yes.”

“Ah! In that case, being the gentleman you appear to be, how would you like to rescue a damsel in distress?”

“Always happy to help, sir, but what do you mean?”

“Well, do you know Miss Dickson?” A nod from Ira. “Yes, thought you might. Her father tells me she has a problem with  her violin. It's to do with the bow, I think we all know what that looks like. Nearest chap who could fix it is in New Orleans at the moment. No Corporal, I'm not asking you to do that errand. Look, it's not your job, but would you just have a look. Dickson's a fine man and I know he'd really appreciate it. Officers' family quarters, cabin four.”

Ira didn't mind at all. In fact, he was curious.

In dress uniform, he knocked on the door and waited. After a short, but decent, interval, the door swung open, held by an imposing woman of middle age. He felt he was being assessed, ever so politely, but assessed nevertheless, and he suddenly realised that he wished to pass muster.

“Good morning maam” he greeted her, saluting smartly. “I'm Corporal Coan, to lend a hand if I can.”

“And what do you know about violins, Corporal Coan.”

“Nothing Maam. I said, to lend a hand if I can.”

Her manner as she ushered him in belied her brusque greeting. The interior of the cabin was unlike anything he had seen.  He could not believe that so many books and flowers could have made their way to this far-off place. The walls were lined with gleaming, straight bookcases loaded with plush leather-covered volumes of varying ages and disciplines. Shakespeare and the Bible stood out, as well as various Dictionaries and Atlases, and hundreds of volumes of variegated colors and styles. Brightening up the academic effect were vases of flowers, delicate and light in effect. Ira wondered where they could possibly have come from, until he realised that they were the very blooms he took for granted all round the nearby fields and trails. At the table sat Captain Dickson, whom he knew by sight, a handsome and distinguished-looking officer, more in the style of a University Don  than an Officer of the Eighth Regiment. He roused himself from a tome he had been studying with great absorption, and waved aside the salute. “Oh don't worry about that old chap. We're all friends here.” Ira was not sure his wife would have agreed with the sentiment, but he appreciated the old-world courtesy and kindness. “Ah yes, my dear” he said to his wife “what was the trouble now?”

Mary Dickson raised her eyes to heaven. “I told you, Dicko. Margaret's bow!”

“Ah yes. Of course. The bow.” He had a deep and resonant voice which Ira found quite hypnotic, the cultured cadences sounding exotic out in far Western Texas. Mary motioned her husband to go and fetch Margaret.

Captain Dickson, laying aside his tome, moseyed equably further into the house.

A moment later, Margaret entered, looking radiant, as always. Introductions having been made, Margaret said “Oh yes, I know you. You're the one who whittles.”

Lots of soldiers whittled, but Ira knew that he had a particular reputation. “Yes miss. I'm not sure if I can help.”

She turned to the table, on which lay a violin resting in an open case. The wood was a fine colour, with a deep chestnut varnish. He could see spruce pegs in the interior, and the blackwood strip of the fingerboard. The bow appeared to be an exotic hardwood of some kind. As he looked, he became dimly aware of the antiquity and complexity of the craft of the violin maker. He also began to quietly despair of any possibility of helping, and deeply regretted having to disappoint Margaret, and to risk the scorn of her mother. Then he noticed that the hair of the bow was detached from the bow itself at one end. Margaret was pointing it out, saying “Out here the violin has become very dry and I have to nurse it carefully, but the hair has come completely out. I don't know what to do.”

The horse hair at one end was well-anchored, but at the other, where it was gathered into a kind of plug, it had popped out of the groove in the bow, probably through over-dryness of the glue. This seemed to be eminently repairable, but Ira was not in a hurry to get the job completed. He inspected the bow carefully, and also realised that the bow hairs were somewhat ragged and uneven. They actually looked like horse hair, and when he asked, Margaret explained that they were indeed, hairs from a horse's tail, that they should be of an even size, and arranged to form a firm flat ribbon. Without making promises, Ira felt that he could rectify that problem too. She had a second bow, which he used to test the correct tension, and the method of wedging the end of the horsehair ribbon into the groove.

“But you do have another bow Margaret.”

“Oh, that thing! It might as well be a fairy's wand – I need more weight in the bow.”

Ira decided she must know what she was talking about and set about gathering the hair ends into a neat point glued into a little leather wedge which was then pressed into the slot. This was delicate work, if straightforward, and required some dexterity and much patience. In the meantime Margaret chatted amicably about music, politics, travel, fashions and philosophy and apparently assumed that Ira would be equally well-informed and interested.  In desperation he dredged up his New York concert experiences and half of every conversation he had ever had with cousin Titus. Some of this seemed to puzzle Margaret (it certainly puzzled Ira) but her conversation was at least animated.

The task done, Ira prepared to leave. During the course of the operation, two young officers had called by to lend books or somesuch, but were politely and firmly steered away by Mrs. Dickson. Ira had promised to gather up some horsehair with the intention of upgrading the bow at some stage. Mrs. Dickson's manner was markedly cordial and she thanked him with real warmth. As he left, the door closed softly but firmly behind him, and he heard scraps of a conversation in a fairly loud voice – “..nice young man....pity he's...” and just couldn't catch any more.                         

Ira returned to re-hair the bow, much to Margaret's delight, and spent some pleasant hours chatting with her and her parents, her mother being never far away. He was loth to tamper with the violin, as it was an intricate piece of work which would require a great deal of specialised knowledge. It was Margaret's second instrument, her main instrument being stored in the relative safety of the Boston climate. On the pretext of adjusting the bow he returned for afternoon tea a number of times. This was also reassuring to Margaret as she had been invited to perform as soloist with the Band in a Gala concert in El Paso. The Band performed weekly in the town Plaza, and occasionally presented special occasion concerts. The Bandmaster, a skilful arranger, had transcribed a movement of the Mozart G Major concerto for a Band accompaniment, a brace of Stephen Foster songs and a medley of Mexican favorites, complete with realistic cross-rhythms which had proved a challenge to the Band.

And after the concert, he learned, Captain Dickson and his family would re-locate to their home in Boston, where Margaret was about to study. This was not quite crushing news, but a blow nevertheless, as he had acquired a companion and friend of rare quality. The Dickson house was an oasis of civilisation in the desert, and Ira liked it very much. As he was not a suitor, his presence was not disturbing in any way. Nevertheless, he mused as he threaded another horsehair, it is a difficult thing to try to remain only a little bit in love. This seemed to be a problem for most of the Band members, he noticed, when attending a rehearsal of the concert. She and the Bandmaster spoke the same language, and her approach seemed thoroughly professional.

A week later, the Band hosted its concert, on the 15th of August, the feast of the Assumption, an important day in the Catholic Church, celebrating the arrival of the Mother of Jesus into Heaven. The Garrison Commander, with considerable tact, and against all his own cultural and religious instincts, had organized this initiative as a public relations exercise.

On the 15th, Captain Pitcher having delegated Ira to “special duty”, saw a good-sized crowd assemble in the Plaza. Most of the Mexicans had been to Mass, and were colorful in their shawls and mantillas. Gaunt-cheeked ranchers in Stetsons sat side-by-side with sleek Senoritas, glossy black hair piled, combed and flowered. Upright Churchwomen in sober bonnet and shawl, neat and trim, sat with plump saloon girls in ribbons and frills. An army wagon dispensed coffee freely, distributed by black waiters. Their movements were graceful and elegant, they mingled comfortably in the crowd and their small-talk was  considered highly entertaining.  Margaret wanted to know if they were slaves. Technically, yes, Ira told her. But who was supposed to own them? No-one was sure. They had probably been sub-let some time ago and lost track of. They picked up white skills fast and were filling many jobs in the community, to the concern of many. Margaret wanted to investigate the issue further, but Ira thought this not such a good idea just before a demanding concert. So he reassured her that all was proceeding peacefully towards black freedom and equal rights in a bright new world.        

 The concert began with some spirited marches played, nevertheless, with a good deal of taste and control. Soloists from within the Band played a variety of pieces, generally airs and variations on well-known themes. These were all well-received and the sizeable audience was in a good mood as Margaret ascended the small rostrum, as to the manner born. The opening bars of the Mozart Concerto were novel indeed, with the orchestral accompaniment and introduction rendered by cornets and tenor horns. This was demanding work for them, requiring the greatest taste and precision. They had been trained well and despite a couple of small fluffed notes at the outset, settled into the task with fine concentration. Before playing a note, Margaret had the audience's undivided attention, her golden hair glowing against the backdrop of the bank building. Her gown was magnificent, and where such a garment could come from, or could even have been stored, Ira was at a loss to know. Emerald green, with bows and bodice trim of silver, Margaret looked like a Queen and seemed perfectly comfortable in the role. Perhaps, thought Ira, he really was in love, and was not the best judge of the situation. He half turned to study the crowd, and was reassured – undivided attention!

Bow to the string, and the first notes were a surprise. The sound was unexpectedly strong, even masculine, and reverberated from the Bank wall with depth and vigor. The hushed accompaniment was allowed to rise a notch, much to the relief of the brass players, who had been straining to subdue any tonal stridency. An excellent balance between soloist and Band having been struck, the popular concerto unfolded its story with power and charm. Every modulation, every development, was followed by the eager crowd as if as if they were being told a thrilling tale. During the applause, Ira looked round and saw that the crowd had swollen, for there were a number of black girls who had appeared from shops and businesses within the town, drawn by the music. There was also a group of Indian squaws with small children, well behaved, and a dog. They often turned up in town from no-one knew where, and disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived.

A well-dressed woman in a mantilla sat nearby, and caught his attention, her handsome face glowing with pleasure at the music. Although she seemed considerably older, he found her fascinating and stole several glances. At a break in the music, several people changed seats, improving their positions, and Ira took the opportunity to move close to her, in what he hoped was a natural and unobtrusive approach. She nodded to him in a pleasant and friendly manner. As she fanned herself in her elegant way, he caught the scent of magnolia and soap and was instantly captivated. As he glanced at her olive cheek, he wondered at the smoothness of her skin, the marvellous plumpness and the rosy hue suffusing her face. He longed to reach over, to turn the back of his hand to her cheek, and to allow it to caress and linger. And were he to do so, he could imagine leaning forward, to nestle his nose to that cheek, and to breath in deeply the magnolia and caramel that lived therein. Suddenly, she turned to him with the broadest of smiles, sharing a moment from the concert platform of which Ira was unaware. He was dazzled by her pearly teeth and, at the same time, taken aback by the earthy smell of garlic as she laughed. He also realised that he was highly excited by this woman, who appeared very respectable, and was probably extremely virtuous.

During a break in the concert, they talked. She was an animated speaker, and it transpired that she already knew Ira. “Ah, the brave Captain Coan” she said teasingly. He had provided an escort for a trip to McKavett on which she had been a passenger. How had he not noticed her? Probably, she answered, it was during the period of mourning for her husband. Ira's pulse raced again, and he reflected just what a fine-looking creature she was. He tried to concentrate on the next item.     

The Stephen Foster songs were a popular choice, with much humming issuing from the crowd in sympathetic support for the sweet-toned violin. Ira watched the faces of the black waiters during the well known verses of Old Folks, Swanee River and  Susannah, which he knew, particularly from cousin Titus, could be considered offensive and patronising. But on their faces he could read not a word. He had absolutely no idea just what they were thinking. He wondered if his attractive neighbour knew what he was thinking.

He had no problem reading Mary Dickson's mind later at a cosy celebration back at the Fort, for the 15th was also Margaret's birthday. Mary glowed with pride while her much-admired daughter demolished a meal worthy of a trooper. As her beloved father murmured to Ira “T'would be a brave man who came between Margaret and her supper.”    

Soon, he was to write another letter home.

 Fort Bliss                                                                                                                                                                          August                                                                                                                                                                 

Dear Mother and Father,

I hope you are well, and father that you have recovered from your ailment. I am pleased to hear young Nat is doing good work and the news of my sister's baby. I think Nita is a strange name for a baby but we shall all get used to it I expect. In any case, I am sure she will be a fine and loving person.

Life here goes on as usual, which means people dying being born and running away. Slaves run away, but someone usually turns them in. Deserters run away-it's a hard life but you don't expect a tea party out here. To answer your question, my friend Margaret has gone back to Boston. We had many good talks and I helped fix her fiddle though she will never call it that-only a violin. She played in a big concert in El Paso on her birthday. I would like to study one day, maybe become an officer, Captain Pitcher says it's possible for some, and is most encouraging. Give my love to my brothers and sisters

your loving son

Ira.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SENORA

Margaret indeed had gone back to Boston and had taken fond farewell of Ira and other friends. Ira told himself it was lucky that he was never in love with her, but the Fort and the whole State of Texas seemed somewhat empty and colorless for some time.

He was pleased, therefore, on a mail escort, to meet Senora Santiago-for he had ascertained her name, and seing her again, realised what a beautiful and musical name it was. Her greeting was courteous but warm, and on delivering the party and the mail to El Paso he was disinclined to part. She seemed both well-known and popular, making it difficult to fraternise without being noticed. Ira kept up the demeanour of a man on duty. He longed to talk with her, to have some time alone, but eyes were everywhere and people didn't lightly mix. “Would you escort me to my cab, Captain Coan?”  were surprising and sweet words. “Corporal, actually Maam.”

“Oh I don't think so Captain. You are hereby promoted to the friendship of a Santiago.”

Ira thought this a splendid idea. They approached a waiting carriage tended by an elderly man of various mixed bloods. Senora Santiago spoke to him for a moment and he smiled and withdrew, handing the reins to Ira. The leathers were oiled and supple, the seat well-sprung and the splendid horses magnificently groomed. He was in no hurry and happy to prolong his state of pleasant bewilderment. He didn't care who saw him or who talked. He revelled in the contact of his lovely friend and enjoyed each bump and jolt on the road that threw them together. As they drew closer to the Ranch, she said “Captain Coan, may I drive?”

She took the reins and proved a masterful driver. Bringing the horses to a halt by a clump of mesquite, she turned seriously to Ira. “This is my place. And you will meet my people. They are...a little...how do you say...they wish to protect me. I think they will like you. Do you like me Ira?”

The first time she had used his name thrilled him deeply, and he moved forward and embraced her long and fondly. He wondered if he should do more, but felt the time was not right. The truth was, he didn't want anything to shatter the glow he felt and which she seemed to bask in. On the short drive into the Ranch he wondered about her husband, and what had become of him, and any possible children. He put these thoughts away as they clattered into the courtyard to be greeted by two servants and various animals. The manservant led away the horses while the woman busied herself attending to Senora Santiago.

Shortly appeared a substantial meal replete with a light red wine. Dusk had now fallen and the graceful and well-tended hacienda was remarkably quiet. Cigars appeared and as Ira smoked the maidservant discreetly withdrew. Still Ira enjoyed the closeness and the companionship, vaguely wondering if somehow he might have misread the situation. He wondered no more as she took him by the hand, leading him to the bedroom. All happened as if in a dream and Ira hoped that he would perform satisfactorily. He thought her face so beautiful during the act that his fears were assuaged. As they lay together between trysts he thought of the vast desert outside, the scattered forts with their harsh male world, the wandering tribes in search of horses and scalps, shabby towns with overworked bordellos, icy winds sweeping down from the mountains and the blistering sun that tried man and beast. He swam in a cloud of pleasure, of intoxicating scent and softest skin. Sleep eventually came long and sweet followed by a leisurely breakfast during which Ira contemplated duty. He had no idea exactly what day it was and what his current duties were.

He began to feel some concern about this but felt it would be churlish to mention it. Maria Dolores Santiago (what a wonderful name he thought) brought the subject up. “General Coan, I believe you may have other duties to perform. Let us travel soon.”

And travel they did – back to El Paso, back to Fort Bliss. Maria Dolores bustled in to the adjutant's office while Ira  checked in with the duty guard. By the time Ira had cleared the guard, the Adjutant was out looking for him, to thank him for the stirling service he had rendered to a highly respected citizen.

“Corporal, on behalf of the Company, please accept our congratulations and thanks for the action you performed last night. Senora Santiago has told us all about it. I know you're a quiet man and no boaster, but this is the sort of thing which brings credit to the Army.” Maria Dolores looked modest and approving in a naïve, appealing sort of way.

It appeared that Ira had dealt with a rough element which had been pestering the Senora, enduring harsh treatment in her protection. It appeared furthermore that she felt safe with this gallant gentleman providing escort, and she would very much like to know if  he could occasionally be spared for similar duties in the near future. As Senora Santiago was the owner of a fine ranch, and one which supplied excellent beef to the fort, the Army authorities were much inclined to facilitate her request. The next few months were a heavenly interlude, during which Ira began to learn the mind of woman, to begin to appreciate another culture with its own aesthetic and to tap into an ancient faith. Absences on patrol and road duty became onerous and irksome, and return to base was a joy unexpected.  

Ira was fascinated by the life of Maria Dolores and the history of her family, and also by the life of the hacienda, half mission, half castle, with a strict caste system operating most efficiently. The love of color and art was uninhibited and lent a vividess and urgency to her domain. Entering the bedroom, she would turn the face of the radiant Christ to the wall, yet was genuinely devout at Mass, which Ira occasionally attended at the Chapel on the Hacienda, and also at St. Elizario's Church. He didn't mind the incense and color, nor the Latin – it all seemed to come from an ancient world, but one so close to the surface that he could feel it seeping into his brain. He could never enter into the spirit of their religion, and watched with awe as Maria Dolores slipped into another world. In some ways they were like children, but that only made them more loveable. Was his own culture superior, he wondered? No, he decided – people were just different.

He never sat with her at the public Mass, but performed his worship, internalised as it was, from a discreet distance. The contrast between his own family background and her form of worship was great and his tolerance for the Romish faith would horrify his people, he knew. Even so, he felt that there was a great deal of repressed passion in his own father's religious life, as well as a considerable amount of pride, or at least, vanity, the role of the preacher being so central and so powerful. Here, it was more a matter of ritual.

At the hacienda after Mass one Sunday morning, he wandered into the worksheds. Contrary to the reputation of the Spanish, this was a well-run affair, with tools and equipment well-organised and well-maintained. He noted the tools of the cooper, which appeared not to have been used for some time. He cursorily fined the blade of the axe, and looking around, saw  a block of wood of curious appearance. It was a stout piece about nine inches long and seven by four. It looked positively ancient and was a wood he did not recognise. Nor did it look local. The grain was arresting, for it was as straight and true as anything he had ever seen. Taking the axe, a sharp rap split off a perfect sub-section, just like a crystal made of wood. The newly exposed inner surface was perfect in its smoothness and of a most attractive, even, light colour, contrasting with the sooty , blackened appearance of the outer surface. He took the offcut, and divided it neatly with another blow. He had a thin sheet now, hardly credible as the work of human hands. Amused, he clipped an end, producing a stick nine inches long and a quarter of an inch square, then another one. That's when the maidservant saw him and hastily crossed herself. Did she blanch?  “Senor Coan” she started “Is Vera Cruz”. Ira knew what it meant – it was the family relic, the True Cross. It certainly wasn't, he was sure, but would Maria Dolores know that?

Thoughtfully, he tapped out a row of matching sticks and smoothed out any small imperfection. Only with fingertips could he trace the slightest imperfection not visible to the eye. The old, black surfaces he prepared and lacquered, and left the sticks to dry on the bench. “Maria Dolores” he said as she entered the workshop, “I am ready to make my Confession”.

“You are a very bad man indeed” she replied. “We were warned that the Yankees would not respect our religion, but to take the axe to the Vera Cruz, the True Cross, is unbelievable.” She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Don't worry. If all the  pieces of the True Cross that I've ever seen were brought together, you could build a fleet of warships.”

“You mean an Armada.”

She picked up a stick and examined it with interest. “It's unusual though isn't it, Ira? People brought these from the old country, and I suppose the Church, or someone, sold these by the thousands many years ago.”

They're hairsticks madam – as worn by the lovely ladies of the South – guaranteed to enhance your fine features and bring the blessing of the Lord upon you and yours.” All in the accent of a pushy Yankee trader. Ira did it well.

On the next occasion, he spent time fashioning the ends into the smooth Madonna shape which had become his trademark, and Maria Dolores was often to be seen, coiffure embellished by this strange work of art.

 

 

DEATH OF SYLVANUS

As happened from time to time, illness swept the fort, and as happened also, men died. Death was a fact of life he thought, and his mind turned again to those at home. Ira was aware that any illness was dangerous and a man of, let's see, close to eighty, was in a precarious position. He thought about his father a lot and turned over again and again, in his mind, their relationship. His first memories, he realised, were when his father was already sixty years old. Well, he knew men of sixty who were relaxed and jolly and easy to be with. No-one accused his father of any such thing. Uncle Gaylord was ten years older than Sylvanus, and he had called one of his sons Sylvanus – surely that meant that he loved and possibly admired his little brother.

When his father was of an age to be interested in girls, they moved house – why? He married at nineteen, surely too young. Why? He had a child with Ruanna after nine months; she died a year later. How? A month before Ruanna died, he had a child with another woman, Lucy. After four children, Lucy divorced him. Why? He went to Canada, taking only Milo. Why? He married Polly Hough in Canada, then moved to Parishville and had four children. She died at thirty-five. How? Then he married Ira's mother, Frances Williams, from Williamstown. Like the others, she was eighteen. He must have been forty two already. The facts bothered Ira for they painted a picture which appeared to be that of a headstrong and indulgent youth, possibly unpleasant to live with. Ever since Ira could remember his father was a highly respectable, hard-working citizen, much given to politics and church. He was also the town magistrate, and it was clear that this was important to him.  He could also be very charming and amusing if he wanted to be.

 Ira was still curious about his own ancestry, and surrounded as he was by men from all sorts of backgrounds, he was often forced to declare himself. Germans, Prussians, Irish and more defined themselves by their country of origin. “American” Ira would answer. “German” people would occasionally insist. It began to annoy Ira, until he began to press for explanations. The answers didn't please him, though they were not badly intended. His thoroughness and character, his logical approach and just “general look” were said to betray his origins. These were dull characteristics in Ira's opinion, and contrasted badly with the high spirits of many of the Irish, whom he liked. True, they were, as a group, a little too fond of the bottle, and some were unreliable, but he found many of his friends from among their ranks and appreciated their spirit and humor.

 “Guess y'r jus won quarter German, Oira – it's all concentrated in y'r face.”     

It was in '59 that two events occurred on the same day. One was the mail delivery. It was from his older brother Alonzo, now thirty-eight.

 Dear Ira

as your brother, it falls to me to tell you the sad news that our father is dead. I am sure when you last saw him you would have known that he would not be long for this world, but he had managed more than most of thought possible. The last days were not easy, but he peacefully breathed his last on Sunday. We had a great many people at the service, and there were many fine memories from people here from the early days, many of whom you would not remember. The girls are looking after mother who is sadly afflicted, but strong nevertheless. I do not know how you stand, as you are at the other end of the world it seems. We worry for you when we read of the wild antics of the red men and we pray for you. We also worry because of the political situation, as no-one is sure just how things will go down south. If you came back you would be most welcome, as the business is going well with young Nat, but you would be the best person, also for mother. We all think of you and we read your letters.

