Authors: The Captain's Woman
By the time the First Volunteer Cavalry finally rolled into Tampa and set up their tents on the sandy, pine-studded flats two miles north of the city, Sam felt as though he hadn’t slept, bathed or eaten in a month. He and QM Sergeant Douthett spent the rest of that day computing the tally of the supplies expended during the trip, after which Sam sent the exhausted sergeant off to snatch some sleep. Changing into a clean uniform shirt, he scraped the bristles from his cheeks and rode down to the hotel where the senior officers were quartered to make his report.
Constructed in 1891 by wealthy financier Henry Plant, the Tampa Bay Hotel was a Moorish fantasy come to life. Minarets gilded with silver glowed at
the corners of the massive structure. Graceful arches welcomed guests at every turn. Dozens of fountains flowed amid lush gardens.
Sam had heard that the hotel had cost an astonishing two and a half million dollars to build and boasted more than five hundred rooms, each furnished with paintings, Venetian mirrors and sculptures purchased by the Plants during their European travels. Reportedly, every room also included such modern amenities as electric lights, private baths and telephones. As he approached the fairy-tale structure, Sam could well believe the reports.
Somewhat stunned by the hotel’s lavish extravagance, he tied his mount’s reins to the long, white-painted hitching post and climbed the steps to the veranda. Once inside, he encountered officers in every imaginable uniform strolling about the cavernous lobby. Newsmen and foreign attachés swarmed as thick as flies. Adding to the din of lively conversation, a regimental band was giving a concert in center court, much to the delight of the ladies who’d traveled to Tampa to see their high-ranking husbands off to war.
Sam was edging his way through the crowd to the front desk when a bandy-legged civilian planted himself directly in his path.
“Captain! I been kickin’ my heels in this pile of sand and fleas they call a town for two days, waiting for you to get here.”
Sam took the callused paw he held out, astounded to recognize the belligerent pacifist from the Frontier Hotel.
“Powdry?”
“Yessir, it’s me. Dan Powdry.”
“What the devil are you doing in Tampa?”
“I come to join up with the Rough Riders. Tried to catch you boys in San Antonio, but you done left. So I rode over to Galveston, hitched a ride on a tramp steamer and been sittin’ here twiddling my thumbs for two days now, waiting on you.”
Which is what the regiment should have done, Sam thought wryly, instead of inching along by train for four days. Curious about the man’s change of heart, he reminded him of his words the night of the brawl.
“I thought you didn’t see the sense in taking a bullet for a bunch of Cubans.”
“I don’t! No sir, I surely don’t. But when I heard you joined up, I got to thinkin’. The way I now see it, this war ain’t so much about fightin’ for the Cubans as it is about standin’ shoulder to shoulder with men you trust and doin’ your duty.”
During his years of active service Sam had heard the profession of arms described in brilliant prose and stark poetry, but he’d never heard it described so simply or so accurately.
“I don’t figure to be no foot soldier, though,”
Powdry warned. “I come down here to join up with you and the Rough Riders.”
“I’m sorry. The regiment has no vacancies.”
The cowboy’s face fell like a stone. Sam had respected him for standing his ground against overwhelming odds. Now he could only admire his ingenuity in getting to Tampa with more speed and a great deal less fuss than the army. He’d be a good man to have in any unit.
“Every regiment loses men to illness or accidents. If a vacancy occurs in our company, I’ll see what I can do to get you in.”
“Well, I guess I kin hang around Tampa for a week or so and hope one of your boys comes down with the trots. Say, how’s that pretty young thing who fired off the buffalo skinner’s cannon and broke up the brawl? Your fiancée, wasn’t it?”
“She’s well.”
“You got yourself quite a woman there, Captain. Quite a woman.”
“Yes, I think so, too.”
After assuring Sam that he’d be in touch, Powdry sauntered off, undaunted by the admirals and generals surrounding him on all sides. Smiling, Sam wove his way through the crowd to the front desk.
A half hour later, he’d made his report to Roosevelt. Aching with weariness, he squeezed into a
brass elevator cage and took the slow, clanking ride to the lobby.
Thinking only of the cot waiting for him in his tent, Sam edged through the crowd. He had almost reached the door when he caught a glimpse of two women half obscured by a tall, potted palm. One was small and wizened, well into her seventies. The other stood with her back to him, but her proud carriage and glossy, upswept black hair stopped Sam in his tracks.
It was Mary. It could only be Mary.
