Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

Sheff thought that might get sticky before too long. Literally sticky, what with all the paint bottles on Wiedeman's little table-which was not sturdily built at all. He hoped that nothing disastrous would happen before the children's two mothers and their uncle got back from work.

That would be a while yet, though. Susan Wilson's daughters worked for one of the larger of New Antrim's garment manufacturers, which, like all such, had long hours. The uncle, a partly disabled veteran since Second Arkansas Post, enjoyed one of the secured jobs set aside for such by the army's commissariat. His hours of work were not particularly long, but he was sure to dawdle after work in one of the military saloons before finally wending his way home.

The husband of the younger of the Wilson daughters wouldn't be returning for two weeks at the earliest, since his unit was on patrol somewhere in the Ouachitas. The husband of the older daughter would never be returning at all. He'd died at Second Arkansas in the fighting at the wall, not more than fifty feet from the spot where Sheff had been struck down.

But Sheff didn't give the matter of the children much of his mind, either. First, because he was too fascinated and puzzled by everything else. And second, because Imogene was in the room and wearing a fancy dress he'd never seen on her before. It looked brand-new and store-bought.

She was grinning at him and seemed to be on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement like a girl half her age. Sheff wouldn't have thought much of it a year ago, when he'd first met her. She'd seemed so young, then, that the difference between a twelve-year-old and a six-year-old would have been minor.

But he couldn't help notice it today. It was odd, really, the way the girl seemed to age, since he'd been moved into the room upstairs and got to see her all the time. As if she were a month older for every day that passed. Sheff would swear that was true, except he was pretty sure it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

He'd asked Cal about it, just the week before.

"You wish!" had been the unkind response.

Mrs. Johnson clapped her hands. "All right, everyone take their positions! Mr. Wiedeman's time is valuable, and we can't waste any of it."

She pointed imperiously to one of the three chairs lined up in a row. "Captain Parker, you take the seat on the left."

No sooner had he done so than Mrs. Johnson took the seat next to him, in the middle. The other seemed destined to remain vacant.

"Mama!" Adaline exclaimed. "Cal's not here yet!"

For the first time, Sheff noticed the twin. It might be better to say that her presence registered on him. He realized now that she'd been in the room all along, wearing a dress very similar to her sister's except in small details of color and trim. But, as often happened when Imogene was there also, he simply hadn't paid any attention to her.

And there was another oddity. Sheff kept hearing people comment on the identical appearance of the two girls, leaving aside whatever clothing they might have on. Sheff would have thought they were insane, except he had a vague recollection of having once thought the same thing himself.

That was hard to imagine now. He could tell them apart instantly at any distance, rain or shine. He'd never had to test the matter, but he was just as sure he could tell them apart in pitch darkness, just from the sound of their voices. For that matter, just from listening to them breathe.

But he forced that last thought aside. Best not to dwell on the thought of listening to Imogene breathe, in the here and now. He had time to do that-and did, and would-every night that passed. In a bed covered by a blanket, where he didn't have to worry about the possible indelicacy posed by the tight-fitting trousers of his dress uniform.

"Hush, Adaline!" her mother scolded. "Lieutenant McParland will be along soon enough. Something must have detained him. In the meantime, we can get started. Mr. Wiedeman tells me he'll be concentrating on one part of the portrait at a time. So he can start with Sheff and Imogene. Be still, I say!"

Imogene came to stand behind him, and just to one side. A moment later, he felt her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

He stiffened slightly, casting a nervous glance at Mrs. Johnson. He'd been careful-very, very careful-not to engage in any sort of physical contact with Imogene. That would get him pitched out of the house in an instant, he was quite sure. And as much as he sometimes found the temptation difficult to resist, he managed. Whatever else he was, Sheffield Parker was patient and methodical. If it took him longer to get somewhere than it might take someone else, he'd get there all the more surely.

But, to his relief-and surprise-he saw that Mrs. Johnson was simply giving the hand on his shoulder a calm assessment.

"Not so close to the neck, Imogene. And keep your fingers still."

That was it. Sheff had to tighten his jaw to keep it from dropping altogether.

"Begin when you're ready, Mr. Wiedeman. Susan, I would recommend that you not allow that rascal to stand on the arm of the divan."

"Oh!" Mrs. Wilson tore her eyes away from the tableau in the center of the room. "Andrew, you sit down! Right now, or I'll smack you!"

"Everybody please be still," Wiedeman commanded.

"Where's Cal?" Adaline wailed.

Some part of Callender McParland felt like wailing, himself. The mission that the Laird had recruited him for as he'd been on his way to the boardinghouse-"recruited" as in "press-gang"-was now successfully completed.

They'd found Sam Houston, missing since the night before. He was sprawled on a pew in the city's big Catholic church, just underneath the wall where the new painted carving of his wife was suspended.

Drunk as a skunk, as the saying went-except no skunk who ever lived would get this drunk. He was almost comatose.

The Laird took a deep breath. "What I figured," Cal heard him mutter.

Standing next to Driscol, Charles Ball shook his head. "Like old times, isn't it? Tarnation, he hasn't had hardly a drop of whiskey in:how many months has it been, Patrick?"

"Twelve," he replied stonily. "Exactly. God damn me for a fool, I plain forgot. His wife was murdered a year ago yesterday."

On the Laird's other side, Charles Crowell sighed. "Oh, Lord. I forgot, too."

He heaved his massive shoulders and moved toward Houston. "Old times, Charles, as you say. I carried him before; I'll do it again."

"Wait," said Driscol, putting a hand on the huge banker's arm. His eyes were on the carving.

"For what?" asked Ball.

The Laird didn't answer for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"No. The boy will have to deal with this soon enough. Not often, I'm hoping. Sam made it through a widowing, and moving his son to a new home, and fought and won a battle. But it'll happen again. You know it and I know it. So go to the Wolfe Tone and bring little Andy here. It's the best place to begin."

Ball nodded. Crowell hesitated. "Are you sure-"

"No, he's right," said Ball. "You stay here with Patrick and watch over him. I'll get the boy."

"Tiana'll have your hide, Patrick, when she finds out," said Crowell.

"No, she won't. She'll not say a word. Times like this, she's pure Cherokee."

Driscol turned to Callender. "Thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant McParland, but it won't be needed any longer. My apologies for detaining you."

Cal left with Ball. At a dignified enough pace, until they got out of the church and went their separate ways. Then he starting walking as fast as he could.

Adaline would have his hide, for sure. And the worst of it was, he still couldn't figure out exactly how he'd found himself in this fix. As close friends as they'd become, he understood what drove Sheff to his fixation on Imogene. But what was his excuse?