Your affectionate brother                                                                                                                                                Alonzo.

It was news, in truth, which Ira had long been expecting, but it was still a blow. He had already seen countless men cut down in their prime, taken by flood, fire, disease and violence. But his father, for better or worse, had been there, his protector, all his life and now he was gone. Of course, thought Ira, it happens to everyone. But now he began to think of many things he would like to tell him.

He folded the letter and proceeded to Captain Pitcher's office, where the second event of the day unfolded. He had been summoned earlier and was relaxed, for Pitcher was a pleasant man, a good soldier and respected by the men.                                                                                                                                            

“Got a letter, Coan? That's nice.”

“Thank you sir-yes.”

“Well, you might have something to write back home soon. Like the life?”

Although Ira had often felt, in these situations, that honesty was not always the best policy, he decided to risk it this time. He say for a moment, thinking, then slowly started to speak.

“I don't think I can give you an answer sir.” Another pause, while he collected his scattered thoughts. “Or, I mean to say, I can't give you just one answer. I can put up with a lot if I think I'm doing good. I'm happy to ride with the wagons if they need us. I'm not so happy to do it when they're full of ...”. He hesitated as he recalled the unsavoury crew who had recently traveled for fresh gold-fields, determined to offend Indian sensibilities given the chance. “...scum” he finished bitterly.

Pitcher gave him a sharp look. “You're there to escort them Coan, not judge them.”

Ira knew this was the official line, but true to his policy of honesty, continued “Sir, I just don't want to waste my life. I'm an American. My father taught me to defend myself – and my country, from her enemies. I haven't had to shoot an Indian yet, and I hope I don't have to. I march, I ride, I patrol, but we don't do anything, we don't make anything.”

“I believe we're making a nation Coan, and I think you have a part to play. We all have these scruples from time to time. You know the ropes, you're reliable and you lead well. If you were to sign on again next year, you'd be a sergeant. Extra money, extra resonsibility, extra privileges. Does that make a difference?”

Ira knew immediately that it did. A number of men who had left recently had found employment hard to come by, and a few had returned. Sergeant at Army age 26 was not bad, at real age 24 would be even better. Once again Ira felt his mind being read and wished he were not so transparent.

“I see it does. Think about this! For certain men, advancement to the rank of officer is possible, and I think you are one of them.  Have you followed the debate in Washington? If Lincoln gets in there'll be trouble – the Southern States won't stand for it. I mean, the Slavery question. They'll resist, and we might need good soldiers.”

The Captain paused, and looked abstractedly around the room.

 Have you ever killed a man Coan?”

He paused, a clock Ira hadn't noticed before ticked heavily, a horse outside stamped and snorted, silence fell.

“No sir.”

“That's good. I have, Coan.”

Hardly knowing how to respond, but not surprised, Ira searched for an answer but was rescued by Pitcher, who looked at him searchingly. He fixed Ira with a steady, Yankee look, duty and determination writ large.

“It's my job...do you think you could do it if you had to? And you will have to.”

It was the question that had been on Ira's mind ever since he had joined the Army. He knew only too well that some of his companions would relish all too well the prospect of killing an enemy. And he knew all too well the scorn which they affected for  the enemy. The Indians were benighted and barbaric, an affront to decent people, while the Mexicans were decadent and depraved, an insult to civilization. He had met both groups and had enjoyed their company and their history. He weighed his answer.

“I am prepared to do my duty, Captain, in the defence of the United States.”

“Yes, you've always done your duty Coan, but remember, your duty is to follow orders. That's what our job is all about.”

He swivelled in his chair and rose, Ira noticing a certain stiffness in his movements.    

“Don't pass this conversation on – that's an order. You're leading a patrol later in the year. If anyone asks, that's what we discussed.”

Ira walked toward the door.

“Um, another matter Corporal.”

Ira halted, turned and waited.

“Your friend, Signora Santiago – none of my business, but can you tell me your intentions?”

“I would like to marry some day sir. I hadn't made any definite plan.”

“No, I wouldn't if I were you. I'm sorry to tell you if you didn't already know – it's not really possible.”

Ira thought anything possible at this time, but was wise enough not to say so.

“How so, Sir?”

“Disparities in age, race and wealth Corporal.”

As soon as the words were uttered Ira knew in his heart of hearts that they were true. He was enormously fond of Maria and he felt secure in her affection, but he was not unaware of the resentment felt by both communities, her fellow ranchers and colleagues occasionally allowing their discomfort to show. Amongst his own companions, starved of love, sex and affection, there was an occasional fierce upwelling of pure, blind jealousy which alarmed him greatly. He was thoughtful for weeks and gradually accepted that the relationship might not have a future. He reflected on her childlessness, and wondered if he himself might be fulfilling part of that need. How to broach any of this with her was challenging, so that it was with relief that he heard her say one day “Ira – I believe we have to talk.”

 “Yes my dear. What would you like to talk about.”

“I would like to talk about Captain Coan and his, how do you say, lady friend.”

“Well, you know what I think about you.”

“I believe I do Ira, and it makes me happy. You have made me happy. I hope I have made you happy sometimes.”
 

“You know you do.”

“Do you think we could also make each other unhappy Ira?”

“Of course – are you talking about the future? But why can't we go on as we are?”

“I think I know you well my dear.” She paused a moment, and he reflected how fine she looked, how pleasant it was to be in her company, and what a civilized companion she was. “But I think you want children, and I think that it is not my lot in life to have children. It is sad to realise this, but I must accept God's will.

 Ira knew she spoke the truth, but could not dismiss her affections as the price of family. It would be so blunt, so utilitarian. “I wouldn't mind if you never had a child my dear.”  

“It's what you say now Ira, but life is long. I am older than you and have seen more. Some of my people are unhappy. They feel our friendship to be an insult to the memory of my husband and as you know, they are many of them not fond of Americanos. It is not just ourselves we have to think about-I have responsibilities to my people, I am not so young any more and these things are important. Really, I have always known we could not go on for a long time. Your people too, are unhappy. They don't like us, we are a nuisance. Our religion and our customs offend them and they curse you for getting involved.”

“So just like that, we have to stop?”

“No – not just like that. I just want you to think about it for a little while. Nothing has changed. I would like to keep you here with me. But you wouldn't stay forever, I know.”

He protested, but she placed her hand across his mouth, so he relented, and just bit her fingers gently. He then threatened to consume the rest of her which she duly permitted, after a fashion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LEADING A PATROL

The time seemed to come quickly when he was called to lead the promised patrol. Ira was mightily pleased with the trust shown in him and wished he could have told his father about it. He was also pleased to be away from the Fort in the wake of the end of his latin romance. To those brave enough to enquire he merely answered “We chose to part friends” even though the words sounded empty even as he uttered them.

He had now, he saw, to concentrate on making a future, instead of drifting in a pleasant hiatus. Yes, he admitted, he did want a family, and he thought about it a lot.

 The patrol was routine, and quite safe. There was little trouble in the area, and the men delegated to him were of the better sort. He wondered what it could all be about. He welcomed the patrols, as they were a break from routine. Punitive raids against the Indians were generally highly organised and of a larger scale. Out on their own, there was a certain amount of freedom, and considerable camaraderie. The desert air smelled clean and raw, wolves howled in the distance, and an occasional deer  sprang from  feeding to seek refuge in the chapparal. There was room and space out here to think and to gain perspective.

He was still a cooper by training, and a soldier by profession. If he left, he would have to scramble for work and there didn't seem to be so much of it around, with Irish and Germans still pouring into the country. Despite the hardship and privations, he liked the climate down here and was not in a hurry to experience the ice and snow of the North again. The  life suited him in many ways, he liked the responsibility and, most of all, he would like to be married. Whether he stayed with the Army, with a suitable promotion or future, or whether he moved out to help work the Ranch he hardly cared. Despite their reputation, he had found the Mexicans courteous and civilized, albeit different. So far from their mother country down south, their settlements in New Mexico and Arizona were poor and depressed, but round El Paso there was a color and style about them which was most attractive, and he found their company most appealing.

 On he mused as the horses picked their way over desert scree and mountain approaches. What did horses think about wondered Ira? Did they enjoy their life in any way, or was their main concern to flick off as many flies as possible? Promotion, he mused further, changed quite a few things. And if, as Pitcher had intimated, there was a chance of further promotion, this could set him up for a career where he might make his mark.

 A trooper brought his horse up, and the column halted. Ira rode to the front-the man pointed and Ira saw a thin column of smoke from  an area where no settlement or train was expected. A light breeze drifted from the same direction giving them some cover for sound and scent. An hour's progress brought them quite close, whereupon Ira sent groups out on the flanks to ascertain the nature of the camp. His own horse he tethered, advancing on foot to the rim of a small shallow valley, at the bottom of which, not far away, was a small village, replete with dogs, children, roasting meats and squaws sewing, mending and pounding various textiles and foodstuffs. This primitive scene never failed to fascinate him in its color and its order. He counted the tipis and the squaws, wondering just where the braves might be.

Satisfied, he retraced his steps to his horse, some hundreds of yards away. Something told him not to take the direct route, and he swung out wide as a precaution. As he neared the grove where his horse was tethered, he slowed his pace, treading softly. There standing by his horse, was a young brave. He was perfectly still, with his straight, lean figure blending perfectly with the straight saplings of the grove. Even the horse didn't appear to notice him, or at least, seemed to consider him part of the landscape. Another minute, and Ira would have suffered the ultimate ignomony of walking back to base.

He unslung his musket and held it at the ready. He surmised that, somehow, the brave would already be aware of his presence.  He cocked the musket, with a loud snap, but without pointing the weapon. The brave twitched and looked round – he'd had no idea Ira was there. Ira expected him to bolt, but he just stood there looking at him. The horse shied and the spell was broken. The brave continued to look, and Ira, puzzled, racked his brain for the memory that was tapping away there. It came to him! He had seen the boy before – he was related to Bobby Two Deer, probably his son. Just like New York, he thought – could never quite remember who he had met and where.  Ira could hear his men approaching and waved the young man away, pointing directly back towards the village, where he would not be intercepted. He wondered what Captain Pitcher would have done.

It was crossing the Rio Grande at that they beheld a heart-stopping sight, one that mesmerised every man in the group. A group of women, most of them young, were bathing in the river-completely naked, enjoying the water, the sun and the breeze. They frolicked as happily as children, splashing each other merrily and tossing streams of water from long black braids. Even from the shore, the path of the water was eagerly traced, over golden shoulders, between plump breasts, plunging down to mysterious regions. And it might have been Maria Dolores under his longing and wistful gaze. His rapturous contemplation of the idyllic scene was rudely interrupted by Brew's observation "Ay, Oi'd loike half a dozen o' them t'warm me bed.”

“Is that all you think about Brew?"

"Yis-oi'd say that'd be close to the mark. What about yourself, or is it a holy monk y'd loike t'be?" Oi'm forgettin' aren't Oi – y've a taste f'r d'graser colleens."

"To tell the truth Brew, I loved her greatly, but she wasn't a colleen and she wasn't a greaser."

"If y'loved her so much, why didn't ye marry her?"

"I think I would have, but it wasn't possible."

Brew looked surprised. Freddy, who had been listening, didn't. He was more tuned in to issues of class and status.

 "Muss be same – or comes trouble."

"Pretty much" rejoined Ira, abstractedly, for his mind was roving back over pleasant moments. "Her people wouldn't have it. Alright for me to be her friend – well, I mean, they could manage that, just, but marriage? To a gringo, and just a common soldier?"

Now Brew looked shocked. "Y'mane, y'weren't good enoff f'r d'wench."

Exasperated, Ira said "Well, that's about it. Y'see Brew, she's not a wench – she's a good-looking woman running her own Ranch, with workers to feed. She's got her family and Church to think about."

"Muss be same – ven peoples different no good. King not marry peasant."

"Hold on Freddy, you're talking to an American here. "

"And here money King. You still peasant."

"Point taken Freddy. What do you think a chap should do?"

"Find nice Tcherman girl – make house, make babies."

"What about nice El Paso girl Fred? Would you like to make babies with one of them?"

"No – like to make babies with all of zem. But different – babies look different. In my country, die augen blau, eyes blue, like you Ira, blue like you. You haff Tcherman eyes zehr blau."

It had been many months since he had last seen Maria Dolores and he was surprised to learn that she had travelled south to take up a new ranch. The business arrangement at El Paso still stood, and he realised that there were many things he didn't know about her. And so it was with a jolt of surprise that he saw her in El Paso, holding a small baby. In fact, he was deeply shocked and mortified, until he realised that it was his own need which created the illusion, for this girl was her junior by many years. He was curious and approached her to see the better. It was a pretty picture indeed, the young woman colourful as a poppy, nestling the tiny child all cocooned in her shawl. Ira doffed his hat, causing her to blush furiously. Smiling, he remarked “Your child is as pretty as her mother.” He marvelled at the power of words, as her colour heightened yet again.

 “Oh, Senor, oh no, is not my babee, is sister babee.” Her embarrassment was charming, and Ira found himself greatly pleased by this information.  “And her mother could not be as pretty as her sister” he returned.

This was very well received, with a certain amount of feigned modesty which Ira also found charming. Well, who wouldn't find this girl charming, he thought to himself. If her English was far from fluent, her comprehension was quick. Her smile was brilliant and she seemed to warm to his friendly banter. They talked until she was summoned by an older woman who cast quizzical looks at Ira. He wondered whether she recognised him – very likely he thought, but probably no harm, as they generally seemed to respect him at least.

 She was certainly a breath of fresh air he reflected many times over the next few days, and he suddenly felt the need to attend church on the following Sunday. He knew the ritual, and was even able to sing the hymns. Again he sat toward the back of the church, as he had when he accompanied Maria Dolores. From this perspective he noted the distinct hierarchy of worshippers, the more affluent and well-connected occupying the pews where Maria Dolores had been ensconced.

 From this rear platform he was able to survey all with considerable leisure. The Church was alive with colour and incense, and he welcomed the sensual and lively atmosphere. His gaze roved the pews, and soon he found what he was looking for – the brilliant sparkling eyes of his new friend, an oval face framed by a white mantilla. She looked so young and vulnerable that Ira felt a powerful urge to enfold and protect her, and suddenly was reminded of his father. Was that how it starts he wondered? He looked again, and was thrilled to see that she had found him, holding his gaze for just long enough to declare her interest. They exchanged glances for the rest of the Mass, which took several centuries more than Ira would have liked. He was grateful for the communal experience he had had with Maria, for he was able to seek out an old acquaintance as a pretext for lingering. Maria, he discovered, had moved to a ranch further south, and relatives had moved in, in various capacities. Why, that family there, handsome girls aren't they, are looking after things for a while, then moving on. Ira had already guessed where his friend was nodding and had soon discovered the only name he was interested in. He regretted the connection, but just had to meet Esmeralda Santiago.

 “Ah you have lost your baby Senorita.”

“My sister baby, I tell you-”

“Ira.”

“Senor Ira.”

“Just Ira” he continued, happily breathing in her smile. He saw that as long as the conversation was in English he would have to do most of the work. “Do you like babies Senorita Esmeralda?”

“You know my name?”

“I make it my business to know things which interest me greatly. So I have answered your question but you haven't answered mine – about the babies I mean.”

“Do you like babies Senor Ira?” She knew that she was cheating, but Ira just answered, “Miss Esmeralda, I like them very much and I would like a family some day.”

Esmeralda was soon removed from his company, but he felt no resentment from her family, only curiosity and a tolerance born of his position of respect in their community.

 In the next days and weeks, Ira performed much mail escort duty travelling to town whenever possible. He kept up a barrage of notes and letters to the Rancho, and in return received affectionate notes, scented or decorated with small wildflower petals. He was obsessed, and thought about her constantly, wondering how they might live together. But the situation was not his to master, and he still had duties to perform.       

 

 

 

ACTION

There were more patrols and more action. Occasionally more ambitious expedtitions sent out with more serious purpose. These were ususally precipitated by Indian raids on farms and livestock, stealing horses and killing settlers. The mood was determined and sometimes ugly. The dice were heavily loaded against the Indians who seemed to have no idea of the forces ultimately ranged against them. Only the older men had begun to recognise the futility of their struggle, and yearned only to be left alone in honorable isolation to eke out the last days of their tribes.

These actions occasionally left some of the soldiery dead or wounded, but almost inevitably it was the Indians who got the worst of it, and Ira gradually began to feel like a spectator at a vast theatrical tragedy, played out against the painted backdrop of the Arizona desert and the scaffolding of the New Mexico mountains. Sometimes he wondered how one could rescue the Indians from their fate, but mostly he wondered about the Mexicans and their future, for there was one young woman he would dearly have loved to rescue, and his thoughts returned always to Esmeralda. Their occasional meetings had fanned a burning flame, and it was impossible for him to hide his emotions from those around him. They began to meet whenever possible, and her family began to turn a blind eye to their courtship, for they liked him and knew that he respected them.

 His behaviour was decorous, for he wished to proceed with formality, observing the niceties of a more civilised society, but in the loneliness, the vastness of Western Texas, they often felt like the only people on the face of the earth. Her family cottage on the outskirts of the Rancho was like a little vessel floating on the ocean; when night fell, and the folks were away at Church for the Easter ceremonies, they consummated their love. They discussed their future, thinking of what might happen. Ira had soon to decide whether to sign on on again, and commit to further service as a Sergeant, with hopes of improving himself further. On the other hand, maybe he could get himself out of the service, and settle nearby. He was a versatile worker with many skills, the sort that had done well in the frontier. He was eager for a challenge, and one way or the other, to plan a new life.     

 

 

 

 

1860 AND THE CENSUS

His Company was not a group of well-informed men. They described themselves variously as Irish, German, Prussian, Polish and American. Some were farmers, some were tradesman and some were even soldiers from other theaters of war in Europe. As the months passed, however, there was an increasing interest in the political situation which threatened to impact on their, mostly, routine and humdrum lives. The issue of slavery was becoming more and more pointed, and the possible election of Abraham Lincoln threatened to bring matters to a crisis point. In many ways they deflected their concerns with the tasks of the Fort. All those men with trades and skills were pressed into service, as there were no civilian workers to be had. Ira's wood skills had helped him perform carpentry tasks from the outset of his service, and he had passed on the rudiments of cooperage to a group of men who were useful for performing some of the more boring and routine tasks. They took pride in the gradually improving appearance of the Fort which surprised many visitors.

That they were not forgotten was borne in on them when the census officials came all the way to Fort Bliss. They lined up and were counted, with their country of origin duly recorded. “Ireland” recorded the clerk, to the amusement of some. Ira didn't correct it. He had been told lately that he was now speaking with an Irish accent. Not surprising, he supposed, with half the Company Irish. He didn't mind – they were not a bad lot. And it made a change from everyone telling him he must be German.

As for the future, it appeared to be rushing upon them in the form of new life. Esmeralda was pregnant, there was no doubt, and in a simple and fatalistic fashion, they prepared for parenthood. The tenuous security of the Army convinced Ira to sign on, now as a Sergeant, and he reasoned that should war erupt, they would first be sent back North where they would settle and maybe even have his mother to help with the new child.

 Gradually, their new status seemed to become accepted by all, the family being surprisingly amenable, presumably, thought Ira, in deference to his status as an honourable man. And so he was, he reflected. But then, he reflected also, they had a way of dealing with dishonourable men. They were now treated as a married couple, and separate quarters were found for them, which Ira decorated in what time he could spare. Esmeralda sewed, and also minded her sister's child occasionally. Ira now began to regret his decision to re-enlist and longed to be a free agent building his own life. His absences, for he had many duties, were onerous and painful to him, and he longed  only to be with Esmeralda, who now became the center of his world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WAR LOOMS

As 1860 drew to a close, the die seemed to be cast, and rumors flew about the Fort like Indian arrows. Many were wild and far-fetched. Most Southerners insisted that there was no way they would comply with a Federal directive to end slavery. It was their business to run themselves exactly as they saw fit. Most rumors had it that in the event of Southern mutiny, federal force would have to be applied to bring them into line, resulting in a short, sharp action to apply the law. Others felt that this would be massively resisted, leading to a long and bloody conflict. Fortunately, thought Ira, this seemed to be a minority view. However, the men who held this view were of the more thoughtful and introspective kind. Ira wondered if he would be able to do his duty as he had promised.  

It was not unusual, at this point, to find small groups in earnest conversation of a more philosophical bent then usual. There was a Prussian, he knew, who had seen considerable service in his homeland, and who appeared to be a fine soldier. Ira found him an interesting character when he could disentangle the meaning from his thick accent.

 “Ve are z'military people – you know – par excellence! It iss unser bissness. Unt ve do it gut! Captain say chump – ve chump. Captain say shoot – ve shoot. No kvestion. Not like in here. Here is bik democracy. No democracy in Army. Who iss leader – General Tviggs? Effryvun knows he go South iff war. You like Captain Pitcher? Iss too olt for fight. In Prussia, iss hart fur soldaten, but iss hart fur leader. Iff leader not brayf – he shooting first – in back.”

“Jasus” drawled an Irishman, who had understood not a word, “In the British Arrmy, we'd jost 'z loikely put a fokkin bullet troo any bastard uv an officer we didn't loike.”

Ira tried to imagine himself in the thick of the action, covered by smoke and the pandemonium of battle. Could he really imagine anyone looming in front of him who would seriously tempt him to divert a cartridge from the enemy? To his surprise, a couple of faces floated into vision. Shocked at himself, he mentally swept them away.

 “What do we know about Twiggs?” he continued.

“D'eyre sayin' it's an open saycret, Oira. He'll be off t' his darkies down sout'n we'll be out here wit d'bords singin 'n d'rattlesnakes rattlin' 'n d'red fellers runnin' about loike savages. Coz he's not de only one – where he come from.”

He was interrupted by the Prussian.  

“Army iss not one Army – leader iss not leader – not one man – many mans – sinkink already fightink Army – impossible! Impossible!”

Ireland was still not communicating well with Prussia, but was intuiting quite effectively, for he added “Som 'v dese bastards who arder oss about we'll be foightin' won day. It's enoff t'make a dog stroike 'is father.”

This time the Prussian was perplexed.

At this, Ira leaned back to muse. He saw one of the clerical officers passing by, walked out and threw a salute. Puzzled, the orderly returned the salute, and glancing at the company loitering nearby murmured “What's up, Sergeant?”

“I think we'd all like some information sir. Plenty of rumor, nothing reassuring.”