His pulse suddenly erratic, he forged a path to the potted palm. “My compliments, Mrs. Prendergast.”
She swung around, delight flooding her dark eyes, and held out both gloved hands.
“Sam! The word is all over Tampa that the Rough Riders have arrived! I was going to seek you out this very evening.”
“Were you?”
“Yes. I was so surprised when Suzanne wrote and told me you’d rejoined the ranks. I want to hear all about it. And to offer my congratulations on your engagement.”
He searched her face and found only happiness for him. With a queer little pang, Sam grinned.
“So you’ve heard about that, too, have you?”
“From Suzanne.” She gave his hands a squeeze.
“I only spent a few moments with Victoria, but found her a most delightful young woman.”
For the second time in less than an hour, Sam accepted praise on behalf of his fiancée.
“She’s that and more. But what’s this I hear about you?”
He skimmed a quick glance down her gray dress with its puffy, mutton-leg sleeves and trim skirt. A white band emblazoned with a red cross encircled one arm, and an army badge of an unfamiliar design was pinned to her high collar.
“Jack told me you’d contracted to serve with the army as a nurse. You’re already in uniform, I see.”
“Yes, I’m assigned to the field hospital north of town, but I haven’t performed nursing duties as yet.” She made a little face. “My commander set me to administrative tasks, which is why I’m here at the hotel this afternoon. Oh, how rude of me! You must let me introduce you to Miss Clara Barton, president of the American Red Cross.”
Turning to the diminutive woman at her side, Sam bowed deeply. “Captain Garrett, at your service, ma’am. It’s an honor and a privilege to meet the Angel of the Battlefield.”
All his life Sam had heard stories about this extraordinary woman. During the War Between the States, she’d purchased medical supplies and ambulances with her own funds, recruited nursing vol
unteers and driven right to the front lines to minister to the wounded on both sides.
“My father still talks of the miracles you performed on the battlefields of his war,” he told her.
“Let’s hope such miracles won’t be necessary in this one,” she replied with a twinkle in her berry-bright eyes. The merriment faded, edged out by a long sigh. “I must admit I’m not sanguine. As Mrs. Prendergast and I were just discussing, the Army and Navy Hospital Departments are sadly underequipped for the number of sick and wounded they’ll have to treat.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. Medical staff and equipment were in as short supply as everything else during this rapid mobilization.
“My hospital commander has appointed me to act as liaison with the Red Cross,” Mary explained to Sam. “Miss Barton and I are attempting to coordinate our resources.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you from such important business. I merely wanted to say hello.”
“Will you visit me at the hospital when you get leave? We’ve so much to catch up on and barely had time to talk in Cheyenne.”
“Why don’t you visit now?” Miss Barton suggested. “We’ve finished our business for today.”
“So we have. Can you spare a few minutes, Sam? I should love to hear how you came to be back in uniform.”
“Yes, of course.”
They would just talk, he told himself. Share a few moments of friendship. Nothing more. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, Sam led her toward a small salon just off the lobby.
They parted an hour later with Mary promising to visit the Rough Riders’ camp as soon possible to consult with their regimental surgeon about the assistance he might expect from the newly recruited corps of nurses.
“It won’t be much,” she cautioned. “Most of us will be assigned to the field hospitals, both here and in Cuba. The regiments will have to carry in their sick and wounded. And speaking of the sick—” Worry creased her forehead. “Warn your surgeon that we’re already taking in fever patients.”
Sam’s gut tightened. He’d grown up on army posts. He knew how swiftly fever could ravage massed concentrations of troops like the ones gathering in and around Tampa.
“Typhoid?”
“Mostly malaria.”
The kink in his stomach didn’t ease. “I don’t like that you’re exposed to all manner of sickness and disease.”
“I’m a nurse,” she reminded him quietly. “Caring for the sick is my job, just as soldiering is yours.”
Despite the pointed reminder, the thought of Mary working among ill and possibly contagious patients plagued Sam as he rode back to the tent city north of Tampa.
Night had dropped by then, and thousands of cook fires flickered among the scrawny pines. After several wrong turns, he finally found his way back to the Rough Riders’ bivouac area. Lines of pup tents stretched straight as an arrow, with the officers’ tents at one end, the company kitchens and latrine sinks at the other. Picket lines for the horses stretched down either side of the streets.
Wearily, Sam unsaddled and tended to his horse, then downed a meal of beans and boiled beef before retiring to the tent he shared with the regimental assistant adjutant. Every one of his muscles ached with fatigue, but before he dropped onto his cot, Sam pulled out the small traveling desk his mother had given him when he’d left for West Point years ago, along with instructions to write home. Often!
