Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

They shared a laugh at that. Sheff decided he liked Winfield Scott. Not that he could imagine ever being what you could call a real friend of the man, given the chasm of their origins. Although:who could say what the future might bring? As each year-each month-passed, Sheff was finding the future less and less predictable.

It was an enjoyable sensation, even a thrilling one, for an eighteen-year-old who could well remember how the future had looked not more than two years earlier. Extremely predictable, indeed. A life-probably a short one-filled with hard labor and poverty, ending in a grave. A pauper's grave at that.

There was a little commotion at the door. "Ah, that'll be the workmen," said Scott. He gave the small bedroom a quick inspection. "We'll have to move that dresser to another room. I'll let Julia figure that out."

He rose and went to the door, leaving Sheff to frown at the dresser.

Why would they need to move The answer came within five seconds. Two men entered, carrying between them a very large oak bookcase. It was bigger than any bookcase Sheff had ever seen, except the one in the parlor of the Wolfe Tone. Behind them came two more men, each bearing boxes. From the strain in their shoulders, heavy ones.

The next few minutes were simply confusing. Scott didn't seem to feel that explanations were needed. But when it was all done, the dresser in the corner was gone, and the bookcase was in its place. Filled with books, now.

Sheff could hear Julia talking with the workmen in the corridor beyond. Trying to decide where to put the dresser, he imagined, but he didn't spend any time worrying about that. None of his own clothes had been in it. All of his clothes, even the two uniforms, fit into the locker that was shoved under his bed.

"There you are, Captain," Scott said, presenting the bookcase with an outstretched hand. "Mind you, it's only on loan, and I'll want it back when my peregrinations are finished. Since my partner chose to leave for a few months to fetch his family, I'll let him handle the American side of the reporting. I'm off-tomorrow, in fact-for the first of several tours of the Oklahoma front. Colonel Taylor has agreed to give me an interview. I expect I'll be visiting the Red River region as well. But by the time that's all done, you should be fit for active duty again."

He wagged a finger at Sheff. "Mind you, I'll expect them all to be in the same good condition. Some of these books took me years to track down."

Sheff 's expression must have finally registered on Scott.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Patrick didn't tell you? What a troll!"

But he was smiling, quite widely. "It's my famous military library, Captain Sheff. Patrick felt that it was time you applied yourself to your work seriously instead of lolling about in comfort and ease. General Ross agrees, with the caveat that he expects to be able to borrow from them himself. And now, I must be off. Good day."

He paused briefly at the door and looked back. "I spoke with the surgeon, by the way. Your wound seems to be quite similar to my own. The one I acquired at Lundy's Lane. If so, Captain, expect it to hurt off and on for the rest of your life. But there shouldn't be any other problem of any consequence. And if pain is a major concern to you, then you'd best start looking for a different line of work."

He was gone.

Ten seconds later, his head reappeared in the door. "One last thing. If you're still struggling with your reading, I'd recommend you start with the biographies. The technical manuals can be quite dismal."

Gone again. Sheff stared at the bookcase.

After a while, defying the surgeon's orders, Sheff levered himself out of bed and began to examine the titles.

Eventually, he decided on Julius Caesar's The Gallic War. He had no idea who the Gallics had been, but at least he'd heard of Caesar. Now that he thought about it, in fact, that might be one of the busts in the hotel.

But maybe not. It was always hard to know with the Laird. Being as he was a man who hated tyranny, but never seemed to have any trouble being a tyrant himself when he thought he needed to be.

Not that Sheff cared. Like almost everyone in New Antrim, he'd seen tyranny at its most naked. No nebulous abstraction that someone like John Randolph might declaim against, but the real faces that had murdered his father.

So if it took a tyrant to deal with that tyranny, he'd surely be the tyrant's legionnaire. Not hesitate for an instant, not though he waded through an ocean of blood.

He'd only gotten through the first few pages, though, when there was another commotion at the door. Julia Chinn came in with a white man Sheff had never seen before.

"Will this do?" she asked.

The man shook his head vigorously. "Impossible, Mrs. Johnson. Not for what you want. We really need a much larger room, where we can place at least three chairs."

Julia nodded and gave Sheff a quick inspection. "Can you sit upright, Captain? For-" She cocked an inquiring head at the stranger.

"Two hours at a stretch, Mrs. Johnson. Though I'd prefer three."

Julia turned back to Sheff. "Can you manage that?"

"Oh, sure, Miz Julia. Truth is, I'd find it a relief. I get real tired of lying in bed, no matter what the surgeon says."

"Splendid. Let's begin at once then, since Mr. Wiedeman has the day free, and that's hardly ever true."

Wiedeman gave Sheff a curt nod and left. Julia moved over to help Sheff out of the bed. "That's Lyle Wiedeman, Captain Parker. He just arrived in town less than two weeks ago. Everyone's thrilled, of course. First real artist we've ever had in New Antrim. Well, painter, at least. But for this purpose, a wood-carver like Antoinette simply wouldn't do at all."

It was odd hearing Miz Julia talking so properly. Not that she couldn't when she wanted to. She always did, in fact, on the frequent occasions when General Ross's wife, Eliza, came to visit. But Sheff wasn't accustomed to hearing her talk like that when just he and the girls were around.

After she helped him to his feet, she shook her head, smiling widely, and indicated his bedclothes with a finger. "And that won't do at all, either. Can you manage to put on your uniform, Captain? The dress uniform, I mean."

"I might need some help with the coatee, Miz Julia, but I can do the rest. If you give me just a few minutes."

"Certainly. But there's one other thing, Captain, I'd much appreciate."

"Yes, Miz Julia?"

" That. It won't do all, either. Not any longer. So I must insist."

The words were said sternly-whatever they meant-but she was smiling more widely than ever.

"I don't understand, Miz Julia."

"Mrs. Johnson, Captain. That's my name. Please use it, henceforth."

1824: TheArkansasWar

By the time Sheff got into his uniform, Mrs. Johnson helping him with the coatee, and made it out into the boardinghouse's salon, he discovered that the whole room had been rearranged. Lyle Wiedeman had an easel set up to one side, with a large blank canvas, and paints of various kind on a small table next to it. The divan that normally occupied pride of place in the room had been moved against one of the walls. The boardinghouse's owner, Susan Wilson, was perched on its edge watching the activities, with her grandchildren-all six of them-filling the rest of the divan.

Fortunately, it was one of the crudely made but sturdy pieces of furniture produced by the McParland Furniture Company in Fort of 98. The young children were rambunctious, climbing all over the thing, and Mrs. Wilson was not being her usual stern taskmistress self. The widow's dark eyes were bright with interest at the unusual goings-on in the rest of the room. Clearly enough, she was giving only a small part of her mind to the matter of the youngsters.