By ten o'clock that morning, miles into the most godawful set of hills and hollows Sheff had ever seen, he was on his knees puking up what little food he'd had in his stomach. Cal McParland was kneeling right next to him, doing the same.
His feet ached, his legs felt as if they were burning from coals within, and the heavy pack on his back seemed like the Rock of Ages. They'd been marching since dawn, with the captain and the sergeants setting a murderous pace. At the start of the march, Sheff had been disgruntled that they hadn't been provided with muskets-or, indeed, any sort of weapon beyond the knives they all carried in scabbards at their belts, which were really more in the way of tools than fighting gear. Now he was deeply thankful for it.
"Funny thing is," McParland finally managed to half whisper, "I don't actually got nothing 'gainst white men. Being's I'm one myself."
Sheff had wondered about that. "Why'd you enlist, then?" he asked, in the same strained half whisper. "Your family bean't poor, like mine."
Somehow, McParland managed a shrug under that huge pack. "Something of a family tradition, now. And:well, we like Arkansas. Got nothing against the United States, really. But if they come here, not being polite about it, we decided we'll send them back."
There was something about that answer that seemed awfully fuzzy to Sheff. But:
There was also something about it that would probably look real good, clarified up some. He thought he was finally coming to understand-really understand-what Abraham's people felt when God led them into the Promised Land.
"On your feet!" bellowed Sergeant Williams, trotting down the line of exhausted men. "Break's over!"
Williams didn't look any more tired than if he'd just come back from an evening stroll. Sheff envied him that ease, but mostly it just filled him with determination. If Williams could learn to do it, so could he.
He heaved himself to his feet, giving Callender McParland a helping hand as he did so. The white boy was a lot more slender than he was. That pack had to be just about killing him.
"Thanks," McParland murmured. He managed something of a chuckle, once he was erect. "And will you look at these uniforms? Good thing they made 'em out of whatever this awful cloth is. Dirty as they are, least they bean't torn."
Sheff looked down at his own uniform, which was just about as dirty and scuffed up as his companion's. There wasn't much left of the new look it had had when he got it the day before.
"I don't mind," he said softly. "It's still green, and it's still a uniform."
Williams came trotting back, whacking a few slow-movers with one of the fancy-looking sticks the officers and sergeants carried. A baton, Sheff had heard them called.
"Move it, move it, move it!" he bellowed. "March is just starting, you lazy curries!"
He pointed with the stick to some mountains whose crest could just be seen from the hollow where the captain had ordered a brief rest for the company. "Before this march is done, you gotta be up there in the Bostons! And you will be, by God-or we'll leave you dead on the road!"
Sheff took a deep breath, staring up at those mountains. Next to him, McParland did the same.
Blasphemy in the army, Sheff had already discovered, was pretty contagious. "Sweet Jesus," McParland muttered.
"Just think of it as Mount Sinai," Sheff murmured back.
"You're crazy."
"Maybe. But what I am for sure and certain is a nigger. And that looks like Sinai to me."
The march lurched into motion again. For a few minutes, neither of them said anything.
Then McParland said: "People call me Cal. Can I call you Sheff?"
As exhausted as he was, Sheff thought that might be the most triumphant moment he'd ever had in his life so far. Not that he'd had many, of course, and this one wasn't really that big. But he could already see a road of triumphs shaping ahead of him. If he just kept marching forward, no matter how tired he was.
"Yes," he replied.
1824: TheArkansasWar
CHAPTER 8
County Down, Ireland
"You owe these people nothing, Robert," said Eliza Ross. "That man, in particular."
She lifted her teacup from the side table next to her divan and used it to point to his shoulder. "Except for half crippling you."
The words weren't spoken angrily, or even in a condemnatory tone. They were stated matter-of-factly, as someone might present another piece of evidence to be weighed when a conclusion is being drawn.
Her husband was standing at the window of the Ross family seat in Rostrevor that gave him the best view of the Irish countryside. The hand he'd been using to hold back the curtains belonged to the same arm his wife had indicated with the cup. For a moment, half smiling, he studied that arm. Then, took away the hand, letting the curtains swing back into place.
"Hardly that," he murmured. "A quarter crippling, at worst. I can still use the arm, after all, and the hand's fine. I just can't lift much with it."
He didn't add, as he could have, that the arm ached frequently, especially in bad weather. His wife knew that already, and besides, that wasn't really what was at issue anyway. Eliza was no more given to nursing old enmities than he was.
Still at the window, he turned to face her squarely. And, from old habit, clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the twinge of pain the gesture brought with it.
"What did you think of the letter itself?" he asked.
She finished draining the cup, set it on the side table, and looked down at the paper in her lap. Two sheets, it was, both covered with script written in some sort of particularly heavy ink.
"His handwriting's getting better," she said, a corner of her mouth quirking a little. "Mind you, that's not saying much."
Her husband's mouth matched the quirk with one of its own. "Amazing he does as well as he does, if you ask me. There's only four misspelled words in the whole letter-and three of them can be debated. I've seen worse dispatches from English noblemen, much less an Irish emigrant with no more than a village education. Even in English, much less French."
Eliza Ross picked up the sheets and held them closer to her eyes. She was a bit nearsighted. "And there's that, too, Robert. Why does he write in French instead of English?"
It was a rhetorical question, of course. So she moved right on to provide the answer herself. "Because Patrick Driscol, born in Ireland, learned most of his letters while serving in Napoleon's army. Because he's a man who has been England's enemy his entire adult life. For years, long before"-this time, she used the sheets to point to Robert Ross's left shoulder-"he ruined your arm."
Again, her tone was level, not accusatory. Just another fact, to be presented.
"True," he agreed. "All true."
She lowered the sheets back onto her lap. "Robert, I feel I must remind you that your standing within English society has become somewhat frayed, of late. If you accept this invitation:"
Firmly, her husband shook his head. "Don't mince words, love. 'Somewhat frayed' hardly captures the thing. 'Tattered as a beggar's coat' would do better."
Eliza took a slow deep breath and then let it out in a sigh. "Well, yes. Among Tory circles, at least."
She did not bother to add, as she could have, that for Anglo-Irish of their class, after the rebellion of 1798, "Tory circles" amounted to the only circles in existence. In Ireland, at least, if not always in England.
She didn't add it, partly because it was unnecessary. But mostly for the simple reason that she didn't care much. A bit, perhaps, where her husband no longer cared at all. But not much.
Abruptly, Robert Ross released the handclasp and strode-marched, almost-to the wall opposite the window. Hanging there, in a heavy and ornate frame next to the door, was an illustration.
A very odd one, to be so prominently displayed in such a house. The Ross family was an old and much-respected one among the Anglo-Irish gentry. Robert's father, Major David Ross, had served with distinction in the Seven Years' War. A still earlier ancestor, Colonel Charles Ross, had been killed at Fontenoy in 1745, during the War of the Austrian succession.