The letter he penned wasn’t to his mother, however, but to Victoria. In it he related the more amusing details of the long train trip, the incredible confusion of trying to sort out the mountains of baggage upon arrival and his meeting with Mary.
Mosquitoes the size of California vultures buzzed about his head by the time he folded the letter into an envelope, addressed it, then blew out the lamp. Stretching out on his cot, Sam laced his hands un
der his head and stared up at the shadowy canvas. Deliberately, he forced his thoughts from a slender, dark-eyed widow to a girl with delft-blue eyes and hair the color of a summer sunset.
T
o allow their mounts to recover from the grueling train journey, the First Volunteer Cavalry drilled on foot for the next four days.
Military attachés from England, Germany, Russia and as far away as Japan rode out from Tampa to observe their maneuvers, as did whole platoons of reporters, photographers and sketch artists. Roosevelt’s flamboyant unit had captured the world’s imagination as well as that of all Americans. One such reporter was dapper Richard Harding Davis, who had attached himself to Roosevelt in San Antonio. Another was a bulldoggish young correspondent by the name of Winston Churchill, who was covering the war for a London paper.
The evening of the fourth day, the men marched back into camp after another long, hot drill and were met with devastating news. Headquarters had belatedly realized that there weren’t enough ships
to transport the assembled troops. Only half could go with the Expeditionary Force and most of those would be regulars. A frantic Roosevelt had pulled every political string in the book to secure places for two of the Rough Riders’ three volunteer companies.
He and Wood now faced the agonizing task of deciding who would go and who would remain in Tampa. A number of the men chosen to stay behind broke down and cried like babies. Those picked to go considered themselves so lucky they didn’t mutter a single complaint when told they’d have to leave their horses in Tampa and fight as dismounted cavalry.
Sam’s herculean efforts as quartermaster as well as his eight years of experience won him a place with the invading forces. With so many Rough Riders being left behind, he wasn’t able to work a billet for Powdry, much to the man’s bitter disappointment.
Between drill and helping to reorganize and re-equip a cavalry regiment to fight on foot, Sam barely had time to breathe, let alone pen further letters to Victoria. He received several from her, however, each filled with details of the wedding preparations and a lively commentary on the momentous events as viewed from her increasingly keen perspective.
Although she often expressed the fervent desire
to join the army of reporters in Tampa and observe the mobilization firsthand, Sam dismissed that as mere girlish whimsy. So his jaw dropped in sheer astonishment when she rode into camp late on the afternoon of June 7, accompanied by Theodore Roosevelt himself.
“Captain Garrett!” the beefy New Yorker boomed. “Come and see the surprise I have brought you.”
Several hundred heads turned as Roosevelt’s charger pranced through sand. Disbelieving, Sam gaped at the woman riding beside him on a neat bay.
“I say!” one of the Harvard skulling captains exclaimed. “What glorious hair. It reminds me of the sun going down over the Charles River.”
“Never mind her danged hair,” an Arizona miner muttered. “Take a gander at them bosoms!”
Sam swung around with a fierce glare that sent both men back a hasty step. “Watch your tongue,” he snarled. “You’re speaking of my fiancée.”
“Jesus! Sorry, Capt’n. We didn’t know she was your woman.”
Jaw locked tight, Sam accepted his hasty apology, performed a stiff about-face and marched forward. Roosevelt swung out of the saddle at his approach.
“My wife encountered this enterprising young woman at the Tampa Bay Hotel this afternoon,” he
boomed. “She was inquiring after her fiancé. Mrs. Roosevelt charged me to deliver her to you forthwith.”
Lifting Victoria down, the New Yorker set her on her feet and gave one of his loud, braying laughs.
“Go ahead, man! I know you’re in uniform, but you have my permission to kiss her. I think the troops will forgive a breach of army protocol this once, won’t you, boys?”
Embarrassment stained Victoria’s cheeks, but she gamely tipped her face to his. Sam wrapped an arm around her waist, drew her up against him and delivered a kiss that set the men to cheering.
Her blush had deepened to a fiery red when he released her, and there wasn’t a doubt in any man’s mind that she was, in fact, the captain’s woman. He’d thrown a crude mantle of protection over her, but he knew it would be effective. Among the Rough Riders, at least.
