1901

17

J OHNNY TWO DOGS was happier than he had been in a long time. It had been five years since he’d last tracked a man, and that had been to help bring to ground his revered leader, Geronimo. Even though that final hunt had been successful and resulted in the capture of the southern Chiricahua leader, it had saddened Johnny to see the proud and grizzled old man surrender to the overwhelming might of General Miles’s army. It had made him perversely proud to see that only a score or so of Apaches had kept such a mighty host at bay. Geronimo might have been bent in body, but not in spirit.

In years past, Johnny had ridden with Geronimo, but that had been back when he was young, full of pride and fire, and possessed by the hope that the white man could be driven off the sacred Apache lands. Then the toll of years and the deaths of his comrades mounted, and with them came the realization that the white man was too strong, too numerous, and too damned greedy to be deterred. The only way any Apache would survive would be to make peace with the conquering whites. It had even been the whites who had given him his name of Johnny Two Dogs, thinking his old and twisted body bore a hilarious resemblance to two dogs fucking. He had an Apache name, of course, but that was his alone and he did not share it with the whites. Let them call him what they wished.

Making peace with the whites did not come before he had exacted his price-his pound of flesh, literally. There were several blue bellies whose bones were bleaching in the sands of New Mexico as a result of his deadly shooting and his stealth in stalking the ultimate enemy-armed human game.

Johnny had resigned himself to spending the rest of his years with the remnants of his nation on the grounds of Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where, even though he had helped track Geronimo, he had been interned along with Geronimo and his band. All the Apache scouts had been treated thus. The white bastards were consistent, at least, in their treatment of the red man. Unfair, but consistent.

Geronimo had understood Johnny and forgiven him. Now-and the thought made Johnny’s face crinkle in a rare grin-the old man was becoming a Christian and urging the Apache children to stay in school. He was also making a fair living selling autographed pictures of himself to the fat tourists who wandered onto the grounds and wanted to see the legendary warrior. Talk about adapting!

Until a couple of weeks ago, all Johnny could see coming down the road was age, not tourists. Who would want his autograph, even if he could write? He was nothing but a squat, unwashed little man in his middle fifties who dressed in rags, lived on the government dole, and would likely die on the handouts of rotten food and shabby blankets if the cheap liquor didn’t get him first. But then came word that the Apache scout’s particular talents might be needed again by the army. And, hallelujah, he would be paid for killing the goddamn whites.

The fact that two white nations were at war with each other, and that one set of whites was paying for the privilege, was mildly interesting but unimportant. He’d agreed promptly and, along with a score of other equally delighted Apaches, entrained for unknown lands back east.

On arrival in Connecticut, he saw that the whites lived in an astonishingly lush and crowded land. Johnny and his fellow Apaches had passed through countless towns and seen farms and dwellings more numerous than the stars in the sky. It was an awesome display of the white man’s power, and Johnny again resolved never to challenge it, at least not head-on. He’d almost changed his mind and gone back to the dismal but predictable comforts of Fort Sill, but the twin urges of money and the satisfaction of killing his ancient enemy held him in this strange and verdant land. Here he was given instructions on how to tell good whites from bad whites by the way they dressed and talked. That amused his fellow Apaches, who were convinced that the only good white devil was a dead one. They knew that the statement was similar to what whites said and thought about red men, and they silently reveled in the irony. They were shown pictures of warriors from the German nation and told to kill them all anytime and anyplace. The Apaches were specifically told not to kill women or civilians and, especially, not to kill their new comrades-those same blue bellies who, until recently, had been trying to kill all the Apaches. There was some grumbling about the exclusions, but one of the blue soldiers explained that there were more than enough Germans to satisfy the Apaches. They doubted this but allowed the man to continue. Could these Germans have more soldiers than Generals Crook and Miles had used against the Apache? They thought not. Not, at least, until they realized the immensity of the camps of soldiers of the great white father in Washington.

Johnny sighed. It was an imperfect world, but it was his world and he was still alive in it. And he had permission to kill. He was told that he was a member of the 1st Scout Company, which reported directly to Gen. Arthur MacArthur. The scouts were pleased. This was a great honor, since General MacArthur’s frontier skills and experiences were legendary. In actuality, however, the company reported to the general’s young son, who had been born and raised on the frontier and who also respected the Apaches’ unique fighting abilities. The dark-haired puppy was very young, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

It also amused Johnny that the blue bellies were becoming brown bellies, finally acknowledging the advantage those nice blue uniforms conveyed to a sniper. He was told the Germans wore a dark gray that was as difficult to see as brown.

Although Johnny would have preferred to wage war in the arid lands he knew so well, he had to admit that the ruined and abandoned buildings surrounded by woods and lush, uncropped fields and tall grasses might actually be better. Right now, for instance, he was only about a hundred yards away from a road down which horse-drawn wagons, German wagons, flowed at a steady but irregular rate.

