Only the Gallant (5 page)

“The bitch damn near bit my finger off,” the first man exclaimed. “Catch her, Milo.”

“No, you don’t. Try for the street, will you? Come on back to the stable. I’ll warrant you’ll look a pretty sight spread out on the hay,” a second man replied, his voice deeper than the first.

Jesse, still drugged from sleep, thought he recognized them both. He stood and ambled across the room to the window and peered down at the figures in the darkness, a woman and two men, one of whom was a hulking shadow who had his big arms wrapped around his female prey. The woman gamely continued her defiance in the face of his overwhelming strength. As of yet, no one on Market Street seemed aware of her predicament. The lout clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her.

“Bite that, you she-devil, and I’ll mark you permanent with my knife,” the big man growled.

“We’ll see about that, Milo Stark,” Jesse called. When the brute turned his bearded, ugly features upward, the man above leaped from the window.

The lumbering brigand shoved the woman aside and raised his arms to protect himself. Jesse landed atop Milo Stark and knocked him to the ground. McQueen managed to roll clear and scrambled to his feet in time to face Milo’s companion. The second man retreated toward Market Street and stepped into the pale amber glare of the lanterns hung to either side of the hotel’s front door. Lantern light revealed a man of average height with a round, chubby physique and dark oily hair. His face paled with fear on seeing Milo fall.

“Emory Stark, I might have known,” McQueen said. He advanced on the youngest of the Stark brothers. “Where there’s Milo, there’s Emory, standing in his brother’s shadow. Well, you’re not in his shadow anymore.”

“Jesse McQueen,” Emory blurted out. He didn’t sound happy. “You leave me be. This ain’t none of your concern.”

Suddenly Emory’s courage returned and he jabbed a finger in McQueen’s direction. “Get him, Milo.”

Jesse shook his head and grinned. “Won’t work, Emory. You have to handle this alone.”

“Watch out!” the woman in the alley shouted.

Jesse turned and instinctively ducked what appeared to be a ham-sized fist. Milo followed with a roundhouse left and missed again as Jesse retreated from his towering assailant into Market Street.

“Damn, doesn’t anybody bluff anymore,” he muttered, backing into the street. He noted a paneled freight wagon that had been left in front of the Collins Mercantile adjacent to the hotel. A pair of strong-looking geldings were hitched to the wagon. The horses calmly grazed upon a mound of hay left on the ground by their owner, who crossed the street to the Petersen House to satisfy his own hunger. Jesse veered toward the rear of the wagon, drawing big Milo Stark toward him.

“Break him up, Milo,” Emory admonished from a safe distance.

McQueen continued to retreat. Looking past Milo, he could just make out the slim, girlish figure and frightened features of the young woman he was attempting to rescue. And doing a poor job of it so far, he thought. Jesse was no coward. But only a fool would trade blows with the likes of Milo Stark. He was broad as a barn and solid as granite. Mere brawn wouldn’t take the measure of such a man, at least not without bruised and broken bones in the process. Jesse had other ideas. His shoulders struck the rear of the wagon. The oak panels rattled against the pickle barrels that had yet to be unloaded into the mercantile. Jesse darted to the right, then the left. Each time Milo cut him off, blocking his escape as he advanced relentlessly. The big man was grinning now. He’d cornered his prey; it was time for the fun part.

“Stand still now, Jesse,” Milo said. “This is only gonna hurt all week.”

“Go to hell, you yellow bag of guts,” Jesse replied.

Milo growled, cocked his right arm, and loosed a pile-driving punch. The woman in the alley screamed. Jesse dropped. The wind from that iron fist fanned his forehead. Milo’s fist shattered wood, plowed through the oak panel, and lodged knuckle-deep in a pickle barrel. Milo yelped in agony as splinters pierced his flesh and brine washed his lacerated knuckles. He tried to jerk his fist free, but fragments of wood dug into his wrists and held him fast. Jesse scrambled out from underneath the freight wagon, slapped loose the brake with a swipe of his hand. The geldings turned to stare at him, mirroring the man’s reflection in their round, dark eyes.

“Say good night to the lady, Milo,” Jesse remarked.

The big man’s grizzled features paled beneath his bushy black beard. His mean glare lost some of its edge as he began to realize his predicament. Still he managed to work up one last threat.

“You stop right there, McQueen, or so help me, you’ll pay. You hear me? Stop right there!”

It was one threat too many.