“Show your lady around camp, why don’t you?” Roosevelt suggested. “I’ll authorize a night’s pass so you may escort her back to the hotel and share a late supper.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grasping Victoria’s elbow, Sam steered her toward the long row of tents.
“Well!” Red flags still flew high in her cheeks. “I had expected to surprise you, but hadn’t planned
on providing entertainment for the entire regiment.”
“You’ve surprised me, all right.”
He was recovering from the shock of seeing her ride into camp. The fury that had gripped him at the trooper’s crude remark would take a little longer to subside.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Sam, it’s quite the most exciting thing! I badgered and badgered Papa to send me to Tampa to report for the
Tribune.
He adamantly refused…”
“I should hope so!”
“…until I read Anna Benjamin’s stories in
Leslie’s Weekly,
” she gushed on, ignoring his exclamation. “And when Kathleen Blake Watkins began sending such enthralling dispatches over the wires, I finally overcame all Papa’s objections.”
Sam supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Victoria had always been able to wrap her father around her little finger. Her mother was another matter, though. When he said as much, his fiancée made a little face.
“Mama took a great deal more persuading, it’s true. But I simply
had
to be part of all this. And,” she added on a shy note, fingering the locket pinned to the lapel of her tan traveling dress, “I wanted most desperately to be with you. I knew you would understand.”
“Well, you’re dead wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Tightening his grip on her elbow, he dragged her between two tents. Gnats swarmed around their faces as Sam gave vent to his feelings.
“How could you think I’d want you exposed to the dirt, fleas and stink of an embarkation camp? Or to the risk of disease,” he added, recalling Mary’s warning that fever had already broken out among the ranks.
“But— But—” Completely taken aback by his vehemence, she stammered out a protest. “Your mother accompanied the general to—”
“To various frontier posts,” he cut in. “Not on campaign and certainly not to war.”
The excitement that had sizzled in Victoria’s veins throughout the long train journey to Tampa and boiled hot when she’d first seen Sam a few moments ago died a slow, agonizing death.
He didn’t want her here. Despite that audacious kiss in front of the entire regiment, he wasn’t the least happy to see her. She could only blame her hurt for the foolish argument she offered next.
“You didn’t raise these objections to Mrs. Prendergast’s presence in Tampa. In fact, you described her work most glowingly in your letter.”
“Mary’s a skilled nurse. She’s needed here.”
And Victoria wasn’t. The blunt truth of that stung far more than she could have imagined.
“She’s also wearing a uniform that affords her
the protection of the army,” Sam pointed out with brutal candor. “You are not.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
Blowing out a long breath, Sam tried to curb his anger. She looked so hurt. And so damned vulnerable. Gentling both his grip on her arm and his voice, he tried to make her understand.
“You can’t possibly comprehend how things are in a camp like this unless you’ve experienced them firsthand.”
“That’s why I’ve come.” Drawing in a deep breath, she tipped up her chin. “Whether or not you approve of my presence in Tampa, I’m a credentialed reporter. General Shafter’s adjutant signed my papers this very afternoon.”
Well, hell! Sam would have a thing or two to say to that dunderheaded idiot later.
“If you don’t care to advise me on how to proceed,” she informed him stiffly, “I shall just ramble about Tampa on my own.”
His stomach did a quick roll at the idea of this young, vibrant woman roaming among men who swore like lumberjacks, relieved themselves at open pits and gleefully boasted about their previous night’s tumble with the prostitutes who’d set up tents in convenient proximity to the bivouac areas.
“All right,” he conceded with a marked lack of graciousness. “I’ll show you around camp and in
troduce you to some of the fellows. You can talk to them while I clean up. Then I’ll escort you back to the hotel and we’ll discuss this further over dinner.”
Regally, she inclined her head the barest fraction of an inch. “Thank you.”
By the time they arrived back at the Tampa Bay Hotel, Victoria had filled almost an entire notebook and Sam had marshaled an extensive list of reasons why she would board the first train out of Tampa tomorrow morning.
The excited buzz that greeted them when they walked into the lobby drove every reason but one out of his head. If the wild rumors flying about held even a grain of truth, the order to march down to the port and board transport ships could come at any time.
His mouth grim, Sam escorted his fiancée to the elegant dining room. The large throng waiting patiently in line for a table decided them in favor of a private dinner in the room Mrs. Roosevelt had managed to secure for Victoria by outrageously flaunting her husband’s name.
Placing an order for steamed duck, baked redfish and a chilled white wine, Sam escorted her to the elevator, then through a maze of thickly carpeted corridors dominated by Moorish arches and painted frescoes.