“You know I can't talk Sergeant, but, for your ears only –  no-one knows. I don't think even Twiggs knows. We think he's written to headquarters to ask what to do if they cut loose. We all know he's a Southerner – he's made no secret of it. You probably know who the others are – they'll all go home to defend their families, their farms and their way of life. They've got a lot to lose and they aren't going to be worried about a bunch of Yankees – meaning us! You can tell Twiggs is anxious – the Secretary is loading the bases down here and if we lose them we lose a lot of equipment. We can't afford to let that happen, so we have to be prepared to fight them off – should be alright if we go about our business the right way, but as Lincoln says – ”A nation divided....” He glanced around, wondering if he had said too much. “If you know any more than I do, let me know.”

“I only know the men are very restless sir, and I don't blame them.”

These conversations multiplied as the Winter set in. Rumors of letters to Washington, battle plans, escape routes and the like proliferated. Visitors from other Forts and from the road were quizzed for news and appraised for attitude. A truculent provincialism dominated much of the local population, but there were still sober Texans who abhorred the approaching impasse. And as far as the Army was concerned, they were big enough to acknowledge that the Army had indeed performed its task, albeit at great expense, of protecting the State from the Indians. They knew well, too, that the economy of the State had benefited greatly from the Federal money flowing to its sodiers. Much employment had been created and local produce found a ready market.

 Little by little the tension ratcheted up.  Patrols became fewer as the various posts took their eyes off their target. Pressure on the Indians was considerably lighter in direct proportion to the increased pressure on the soldiers. Still they waited for instruction with those closest to David Twiggs insisting that he was behaving with propriety. He had written more than once, they said, but the only reply he had received was non-commital and unhelpful. So they said. He'd been told to wait to see if Texas would secede, and if so, to protect all Army property. So they said.

 But others said that Twiggs had also written to the South, offering his services in the event of a showdown. That he had made plans with Texas officials for a takeover of forts and equipment. That he was keen to establish himself early in the Southern Army in order to secure a good commission.

So they said, but what was true, and what was not, neither Ira nor anyone else knew for sure.

What Ira, and everybody else by this time, did know, was that something that couldn't be stopped was the birth of their child. As Winter started to bite, it seemed that the new year would usher in a new life, as Esmeralda bloomed in her pregnancy. He was impressed by her patience and good humour, and they found considerable time to be together, their love deepening with their shared hopes for the future. Ira's Spanish too was improving rapidly.  

Winter deepened further, and the mood of the camps and forts deepened with it. The inactivity and uncertainty was playing havoc with men's minds already, many becoming nervous and argumentative. The focus had become increasingly oriented toward the activities of the State government with ratification of the secession plan looking certain. Still no word came from Twiggs, and presumably, none from Washington. Captain Pitcher was a noteable absentee from the Fort, though no-one knew quite where he had gone.

Ira now hoped that the delivery would be sooner rather than later, and only wanted it all to happen before any call for the Army to retire might come. Each day he would monitor the latest political news against Esmeralda's current degree of discomfort, wondering who would sound the alarm first.

In the end, it was Esmeralda, and as she appeared about to go into labour, Ira arranged for her to move with him into married quarters. It was in this very camp that several babies had been delivered with the Army medicos supervising, using a hospital tent, and it was here that Esmeralda was brought when her contractions became urgent.

 The labour was long and painful, but this was not unusual. Knowing how patient and stoic she was, he was alarmed at her cries, and frightened by the level of pain she must have been enduring. At first he stayed out of the tent as he had been told, but as the cries went on, he could no longer leave her alone with strangers, no matter how kind and helpful. Immediately he entered the tent, he was frightened, for Esmeralda looked desperately low. She was bathed in perspiration, her colour was low and flat, and there was so much blood. And he suddenly realised that her cries had been becoming less, not because she was in less pain, but because she was exhausted. At that moment, he realised he might be about to lose her, and his world fell apart.

 He went to the bedside, and an orderly tried to stop him, but a surgeon waved the man back. Esmeralda tried to look at him, but she hardly had the strength to focus. Like an animal who knows its time has come, she stared at him with eyes blinded by pain. He knelt by her side and took her hand. Though covered with sweat, it was cold as ice. She shuddered deeply and she looked at him. Her lips moved but no sound came. He then realised that medical activity had ceased, and the tent was very quiet. She shuddered again, and was still – very still. He knelt there for an eternity. Figures moved like ghosts through the tent, cleaning, swabbing, sweeping. Buckets were used to take out objects covered in blood, and red rags were bundled and removed. Outside he could hear the movements of men and horses, dogs too, the normal clatter and bustle of a military post. The place was suddenly empty, and he tried to take in the idea that Esmeralda would never move again, that she was no more, and that their baby was not to be – at least not in this world.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he knew he would have to move on. He looked up to see Padre Ortiz, whom he knew well and whom he respected deeply. He blessed Esmeralda and began to intone “Pater Noster qui es in coelis....” The familiar prayers, the ritual blessing with holy water – in the back of his numbed mind he knew that they were things that Esmeralda would have wanted. He dreaded the end of the ceremony and the moment when he would have to leave her, to plunge into his new life without love or joy. He wanted no-one to pity him, to feel sorry for him or make allowances. He bathed Esmeralda's face, looking lovingly on her fine features, etching them into his memory to sustain him for whatever future lay in store. Eventually, Padre Ortiz's hand rested on his shoulder again, and he nodded and slowly rose

People were as kind as life out West would allow, but Ira hardly noticed. Padre Ortiz set aside considerable time to talk to him, and for this Ira was grateful. In the padre Ira found wisdom and compassion of a rare nature. The funeral was held in the Church, and the Company sent a goodly representation to mark their respect. Ira vaguely understood the deference and respect paid to him, without ever acknowledging it in his misery. The role of Sergeant in his Company was a demanding one, being responsible for most of the day-to-day discipline and leadership. He refused to relinquish his duties without realising that by doing so he was only visiting his plight on his subordinates. Days and weeks were painful and grim, with the political situation bubbling away constantly in the background.    

State congress voted, and the fate of Texas was sealed, but the fate of thousands of federal troops was still up in the air. New Mexico was not far away, and for the men at Forts Davis, Bliss, Quitman and the like, refuge was little more than a few days' march away. Tension was high when they received the long-expected order “Pack light, and be prepared for travel at a moment's notice.” Ira packed, and unlike the others, had to make room for one more item. She had travelled this far with him, and he was now committed to his creation. Madonna nestled in a flannel in his kit, offering silent support for her maker.  

Word now filtered through that Twiggs was to be replaced by Captain Waite. This in itself was un-nerving and was a sign  that Washington did not trust Twiggs. But why now, and why so late? Was it true that Twiggs had been in communication with the Secessionists? Had arrangements ben made? What were they?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MARCHING OUT

The companies were assembled and informed that they were no longer required in the State. Texas had seceded and considered property within her borders to be Texan, including Forts, munitions and weapons. Local militias and southern armies were on their way to enforce the takeover. They would be allowed to leave with their lives, but had to depart by way of the coast, traveling in groups of not more than two hundred, at a minimum dstance of thirty miles apart, obviously a precaution to make sure they could not group together to make a meaningful defence. In an acknowledgement that they had been in the State as a service to its people, they were to be allowed to march out unimpeded.

 So it had come to this! It was a strange feeling, thought Ira, to be evicted in this way. At one stroke, the enemy was no longer an  Indian or a Mexican or an Englishman – it was an American, just like him, someone who looked the same, talked the same, thought the same. Emotions ran high in the six Companies who started their staggered march out of Texas. At least, as they had been assured, they would be able to leave the State, and it would be interesting to be back in the North. What would be done with them? What would their orders be? Would there really be a shooting war?

It was early Spring, and the weather was pleasant. The marches were long and the men slept soundly at night. There was no sign of Indians, and no mail freight passed them on the road. The road was empty. Only off to the South was seen a puff of dust, an occasional glint of sun on metal, quite a way off, but at a consistent distance. Someone was tailing them, but no approach was made.

 Every step he took was one step further away from the memory of Esmeralda. Just as he had found it difficult to tear himself away from her deathbed, he now was reluctant to leave the earth where she was buried. Although he knew it was illogical, he felt he had turned his back on her, and he found every new day painful. Days of marching turned into weeks until they found themselves approaching San Antonio. At Castroville the group camped, with a couple of the officers going into town. Upon their return, so the pickets told Ira, there was a serious meeting of the brass, with orders then given to rouse the entire camp. A sizeable fire was built up as they prepared to depart, around midnight, the fire being a blind for their departure. The night march brought them to a ranch at San Lucas Springs, where Ira was able to replenish his canteen water with a cool, sweet draught from this source. Naturally his men wanted to know what was going on, but in the manner of armies the world over, information was scant, and closely guarded. Nevertheless, from leaked information and astute guesswork, they could deduce the situation. So far, everything had proceeded as promised. They knew that many hundreds of their colleagues were already back North in accordance with the evacuation procedure. Now, suddenly, they were involved in a dramatic manoeuvre which boded ill. What had changed?

It appeared that the Texans may have been about to renege on their promise of safe exit. Had the officers in town been given a tip-off? This midnight flight had brought them to a better defensive position, with fresh water and defensive walls. Just what was expected? Ira calmed the exhausted men with the exhortation to grab some sleep, and although apprehensive, they had no trouble obeying. Their muskets were arrayed in defensive positions against a stone wall, but each man had been allowed only eight to ten cartridges.

A warm and glowing Texas sunrise bathed the sleeping camp. In battle formation they slept, close to their weapons. Blue coats pressed flat to the straw grass. Weary sentries watched over the tiny Army, an island of humanity on the vast space of the Texas tableland. A sentry stirred, ran to the Officer's tent, and as if a great whirlwind had arrived, the camp was swiftly and silently stirred into action.

 Standing quietly in position, Ira gazed across the valley to the next hill. Although their position was good, with the farmhouse behind them on the crest of the hill, the view was alarming. On the opposite hill a sizeable force had emerged. On the extreme right was a company of young men and boys flanked by a battery of six-pounders. Against these six guns alone their position would be hopeless. Next to these was a large body of Infantry and finally an equally large Troop of Cavalry – resistance might be pointless, but they were sure of giving a good account of themselves. On the brow of the hill was arrayed a flotilla of wagons and buggies, a spectator fleet from San Antonio, only fifteen miles away. Even from across the valley, Ira could recognise vehicles and owners well-known to him from escort duties in the past few years.   

All eyes were drawn to two figures galloping cross the valley. One held aloft a sabre with a white handkerchief affixed. The two men were soon in discussion with the officers, and soon Lieutenant Bliss was riding back with them, presumably for the purpose of inspecting their troops before formally surrendering. It was not long before he returned, and without any explanation, the order was given to march on to San Antonio. It was presumed amongst the men that, as had happened with previous companies, the Officers would be paroled and the men sent North. From the brink of battle they had been reprieved, but what lay ahead they knew not.

Some miles down the road they were stopped to replenish their water, and were assembled for an address by Colonel Reeve. He explained with tears in his eyes, what had been done, that faced with overwhelming military superiority, he had formally surrendered. As far as he knew, the Texans would honour their earlier promises – the group then cheered the Colonel as a token of support and sympathy, also making it clear that they did not hold him accountable for their plight.    

As they marched close to San Antonio, they were intercepted, and their status as prisoners rudely confirmed. They were directed to offload their weapons and effects. From  their captors they had come to expect a professional escort to the coast, according to withdrawal arrangements, with professional detachment. The mood now was different entirely. For every man who looked sheepish and embarrassed at their discomfort their were two who were gleefully triumphant. To show less only invited scorn from their colleagues. Now their rifles were confiscated so that they were defenceless. They now stood, a small band of men with nothing but the clothes they wore and their tents, thousands of miles from home, surrounded by the enemy, their countrymen. Shattered, their minds were filled with confusion and alarm. And only now did they learn the full story of their deliverance into the hands of the South – how, although the preceding groups had had their departure honoured as they themselves were expecting, their leading company had been captured at San Antonio some days before, yielding all the considerable equipment and munitions at that place. Earl van Dorn had led their capture, the same van Dorn so recently in the Federal service. Colonel Twiggs, who had been replaced far too late, had long been in touch with the Texans, while Floyd, the former Secretary for War in Washington, had deployed large amounts of stores and equipment into southern posts a year earlier, where they could be confiscated upon the outbreak of war. The War Department in Washington had vacillated, giving Twiggs no clear instruction which might have saved them.

 

 

 

CAPTURED

A sullen anger grew amongst the men as they saw the miserable prospect of captivity. Many of the officers who had exercised command over them in the last few years were now known to have gone over to the enemy. Washington had dallied with their lives, placing their safety on the bottom-most rung of priorities. Some of the people who they had been sent to protect were now crowing at their discomfiture. A few feckless youths and shopkeepers with guns hurled insults as they passed, but many old friends and acquaintances were truly regretful and expressed their remorse.

They were marched on to Salado Creek outside the town, where they were camped under guard. Fortunately, the weather was still warm, and the inconvenience was not dangerous or hurtful – yet! For a few days they were allowed to visit the town, where they were tolerated, and even given hospitality. Few had much money, as a considerable amount of back-pay was owing. Their officers too were prisoners, although their captivity was of  more generous kind. For the moment they stayed near the town, able to mix in such society as was available. Before long however, as the war heated up, the attitude of the townsfolk became more hostile. Public sentiment was inflamed by rabid newspapers and soon the men were confined to camp.

 Everyday, Confederate agents visited the group and held conversations wiith a view to recruiting soldiers to their cause. Some had seen service in the Army and knew their conditions well. As they were especially keen to acquire experience and leadership, Ira, as a Sergeant, was given plenty of attention. On the first occasion, a tall, sandy-haired man took Ira aside, and perched on fallen tree. He had the air of a man who had seen service and was probably about forty.

 “Not a nice spot to be in, is it Sergeant?”

“That's true.”

“Cigarette?”

“Thank you”, said Ira. He lit up, and inhaled deeply – it was comforting to feel the aromatic smoke curl through his body.

 “Lots of that down South”, joked Caleb, for that was how he had introduced himself.

 “How's the money holding out Sergeant?”

“Getting low.”

“Yes – I'm sure. Look Sergeant –  you could be here for a long time. We're new to this game and I hope we behave honorably, but, well, to tell you the truth, there are many who would be happy to see you all lynched – you know what people are like around here. The battle has started and the news is good. But, you know, war is war, and some of our boys will get hurt. Folks are going to look at you mighty ugly and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes.”

He paused to tap out his ash, glancing meanwhile at another group, sequestered under a tree, tobacco smoke wafting gently away in the breeze.

“They seem to think highly of you Coan, but no-one's in a position to do much for you now.”

Already, thought Ira, they have had access to service records and reports.

“ And when government is from Richmond, your record will be worthless. All these years wasted – if you're still in good health. So, think about this – your back pay guaranteed, a lump sum to set you up decently and a good chance of promotion very soon – possibly officer training, Sergeant. You can keep your men with you if you want to stick together.”

It was Ira who glanced round now, noting various small groups in earnest conversation. With nothing to lose, he studied the disposition of these groups at the risk of offending his interrogator, who seemed unperturbed. He had a Sharps carbine, a handsome weapon indeed, slung casually over his shoulder, and tucked away to the rear. Not far off, as a precaution, a soldier stood guard without being obtrusive. The carbine, thought Ira, would be his private property. He was probably a Cavalry Officer or a sniper, more likely the former.

“Seem mighty interested, don't they?” went on Caleb.

“It passes the time, that's for sure” rejoined Ira. “I think you realise – what's your rank? Captain? – what my answer is.”

“No Sergeant, I don't want an answer – I want you to think.”

He passed Ira a clutch of  cigarettes. “I'll be back.”

Ira found himself a draught of water from the diminishing creek, and sat back to watch the other interviews winding up. He could tell that some were not proceeding smoothly at all. Even from a distance he could hear the angry words of rejection from his colleagues. The interrogators were professional and determined and held to their tactics of balanced persuasion rather than threat. Nor did they allow themselves the luxury of indignant reaction, although it was clear to see that some of them were offended by rejection. All eyes seemed to be attracted to a group near the guard house, for as they departed,  they took with them one of the Eighth's number, a Sergeant well-known to Ira.

 To be expected, supposed Ira. Who knew the mind of another? Was it money? Was it the desire to survive? Would any of his men go with him? If they did, they were traitors, pure and simple, for better or for worse.

“Traitor” gasped one of the men later, at sunset. “The word is meaningless. How can you betray a government that betrays you?”

“At the least” replied another “he has betrayed us.”

“Who wouldn't – look at us.”

 “ And look at him – he'll have clothes, money, a position.”

The men were restless at this point, as the thought ran around them.

Ira spoke “Yes – and why do they want him? Are they so impressed with his personal qualities that they wish to reward him? I think not. I think they need experienced soldiers in the front line, and they are willing to buy them. He won't be working in an office or guarding an outpost. He'll be facing up to our guns and bayonets. They won't have to pay for his training so he'll cost them very little, but he will probably pay with his life.”

 Although this was not exactly a noble speech, Ira could see that it was effective.

 “I have spoken to Colonel Bomford and his advice is to sit tight – we have to honor the terms of our surrender to have any hope of getting back home. He expects us to be exchanged when we capture some of theirs. If it's Sergeant Carroll, I wouldn't like to be in his shoes  – he won't be needing them for long.”

But Sergeant Carroll did need his shoes. He returned to their camp within a few hours, none the worse for his experience. In his own combative way, he had enjoyed the attention and the flattery and had led his captors along, trying to elicit information from them. But it was a dangerous game to play and his companions did not care for it.

Colonel Bomford was the most senior man there, and Ira had consulted him for advice. He was of the old school and wished to abide by the letter of the agreement. This seemed farcical to Ira who reasoned that he was only in this predicament because their opponents had not honoured their agreement. That was certainly true, Bomford had concurred, but the difference was that they had the guns and many would love an excuse to use them. For individuals to break faith was to weaken the bargaining power of the group. It was not a matter of conviction, but of tactics. And the best way to get out alive was to stick together as loyal Unionists and weather the storm if they were strong enough, lasting until an exchange could be effected. Ira was proud of the loyalty of the Union men, but as the discussion continued he realised that they had ascertained that there was actually no guaranteee of payment – no-one seemed to have that authority, and he supposed that loyalty might be conditional.

“You do realise sir, don't you, that the men are angry about their leadership?”                                               

 “You're talking about Twiggs are you Sergeant?”  

 “I'm told Twiggs cried bitterly when he was arrested” Bomford went on. This was news to Ira.

 “I don't understand.”

“He has his honor, and like most of us, that demanded he serve his home State. He did his best for you I can assure you, and he was honest about his intentions. He acts on orders like the rest of us, and the right orders never came, who knows why.”

“But his orders come from Washington.”

“You're right there Sergeant, and if you ever find out what went on there, please let me know. How are you coping with your business? – sorry to hear about that. A fine gal I understand. Here,” handing Ira a note, “buy  yourself a drink while they're still talking to us.”  

As the dreary days passed, the Confederate agents pressed them further, but Ira looked forward to the cigarettes and the break in the monotony. The battle with the agents was also a welcome distraction from his own troubles. Meanwhile, in the town, concription fever was running at full throttle, with dances and Balls organised to support the war effort. Ira occasionally managed to get into town under escort to liaise with the Officers, who, although mortified at their situation, were living in relative comfort and dignity. Passing through the town Ira noticed an air almost of gaiety, and the young women looked splendid, as if to say “We are worth fighting for.” He didn't expect much more than mere courtesy, but was studiously ignored, or worse. He was surprised just how painful it felt.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE FIRST MOVE

From being tolerated in the town, the situation soon became ugly. Out by San Carlos Creek they were moved, onto a flat, open plain with little shelter from the elements. Life became even more boring, with little access to town or society in any form. The officers, too, in town, were either being shunned or found it expedient to avoid company. Many of their former friends and associates could not risk too open an association with elements of the population in a lynching mood. Food was army rations, but portions were meagre and the quality was deteriorating by the week. There was little help for the sick, and dentistry was an unknown science. From time to time illness swept the camp, with the constant fear of cholera, yellow fever and diphtheria. Contact with the officers was becoming progressively more difficult, and the rare visit to town was painful in many ways. The streets and buildings were decorated with Confederate bunting, flags and colors flying in triumph. The progress of the war was most promising for them, but at a price. Already, in the Plaza, could be seen limbless soldiers, some mere boys. Nor were these the proud veterans of fable, but poor young men with blighted lives ahead of them, shattered nerves and ruined relationships. The townsfolk's attitude was now downright hostile and no comfort was to be had anywhere.

 So boring was their life that they welcomed almost any change in routine, while fearing that any change would probably be for the worse – and so it proved!    

 

PRISON CANYON

It was August, and there were signs that the long hot Summer was drawing to a close. The nights were still balmy but morning found a warning chill while the grasses were dry as straw, whitish yellow. One warm day they were mustered, hoping against hope that this would be the day of their transfer. Perhaps by now the Union had an equal number of captives to exchange. How would it be done? Would they resume the march to the coast, or go up river to St. Louis ?

 The answer was not long in coming, for soon they were marching back to San Antonio. Already the atmosphere had changed, and the initial gaiety was suppressed by a grim determination to promote the fight whatever the cost. The bunting and banners already looked institutionalised, while at a number of points in the town more young men were to be seen, missing limbs and otherwise damaged. They looked at the prisoners with no venom, nor even curiosity. Some of these young men would not survive their wounds – everybody knew that. Soon they were trudging the road to El Paso, where they had last tasted freedom, albeit conditional. While many tried to maintain a disciplined bearing for their own pride, it was a struggle. Many men slouched and straggled, some dealing with illnesses which had crept up on them  and which they did their best to cope with unaided. They were not far from the old Camp Verde when they finally halted. They were ordered to down packs and step back. Here, Ira felt a chill of dismay sweep through him, despite the Summer heat. Here were their tents and blankets, their only friends in the last three months.

 “Ready to march, you Yankee scum!”

“What about our packs?” came from the throng.

“They're needed elsewhere-ready to march!”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“That's your problem.”

The sad little column set off again, considerably lighter, but even heavier in spirit. Ira would never have admitted it to anyone, but the situation was one which suited his bleak soul at that moment. His privations were mere inconveniences to his numbed spirit, still grieving the loss of Esmeralda. They left the road and the camp, heading southwards and it soon became clear that they were making for the canyon. With each step, it became more certain. The group passed through the opening of the canyon, where they saw that the Confederates had already set up camp –  a permanent sort of camp. Like cattle turned out to pasture, they were delivered to the natural amphitheatre. With little ceremony, their guards retreated, leaving them to ponder their fate. Already, in the late afternoon, the sun had gone behind the tall western bluff and  the canyon was in shade. All round, the walls rose up sheer and crumbling. Even if it were possible to ascend these walls, it would take so long that one could not hope to avoid detection They had to admit that it was a well-chosen prison.

