“Not too soon, my girl,” he had said. “Give them a show. Do the family proud.”
As soon as they enter the mess, before Ada can dispose of her redingote, Celeste skips her way across the floor to a bundle of girls preening under the eyes of six or seven young men grimly holding up a wall with their backs. Blanchard follows his fiancée, mouth pursing in a self-satisfied smile when he hears the first squeaks and shrieks of amazement produced by Celeste waggling her ring finger under her friends’ noses.
Ada scans the crowd for the doctor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the old duffer’s shiny bald head. The band has taken a break and partiers are milling about on the floor. Many of the men are already boisterously drunk and those who have wives find themselves being warned away from making another foray on the drinks table with timid, pleading looks or a barrage of anxious whispers and stern head-shaking. It is, Ada thinks, just another dismal mural of the married state, and a scene so true to life that Celeste should be forced to paint a copy as a warning to her of what lies in wait.
But these scenes of dissension are eclipsed by another. People are craning their necks towards a commotion on the far side of the mess. A number of blue-jacketed officers and several civilians are violently gesticulating, voices raised in anger. Whatever the disturbance, Ada sees that Wesley Case is in the middle of it. A tall man gives him a stab to the breastbone with two fingers, hard enough to make him recoil a step or two. When the man deliberately aims his fingers at Case’s chest again, Case strikes his arm aside.
The rest is a blur of movement. All at once Case reels backwards from a blow. The soldiers spring on the tall one and pinion his arms while Case wipes blood from his face, flicking it to the floor with his fingers, smiling queerly. People whisper and point as he calmly removes his coat from a peg and pulls it on. Ada hears Major Ilges call out to him, but Wesley Case gives no reply, simply walks out the door.
The Major bobs his head to the officers, indicating the door at the back of the mess, and strides after them as they hustle the guilty party to the exit. She sees the lawyer Donnelly trundling along beside the Major, making some protest inaudible to her. Ilges ignores whatever he is saying, jerks open the door. Out goes Wesley Case’s attacker and after him Mr. Donnelly. Major Ilges emphatically kicks the door shut on their backs.
All at once, there is a cascade of excited talk. For an instant, Ada hesitates, then gives a hitch to her shoulders and marches after Mr. Case. Outside, the sudden darkness disorients her, leaves her blinking uncertainly on the step, which is feebly lit by the fanlight above the door. She makes out a shadow pacing by the carriages.
“Mr. Case,” she calls, “are you all right?”
He stops and peers at her. “Mrs. Tarr?”
“Yes. What are you doing out here? Come back in and be attended to.”
“I am waiting for the man who struck me.” He pauses. “It would be better if you were not here when he appears.”
“Major Ilges had your assailant put out the back door. They must have crossed to the road from there. It is pointless lingering there anticipating him. Come up here, into the light, so I can take a look at you.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“Don’t be foolish. I insist.”
For a moment he hesitates, then enters the weak glimmer shed by the fanlight, climbs the steps, and stands looking at her. She sees two fresh, fat worms of blood crawling out of his nostrils, more red smudged on his chin and cheek.
“If you won’t return inside, let us see what can be done out here. Please, sit beside me,” she says, easing herself down on the top step, and gathering her skirts tightly about her legs.
Case gingerly places himself at her side. “I take it you saw it all,” he says. “The ferocious peck I gave to his fist with my beak?”
“Yes, and I see the results.” Ada opens her reticule, takes out a handkerchief, and holds it out to him. “You might wish to make use of this.”
Case studies the handkerchief for a moment. “Mrs. Tarr, you embroider beautifully,” he says. “I will not ruin it.”
Ada thrusts the handkerchief under his chin. “Spit,” she says quietly.
Case’s eyebrows lift, but he does. Putting the heel of her hand to his brow, she tilts his head back and begins to wipe away the blood.
“There,” she says, balling up the handkerchief, shoving it back into her reticule. “Now tell me, what led to that contretemps?”
