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My Dear Loring:  We are at last under the glorious banner of the Confederate States of America.

―H . H. Sibley

"I don't care," said Matt.  "I already swore in with the Tom Green Rifles, so I can't back out, and that's that!"

"Just joined, and that's that!"  scoffed Poppa.  "Didn't think about your mother!  Didn't think about brother Dan, who's been wanting for weeks to join the army.  Dan's too well-behaved to go against his parents' wishes, but I suppose that means nothing to you―"

"Fine, I don't belong in this family!  That's what you're saying, isn't it?  Well, I'm leaving, so all that's fine!"

Matthew stormed toward the door while Momma wept with new anguish, but he came up short when he saw Jamie blocking the way.  Jamie stood stubbornly between his older brother and the door.  Dan came up beside Matt, speaking words of calm sense in his quiet, steady voice.

"You don't want to leave like this, Matt.  Please," said Dan, taking his brother's arm and bringing him back to the family room.  "Poppa, I don't mind if he goes.  I just thought I'd like to see a little of the world, but I can do that any time.  This may be Matt's only chance to shoot a Yankee."

Poppa sneered.  "A fine ambition for a young man.  Think it's all a game, don't you?"

Matt clenched his jaw.  "I'm going to Richmond," he said,  "to defend our state in our family's name."

Poppa's face softened, and suddenly Jamie saw the fear that had been hidden behind his anger.  Everyone sensed the change; Momma's whimpers subsided, and Gabe clung to Emmaline's hand. 

"Very well, I can't stop you," said Poppa, his shoulders sagging.  "I suppose you want me to provide you with a mount."

"He can have Buffalo," offered Dan.

"Buffalo's your horse," said Poppa gruffly.

"I can get another," said Dan.

"No."  Poppa turned to Matt and shrugged, which was his usual way of apologizing.  "Take Old Ben," he said.

Matt's eyes widened, and Jamie bit his lip in sudden envy.

"Poppa―" Matt began.

"Go on, before I change my mind."

Matt flushed red with gratitude.  He went over to kneel by the rocking chair and took Momma's hands in his.  "Don't cry," he said.  "I'll be in camp up at Austin for a while.  Promise I'll write every day."

Momma caught his face in her hands.  "My boy, my boy," was all she could say.  Matt reached up to hug her, kissed her cheek, then got up and kissed his sister.  He tweaked Gabe's ear and told him to behave, and turned to face his father.

"Thank you, Poppa," he said.

"Go on, then," said Poppa, offering his hand.  Matt shook it gravely, and Dan's, too, then turned toward the door.  He nodded as Jamie stepped aside. 

"Keep safe, Professor," he said, giving Jamie a slap on the back and a wink, and was out the door and down the steps, gone.

Everyone stood silent for a minute.

"Supper's getting cold," said Emmaline, breaking the spell.  "Let me help you, Momma."

"Oh, yes," said Momma in a worried voice, and got up out of her chair, coming back to life with the need to get things done.  They all crowded around the table as if to escape what had happened, but Matt's empty chair was a reminder.  Momma refused to let Daniel move it, and kept glancing over at it all through supper. 

No one had much appetite although everyone pronounced the meal first rate.  Finally they got up, each to seek solace in his or her own little evening task. 

Jamie, feeling ready to burst, fairly ran out to the corral where he caught Cocoa and Buffalo and brought them in for the night.  He gave them each a share of oats, brushed Cocoa 'til she gleamed in the lamplight, then went back out for the other two ranch horses, Smokey and Pip.  He met Dan leading them in, and took charge of Smokey, the grey. 

By silent consent the brothers tended the horses, then went back to the tack room together and sat on sacks of grain.  Dan took down a bridle that didn't need polishing and set to work on it.  Jamie watched him until he could stand it no longer.

"How could you do that?" he said.  "How could you let him go, when all you ever wanted was to be a soldier?"

"Easier to let him go than make him stay," said Dan.

"But―"

"Think a minute, James.  Now Poppa has to admit it's right for us to fight."

Jamie stared at his brother in wonder.  Daniel wasn't a storm of emotions like Matt, but when he moved it was with inexorable determination.  He would get his way, Jamie realized.  He would go to war.  It was simply a matter of time, and Dan didn't think time of much account.

"Matty's Poppa's favorite," Dan remarked.  "Poppa never could tell him no.  Now he can't rightly say no to you and me."

"Somebody's got to mind the ranch," said Jamie.