He had been waiting hours for an opportunity. He would wait for weeks if he had to, but he knew from the insolent way the Germans traveled that his time would soon come. There were no pickets and no scouts or guards. The Germans must have thought they owned the land over which they traveled.

As the night shadows lengthened, the flow of wagons thinned almost to a halt. Finally, with the sun well below the horizon, Johnny’s sharp eyes spied a single wagon, lightly loaded and pulled by two slow horses, moving in his direction. As it drew closer, he saw the shapes of two heavyset men sitting in the front. By their silhouettes he confirmed they were Germans, and he knew they probably carried weapons. But he also felt he recognized their type. They were not combat troops. These were the older and fatter men who worked in the warehouses and parceled out their treasures as if they belonged to them and not their government. He could understand and respect the soldiers who fought him, but the ones who insulted him, spat at him, and made him beg for a blanket to ward off the cold he had learned to hate. The approaching sound of loud guttural voices showed the men’s indifference to their surroundings, which made them unlikely to be dangerous unless forewarned.

That would not happen.

Johnny carefully laid his rifle on some leaves. There would be no need for it. He left his shelter and began the stalk. On reaching the road, he stopped, checking first to ensure that no other wagons would disturb him as he closed in on his prey. As he did so, a change came over him. No longer was he a red-skinned, funny-looking little man who limped when he walked. Quietly, he had become the night in which he hid. Many of his people were still afraid of the ghosts of the dark, but Johnny had learned through bitter experience that the night was his protector. In a darkness of gentle breezes, he became the wind as well, any sound he made masked by the chatter of crickets and the caressing whisper of the grasses. In a few strides, he was within yards of the unsuspecting Germans. He was so close that he almost ran into the wagon when it unexpectedly stopped. He recovered quickly and froze in the weeds. The two men were discussing something in their own strange language, and one seemed a little angry while the other laughed.

Finally the one who had laughed stepped off the wagon and into the brush, only feet from where Johnny lay poised, ready to pounce. A moment later Johnny heard the man grunting and fumbling with his clothes. This was followed by more grunting and a quick stench that told Johnny that the fool was defecating. He checked the man on the wagon and saw him looking stolidly in the other direction, his body indicating he was upset by the delay. Johnny snarled silently and was behind the defecating German in an instant. His left hand reached around and clamped his mouth in an iron grip while the razor-sharp knife in his right hand ripped the life out of the German, who flopped for a few seconds and then lay still.

Johnny spun and checked the other German, who was still gazing at the sky. Johnny left the body and moved noiselessly around to the driver’s side of the wagon. He lunged upward like a panther and drove his knife into the second German’s skull from under his chin. The man gave a gurgling whimper, then he too was still.

Now what? The young MacArthur had said the idea was not only to kill Germans but to make them afraid as well, afraid of the night and the creatures roaming in it. Johnny grinned and went back to the brush for the first German. He dragged him out and laid him in the back of the wagon with his excrement- and bloodstained pants around his ankles. He followed this with the corpse of the second German, all the while coping with the horses made skittish by the sweet smell of blood.

When the bodies were neatly arranged, Johnny checked the wagon to see if there was anything important in it. There were only some rifles and ammunition, which he decided to keep, and a couple of tents, which he nonchalantly slashed. He scalped the two men and disemboweled them. Then he urinated on them.

He slapped the horses on their rumps and started them clopping down the trail. With a little bit of luck, they’d be well away from the kill site before they were discovered. If so, he could use the area again. Perhaps the wagon with its grisly load would make it all the way to a German camp. Wouldn’t that spoil their sleep!

Johnny slipped back into the night and the trees. His stomach growled a little, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in a while. He pulled a piece of jerky from his pouch and commenced chewing with gums that had lost most of their teeth. He hummed a happy tune. The two corpses in the wagon made for a total of six kills. Not bad for the first day.

Ian Gordon was resplendent in his red tunic. He snapped a quick salute. “My heartiest congratulations, General. To think I knew you when you were nothing-a mere, total, and useless nobody.”

Patrick smiled warmly. “Thanks, Ian. I knew you’d help me keep things in perspective.” He rose and grasped the other man’s hand. “Now, what are you doing here? How can our leadership in Washington spare you?”

“As a matter of fact they can do so rather easily. I am now one of several British officers assigned as observers to General MacArthur. There are others from several nations watching this wonderful war unfold. If you would spend more time at headquarters you would see other Imperial types like me: garishly uniformed Frenchmen, even more garish Italians, and-are you ready for this?-little yellow men all the way from Japan. All of them are here to see how the mighty Imperial German Army wages war against your brave little army. None, save us, gives a fig who wins. They just want to see what might happen if they go up against Germany.”