“Politics. History. Man’s injustice to man,” he says with a sardonic smile.
“That’s very cryptic.”
“It seems my person represents the British Empire. My assailant felt compelled to strike a blow against tyranny on behalf of Ireland.”
“And you were hanging about out here, hoping for a chance to strike him back.”
Case shakes his head. “I know, I know.
Mea culpa.”
He sits in silence for some moments, then suddenly says, “I wrote Hathaway as you requested.”
“Yes, he mentioned that. I saw him in town several days ago, here in Fort Benton. He had come to – what was his phrase? – to ‘right the ship.’ ”
Case looks perplexed. “My understanding was Walsh was not giving his men any leave to visit Benton. How did Hathaway manage to get granted an exception?”
“Well, it seems the boy took the matter of leave into his own hands. Hid under the tarp on a freighter’s wagon returning here from Fort Walsh. I suppose you would call him a stowaway.”
“The term is deserter. That’s what his superior will call him. What got into the idiot’s head?”
“He was determined to plead his case with Celeste. The first time he came to the house she was off shopping with Lieutenant Blanchard. I informed Peregrine that my stepdaughter and Lieutenant Blanchard were recently engaged, and he said you had written him how things stood between them. That was the reason he had come. It was rather heartbreaking, the state he was in. I had a long talk with him but it did no good. He returned the next night, quite inebriated. My husband had to warn the boy off the property. It was a distressing scene.”
Case hunches forward, elbows planted on his knees, his breath a golden vapour in the faint light. Inside, the band is tooting and thumping. “Well, well,” he says finally, “I have never known the boy to drink before. There must have been tears shed in heaven that day.”
“It is all highly regrettable.”
Case straightens his shoulders. “I’ll need to talk to him – bring him to his senses,” he says decisively. “If necessary I’ll take him back to Fort Walsh myself. He may have earned himself a few days in the guardhouse for being absent without leave, but he’ll survive that. It’ll be a salutary lesson to him.” He pauses. “Did he say where he’s staying?”
“I’m afraid he’s already left, and he was not off for Fort Walsh, but bound for Helena. Randolph said they were laughing about it at the stagecoach office. Peregrine was highly intoxicated when he bought his ticket, so much so that they put him up top beside the driver fearing he might be sick inside and inconvenience the other passengers. Everyone thought it a great joke.”
Case sits considering this. At last he says, “I tried to warn him in the plainest of terms to give Celeste up. I said this was not the first time a girl showed a boy the door – that in fact it was a very common occurrence, but no one had ever died of it. With time, deathbed recoveries were total.”
“Oh dear,” says Ada. “That sounds rather unsympathetic.”
Case gives an exasperated shrug of the shoulders. “What else should I have done? Parade my own personal experiences, regale him with lovelorn anecdotes?”
“If you had them to give, yes. It might have helped him to understand.”
“You sound doubtful that I do. I suppose you think a man like me has never suffered from a broken heart, or a woman’s coldness?”
“I did not say that. There’s no need to bristle.”
It had begun to snow; fat flakes are wafting down, swaying lazily. The clouds momentarily part and the moon’s cold eye gleams down on them. Case stares moodily up at it, shifting from side to side as if he is trying to tip anger from his shoulders. He says, “I was engaged to be married once. But a month before the wedding my intended broke it off. A fine example of woman’s constancy.”
“Oh, that is most unfortunate,” says Ada carefully. “But perhaps it was not simple fickleness – who knows what lies behind such decisions.”
“I do,” says Case sharply. “What lay behind it was rumour.” Instantly, she can see how he regrets this admission. As if to forestall inquiry from her he adds quickly, “She demanded I deny the gossip.”
“But apparently your answers did not satisfy her.”
“Answers? I gave her no answers. Why should I submit to being interrogated by a woman who pretended to love me? I would not give her the satisfaction. That’s the difference between young Hathaway and myself,” he says brusquely. “He would have walked barefoot over hot coals if Celeste had asked it of him. And in the end none of it would have done him any good. He might bay like a dog at her door, but that door was and always will be closed to him. Unlike him, I would not make a fool of myself.”