“Don’t tell me,” Jesse replied. He glanced at the geldings. “Tell them.” He slapped the rump of the animal nearest him and both geldings lunged forward in a brisk trot.

“Oh, no!” Milo roared. He made a futile grab for McQueen as the wagon rolled along Market Street. The big man lumbered along in its wake, his forearm held securely by the shattered panel. “Whoa!” he shouted. “Hold up, you bastards.” The geldings, sensing the drag at the rear of the wagon, quickened their pace. Emory Stark dashed after the wagon. “I’m comin’, Milo. Hang on!”

Jesse watched them leave and sighed, muttering “Good riddance.” He glanced at the alley. The young woman had sought the safety of the wooden walk in front of the hotel. The commotion had at last attracted an audience. A handful of merchants and peddlers, a few blue-clad soldiers, and several ragtag, black children had gathered to watch the fracas. A couple of the merchants even applauded Jesse’s victory. But before long the audience broke ranks and continued on their way. The children scampered off in pursuit of the freight wagon. They were hoping to steal a pickle or two, making the most of Milo’s miseries. Seventeen-year-old Ophelia Tyrone, on the other hand, chose to remain. She had auburn ringlets and cream-colored cheeks, a freckled nose, and the kind of flirtatious smile men fought duels over. She introduced herself and Jesse McQueen hurriedly tucked in his shirt.

“I did not associate such gallantry with that uniform,” Ophelia said. Jesse noticed her parasol upon the ground. He presented it to the comely young woman with a courtly bow.

“I am in your debt, sir,” Ophelia added.

“One that can be quickly settled by the pleasure of your company at dinner,” Jesse quietly suggested. Looking up into her hazel eyes, he felt his knees weaken. “If you don’t mind waiting while I fetch my coat … ”

“I don’t even know your name, sir.”

“Lieutenant Jesse McQueen of the Indian Territory, ma’am, at your service. And you are … ?”

“Your dinner companion, Mr. McQueen.”

The Widow Petersen’s chicken lived up to its reputation, as did her peas and corn bread and berry cobbler. The widow made no secret as to her allegiance. The walls of her restaurant were decorated with the stars and bars of the Confederacy. Interspersed between the Rebel flags were several of the widow’s oil paintings depicting a handsome array of gray-clad soldiers marching off to war, leaving sweethearts and loved ones behind. The one above McQueen’s table was entitled FAREWELL TO ALEXANDRIA, and it featured an especially poignant rendering of sad-faced, cherubic children clinging to their mother’s billowing skirt, their pudgy hands waving a last good-bye to the father they might never see again.

By the time Jesse finished the meal, he knew Ophelia’s name and that her brother was the notorious Captain Bon Tyrone, a Confederate cavalryman and scourge of Yankee patrols. Ophelia had spoken longingly of Dunsinane, the Tyrone plantation northeast of Vicksburg. Jesse spoke of the family farm in the Indian Territory and how his grandfather had forsaken the comforts of his ancestral home outside Philadelphia for the plains of the territory. He spoke of his childhood and his Choctaw grandmother, Raven O’Keefe McQueen, and her magical ways, how she taught him of the spirit in all things, the wind, the earth, and the creatures of the plains.

Ophelia was a good listener and found herself liking the second lieutenant despite the color of his uniform. She kept him talking, and not just for interest’s sake. She didn’t want him asking questions about what had brought a young woman such as herself out into the Memphis streets at night and alone. She could always claim the lame excuse that her driver had run off and she had gone looking for him. But that was hardly the only reason, and the truth—a clandestine meeting with her cousin Elmo Dern—might well land her in a Yankee prison. So she smiled and led her companion on. Indeed, Ophelia found the stories of his youth fascinating. She recognized his loneliness. He was a man far from home and a stranger. She, on the other hand, was home, though equally a stranger. Memphis was occupied country now, peopled by enemies of which Jesse McQueen was one. By rights, Ophelia ought to hate him.

Instead, she ordered a second dessert and let the minutes flow by like the unceasing currents of the Mississippi. She wondered where they were carrying her.