"Gabe's been lending a hand for a while.  I'll stay 'til he's learned the ropes.  Emma can help some, too.  She'd do it."  Dan glanced up at him.  "How about you, Professor?  Gonna sign up?  I know you want to."

Jamie tried to swallow the lump in his throat.  "Doubt I'd make much of a soldier," he said.

"There's all kinds of soldiers."

Jamie thought of how his mother would react to losing a second and then a third son to the army.  Not likely she'd stand for it.  "Wonder where Matty got the uniform," he said glumly.

"I made it," said Emmaline from the doorway.  Jamie and Dan both looked up. 

"Oh, you did?" said Daniel.

"Yes.  Mind if I join you?" she said, sitting next to Jamie and leaning forward so as not to bump her head on the saddle tree above. 

Emma was tall for a girl, taller than Jamie and almost as tall as Dan.  She had Matt's coloring―darker brown than the rest of the family―and a little of his wildness, too. 

"I worked on it some every night, after bedtime," she said.

"You knew Matt was joining the Rifles?" said Jamie.

Emma nodded.  "He could never pass up an adventure.  And you, Dan, I know you want to join the army because you believe in the cause.  What I can't figure out is why Jamie wants to go."  She turned her gaze on Jamie, who looked down at the straw-scattered floor. 

"Guess I just want to show I'm good for more than counting sacks of beans," he said.  It sounded inadequate to his own ears, but Emmaline nodded.

"You could go, you know," she said.  "Poppa's used to you being gone all week.  Won't make that much difference."

"If Dan can't go I won't," said Jamie.  His throat tightened on the words, but he meant them.  Dan had given up a lot through the years for the sake of his younger siblings.

"Funny how you want what you can't have sometimes," Emma said.  "You both want to go away, and I want to stay."

Daniel hung the bridle back on its hook.  "Momma still wants you to go to Aunt May?"

Emmaline nodded.  "She says I won't ever be a lady unless I get some polish.  Like I was a candlestick or something.  But I don't want to go to Houston!"  Her dark eyes flashed as she looked up.

"Maybe it won't be so bad if you just go for a little while," Jamie suggested.

"Momma'd find ways to keep me there.  You know how she is.  She just doesn't understand how much I love this ranch."

"Maybe she thinks you'll find a husband in Houston, like Susan did," said Daniel.

"Maybe I don't want a husband," retorted Emmaline.

Jamie's eyebrows rose.  "You want to be an old maid?"

"I want to stay here.  Either that, or marry a soldier and follow the drum."

"You too?" laughed Jamie.  "Why don't we just enlist the whole family?"

Emmaline laughed.  "Gabe can be the drummer boy," she said.

"And Poppa can be the General," said Jamie.

"Nope.  Momma," said Dan.  "She always gets the final say."

Emmaline wailed, and they all laughed until their sides ached, then hugged each other.

"Things'll work out," said Dan, standing up.  "Don't worry, Professor.  You'll get your chance."

Jamie smiled as he followed Dan and Emma back to the house.  He didn't know how long the war would last, but he did know that he would rather become a skeleton behind the counter of Mr. Webber's store than prevent Daniel from getting his greys.

"Come on, Mac," said Owens in his soft, lazy voice.  "They'll make you a captain."

Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre watched the men loading Captain Sibley's wagons with supplies from the depot:  rations, ordnance, crates of new rifles marked REPACKED FORT UNION DEPOT, 1861, all of it destined for Texas and the Confederacy.

"Doesn't look like there'd be any room for me," he said with a halfhearted laugh.

Owens shrugged, and stroked the ends of his sandy mustache with a gloved hand.  "El Paso's a long road away," he said.  "We've got to have supplies for the journey."

"Ordnance?" said McIntyre wryly.

"Apaches, Mac," said Owens.  "We must be able to defend ourselves."

"You've already got more than we took on last winter's campaign."

"You're trying to change the subject," said Wheeler, leaning his shoulders against a wagon crammed with supplies.  "Are you coming with us, or aren't you?"

"My father'd disown me if I resigned," said McIntyre.  "He's a big one for oaths and all."

"But you swore that oath in Tennessee," said Owens.  "Doesn't that mean you should defend Tennessee?  Isn't that what your daddy would want?" 

McIntyre sighed.  Owens was good at making things sound reasonable.  He'd led McIntyre into a number of scrapes that way, but this was more serious.  This was a war, which was nothing McIntyre wanted any part of, but it looked like the only choice he would have was which side to fight on.

"Here comes the stage," remarked Wheeler.  "Last chance for a letter from the U.S. Mail." 