“Looks like we're in prison canyon” came from the ranks, and “Prison Canyon” it became. Not all of them were there, as several squads had been hived off earlier in the march, to no-one knew where. It had been made clear that no-one was going to look after them. They were tucked away out of view of the citizenry, and “out of sight out of mind” was the fear. Many of the guards were uncouth and undisciplined and amused themselves by pitching rocks at the helpless prisoners.

 No contact with the officers was permitted, so they called a meeting to plan their immediate future. The next morning, the men set off in squads to collect loose stones, and timber of every description. With little more than hatchets, the wood was trimmed into the semblance of logs and poles, and graded into piles of lumber, ready to go. Buckets of spring water were mixed with the stickiest soil to be found there to form a mortar, and, little by little, a village sprang up. The roof was thatched, there was a perimeter drain, and the huts were spaced to form a little village. A good deal of skill was involved, and the group was proud of its effort. This humblest of villages bespoke their aspiration to live a full and decent life, and their wish to retain their dignity, rather than sink to the level of beasts.

The food was poor, even dangerous, and a couple of men sickened and died with little warning. They were given shovels and left to bury them. Not many men were religious, but in that bleak and hopeless environment, all were grateful for anyone who could shape their misery into a formal ceremony. Ira had heard his father officiate and preach often enough, but preferred to wait till someone else, who might have benefited from the experience, volunteered for the task. Sure enough, there were two such men, of pious and simple disposition, who performed the task well.

They had jealously guarded, in their captivity, those supplies which were not old government issue. Consequently, they still possessed some digging equipment, and the band members had kept their own instruments and a reasonable library and showed great skill and spirit in holding impromptu dances and concerts. For his part Ira still had his Madonna hidden away, safe from the curious and the profane.

There was little to enjoy, but there were compensations, Ira reflected as he watched a majestic eagle soaring overhead. Against the high wispy cirrus clouds it swept, banked and turned, its circles tending always westwards, until it disappeared from the rim of the canyon, leaving Ira with an aching sense of loss. How blissfully free was this natural being, providing for his family high in a tree. How right he was to patrol this domain, the home of his ancestors for millenia. A dog trotted into his view. It wasn't his, it belonged to the Rebels in camp, and was a favourite amongst the prisoners. His name was Nero and he was free to come and go as he pleased. No doubt he was thrown scraps of meat that he might scramble for himself. Ira suddenly realised that his face was wet – he was crying.

Ira peeled the bark off a gnarled old tree, and smelt the sap – tangy and slightly aromatic. He bit a little and chewed a little, wondering what on earth the taste was. He was getting to know the taste of every leaf and twig in the canyon. He had tried various stones and muds as well. His stomach always felt hollow, and he had made new holes in his belt. He tried to keep his clothes clean and aired them whenever possible. The two laundresses with the company had been allowed to remain with them and entered the camp to deliver and collect washing. They brought limited news from the outer world, and were in a hard situation themselves, lonely women in a hostile world. Wilhelmina's husband Edgar was in a delicate state of health, and Ira doubted that he would survive the Winter. Ira wondered if he himself would survive the Winter.

As the year dragged on, the Summer came to an end, and the chill winds struck without warning. Fall would have been welcome, as he had known it back home. The blaze of color as the forests ripened, the woodsmoke from a thousand cabin fires, the homely smells of baked dinners were a distantly remembered fairy-story. Rain poured from the skies for days as they huddled for shelter under ledges, trees or in their huts, like primeval forest creatures enduring – mindlessly enduring.

 The canyon floor swelled with rain and water rose close to their little village. Muddy thatch collapsed and wattled walls slid into giant puddles. The rain cleared, the water subsided, they re-built. And amid the miasma of insects and bacteria men sickened and died, including Edgar. Ira made a special effort, and managed to carve quite a beautiful cross to mark his grave. It took him a long time – but then, he had lots of time.  Wilhelmina was a sturdy and hard-working woman, and cut a handsome figure in her funereal black, and her black bonnet. Framed by a backdrop of menacing canyon wall she looked a fit subject for the artist's brush. She had suffered cruelly, it was true, but she was still young, and could make a life here now in San Antonio, with some luck. Freed by her misfortune from Edgar and the Union, she was at least free to live her own life in town.

Ira approached her with condolences, but found words hard to come by. Wilhelmina threw her arms around him, and he was surprised at her strength. She too, seemed surprised, no doubt at his gauntness. “Ah liebchen” – and she too was lost for words. She embraced Ira again, and he breathed in the smell of scented soap and warm, caramel skin. He held on for a long time, because he was crying hard, and he missed Esmeralda, Maria Dolores, Kate, his mother, his sisters and his brothers and every animal they had ever reared or sheltered. And he realised with a shock that he missed his father. He walked with Wilhelmina to the camp gate and watched forlornly as she strode to her waiting buggy. She looked back, and made a praying motion. She nodded. He noticed rebel eyes appraising her with interest. He hoped she would be alright.

Poor Edgar! He thought. Not too bright, but a good man. He looked for a game of cards to forget himself for a while. He had been improving and had won a collection of colored twigs which passed for currency now in the prison. They might buy him laundry privileges or a cigarette from someone who was still able to cadge or buy from the rebels. Singing and dancing were welcome if anyone had the energy to contribute, but the truth was, that even this irreligious group was more comfortable singing formal church songs. It was understood by all that these were also a form of prayer, with their release being the ultimate goal of their plea.

But if their songs arose to Heaven, there was no indication that anyone was home. The Union blue days had ticked away, and the Confederate gray days had taken over. The sunlight was meagre and the rations more meagre still. They were fed under sufferance and Ira was hard put to recall an animal treated so badly. When he said so, his Irish friend said “Yes, but people love dere animals.” Occasionally a rabbit or a rodent was trapped in the canyon and quickly roasted before it could be confiscated. The snatches of songs stories and jokes which were a group legacy began to dwindle with sickness and apathy.

Ira kept himself busy even when it wasn't necessary. It was largely habit by now.

Wilhelmina had settled in San Antonio and seemed to be doing well with her laundry work there. She was allowed to visit and her visits were welcome.

As the Winter started to set in, it seemed to threaten to extinguish all hope. Ira wondered if it were wise to plan for a future. He saw again the birds crossing the vast blue, could hear the howls of wolves on the plain and saw the trees turning into sticks on hill and plain. Still no word came about their exchange. They had only some rumors that their officers had gone north. They waited for further word, but none came. More men died. Some were taken away, who knew where. And new prisoners came in. They had been at other posts and knew little more than they did-only that things were bad, now they might not be so bad. These men were possibly in even worse condition than they themselves. They brought some new card games, some spare jokes and droll songs, and joined the  group apathy as the golden leaves dropped in the chill air.

Ira decided that he would like to go north, before he went mad. He spoke to Brew and Freddy, whose English had improved in captivity.

 “South, me bhoy, dat's d'way t'go – all dem loverly senoritas jost yearnin t'meet a foine Oirish lad” opined Brew, forgetful of Ira's personal tragedy.

 “All those lovely Senors just yearnin' to cut your balls off Brew” he replied dryly.

“Well yes, dat too. Bot, y'know, oi wouldn't let dem. Oi'd say dese h'v bin promised to d'prettiest little colleen in Boston.”

“And what's her name Brew?”

“Ah well, dat's d'problem – oi haven't met her yet.”

Freddy found this extremely droll, and Ira, in his weakened state also found it extremely amusing.

 “That's just it Brew. She is out there somewhere, but you're never going to meet her if we stay here. We'll rot – we won't be useful to any woman if we're here much longer. I'm in for anything – we can't climb out – they'd love an excuse for target practice. We can't walk out – you two look like shit!”

 And here the other two burst into uproarious laughter, with Freddy attempting a laboured explanation concerning pots and kettles. Ira realised that he too did not cut the most prepossessing figure. Indeed, their clothes, no matter how carefully tended, had degenerated into a drab dun colour almost at one with the less inspiring elements of the natural world. Yes, thought Ira, it appears I look like shit too. Something must be done.

 

 

 

A BREAK FOR FREEDOM

Ira took to strolling not too far from the picket lines of the camp. He listened to every scrap of conversation that wafted in the breeze, the banter and chaff. He began to put names to figures and faces. And what he couldn't glean, he got the others to listen for. They pooled their knowledge and built up a mental dossier on their captors. The camp itself was busy and compact and filled the canyon mouth with tents, pickets, horses and dogs. All sorts of litter spilled from the camp. An occasional tin would roll in a strong wind, but before it could be picked up it would have been intercepted by three dogs and a million flies. Scraps of fabric occasionally rolled across the canyon, and these were eagerly seized for personal adornment or patching. It was not too long before Ira found what he was looking for – paper. A store-list was perfect.

He had organised some crude ink from vegetable gums, but scoured the camp for a pencil and was lucky enough to find one – after compromising himself by asking around for one (an artistic urge had struck him, he said). After some fruitless hours in this search, Freddy suddenly said “Ja! Ich habe,” and produced a fine specimen of the species. Ira began to see why Freddy's nation was involved in so many wars, but of course the problem was one of language.

The tiny writing would be organised into a shape which at first appeared to be that of an eagle. On closer inspection, the shading would turn out to be text – and for a young person with good sight, favorably disposed to Union prisoners, with access to the camp, that text could turn out to read “Needed – 3 sets quality clothes boots fresh decent 5'7'', 5'8” 5'10” drop by night twelve o'clock sentry 6  good tobacco coffee”. The only person they knew who answered their description was Wilhelmina. On the next laundry collection day he was late bringing his few clothes, and even arrived knotting one trouser leg. Not so unusual, as men were resorting to all sorts of  ploys to keep garments intact. But she had never noticed him do anything like that, and as he held her gaze for a moment, she wondered what its significance could be.

 Ira wondered whether they had done the right thing in asking her to take such a chance. Each morning one of them would stroll the canyon perimeter hoping to find a parcel before any guard did. Days passed and Ira wondered if they had been too enigmatic, twelve o'clock and six o'clock referring to clock-face positions on the rim of the canyon rather than time. After a week, and a blustery night – the sort of night that masks sound and movement – they found it. In fact not one but two bales of clothes with boots inside, and also the tobacco and coffee.

 The dogs of the camp knew them and knew their smell –  so did the horses. They would not be alarmed if they passed through their midst. They prepared for the next day when they knew there would be a substantial change  of guard and prepared for the attempt. With the camp scissors they trimmed each others' beard and hair, and on the appointed day freshened up as much as possible, bathing carefully in the spring and rubbing down with an aromatic bush. Perhaps, thought Freddy, they might have overdone it, and the dogs would not recognise their old smell. Ira and Kate reassured him.

 Ira dressed carefully, and he enjoyed arranging himself in the crisp, dark outfit, trousers neatly cut and belted, and shirt and jacket also of superior cut and style, proclaiming him a man of substance, a man of taste. In fact, it said that he was anything but a wretched prisoner. He had enjoyed the theater in New York as well as the shows at Fort Bliss. Now he would perform as if his life depended on it. He tried not to think further along those lines. His two friends had also moved up several notches in the social scale, and looked highly presentable. They were to wait in the twilight till they saw Ira gesticulate in their direction, and would then emerge as dutiful underlings.

It was early evening when Ira made his move. Townsfolk occasionally came to gawp at the Yankees, though this had become less common of late. He had to emerge from camp without alarming the Corporal of the Guard, whom he knew to be a young and earnest soldier, eager to play his part in the defence of the Confederation. He approached quietly and slowly from a skewed vantage point, and when he saw that the sentry was about to turn his head, snapped into a business-like march, as if he had been thus employed for some hundred yards.

 The sentry was indeed alarmed, and brought his musket up sharply. Ira, apparently on course to pass him by at about twenty yards, seemed to receive a shock too.

“Whoa, corporal. Don't be shootin y'r officers. We need all the men we c'n get.” He used a light Irish accent to hide his Yankee origins. With genial bonhomie Ira continued. “Relax son. You're Collins are y' not? Y'r supposed t'escort us this last fifty yards outa here – they didn't tell ye? Ah – it happens. I won't say anythin', be joinin' the others at the front soon y'd be hopin'.”

Collins looked confused, as he didn't want to let anyone down, but no-one had told him about this.

 “Will – I mean Captain Clayton – is he about? I'd like t'see him before we go.”

“We?” thought Collins, and said “But Captain Clayton's not here, he left with the departing company this afternoon.”

This was known to Ira, and was essential. “Ah, damn! Well, I'll have to see who's here. Look, Corporal, we're supposed t'be Church men lookin after these criminals, but, well, as I say, we need the men and if we can move them off their lazy backsides we'll take them. We even bring them a few trinkets.” So saying, he unrolled a small swag, neatly made up of salvaged surplus shirt. Slowly, like a conjuror performing a trick, he turned back layer after layer, finally exposing rich, aromatic tobacco of the finest quality, as well as some plug tobacco. “Ah, mother of God that's mighty fine stuff – oh, and what's this?” Am I overdoing it? wondered Ira, opening the tin container next to it, which rattled alarmingly.

“Ah, no it won't explode” he reassured his captor. “They didn't want it apparently. I don't suppose you could use it?”

Collins had seemed powerfully affected by the tobacco, but the possibility of coffee electrified him.

Ira looked slightly hurt. “Oh well, not everybody likes coffee I suppose – someone...”

But he was cut short by the trusting Collins. ”Oh no, I love coffee.We all love coffee. We just can't get enough of it round here.”

“Oh good. Then it won't go to waste, and we'll be free of a burden going back to town.” Collins had noticed the plural and Ira thought this the moment to mention “I'll just round up John and Johann – they work on the Irish and German prisoners. They should be through their interviews by now.”

 So saying, he gestured largely and carelessly into the interior of the canyon. Turning back to Collins, he said

 “Enjoy the coffee – but keep it confidential. A little loaves and fishes may go a long way, but coffee and tobacco are at a premium.”

So saying, he turned and was met by his two henchmen, emerging from the gathering gloom.

 “About time – no luck either of ye? Well, we really didn't expect it did we?”

 Talking furiously, for the last thing he wanted Collins to hear was the inane chatter of his two friends, he clapped Collins on the shoulder and wished him luck for when the action would start, and he could throw himself into the fray against the enemy. The guard was confused, and now starting to worry about his gifts.

Ira strode like a general through the camp, and men sidled away from the authoritative civilian who could turn out to be anything. From time to time Ira turned to his friends, saying

 “Keep your mouth shut-I'll talk”, then, for the benefit of the guards kept up an authoritative volley of meaningless instruction and observation, anything to make him sound like a a man in charge.

 “You haven't heard the last of this” or “Money, talks. It always has and always will.” This was all verbal camouflage and he had no way of knowing if it was working, except that they were unmolested.

The camp thinned, the horses were fewer and only a lonely dog patrolled. The darkness deepened and the evening cooled. The soft wind of freedom fanned their cheeks as they waited for the cry from camp. Now that they were out, they had no clear idea about which way to go. Would they be thought to be making South for Mexico? Would they be expected to seek help from sympathisers in San Antonio? He couldn't risk Wilhelmina's safety. Ira doubted that they were in any condition to trek to Mexico.  They couldn't get far on the first night anyway. First thing – food.  

They walked steadily southward through the undulating landscape, amused at their own appearance – three presentable gentlemen  strolling through  the wilderness on a moonless night – maybe sleep by day, walk by night, raid a farm or two. They walked all night and camped to sleep as comfortably as possible – not very, but with the dawn, all three were eager to push on and put some distance between themselves and the camp. They saw no-one till mid-morning, when a small group of mounted Indians passed by. They held little hope of concealing their presence from these expert trackers and merely hoped for the best. Within two hours they heard horses again, but not the soft thud of Indian ponies. This time it was the clatter of well-shod cavalry and there was no doubt that they were well-informed as to the fugitives' whereabouts. With sinking hearts they sat on a log and waited for the inevitable. To their relief, the pursuer was a group of well-equipped soldiers commanded by his interrogator of some months earlier. They had dreaded being caught by an irregular outfit acting as judge, jury and hangman.

 They looked with curiosity on their foe and might have been looking in a mirror. These men were professionals, serious and tough but courteous. Ira instinctively knew that they respected their decision to flee. He'd seen their commander before, the man who had interviewed him in the early days of captivity.

 “Thought we'd better get you before anyone else does Sergeant, that is, if you don't want to look up a tree.”           

 Ira knew this was the current euphemism for lynching. He saw that his interrogator now recognised him, and he remembered that the man's name was Caleb.

 “Not much reward for doing your job is it Sergeant, Coan isn't it? But this is war I'm afraid – and the fact is you are just a nuisance. Dare say you realise there's folks here would shoot you –  rob you and blame it on the greasers. We can't spare men – I wouldn't try it again.”

 A detachment of four men marched them, bound together, in a sorry band back to Prison Canyon. Spirits were dashed all round

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SCATTERED TO THE FOUR WINDS

Winter deepened and  Christmas approached. The Band worked overtime trying to keep up everyone's spirits, and acquitted themselves well in every form of music they essayed. However, it was quite unexpected when the Camp's commanding officer, Captain Holmes, asked them to furnish a string quartet for a Christmas Eve function. The invitation was a pretentious and formal one, ludicrous in their current situation. After the coarseness and brutality of his regime, this attempt at Southern Charm, with its thin patina of civility, was felt as an insult, an insensitive order  posing as an Old World courtesy. The written invitation was passed around, causing equal merriment and anger.

 The Band, to a man, refused to contemplate such a course. Their Army instruments had been confiscated and all they had with them was their privately owned instruments, some delicate, some difficult to transport. After much contemplation and discussion, the Bandmaster made a speech.

 “Gentlemen- I presume that by now you are all aware that we have been  issued an invitation. We have been invited to perform for the Christmas Ball at this Camp. I have given earnest thought to this request and have consulted at length with my colleagues. We agree that “charity begins at home,” and that we should honor the season and our own company with a Christmas Concert and Ball, to be held in our own Band room.” He gestured theatrically round the rude barn which they had built and maintained at such great cost. “I would, of course, in the spirit of the season, offer invitations to the Commanding Officer of the camp, but since I cannot recognise his authority, I must decline to do so.”

With a sang-froid which would have done Alphonse proud, the Bandleader formally declined the offer, pleading a prior engagement. Christmas came and went, with much jollity in Prison Canyon. There was a price to pay, however, for shortly after, the prison population went on to half rations. Those who had belts notched them in tighter as stomachs shrank and muscles withered.

 Hopes soared as the entire camp was mustered the following month. The parole, it seemed, was organised. Somewhere, no doubt, three hundred unfortunate Confederates were being readied  for a return to their home states. So it seemed to the group as they organised theselves in company order, ready for the Eastward march, no doubt to San Antonio and beyond to the coast. How their spirits plummeted as they turned right, facing West Texas whence they had arrived, proud, free soldiers all those months ago. On the road again, the same relentless, monotonous tramp and trudge of worn-out boots taking them further and further away from their hopes and dreams of home and family. The rebel guards chiacked them from the comfort of their horses, sleek powerful beasts from another world. Occasionally a couple of the guards would take off for a hunting diversion, a quick scout or just a break in routine. Ira would wistfully picture himself in the saddle, his steed eating up the distances, flying over the harsh terrain, only to come to himself in the grim reality of the bleak nightmare of a forced march. Fort McKavett was the first stop, and here the first company was encamped. The plan was now clear – they would be dropped off at successive forts to break their spirit and their resolve.

 Ira saw that his captors, too, were prisoners of the desert and the situation, which seemed farcical in its absurdity and mean-minded in its intent. Into the pointless Purgatory he marched with his companions, their only diversions being the flora and fauna of the region and such communication as they were able to have with their captors, mostly callow young men with some older officers. In the main, they were sincere fellows, sure that God was on their side. Ira was not sure whether they resented  the duty that took them away from the seat of battle, or whether they were secretly pleased to be peacefully occupied. The news that reached him and his friends was only that which the rebels deigned to pass on, and it was unremittingly awful. There were enough discrepancies between their stories however, to throw a great deal of doubt on their accounts, so Ira was accustomed to adding large pinches of salt to their stories.

As he had feared, they were successively unloaded at Forts Mason, Verde, McKavett, Colorado, Chadbourne and finally, dreary little Camp Cooper, fully three hundred and eighty miles from San Antonio. How ironic that his profession should be his prison. Another season passed, the biting, testing Winter turning into Spring, with its threat of Summer's blistering heat just round the corner. Spirits were low, but the men were resolved not to be broken. With boredom and hunger their enemies, the temptation to defect was strong, but no-one did. Whether or not this relocation was considered a failure they didn't know, but it was June when they were once more gathered and readied for the road, eastward again at least. As they gathered companions at each post, their spirits could not help but rise. Although they were shocked to see each other's condition after six months apart, they were much buoyed by their reunion and again the devil of hope sat on their shoulders.

REUNION AT PRISON CANYON

 Finally, reunion at Prison Canyon. And when they picked up the last company, with the Band, they felt they were headed for the parole they had so desperately yearned for. Shocked by each other's appearance, in mere rags and tatters, they demanded new clothes, and to his credit, the Commanding Officer managed to procure an ill-assorted swag of reasonably sound garments. So comical did they look however, in the ill-assorted collection, that they determined to improve their appearance. They gathered and boiled as much walnut bark as was needed for a large batch of dye, which then rendered the clothes a uniform smart brown, puzzling their captors for some time. However, in mid march they were marched out and turned out into a poor camping spot in the middle of a thicket, and once more left to provide their own shelter. As before, they set to the task, and in  few days, another little village stood, testament, they hoped, to Yankee ingenuity. United, and with some small degree of autonomy, they hoped for the best.

 They were not there long before they were marched eastward yet again, to be camped on an open plain with a tight circle of armed guards surrounding them.    

Here, there was no shelter, nor any dignity. Men  begged permisson to leave the corral to relieve themselves. The guards were too wary to grant favors, except for a few humane fellows prepared to take a risk in the name of humanity.

 Hope was running out. Time was running out. The talk about parole was too well-worn to have any currency.

 “Ve like dead mans – maybe dead iss besser. Vot you tink Ira? Vot you tink Brew?” The German hardly waited for an answer, but kept crumbling pieces of clay in his fingers for lack of anything more productive to do. “I going, besser dead zan stay. Vot you tink?”

Ira and Brewe exchanged looks and nodded. “Got to do something” murmured Ira.

 It was no secret, and soon the entire camp was co-opted into setting them up for the attempt, preparing jerked beef and hard tack to take with them. It all happened smoothly at the end of a September Fall day, mealtime such as it was, being over. The band assembled, and having prepared their program well, began, in the early dusk, to play their best numbers. Spirited marches, waltzes and polkas rang out merrily, and the magic of the music wafted out across the low hills, enticing the bored and weary guards away from their posts. Such a pleasant diversion was not to be missed, and they perched at the perimeter of the hut, watching, guarding and enjoying. But in the gloom behind them passed three shadowy figures, performing the disappearing dance.  