Victoria’s suite was just as lavish as the rest of the hotel. Venetian mirrors, Dutch paintings and statues carved from gleaming marble crowded together to cover every inch of wall space in the sitting room. The bedroom beyond, Sam saw, was draped from floor to ceiling in apple-green damask silk, with a crystal chandelier spilling a shower of electric light over the entire room.
The rooms were magnificent. So was the girl—woman!—who faced him across a lace-draped table. Steeling himself against the pull of her lush beauty, Sam removed his slouch hat, tossed it on the table and cut right to the point.
“You heard the rumors downstairs. We might receive orders to march down to Port Tampa at any moment. I would like to see you safely on board a train for home before that happens.”
Unpinning her hat, she dropped it onto the table beside his. Limp copper curls clung to her neck and temples.
“At this point, they’re only rumors. I understand your concerns for my welfare, Sam. I really do. But I should very much like to stay another day, perhaps two.”
Encouraged by her conciliatory manner, Sam rounded the table, lifted his hand and brushed the reddish tendrils back from her sweat-dampened temples.
“In fact,” she murmured, blushing a bit at his touch, “I was thinking that I could—”
“You could what?”
Lord, she was beautiful. So soft and dewy and lushly feminine. One touch of her creamy skin tightened his belly and sent desire spearing into his groin. Fighting a sudden, knifing need to sweep her up and carry her into the next room, he wrapped the curl around his fingers.
They’d spend their wedding night in a hotel every bit as lavish as this one, he vowed. He’d lay her on a four-poster covered in patterned damask and slip the buttons on her dress free of their loops. Loosen her corset strings. Free the firm, high breasts he’d caressed that night in the Frontier and…
“I was thinking I could go on to Cuba,” she finished on a breathless note.
“No.”
The hard, flat negative elicited a sigh. “I suspected you wouldn’t like the idea. Neither did General Shafter’s adjutant when I broached it this afternoon.”
“I should think not!”
“I understand why you might object. Truly, I do.” Laying her palms on his chest, she gave him a soft, cajoling smile. “But I spoke to a number of reporters here at the hotel, including Mr. Richard Harding Davis. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Mr. Davis and I became acquainted in San Antonio.”
“Oh, Sam, then you must understand how his stirring stories about the Rough Riders could inspire me with a wish to join the ranks of war correspondents. When I spoke to him this afternoon, Mr. Davis told me that General Shafter has invited him and several other journalists to sail with him on the
New York.
Only think! If I could—”
“Dammit, Victoria, you will
not
join the ranks of combat correspondents. You will
not
board the
New York.
And you will most definitely
not
sail to Cuba.”
Any one of the men Sam had commanded during his years as a regular officer would have quailed under such a lashing. Even the redoubtable, fiercely independent Rough Riders had learned to respect his knowledge and judgment. To his surprise and profound irritation, Victoria abandoned all attempts at cajolery and lashed right back.
“May I remind you that we are not yet married. Nor, sir, am I one of your troopers. You have no right to bark orders at me, and I am not in any way constrained to obey them.”
“That locket pinned to your blouse says otherwise.”
“Indeed? Then perhaps you would be wise to remember that it can be
un
pinned.”
“You think so?”
His reply was soft, slow and dangerous. She must have sensed that she’d stumbled into quicksand. Her tongue flicked along her lower lip, and the palms she’d laid against his chest flattened in an attempt to hold him in check.
“Sam—”
Her breathy protest barely registered in Sam’s whirling thoughts. He’d put aside his secret, unspoken desires and asked Victoria Parker to be his wife. He’d proposed with the most honorable of intentions, and she’d accepted his offer of marriage. Less than an hour ago, he’d marked her as his in front of the entire regiment. There was no way in hell he’d allow her to follow the troops to Cuba. Whether she liked it or not, he’d sworn to protect her.
She was his.
Victoria read his thoughts as plainly as if they’d been printed in four-inch type on the front page of the
Tribune.
Hers were every bit as chaotic.
For so long she’d loved this man with all the passion of her girlish heart. She’d pulled him into his sister’s sewing room on the pretext of seeking his advice, then practically attacked him. She’d bared her breasts to him at the Frontier Hotel, if only by accident. She’d moaned at his touch. Ached for his kiss. Followed him all the way to Tampa and submitted to a primitive, possessive kiss in
front of hundreds of strangers that branded her as surely as the brand on the Double-S horses.