Stiff, and ramrod-straight, Sergeant Terrance O’Callan sat on the outer edge of one velvet-covered settee in the parlor of Marietta Mahoney’s bordello. He had ridden into Lester Wells at midmorning. Chary about visiting the establishment before noon, he naturally whiled his time away at Lester Hays’s saloon. To the astonishment of all on hand, O’Callan had sipped nothing but straight sarsaparilla. Then, having given the ladies of the evening time to dress and consume breakfast, he headed in their direction.
“Come now, Terry me boy, don’t try to make me believe you’ve come over at this time of day for the usual distractions to be had here. There’s something bothering you.”
O’Callan’s resolve had brought him this far, only to find his tongue and wit failing him. He swallowed heavily and tried to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.
“Sit back, Terry,” Marietta urged. “I’ll send for coffee for the both of us.”
“That would be lovely, Marietta,” the fiery-haired sergeant managed to croak.
“You sound like an adolescent school boy who’s just discovered that painful protrusion in his trousers is attached to himself,” she teased. “Loosen up, O’Callan.”
“Well, Marietta ... well, the truth to tell, I have come on a matter of some small importance ... ” Again O’Callan drifted off for lack of resources.
“Not another social whirl, like the Christmas ball, is it?”
“No. Nothing like that. Er ... well, ’tis about me future I’ve come to talk with ye, Marietta.”
“Your ... future? Are you in trouble with the colonel again, Terry?”
“Naw, naw, not a bit o’ that, mind. It’s me retirement that’s on me mind.”
“You mean your plans for becoming a saloonkeeper?” O’Callan nodded and Marietta continued. “What is it you feel I can help you with?”
O’Callan swallowed painfully and leaped recklessly into the breach. “I’ve been considerin’ what it is that makes such a life not only desirable, but possible. Not meanin’ the runnin’ o’ the place so much, but …”
“What is it then?” Marietta was fast becoming exasperated. Getting something out of Terrance O’Callan was like prying a gold nugget from a stone.
“It’s come to me mind that ... that any self-respecting gentleman saloonkeeper would naturally be expected to have a lovely and faithful helper in life. A paragon of housewifely duties and social graces. Someone … awh, the Devil take it.”
“‘Someone’ what, O’Callan?”
“Well, er, someone like ... like yerself, for instance.”
For an instant, Marietta’s expression went slack. She couldn’t believe what she had heard. Or had she heard what she thought?
“Is that some sort of proposal yer makin’, Terry?”
O’Callan flinched as though someone had jabbed him with a saber point. His expression slipped from surprise to one of contrition. “Oh, no. No, not at all. At least ... uh, not at this particular time. Why, Saints Above, I could never dream of such an undertakin’ now. There’s still the question of that mule hangin’ over me head.
“Until that is resolved, me dear Marietta, it’s gamble enough as to whether or not I’ll ever be able to amass enough savin’s and retire while still alive and in one piece. ’Twould be folly to consider committing meself to the support of another as well.”
“Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, did you bring up the subject?”
“I sort of wanted to lay it out to ye, let ye pick at it a bit and maybe suggest to me some way to go about it all.”
“Terry, ye’re a fine lad. A man of considerable tenderness and understanding. I’ll not deny that I have a certain fondness toward ye. After all, it’s been more’n fifteen years since anyone treated me like a lady. You’re gallant and brave, considerate and sober ... uh, no, I’d better not add that last. All the same, what I’m tryin’ to say—this is one problem you have to solve for yourself. When the right times comes, and the right woman, you’ll know what to do. I’ve faith in you.”
“Sure an’ I wish I had as much.” O’Callan rose, stiffly, adjusting the creases of the clean, dark-blue tunic of his service uniform. He spoke coolly, formally. “I’ll not be troublin’ ye further on this matter, then, Miss Mahoney. Good day.”
Marietta put the small, soft palm of one hand on the center of his chest. “Since when has it gone back to being ‘Miss Mahoney,’ O’Callan? Have you no feelings at all?”