 

 

 

 

 

ESCAPE

A track appeared, lightly used, curving in the general southerly direction in which they were headed. Walking was easier and faster, and after a couple of hours they found a spring by the road, where they drank long and deep. The track branched, and a ghostly white corral fence could be dimly spied in the gloom. They slipped into the entrance to a ranch and waited for their eyes to adjust further. Not too far away were the dim and ghostly outlines of buildings, perhaps a barn and sheds, and possibly a house. Freddy was very interested in this place. He inspected posts, rails, ropes and identification marks before pronouncing “Ziss peoples are Deutscher folk”.

 “A Dutch farm, then” asked Brew. “How can y'tell? Farm's a farm.”

“In Tchermany, ziss how we do – all tied up – all like army – not like in America – sings just anyveres.”

Right then, Germans are neat, and he's probably right, this does have their hallmarks, thought Ira.

All three began to agree on this point, and took great comfort in doing so, for here lay a gleam of hope. Here they might receive succour – something to eat.

Nothing stirred, not even an animal. They approached the garden not far from the house. Oranges hung temptingly in clusters. Plums and apricots too. Quietly, stealthily, they twisted the aromatic fruits from their stalks, then sat down in the dirt, thumbs tearing into the peels and teeth shredding the ripe flesh of the fruits. Drunk with the fresh, cleansing, acidic juices, they rested in the grove, the only noise now being the alarming gurgles of their digestive systems being flushed into urgent activity after long habituation to a meagre and unnatural diet.    

Unwilling to leave their new refuge just yet, they crept to the barn, and despite the fine appearance of the place, it too appeared to be devoid of life, human or animal. Freddy went to the window, which was open and peered in. He went to the door, which was ajar, and stood there for a long time. After a few minutes, he ventured further in, and repeated the process. Still no sound disturbed the farm. The others came in, and soon decided to sleep there Should we post a picket, was the question. No, we should sleep, was the answer – from all three.

Not knowing what to expect, but hoping, in the event of discovery, that the owner would indeed be German and quite likely a Union sympathiser at the least, they resigned themselves to the night, and the barn.

Morning found Ira up very early. Griping pains in his stomach drove him from his comfortable straw into the orchard where he squatted, as his body cast out the powerful fruits of the previous evening. Much relieved, he rose, and found, against the barn, a generous water trough to complete his ablutions. Still no sign of life, and as he walked round the end of the barn, he could see the beginning of a line of tall cottonwood trees, a handsome sight. Carefully, he looked round the corner of the barn, and his blood froze. For there, swinging in the light morning breeze, face blackened, was the hanged body of the farmer.

 Ira felt another spasm in his guts, and retreated to the orchard. He took a long drink and thought hard. As he did, Brew emerged with the same gastric problem. Freddy arrived soon after. It had become clear – the farmer was a German, and a Unionist or a suspected sympathiser. Feelings were obviously running high, and if caught, they couldn't expect any leniency. There was no-one here. The atrocity must have been fairly recent – presumably no-one had any further interest in the place except for loot. The animals seemed to be gone already, and he didn't expect to find much of value left in the house.

 Ira told the other two what awaited them round the corner, and said he was going to check the house. Just as he thought, it was cleaned out. No money or valuables anywhere. But bread and cold meat in a cool room were manna from heaven. The barn was too obvious a shelter to stay in and they didn't feel well enough to travel, so they bedded down in a field nearby, making forays for food and water and even coffee, till they started to feel more settled and ready for travel.

 On the third day, a horse-drawn buggy clattered into the courtyard. Ira spied from a distance, and heard someone enter the house, and emerge shortly after. He heard voices, a woman, a man, maybe another man. He asked Freddy if he understood.  “Zey, know he iss dead – zey lookink.” Soon, they found. The woman cried. It was Wilhelmina.

They went into the barn and emerged with spades and pick. They were going to dig the grave that Ira and company could not, for fear it would indicate their presence. She walked to the fence edge and looked searchingly across the field, this way and that. She called his name in a flat, matter-of-fact way. He emerged, and was glad he did so. It was so good to see her and to know that thus far she had not suffered on their account. She thought they could hole out in San Antonio with friends. They were mostly Germans, a few blacks and some other Texans who were Union sympathisers, but to admit to this was to invite retribution – the sort of retribution that had cost this farmer his life. And he wasn't the only one. There had been a massacre of Germans trying to escape to Mexico. They were being conscripted at gunpoint and declined to serve, but were given away at Nueces Creek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INTERLUDE IN SAN ANTONIO

As for pursuers, their escape had hardly raised any ripples it seemed. They could expect no mercy if caught, but the Rebels had other, more pressing matters on their hands. The Union blockade was effective, and the South desperately needed to get its cotton out through Mexico. It was even using the old Camp Verde camels to take the cotton down to Matamoros, opposite Brownsville. They weren't going to divert valuable manpower to hunt down three fugitives who would probably die of thirst or be killed by Mexican bandits. Ira was now sorely tempted to take the San Antonio option. His clothes were still in reasonable shape, and there were few witnesses to their appearance.

The group took turns to dig the grave, and to inter the poor man. Life indeed hung by a thread here, and Ira badly wanted to write a letter to his mother. When Wilhelmina learned this, she found him paper and ink in the house and he wrote the letter.

“Far away   

September   

Dear Mother    

I write after all this time to tell you I am alive and well. I am still far away but hope to make my way back to you soon. I have friends who help me. As you will know, we were betrayed by our commander and many of his officers . The promise to let us march to the coast was broken and we have endured much. Some of our men went over, but not many. Some went over to get a horse to ride to Mexico and escape. Perhaps I should have done that, but we always expected to be exchanged, but that never happened. I think about you a lot and pray for you as I know you will pray for me. I am sorry that I did not talk more to my father – sometimes I think he is close to me, other times I feel very lonely. I miss all my brothers and sisters and wish I could be there with you round the table and the fire and the piano. I would even go to Church and would listen to father preach if I could.

Your affectionate son   

Ira.”

Wilhelmina thought it was only a matter of time before neighbours or others nested in the empty farmhouse. She thought they should get back into town and plan from there. It was not what they would expect, and there were all sorts of rumours flying about – a possibiliy would present itself surely.

So it was in early October that Ira rode into town in the washcart, huddled down in the fug of dirty clothes, nose pressed to the space between the boards. The clothes were hauled away by black servants who smiled broadly to see him there as if this was one of the best jokes conceivable. Their male counterparts were also busy, working away at various mechanical tasks, building and repairing items of furniture in basement workshops.

 “A few days, Ira liebchen” she said.

 Ira could see the cooper's tools standing idle, and sensed the unspoken plea. He looked at her, she shrugged as if to say “Up to you” and he just said “Sure.” In fact, he felt relieved to be able to work again, to be valuable, to produce something. He found all the tools blunt and the workmanship poor, so he spent some time organising the shop. He called for a man to sharpen the tools while he graded the staves more and more carefully. It was a pleasure, even with this southern timber, to feel the wood flex and bow under his touch. It was a shame, he thought, to waste this opportunity, so he called in a couple of the younger men to help, and to learn.

 What was it about his craft, he wondered as a small crowd built up. Again, he enjoyed the fascination of his audience as his axe clove the staves, as the adze curved the insides, as the shape grew under his hand, as the timbers bonded together into a satisfying artefact. Although they couldn't walk the streets, their life was comparative bliss. The slaves were on loan from their master who was happy just to be paid. The blacks were good workers who only wanted what was owed them –  just like us, thought Ira. Eagerly they devoured the news from home and from the battlefront. It was all distressing. Around them they could see the results in the maimed bodies and disfigured countenances of the poor boys who had been fed to the front – for what? Pay was unreliable, food and equipment were of poor quality and leadership ranged from brilliant to abysmal. Nevertheless, rebel successes were fuelling the supply of recruits, pitting more and more young men against their northern cousins. Northerners who didn't care about slaves shot southerners who didn't own any. On both sides it was a rich man's war and a poor man's fight. The Union could not seem to strike at the right time, McLellan vacillated forever and opportunities were squandered. It sounded familiar  – the same sort of dithering that had marooned Ira in Prison Canyon was now condemning thousands to unnecessary death and destruction. That there would be good reasons Ira never doubted, but what they could be was a great puzzle.

To say they waxed fat would be overstatement, but they did begin to look like healthy young men again, and, judging from the behaviour of Brew, to feel like healthy young men again, for Wilhelmina soon had to ask Ira to ask Brew to desist from pestering the girls, as they did not want to have to send back an “encumbered” girl to her master. Ira feared it was already too late, but dutifully relayed the message.

 Wilhelmina came up with the scheme. The government had asked farmers to cut back on cotton production in favor of food, so that the Confederate states could be more self-sufficient, yet it was imperative that such cotton as was grown should be sold overseas. With the port cities blockaded, this was impossible, but if the cotton could be got to Mexico, the Union had no jurisdiction there. The old Camp Verde camels had been pressed into service, and they were walking the cotton bales into Matamoros, returning with much needed salt from Kingsville. The need for drivers was great, and they did not want to waste fighting men on this mission. There were Mexicans, blacks, all sorts engaged, as long as they could manage a camel. Ira needed to know more, and asked Wilhelmina back to pose a few more questions. It took a little time, but it seemed that the camels were a semi-military operation. The English adventurer H. R. Williams, who had fallen in with a bad lot in the Border Ruffians, had tried to effect a transfer to a regular regiment, but had failed. It seems he had taken on responsibility for the camel operation as the least painful and dangerous option at this time. He was only concerned that the cotton went out, and the salt came back.

 CAMEL RIDE TO FREEDOM

The idea had appeal. To walk in an organised convoy was an appealing thought. To start at Camp Verde was an appalling one. What would be thought of three fit, active young white men presenting for such a non-military task? Williams might not care, but it took only one nosy officer to undo the plan, and undo their lives. More questions needed to be asked, and in the meantime Ira replayed his Fort Bliss camel experiences again and again, passing on the knowledge to Brew and Freddy. If fit, active, young white men were a liability, they discussed alternatives. Fitness would seem essential – it was a long walk and camels need firm handling. “Active” covered the same territory. “Young” could be taken care of with a little work. A slight stoop for one, a dragged leg for another might help. White, too, could be modified – in this racial melting pot there were faces of all casts and colors. Soldierly bearing would have to go, and conversation would have to be limited. Some skin dye would also be helpful.

 Subtle and probing questions were sent Camp Verde-wards, and the answers all seemed to be encouraging. If you wanted a camel, you got one. Load up with two bales of cotton, walk the beast to Matamoros. Don't try to shove off, for if you do you will be shot. Return by way of Kingsville, and load up on salt for the return. You will be fed and paid well.

 The time of the next caravan was found, and the decision made to enlist. One of the hands dropped them a mile from camp, and they walked the rest, practising their characters from time to time as they went. The camels were easy to find, and so was Williams, a sharp-faced character with a shrewd look.

 “You'll take a camel?” to Ira.

“Yes, happy to do it.”

“I'm sure. And your mates?”

“Yes – they too.” Unsure where to place his accent, Ira just wanted to sound a little bit foreign.

“Good. Names?” One by one they gave their names and histories, prepared and rehearsed, and Williams scratched away in a perfunctory fashion at his desk.     

“Thank you gentlemen. Of course, I know who you are.”

The next move was obviously up to Williams. Either he was lying, and said this to all his applicants, many of whom must have been desperates of one sort or another, hoping to flush out a useful truth, or he was telling the truth? –  in which case they would soon know how desperate the cotton situation was. Was the sale of a few bales of cotton worth three Union soldiers' escape? Perhaps the situation was indeed desperate, reflected Ira as they were waved towards the camels. There they were, milling about in a cloud of dust. It could have been a scene from any of the last few thousand years in many respects, save for the gun toting rebels on guard. At least these showed little interest in the gang of three, or indeed, any of the drivers. Not so the camel leaders. They peered at each newcomer intently, and as professional camel men, seemed to scrutinise them for whatever qualities sometime camel drivers might need. Ira hoped that his meagre experience, and his enthusiastic tuition, would prove acceptable. He wasn't too sure when one of the leaders made straight for him. Was the game up already? Was he going to raise the alarm? No, he raised his arm instead, proferring his hand to Ira, who received the handshake with gratitude and warmth – it was Ahmud, his old mentor from Fort Bliss. It was obvious that his trained eye was not just for camels. Gratified to have this professional seal of approval, Ira hastened to introduce Brew and Freddy. Ahmud got it! A smile and a small nod said “You'll be fine with me boys.”

The camels were to set off in file, roped in small groups. Ira and Freddy were second in their chains behind the two leaders, and Brew was behind Ira. Ira watched like a hawk at the lifting session, ready to mimic every move. The camels virtually ran themselves at first, for once the lead camel was up, the others followed. Nevertheless, he mentally rehearsed every command and movement as they walked – and walked – and walked.

 The camels were superb. Nothing bothered them. Hills, valleys, rills, roads, stones and pebbles might have been the turf of Royal Ascot for all the effect they had on these alien creatures. Not only could they manage well without water, but they carried considerable amounts of it as well. Night camps were well guarded and sleep was easy. They passed poor little villages where they took such food as was available or necessary. The guards shot at anything available, from rabbits to stray stock. Occasionally they ate well and otherwise they were sufficiently fed. There was considerably mixed blood in this group, with numbers of Mexicans and some part-Indians  mixed with some evil-looking gringos whose history might not bear repeating. There was not much interaction amongst this lot, and the days of patrol with comrades were far away. The leaders  performed their prayer rituals wherever they happened to be, a strange sight in this new world.

 It was hard to keep his mind on the job, trudging with the monotonous plod of the malodorous beasts. In fact it was easy to dwell on thoughts of  treachery, each step closer to freedom being fraught with the fear of discovery. The three friends were largely alone with their thoughts, and didn't trust each other to remain discreet. It was easier to drop into the taciturn world of the frontier, questions being neither asked or answered. This suited Freddy well, but was not so congenial to the temperament of Brew.

 “Sweet mither o' Jaysus Oira, didja iver hear d'loike'v it? We came here from d'old place to look f'r a few tiny taters t'hold body and soul t'gither. Look at us now – sarvints to the ogliest baste of d'world. We're dependin on dis baste from d'aste t'git us outa here.”

“You're stating the bleeding obvious Brew, as they say – and you've got a loud voice. Keep it down.”

“Why?” Brew looked annoyed, and kicked a large rock carelessly. It skittered in a wheeling arc, to strike another man's animal on a shaggy hoof. The camel jerked viciously and snapped at his driver who fought for control, puzzled at the beast's flare-up.

“Well, that's a good reason for one.” He lowered his voice further, but hissed viciously at Brew. “We're close Brew. You know we've done our job. We're the ones who risked our scalps. We refused to go over to the rebs when our own officers betrayed us. We stuck together out West when we were starving.” He was surprised at his own coldness when he said “I love you Brew, like a brother, but nothing is going to stop me. I used to worry about killing –  I don't worry any more. I will do what I have to do.”

Brew's face was tanned to a dull leathery brown beneath his fine beard, but it was easy to detect the flush that suffused his countenance, displaying both resentment and shock. “Ah, Oira,” he continued, “look at dese fellers” waving a lean arm at the small army of man and beast ambling and plodding steadily southward. “Did'je iver see d'loike. Dey're as ogly as d'camel feller himself. All colors, all shapes, what a crew Oira, a foine crew t'be sailin' d'ship o' de desert.”

Not mollified in the slightest, Ira replied tersely “Yes Brew – they are an evil pack of bastards. And I'm turning into one of them. So I can tell you Brew, they'd sell their mother and they'd shoot their friends.”

“No y' wouldn't.” Brew laughed. “Y'haven't got it in ye. Y'have to be born like dat. Are your folks like dat? Oi tink not. Now Coan, dat's a fonny name. Niver heard dat won back home. Remember the census Oira, back at Bliss? Y'went down as Oirish. Why didja do dat?”

“I didn't. There were so many Irish, he just assumed, and I couldn't be bothered correcting it.”

“But you're American.”

“Yes, but I don't feel it.”

“Sure y'know what y'are.”

“No – I asked my father many times. His father was Mulford Coan, and he fought in the war of Independence. But of his father I know very little. Don't know where he came from except that he was young and he had a brother. My father didn't like to talk about it.”

“Y'don't like y'r pa?”

“He was tough. By the time I arrived he was old – lots of law, lots of Church. But when he was young, I think it was lots of  women, lots of girls. He got a lake named after us, Coan Pond in Oneida County, so you'd think we'd know more about ourselves. I'd like to know. I'd like to talk to him about it, but he's gone.”

“Y'r German Oira. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone except me Brew. What's a German look like then?”

“Ah, dey're little short-assed bastards dat tink too much and are no fon at all, at all, at all.”

Ira marvelled at how difficult it was to stay mad at Brew – in the nick of time too, as the real German lumbered up in the shape of Freddy.

 

 

 

THE END OF A DANGEROUS MAN   

“Trouble, boss” he said to Ira. “That one” nodding in the direction of a solid individual who seemed largely untouched by the privations of war. Known as Lee, he seemed to enjoy special privileges for no special reason, and many suspected him to be a rebel plant. On the other hand, many of the cameleers had shady pasts, but most were sensible enough to keep their business to themselves. Lee not only asked many questions, but was willing to act upon the answers and was a keen lynchman should he suspect anyone of Unionist sympathies. Ira had decided that he was not an agent, but merely an adventurer profiteering from others' weak positions, using fear of exposure to extort money and favors. His aggressive patriotism, Ira felt, was merely a mask for venal schemes. Perhaps it was only natural that Lee's attention should have come to focus on the three, and it seemed that some of the others, hitherto cordial enough, now gave them a wider berth. Lee had taken to leering at them in a knowing way which could hardly be ignored and making loud aspersions concerning their past. The lynch rope swayed ominously in their thoughts. One could respond in only two ways thought Ira – keep one's head down meekly, like a guilty party, or defy the accuser, perhaps precipitating exposure and recapture, or worse.

 Freddy was all for a third way – removing the problem at the source. Ira did not agree, but as the days passed, Lee became unbearable, and was obviously privy to damning information. Ira could no longer afford the luxury of morality. Survival was all that mattered. He and Freddy were finally agreed. They agreed on a ruse, with risks.       

As Lee appeared to be a free agent, inspecting drivers and teams at will, ranging from lead to rear camel, amusing himself as he saw fit, it wasn't hard to draw him into their orbit. The plan was a team effort and was rehearsed at night away from the camp.  One of the surcingles under the camel's girth was almost severed. Within an hour of departure, the frayed cord parted, and the load sagged. With cries of consternation, they plunged for the broken strap, appearing to struggle to hold the animal. At the same time, a large leather looped strap was allowed to trail at ground level, being very firmly secured at the top. The loop had a further stout strap attached, like a handle, all part of the apparatus. Lee the troubleshooter was soon there to fix the problem and heap scorn upon the incompetents responsible. As he bent down to inspect the damage, Ira drew the trailing loop aside to allow Lee access. Freddy took a firm grip of the trailing strap. Ira quickly fashioned a smaller coil which he dropped over Lee's head. As he did so Kate smacked the camel hard with a spiked stick. The animal burst into life, the noose tightened and Lee's neck cracked sickeningly. Freddy hung on to the rope in a vain attempt to restrain the camel, and endured a bruising thirty seconds of pain as he hung on, apparently oblivious to the cries of “Let go! Let go!” By the time others arrived to calm the beast down and Freddy had rolled, bleeding copiously, to one side, the life force that was Lee had long since fled. A terrible accident, all agreed.

If only you had let go, they told Freddy. But they understood his confusion, and for his part, he managed to look extremely mournful, as he was wont to do. Ira was feeling sickened, and guilty, but was nevertheless convinced that it had to be done. His consternation, too, was interpreted in a generous light, and he was advised kindly that these things happened and that he should not blame himself too much. Brew carried on in his usual, cheerful way, to the extent that Ira was compelled to order him to show more respect for the dead. Williams appeared very angry and ordered them to stay, and bury the body decently, then catch up as best they could. This they duly did.

The next few days were surprising. The group was different, and many of the drivers were more open and respectful than hitherto and despite his obligatory show of anger, Williams himself left them alone, as professionals who had proved their worth. They wondered just who Lee was. Whatever it was, they reflected, was no more. The truth was, they congratulated themselves on a job well done – and waited for the coming storm.                         

Now their world was changing. Occasionally they passed other trains of cotton also pressing steadily southwards. One they passed at close quarters, and what they saw raised fresh alarm. Mules and oxen drew ramshackle wagons and carts patched and repaired in the meanest style. Old man and young boys made up the majority of the party, dressed in the most tattered of rags, while the few women rode or walked, often occupied with small domestic jobs of sewing and weaving. Ira was alarmed because, by comparison, his group consisted of conspicuously hale and strong men, strangely absent from the theatre of war. Partly from the desire for normality and a semblance of family life, he had wandered across to them. They watched his approach with no show of interest or enthusiasm.

 “Good morning Sir” he began formally. “May I walk with you?” to the patriarch of the group.

“Sure, son. But why you'd want to do that I just can't tell.” Was there a frown of suspicion about his gray eye? Probably.

“I think I miss my family sir.”

Graybeard chuckled, then rumbled, then roared with laughter. He seemed pleased with himself, as if re-discovering a long-lost skill. Bemused, the other members of the group looked up sharply. Spontaneous laughter was rare. Graybeard softened visibly and said “Wal, this one is jus holdin t'gether son – what's yr name anyway? No, don' worry. Lotsa folk out here not too keen on their names.” He laughed again, softly this time. Ira had an impulse  to tell him the truth, but felt immediately he could not jeopardise his friends.

“Frank” he said, not knowing why.

“Is that Francis?” asked greybeard, and added “I'm Abraham, by the way,” turning to shake hands.

 “Well, yes” he replied “though no-one ever calls me that.” That at least was true.

The family were from Arkansas and had been on the road for months. They had scraped up a team and some bales, and patching and repairing as they went, had managed to keep the group, the mules, the waggons and their families intact so far. King Cotton payday was just around the corner and they were eagerly anticipating the cashed-up return journey. Their clothes were in tatters and it was a constant effort to maintain a sense of dignity, but Ira was impressed with their success in this regard. The war they saw as simply a fact of life. It went without saying that their young men had to defend their state from Yankee incursion. Slavery, abolition and federation were abstracts for them. Such cotton as they had been able to garner had been grown on their small farms, without the advantage, or otherwise, of slave labor. As large, well-equipped wagons lumbered past, well-packed and well-attended by slave and overseer drivers, the tribe of Abraham cast envious eyes on the great wealth represented by the all-important cotton bales.