Patrick caught on quickly, recalling Gordon’s background in military intelligence. “Certainly. And as an ‘observer’ from an ostensibly neutral nation, you would be in a position to pass on information that you might receive through your private channels, wouldn’t you?”

Gordon rolled his eyes in mock despair. “Patrick, that would be horrid. Unfair. How can you think so ill of me?”

“All right, have it your way. What brings you to my humble tent?”

“An overwhelming urge to see Mahan’s Bastard Brigade. My goodness, Germans and Negroes. Why haven’t they given you the Apaches as well?”

Patrick shuddered. “Little Mac can keep them. My God, have you heard some of the stories?”

“Yes. Wonderful, aren’t they? Still, the Apaches are not quite as clever as the Pathans or the Zulus when it comes to making death even more horrid than it usually is. Remind me to tell you how the Zulus impale live prisoners with a stake up their arse, and how long the Pathans take to skin a man alive.”

“No, thanks. Now, what’s your real reason for being here? And unless that’s some of your family’s ancient Scotch whiskey in that container, I may be forced to ask you to leave.”

Gordon laughed and pulled a bottle from the container. They opened it and poured generous amounts in the glasses Ian had also thought to bring. They toasted each other’s promotions, Patrick to general and Ian’s much more recent one to lieutenant colonel.

Gordon lolled back in a camp chair that came dangerously close to falling over. “Yes, as in your case, the powers that be decided that nobody pays any attention to mere majors, and they promoted me. I wish they’d had the foresight to make me a general instead.”

“Wait for your own war. You’re only an observer, remember?”

“Ah, and what a wonderful assignment. I get to gaze worshipfully at MacArthur if I wish, or talk to that lovable barbarian Wheeler, or even come slumming down here.”

Patrick refilled his glass. “Insults can be damned expensive. Did you get a chance to meet Longstreet? I haven’t yet.”

Gordon nodded. “Indeed. And almost made a proper fool of myself. That’s what happens when you meet a historical character who actually participated in ancient events of legend.” Gordon flushed slightly at the memory. For both professional and personal reasons, the American Civil War had been a source of great interest to him, and he’d wangled an introduction to Longstreet just after receiving his orders to go north as an observer. In dress red, he’d introduced himself to Longstreet in the other’s office at the War Department. Gordon had started to stammer like a schoolboy meeting the headmaster for the first time until the old general rose and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “Finally, we had a decent conversation. I asked him some things about your Civil War I’d always wanted to know, and I told him what my duties were going to be up here.”

“As an intelligence source?”

Gordon ignored him. “Longstreet was quite impressive. For an old man he has his wits about him and seems bent on surrounding himself with skilled helpers like Leonard Wood. He seems to know his own limitations, both physical and as a general. I left with the impression that there is no way on earth he would attempt to lead an army in the field, but that he will work diligently to see his policies implemented. His reputation is that of a cautious general who accomplishes what he is told to accomplish if he is given a specific task. He is not reputed to be a great thinker. Of course, the people who say that are always comparing him with the mythical Robert E. Lee. It might not be fair to judge him so harshly.”

“Ian, is it so bad for someone to know his own limitations? We just lost a battle because of someone who didn’t.”

Gordon took a couple of thin cigars from his tunic and offered one to Patrick, who cheerfully accepted. Gordon lit them and they drew deeply. “Longstreet understands that he has just one task. It is to drive out the Germans. He fully understands that task and his role in it. For an old warhorse he seems to thoroughly comprehend modern warfare, how it has recently changed as a result of technology, and how he can be a noble figurehead for your nation. After meeting him and talking to others, I can see why Roosevelt tapped him instead of simply reinstating John Schofield, General Miles’s predecessor. Schofield was a good and solid general as well, and is a decade younger than Longstreet, but although he’s a solid professional, he’s not an inspirational leader. Schofield, by the way, has offered himself as an adviser to Longstreet, who graciously accepted the offer.”

Ian tactfully did not voice the British concern that the country was so ill prepared it was necessary to bring back someone like Old Pete Longstreet in the first place.

It was getting late, and Patrick was tired. “Will you be dropping by again, or are you going to stay with the exalted ones?”

Gordon buckled his tunic and made to leave. Patrick noticed he made no effort to take the half-filled bottle. “With your permission, my general, I will be by rather often. Being an observer means I can go and do my observing wherever and whenever I wish. I understand you are sending your tame Germans and your Negroes out on scouting and information-gathering patrols. I would be honored to accompany them sometime.”

Patrick nodded. Now dressed in brown and at MacArthur’s urging, the brigade was sending small daily patrols of German-speaking soldiers up to and sometimes behind the German defenses to either observe their activities or grab a stray prisoner. At night, his Negro troops moved like panthers through the territory separating the two armies. The Germans also patrolled the areas, and sometimes the groups would meet and savage little battles would ensue. Although there was little glamour in war in the first place, there was even less in this type of killing.