McIntyre looked at the cloud of dust up the valley, and fell in with the others as they ambled to meet the stage.  Wheeler had declared himself; he was going south with Sibley and Owens and the rest.  Rumor had it only Major Canby's influence had kept his old friend Sibley from marching off the enlisted men as well.  McIntyre could count on one hand the officers who were staying:  Captain Shoemaker, Lieutenant DuBois, Lieutenant McRae.  Himself? 

He wanted to do the honorable thing, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.  Duty, honor, country.  Tennessee had seceded.  He had sworn an oath to serve the United States.  Which had the stronger claim?

"Alec!" said Owens, and McIntyre glanced up to see McRae coming out of the Headquarters building. 

The rifleman looked grim as he stepped off the wooden porch and around yet another wagon, this one being loaded with Sibley's office accoutrements.  McRae nodded as they met, his bad eye squinting a bit against the midday sun.

"Major Canby has called a staff meeting," he said.  "All officers are to report to the Commander's office in half an hour."

Owens's eyebrows went up.  "Major Canby is not the Commander of this post," he said.

"He is for now," said McRae.  "Sibley's turned in his resignation."

Something cold moved in McIntyre's stomach.  He glanced at Owens, who was smiling, eyes hooded, at McRae. 

"How about you, Alec?" Owens said softly.  "You coming with us?  You're a Carolina boy."

McRae gave him a stony look.  "My duty is to the Union," he said. 

His dark eyes fell on McIntyre, who fidgeted.  Alec had no doubts, it seemed, though he knew McRae's family had urged him to resign.  Why was it so easy for Alec, and so hard for himself? 

He didn't want to lose McRae's respect.  The gruff rifleman had been a friend to him―to Owens as well―when they'd first arrived in the Territory a year before.  He'd initiated them into the delights of the fandango and coached them on surviving the harsh climate and the natives' tempers, and had even managed to teach McIntyre a little Spanish.

"Half an hour," said McRae after a moment, and turned away before McIntyre could say anything.  McIntyre watched him stride off toward the depot.

"Half an hour," echoed Owens.  "Think you can make up your mind by then?"

McIntyre frowned.  Owens had been in his class at West Point, and they'd campaigned together over the winter.  McRae was older; serious-minded but often surprisingly witty and never averse to adventure.  How could he possibly choose?

A chorus of exclamation distracted him.  Looking up, he saw a pretty girl in black stepping down from the stage coach with a box of some sort in her arms. 

Wisps of pale hair blew about her eyebrows, which were darker and strongly drawn.  McIntyre was struck by the sadness in her eyes in the instant before she drew her veil over her face.

"Now that's the prettiest thing I've seen in months," said Wheeler, grinning.

"Boys," said Owens softly as a large, round fellow came out of the coach, "I do believe we are about to have a treat."

"Lieutenant Owens!" cried the round man. 

He caught the girl's arm and propelled her toward them.  McIntyre found himself standing straighter.  He couldn't remember the last time a white lady had come to the post.

"Lieutenant Owens," the man repeated, out of breath as he came up to them.  "This is my niece, Miss Howland."

Owens bowed with a flourish.  "Very pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said.

The young lady dipped a curtsey, and McIntyre saw it was a clock, not a box, that she was holding.  A wooden clock, shaped like a pointed arch.

"Allow me to introduce my friends," said Owens.  "This is Lieutenant Joseph Wheeler, Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre.  Miss Howland, and Mr. Wallace Howland."

"Yes, yes," said Howland.  "Now, Owens, I thought the three of us could―"

"I'm afraid my plans have changed, sir," said Owens.  "I'll be leaving shortly."

"Leaving?"  Howland blinked several times, and peered at Sibley's wagon.  "When will you be back?"

"That depends on Mr. Lincoln, I suppose," said Owens in a lazy drawl.  He turned to the young lady.  "Sorry to disappoint you ma'am."

"I'm not at all disappointed," she replied. 

Her voice was clear and musical, and held a note of challenge.  New England, McIntyre thought.  It reminded him of his days at the Military Academy. 

He caught himself squinting to see through her veil, and looked at Owens.  The Georgian was grinning and seemed about to say something more, but a crash from nearby prevented him.

All eyes turned toward the back of the wagon, where Sibley's Negro house boy stood frozen over a shattered crate of champagne.  Green glass fragments frothed with the wine that was fast soaking into the dust.  The wagon's driver swore, grabbed his whip from the box and started toward the hapless slave.

"No!"

The force of the cry startled McIntyre; a rustle of black skirts followed.  The driver came to a surprised halt, staring at Miss Howland, who had darted between him and the boy.

