his gear in shape, and with the Delaware, he led the horses to fresh pasture, where the Indian remained on guard.
Starting back, he saw something move in the brush ahead. He walked on, but as he passed that particular clump of brush he glanced down. Boot tracks in the earth…it was Croker, then. He had seen those tracks often enough on their long march. Croker was watching him…why?
Croker must suspect that he had found something in the lieutenant’s equipment, and Croker was a greedy man. Did he know more than he himself did? Or was the man just hoping for anything of value?
Come to think of it, Croker had arrived in camp in Allison’s company, together with that easterner and the kid from Minnesota.
It was hot and still outside. Off across the sandy plain a dust devil danced briefly, then lost itself somewhere among the greasewood. It was a miserable, God-forsaken place in which to serve one’s time, and yet—he squinted his eyes against the glare and looked at the far-off hills, lost in the blue—it was a good country…for those who did not fight it.
That was the secret of the desert. One had to accommodate one’s self to it. To the vast loneliness, the distances, the far-off hazy mountains, to the shadows they took on at dawn or at sunset. There was harshness in this land, but there was beauty too. It was a country a man could grow to love.
He fought the Indians out here because they fought him, but in a way he understood them, too. At least, he believed he did.
His time here was short—only a few days longer. He had forgotten to sew on his stripes, forgotten to mention them. Well, no matter. In a few days he would be free of the army, and he could go wherever he wished.
But where? Back to Ireland? Back to Boston? What was there for him in either place? Boston was just a city where he had stopped for a time…and there had been so many other cities, other places. He was used to the army way, and it had been a long time since there had been any other, except for short periods.
Like so many others, he had been running when he joined the army, escaping from the past, trying to lose himself in its routine.
His career had been little different from that of many another Irish soldier of fortune. His name had been O’Callaghan in Ireland, an ancient and honored name, but after the ill-fated rebellion of 1848 he had fled the country, by the first ship he could get on, which was one to Canada.
The gold rush was on, and he crossed Canada and went down the west coast to California, where he panned gold on the Trinity, and from the first pan had found color. Finally he went to San Francisco, where he was shanghaied, and when he again realized where he was he found himself at sea, his gold gone.
He jumped ship in North Africa, and being without money and in danger of arrest, he joined the French army. For two years he campaigned in the Sahara, was wounded and discharged; and after recuperating he found his way to Afghanistan and joined the army there, entering the service as an officer of artillery. He advanced rapidly, but after the capture of Kandahar he left this service, spent some time in India, and at last reached Shanghai, where he served in Francis Townsend Ward’s army in 1862 and 1863. It was after the capture of Soochow that he left.
Once again in the United States, he had joined the Irish Brigade and fought at Chancellorsville, The Wilderness, Spotsylvania Court House, and Cold Harbor.
Now, at thirty-four, with only a few days left of his army service, Callaghen had three hundred dollars saved, and a plan to go to that California that lay beyond the mountains, a decision of only the last few days.
Captain Hill emerged from his quarters into the glare of the sun. “Callaghen? You had better sew on your stripes. You have some, I suppose?”
Callaghen smiled. “I saved them, sir. I figured they might come in handy.”
“You were with the Irish Brigade, I believe? You’ll be getting out just in
Starting back, he saw something move in the brush ahead. He walked on, but as he passed that particular clump of brush he glanced down. Boot tracks in the earth…it was Croker, then. He had seen those tracks often enough on their long march. Croker was watching him…why?
Croker must suspect that he had found something in the lieutenant’s equipment, and Croker was a greedy man. Did he know more than he himself did? Or was the man just hoping for anything of value?
Come to think of it, Croker had arrived in camp in Allison’s company, together with that easterner and the kid from Minnesota.
It was hot and still outside. Off across the sandy plain a dust devil danced briefly, then lost itself somewhere among the greasewood. It was a miserable, God-forsaken place in which to serve one’s time, and yet—he squinted his eyes against the glare and looked at the far-off hills, lost in the blue—it was a good country…for those who did not fight it.
That was the secret of the desert. One had to accommodate one’s self to it. To the vast loneliness, the distances, the far-off hazy mountains, to the shadows they took on at dawn or at sunset. There was harshness in this land, but there was beauty too. It was a country a man could grow to love.
He fought the Indians out here because they fought him, but in a way he understood them, too. At least, he believed he did.
His time here was short—only a few days longer. He had forgotten to sew on his stripes, forgotten to mention them. Well, no matter. In a few days he would be free of the army, and he could go wherever he wished.
But where? Back to Ireland? Back to Boston? What was there for him in either place? Boston was just a city where he had stopped for a time…and there had been so many other cities, other places. He was used to the army way, and it had been a long time since there had been any other, except for short periods.
Like so many others, he had been running when he joined the army, escaping from the past, trying to lose himself in its routine.
His career had been little different from that of many another Irish soldier of fortune. His name had been O’Callaghan in Ireland, an ancient and honored name, but after the ill-fated rebellion of 1848 he had fled the country, by the first ship he could get on, which was one to Canada.
The gold rush was on, and he crossed Canada and went down the west coast to California, where he panned gold on the Trinity, and from the first pan had found color. Finally he went to San Francisco, where he was shanghaied, and when he again realized where he was he found himself at sea, his gold gone.
He jumped ship in North Africa, and being without money and in danger of arrest, he joined the French army. For two years he campaigned in the Sahara, was wounded and discharged; and after recuperating he found his way to Afghanistan and joined the army there, entering the service as an officer of artillery. He advanced rapidly, but after the capture of Kandahar he left this service, spent some time in India, and at last reached Shanghai, where he served in Francis Townsend Ward’s army in 1862 and 1863. It was after the capture of Soochow that he left.
Once again in the United States, he had joined the Irish Brigade and fought at Chancellorsville, The Wilderness, Spotsylvania Court House, and Cold Harbor.
Now, at thirty-four, with only a few days left of his army service, Callaghen had three hundred dollars saved, and a plan to go to that California that lay beyond the mountains, a decision of only the last few days.
Captain Hill emerged from his quarters into the glare of the sun. “Callaghen? You had better sew on your stripes. You have some, I suppose?”
Callaghen smiled. “I saved them, sir. I figured they might come in handy.”
“You were with the Irish Brigade, I believe? You’ll be getting out just in
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