O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [5]
“We held fine,” Paddy said directly into Wally’s ear, and Wally nodded that he understood. “Delaney and Marconi came through. They’ve been evacuated.”
“Wha . . . happen—”
“We got the shit kicked out of us, that’s what. The living shit. We held till dark, then had to weave through Rebel patrols all the way back. We’ve moved a company of Delaware militia onto Jerome’s in case the Rebels wish to continue this brawl.”
Wally jerked away from him and began crying and slurring. “Our fucking battalion broke and ran,” he garbled. “Hey now, Boilerplate, a doctor gave me something to give you in case the pain gets too bad.”
“I don’t want no—”
“You’ll take what I give you. We got a long war to fight.”
Prichard’s
The grandfather clock tolled. Mr. Prichard whipped out his pocket watch. Twenty seconds passed before the cuckoo clock responded. The innkeeper made an adjustment.
Kunkle had one eye open. “What’s it?” he asked.
“Ah, you was having a peaceful doze. When my clientele comes in to have a few jars in the evening, the cuckoo clock has to sound within fifteen seconds of the big guy. Over fifteen seconds and I have to sport a round. Under fifteen, I collect two pennies from every man at the bar.”
“I’ll bet with you,” Kunkle said, and closed his eyes again.
• 2 •
BENJAMIN MALACHI BOONE
1888—Union Station—Washington (the Same Day)
Major Benjamin Boone knew by rote the instant the train slowed on the big curve before its entry into Washington. He snapped his eyes open as Monroe, the porter, who had made Boone’s friendship over dozens of trips to the capital, entered the compartment and filled the water basin.
Ben dunked his face and took a towel from Monroe, after which the porter assisted the major into his jacket. The empty bottom half of the right sleeve was folded up above the elbow and sewn shut. With the arm stump in place, Monroe buttoned the major’s jacket and brushed it off.
The engine sounded its ceremonial hissing, whistling, squealing, and farting to proudly herald an on-time arrival.
Monroe buckled the major’s belt and declared him fit for debarking. Ben Boone’s grade was impressive—only one rank below Lieutenant Colonel Commandant Tom Ballard—particularly considering Boone had one arm, a limp, and limited sight in his left eye.
The train braked, rudely pitching the two men together. Private Lamar Jones, the major’s Washington orderly, entered, snapped off a sparkling salute, and took the major’s carpetbag from Monroe. Boone slipped a silver dollar into the porter’s hand.
“You sure about this, sir?” Monroe asked.
“I got lucky in a poker game last night.”
“Thank you, Major, and I hope to catch you on the way back.”
The two Marines made their way from the terminal to a mash of carriages. Traffic into Washington these days was heavy, drumming up talk in Congress of building a grand terminal. When they reached the carriages, Jones whipped out an envelope and handed it to the major.
Dear Ben,
I will not require your presence at the meeting with the Secretary of the Navy tomorrow. Be at my residence for dinner on Wednesday at seven bells. Dress informal, men only.
—Lieutenant Colonel Commandant Thomas Ballard, USMC
Ben got into the carriage hissing beneath his breath. He had been aced out of an important—no, vital meeting. What chance would Tom Ballard have across the table from Horace Kerr, the shipbuilder, and Commodore Chester Harkleroad, chief of naval design? Less than none. Damned!
Boone grunted at the reality. He and Harkleroad in the same room could blow the lid off the building. Harkleroad and Kerr, goddamn sons of bitches. They’d already got the secretary in their pocket.
“Jones!”
“Sir!”
“Take me directly to Prichard’s Inn. I’ll be staying for a night or two.”
“Aye, aye, sir. When shall I fetch you?”
“Wednesday