Songs of the Shenandoah (25 page)

“She's trying to keep her distance, it seems. Doesn't want to risk getting sent home for flirting. But there's only so much you can do to resist this much charm.”

“Hey, speaking of the girls, here they come again.” Barry pointed to the horses approaching their second turn around the course. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Ah, that's me boy Collins, race 'til she drops.”

Even with the roaring of the crowds, the pounding hooves rose above the clamor, and the ground itself seemed to rumble.

They all prepared their jump, many of them jostling against one another and even throwing fists, for these riders were not trained to be jockeys but warriors, and they ran the race as such. As the first horse arrived at the steeple, its front hooves reached out to clear the obstacle but its hoof caught, and in a moment that seemed to stretch time, it landed hard and suddenly the horse was tumbling on the ground, its desperate rider being rolled over before curling tightly to avoid being trampling by the rest of the competitors.

In normal circumstances this horrific spectacle would have hushed the crowd. Instead there were only jeers and taunts, as these soldiers were men hardened by the tyranny of war.

In a few moments, bystanders attended to the fallen rider, and a gurney emerged from the crowd, bobbing between two hefty soldiers. Right behind them, out into the grassy clearing, came Muriel in nurse clothing she seemed to always wear.

Davin lunged, as his first thought was that Muriel would be in danger from running across the course in the middle of the race. But he kept standing on the table so he could watch closely as she knelt beside the fallen jockey. Her entrance was greeted with vile taunts, hoots, and jeers from the female-deprived audience.

How difficult it must be for Muriel, and for the rest of the few women at camp, to be working in such conditions. What bravery it was on their part to serve their nation in this way! The horses had circled another lap and were approaching again.

“Hurry yourself,” he shouted, although she was much too far away to hear. Then the lead horse cleared the steeple, and it landed only a few yards away from Muriel and her patient. Then another. And now a group of three.

Still, Muriel never flinched. She attended to the injured man as calmly as if it was in a quiet hospital room. Then she rose and directed the two men to roll the injured rider onto the litter. They lifted it and crossed through the field and into the crowd, which opened up to make room for them to pass.

What was it about her? Why had she so captured his fancy? And did she even know who he was? Sure, she was cordial and polite to him. But out here, he was no longer a Manhattan dandy, a well-dressed, handsome, and wealthy suitor. He was just another blur in a thousand faces. The battlefield was a great leveler between the poor and rich. If you weren't an officer, you were just another grouse.

“Where you going, young man?” Barry gave him a poke in his ribs.

Davin hopped down from the table and ran over toward where the gurney was emerging from the other side of the crowd. He shoved a few soldiers out of the way, which resulted in more than a few curses and glares before he was alongside the patient. The cavalryman's nose was bloodied and bent, but he seemed mostly unscathed beyond muddying his clothes.

“Here lads, let me give you a hand here.” Davin went to grab one of the handles.

Muriel, whose focus was on her patient, glanced up twice, the second time she appeared startled when recognizing him. “I think we're fine.” She gave him a sharp look of dissuasion. Then she nodded over to the medical tent where they were heading, and there standing with her arms crossed was Nurse Hilda Meldrickson scowling at him.

Davin peeled away, covering his face by pulling down the brow of his cap. Nurse Meldrickson, or “Horrible Hilda” as the men referred to her, had already pulled Davin aside a few weeks ago and chided him for spending what she termed an inordinate amount of time around the medical tents. She had figured him out, even if perhaps Muriel had not.

“Come, brother.” Barry had come up to him and grabbed Davin by the elbow.

“What are you doing?”

“I am going to bring you fame and wealth.”

Davin ventured a glance up and saw Muriel and her patient had disappeared into the tent, and he grieved that she was out of his sight. “What is this now?”

“We're going to get rich.”

“I already am rich.” Davin squared his hat on his head.

“Your gold is meaningless out here. We're going to seek real treasure.”

“Is that so?” Davin followed his friend. He glanced back again. Was that why he had joined the army? To be closer to Muriel? Had he become this pathetic?