Struck by a sudden realization, O’Callan went slack-faced. “I had no desire to offend ye, ah, Marietta. I never thought ye’d ... ye’d—”
“That I cared, Terry? Is that it? Lord love you, Terry. Of course I care. You put happiness back in my life, if only for a few hours, and you saved my life. All in one night. How could I not care?”
Uncharacteristically, O’Callan blushed. “As I recall, Marietta, ’twas you who saved my life. But what does it matter? Uh ... may I, now that we’ve cleared the air a bit, may I be so bold as to request another visit, Marietta?”
“It is courting me you’re thinkin’ of doing, O’Callan?”
The flustered cavalry sergeant turned crimson once more. “Well, uh ... well, uh ... ”
Marietta took one of his big, tough hands in both of hers. “I’d be right put out if you didn’t.”
“Ah, bless this day! Ye’ve lifted a burden from me heart, ye have.” Impulsively, O’Callan reached out. Marietta came into his awkwardly held arms and hugged him robustly. Nervously, like prepubescent sweethearts, they kissed. After the embrace ended, O’Callan bid farewell and left for Fort Dawson in a haze of euphoric enthrallment.
~*~
“Stable detail, Terry me boy,” First Sergeant Jimmy Brannigan called from the doorway to the company orderly room.
“Not to worry, First Sergeant,” O’Callan replied cheerfully. “I’ll set me fine lance carp’ril, Charlie Bradley, on it.”
O’Callan’s return to the post had been accomplished in the same light-hearted mood with which he had left Marietta’s place. Now he crossed the parade ground with brisk strides and summoned Lance Corporal Bradley.
“Now ye listen close to me, Lance Carp’ril,” O’Callan commanded intently. “I want ye to have yer detail finish up here and leave the stable as clean as ye found it this mornin’.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“I’ll be in to inspect it tomorrow, right after reveille, an’ I’ll expect to see things spick and span. An’ ye kin dismiss yer detail as soon as ye’re satisfied they’ve done a proper job of it.”
O’Callan walked from the stables and sighed happily at the sight of the rapidly setting sun. Fort Dawson was taking a deep breath and winding down after the afternoon’s stifling heat. For an honest soldier it was that particularly lovely time of day. between retreat and taps when he could finally set his carbine in its rack and hang his haversack on the wall peg by his bunk. Then he could stroll down to the sutler’s for a drink or two with trusted friends if he had a mind to. Sergeant Terry O’Callan was of that ilk.
Terry sauntered across the post in a good mood. He wasn’t tapped for the mail run and Whitlow had finally left to take his discharge, making that problem solved at last. He nodded to the sutler and wordlessly ordered his whiskey. He was handed a clay jug and a tin cup after signing a chit; then he wandered over to the tables reserved for sergeants and sat down beside Brannigan.
“There we are,” O’Callan observed, filling the cup.
“The first drink of a weary day,” Brannigan responded.
“Fer me, mebbe,” O’Callan declared. “But fer a first sergeant with his own darlin’ desk where he sits unobserved most o’ the day, I doubt it very much.”
“Well,” Brannigan mused. “I do have me chances fer a nip or two durin’ the day, an’ that’s a fact.”
“Ouch, naw, then perhaps ye’d be good enough to share your bottle with me, bein’ that my day was drier than yer own.”
“Was it now? Since when has it been dry in Lester Wells? As I recall, that’s where ye spent the better part of the day, leavin’ only the afternoon for seein’ to the troop’s horses. Would ye be tellin’ me that an old soljer with twenty years in the cavalry don’t have a bottle hidden away in the troop stables?”
“I’ll not be tellin’ ye anything,” O’Callan answered through a grin.
“Well, would ye be tellin’ me about that conversation ye had with Sergeant Major MacDonald?”
“Now which one would that be? I’ve had several long talks with Black Harry.”
“The one right after the Christmas ball. Ye know, man, right before young Trooper Whitlow finally left us.”
“I don’t know that I kin recall such a’ occasion,” O’Callan evaded.
“Are ye daft, man? The talk about the U.S. Navy.”
