1901

Ensign Schuyler thought about chastising Seaman First Class Winslow but decided against it. Winslow, toothless and wiry, was one of his companions in what would have been called the crow’s nest in sailing ships, and he had been in the navy for the greater portion of his fifty-odd years. Schuyler did not think Winslow was chastiseable. Winslow had been up for discipline before the captain’s mast, or stick, as it was known in the ranks. Sailor’s slang amused him; during idle times, he had been trying to develop a glossary of terms.

Schuyler’s hands started to shake in delayed reaction, and he wondered if he would be able to speak coherently. The silence of this moment was as deafening as the roar of battle when the 13-inchers went off below him. He knew he didn’t belong in command of this post, at least not yet, and the unexpected responsibility had been awesome. He prayed he had made no mistakes. At least not serious ones.

Winslow grinned toothlessly. “Goddamn, sir, weren’t that a helluva show? Quite a way to earn me twenty-four dollars a month, now ain’t it?”

Terry sagged to a sitting position. No one was interested anymore in ship identities or speed or torpedoes. He was dirty and exhausted and there were a lot of other places he’d rather be now, like home. “Yeah, Seaman Winslow, one helluva show. One helluva show.”

“Tell me, General Mahan, how does one make hamburger?”

Patrick considered both the question and the source. “Well, General Funston, I suppose one would need meat.”

Funston chuckled, rolled over onto his side, and laid his field glasses on the ground. The men were well hidden from prying eyes by fresh-cut shrubs. Major General Frederick Funston was a self-made soldier in an American military where you were usually doomed if you were not a West Pointer. He had earlier risen to the rank of brigadier general through skill, tenacity, and a great deal of merit. He had been promoted to his new rank of major general at the same time Patrick had become a brigadier general. A short man, Funston was less than five and a half feet tall. He was in his midforties and had red hair that was starting to gray at the edges. He was bowlegged and pugnacious. As a youthful dropout from the University of Kansas, he’d decided to fight with the Cubans for their independence and joined the American army when war finally came. His abilities brought him notice and rank, and finally he became colonel under Arthur MacArthur in the Philippines.

Frederick Funston, with his slightly silly-sounding name, had the reputation of a street fighter, and now he was in command of a newly formed division.

“Meat?” he snickered. “What kind of meat, Patrick?”

Shit, thought Patrick, why are we playing word games with Germans coming down the pike? “Raw meat, Fred. Dead, raw meat. And don’t you need a meat grinder?” The two men had met a couple of days before, renewed an earlier brief acquaintence, and taken a quick liking to each other. As Roosevelt’s observer, Patrick had been invited by Funston to watch the ambush of a German column. As Funston had explained, it was time to strike back.

Funston slapped him on the shoulder. “And how do you feed that raw meat into a meat grinder, smart-ass?”

Despite his tenseness, Patrick had to laugh. “With your hands?” He began to think he’d rather face the Germans than Frederick Funston’s foolish questions.

“You’re hopeless, Patrick. No, you feed it in one piece at a time.” He picked up his binoculars and held them to his eyes. “Now watch,” he said, all jocularity suddenly gone.

Funston and Patrick were in a woodland that covered several dozen acres. It fronted on an open meadow that ended in another wooded area. A wagon road ran down the center and straight toward them.

About in the middle, a small group of armed men, soldiers in civilian clothes, sat huddled about a fire, cooking a meal. They were the bait for the trap Funston was about to spring.

Patrick and Funston, along with Funston’s soldiers, were west of the Housatonic River near the small village of New Canaan. They were about twenty miles east of the site of the unlamented Blaney’s defeat. Prudently, the Americans had earlier withdrawn their forces farther east, almost to the Housatonic, which formed a natural north-south boundary running from Long Island Sound toward Massachusetts.

Funston dropped his voice to a whisper. “What a wonderful place for a picnic. You like picnics, Patrick?”

Patrick’s mind went quickly to the afternoon with Trina, and how surprised he was that he missed her. “Yes,” he said and tried not to think of her kiss and the brief but shockingly erotic feel of her body against his. “But aren’t they being foolish out there?”