Ira didn't have too much in the way of tobacco, but quietly shared some with Abraham, whose gentle company he enjoyed. Who did he remind Ira of? Not his father, for sure. Sylvanus was too acerbic, too quick, too imperious to share a walk like this. Asahel! That was who! Abraham was just like his half-brother Asahel, accepting and kindly, with plenty of irony about his eyes. It was a strange fleet that was now converging on King's Ranch and the animals would need more controlling as they drew in ever closer proximity to each other. Neighbouring teamsters shouted at them “Git thim divils off road damn yez.” But Williams rode unconcernedly on, forcing them to give his fleet a wide berth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KING'S RANCH TO BROWNSVILLE

Thoughtful and preoccupied were the three friends as their camel train plodded into King's Ranch, a kind of check-point before the last stage to Brownsville. Already agents from far-off lands swarmed, contract books at the ready, snapping up orders as the teams arrived. Among them were plenty of representatives from their own fair land, easily distinguised by their clipped Yankee accent and Northern style. They were as tough and business-like as any of them, and Ira watched with both fascination and a burning resentment as they haggled and bargained, as sharp and canny as any Oriental market merchant. “Business as usual” thought Ira “while the young men murder each other at the behest of their elders. Where are the wise old men of fable?”

Inwardly he burned with resentment, but pushed the emotion far back in his thoughts, which were focused on escape and self-preservation. No-one else seems to value our lives he thought, it's every man for himself.

Ira wondered when they might get paid- it would be some comfort for all the privation they had endured. He daydreamed. He might yet have an audience for his adventures. Home in Parish, or at a speaking room in New York perhaps. Cousin Titus could well be there. Perhaps Sam would be around. Did he ever join the rebels, he wondered. Certainly, the pay, already in arrears when he was captured, should have mounted up in a most satisfactory fashion by now.

"All roads lead to Rome, do they?" thought Ira. He thought that now, all roads seemed to lead to Matamoros. Teams of every size color and disposition now began to converge on to the central road to Brownsville. A sense of excitement pervaded even their own motley crew. Ira wondered afresh about the character and past of his shady associates. Draft dodgers, deserters, criminals and adventurers, all no doubt with their own story. Hope surged dangerously, and he tried to maintain an even pace and an even demeanour to avoid suspicion.

“Brownsville tomorrow boys.” A few days later, Williams sauntered up to their fire in the evening, in a friendly and familiar way. He was obviously used to command, but had an easy and comfortable manner. He often seemed amused, and for anyone with a guilty secret, this could be disconcerting. But Ira reckoned that Williams, too, was likely to have his share of little secrets, and took comfort from the thought. Williams offered tobacco, always welcome, and they smoked in companionable silence for some time. “You chaps work together well” he offered. They nodded agreement, still wary. “Look like you're part of a real team. Something that gladdens my heart. Here's some coffee – like to brew it?”

 “Yes, a good team is a real pleasure.” He sighed deeply, and drew a comforting lungful of aromatic smoke. You know, when this war broke out, I was sent to scout on those troops coming late out of West Texas. We trailed them for a couple of weeks – I don't even know if they knew we were there. After we reported, I rode in for a closer look. They were impressive, boys. Everything ship-shape, every man fighting fit, a real professional outfit. I reckon Ben McCulloch's mob got off lightly when  they had to surrender –  must have just about killed them to have to do it.”

Three pairs of eyes stared abstractedly into the fire. Three lean, leathery faces tried to reflect mild interest and no more.

 “Men like that are valuable. I hear none of them came over, even when their officers did. Impressive, that. If you know anyone like that, let me know. Such men are valuable indeed.”

Ira was at a loss to know how to continue the conversation, but Brew had no compunction, and started to speak. Ira noticed the flicker of alarm on Freddy's face that reflected his own feelings.

“Tis a divil of a war we're foightin to be sure. There y'are, doin y'r job, 'n doin it well jus loike them sojers y'mention. Everyting runnin loike clockwork, ixciptin d'Injuns – dey run loike the wind.” The pathetic joke afforded an opportunity for laughter, nervous glances and re-composure.

Brew seemed pleased at the rapt attention he was receiving – no-one knew where this might lead. “Oi'm a long ways from home Oi'm tinkin, den, all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, comes dis fella – could be me cousin, he was such a foine lookin fella.  D'great day is comin so he says. And what is dat Oi ask him, could it be de Orphans' Picnic Day, or d'faste day o' blessed Saint Patrick? We'll kape it holy and wet, we will. Ah no, dat's not d'great day at all, he says. D'great day is d'day when all d'Oirish roise op to trow off d'accursed English, and we moight jost start here in America. Bot we already done dat, Oi says...”

But Freddy, alarmed by Brew's looseness, cut in “Damn you Irishmen. Ziss iss new country – new peoples – new government. You still sinkink yourselfs only yourselfs.”

Grateful for the interruption, Ira was about to rejoin, but Williams beat him to it. “Yes, Fenian agents have been everywhere .  Everyone has an axe to grind, but as long as they grind it later I don't care.”

Brew wasn't finished however. “Oi told him good lock, bot he could do it on his own. Oi've seen what y'can do with good order – and oi've seen what happens when it's lost – d'criminal y'got rid of a year ago turns op ladin his army. D'criminal is your jodge.”  Brew drained the rest of his coffee, and quickly stood, swinging round to face Williams squarely. “And good men hang from trees loike the fruit of Hell.”

 A brief silence, and Williams rose, knocking out his pipe as he did. He looked resigned and abstracted. “Remember, gentlemen, that you have an obligation to drive these beasts back North. Circumstances however are strange things – they bring people into strange situations. And should circumstances eventuate in unforeseen ways, I wish you all the very best for your future.” So saying, he walked out of the firelight, and it was the three who looked thoughtful and preoccupied.  

        Brownsville seemed far away from the war, and a market atmosphere pervaded the place. The military here was the least warlike outfit he had seen for some time, for its main job was to facilitate cotton exports. As the cotton went out, in came muskets, explosives and clothing to keep the hard-pressed Confederate forces in action. Ira was intrigued to see Williams in earnest conversation with a newcomer with a thick Scottish accent. He looked mighty pleased with himself thought Ira – possibly a good time to try for the payment promised.

 “Matamoros tomorrow, boss” as he nodded toward the thriving, bustling town across the River. “It'd be good to have something to spend like a civilised man.”

 “Not many of them around here Sergeant, wouldn't you say.”
 

“I'd have to agree with you – I merely said like a civilised man.”  

 Ira's heart beat fast at the disclosure of his rank, but his brain asked why Williams had retained the information till now and why he maintained this information in privacy.

 “Point taken – point taken. Tell you what, and I won't beat around the bush my boy. Here's the thing. I feel in my bones that there is just the possibility, just the possibility, I say, that you and your murderous mates could well take the money and run. I would be left three camel drivers short, and something tells me you would not be sympathetic to the Confederate cause. You'd soon be on the other end of a musket pointed this way – or am I wrong? If so, please correct me. But as you haven't said anything, I will assume that you are a true Confederate man and that you will honour your agreement. That said, it would be a shame for you not to enjoy yourselves – so I tell you what. No pay, but a generous advance on the money due when we get the team back to Camp Verde with the salt.”

Ira was disappointed, but hadn't really expected even this much.

 “Did you know the Roman army paid its soldiers with salt – that's why it's called a salary, from sal, meaning salt. Do you think you'd like to be paid a salary?” Williams never laughed, only smiled, and always watchfully.

“What's it like over there” Ira broke in, meaning Matamoros.

Williams cut to the chase. “It's open territory – our boys can wander in and out, picking up deserters and Union men, you know, the Dutch and the like.”

“You mean Germans.”

“Yes, I do mean Germans, but everyone calls them that.”

“Isn't it neutral territory?”

“Why bless you. Of course it is, but our chaps just haven't heard – impetuous lot, rather undisciplined too, as you have probably noticed.”

Ira had noticed, and knew well just how easily vigilantism could take over in these circumstances.

“Just what do these Union people do in Matamoros?” asked Ira, well aware of the risk in asking.

“Why, they go straight to Mr. Pierce, the Consul, looking for help. They stick together, and some go to Bagdad to try to crew on a foreign ship – where to, only God knows.”

Williams spoke with such good humour that Ira was curious.He seemed in a communicative mood, and Ira was keen to get as much information as was possible. “And Mr. Pierce...”

Williams interrupted “Looks after Union interests in Mexico. He facilitates trade issues and also other problems which come into his purview. It is a matter of trade on which I propose to see him soon.”

This was novel, and as Ira's head jerked up in surprise, he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the other man's eye. Then, like a child unable to hold back, Williams blurted “I have just purchased my freedom. I have met someone so innocent and idealistic that he has sold himself into the service of the Confederation.”

 Ira recalled the eager young Scot he'd seen speaking with Williams the previous day, and he marvelled at the capacity of the human race for idealistic folly.              

 “I am a free man,” went on Williams.

 Ira saw that Williams was beside himself with glee and relief.

 “You have been in a pretty bad place Mr. Coan, but I can assure you I have been in a hell of my own. I have plans and mean to make the most of them.” He paused for a moment, then abruptly dived for a roll of money wadded away in the folds of his jacket.

 “Here's some money, that's for the three of you – I can't give you any more. I know you are determined to get out and you will do what you have to. Not a word of this Coan, you know I also will do what I have to.”

And with the smile of a courteous rattlesnake, so Ira thought, Williams took his leave for the evening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MATAMOROS

Matamoros in the morning was, indeed, a bustling, noisy cacophony of wagons, carts, mules, horses and camels. Again, the camels were separated to give as little trouble as possible and to release them away from the main cotton fleet. With the satisfying rustle of at least some currency in their pockets, they slipped away from their group, and attached themselves to the periphery of larger carts, Bagdad bound. Forty miles away these bales would reach the mouth of the Rio Grande, where they would be gradually loaded on to the ships of the world which rode at anchor in the harbour.

There was little in Matamoros to indicate wealth or stability until they neared the centre of the old town, and Ira saw the old Church in the Spanish style. He yearned suddenly for the smell of incense, the gentle glow of candles, the golden light flooding through the coloured windows, and he saw again the soft profile of Esmeralda Santiago, framed by her lace mantilla. It still hurt to think of her and the dismal thought of her ruined body beneath the desert sands threatened to plunge him into gloom. He snapped himself out of it and motioned to the others to drop off their wagon, which they promptly did. He headed straight for the Church in a business-like way. Others on the cotton train showed no surprise or alarm. They left the clatter and dust of the caravan and entered the realm of silence in the church precinct. As they entered the tiled vestibule, they crossed the threshold into another world. Ira knew how to bless himself and Brew followed suit, while Freddy declined. Ira then noticed a malignant-looking priest who had been watching them the while. As he crossed himself, the lined face softened with approval. Ira went to Our Lady's Altar, and lit a candle, dropping a coin into the box as he did so. The old face softened further.

 Ira re-joined the others, and knelt, not praying, but thinking of nothing at all. A sound in the Sacristy disturbed him in his jittery state, but it appeared to be children, perhaps altar boys, or a choir, arriving for training. Another sound intruded – that of heavy, military boots, and it was growing louder, louder and closer. Ira crossed himself again, and motioning to his companions, moved smartly to the confessional booth. There the three stood, breathing shallow and stomachs knotted as the boots rang across the tiles. Each heel strike sounded like a gun-shot in the airy space of the Church.  

“Not here...hey, Padre...not likely...Yankee scum...greaser priest...”

And the gentle voice of a prelate of the Holy Catholic Church lying through his teeth – “I have not seen these man”.

“Men, men! There are three of them.”

Disappointed, the pursuers clattered away in hope of luck elsewhere. Waiting till the footsteps had completely died away, the three emerged to find the good padre at prayer on his knees. He threw his hands up gently

 “Oh, I am vairy surprise. I think you go.” smiling beatifically.

Brew took it on himself to reply “Well farder, Oi belave d'noint commandment sez y'shall not loi.”

The accent was more than the Mexican could cope with and Ira hastily explained “False witness against thy neighbour.”

 “Ah, but I see no Yankee scum, no bad man – only young man who God love. Come.”

He gestured to them to follow, and across the Sanctuary they walked, to the sacristy where the voices of children were beginning to be raised in song. Past the little choir they walked, to the back door of the Church.

 “There” said Father Ortega, pointing to a substantial pile a good block away, but larger than the other buildings “is Mr. Pierce. He have good heart. God Bless.”

Mr Pierce did have a good heart but was short on solutions. There was indeed a flood of deserters and refugees of all sorts, hoping the Consul would solve their problems. He listened with interest to their story, and promised to do his best. It sounded a weary and well-worn tale and Ira wondered how they would ever make their way back to their own country, as he now thought of the North.

 Life amongst the refugees was desperate, with Union sympathisers mixed with opportunists of all sorts clamouring for passage northwards. What had once been a charming town was now the battleground of Mexican warlords, and life was cheap in this wartime boomtown. Their limited freedom was, nevertheless, heady stuff and the three enjoyed their respite from the misery of captivity.  

“In case you didn't know fellers, there's a war going on.”

Pierce looked mockingly at the three friends, and continued. “It's the Mexicans against the Mexicans – just like us, eh?”

 He gestured from the upstairs window out across the square.

 “Trouble is, they mean business, and if you get in the way – what's funny?”

“We have been keeping out of the way of men with guns for the last couple of years. We'd like to be able to defend ourselves.”

“Just come and look here” gesturing to the large, dome-shaped window again. They ambled to the place and followed his pointing finger. How many rebel soldiers do you see. “Two” replied Brew, but Ira knew, as did the others, that that would be a naïve response.

 “How many?” asked Freddy.

 “About ten. They watch, and they know who's new. They are bored and vicious and this game suits them. The last thing I would advise you to resemble is a soldier. On the other hand, our Mexican friends have no love for the Confederates, and when it suits them they play similar games on the other side. The sooner you are away from Matamoros and Brownsville the better.”

 

 

BAGDAD

Within the week the three were at the thriving port of Bagdad, an ant's nest of activity. Immediately they saw opportunities for work and money. The gently shelving beach sloped away to a shallow sea, packed to the horizon with a forest of spars and masts, ships from all over the world, a world hungry for cotton. There it sat, along the beach, stack after stack awaiting handlers to swing it into the flat scows and lighters which could manage the shallow draught out to the ships. Armies of men tended the cotton, and another army built houses, sheds, storehouses, hotels, brothels and stables for them. Rakish women were abundant and coarse men were plentiful. It wasn't edifying thought Ira, but it was entertaining.  

“I'm working” stated Ira.

“Y'd be a traitor” answered Brew.

“Traitor to myself and my unborn children” he rejoined.

He now had their full attention.

 “Who iss lucky girl?” jested Freddy, ponderously. Then, more kindly, “This serious Ira – you too long in prison.”

“That's just it Freddy – what the hell did you do out there all those months? You can go mad just thinking. I thought a lot. What I really want. We don't really say do we? But I can tell you – I want a family. You know all about me. You know all about Esmeralda. But what about you Freddy – you are our friend but we don't know about your family – you're older. Are you married? Did you run off? Do you have children?”

Ira slowed down, for he saw the moistness in the pale blue eyes, glinting next to the ruddy cheek. Freddy still didn't respond, so he tailed off.

 “The fine folk who surrendered us – they have had their families and their wives – we don't. The cotton brokers at King's Ranch, down from New York – I bet they'll do well out of this. We won't. I still want a life, and I don't want to be a diseased wreck – I'm working.”

In this hive of industry, work was not hard to find. Such money as they had acquired from the camel trip would not last long. In this boomtown atmosphere, the slick and the tawdry jostled for easy money. Ira missed his Esmeralda greatly and thought about her often. He thought about Maria Dolores too, and the youthful memory of Kate was also in his mind, but somehow frozen, like a snapshot which didn't move. He wanted to will it into life, and wanted the chance to talk again, but not as a callow seventeen-year old. How well they would be suited now, he thought. And how he yearned to meet someone he could talk to again, and to share with. How he wanted someone to love. And physically, the ache of lust was as great a torment to him as to anyone, he supposed. Or perhaps not – else how could all these man traipse off to the same seamy mattresses, the same overworked whores, the same sores and diseases. Was he squeamish, delicate, under-powered? No, he didn't think so for a minute. Was he pathetic, romantic, idealistic? Perhaps, and so be it, he reflected.

Brew had no such qualms, and intoxicated by his new-found freedom, indulged all appetites recklessly, and expensively. Freddy, Ira noted, was content to bide his time, and for all Ira knew, shared his own outlook. Indolence was dangerous, and expensive.

Buildings were growing like mushrooms all round them, and the city skyline was appreciably different at suppertime than it was at breakfast. Ira's skill with wood was a valuable commodity again. As the cotton bales marched out of the country, destined for the mills, not only of England and France, but for New York and the home town mills, the beach piled high with crates of incoming machinery, equipment and munitions. Gold and silver mounted high, and needed stout protection. Shacks and shops bulged with goods and money.

 Ira worked and worked. Speed was of the essence. There was no need, and no demand, for quality, and overseers constantly pushed the pace of construction. Nevertheless, Ira reasoned, there were some elements of building which simply can't be hastened, and he began to make himself useful in truing timber to provide a perfect fit in corners and joints. It was the sort of painstaking work which many fudged, but after the demands of quality cooperage, he found it not too irksome at all.

 He was paid in Confederate money, which at least bought Confederate goods. He had decent clothes. He could wash and shave. He could eat well and drink too if he wanted. And he did want. He relished the moments when he could sit in the gloom of dusk, lost in the hubbub around him, relishing a full stomach and puffing deeply on an aromatic cigar. He tried various kinds of liquor, but settled on innocuous Ports, savouring their richness like so much bottled sunshine.

How he would like to play the piano – or the violin – or paint. Something to  lift his mind above the babble going on constantly. Just people, he thought, being people. A throng of ant-like beings swarming in an ant-like city, feeding, working, fornicating –  blow-ins looking for quick money,  desperates like himself looking for a way out. No wonder the bars and brothels were full, everyone needing relief and distraction.

Freddy, he felt, was on much the same wave-length as he was, but Brew was easily distracted, annoying Ira considerably. He felt a moralistic tone creeping into his attitude, and suddenly wondered, to his horror, whether he might have more of his father about him than he realised.

 His mind turned again to New York, the concerts and late night talks with Titus and Sam. He wondered if Alphonse still plied his craft at the piano somewhere. Where was the lovely Margaret Dickson now? Books were important to him, and he wanted to read about the world of science and every new thought and development, to find what new worlds were being discovered at that very moment.

 His greatest luxury, however, was the acquisition of stationery and writing equipment. His letter home  was a difficult but joyous task. He was concerned that in the case of interception, his letter might identify and damn him. It read –

“Dear Mother,

after so long I can write to tell you I am not dead or even injured as so many poor boys have been.  There are many things I can not tell you yet but my fondest wish is to make the journey to see you and I hope to make it happen soon. I hope you are being well cared for and the animals are thriving. Are you a grandmother again? I hope so. I hope life goes on all round you. I would like you to tell me more about father and when he was young. I would like to talk to him, but of course that is impossible. I miss all my brothers and sisters and our friends. It is so long since I saw them and I have had no news. It is nice and warm here and as you know I have no love for the ice and snow. I look forward to the day when I can kiss you hello and we can pick the herbs and flowers again.

Your affectionate son

Ira.”

With the stationery, he also began to keep a journal-nothing incriminating, just a record of random thoughts and impressions that he would like to pass on when the time came. So much time had passed, so much of it so boring that he was afraid that he would lose his memory of it, and with it, lose part of his life.

 

THE RETURN JOURNEY

There was considerable excitement as the Winter turned into a mild Fall. A Federal steamer was rumored to be arriving, and the three friends received word that this would be their ticket home. Pretty sure that their Confederate money would avail them little back home, they lived it up as best they could, and the refugees picked up by the Steamship Ajax were three of the smartest dressed members of that class that anyone could hope to see. Their leathers positively gleamed, and from the crowns of their hats to the toe tips of their handsome boots they looked like three gentleman adventurers. Ira revelled in his appearance, and on consideration, thought that his rugged friends also cut fine figures.

 It was clear that the captain of the vessel was not sure how to treat them either. He was far more deferential to them than they had expected, and Ira found the treatment more pleasant than his original south-bound journey. Time passed slowly at sea, but during the voyage, they had time to think things over and to digest their situation. Ira realised that he was probably scarred for life, and that no matter what happened, he had seen human nature at its worst as well as its best. He was proud of his companions and his company. He was bitter and angry at the system which had sold them out, and which valued property far above mere human life.  

As they entered New York Harbour, they could barely make out the city for the scudding snow. Their eyes strained for familiar sights as the steamer relentlessly paddled and chugged through the steel-grey waters.

Here they were, home from captivity, home from their sojourn in the desert, back from protecting the nation from the savage Indian and the treacherous Mexican.  Betrayed by traitors in the service of Uncle Sam and shamefully abused by their captors, they were now back in the bosom of their native land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BACK ON GOVERNOR'S ISLAND

But a vast, uncaring, impersonal native land it was. It had cares of its own, and struggled to hold its fractious children together in any way at all. Ira and his companions may as well have been ants for all the difference they made to the city. They were obviously a nuisance to their commanding officers and an embarrassment to the merchants of the town. How inconvenient was this war. How difficult to procure cotton and other stuffs from the South, how galling to have to fight for the rights of the black man who, said Brew, would flood the North with their cheap labour. How strange, thought Ira, recalling the girls who were priced out of work in the mills back home by the very same Irish.

 Their company was still in a Confederate prison and the Eighth Regiment had virtually disappeared or been absorbed into other units. Ira was drafted back into the same regiment, in name, but a different company. It was a motley crew indeed, and Ira could not believe the rag-bag collection which purported to be a fighting unit. He felt deeply offended, but conceded that in wartime these minor injustices must occur. He was healthy and entire at least, not like the unfortunates that they saw daily, limping round the city on crutches, limbs missing, faces horribly disfigured, nerves shattered beyond rehabilitation. How well had they been treated he wondered, and who stood to gain? Was this Union worth this price? No doubt Lincoln agonised over every death, but then, he didn't have to face the bullets, did he?

 Ira had at least done his duty. It was what he had sworn to do, as a professional, and as a professional, he expected to be paid. All through his Army life pay had lagged, but it had always arrived, and Ira had begun negotiations to receive his back pay which should by now, he thought, be considerable. The negotiations were difficult and slow, and Ira began to realise that their loyalty was appreciated by some, even admired, but was resented by others, for reasons he could not even begin to guess.

 Things began to go wrong almost immediately. They all wished to rejoin their old colleagues, freed at last, in a re-united Company I, 8th Regiment. They had finally been paroled, but were being subsumed into other Regiments. It seemed that there was no reward for their loyalty, but that the very Regiment whose name they had defended was to be written out of history. There would be no reunion, no glory. The daily round of petty training tasks that he now had to undertake was, at first, puzzling, then galling. His requests for transfers, promotion or meaningful employment were ignored, and he found it difficult to get anyone to address his situation in detail – there was a war going on. It was Brew and Freddy who ferreted out what he needed to know. Sergeant Sykes, of distant memory from his training days seven years earlier, was feeding information to his superiors. He knew Ira to be a soldier of poor character, smug, superior and selfish. It was probable, Sykes had said, that Ira had taken an inordinate amount of time to make his way back to New York, and they only had his word for the manner of his escape.     

