The fifty men of Troop L were seated tall in their saddles, ready to go through a mounted inspection. Because this was no full-dress affair, they sported their second-best military finery.
Used to the pomp and strict protocol of West Point, Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe felt a stab of disapproval as he turned to catch a quick glimpse of the enlisted troopers behind him. Although all were in regulation garrison uniform of kepi, blouse, trousers, boots, and leather accouterments that Quartermaster Sergeant Mulvaney had issued, they were still not dressed in a completely similar manner. Several of the horse soldiers were attired in yellow-trimmed, short jackets of the type used during the Civil War that had ended eighteen years previously. A few more of the troopers were clad in the longer sackcloth coat model of 1872, and others had the later style which were of the same cut, but were piped with yellow cord around the collar and edge of the cuffs.
Wildon consoled himself with the thought that at least these were real professional soldiers of the Regular Army. Perhaps if a tight-fisted Congress loosened up some military purse strings, not only could the men of the regiment be clothed alike, but their worn field gear could be replaced by new haversacks, cartridge belts, and canteens.
The troop commander, Captain Fred Armbrewster, drew his saber. “Prepare for inspection! March, front!” He was a paunchy officer in his late forties. Although not a dashing figure, he performed the rituals of both mounted and dismounted drill perfectly. Even Wildon, after four years of parade ground ceremonies at West Point, could find no fault in the other officer’s execution of military marching.
The guidon bearer and bugler moved smartly into proper position. Since this was a mounted inspection, the carbines were not going to be looked at. Only pistols and sabers. The captain turned his horse with Wildon, the troop’s only other officer, following him. As they passed each man, the trooper displayed his saber and pistol in the prescribed manner. The captain and lieutenant rode around the troop, then back to the front.
“First Sergeant!” the captain barked.
Sergeant James Garrity, a veteran line noncommissioned officer who was acting as the troop first sergeant, urged his horse a few hoof-clomping steps forward. He saluted sharply.
“Dismiss the troop,” Armbrewster commanded.
“Yes, sir.”
Wildon and Captain Armbrewster rode off toward the regimental stables. When they reached the building, the two officers dismounted and handed their horses over to a waiting orderly. Armbrewster was in a good mood. “Well, you’ll be a regular married man like the rest of us in another couple of days or so, hey, Mr. Boothe?”
“Yes, sir,” Wildon answered.
The two strolled out of the stable area in casual conversation. But, despite the informality, they still observed military custom. Wildon, as the junior ranking man, walked to Armbrewster’s left. Both held their sheathed sabers in the correct manner next to the left leg. This left the right hand free to return the salutes they might receive from any passing enlisted men.
“You haven’t forgotten the dinner party at Major Darnell’s tonight, have you?” Armbrewster asked.
“No, sir,” Wildon answered.
“We’ll let Sergeant Garrity handle the retreat formation,” Armbrewster said. “We wouldn’t want to be late for our squadron commander’s soiree, would we?”
“I shall be there, standing tall as a good subaltern.”
“Uh, yes, Boothe,” Armbrewster said a bit uneasily. “I really must talk to you about something.”
“About what, sir?”
“That white mess jacket of yours,” Armbrewster said. “It has created quite a stir.”
“I had it especially made just before my graduation from the academy, sir,” Wildon said. “Actually, it was a gift from my uncle. He is a brigadier general in the New York State Militia.”
“Yes, of course, but you see, young man, it is the only such item of uniform on this post,” Armbrewster said. “None of the other officers have one. That, unfortunately, includes our own squadron and regimental commanders.”
Wildon wasn’t sure what Armbrewster was getting at. "Yes, sir?”
“Actually, it wouldn’t be a very good idea for you to wear it at any future functions, Mr. Boothe,” Armbrewster said. “I have been specifically instructed to tell you that.”
“I’m certainly sorry if I offended—”
“Oh, pshaw, young man!” Armbrewster said with a smile. “There has been no offense taken. And you must take into consideration that it isn’t regulation.”
“Of course, sir,” Wildon said. “Thank you.”
“I knew you would understand.” They had reached Armbrewster’s quarters. “Then I shall see you at Major Darnell’s at seven-thirty.”
“Yes, sir.” Wildon saluted. He walked on down officers’ row, feeling a bit embarrassed. He realized he had what was termed in the army as “money on the outside,” but he hadn’t really given it much thought. Naturally, any officer eking by on only his military pay could never afford a white mess jacket complete with gold lacing on the sleeves. His uncle had spent more on that one piece of apparel than most officers spent on their entire army wardrobe.
Wildon walked down to his own quarters, the last in the row, as was appropriate for the regiment’s most subordinate lieutenant, and let himself in. As usual, when he entered the small sod house, he felt a stab of regret.
Hester would never stand for living in such a place.
He hung up his kepi on a hat rack picked up at the sutler’s store. After removing his sword belt, he placed the saber there too. Wildon took another look, then walked over to one of the wooden chairs and slumped down in it.
He loved the army. Even after the unhappy introduction to reality at Fort MacNeil, his enthusiasm for military life had not been dampened a whit. Wildon knew he’d wear army blue until he either retired or was laid low by some Indian warrior’s bullet. But the stinging knowledge that his wife Hester was going to detest it hung heavy in his heart, taking away what enjoyment he should be experiencing in moving into the regimental environment. When his mind dwelt on the inevitable conflict awaiting him and his wife, his thoughts turned the darkest and most pessimistic. The notes of Retreat sounded by one of the regimental band’s trumpeters, snapped him out of his disagreeable lethargy.
