A Good Man (11 page)

I suspected this self-parody was a response to the tantrum Walsh had confessed to throwing, some slur he had probably cast on the Teutonic race in the heat of the moment. I took my time replying. “Don’t mistake me for Walsh,” I said. “I am a cautious man. Unlike him, I have a taste for order.”

Ilges gave a pat to the letter of introduction lying on the desktop. “That is what Walsh says in this. He claims you are a rational man. That you calculate like an abacus.” I could see him studying me closely, and was pleased to think that in choosing to describe myself as an abacus I had intrigued him. “He mentions you bring me a proposal – one that he hopes I find agreeable. I am not convinced agreement between the Major and me is possible. The last time we met was not a pleasant occasion. When I spoke of my intention to keep a copy of any report I sent him, and suggested that he do the same with any he submitted to me, Walsh was outraged. He said I had insulted him by suggesting he was likely to distort any information I provided him. I hurried to assure him my motives were simply this: if any of my superiors in this time of crisis charged me with being negligent in the performance of my duty, I wanted proof to the contrary. But Major Walsh stormed out of my office.” A brief smile flitted over Ilges’s lips. “I do not want my crinoline set aflame by President Grant’s cigar.”

I was realizing that the man did not conform at all to Walsh’s disparaging description of him. Then my eyes fell on a framed daguerreotype on his desk, which depicted Union officers gathered around cannons, and what I took to be a captured Confederate flag. Ilges was easily recognizable among them because of his great height. Walsh, who has yearned for battle and never seen it, must have felt the thorn in his paw when he saw his counterpart in Fort Benton pictured this way. I said, “Major Walsh was wrong to view your actions in such a light. Yours was an eminently sensible precaution. He sees that now.” I paused before adding a qualification. “What you say about establishing a record is all very well, but I think you wacknowledge official correspondence has its limitations.”

Ilges took off his green eyeshade and carefully stowed it away in a small mahogany box. I sensed that was a stratagem to mask that his curiosity had been piqued. “In what sense?” he asked, careful to display no particular interest.

“I’m sure that it is your experience that anything to be read by a higher-up encourages circumspection, a certain guardedness in the writer.”

Ilges conceded that with a slight dip of the head.

“Here we are talking about an even touchier situation, one in which the governments of our respective countries are demanding you and Walsh to keep each other fully apprised of developments on your side of the border. But we know that
perfect
frankness is not possible.”

“Do we? It is very kind of you to speak for me.”

It was a mild reproof, accompanied by a faint smile, but I felt the force of it. “I beg pardon, Major. Perhaps I am too much in love with abstractions, but permit me to pose a hypothetical. Let us say that you provided an estimation on the morale or fighting quality of the troops in the field, or passed an opinion whether your generals were likely to succeed or fail in suppressing the Sioux uprising in the next few weeks or even months. How would that sit with the higher authorities? It would not be appreciated.” I shrugged. “But surely that is exactly the kind of information that would be very useful because it bears on the possibility of the Sioux arriving in Walsh’s vicinity. It would influence how, when, and where he readies himself to meet the threat.” I paused. “I could think of other instances of a similar kind. But no matter how pertinent such information could be, no one would commit it to writing for fear of being seen to criticize those in command.”

“So this is what Walsh is proposing?” demanded Ilges with some asperity. “That I pull his fat from the fire and leave mine to burn?”

“Far from it,” I assured him. “On the face of it, it may appear you have more to give in such an exchange than Major Walsh. The telegraph office here surely provides you with updates on the latest military developments, troop movements, and so forth. Steamboats from downriver bring news and rumours concerning the Sioux from every place they pick up cargo and passengers. In that sense, you have a great advantage over Walsh, who is isolated from the wider world. But he has resources you do not. His half-breed scouts are welcomed in all the Indian camps. He and his troopers go wherever they please, unmolested by any of the northern tribes. I put this question to you with the greatest respect – does the American army have that freedom of movement, those kinds of friendly relations with the Indians?”

“I admit that we do not,” he said grudgingly.

“Presently, no one knows where the Sioux are. They must be located before they can be beaten. Other Indians are likely to know their whereabouts. Walsh has access to those Indians, he can go straight to the horse’s mouth.”