“There. They are just greasing her up now. Come, Davey boy. Time for you to distinguish yourself at last.”

Davin let out a groan once he saw where he was being guided. There was a large pole buried in the ground, and a couple of men standing on ladders were using brushes to lather on some gooey substance.

“This kind of fame doesn't interest me.” Davin started to dig in his heels, which only caused Barry to pull harder.

“Come now, Davey. Can you see what's at the top of the pole?”

They had managed to be among the first to arrive, but a quick look behind revealed that the steeplechase had ended and the throng was making their way back to the food and over to this location.

“It looks like currency,” Davin said in an unimpressed tone.

“Yes. Fifty dollars. Which for those of us without silk breeches is a fine wage, but keep looking, there is something else as well.”

The men greasing the pole had come down from their ladders and were now admiring their handiwork, adding a dollop here and there. One of the men, who was large and with stringy black hair, beckoned to them. “You lads ready to give her a shake?”

Barry stepped forward and rubbed his hands together. “You know I am.” He turned to Davin. “There's fifty dollars up there . . . and fifteen days of leave.”

Davin shrugged. Fifty dollars? He already had more money than he could think of spending. And fifteen days of leave? The whole purpose of enlisting was so he could be here. But the thought of his friend embarrassing himself on the greased pole was enough to make Davin watch.

Around them a circle of soldiers was forming, most of them heavily touched by drink.

Barry walked around the pole, rubbing his chin, apparently formulating a strategy. Then he touched it with his hand, pulled it back, and held his greasy palm toward Davin.

“Get on with it, you fool,” came a shout from the crowd, which was met with similar jeers.

After shaking a fist at the crowd, Barry squared up to his foe, and after a few moments of contemplation, he leapt as high as he could and grasped the pole. Almost instantly, he began to slide and his boots jabbed at the pole in a desperate attempt to gain traction.

At first Barry appeared to have some success, but after getting some initial footing, he made little progress before panicking and shortly slid back down to the ground. The crowd pummeled him with boos and catcalls.

The burly man pointed toward Davin. “You're up, laddie.”

Davin looked around hoping the man was pointing to someone else standing beside him. But then confirmed it by pointing to himself.

“Yes, Private. Now's your chance for freedom and fortune.”

Barry was shaking the grease from his hands onto the soil. “Go ahead, Davey. I stripped her clean for you. And you're the only sober man in the entire regiment.”

“Let's go, boy,” the pole tender hollered. “There's plenty a waitin'.”

There was a large gathering now, the faces blended together in twisted frivolity. He tried to determine if they would be most hostile if he failed miserably or didn't bother to try. They might not even let him out of the ring without lathering himself up with grease.

He gave Barry an angry elbow and then made his way to the post, which now suddenly seemed to tower far above him.

At the top of pole flapping in the wind were the dollars. For some reason, he remembered back to his time in Ireland as a boy, where he and his sister nearly starved for lack of a bowl of soup. What good Irishman wouldn't take on a herd of jealous bulls for a chance to pick a dollar from the ground? The gold definitely had spoiled him.

It was time for good sport. Time for him to be a lad again.

He raised his arms and bowed to the crowd, just as some of the boxers had done in earlier matches today. Then he focused on the pole as his greatest enemy, and the task grew in significance far beyond the dollars. What if these men cheering him actually knew what he had been doing? Importing cotton from the South? They would probably tear off his limbs. He had to start proving himself. Earn their respect.

Fortunately for Davin, he had climbed quite a few trees in California during his mining days. Barry's pathetic performance notwithstanding, surely this couldn't be that hard of a task.

He grasped the pole, began to pull himself up, and immediately understood the difficulty of this endeavor. For every three pulls upward, he would slide down two. Even if he managed to make progress, it would only be a matter of time before the fatigue of his strenuous efforts would wear him down to submission.

There would be no success. It was impossible. It was just a matter now of reducing the level of shame. He would hold on as long as he could.

