Рита Браун - Tail Gait

“Yes,” Karl replied, but with his accent his “yes” lacked the sibilant ending.

“All right. I will take this up to Mr. Garth.” He handed the case to Charles, who folded it down. “Both of you, come with me. Karl, you might need to explain. He will have questions, and I am sure the first one will be how much will it cost.” A wry smile crossed the captain’s lips.

They walked to a large brick house built in the Georgian manner, very modern and very expensive. At the stables, Captain Graves and the other prisoners were fixing broken stable doors. A fractious horse cursed inside.

Piglet, always at Charles’s heels, murmured, “Hot temper.”

At the grand house, a large brass pineapple knocker rested in the center of the wide wooden door painted glossy navy blue. The woodwork trim around the door and windows was white, but the shutters matched the door. Charles wondered how these raw people managed to ape European fashions. Well, some Americans had traveled abroad before the war. They learned quickly.

The door opened to an impeccably turned-out butler, Roger. A proud light-skinned man in middle years, he smiled and bowed slightly to usher them into the huge center hall. He had obviously been told that the officer in charge was welcome.

“The Master will be with you in a moment, gentlemen.” The butler, Roger, then turned, walking down the long hall to fetch Ewing Garth.

Charles sensed that both the Continental captain and the Hessian corporal were uneasy. Ewing Garth approached from the opposite end of the hall, walking toward them. Charles swept off his hat, tucking it under his arm. “Pssst.” He hissed the sound through his teeth. Awkwardly, John Schuyler did the same while Karl Ix pulled off his own tattered cap.

“Ah. My good Captain, what can I do for you?” Ewing Garth inclined his head slightly.

“We have studied your road, Sir, and would like to show you a possible solution.”

Charles quickly opened his drawing case.

“Here, here.” Interest high, Garth took the box in his own hands and placed it on a long, exquisitely graceful hall table, a large display of dried flowers in the center flanked by a small marble bust of Apollo on one side, Artemis on the other. “A new bridge? What’s this?” Garth noted the landings.

“Sir, if Corporal Ix might explain. He studied as an engineer before the war.” Captain Schuyler smiled, nodding to the Hessian, who stepped forward.

“The road is too steep.” The man’s accent was noticeable, but he spoke good English. “Change the grade with a catch point on the other side.”

“Yes.” Ewing Garth was listening intently.

“Bad weather, failed brakes, the landing can catch them. That is why the road goes at an angle and emerges at an angle. Safer.”

“Yes, I see.”

“This way, one moves heavier loads, fewer wagons, fewer men off the farm,” said Captain Schuyler, and as an afterthought, “It could accommodate cannons as well. We will widen the road.”

“Yes, yes. I see.” Ewing Garth’s bright brown eyes lit up. “Costly.”

“With your permission, Mr. Garth, I can supply men such as Corporal Ix, who have had to build all manner of things, pontoon bridges, palisades, during their service. And if you are willing, you have hardwoods which we could use to construct a sturdier, higher bridge.” As these words left John Schuyler’s mouth, he knew he would have to convince the commandant he had done the right thing, and that such efforts would certainly also benefit the commandant. Captain Schuyler was learning politics.

The key would be to convince his superior that he had to strike while the iron was hot. To bring this up the chain to the commandant’s superiors would take a flock of letters and waste time. To just go ahead, then alert the various colonels and generals to the speedier transport route, would be a feather in the commandant’s cap. He would appear far more decisive than subordinate. Ewing Garth could be useful to all. Captain John Schuyler, born and raised in rural western Massachusetts, was not a political creature, but the war was teaching him a great deal about how the world really worked.

“Who did this sketch?”

“I did, Mr. Garth.” Charles smiled.

“H-m-m.” The wheels were turning, but Garth said nothing for a moment as he studied the road. “Captain, this is an excellent idea, and a benefit to commerce as well as military matters, as you noted. I will visit your commandant myself in a few days to fully discuss the matter. Of course, I am at his service in the prosecution of the war.”

He walked them to the front door, Roger hovering, in case of need. As the door opened, a tremendous uproar from the stable area caused them all to fly down the stairs.

Piglet, who had been left outside, rose from his curled-up position, alarmed, as a horse, a young woman on sidesaddle, bolted toward them. The out-of-control animal charged while its rider gamely stayed on, trying to check and release the reins. Running on foot behind were two grooms from the stable, as well as Captain Graves and Samuel MacLeish. Captain Schuyler dashed across the yard toward the enraged animal. Handing his case to Karl, Charles, too, ran forward.

A lovely young woman, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, ran from the barn on foot, with plainly no hope of catching up. Landowner Garth, clearly not built for speed, moved toward the horse, which now attempted a terrific buck. Still, the rider stayed on. Coming out of the buck, the big bay leapt up, straight for Captain Schuyler. Without flinching, the American soldier stood in front of the horse. Just as its front hooves reached forward, Schuyler nimbly stepped to the side, jumped up, and grabbed the bridle. With all his might and weight, he pulled the horse’s head downward and forced it to stop. As he did so, Charles grabbed the bit on the other side.

“I have him!” Charles yelled.

Releasing the bridle, Captain Schuyler put his large hands around the rider’s waist and lifted her off the horse. He held her tight for a moment, her arms circling his neck.

Catherine Garth had never been so close to any man other than her father. Even through the sleeves of his coat, she could feel huge, powerful muscles.

The fearless man set her down and found himself looking into the eyes of a goddess. John Schuyler had never beheld so beautiful a woman in his life. Thunderstruck, he said nothing.

As one of the grooms reached the horse, Charles came around the other side, saw the two, paralyzed by the sight of each other. With good humor, he swept off his tricorn in a flourish, bowed low. After rising, he removed Captain Schuyler’s hat from his head, handing it to the man. Finding his voice, Captain Schuyler rasped, “At your service, Madam. I hope you are unharmed.”

Face flushed, her father finally reached the scene. Grasping her hands, kissing her cheeks, Ewing Garth was nearly undone with terror. “Oh, my darling, my angel! Come into the house. You must rest,” he babbled.

“Father, it was my fault,” she coolly said. Turning, she called over her shoulder. “Jeddie, don’t punish him. It was my fault.”

“Yes, Miss,” the groom called back.

Rachel Garth, obviously Catherine’s younger sister by the strong resemblance, was now also by her side. The teenage girl smiled up at the captain. “I thank you, good Sir.”

The American officer was awestruck at Catherine’s equestrian skills. “You rode him like, like…” He struggled.

Charles said, “A Valkyrie.”

Captain Schuyler swallowed, grateful to the Englishman.

Catherine laughed. “You flatter me, Sir. I so hope none of us wind up in Valhalla soon.”