December 20, 1866—Fort Phil Kearny, Dakota Territory
PALE LIGHT FLARES AS THE GUARDHOUSE DOOR OPENS.
“Daniel, my dear Daniel.” Molloy is propped on his new crutches.
“Captain, you should not be out of your bed.”
Molloy laughs and begins to cough. He holds a handkerchief to his mouth and hacks, heavy and liquid into it. Kohn sees blood in the kerchief as the captain wipes his lips.
“I have come to see your prisoner, Dan. I hear he has a testament of sorts for my eyes only.”
Kohn notes how weak is Molloy’s voice—the officer’s skin yellow, malign shadows under his eyes—as he guides him to the woodstove to warm himself. “It is near a book now, sir. He wants to see his brother, he says, before he can finish it.”
“A book . . . fine thing. I will sit with him and read it but he won’t be seeing his brother any time soon I don’t imagine. The surgeon’s dog has told me he’s skedaddled.”
Kohn shakes his head. “I could have told you it would happen, sir.”
“Daniel, you make me weary with your hard charging.”
There is a stirring behind the cell door and then a banging on the door. “What is that, sir? What did you say of my brother?”
Molloy crutches over to the door and opens the Judas hole. “You should not take it as gospel, my friend. It is said he has deserted but that may be false. There is worse news you could hear of him around this valley I would imagine.”
Michael O’Driscoll says, “He would not run without me, sir.”
“I can only tell you what is said, Private. I’m sorry for your troubles.”
Michael O’Driscoll curses under his breath in Irish.
Molloy smiles and says, “If your brother is a bastard, Private, pray what does that make yourself?”
The prisoner does not smile. “I did forget you can speak in the Gaelic, sir.”
“Would it have changed the sentiment if you remembered?”
“No, sir.” Michael turns away from the Judas hole and goes back to the open ledger on his desk. “It would not change a thing for either of us.” He begins to write, scratching hard at the page, and the officer watches for a moment.
Molloy then hobbles back to the table and sits. “Boil that kettle, Kohn, and we will have coffee. And pour a mug for Mr. O’Driscoll, hard at his labors.”
“He’s had his grub, sir.”
“He will need it to go on, Kohn, if he is to finish his tome. And paint the three mugs with this,” Molloy says, placing a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table.
Kohn turns away from Molloy. “It is cold in here, sir. You will catch your death.”
Molloy smiles at Kohn. “Daniel, my friend, I caught that some years ago, as you well know.”