Рита Браун - Tail Gait

Karl’s English was good, although he spoke with a pronounced accent. He boomed, “The whole army! The king can’t ignore the loss of one of his armies.”

“Burgoyne couldn’t surrender it piecemeal,” declared Samuel MacLeish, one of Charles’s men. “Six thousand men.”

“Not after the battle,” Edward Thimble remarked. “The rebels gave Burgoyne good terms. The king and his counselors sit in luxury in London. The people may be rebels, but they whipped us. Honor the deal.”

“Aye,” a few others agreed.

Another chimed in. “The rebel bastards can fight.”

“If Clinton had reinforced us, we’d have won,” said Thomas Parsons, another Ranger and the oldest man among this group at thirty-five. His voice stuttered with conviction and regret.

“I expect there is abundant blame to be apportioned,” Charles wryly said as the men laughed.

Too tired to talk more, they soon fell asleep. Piglet snuggled next to his human, each appreciating the other’s warmth. As Charles drifted off, he felt this war would go on. The Colonials were organized, fighting for a belief.

He believed in king and country. How could these people dream of political success without a king or queen? But then, how could they dream of ultimate military victory with raggle-taggle militias? Yet those same militias had defeated an army.

These provocative thoughts floated through his mind as he closed his eyes. He promised himself he would record as much as he could.

April 14, 2015

Marshall Reese’s business was located on Pantops Mountain and was filled with six of his former teammates. The UVA alumni had gathered in short order to discuss a proper memorial to the professor they loved.

Pantops Mountain, on the eastern edge of Charlottesville, was once home to just one large, pleasant home, then a private school, and was now filled with modern buildings. The upscale location of his office was as important for Marshall, a real estate developer, as it was for some doctors, lawyers, or investment firms. Part of success is appearing successful.

Marshall’s personal office easily accommodated the assembled alumni, which, given the time during which they had matriculated at the University of Virginia, were all white and male. Behind the partner’s desk, specially imported from England, a Fry-Jefferson map hung on the wall. Showing the roads in 1755, the facsimile gave the viewer a good idea of roads still in use. Back then, coach travel was uncomfortable but had to be endured. Rivers offered better transport, but usually heading only toward the Atlantic Ocean. In order to move up and down the coast, or due west, one had to go by coach, on horseback, or on foot.

“Would anyone care for a drink?” offered Marshall, still plenty fit despite the passing years.

“I know where it is. I’ll tend bar.” Lionel Gardner took a few drink orders. He was class of 1961 and had flown in from Los Angeles after hearing the horrible news about Professor McConnell’s death.

A large leather couch and leather club chairs bore testimony to Marshall’s success, just in case you’d missed his name on signs in front of numerous high-end developments, all with a historical theme. Finally settled, Nelson Yarbrough’s distinctive gravelly voice opened the gathering. Once a quarterback, always a quarterback. “Marshall, thank you for allowing us to use your office, and Lionel, thank you for flying in from the coast.” The two men nodded to the acknowledgment. “I’ll get right to the point: What can we do to honor a good man and a great professor?”

A brief silence followed this, then Lionel said, “To start, we should send a wreath from the team.”

“Does Trudy want flowers?” asked Rudolph Putnam, fullback 1960, now a rich paving contractor.

“She and the kids,” said Marshall, “felt this was more important to the giver than to them, but Olivia wishes we will distribute to the hospitals afterward.” The McConnells had two children, one now in her late fifties and another in her early fifties. He then added, “They’re worried there isn’t room for all the people who will attend the service.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Paul frowned, picturing the small chapel.

“Can they mic the service for those standing outside?” Lionel had picked up a few media terms in L.A.

“Yes,” Marshall simply said.

Nelson added, “We also have the use of the lawn and Pavilion Seven after the service. It’s all arranged.”

Recently, there had been an uproar over the university president being ousted in 2012. She was then reinstated, thanks to a revolt of students and faculty, prompting Willis’s question, “Is the president going to attend?”

“Not only is Teresa Sullivan going to attend, most of the Board of Visitors, past and present, will be there; former university presidents; both Virginia senators; the governor; a smattering of representatives, as well as state officials. David Toscano is leading the state group, as you would expect. Everyone will be there. Larry Sabato, just everyone.” Marshall beamed. “The Richmond Times Dispatch, of course, already printed a fulsome obituary, but a reporter will also be at the service and at the Pavilion.”

“If we could announce at the Pavilion that we are endowing a chair in the history department in his name, I can’t think of any more fitting tribute.” Nelson’s voice carried conviction and emotion.

Paul Huber gasped. “We’ll need millions.”

“Tim Jardine, class of ’72, made a great deal of money in Wall Street. He’s pledged one million to get us started,” Nelson informed them. “And Tim also pledges to lead the drive.”

All of a sudden, everyone was talking at once.

“I pledge another million.” Marshall’s voice rose. “Ginger is one of the main reasons for my success.” Indicating the Fry-Jefferson map on the wall, he said, “I constantly study that map, which was a gift from Ginger. In my work, I’ve always studied the early landowners, tried to keep a bit of the history with the demand for new housing, new people. I put up a marker at the entrance to each development, giving the history of the place. It’s the least I could do.”

They all knew this, but Marshall was proud, ever reminding people.

Nelson smiled. “Gentlemen, you can see how important this is, and few of us can give millions. I know I can’t, but Sandra and I will do our best to be generous. I will work with Tim in the drive for funds, but I will need your help—”

Marshall interrupted. “Tim Jardine says he will also take care of the endowment once we have the monies.”

“Well, what do we need? I mean, do we need, say, twelve million dollars all at once?” Willis, an artist, made a decent living, but he earned nothing like the others. He did, however, live an exciting and full life. This was a man not suited for business or compromise.

Marshall spoke again. “Endowing a chair essentially means providing a high salary to attract a leading professor to the school. A star professor in the sciences or medical research might command a million dollars with additional benefits, research assistants, et cetera. For a nationally significant history professor, we have to compete with Yale, Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, you name it. I would like the salary to be commensurate with those in medicine or scientific research, to announce our steadfast belief in the humanities. Mr. Jefferson certainly believed in them.”

Although most of these men had made careers in medicine, law, or business, their educational underpinning in the humanities had served them well. They had a long view of human affairs, thanks to Ginger McConnell.