1901

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.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Any 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.”