I could see Ilges was weighing what he had just heard. Coaxingly, I said,#x20 am well aware of the size of the garrison here, Major. It is small. Hardly adequate to protect Fort Benton and its outlying areas if the Sioux arrive here. Am I correct in assuming that you do not have sufficient soldiers at your disposal to reconnoitre the border area?”

“The answer is obvious. I do not.”

“Walsh is as eager to know where the Sioux might be as you are. Let me put you another hypothetical. If his Métis scouts and police patrols extended below the line, might that not be useful to both of you if something were learned about the hostiles’ location? Of course, the question is rhetorical because no government will countenance extraterritorial incursions. They are a violation of national sovereignty, no matter how practical they might be.” There I left it hanging.

Ilges wore a doubtful look. “You are suggesting Walsh and I go behind our superiors’ backs.”

“I am suggesting that you strike a gentleman’s agreement so that you can do exactly what you have been charged to do. You have been ordered to share information fully, but your hands are tied. As the crow flies, Fort Benton and Fort Walsh are separated by less than a hundred miles. Everyone expects that if the Sioux make for Canada, they will pass this way. This is your ground. You will be held responsible if a mishap occurs here.”

Ilges sat thinking. When he spoke, I detected indecision in his voice. “I cannot refute what you say, but I am not prepared to act recklessly.”

“One could say that under the circumstances the advantages outweigh the risks. Yes? The authorities will settle for nothing less than success. I suggest that what I and Walsh propose offers the best chance of achieving it.” I hesitated before adding, “I tell you this in confidence. Major Walsh fears that if he does not produce results, no explanation for failure will serve to satisfy his masters. They will have him out on his ear.”

“He left no such impression with me,” said Ilges.

“Walsh does not admit fear. He is constitutionally incapable of that. But I heard it in his voice when we talked about these matters.”

With great caution, Ilges said, “And how would this utter frankness, this perfect honesty, be achieved?”

“I plan to establish myself here in Fort Benton. If you were amenable, I could act as an honest broker. Anything sensitive could pass through me. As a civilian, my communications with Walsh would naturally be assumed to be personal and private. They would not be subject to scrutiny. Whatever you told me that could be viewed askance by your superiors I would convey to him by letter. Whatever Major Walsh wrote me I would pass on to you verbally. Whatever you learn from each other unofficially,” I said, laying stress on the word, “can appear in your reports without mentioning from whom it came – present it as hearsay, your own deductions, the fruit of your own intelligence gathering, however you wish. Or do not pass it on at all. That is for each of you to decide.”

He shook his head. “I am an orderly man. It goes against the grain.”

“I understand your reservations, but in a crisis like this it seems to me the gravest danger to you and Walsh is to be regarded as having failed those above you. In times of panic blame is seldom allotted fairly.” Ilges was listening closely. “All one has to do is read the papers. Do you see any willingness on the part of Congress or President Grant’s administration to shoulder any blame for Custer’s defeat? No. It is shifted to those lower in the chain of command, men like you and Walsh. I have read a good deal about the damage foreigners have done to your army – the Irish and others,” I said. “Some would even like to lay the defeat at Little Bighorn on the shoulders of the Italian trumpeter who carried Custer’s order for reinforcements to be sent up – it is claimed his English could not be understood. A battle lost because of an accent.” I paused. “Some people make better scapegoats than others.”

“My English is more than serviceable,” said Ilges stiffly.

“I regret to have put it so brutally, but you know what I’m saying. It is not a question of an accent but of origins.”

“I need some time to think about this,” he said.

“I can ask for no more,” I conceded, getting to my feet. “But before I go I have one last thing to say. I know Walsh’s character. I can interpret him, read him. He is a volatile man who, in the heat of the moment, does not always mean what he says. It can be useful to you to have the services of a translator.”

“Why would I consent to any of this, put myself in your hands?” he said as if musing aloud. “You are Walsh’s man.”

“Believe me,” I told him, “I am no one’s man – at least in the sense you mean.”

“Then why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain?” Ilges looked genuinely perplexed.