Wanting to think of more pleasant things, he stood up and walked over to the built-in cupboard used as a closet. Hanging there among the uniforms was his hunting outfit. He pulled out the buckskin outfit and looked at it. He smiled, thinking of how he would have his picture taken in it the first time a photographer made an appearance at Fort MacNeil. Seeing him dressed up like that would really create a stir back in New York.
Suddenly remembering the time, he went into the other room where the cook stove was located. After lighting the kindling and putting in some small scraps of wood for a small fire to heat the cauldron of water, he dragged the bathtub from its place in the corner to get ready for an evening at Major Darnell’s quarters.
After bathing, shaving, and slicking down his hair, Wildon picked out a uniform. He would really have preferred the mess jacket, but Captain Armbrewster had set him straight. Instead, he chose a normal garrison uniform with dark-blue blouse and light-blue trousers sporting the yellow stripe of the cavalry down each side. He slipped into it, hoping the fact that it was made of expensive material and especially tailored in New York City would not be noticed.
When he was properly prepared, he stepped out of his quarters and walked back up toward the field officers’ area. It was a peaceful time of the day. The men, at least those not on guard duty or sentenced as garrison prisoners to extra duty, were in their mess halls. After eating, they would have a few hours of free time. Since there had been a recent payday, most would be at the sutler’s getting drunk or playing at any of the numerous illegal card games that seemed to appear mysteriously in out-of-the-way places where it would be difficult for the officer of the day or sergeant of the guard to discover the pastime.
Wildon reached the Darnells’ door and knocked. The door was opened by the major’s wife, Sophie Darnell, a middle-aged woman who had been an officer’s lady for over thirty years. Wildon bowed properly. “My compliments, ma’am.”
Mrs. Darnell smiled and stepped back to allow him to enter. “Good evening, Mr. Boothe,” she said. “Please come in and join us.”
“Thank you very much,” Wildon said. He’d never noticed the difference between a major’s home and a lowly lieutenant’s quarters before. More spacious, with superior furniture, it was better constructed and had windows that slid up and down. There was also a fireplace with a mantel. Wildon knew that Hester was going to resent the hell out of that.
“There is punch on the sideboard in the kitchen,” Mrs.' Darnell informed him. “The gentlemen are out there if you would care to join them.”
“Very well,” Wildon said.
“You’ll be dropping your lady off with us at the next little get-together we have, won’t you?” Mrs. Darnell said. “We are all so looking forward to meeting her.”
“Yes,” Wildon said. He walked through the living room, pausing to politely greet the other wives there. As per protocol, he stopped for a longer pause with his troop commander’s wife, Elisa Armbrewster.
Mrs. Armbrewster, the same age as Sophie Darnell, also felt inclined to speak of Hester’s pending arrival. “Mr. Boothe, we are so anxious to meet your lady. Especially since she’s from the East.”
“Yes, Mrs. Armbrewster,” Wildon said. “New York State to be exact.”
“She’ll think we’re such frumps,” Mrs. Armbrewster said, feigning a frown. “We’re so out of date.”
“I’m sure she’ll find you as charming as I have,” Wildon said, not wanting to get into any prolonged conversation about Hester.
“At least she’ll brighten up our drab existence here,” Mrs. Armbrewster insisted.
Wildon was rescued by a call from the kitchen. “Mr. Boothe!” It was Major Darnell. “Come join the men. Don’t become a prisoner of war of the ladies.”
“It is a captivity I would not mind enduring,” Wildon said.
“Why, Mr. Boothe!” Mrs. Armbrewster declared. “That’s another nice thing you’ve said since you came in the door. First you say you found us charming, now you willingly surrender to us ladies.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wildon said. “Please excuse me.”
“Ah, yes!” Mrs. Armbrewster said in understanding. “The major summons you!”
Wildon joined the other officers. He liked the rough male camaraderie he experienced in the regiment. The others were off to one side of the room happily indulging in guzzling down the heavily spiked punch. Besides Major Darnell and Captain Armbrewster, there were two more troop commanders, and the regimental surgeon.
Darnell, a bit drunk, roared out in laughter. “Well, young Mr. Boothe, are you enjoying your final carefree days of bachelorhood?”
“Yes, sir,” Wildon answered with a broad grin. He got himself a cupful of the drink.
The surgeon, an alcoholic named Dempster, was already weaving slightly. “And how soon will I be delivering any little Boothes?”
“I can’t say, sir,” Wildon said. “I think I must concentrate on her introduction to army life before seriously thinking of raising a family.” He looked over to the other side of the room and saw two self-conscious mess cooks preparing the dinner. They kept their heads down in a mute pretense that they weren’t really observing the officers getting drunk. Wildon knew the soldiers were actually enjoying the experience and would spread tales in the barracks that same evening.
Armbrewster nudged the surgeon. “Go on with your story, old man.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Dempster said. “So this soldier came in on sick call complaining of a—” He glanced at the door to make sure none of the ladies was near, “—dripping member. So I examined him, and it didn’t take me long to figure out what was wrong. ‘Trooper,’ says I, you got—’” Another look at the door. “‘—you got the clap and I’m going to have to write you up on it.’ So he asked me what would happen to him, and I told him they’d put him in the guardhouse for three months.”
“What’d he say ’bout that?” Darnell asked in a slurred voice.
“He said, ‘Sir, not that! I can’t pull three months in the guardhouse,’” The surgeon chuckled again. “So I says to him, ‘Well, trooper pull what you can and push the rest’!”
Wildon liked the story. That really sounded Regular Army to him. He held onto his drink and joined his fellow officers as they dissolved into gales of drunken laughter.