“Oh, that? ’Tweren’t much of a conversation, Jimmy. He only asked me how I liked the navy. An’ I tole him I didn’t know nothin’ about goin’s on in the sea. He said, ‘well then ye don’t dislike the navy, O’Callan?’ I said no, an’ that was that.”
“Strange things to ask a man,” Brannigan pondered.
“The sergeant major is a strange man, Jimmy. Or haven’t ye noticed? Him an’ his dark broodin’ looks fair give me the shivers, an’ that’s the truth of it. Do ye suppose he might have the evil eye?”
Brannigan, himself only a casual believer in the superstitions so rampant among the immigrant Irish, started to answer derisively, only to be interrupted by the sound of the gate sentry calling the corporal of the guard.
“Ah! That’ll be the mail wagon now.”
“Mail wagon? Since when have we been taking a wagon on the mail run?”
“I heard about it at headquarters this afternoon,” Brannigan enlightened him. “It seems we’re havin’ some visitors, and the mail detail picked ’em up.”
Brannigan rose and walked toward the porch.
“Why is it that ye never send me on the interestin’ runs?” asked O’Callan, who followed alongside.
“Because it was A Troop’s turn, bucko. Now close yer mouth and let’s see who’s come to call on us.”
They sipped their whiskey in silence, lost in the deep shadows on the porch, and watched as the big gates on the stockade swung open to admit the mail detail and wagon. O’Callan examined the wagon critically and nudged his friend in the ribs. “Where’s those visitors?”
“Wait and see, Terry. Wait and see.”
O’Callan and Brannigan nodded to the sergeant in charge as he and his detail rode slowly by the store. The wagon followed. They still could not see inside it. O’Callan turned away with a snort of impatience. “Well, if they’re gonna hide, I got no interest in ’em.”
Brannigan continued watching the little procession as it rolled up to regimental headquarters and stopped. Then he pointed a sausage-thick finger at the caravan.
“They must be of some importance, Terry. Sergeant Major MacDonald and the adjutant are out to meet ’em.”
“Awh, who cares? Pass yer bottle.”
Brannigan handed him the liquor. “Terry, is there any ocean in Arizona?”
O’Callan laughed. “Are ye daft, Jimmy? O’ course there’s no ocean here.”
“Then what the hell are they doin’ here at Fort Perdido?”
“Jimmy, ’tis a bad habit, ye’ve picked up. Fort Perdido, indeed.” Then he turned curiously to see what transpired at headquarters.
“Glory be! Sailors. As I live and breathe, that wagon was full o’ bloody sailors!”
“That’s plumb unsettlin’, that’s what it is,” Brannigan said, amazed. “Let’s take our bottles back to the barracks an’ wait fer developments.”
“That’s a fine idea, bucko,” agreed O’Callan. “We’re the only troop with no patrols out. If anything comes o’ this, it’ll be right in our laps.”
The two sergeants crossed the parade ground slowly while keeping an eye on the activity in front of regimental headquarters. An excited Lance Corporal Charlie Bradley met them at the barracks door.
“Who’s them funny-looking fellers, Sergeant O’Callan?”
“From their appearance, I’d say they was sailors.” The largest body of water that Charlie had ever seen was the Rio Grande at flood time. He stared at the strangers a little bewildered. Then he licked his lips and rubbed dry palms together.
“Sailors, huh? You mean like Jesus’ disciples?”
“No, Bradley,” scoffed O’Callan. “Them disciples was fishermen. These are sailors that go on the ocean in ships o’ war.”
“What are they doing here?” Charlie demanded. “We sure ain’t got no ships fer ’em to sail on ... and even if we did, water is scarcer than hens’ teeth out here.”
“We don’ know a thing about it,” Brannigan answered.
The two sergeants left Charlie gawking by the door and walked through the squad room to the partition that served as their quarters. Once inside, they flopped unmilitarily on their bunks and turned their attention back to the whiskey.
“All I ask is to be left in peace,” O’Callan sighed wistfully.
“Amen,” Brannigan answered.
They drank in silence for a time, half-listening to the low murmurings of the troopers out in the squad area. A sharp knock on the partition startled them.