“I only wish to make myself useful. To be of assistance to my country. And if I succeed in doing that, I will be of assistance to you too, Major Ilges. Like it or not, the powers that be have yoked you and Walsh together. The question now is whether or not you will pull together.” That said, I left him.

If the Major and Ilges are a strange pair, Walsh and I may be a stranger one. He sees everything in black and white. There are no greys in his world. I suppose it falls to me to point them out to him.

Walsh once told me that he envied me. When I asked how that was possible, he said I had had the great good fortune to see action at the Battle of Ridgeway and he had not. The Major has a strange idea of good fortune. When I saw General O’Neill’s name in that document Dunne left with Walsh, I was brought back to the moment that the Irish hero had looked down at me from the back of his horse, the contempt with which he treated me after our defeat, the haughty glitter in his eye. In such circumstances, I doubt Walsh could have swallowed O’Neill’s condescension the way I did.

But to speak the truth, the scorn of the enemy did not cut me very deeply. It was the disdain of Pudge Wilson, brother officer, erstwhile friend, that slashed me to the bone.

SIX

CASE AND MCMULLEN HAVE
given up hope that Peregrine Hathaway will show. The three had agreed to meet at six o’clock for supper at the Oxbow, but when the hands of the wall clock pointed to six-fifteen, McMullen said, “Enough is enough. Time, tide, and Joe McMullen wait for no man. I’m ordering.”

It’s now nearly seven-fifteen and McMullen is looking forward to a night of frolic. This afternoon he paid a visit to the Tonsorial Palace and still smells powerfully of bay rum; his freshly shorn temples gleam white, and the moustache he had had the barber wax into a set of bristling whiskers twitches and vibrates as he chews his pork chop. “Most likely the pup’s piddling on that girl’s door post, marking his territory,” Joe observes to Case.

“Perhaps. He feels that territory under threat. The visit he paid her he found a rival in the parlour, and beat a hasty retreat. Yesterday, the young lady’s mother told him the object of his affections could not receive visitors because she was resting her voice. Peregrine took that as a flimsy excuse, a sign Miss Tarr didn’t want to see him. He believes that his adversary has won the day.”

“Then he better give it up. Two fellows contending for the warm regards of a young lady – that’s dangerous business. I learned that lesson years ago. Almost got myself killed over a sweet young thing by name of Lurleen.” McMullen gives a sly grin. “Don’t tell me I never acquainted you with that episode?”

“No, but you will. I see it coming at me like a runaway carriage.”

“Lurleen,” says McMullen, “was the one who come between me and my boss, Fancy Charles. Fancy had a woodhawker’s station about a hundred mile downriver from here. Made his living selling fuel to the steamboats. Old as Methuselah, but lord almighty that man could chop and buck wood. Damn near killed me trying to keep up with the old bastard. Now of course woodhawking ain’t exactly my line, I don’t care for work that comes with blisters, but a empty belly leads to compromise. Ain’t that so?”

Case nods. It is the only thing a man can do once McMullen starts one of his anecdotes bouncing downhill.

“Anyways, after that first day on the end of a bucksaw with Fancy, I was so tuckered out I didn’t have the strength to force a fart, and just as I was dropping off to sleep I heard something peculiar.” Joe’s eyes widen in mock awe. “It was the voice of a young gal. Coming from t’other side of the cabin. Now you best believe, a voice coming out of nowheres was a shock to the system, but what it was saying, why it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.” Joe pauses, and with a thoughtful air adds more white gravy to his plate. “She was saying, ‘Lurleen been thinking about this all day. Lurleen been having nasty thoughts all day about what she’s going to do with Fancy’s peeder.’ Well, I sat up in bed and ran my eyes every which way looking for that girl. But she wasn’t to be found. It was old Fancy himself talking in that high, sugary, s, ay voice, addressing his very own carrot. And it was the same thing next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Now he might been old as dirt, but Fancy worked his peeder just as hard as he did his bucksaw. No sooner we crawled into our pallets of a night and Lurleen would start whispering to Fancy’s doowinkle, telling how she’d been wanting it all day, studying on exactly what she was going to do to it, and what it was going to do to her.”