“Ian, it’s a dirty war out there. You are certainly welcome to go. Just promise me you won’t wear red.”

Blake Morris surveyed the small pile of rubble that had once been his home. It had been the first house he’d ever owned and he had loved it, almost as much as he’d loved the wife who had made it a place of joy and the child who had made it a source of delight.

Now they and it were gone. Somewhere in the debris were his clothes, his valuables, and his history as a being in this world. There was a catch in his throat and he fought back the sobs that, once started, might never end and might unman him at a time when he needed to be strong. He did not have to make this journey right at this time, but he knew it was something he had to do sooner or later. It helped remind him that what had occurred was true and not some nightmare. Seeing the ghost town brought back the sounds of the guns and the screams of the dead and dying as if it were yesterday. Good. He needed to be focused.

The small ship had sneaked him and his heavily armed companions across Long Island Sound and deposited them a few miles west of Roosevelt ’s home at Sagamore Hill. From there it had been easy to cross the island and find Ardmore, or what was left of it. The summer had been kind and the surge of undisciplined grassy growth hid many of the scars from that morning in June. Was it only three months ago?

Morris had to look hard to find some of the other buildings, but they were there, or at least some of the ripped wood and charred stones. He did find some bones, but he knew they did not belong to his life. Perhaps they weren’t even human. Never would he forget the sight of the awful explosion that obliterated the two persons who gave him reason for existing. Perhaps if he’d had something to bury, it would have made it easier to go on living the remainder of his bleak life. He had hoped working in the camps and aiding others would help him as well. It had not.

He walked a bit farther and stopped short. There before him was a neatly laid-out cemetery with several score of white wooden crosses in a well-cared-for lawn. He looked more closely and saw names on the crosses. Slowly, half hoping for and half dreading what he would find, he walked down the rows of crosses, reading the names and connecting them to half-forgotten faces of those who had been his friends. Entire families had been wiped out by the onslaught. The names of a few people he had known were missing, which, he hoped, meant they’d survived.

Blake stopped suddenly and sucked in his breath. About halfway in were two crosses on which neatly lettered were the names of his wife and daughter. Had someone found their bodies, or was this simply a memorial? It didn’t matter. Someone had remembered and cared, and it touched him deeply. The hatred for the Germans was not displaced, but for a moment the kindness made living a bit less unendurable, and he found his vision obscured by the sudden rush of tears.

A shadow moved from behind a shrub. Blake and the others swung their rifles toward it.

“Don’t shoot, Chief, it’s just me.”

Morris relaxed and lowered his weapon, and the others followed his lead. It was nothing more than Willy Talmadge. And nothing less, either. “You nearly got your empty head blown off, you idiot.”

“Hey, Blake, is that the thanks I get for taking care of this?”

The astonishment on Morris’s face was evident. Willy had never before called him by his first name. “Well,” Willy continued, “maybe I didn’t dig all the graves, but I did identify the bodies and help with the crosses.” He felt he had done well and wanted to be told so.

Morris wanted to ask about his family’s marked graves but decided not to. He didn’t want to know. “Then I guess I should thank you, Willy, and I do. Now, what have you been up to since then?”

Willy informed him that he had returned to the site after the Germans had marched off. A few days later, some local people arrived, buried the bodies, and made the cemetery. “Some people were here with cameras too.” He seemed proud that his little town had been the scene of such activity. From that time on he’d lived off what he could scrounge in the area, either eating fruits and vegetables out of gardens or raiding abandoned root cellars. “I knew you’d be back. Never doubted it for a minute. Now you’re gonna take me with you, aren’t you?”

There was a plaintive note to Willy’s voice. Gone was the insolent drunkard and thief. This was a man who’d been scared by forces he’d never known existed, and now he desperately craved a level of security. He also knew he had to find more food than he had been able to before now in order to survive the coming winter. Willy was almost gaunt. Blake Morris sighed and looked at the longing eyes of the man. “All right, Willy. You can tag along, but you’re gonna have to work for your keep. If I catch your worthless ass drunk or stealing one time, you’re gone and on your own to starve. You understand me? I got a job to do and I won’t have you in the way.”

Willy nodded eagerly, like a puppy. Morris slung his rifle over his shoulder and started to walk inland, away from Ardmore. The dozen hard-eyed men with him fell into a column. One man sprinted ahead to take up a point position, a second pushed Willy into the middle of the column, and a third took up position as rear guard.

Blake surveyed them quickly. Dressed as farmers and mechanics, they were as natural to the countryside as the trees. The well-intentioned officers on the mainland had made him promise they’d wear uniforms in case they got captured. In that case they’d stand a chance of not being executed as spies and terrorists. He had laughed bitterly. Wear uniforms? Why advertise their presence? No, there wasn’t a man in the group who wasn’t a volunteer and who was afraid of death. There was a job to do and they would do it.