Ira knew already that their pay claims were resented, and they became fearful of the outcome. Calming words and platitudes were used to placate them, but all seemed to come to naught. Then the bombshell came – the carrot was dangled in front of them.

“Men, you have here a large claim. In normal circumstances of course, this would not be a problem. However, these are not normal circumstances, as you are no doubt well aware.” He waved down Brew's protest impatiently. “We are at war, and must cut our cloth accordingly. I am empowered to offer you payment of the amount you claim, and bear in mind that it is a large amount, for a period during which the Federal Government received no productive service.” Again he waved down a three-throated growl of dissent “...and have only your word for the experiences you claim to have had.” Here all three broke into vehement  rebuttal which only seemed to incense the officer. He raised his voice which had taken on a strangled quality as he spoke the words “You will receive your moneys on the condition that you sign on for another full period of service.”

Red rage filled Ira's vision. The mildest of the three musketeers was aware of nothing but blinding hatred. He felt utterly paralysed for a moment, he didn't know how long, then he felt himself moving towards the speaker, and as he did, he felt his arms pinioned by two strong men. Their names were Brew and Freddy, who knew him better than he knew himself.

 Their lives had become purposeless and routine. They were odd-job men and roustabouts answering to petty beauraucrats serving out their time in the great city with such dubious priorities. From their own recent experience they now retreated a hundred and eighty degrees, for it was one of their duties to guard Confederate prisoners, as well as to supervise deserters. Their new Company was a motley collection of returnees, conscriptees and misfits, short on experience and long on resentment. Training new arrivals was thankless work, nor was the prospect of delivering them to an equally blind and callow enemy easy to bear. They were moved by the piteous state of the Confederate prisoners, by the floggings of the recalcitrant, the branding and execution of deserters. There was little joy to be had, and each took to his own form of escapism.  Brew visited his family, and celebrated hard with them. Freddy, too, had friends nearby, but Ira found himself unwilling to face his old friends in the city, just yet. It didn't feel right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FURLOUGH

At the first chance, Ira headed for home. It had been so long since he had seen everybody. Already inured to the hardships of the frontier, he felt he had been further refined to the point of extinction by his imprisonment, and wondered how the folks would find him. He was impressed and excited by the great new railway development. Again, he felt a surge of pride in the know-how of his nation, and he felt a thrill of power as the great machine pulled out of the Grand Central Station, leaving behind others of its kind. He felt cocooned in his steel cage as it steadily picked up speed, swayed, moaned and hooted its way out of the city. The sense of power seemed limitless as houses, rocks, hills and trees flitted past. And to top it all off, it belched a mighty plume of smoke to mark its passage. The world went into reverse as the sea, the city and the river collapsed into a jumble, then a smudge as his train rattled ever onwards. The mighty locomotive fairly ate up the miles as as it made short work of the gentle gradients and sweeping curves of its water-level track. The canal, which he could see from the window, looked like the relic of another world, ho-hum and workaday, as the barges, in their patient plodding mode, looked frozen in time and motion. Only the bobbing heads of the mules, and the thin column of smoke from a shipboard hearth, betrayed any movement at all. His past life seemed to kaleidoscope into a jumble of images as he reeled in the towns en route.    

“A penny for your thoughts mister” came from an older man sitting opposite.

 “Better to save your money I think” answered Ira, roused from a deep study, of what, he could not recollect.

 “On the contrary, I would give more than a penny to know what is going on there. The eyes are the windows of the soul I believe.” And leaning forward he confided “And from what I read in your eyes, I feel you may be quite a disturbed young man.”

Ira was somewhat offended. He didn't want to be read in the first place, but then it did seem again that his face was an open book. He was wary. He wondered if this was the first feint leading to an offer of spiritual counselling. He'd warded off experts in the past, and was prepared to do so again. He could try distraction or enter a theological dispute. There was no winning the latter with a zealot, he knew. He decided on distraction.

 “Interesting paper there” pointing to the regional gazette the other had been reading.

 “Didn't think you would have noticed that, young man.”

“Ira.”

“ Henry.”

They shook hands, and mildly chastened, the older man let drop his enquiry, for the moment.

 He smiled, and folded the paper open to a favourite page. “Been carrying this around with me.You a writer?” Ira smiled with a small satisfaction. “You don't look like one.” The smile disappeared. “You look like a mighty powerful thinker. Thinking frightening thoughts too. Better to have a laugh now and then. He handed the paper over to Ira. “Have a look at that. Good piece of writing that. I keep reading it – makes me smile.”

Guard down for the moment, Ira took the paper and read   “ LETTER FROM CARSON CITY” from the Territorial Enterprise Feb 3 1863. It was a good piece of writing and it did make him smile. It was by a Mark Twain (who he'd never heard of). The words were soon forgotten, but the tenor of the piece stayed with him. It was strange, but it felt like an old friend, the sort of book you don't want to finish because you enjoy the company of the author. And the name of the author – Mark Twain! Strange, to say the least. It was familiar, but just where had he come across it? It was going to bother him, he knew, like a nagging tooth, until he did something about it.

He became aware that Henry had asked him a question, and was waiting for an answer, but what the question might have been he had no idea. It was obviously unimportant, for Henry simply said “A mighty powerful thinker.” Back to square one thought Ira, but he seemed a decent fellow.

“Mark Twain” he asked, “do you know him?”

“Not at all – used to be a riverboat captain or somesuch.”

Ira wondered if his captivity had changed him, affected his mind. His face was obviously falling into a scowl as he reflected, and now he was grasping at strange little facts which should have meant nothing, but tantalized him with shreds of memory.

Soon he was deep in conversation with the kindly, older man (why, Ira wondered, did these older men always want to help him?). He was shocked to discover that he had lost one of his two sons in the War, yet his face showed no trace of the bitterness he must have felt. He not only understood Ira's feelings, but expressed admiration for his endurance and ingenuity. It was balm to Ira's bruised soul.

 Ira bade his companion farewell at Syracuse, where he completed the last stage of his journey. The home county looked business-like and industrious, as factories pumped their energies into munitions and goods for the great city and the great army. No-one recognised him on the road until he neared Parish. A couple of heads went up sharply, a few pairs of eyes, older now, squinted through the Winter haze – some nods, a couple of cautious smiles. He felt like an impostor, an eleven-year old in the body of a grown man, as he approached the house.        

No animal welcomed him. No flower bloomed in the crisp late Winter air. A thin wisp of dense gray smoke stood against the dull sky. He pushed the door, and it opened easily, still oiled. A warm exhalation rolled out of the interior, filling him with the ancient scents of childhood. Smells of the hearth, of the kitchen and the bedroom. Blankets, ropes, linen-oils and tinctures, herbs and medicines, apples and plums all combined in a heady mixture that struck him dumb. Not that it mattered, for no-one was there. A low fire burned steady in the grate. His father's desk had been brought into the sitting room, and on it, folded, was his own last letter. The table was bare save for some dried flowers and herbs arranged for tying. He abstractedly picked up a small posy and smelt it.

He wandered through the house, noting all his old things. There was his father's Bible. The companion volumes of religion had thinned out, and there were more pictures in the house. There were lovely gay paintings on the wall, by an unknown hand. And there was a very interesting carved figure on the mantel – rather like Madonna, when he looked at it.

 Frances was nowhere to be found. Bitterly disappointed, he tried outside again. He wandered hopefully into the garden, with no luck until he heard a bell. A young goat he didn't know ambled forth to greet him and he saw it had emerged from the other side of the potting shed. He approached, but pulled up short . Sitting as still and silent as if she were dead, was his mother. In front of her was an easel, half-filled with an image which would make a natural companion, he knew, for the new items already in the house. He approached gently and quietly, but her eyes were unseeing, fixed, straight ahead. He waited. Frances' eyes blinked, ever so slightly, and ever so slowly she turned her head. Relief flooded through him. She faced him and looked, saying nothing. He felt the posy in his hand and  lifted it up.

 “Mighty fine flowers mam; care to pick some more with me?”

Her eyes widened, then crinkled as the tears began to flow – and flow. She stood, and he noticed how stiffly she seemed to move now. How small she was, as he enveloped her in his passionate embrace. So much older, smaller, alone, and yet more like a young girl than ever.

 Recovering herself gradually, she tidied up her paints and washed the brushes. Clinging to Ira's arm, she guided him round the garden, picking over stray twigs and leaves which had weathered Winter's blasts. Ira enjoyed the trip down memory lane, though pickings were so slim. They paused in front of the wood-heap, which was well-stocked and orderly. Ira was pleased and relieved to see that she was managing, or being looked after. He built the fire up, and together they began to peel and chop for the evening meal, a substantial meal, he judged from the quantity of the ingredients hauled from the larder. Gradually, the ingredients formed themselves into discrete accumulations, destined to be  flapjacks, soups and stews. To be back in the kitchen with his mother was at once comforting and distressing. All too clearly he saw the signs of age upon her face and in her movements. But as she worked, her movements were precise and deft, and the old songs appeared in snatches, only to fade away again.

 The work under way to Frances' satisfaction, they retired to the dining table to eat the first instalment, simple pancakes! Ira noticed that she still sat straight, her hand was steady and her eye was calm. Frances sighed deeply, and sat back, as if to focus better. She looked at him for a long time, while he continued to eat.

 “We thought we might not see you again.”

“Who's we?”

“Your father and I.”

“Did that upset him?”

“You know how much he loved you.”

Ira now looked long at his mother.

“Yes, I think so. But he had a funny way of showing it.”

“Yes, I dare say you're right. We're all different, and most of us can't help what we are. He always did his best for you.”

Ira looked away, and noticed again the wooden object on the mantel. Frances saw him looking.

“Your father was a man of many talents.”

Ira was shocked. Was she implying that Sylvanus had created this frivolous object, with no apparent use, other than to amuse and distract?

“It was among your father's possessions, wrapped in cloth, with some other strange things.”  

“What sort of strange things?”

“Well, there were some old books – let's see, a kind of notebook, something in another language.” Suddenly Ira was reminded of his mother's rudimentary education. Excited, Ira asked  

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

“These books, notes, journals, objects.”

“Oh, they're all over the place by now. Lorenzo and William have some, and Asahel of course, he loves all that old stuff. But I saved this one” gesturing at the carving. She added slyly, “I felt I'd seen it before.”

Ira now examined it more closely. It felt familiar indeed. He couldn't tell just how old it was, except that its age was considerable. He saw now that its form was drawn, just like his Madonna, from the suggestion inherent in the grain and shape of the wood. The artist saw his material in the same way that Ira did. Could his father have ceated this?

 “I couldn't say. I never saw it till he died. But your father is a man of many talents and he lived a full life before I met him.”

“Yes, too full some say.”

“Yes, some do say, but that is not your business Ira.”

Ira changed the subject.

 “How are Kate's folks?”

 Frances responded blandly “They seem well after their own fashion, which is a boisterous one.”

 “Did you know most of the men in my company are Irish?”

“Yes, you did mention it.”

“Well, they were still out there in Texas long after I escaped. They were starving and dressed in rags. They were good soldiers and I trusted them with my life.”

He decided to change the subject again. “And you can't recall having seen this before, anytime?”

But Frances countered with “Well, he can't have made it for me, or he would have given it to me.”

 Ira felt guilty about his Madonna, and wished he hadn't brought it up.

 “I would always be happy, son, just to see a man create beauty with his hands. I'm so grateful that you are alive – just to be alive. Some of the boys here won't be coming back. And some would have been better off dead. And tell me what they died for. We are nowhere near the fighting, but it's like a disease in us – we can't enjoy ourselves when some mothers will never be the same. Their sons are gone – and who killed them? Other women's boys.” Her eyes were looking abstractedly and wide toward the door and she was speaking in a whisper.

 “Have you ever killed a man Sergeant Coan?”

It was a question he dreaded and his long and anguished pause gave him away.

 “Aye, mother, and if I hadn't, I'd be hanging from a tree this minute.”

They talked as the fire ebbed and glowed, and she learned the story of  Texas, of the villains and cut-throats who roamed its plains. She learned of the wild Indians and their exotic ways. She learned of the mountains and deserts of New Mexico and the far-flung sands of Arizona, and little by little, gleaned the existence of another culture, older than their own, which had visited the Indians first, and who, like the Irish apparently, had attractive qualities to offset its well-known vices. She appeared to enjoy every sceric of information about Maria Dolores, Ira gradually realising that she was mightily relieved that he was not a frequenter of brothels. And she cried over Esmeralda, for Ira and for her own past tragedies.

 As he turned in that he night, he reflected that, for his mother at least, the golden sands of Hawaii had not been so far away that evening.

 

A FAMILY PICNIC

The week at home was both rewarding and unsettling. He visited the Coan farms. They even met up at Coan Pond where they fished and boated. He talked once more with his sisters and their babies, and envied them their daily round of work and play. Lorenzo and William were welcoming of course, but Ira's moment of glory as a returning patriot was obviously a little irksome for them. Older, and safer from military duty, was Asahel, his step-brother, whose imaginary presence had sustained him in bleak moments.

 It was at Coan Pond that Ira managed to get Asahel aside. “Asa” he began “were you there when father died?”

“Unfortunately Ira, no, but almost. We knew he wasn't well, he was nigh on eighty and was a hard-working man. Fanny said “I'll make coffee.” He went to the table in the garden and when she brought the coffee out, she thought he was asleep. May we all go the same way.”

“Did he leave anything behind?”

Asa laughed, and said “Yes, everything.”

“Alright” he continued, “I know what you mean. Most of us are not that interested Ira. The past, they say, is a closed book, and many of us are not good readers. I'm interested, you're interested, and just a few others. Look,” gesturing at the festive family scene, “they're in the here and now. There's children to be fed, farms to work, hymns to sing. We all have to find our place. I'm Farmer Coan. Our father was Coan the Cooper some time ago. People think of him as Coan the Magistrate. He thought he was Coan the preacher.” And with a dry smile “I can only guess what people thought of him in the old days, when he was sixteen to about thirty – or more.”

 Ira didn't like this, and scowled. Asa burst out laughing.

 “Ira, you're a man of the world, you've travelled across the country, you've been up and down the waterways, you've got friends in the City – what a piece of work is man, Ira. Our father was human, very human” wryly. “But you want to know about the wood don't you? There was quite a bit of it. Some of it father made, and some of it he didn't, and there are bits and pieces from way back – that interests me Ira, and maybe it interests you, but it doesn't interest everybody. Just as well, we can't live in the past.”

It had been twelve years since Ira had been at a gathering anything like this. Then, he was a lad of fourteen, smarting under his father's stern rule. Now, he was a man of twenty-six. Then, there was little conversation to be had without supervision. All absences had to be explained, and all discussions reported. Now, he had in front of him living family history. He had his own brothers and sisters, and Asahel's siblings and their families.

It was strange to be in the company of so many kinsfolk after his life in the Army and his sojourn in captivity. As Asahel had implied, he had had the opportunity to see humankind at its worst, as well as its best, and he looked with a kind of wonder on the old and new life around him. Small Coans rolled and chased on the grass and in trees, while the older ones ate, drank, smoked and chatted, for the most part amiably. Taken all in all, and at face value, they were a pretty good lot he thought, genial, thoughtful, helpful.

Conversation, of course, always came back to the War, and it was here that things got a little sticky. It was his mother herself who put the case most strongly, surprising to the group, as she had rarely ventured an opinion on matters political.

"You wouldn't remember, son", she started "when your father was against the Masons."

"He was always against something or other" he replied.

"He had his reasons Ira, and they were good ones. He was prepared to kick up a fuss, and people like that are always unpopular. He loved his country, and he was bothered by what he saw."

"Just what did he see?"

"He saw the old world, Europe – and its corruption. He believed in America for Americans, every man his own master, no secret deals with politicians, old families and the English – especially the English."

"Well, isn't that an old story."

"There are plenty of people around here who were with the English in mind and body. They're people who did well under the English. Your father was concerned that the Masons would form a secret society – right or wrong, they were pretty effective Ira."

She went on at different times during the conversation to say

 "I find it hard to believe that people down South could be any worse than the ones we've seen here. You went off to defend people from the Indians, and what did you get? Imprisoned by the people you protected.

 We didn't know if you were dead or alive. Boys around here have been dragged off by bounty hunters, who'd sell them into hell for a few dollars. The Government condones it. It even encourages it. The mills are quiet, but there's still some cotton coming in. Where from? Working folk are worried about the negroes taking their jobs. I think they might be right – are our boys dying so that they can come and take our jobs? Your father hated slavery, you know how he felt about it, but I'm not sure he always thought it through. The last thing I ever thought Ira, is that the Army would be required to kill Americans – and I'm glad you were safe in prison.. The Smith boy came home last week, but no-one can get a word out of him – he'll never be the same again.”

From Frances, this was powerful talk, and the genial Asahel was disturbed by the passion of Frances' words. He took Ira away from the heat of Frances' speech to meet distant relatives, unknown or unsuspected. Ira took the opportunity to talk to them, and dug deep for any nuggets of  gold amongst the usual dross of ancestral memory. He consulted as many of the older members as possible, and of course they were pleased to be  deferred to. Asahel, with his interest in antiquity and longevity, was an invaluable ally, and a skilful negotiator.

 Why, our ancestors are Dutch, of course, was one opinion. Everyone knew that, and had always known it. Had they not left from Rotterdam, and had not someone sometime seen the papers to prove it?

Not so, said another. Her family was pretty sure that the ancestors came from Wales. This was a new one to Ira, and he rather liked it, for he liked the Welsh. After all, his mother came from that stock.

Sadly, another opinion was interposed. His original American ancestor was one of two boys who travelled with their wealthy father from Germany. The man was killed for his money, and his body thrown overboard from his ship bound for America, the two boys being left to fend for themselves.

Bit by bit, a picture emerged, with the main theme being that of two German brothers, orphaned, arriving in America and being adopted into American families. Their names, as far as known by posterity, were George and Peter, and they had arrived into New York on a place called Nutten Island. Strange name, thought Ira, and wondered just where it might be.         

How much of this information Sylvanus had known was impossible to tell. Gaylord and Lucy, Sylvanus' siblings, were long since dead. Gaylord's son, the famous Titus Coan, could well know something, but he was still far away in Hawaii. Young Titus, now where was he? He had graduated and was now a surgeon, he was given to understand. He made a mental note to search for him back in New York.

The week passed quickly, and with her youngest to care for, Frances grew younger and more animated. They talked, and Ira was intrigued to find that he enjoyed the companionship in a way that he had not experienced since his happy times with Esmeralda.

 Ira had expected that he might be seen as something of a war hero, but such was not always the case. While farms back home were foundering for lack of workers, away at the front as soldiers, the assumption was that those men were living comfortably, well-fed and clothed at the expense of the Government and the people. This view was promulgated in the Press and in vain did Ira explain the lack of pay, the dearth of footwear and the uncertainty of rations. In many cases, the hardships he had borne in prison were dismissed as a trifling prelude to the real action. Everywhere there was a conviction that this war was being fought for others, for monied interests, traders and industrialists who might risk their capital, but never their lives. Preachers and churchmen too were loud and strident in committing others' sons to battle, and the moral stance of the government was enacted by an iron fist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REUNION WITH TITUS

The trip back to New York and Governor's Island was tedious, and Ira chafed at the thought of more pointless work, far from his old friends, training men of questionable character and ability. Most of them would never make it to the battlefront and would be of little help if they did. On the Island itself were a few Confederate prisoners, the officers being treated quite well, reminding Ira bitterly of the vast gap between his treatment and that of the officers responsible for his plight. These soldiers, he knew, were mostly decent men, or boys, fighting for a cause they at least believed in. Ira considered that they had been at least as ill-used as his companions, but their officers were more approachable and democratic than their own, despite all he had been led to believe. He had seen them often enough, gathering together to put together a dinner, a concert or even a party, just as he had back in Prison Canyon. And, he noticed, they evinced the same spirit of solidarity and cheerful defiance as his group had done, all those months ago, that already seemed like years. How futile it all became. The real struggle, he thought, was back on the home farms, making families, schooling them and feeding them, creating families and communities with aspirations and skills. Now he began to feel more and more like a tiny cog in the vast Federal machine, coercing, forcing and shaming unwilling men towards the ultimate aim of the mutual destruction of their brothers in the South.

 The loyalty which he had always given unquestioningly now seemed a  foolish commodity, the notion of an unsophisticated provincial. He longed to know more, and remembered his resolve to find Titus. It was more easily said than done. He re-traced some of the old dwelling places and bars where they had met, and found much that had changed. But he soon ascertained that Titus had graduated and was employed at Bellevue Hospital. They met again. No longer youths, but young men poised at a crucial moment in their own, and their nation's, lives.

They met for coffee, and made an odd pair. Surgeon and soldier circled each other warily, each aware of their juvenile gaucherie, when ideals and ambitions were lofty and cheap. Titus still carried books, Ira noticed. It gave him the air of a perpetual student, which warmed Ira's heart. Ira knew by now that people saw him as a “tough nut” despite his modest stature, by virtue of his serious air, and his neat and military bearing. It was an impression he was keen to maintain, as it saved him a good deal of trouble. He could see Titus appraising him with new eyes. Titus was no man of action, it seemed.

“Father continues to save the world, or at least the South Seas, for Jesus...” Titus answered Ira's question, “...whether they like it or not.”

Titus' dry manner entertained Ira greatly, though he found his relative stiff at first. Titus Coan Senior, although a famous missionary, esteemed by American society at large, seemed to have found little favor with his ambitious son. “Like Brutus, my father is an honorable man, but, as far as I am concerned, misguided.”

Ira considered how each of them had a problem with his father, and wondered just where the fault might lie. From Titus, he learned of the latest developments in music, art and literature, as well as in various branches of science. He felt he would have little of interest to tell his cousin, but found him an avid listener as soon as he began to essay his story. Of great interest to Titus were his encounters with all exotics, and he was virtually spellbound as Ira recounted his meetings and dealings with the Indians. Other emotions were evident too, as he told of his relationship with Maria Dolores and his love for Esmeralda. Race relations were of vital interest to Titus, and he was curious to know just where Ira's sympathies had lined up.

 “You know our family, Titus – we've all just met up again – cousins from all over.”

“Actually, cousin, I don't. I'm a lad from Hawaii, remember. As it happens I have no wish to return.”

“Don't you?” Ira cut in, surprised. Sometimes it's all I ever dream about – just going far away, where I've never been – where there are no wars, no history, a clean slate.”

“Sorry cousin – no such place. You see, people are the problem – people like my father, actually.”

Here we go again, thought Ira, and changed the subject.

“Well, can't help dreaming. By the way, I've been checking on the Coan family history.” Titus looked up abruptly from his coffee.