Jesse leaned back in his chair and noticed the last occupied table had just emptied. Three middle-aged men, merchants all, filed across the lantern-lit room toward the front door. Constance Petersen waited for them, greeting each of the Southerners with an affectionate farewell. The widow was an attractive woman in her late thirties, doe-eyed and voluptuous in her saffron-colored dress and apron, her cheeks smudged with a trace of cornmeal. She had a knack for making each of the merchants feel important. The merchants had stared stonily at Ophelia and Jesse throughout the evening. They had made no attempt to hide their disapproval of the woman’s actions, consorting with one of the Northern oppressors. But the merry widow of Memphis seemed to have melted the merchants’ icy resolve with a whisper and teasing admonitions. The men left in better spirits. Jesse had the feeling the widow Petersen lived quite a colorful life. Obviously she was not about to pine away for her deceased husband. The widow turned from the door and, sensing Jesse’s scrutiny, met his gaze. She flashed him a look of invitation and a lusty smile.

“Constance likes you,” Ophelia said, noting the widow’s interest.

“No doubt her husband died in bed,” said McQueen.
With a smile on his face
, he silently added.

“Why, so he did. How did you know? The poor man, I am told, just wasted away.”

“Drained,” McQueen wryly commented.

Ophelia caught his meaning, blushed, and returned her attention to the last of the cobbler set before her in a stoneware bowl. Two bites and it was finished. Jesse gulped the last of his coffee. Being the last of the widow’s customers made them both feel awkward. A young mulatto emerged from the kitchen and began collecting the plates and cups from the tables. The widow Petersen’s was not a large place. No more than a dozen tables crowded the dining room. A kitchen dominated the rear of the building. Tonight a cross breeze from the river made the interior of the kitchen bearable and cooled the dining room. The flowered curtains fluttered over the open windows and a ship’s horn wailed forlornly on the night air as someone bled steam from a boiler.

A Seth Thomas clock set on a shelf below crossed sabers began to toll the hour, ten bells. Ophelia Tyrone and her darkly handsome dinner companion exchanged glances, each reading the other’s thoughts. It was time for a proper young woman to be escorted home. Jesse rose, slid back her chair, and taking her arm, led Ophelia to the door. He paid for their meal with Yankee dollars. Despite the restaurant’s decorations and the widow’s blatant allegiance to the Confederate cause, she was not too proud to accept the greenbacks. She thanked the couple and suggested Jesse might stop back “if he saw a light and felt hungry and needed something to take back to his room.” Jesse blushed and thanked her.

Outside on the walkway, Ophelia made no attempt to hide her amusement.

“Your first day in Memphis and already you have made a conquest,” she remarked, lifting the hem of her pale green cotton dress as she stepped over a snag in the boardwalk.

“Right town, wrong spoils,” Jesse said. The widow Petersen was without a doubt more of a challenge than he had the stamina to meet. And besides, this Memphis belle had caught his attention. She was gracious and well-spoken and had certainly showed courage. They arrived all too quickly at the porch of Florence Bradley’s Rooms for Ladies. The front windows were unshuttered and had been left open to catch the breeze. Jesse could look in on an empty sitting room with velvet-covered love seats, and chairs and japanned end tables. Lamplight caught the brass buttons on his blue tunic and played upon his features, highlighting his brown eyes with flecks of gold.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to call on you during your stay here in Memphis,” Jesse said. She smelled of rose water and sugared berries. He liked that.

“What would people think of me?” Ophelia said, her eyes downcast, that flirting smile touching the corner of her red lips. The evening had begun, in part as a ruse to keep from answering any questions about what had brought her out unescorted onto Market Street at night. But she liked the officer. She found him colorful and exciting, this young soldier raised among the wild Indians of the western territory. Nor did he seem filled with the hostility that many of the other Northern soldiers exhibited as they swaggered through Memphis streets, contemptuous of the inhabitants who remained resolute in their sympathies for what seemed to some a lost cause.

“I have only known you these few hours, Miss Tyrone. But I must say, you strike me as a person who doesn’t give two hoots and a holler what other people think.” Jesse touched the brim of his hat and opened the door for Ophelia. Her auburn curls brushed his cheek as she entered the boarding-house, and with one last, languid look in his direction she replied, “You’re right” and closed the door.

Jesse whistled beneath his breath and muttered “Mmm-mmm, Jesse, what have you found?” He stepped off the porch, missed the top step, and stumbled forward into First Street. A flash of metal whirred through the space he’d have been filling if he hadn’t tripped. He ducked after the fact and heard something thwack into the porch post behind him. He spied a fleeting shift in the shadows across the street near the corner of the First Congregational Church, a whitewashed wood-and-brick structure, its spire upthrust against a starlit sky.