"I feel the same."
"Say hello to your youngster and don't get yourself kilt in no tavern fights."
"Not me," Charles said, and rode away.
A road ran due north from Leavenworth City to the military reservation. Charles cantered along this two-mile stretch, passing neat farm plots and the headquarters of Russell, Majors and Waddell, a huge enclave of parked wagons, piled-up freight, penned oxen, noisy and profane teamsters. The river flowed along out of sight under the high bluff on his right.
The ten-square-mile post contained department headquarters, barracks and support faculties for six companies, and the large quartermaster's depot serving the forts to the west. Colonel Henry Leavenworth had established the original cantonment in 1827, on the Missouri's right bank near its confluence with the Kaw.
Jack Duncan's quarters were typical of Western military posts. Spartan rooms furnished with an old sheet-iron stove and whatever furniture the occupant brought, bought, or built from crates and lumber. Normally, the brigadier would have lived in smaller space — "Old Bedlam," the bachelor officers' quarters — but he'd ranked a married captain and thus moved him, his wife, and baby out of married quarters, so that he and Maureen and Gus could move in. This happened frequently to junior officers; the term for it was "the bricks falling in."
Charles couldn't believe how much his son had grown since last autumn. Little Gus walked around Duncan's parlor so fast, swaying, that Charles was constantly starting to dive for the boy, to catch him if he fell. It amused Duncan.
"No need for that. He's damn steady."
Charles quickly saw this was so. "He doesn't know me, Jack."
"Of course not." Duncan held out his hands. "Gus, come to Uncle." The boy clambered to his lap without hesitation. Duncan pointed to the visitor. "That's your father. Want to go to your father?"
Charles reached out to take him. Gus screamed.
"I think it's your beard," Duncan said.
Charles saw no humor in it. He struggled for over an hour to tempt Gus onto his lap. But after he finally did, he soon had him clinging to his thumbs and laughing as he bounced him up and down on his knee. Maureen appeared from the kitchen and expressed disapproval. Charles didn't stop.
Duncan leaned back and lit a pipe. "You look good, Charles. The life agrees with you."
"I miss Augusta and always will. Apart from that, I've never been happier."
"This Adolphus Jackson must be a fine fellow."
"The best." Charles cleared his throat. "Jack, I need to say something else about Augusta. Well, actually, about a woman I met in St. Louis. An actress in one of the theaters there. I'd like to pay her a call. But I don't want to dishonor Gus's memory."
Soberly, Duncan said, "You're a decent and considerate man. There are many who wouldn't even worry. I don't expect you to live like an anchorite the rest of your life. Augusta wouldn't expect it either. A man needs a woman, that's a fact of life. Go to St. Louis as soon as you want."
"Thank you, Jack." He beamed at Maureen, still hovering near and frowning over his rag-bag wardrobe, his tangled beard, his way of handling his son. Charles just ignored it.
"Life's too good to be believed," he said, gazing at his son, whose features had begun to favor his mother.
Duncan smiled. "I'm glad. We all went long enough feeling the other way in the late unpleasantness."
Up went the curtain. The players joined hands and stepped to the apron. Trump pulling the others along and then snatching off his woodcutter's cap. He waved the cap to acknowledge the applause, thus drawing attention from the others in the company. He unpinned his good-luck chrysanthemum from his coarse tunic and tossed the wilted flower, more brown than white, into the audience. An obese man caught it, examined it, threw it away.
The company bowed again. Then Trump took a third, solo, bow. The woman playing his wife exchanged long-suffering looks with Willa, who was prettily dressed in a high-waisted gown for her role as one of the young lovers. The play was Moliere's Physician in Spite of Himself, which had been "amplified and emended by Mr. Trump," according to posters outside. It seemed to Charles, standing up and clapping hard in the front box at stage left, that the unraveling of the farcical plot about a woodcutter pretending to be a famous doctor had stopped completely at least four times while Sam Trump performed comic monologues that didn't sound like the rest of the play; one described hotels with peculiar French names. The largely male audience roared, apparently understanding some local references.
Charles really didn't care how much Trump had rewritten Moliere. Like most of those out front, he was taken with Willa Parker's stage presence. From her first entrance, she'd captured everyone. Not with conventional beauty but with some intangible power that drew the eye and held it when she was on stage. Maybe all great performers had that quality.
He extended his hands over the rail, still clapping. The movement drew Willa's attention to the box. Charles had paid for a bath and beard trim and had bought an inexpensive brown frock coat and matching trousers. Willa saw him, recognized him, and reacted with what he perceived as surprise, then pleasure.
Charles nodded and smiled. Suddenly Willa's glance shifted to a box on the opposite side. An empty box, though the curtain still moved, stirred by someone leaving.
The stage curtain rolled down, revealing painted messages about restaurants and shops. The applause died. The audience of men and a very few ladies with escorts began to file out. Charles wondered what, or who, had brought that flash of anxiety to Willa's face.
Eager and surprisingly nervous, he hurried around to the stage entrance, where he'd stopped the teamster from beating his horse last year. He handed the doorkeeper half a dollar, being pushed from behind by other gentlemen equally intent on going inside. Because of his height, Charles could look over most of the well-wishers, stagehands, and performers backstage.
He saw Sam Trump at the entrance to a corridor leading to dressing rooms. In order to visit anyone, people had to pass Trump and compliment him.
Charles did so enthusiastically. Eyes glassy with joy, Trump said, "Thank you, dear boy, thank you." Brown dye trickled from behind his ears. "Yours is a familiar face. Was it Boston? I have it! Cincinnati."
"St. Louis. I have a beard now." He extended his hand. "Charles Main."
"Of course. I remember it clearly." He didn't. "Frightfully glad you caught us tonight. I'm anticipating sold-out houses starting tomorrow." His eyes had already hopped over Charles's shoulder, hunting the next admirer. Charles slipped by, smelling sweat on Trump but no spirits. Willa must have succeeded in drying him out.
All the dressing-room doors were open except the last on the right. He suspected that was hers, since a short, neatly dressed man was already waiting outside.
As Charles approached, the man turned. Instantly, Charles recognized the unnaturally stiff posture, the trimmed goatee and waxy mustache points, the shoes with a high polish, the clothes without a wrinkle.
Willa's admirer was the man who'd kept him out of the Army. Captain Harry Venable.
21
Charles's nerves wound tight as he walked up to Harry Venable. The dapper officer apparently didn't recognize him, though he understood Charles's intent. Charles read the lettering painted on the door. MSR. PARKER. He stepped forward to knock and Venable slipped in front of him.
"Excuse me. Mrs. Parker's engaged."
Charles looked down into the glacial eyes, tilting his head to exaggerate the height difference. "Fine. Shall we let her tell me that?" He reached over Venable's shoulder and knocked.