O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [120]
“No, sir,” Ben answered.
“Fitz, destroy it.”
Captain Donovan came around and took the papers from the major.
“Gentlemen, if there is too much gossip about this, it could cause the navy some embarrassing moments. We heard it, we dismissed it, now keep the lid on it.”
An unintelligible grumbling of neither yes nor no. Ben watched closely. The J word had stuck.
“Admiral Marple?”
“Yes, Porter?”
“I want the War College curriculum inspected. I won’t have that place turned into a den of jingoism.”
Nothing left to do but stretch Ben Boone and Tom Ballard’s necks.
Porter leaned forward in stern manner.
“Major Boone, Tom, I think we may have passed too quickly on your request to garrison the Amnesty Islands. When will this ‘Random Sixteen’ be completed?”
“In a few weeks, Admiral.”
“I’m going to give it all a thorough review. Get the balance of the paper down here as quickly as it is finished.
“And Ben, you’d better stick around Washington. If we decide to change our position, we’re going to need you pacing the halls. Understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ben said.
“We will continue with this tomorrow at . . .”
“Fourteen hundred,” Donovan said.
“Adjourned.”
The admirals and the captains departed, passing Porter Langenfeld one by one with a very unusual wordlessness and without handshakes, yet each man tapped the boss on the shoulder.
Then came Chester Harkleroad.
“That took balls, Porter. I’ll give you no problem.”
Richard X. Maple was the last to leave. Langenfeld tugged X’s sleeve and beckoned him to come close.
“Any chance we can get this young fellow . . .”
“O’Hara,” Maple said.
“Any chance we can get O’Hara transferred to the navy?”
• 38 •
NEBO
December 10, 1891—Wyman Creek Landing—the Eastern Shore
Willow Fancy paced the dock anxiously, then heard the whistle of the ferry coming into view around the bend.
She spotted Jefferson’s shiny, hand-painted livery van on deck. templeton brothers saddlers, it read, and in smaller script, the address, and it even had its own phone number, Skerrytown 18.
Mr. Templeton, a Negro, was a frequent purveyor from the mainland. The ferryman unchocked his wheels and signaled him to roll off.
At the end of the pier he stopped, set his brakes, and jumped down into his wife’s embrace.
“She here?” Willow asked.
“Yep.”
He helped Willow up to the driver’s bench and set into motion.
“How’s the baby?”
“Matt’s doing fine. Granny Laveda feeding him nothing but cotton candy and taffy.
“Amanda all right back there? You didn’t have to hide her.”
“I know, but me and Miss Daisy and Amanda all agreed she draw too much attention. Besides, woman, it’s cold out here.”
In a few moments they were able to turn off the road behind some high marsh grass.
Jefferson drew the curtain, leaned back, uncovered Amanda, and helped her up. Willow jumped down, followed by Amanda, and they hung on to each other, breaths darting, trembling, Willow tearing.
“Oh God, Willow.”
“You’re okay, Amanda, you’re all right now.”
They hugged and gasped, then Amanda stretched out her stiffness.
“How bad did it go with Mr. Horace?”
“Bad. I’ll tell you later.”
“Where’s Miss Daisy?”
“Mother turned me over to Jeff in Annapolis. She was very brave for me.”
“About time Daisy was brave.”
“Ladies,” Jefferson said, “we should get going.”
Amanda squeezed in between them, the girls covered with a lap robe.
“How long before Zachary comes?”
“Maybe a month.”
“You’re going to be ready enough. I’m glad we’ve got you here.”
The van chimed as they made on down the mucky road.