Longstreet.

In a year, would old, deaf Longstreet still be available? Yes, he was relatively healthy, even rejuvenated, and he seemed up to the challenges in front of him, but when would the rigors of command start to grind him down? He was eighty-two and his allotted biblical life span had long since passed. How much more could be expected of him? If he fell, then to whom would Roosevelt give command? MacArthur? Most likely. Then who would command at New York?

In another few weeks the weather around New York would start to turn. Truly cold weather would move in and the millions of refugees and tens of thousands of soldiers would start to suffer further privations. Longstreet said he would fight for as long as it took. Roosevelt wondered sadly if he and the United States would be permitted that luxury.

Brigadier General Patrick Mahan rode his brown gelding carefully in front of the dressed ranks of men, thousands of them uniformed mostly in the new brown, their rifles shouldered and pointing skyward. It was his command. He was aware of the many eyes that followed him despite the fact that men at attention were supposed to be looking straight ahead. They wondered about him, of course, and why shouldn’t they? If he failed them, he could get them killed or, worse in many minds, maimed. They all knew crippled old men who’d lost limbs and sanity in the Civil War. Could that happen to them? Could they be blinded or lose their manhood? In the best of battles it was possible, but with a poor leader it was far more likely.

They were ordered to stand at ease as he read the orders creating the brigade and giving him command over it. Then he spoke briefly of his plans to work them hard so they would be ready for whatever their country had in mind for them. He did not try to inspire them with soaring rhetoric. That simply wasn’t his style. Stating plain, blunt facts was more to his liking. Besides, the men knew why they were here. There were Germans on their soil.

When he finished, the men managed a reasonable cheer. He got a more rousing one when he told them that hard training would begin not tomorrow but the day after. Tomorrow they could rest and prepare.

After dismissing them, he sent Heinz out to gather his regimental and battalion commanders. Patrick had seen a lot he liked, but much more that was lacking. Well, he laughed to himself, I wanted a command, didn’t I? I guess I got what I asked for. And yes, by God, it is going to be a challenge.

“Lieutenant Schmidt,” said Patrick. “Don’t forget enough glasses. We will inaugurate the brigade’s creation in the traditional manner.”

16

A NY QUESTION EITHER Patrick or Trina might have had as to how they would greet each other after several weeks of separation was immediately dispelled when, seeing Patrick’s arm in a sling, Trina pulled him to her.

“What happened?” Her voice was near a sob.

Patrick grinned and tried to make light of it. “I fell off my horse. I told you infantrymen can’t ride worth a darn.”

“Then you weren’t wounded?”

“Hardly,” he assured her.

She tilted her head upward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you for trying to spare me worry, but I know exactly how you broke your arm. You were out on a patrol with some of your men and the Germans started shooting at you. That, sir, is how you hurt yourself.”

Patrick shrugged. “I think I have to get a new aide, perhaps one who doesn’t have such a big mouth. Yes, that’s exactly what happened, only my arm isn’t broken. I just have a strained shoulder and it was caused by my falling off my horse. I can use it a little and I’ll be better in a few days.”

Trina laughed. “Well, if you’re staying for dinner, will I have to cut your food this time?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

For an answer, she moved into his arms and they were embracing before either realized it and despite Patrick’s arm. “Am I hurting you?” she asked.

“The agony is overwhelming,” he murmured, “but I shall try to endure.”

She laughed again, the sound muffled by her mouth against his chest. Trina was both elated and confused. This was something that had never happened to her before. A quiet intimacy had developed between them almost without either of them noticing. What truly confused her, however, was what she should do now.

“I love your hair,” he murmured teasingly, kissing the top of her head.

“At least it’s long enough to see. Now I can go into town and not worry about frightening children, or having to wear a hairpiece that makes me look like some peasant woman from Poland or a refugee from a convent.”

They stepped apart and he took her hand. “I cannot imagine you in a convent. Perhaps as a Polish peasant, but definitely not a nun.”

Noises in the kitchen reminded them that they were not alone. Molly was preparing the promised meal. Heinz would not be there this evening. He was working on the myriad reports that an unfeeling higher command always required, war or not.

“I will stay for dinner, but I must get back to my men before it gets too late. I never realized I had so much to do.”

They ate quietly and alone. A very tactful Molly excused herself from becoming a third party by pleading a headache and the need to write some letters. After dinner, as the late-August night started to darken, they sat side by side on a couch in the small living room.

“Patrick, I think I like having your brigade just a few miles down the road.”

Patrick smiled. “Well, I like it too. I just don’t think we’d better get too used to it. We could be moved at any time and for any reason.”

“But you are-what was the term you used?-’strategic reserve,’ aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s only because the higher-ups don’t think my unit is quite ready for Broadway yet. My job is to whip them into shape and get them prepared for war. When that’s done I think we’ll be moved into the Housatonic line, probably on a rotating basis.”

“Well, don’t feel you have to hurry the process,” she said grimly. “Now, tell me all about your command.”

It was, he told her, officially called the 1st Provisional Brigade and it initially consisted of the two regiments of infantry that were originally intended to become the German Legion. That idea had flopped because neither Governor Nash of Ohio nor Governor La Follette of Wisconsin could agree on what American of German descent would command the Legion. Only the fact that both were Republicans prevented the argument from becoming more serious and permitted the compromise whereby Patrick Mahan, a decided non-German, was given command.

“I think Teddy Roosevelt might have beaten them up pretty badly if they hadn’t gone along,” he added.

His command gave him close to four thousand poorly trained and ill-equipped would-be soldiers. “The first thing I did was act on a hunch that there were immigrants from Germany who’d actually served in their army as well as men who’d served in ours. We searched and found more than a hundred. Although some of them were already in positions of command, most weren’t, and valuable experience was being wasted. I’ve been reviewing their records and placing them where I think they belong. The big problem with that idea is that some of them don’t speak English very well or not at all. It also means some people who were already in command positions, and who aren’t qualified, are being displaced. And,” he added ruefully, “most don’t particularly like the idea. One of our good AmericanBürgermeisters got drunk a couple of days ago and took a punch at me.”

“Goodness!”

“Fortunately he missed. Heinz hit him hard in his stomach and he spent the rest of the night in great pain trying to give up a week’s worth of meals. He is also now a plain private and lucky he’s not breaking rocks at some federal prison.”