The colonel’s orderly stepped in sharply. “Sergeant O’Callan, the regimental sergeant major says for you to report to headquarters immediately or even faster than that if you can.”
“Awh, no!” wailed O’Callan. “And what does Black Harry want with me?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” the soldier shrugged off, slipping into informality after delivering his message. “But I heard him laughing with the adjutant and saying something about you joining the navy.”
~*~
O’Callan stepped into the sergeant major’s office and gaped at the sight that greeted him.
A large, ruddy-faced man stood by MacDonald’s desks, his toothy grin haloed by coal-black mustache and chin whiskers. He wore a navy jumper with its broad collar and kerchief, topped off by a flat-topped hat. O’Callan looked pointedly at the bell-bottomed trousers, with their large flap in front held closed by thirteen buttons.
“I beg yer pardon,” O’Callan blurted, confused. “But ’twould appear to me ye’ve got yer pants on backwards.”
The stranger’s face crinkled into lines of humor and he burst forth in loud laughter. A ham-sized fist banged on MacDonald’s desk. Everyone else managed to look just slightly uncomfortable.
“That’s a funny one, ain’t it? Like I as warin’ longjohns, right? I get it.”
MacDonald grinned weakly. “This is Sergeant O’Callan.”
The stranger stuck out one huge paw. “Pleased to know you. Murray Ormond, Boatswain’s Mate, United-States-By-God-Navy!”
Such enthusiasm washed over O’Callan like a desert flashflood. He took the proffered hand and eyed the man warily for several long seconds before turning his attention back to MacDonald. Harry’s bland countenance revealed nothing.
“The colonel’s orderly said ye wanted to see me, Sergeant Major.”
“Oh, indeed I do,” MacDonald beamed. “We have a special assignment for you. Perhaps. Uh, Boatswain Ormond should explain his mission here. How should we address you, anyway?”
“Awh, hell. We’re on friendly terms. Just call me Boats, that’s the navy way,” Ormond declared expansively.
“Well, ye kin call me Sergeant,” O’Callan returned. “That’s the army way.”
MacDonald attempted to be the diplomat. “That certainly seems rather stiff and formal on your part, O’Callan. If Boats lets you call him by a nickname, why don’t you let him call you Sarge?”
“I don’t like nobody callin’ me Sarge,” O’Callan complained. “Not even another NCO.”
MacDonald laughed. “Don’t be so stuffy, O’Callan. Well, Boats, go ahead and explain your mission to Sarge here.”
“Sure will,” the gravel voice ground out. “We’re part of a weather watch, Sarge. The navy and the newly created U.S. Weather Bureau are setting up some temporary climate observation stations west of the Rocky Mountains and we’re gonna run some close tabs on the weather. What we’re really after is to see if there’s a pattern or connection between inland weather and what we get at sea.”
“Sound like a waste o’ time to me,” O’Callan bristled. “At least, it seems ye’re preoccupied with the weather. In the army we perform our duties no matter what it’s like.”
Despite his joviality, Ormond had already sensed O’Callan’s unfriendliness. “Have you ever experienced a gale out at sea, Sarge?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Then just imagine yourself up in the mountains you have around here.”
O’Callan closed his eyes. “That I’m doin’.”
“And imagine those mountains moving back and forth, suddenly sinking down to ground level and then shooting straight back up even higher than they were before. Think about ’em doing that over and over for days, maybe.”
“That’d be bloody horrible,” said O’Callan breathlessly. “Every man or animal that was up there would be killed.”
“That’s what a storm is like at sea. Only it’s water instead of land moving and crashing up and down like that.”
“Interestin’,” O’Callan allowed, unimpressed. “Could ye give me duties to me, Sergeant Major?”
“You’re to lead the escort patrol for the navy party and aid them in setting up their weather station on top of Dog Leg Butte.”
“And how many are in their party?”
“Let’s see: they have a lieutenant junior grade; Boats, here; and six sailors. Also, three civilian scientists from the weather bureau. Make it eleven in all,” MacDonald answered.