“Hope you've done better on that score than I have. Father seems not to know a great deal about it. Something about two boys, orphans.”

“Does the name Nutten Island mean anything to you? “

Titus, always eager to show off his considerable knowledge, was immediately transformed into the card player about to play a trump. Highly amused, he replied

 “Why, cousin. It's your home. It's the old name for Governor's Island.”

Ira had one of those topsy-turvy moments,when the world rotates abruptly through 360 degrees, before taking on again the appearance of normality.

 “As it happens, I do know a little about that place” went on Titus. “It was the entry point for thousands of newcomers from Germany. They're called the Palatines, Germans from the Rhineland actually. Had a couple of Winters that wiped out their vines, and a few decades of depradation by the French troops let loose by the Sun King. You think that's where we come from? Wouldn't surprise me – I shall make enquiries.”

Ira was pleased – and regretful. He regretted that his education had been so brief. Here was Titus, with the keys to the locked door of History and the confidence and know-how to track down their shadowy past. Even as they spoke, Titus made copious notes in a fat book, already much used. Even when he slipped into a superior or supercilious mode, the note-taking made Ira feel important.   

They talked of the War again, and Ira confessed his frustration at his present situation, training unwilling recruits with little military skill or aptitude, satisfying quotas provided by greedy agents for cynical commanders. The very men he had to guard, captured Confederates, were more like brothers to him than most of his colleagues. The years spent guarding the settlers and patrolling the West now seemed wasted, a cruel joke, and his own trials in the wastes of Texas were lightly dismissed in the excitement of the present conflicts. Titus, however, was steadfast.

“When the War broke out, Ira, I wrote to my mother saying that it was a great and glorious war. I said that because I believe slavery is a terrible thing and I still believe it.”

“Have you visited the slave states?” asked Ira. “I've seen something of them at least, and it's not quite what you think.”

Titus bridled “Are you sure you know what I think?”

Ira ploughed on.

 “Sam Houston's people were well fed and they seemed really happy, a jolly crowd, Titus. The fellows I guard, the rebel prisoners, they wouldn't own a slave between them. And a lot of the slaves are hired out in the community, and they don't have a bad life at all.”

Titus had colored considerably in the last minute, and exploded.

“Ira, you understand nothing.” He paused, thinking furiously and face grim. “The slave states, cousin, are dominated by the old families from the English planter class. A minority of them own a majority of the slaves. It is they who make the money, it is they who make the laws, it is they who declare secession. Of course they treat their slaves just as well as they need to be treated to make money out of them. Where their farming practices are inefficient or backward, or unproductive, they can hire out their negroes as tradesmen, working alongside the rest of the community. They keep as much as is required to keep them alive and productive. If they like their life so much, why are they so willing to leave it to escape up here? Have you heard of the Underground Railway?”

“Yes.” Ira did know of the clandestine operation that smuggled blacks northward. “Yes, I know of it. And I know that it's causing a lot of fear about jobs here. The Irish don't want them, they're afraid the blacks will put them out of work.”

Again Titus looked apoplectic. “And just what did the Irish do when they arrived here? They grabbed every job going. And did it cheaper. Of course they did. They were starving and desperate, and if they'd been treated decently by the English, they wouldn't have come. And if the negroes had rights and could make decent lives for themselves, they would be happy to stay where they are. No-one likes to leave their home. It's a frightening step. They came from Africa, but no-one asked if they wanted to come here.” He paused, and Ira for the moment had nothing to say.

“Those two boys, where did they come from? The Rhineland. Did anyone ask them if they wanted to come here? They were orphans, parents must have died on the voyage. If they are our ancestors, what do we know of them? Nothing. The old world and its old despots carving up the globe between them. Things have to change, they must not go back”.

Here Ira was abruptly aware of his father's voice, and something of the fanatic still seemed to echo in that memory.   

There was no stopping Titus, who was really worked up.

 “What upsets me Ira, is the apathy of the  mob. As long as we can fill our bellies we look no further than the end of the month. All these poor fellows marching to their death for a half-witted notion of rights and duties. Yes, they're good fellows individually, but we're fighting here for a cause.”

 “I thought we're fighting to preserve the Union, not to free the Negro.” Titus groaned. “Ira, can you never see the larger picture? Abolition has been coming for years. This was brewing and everyone knew it. The  Southerners did as one would expect. They want to protect their “property” and their way of life, no matter how wrong or cruel. It is the  behaviour of the mob that frustrates me. They're caught up in their own petty notions of chivalry, honor and state rights – they march out stupidly to do others' dirty work. And on our side, do we question our own commitment? Is this worth fighting for?”

“That's my question really Titus. Is it? So many dead. So many maimed. The worst of human nature. Families starving at home. We have to work out what to do with deserters. Do we shoot them? Who has to do that? And why did they desert? Mostly because they didn't want to die. But there are some who only went home to save their family from ruin. Who can blame them. I don't see much humanity.”

“And that is my point Ira. You have to look at the larger picture.”

“I'm sure you're right. But most of us are only human and we deal with humans. If we all treated each other decently...”

“Good luck Ira. You would have to start a new religion. The Mormons started up your way didn't they, but then I suppose everyone has a go at playing God up there. My father has done his best to civilize the Islanders, but they're best left alone.They were happy enough in their own barbaric way before we came.”

“By the way” Ira continued “I don't suppose you've heard from Sam.”

“Funny you should mention – yes we write, and occasionally meet” replied Titus. He rummaged in his copious carryall, eventually producing a neatly folded piece of newspaper. Ira had seen it before, on the train on the way home. And suddenly, the tone of the article became clear. The voice of the author was that of his old friend, Sam Clemens, but the signature was that of a “Mark Twain”. Ira was delighted, for he had found the article stimulating and refreshing, just like the old Sam's company. It took a moment to recollect when he'd heard the name, or the words at least, used by Sam. It was back on Coan Pond all those years ago.

“Very amusing, of course” Titus remarked “just like the old Sam. Of course, he's not what you'd call a writer. Here” and he rummaged further, producing a slender, beautifully bound notebook filled with writing in an elegant hand. “These are some of the poems  I've written recently. Would you like to ...” and he checked himself in the act of proffering the book to Ira.

 Obviously, thought Ira, he couldn't be trusted with it. Ira spent the next five minutes squirming as Titus read selections of his works to him. It wasn't that they were bad, but poetry was personal, and not everyone's cup of tea in Ira's opinion.

Titus seemed pleased at the meeting, ending on a note of personal satisfaction for him, and of some mortification for Ira who felt lectured and patronised, though Titus was unaware of it.

Titus rounded off the meeting in a formal manner, taking out his pencil again, and making notes, reminding himself and promising Ira to:

 Research Palatine Immigration records for the Coan family.

Ascertain the whereabouts of, and establish communication with, Samuel Clemens.

CONSCRIPTION RIOTS

The meeting did not help Ira to reconcile himself to life back at Governor's Island. New York and the Army itself were now a prison to him, and the blindness of command and administration was galling. He knew that he was no longer the same person who had enlisted all those years ago, or the one who had re-enlisted in Fort Bliss, nor even the one who had been captured by the Rebels. He was somewhat thrown by the Nutten Island co-incidence, and felt haunted by the presence of his little ancestor there. He spent considerable time wondering just where he had arrived, and slept. Who had taken care of him, and how had he and his brother propogated the tribe of Coans that had now spread out across several states? What exactly had Sylvanus known about it, and why was he so severe on the Irish, if they too, had arrived from the same impulse? He had taken, in recent years, to lazily identifying with the Irish. He liked their speech and their manner and they provided him with most of his friends. The larger Irish community was a convenient one to work with, and there were many educated and scholarly members of their community to counter his father's typical view of the Irish, and one also promulgated extensively in the press, as ignorant, drunk and violent. He now had to accept that he was from different stock altogether, and the realisation unsettled him.

  The quality of the recruits coming in was at times truly appalling, and Ira was distressed at the prospect of new draft laws. He had come to believe that it was the quality and resolve of the Army that would win the war, not vast reserves of men herded from one state to the next, pillaging, burning and raping. What hope was there for an honorable victory unless there was some attempt to win the hearts and minds of the South. And if the victors were seen as brutes, what hope was there for a future together?

       Industrial trouble spilled over into the War as well. The longshoremen were striking for more pay, and one could hardly blame them, but the Government was in no mood to tolerate any disruption to its supply of armament. The prisoners, Confederate and Union, were marshalled to load ammunition in place of the recalcitrant longshoremen, and Ira and his cohort supervised them with bayonets at the ready.

      In June 1863 there arrived two unfortunate young men arrested as spies, but many thought they were merely foolish victims of their own bravado. It was a very serious business, with a drum head court martial convened in a tent out on the sward. From outside, one could see the flicker of candles and hear the rise and fall of heavy, pompous male voices. The air was thick with tension, and in the morning a special squad was convened for the execution. The two young men were ceremonially strung up while standing on a buckboard, which was then driven off. Ira thought them brave; some seemed to think they were merely foolish, but few were not sickened to the core by an experience which demeaned them and their nation.

      He talked about it with Titus, and found the conversation helpful, though solving no problems. Titus was busy now at the Bellevue Hospital, and as an assistant Surgeon was embarked on his medical career. When Ira told him of his frustrations, Titus was thoughtful. He swirled his coffee, and inspected its dark brown depths abstractedly, saying “You've done well to be a Sergeant at your age, but is there no possibility of advancement to Officer rank?”

 “Until the war broke out, that was the plan” replied Ira.

  “And what's happened to that plan now?”

 “I've lost my ambition, I think. It just doesn't seem worth it. I would have done what I had to for the country, but damned if I want to do others' dirty work for them.” He paused for a moment, wondering whether to unburden himself. “Fact is, I don't think I have any patriotism left in me. No-one seems to appreciate my efforts – in fact, there are some who are going to great lengths to humiliate me and I don't know how much more I can stand. You know what I've been through, and now my reward is to be stifled at every turn and my record questioned.”

 He paused, wondering how to change the subject. Titus took the cue.

       “Have you thought about what we discussed last time Ira? The greater good – no omelet without breaking eggs – make or break – one nation or several? These are big issues.”

      “I agree. But they destroy individuals, and nations are made up of individuals. Friends, family, they've all been sacrificed in this mess.”

      “Sometimes you have to choose your friends. Have your Irish friends assimilated? I think not. They are the enemy of our cause, as well you know. Holding up the supply of arms and munitions amounts to treason in my book.”

      “They have mouths to feed, and many of them have already lost boys in this fight.”

      “They're traitors.”

      “They're my friends.”

      Both of them had overstated their case, and they knew it. They soon changed topic, as Titus brought up the issue of ancestry.

       “I can tell you that your Great Grandfather was a six-year old boy in 1710 when he arrived in New York. His name was Johannes Jerich Kuhn – I would say that is definitely not Irish. His brothers were Peter and a third boy called Abraham, and all the Coan relatives are descended from Peter and Johannes whom we knew as George. It was the English who changed their name from Kuhn to Coan. They were apprenticed out to a Deacon Mulford and they seemed to have been well looked after. About Abraham nothing is known, and the parents died on the voyage.”

      “And why did they come?”  

      “As I told you, they were suffering from cold, hunger and the bastardry of the French.”

      “A bit like the Irish then?”

      Titus smiled wearily. “Yes, I suppose – or the negroes. Look, if you want to know more about the original family, I'd investigate the carving you told me about – and check out the other items that went to your step-brother.”

 “Brothers” cut in Ira.

 “Well, that's a nuisance – good luck with that. But if those boys did bring bits and pieces from the old world, they must have meant something to them.” A pause, and then “ I know you think I'm not a man of action, but I've decided to join the Navy as a Surgeon.”

      Ira whistled. Titus was at least practising what he preached.

       “And speaking of Sam, yes, I have made contact. He said he joined up as a Confederate but it seems to have been a complete farce. Tell you more about that soon. He seems to be keen on this writing thing, but I think he is essentially a lightweight and I don't think it'll work. He's thinking of a nom de plume, but I don't see what's wrong with Samuel Clemens. We'll see.”  

      Ira feared that the new Draft Laws would not endear the Government to the population. He knew how the Irish felt about the Draft laws. For $300 the sons of the wealthy could buy themselves a substitute, all too often a poor Irishman or German, or in many cases, an opportunist who would take the money and desert at the first chance. He was not at all surprised when the rumblings of discontent grew to a roar and the mood of the city grew ugly.

  It was July when he heard the first intimations of real trouble. From the Island, they could see plumes of smoke going up in several places. Excited soldiers returned from the city with stories of mobs in an ugly mood. No-one was prepared for the aftermath, however, as the smoke spread and grew, and flashes of light, from fires and explosives, were seen throughout the hot July night.

   Again it was not surprising that they soon received the call to arms, and Ira was ordered out to the Battery where they camped on the grass of the park. Several members of the New York Militia were already dead, and the rioters had hunted down and killed a number of negroes in what appeared to be blind hatred. Lynchings were going on and blocks were burning. The Irish leaders had appealed for moderation but the mob was insensible to their plea. Police Chief O'Brien was dead, murdered by the rioters, and now, with bayonets ready, Ira and his companions stood, ready to do what had to be done to restore order.

  The word spread down the line that the mob was advancing. Already they had endured the taunting and stone throwing of the urchins, who were truly malevolent. Now they were being reinforced by their leaders, hard working-men from the waterfront armed with a variety of weapons, and worked up into a senseless fury. This truly was madness, and all the result of poor leadership and the cynical exploitation of the poor. Nevertheless, what had to be done had to be done, thought Ira as he checked his ammunition yet again.

 The mob surged, and Ira thanked his lucky stars that he was with just a few of his charges. It was vital that their actions were disciplined and unified. As one, a row of long, gleaming bayonets swung menacingly outwards, points at gut level. The effect was miraculous, for there was a gasp from the rioters. Ira understood it well. He knew that there was a popular conceit amongst them that the government forces were weak and undisciplined. This was part of their anti-Union mentality and their desire to see slavery and the Confederation upheld in order to protect their life in the North. If they triumphed, their view would be realised. Professionalism was vital now, and Ira's pupils understood that discipline was essential. His commanding officer looked anxiously at Ira, who nodded. The command was given, Ira took a deep breath and stepped off, exaggerating his first step as encouragement for the others. The line of steel advanced ten paces and the mob hastily fell back. His commanding officer attempted to address the mob, but was met with stones and then gunfire. A soldier fell, shot in the leg. The line advanced another ten paces, and the mob again fell back, but the missiles, shooting and shouting continued. The order came, a volley over the heads of the mob. Some of his colleagues would be sorely tempted, Ira knew, to take the opportunity for revenge. No matter what they did, they would now be accused of attacking the populace, and the cycle of distrust and violence would perpetuate itself.

 As for the mob, it was not without its leaders, and Ira saw familiar faces darting through the crowd, encouraging and directing. Where had he seen them? He couldn't think, but they must have been in blue uniforms, possibly Fenian agitators. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, and the mob advanced yet again, with knives, clubs and guns. Ugly were their faces, twisted with rage and hatred, and even in the heat of the moment Ira could not, for the life of him, fathom the malice which emanated from them. A bright light exploded in front of him, and something knocked his hat off. On his right a trooper sank to his knees, trying to clutch Ira's leg with a bloody stump. Even as the command “fire” was heard through the din, Ira had his musket pointed at the wild creature who was attempting to follow up his attack with a lunge at him. He was calm as his weapon discharged, and calm as he stepped over the man's inert figure on the next order.

        A number of the rioters remained on the road, some still, others moaning and shrieking. Ira closed his ears, and glanced round to see the medical corps at work looking after his wounded companion. A surprise awaited them on the return to Governor's Island, for in their absence, some rioters had attempted to storm it, but had been beaten back by the civilian workers left behind, who had armed themselves with the very weapons the rioter hoped to steal. The next day, reinforcements arrived back fom Gettysburg, and the considerable presence of the hardened troops, in no mood for an attack from within, quelled the riots in short order – too late, however, to save Ira from the waves of revulsion he felt for the prison he felt he now inhabited. He saw over and over, the flash of the musket in front of him, felt, over and over, his hat shredded, felt, again and again, the shattered arm of his wounded companion clutching his leg. He visited the Hospital to see how the man was faring, only to find Titus himself leaving the operating room quite ashen. A leg was soon carried out, to be disposed of as decently as possible. Many limbs left the hospital each day Titus told him. Titus was kind enough not to remind Ira of his sympathies, but in a rare show of emotion hugged his kinsman.

      “I'm off soon Ira – who knows when we'll meet again – do write, won't you. I'll be with Farragut.”

      Ira was deeply affected by the prospect of his cousin's departure. He felt more lonely than ever and the behaviour of the Irish had struck deep. He wondered where his life was going, and how much of it there might be. He still had the company of Freddy and Brew, but he didn't want them to be his future.

       He thought a lot without sharing. He supposed this was not Brew's way, but it was Brew who broached the subject.

       “You're a smart fella, Oira. Tell me –  what are we doin wit our loives in dis rat-house? We're just rats guardin other rats, trainin more rats to kill someone else's rats.”

       Ira had to admit he could hardly have put it better.

       “Well, Oi'll tell ye, dis rat's tinkin o' jumpin on a ratship an sailin off t'cheeseland.”

      “And where might that be” asked Ira dryly.

      “Queensland.”

      “In Australia? Are you mad? It's another world Brew. We'd never see anyone again.”

      “If you stay here boy, no-one's gonna want to see'ye.”

      “Where did this idea spring from?”

      “Freddy.”

      Ira became aware of the third friend's heavy presence even as Brew spoke. He was watching from some small distance, and it was clear that he was monitoring the conversation's body language from afar.

       “I think it's mad to even think about it” he said, but already he knew that he was intrigued. “You'd better tell me what's going on anyway.”

      And Brew did just that. Ira began to realise that he had neglected his friends, for they had obviously discussed their situation at great length, and while Titus had been doing his family research, and he himself had been at family gatherings, his two friends had earnestly planned a future. Ira now discovered that Freddy did indeed have a past, and that his German wife had gone to Australia with her family. He was to have made his fortune in America, but was a signal failure in this regard. Now he was anxious to make a new start in a land where there were fresh opportunities, where gold had been discovered, where there were no Indians, but a dwindling race of aborigines. Once the idea bit, Ira couldn't get it out of his mind, and the emphasis changed from “if” to “when” and “how”. He thought long and hard and talked a lot with his two friends.

     

    

 

PLANNING ESCAPE FROM GOVERNOR'S ISLAND

 He sat on the foreshore at the end of a long day, and watched the bustle in the city, a diverting spectacle across the narrow stretch of water. Eight years before this he had sat on the same spot, wondering what the future might hold, and here it was, a bitter cup indeed. People praised the great city, but to Ira it symbolised the war itself – a vast, mindless and impersonal machine sacrificing lives by the thousand. He could walk away from it easily. He could leave the frozen north forever, and he wouldn't miss it. He could leave his mother to her herbs, her animals and grandchildren. Asa and the others would look after her. But once he left, it had to be final – there would be no second chance. He had given his oath as a soldier, had even been responsible for disciplining dissenters and deserters before the war. He had been proud to be a United States soldier,  but now would enter the despised ranks of the deserters.

  “Looking mighty thoughtful Sergeant.”

 Ira was roused from his reverie by another sergeant, an older man who seemed to have been on the island for quite some time.

  “Hope you're thinking honest thoughts. Lots of folks having thoughts about deserting these days.”

 Ira cursed inwardly, and wondered if Brew had been talking.

  “It's not a crime to think yet is it?”

 He accepted a cigarette before going on. “I do believe they had better make it a crime to think, because I am coming to believe it's a dangerous thing to do.”

 His colleague made no reply, but looked at him quizzically. His cigarette smoke curled reflectively around his weather-beaten visage.

  “In fact, if all the men on both sides took one day off to do nothing but think, I believe the war would be over tomorrow. I got a shock when I heard our prisoners talking. Brave talk. Just like my mates back in Texas when we were the prisoners. We're on our way to being the greatest country in the world, we can fight off any enemy. Now here I am, training boys to kill their brothers down south.”

 “That's dangerous talk Sergeant – keep it to yourself will you. We have to keep at it and get this blasted war over. Sooner we win, less people die.”

 “That's just what Lee's telling his boys of course. Don't think about it Sergeant, it gives you a headache, and there's only one cure. Don't ask” Ira added as he rose to resume duty.   

 Preparations were difficult, but not impossible. With Military Police and spies on the prowl, he had to be careful, but it was in one of Sam's old printing rooms that he found himself preparing a new identity. Money changed hands, Ira Coan passed from history and Frank Williams entered in his place. From the look of the place and the demeanour of the printer, he was far from the first customer. He bought a new suit and some fine travelling clothes, which he left at the Hospital in Titus' care. He booked passage to Liverpool and went about his business as normally as possible. With every passing day his anticipation and his apprehension grew, but he was now committed to a new life.

 It was on August 10th 1863 that he absented himself from Governor's Island, armed with a ticket of leave for furlough at home in Parish. He changed costume at the hospital, and in the morning made his way to the docks. The streets hummed with early morning traffic, and the building crews were already at work, but even in the midst of all this activity Ira could feel something not quite right. He might have been back in New Mexico, an arrow's flight away from an adversary, such were the warning signals. He swooped across an empty pavement, turned casually once or twice as if checking for oncoming carriages, and out of the corner of his eye saw it. Surely it was a tall, dark-clad figure that was too regularly there, too evenly distant, to be coincidental, yet it never advanced. This would be a bad time to be caught, everything ventured, nothing gained. Flight might still be the best option after all. Nevertheless, he proceeded to the quayside, where he saw that his modest luggage had preceded him aboard,  and had his contract of passage confirmed. He left the ship then, to lurk at the back of the quay, watching his fellow-travellers and well-wishers boarding. And there he was again! Tall, angular and most definitely searching the crowd. The man walked aboard after a brief word and showing a paper to the shipping officials. Ira left it as long as possible, and when it was becoming urgent, stepped briskly up the boarding ramp to the vessel, and turned immediately to look for a stair below. A hand rested on his shoulder and his blood ran cold. Turning, he saw a smooth face, well-known. It was his kinsman, Titus. He was so overcome with relief that he instinctively embraced his surprised relative, who returned it warmly.

  “I just wanted to see you off,” he said.

 “But how did...”

 Titus interrupted “Everyone knows. I suppose you're set on it?”

 Ira nodded. “It's all I can do now. Don't think badly of me.”

 Titus winced. “We all do what we have to do. Don't forget us.”

 Chains rattled, whistles screamed and boards clattered as the departure grew imminent. Titus waited till the last moment, and swung ashore with the last plank. The tall, dark figure disappeared into the crowd, never looking back. Ira was pleased, but just wanted the ship under sail, out of the harbor.

FROM PART 2 OF “COAN THE COOPER”

OUT WEST