“I cannot fault Peregrine for crying out to have the door opened,” says Ada softly, looking down at her feet, primly aligned on the step. “If a man rates himself so highly that he will not risk his dignity for the woman he loves, then perhaps he cares more for the good opinion of the world than he does for hers. Impulse may be foolish, but at least it speaks the truth.”
When she glances up at Case to see how he has received this, she is shocked to feel his fingers closing on her wrist. Slowly he lifts her hand to his cheek and presses it there, presses it so forcefully that she can feel the bones of his face through the kidskin of her glove. Pulling up the sleeve of her redingote, exposing her arm to the falling snow, the prickle of its cold little thorns, he dips his head and buries his warm mouth in the hinge of her elbow.
It lasts only an instant. Lifting his head from the crook of her arm, he lets go his grip. Her arm drops loosely to her side. He rises and makes his way down the steps. Ada watches him disappear into the dark, into the tumbling snow. Only when he is lost to sight does she begin to slowly draw down her sleeve.
FOURTEEN
January 7, 1877
Fort Benton
My dear Walsh,
I wish to express my regret that I did not see you at Maj. Ilges’s New Year’s Ball. An opportunity to improve relations with him was missed. But this is not the season for hectoring, so I will say nothing more, only send you my best wishes for a happy and prosperous 1877. I trust that you and your men have passed a merry Christmas and welcomed in the j. Ilges in fine style.
Something has come to my attention that I have been looking into in the past few days. It concerns Gen. John O’Neill of the Irish Republican Army who, if you remember, was one of those Dunne warned you likely had plans to do Canada injury here in the West. It appears that Dunne is correct. A confederate of O’Neill’s, Patrick Collins, has been busy in Fort Benton recruiting Irishmen to join settlements O’Neill is attempting to establish in Nebraska. (Collins is fanatically anti-British. A point driven home to me by his fist when he assaulted me at Maj. Ilges’s soiree.) With assistance from the Irish rabble-rouser J.J. Donnelly, Collins has been circulating a document authored by Gen. O’Neill among soldiers here of Irish descent. It is a call to arms and is of very recent vintage, bearing the date December 8, 1876. Major Ilges confiscated a number of these that were circulating among his men, and kindly passed one on to me. I will provide you with quotes because I think it important that you supply Secretary of State Scott with statements of the General’s belligerent intentions straight from the horse’s mouth.
His letter is addressed to the Irish people and contains an attack on the Fenian leadership because of their reluctance to contemplate any further military action against Canada. He states, “Such men should never have embarked in a revolutionary movement or induced others to do so. They are not made of the stuff of which patriots are moulded.” He further announces that these traitors no longer have any authority over him or his followers, and that it is his aim to make war on Canada as soon as it is feasible. “I hold that the Irish people, particularly the Irish Exiles whom her oppressive laws have driven from their native land, have a right to … make war on England … If we could meet England at a disadvantage at the North Pole, that in my judgment would be the best place to strike her … There is a long line of British frontier between Nova Scotia and Vancouver’s Island, with the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans as an outlet, and there are millions of the Irish race in the United States from whom to recruit an army and man privateers to prey on British commerce.”
O’Neill states without equivocation his reasons for encouraging Irish settlements in the West. “I think I can safely promise from the colonies which I have already established at least some of the young men to assist on the battle field while the older ones are raising corn, flour, potatoes to help sustain them. And I know that there are many other settlements in the western states and territories ready and willing to do their share of the work. One correspondent writes to me from the Black Hills that he has enough of men there ready to inaugurate the movement whenever ordered to do so.”
I do not mean to be unduly alarmist, but O’Neill has proved to be a reckless customer in the past. If an opportunity presents itself, he will act. He ends his address with these words, “A circular of instructions for organizing immigration committees will accompany this address and the necessary information for
military men
and intending immigrants will be forwarded in due time.”