He paused briefly at the door and looked back. "I spoke with the surgeon, by the way. Your wound seems to be quite similar to my own. The one I acquired at Lundy's Lane. If so, Captain, expect it to hurt off and on for the rest of your life. But there shouldn't be any other problem of any consequence. And if pain is a major concern to you, then you'd best start looking for a different line of work."
He was gone.
Ten seconds later, his head reappeared in the door. "One last thing. If you're still struggling with your reading, I'd recommend you start with the biographies. The technical manuals can be quite dismal."
Gone again. Sheff stared at the bookcase.
After a while, defying the surgeon's orders, Sheff levered himself out of bed and began to examine the titles.
Eventually, he decided on Julius Caesar's The Gallic War. He had no idea who the Gallics had been, but at least he'd heard of Caesar. Now that he thought about it, in fact, that might be one of the busts in the hotel.
But maybe not. It was always hard to know with the Laird. Being as he was a man who hated tyranny, but never seemed to have any trouble being a tyrant himself when he thought he needed to be.
Not that Sheff cared. Like almost everyone in New Antrim, he'd seen tyranny at its most naked. No nebulous abstraction that someone like John Randolph might declaim against, but the real faces that had murdered his father.
So if it took a tyrant to deal with that tyranny, he'd surely be the tyrant's legionnaire. Not hesitate for an instant, not though he waded through an ocean of blood.
He'd only gotten through the first few pages, though, when there was another commotion at the door. Julia Chinn came in with a white man Sheff had never seen before.
"Will this do?" she asked.
The man shook his head vigorously. "Impossible, Mrs. Johnson. Not for what you want. We really need a much larger room, where we can place at least three chairs."
Julia nodded and gave Sheff a quick inspection. "Can you sit upright, Captain? For-" She cocked an inquiring head at the stranger.
"Two hours at a stretch, Mrs. Johnson. Though I'd prefer three."
Julia turned back to Sheff. "Can you manage that?"
"Oh, sure, Miz Julia. Truth is, I'd find it a relief. I get real tired of lying in bed, no matter what the surgeon says."
"Splendid. Let's begin at once then, since Mr. Wiedeman has the day free, and that's hardly ever true."
Wiedeman gave Sheff a curt nod and left. Julia moved over to help Sheff out of the bed. "That's Lyle Wiedeman, Captain Parker. He just arrived in town less than two weeks ago. Everyone's thrilled, of course. First real artist we've ever had in New Antrim. Well, painter, at least. But for this purpose, a wood-carver like Antoinette simply wouldn't do at all."
It was odd hearing Miz Julia talking so properly. Not that she couldn't when she wanted to. She always did, in fact, on the frequent occasions when General Ross's wife, Eliza, came to visit. But Sheff wasn't accustomed to hearing her talk like that when just he and the girls were around.
After she helped him to his feet, she shook her head, smiling widely, and indicated his bedclothes with a finger. "And that won't do at all, either. Can you manage to put on your uniform, Captain? The dress uniform, I mean."
"I might need some help with the coatee, Miz Julia, but I can do the rest. If you give me just a few minutes."
"Certainly. But there's one other thing, Captain, I'd much appreciate."
"Yes, Miz Julia?"
" That. It won't do all, either. Not any longer. So I must insist."
The words were said sternly-whatever they meant-but she was smiling more widely than ever.
"I don't understand, Miz Julia."
"Mrs. Johnson, Captain. That's my name. Please use it, henceforth."
1824: TheArkansasWar
CHAPTER 43
By the time Sheff got into his uniform, Mrs. Johnson helping him with the coatee, and made it out into the boardinghouse's salon, he discovered that the whole room had been rearranged. Lyle Wiedeman had an easel set up to one side, with a large blank canvas, and paints of various kind on a small table next to it. The divan that normally occupied pride of place in the room had been moved against one of the walls. The boardinghouse's owner, Susan Wilson, was perched on its edge watching the activities, with her grandchildren-all six of them-filling the rest of the divan.
Fortunately, it was one of the crudely made but sturdy pieces of furniture produced by the McParland Furniture Company in Fort of 98. The young children were rambunctious, climbing all over the thing, and Mrs. Wilson was not being her usual stern taskmistress self. The widow's dark eyes were bright with interest at the unusual goings-on in the rest of the room. Clearly enough, she was giving only a small part of her mind to the matter of the youngsters.
Sheff thought that might get sticky before too long. Literally sticky, what with all the paint bottles on Wiedeman's little table-which was not sturdily built at all. He hoped that nothing disastrous would happen before the children's two mothers and their uncle got back from work.
That would be a while yet, though. Susan Wilson's daughters worked for one of the larger of New Antrim's garment manufacturers, which, like all such, had long hours. The uncle, a partly disabled veteran since Second Arkansas Post, enjoyed one of the secured jobs set aside for such by the army's commissariat. His hours of work were not particularly long, but he was sure to dawdle after work in one of the military saloons before finally wending his way home.
The husband of the younger of the Wilson daughters wouldn't be returning for two weeks at the earliest, since his unit was on patrol somewhere in the Ouachitas. The husband of the older daughter would never be returning at all. He'd died at Second Arkansas in the fighting at the wall, not more than fifty feet from the spot where Sheff had been struck down.
But Sheff didn't give the matter of the children much of his mind, either. First, because he was too fascinated and puzzled by everything else. And second, because Imogene was in the room and wearing a fancy dress he'd never seen on her before. It looked brand-new and store-bought.
She was grinning at him and seemed to be on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement like a girl half her age. Sheff wouldn't have thought much of it a year ago, when he'd first met her. She'd seemed so young, then, that the difference between a twelve-year-old and a six-year-old would have been minor.
But he couldn't help notice it today. It was odd, really, the way the girl seemed to age, since he'd been moved into the room upstairs and got to see her all the time. As if she were a month older for every day that passed. Sheff would swear that was true, except he was pretty sure it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
He'd asked Cal about it, just the week before.
"You wish!" had been the unkind response.
Mrs. Johnson clapped her hands. "All right, everyone take their positions! Mr. Wiedeman's time is valuable, and we can't waste any of it."
She pointed imperiously to one of the three chairs lined up in a row. "Captain Parker, you take the seat on the left."
No sooner had he done so than Mrs. Johnson took the seat next to him, in the middle. The other seemed destined to remain vacant.
"Mama!" Adaline exclaimed. "Cal's not here yet!"
For the first time, Sheff noticed the twin. It might be better to say that her presence registered on him. He realized now that she'd been in the room all along, wearing a dress very similar to her sister's except in small details of color and trim. But, as often happened when Imogene was there also, he simply hadn't paid any attention to her.
And there was another oddity. Sheff kept hearing people comment on the identical appearance of the two girls, leaving aside whatever clothing they might have on. Sheff would have thought they were insane, except he had a vague recollection of having once thought the same thing himself.