Johnny slipped back into the night and the trees. His stomach growled a little, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in a while. He pulled a piece of jerky from his pouch and commenced chewing with gums that had lost most of their teeth. He hummed a happy tune. The two corpses in the wagon made for a total of six kills. Not bad for the first day.
Ian Gordon was resplendent in his red tunic. He snapped a quick salute. “My heartiest congratulations, General. To think I knew you when you were nothing—a mere, total, and useless nobody.”
Patrick smiled warmly. “Thanks, Ian. I knew you’d help me keep things in perspective.” He rose and grasped the other man’s hand. “Now, what are you doing here? How can our leadership in Washington spare you?”
“As a matter of fact they can do so rather easily. I am now one of several British officers assigned as observers to General MacArthur. There are others from several nations watching this wonderful war unfold. If you would spend more time at headquarters you would see other Imperial types like me: garishly uniformed Frenchmen, even more garish Italians, and—are you ready for this?—little yellow men all the way from Japan. All of them are here to see how the mighty Imperial German Army wages war against your brave little army. None, save us, gives a fig who wins. They just want to see what might happen if they go up against Germany.”
Patrick caught on quickly, recalling Gordon’s background in military intelligence. “Certainly. And as an ‘observer’ from an ostensibly neutral nation, you would be in a position to pass on information that you might receive through your private channels, wouldn’t you?”
Gordon rolled his eyes in mock despair. “Patrick, that would be horrid. Unfair. How can you think so ill of me?”
“All right, have it your way. What brings you to my humble tent?”
“An overwhelming urge to see Mahan’s Bastard Brigade. My goodness, Germans and Negroes. Why haven’t they given you the Apaches as well?”
Patrick shuddered. “Little Mac can keep them. My God, have you heard some of the stories?”
“Yes. Wonderful, aren’t they? Still, the Apaches are not quite as clever as the Pathans or the Zulus when it comes to making death even more horrid than it usually is. Remind me to tell you how the Zulus impale live prisoners with a stake up their arse, and how long the Pathans take to skin a man alive.”
“No, thanks. Now, what’s your real reason for being here? And unless that’s some of your family’s ancient Scotch whiskey in that container, I may be forced to ask you to leave.”
Gordon laughed and pulled a bottle from the container. They opened it and poured generous amounts in the glasses Ian had also thought to bring. They toasted each other’s promotions, Patrick to general and Ian’s much more recent one to lieutenant colonel.
Gordon lolled back in a camp chair that came dangerously close to falling over. “Yes, as in your case, the powers that be decided that nobody pays any attention to mere majors, and they promoted me. I wish they’d had the foresight to make me a general instead.”
“Wait for your own war. You’re only an observer, remember?”
“Ah, and what a wonderful assignment. I get to gaze worshipfully at MacArthur if I wish, or talk to that lovable barbarian Wheeler, or even come slumming down here.”
Patrick refilled his glass. “Insults can be damned expensive. Did you get a chance to meet Longstreet? I haven’t yet.”
Gordon nodded. “Indeed. And almost made a proper fool of myself. That’s what happens when you meet a historical character who actually participated in ancient events of legend.” Gordon flushed slightly at the memory. For both professional and personal reasons, the American Civil War had been a source of great interest to him, and he’d wangled an introduction to Longstreet just after receiving his orders to go north as an observer. In dress red, he’d introduced himself to Longstreet in the other’s office at the War Department. Gordon had started to stammer like a schoolboy meeting the headmaster for the first time until the old general rose and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “Finally, we had a decent conversation. I asked him some things about your Civil War I’d always wanted to know, and I told him what my duties were going to be up here.”
“As an intelligence source?”
Gordon ignored him. “Longstreet was quite impressive. For an old man he has his wits about him and seems bent on surrounding himself with skilled helpers like Leonard Wood. He seems to know his own limitations, both physical and as a general. I left with the impression that there is no way on earth he would attempt to lead an army in the field, but that he will work diligently to see his policies implemented. His reputation is that of a cautious general who accomplishes what he is told to accomplish if he is given a specific task. He is not reputed to be a great thinker. Of course, the people who say that are always comparing him with the mythical Robert E. Lee. It might not be fair to judge him so harshly.”
“Ian, is it so bad for someone to know his own limitations? We just lost a battle because of someone who didn’t.”
Gordon took a couple of thin cigars from his tunic and offered one to Patrick, who cheerfully accepted. Gordon lit them and they drew deeply. “Longstreet understands that he has just one task. It is to drive out the Germans. He fully understands that task and his role in it. For an old warhorse he seems to thoroughly comprehend modern warfare, how it has recently changed as a result of technology, and how he can be a noble figurehead for your nation. After meeting him and talking to others, I can see why Roosevelt tapped him instead of simply reinstating John Schofield, General Miles’s predecessor. Schofield was a good and solid general as well, and is a decade younger than Longstreet, but although he’s a solid professional, he’s not an inspirational leader. Schofield, by the way, has offered himself as an adviser to Longstreet, who graciously accepted the offer.”
Ian tactfully did not voice the British concern that the country was so ill prepared it was necessary to bring back someone like Old Pete Longstreet in the first place.
It was getting late, and Patrick was tired. “Will you be dropping by again, or are you going to stay with the exalted ones?”
Gordon buckled his tunic and made to leave. Patrick noticed he made no effort to take the half-filled bottle. “With your permission, my general, I will be by rather often. Being an observer means I can go and do my observing wherever and whenever I wish. I understand you are sending your tame Germans and your Negroes out on scouting and information-gathering patrols. I would be honored to accompany them sometime.”
Patrick nodded. Now dressed in brown and at MacArthur’s urging, the brigade was sending small daily patrols of German-speaking soldiers up to and sometimes behind the German defenses to either observe their activities or grab a stray prisoner. At night, his Negro troops moved like panthers through the territory separating the two armies. The Germans also patrolled the areas, and sometimes the groups would meet and savage little battles would ensue. Although there was little glamour in war in the first place, there was even less in this type of killing.
“Ian, it’s a dirty war out there. You are certainly welcome to go. Just promise me you won’t wear red.”
Blake Morris surveyed the small pile of rubble that had once been his home. It had been the first house he’d ever owned and he had loved it, almost as much as he’d loved the wife who had made it a place of joy and the child who had made it a source of delight.
Now they and it were gone. Somewhere in the debris were his clothes, his valuables, and his history as a being in this world. There was a catch in his throat and he fought back the sobs that, once started, might never end and might unman him at a time when he needed to be strong. He did not have to make this journey right at this time, but he knew it was something he had to do sooner or later. It helped remind him that what had occurred was true and not some nightmare. Seeing the ghost town brought back the sounds of the guns and the screams of the dead and dying as if it were yesterday. Good. He needed to be focused.
The small ship had sneaked him and his heavily armed companions across Long Island Sound and deposited them a few miles west of Roosevelt’s home at Sagamore Hill. From there it had been easy to cross the island and find Ardmore, or what was left of it. The summer had been kind and the surge of undisciplined grassy growth hid many of the scars from that morning in June. Was it only three months ago?