But Davin became suddenly resolute and he pressed on, gaining some distance but ever so slowly. Then a slip and he was down several feet. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and moved upward, despite the pain and the general discouragement of the soldiers, who no doubt feared his success would eliminate their opportunity.

“Aren't you getting tired?”

“Just let go.”

“Give it up, Private.”

When he had made it to within two feet of the prize, which fluttered tantalizingly in the breeze, he had tapped all of his strength and stamina. And then he made the mistake of looking down. How did he get so high? How would he ever get down?

“That's all he has, boys!”

“Pay up, friends.”

Glancing down over his shoulder, he could see the drunken and shouting soldiers pointing angry fingers and colluding with bellicose laughter. Why had he fallen for the ruse of his own pride? What a foolish cage he had locked himself into.

The pain in his arms was winning the battle, and it was clearly evident there was only one way out of this predicament. He would have to let go and absorb the brutality of taunts from his fellow jeering Irishmen. But then he saw someone working her way to the front of the line. Muriel!

Why did it matter what she thought? Would she think any less of him if he failed?

Yet something other than logic prevailed, and suddenly he was rejuvenated with energy only a woman could infuse in a man's prideful spirit. He glanced upward with one last desperate hope. And before the pain or the jeers or the failure of his muscles could force him to quit, he gave a jarring lunge and his hand barely missed its target, but not the edge of the pole that cut his palm.

Once again and with all remaining fortitude, he reached up, this time clasping both the currency and the note in his fist. There was a brief moment of exaltation, buoyed by the crowd's urging, and then the realization of his folly became evident. For the very same momentum that allowed him to fill his triumphant talons caused him to lose his balance. With arms flailing and his mouth shouting, he tried to preserve his grip without success.

He changed his tact and now started to slide down the pole, but it was too late. And quite similar to the helplessness he felt when once bucked out of the saddle by an angry bronco, he headed for the cruel, hard ground.

He managed to plant one foot, but it immediately gave way and the pain streaked from his ankle to his head. He crumpled into the dirt and rolled, his face buried in the dust.

“It doesn't count if he's cryin', does it?”

“Nah, he has to give it all back.”

A battle raged between the flames in his ankle and the embarrassment of the fall, and his immodesty had him struggling to his feet, just as Muriel and Barry arrived.

Barry picked up Davin's fallen hat and dusted it off, then patted his shoulder.

“Can you stand?” Muriel said, with more than just the concern of a medic.

“I should be fine enough.” Davin waved to the belligerent onlookers and was shocked to see the crumbled bills and the leave notice still in his grasp. He went to plant his foot, but the agony was too great and he curled it up just like a limping dog.

“Here's a shoulder, Davey boy, give her a good lean.” Barry tucked his arm around him and Muriel came along the other side, and they moved him through a pathway reluctantly surrendered by the audience.

Once they had cleared through the masses, Davin pointed to a table. “Put me down there.”

“Ah, I will, my friend. But they'll be a wee charge for transport. Say, about fifty of those beauties ought to cover it. Or better, how about that fifteen-day leave? You haven't had the first bullet whistling by your ear, and you're already getting time away.”

Davin sat on the edge of the table and then scooted back so his feet were up as well. Muriel rolled up the cuff of his pants and untied his boot. “I can take care of that.” When was the last time he washed his feet?

Muriel slid her red, wavy hair to the side of her face out of her way. “You keep quiet, Private Hanley. You think I haven't untied a boot before?”

Barry whistled. “Now that's a fine boot there. None of these Union issue.” He kicked his foot up on the table, and it looked as if the sole of the cheap leather was about to free itself from the seams.

“Why don't you get those replaced?” Davin couldn't believe they managed to stay on Barry's feet.

“Replace those?” Muriel continued to untie Davin's boots as she looked at Barry's. “Those are the good ones. Many of the boys out here are better off walking bare than trying to march with the boots they have. You should see the condition of the feet I see.”