O’Callan screwed up his face and began working the arithmetic in his head. “I don’t have no paper nor pencil, but mebbe I kin work this out. Here ... let me figger ... sixteen troopers plus seven swabs, hey? Six and seven are about fifteen, carry the one ... wait a minute, I’ll start again.”
Ormond burst out in laughter once more. “Six and seven are about fifteen, eh? You’re a real card, Sarge.”
MacDonald sensed O’Callan’s sudden anger and stepped in soothingly. “You figure out the details later, O’Callan. In the meantime, take Boats over to the NCO quarters and help him settle in.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major. C’mon, Boats.”
O’Callan let him out of the headquarters toward the barracks. Ormond paused long enough to swing two large seabags across his brawny shoulders, then followed cheerfully. His every attempt at conversation met with a silent rebuff. O’Callan kicked the door open and bade the petty officer enter.
Brannigan stood up at the sight of the sailor. “I’m First Sergeant James Brannigan,” he announced, holding out his hand.
“Boatswain’s Mate Murray Ormond,” the sailor said, glad to find a friendly face.
“Ye’re to call him ‘Boats,’” O’Callan remarked. “The next thing ye know, we’ll be callin’ the wagoners ‘Wheels.’”
“You really know how to pop ’em,” Ormond managed through a laugh.
“He’s to bunk in here,” O’Callan explained to Brannigan.
“In that case, I’ll see to gettin’ ye a bunk from the quartermaster sergeant,” Brannigan offered.
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” Ormond declined. He went over to his seabags. “A sailor carries his bed with him.” Deftly he pulled out a roll of white canvas.
“Are ye gonna spread that out on the floor to sleep on?” O’Callan asked with faked solicitude, then winked at Brannigan.
“Not at all, Sarge. This is called a hammock. I’ll take some line and have ’er rigged up in no time.”
O’Callan began explaining Ormond’s mission and his role in it as he watched the sailor expertly flip a length of rope over a rafter. He summed up his explanation with his personal observation.
“’Tis a waste o’ time, silly at best, an’ ’twill serve only to harass honest so’jers.”
Ormond felt a sudden rush of anger. “I’m working on a project that might save many a shipmate’s life, Sarge. I’ll thank you not to poke fun at it.”
“Don’t tell me how to talk in me own barracks room, Boats,” O’Callan spat, his voice high-pitched and querulous. “Ye got no right comin’ in here big as life and tyin’ a hummick up in the middle of the room.”
“That’s hammock,” Ormond shot back. “And it certainly ain’t gonna hurt the appearance of this compartment.”
“That’s room, I’ll thank ye to remember. An’ who the hell wants to sleep in a place all strung about with bloody rope?”
“It’s a line, you goddamned landlubber,” shouted Ormond, “—And if you don’t watch your big mouth, I’m gonna sock you right between your runnin’ lights.”
“What!” O’Callan yelled with indignation, sensing a battle royal in the making and eager for it.
Brannigan came to his feet and stepped between the two. “No, lads, let’s cool down and relax.”
“Relax!” O’Callan exploded. “Relax, the man says. An’ how the devil am I supposed to do that with this uppity Ulsterman tryin’ to rewrite the English language to conform to navy regulations?”
Murray Ormond bristled, hiking up the sleeves of his blue jumper. “I don’t know what an Ulsterman is, but it don’t sound good. Maybe I should teach you a lesson on manners.”
Jimmy Brannigan shoved them apart forcibly with his muscular arms. “Enough! Now, let’s everybody have a nice drink and sit down!”
A beatific smile crossed O’Callan’s face. “A drink, is it? Sure an’ I’ll abide yer wishes fer that.”
As the furious pair obeyed, Brannigan poured out a generous dollop of sutler’s whiskey for each and eyed the combative NCOs speculatively. Carefully, he handed them their tin cups. Then the first sergeant took a chair to begin a wary evening of staying between the two men as time ground on fitfully.
Brannigan didn’t relax until taps finally sounded. After the noncoms had bedded down, the room grew silent, except for the heavy breathing of the three men trying to sleep. The last sound came from O’Callan. “I still say it’s a bloody hummick.”