"He didn't mean to drop it," she said in a passionate voice, wholly different from her cool tone a moment before.  She held out one black-gloved hand before her to stave off the whip.

"Miss Howland," said Owens, stepping toward her, "Come away from that."  His smile had vanished, and his tone was that of an officer to his men.

"I will not allow this man to be brutalized," said Miss Howland, standing her ground.

Wheeler chuckled.  McIntyre shot a glare at him to shut him up.  For himself, he thought this righteous young lady was magnificent.

"It is not your concern, ma'am," said Owens, "and you might be hurt.  That glass could cut right through your boot."

"I will step away if you will promise this man won't be beaten," said Miss Howland, gesturing to black Jimmy, who was as astonished as the rest of them.

"You know how much that champagne cost?" shouted the driver.

"Beating him will not bring it back!" she answered.

"Well, Bill," said an amused voice from the steps, "you've got to admit that's true."

McIntyre looked up at Captain Sibley, who stood on the porch admiring Miss Howland with a twinkling eye.  He still wore the Federal uniform that set off his auburn side whiskers so well.  His mustache drooped around the corners of a smile as he stepped down to the ground. 

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said, approaching Miss Howland.

"Miss Howland," said Owens, "allow me to introduce you to Captain Henry Sibley."  He caught McIntyre's eye and gave a little shrug of resignation.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Howland," said Sibley with a bow even grander than Owens's.  "Are you related to Lieutenant George Howland?  Mounted Rifles?"

"I don't believe so," said Miss Howland.  "I was not aware of such a person."

"Well in any case, welcome to New Mexico," said Sibley.  "How may I be of service to you?"

"You may tell that man to put away his whip," said Miss Howland, her voice resuming its prior dignity.

Sibley's eyes flicked to the driver, and his smile widened.  "You heard the lady, Bill.  Go on about your business.  You, too, Jim." 

The slave, as if released from a magic spell, hurried into the building while the driver returned to the wagon box, muttering to himself.  Sibley stooped and extracted an unbroken bottle from the mess at his feet, wiped it off with his pocket handkerchief, and offered it to Miss Howland.

"I hope you will accept this in place of the hospitality I would like to offer you," he said.  "Unfortunately, I'm on the point of departure."

"Thank you, sir," said Miss Howland, a trace of frost in her voice, "but I would not further depreciate your stores."

"Very generous of you, Captain," said the uncle, stepping in to take the bottle.  "Wallace Howland," he added, shaking Sibley's hand.  "Dined with you in Las Vegas last fall."

"I remember," said Sibley.  "You bought the faro bank, and held it 'til three in the morning."

Howland laughed, a deep booming sound.

"This your daughter?" asked Sibley.

"My niece," said Howland.  "My dear brother's only child, rest his soul."

Sibley's brows rose.  "My heartfelt condolences, ma'am."

"Thank you," said Miss Howland, so softly McIntyre barely heard it.  Footsteps sounded on the porch, and he glanced up to see Major Canby had come out of the Commander's office.

"She has come to live with me in Santa Fé," said Howland.  "Perhaps we will see you there, Captain Sibley?"

"It's Major Sibley, now," said Canby, joining them, his clean-shaven face a stark contrast to Sibley's flamboyance.

"Until Washington gets my letter," said Sibley.  "I appreciate the gesture, though.  It'll get me a colonelcy in the Confederate army."

"Much good may it do you," said Canby quietly.

Sibley laughed.  "You sound jealous, Richard.  You can still join us, you know.  The star of the South is rising," he said, his voice suddenly vibrant.

All fell still.  McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, wondering what thoughts her veil concealed.  Looking back at Canby, he saw the Major's eyes narrow as he silently shook his head.

"Well, I'm sorry, then," said Sibley, offering Canby his hand.  "I shall miss the good times we had."

"So will I," said Canby quietly.

"Give Louisa my best regards," said Sibley.

Canby nodded, and Sibley slapped his shoulder before turning back to the Howlands.  "Pleasure meeting you ma'am.  Mr. Howland."  Touching his hat, he stepped past them to the front of the wagon.  "Finish up, Bill, and let's get moving."

Sibley strode toward the depot with Wheeler on his heels.  Owens started after them, then paused. 

"Coming, Mac?"

McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, and at Canby behind her.  "No," he said on impulse.

Owens stared hard at him for a second, then turned and walked away without a word.  McIntyre blinked, frowning at the sun that had suddenly started to hurt his eyes.  He turned his back on it, and found Major Canby's cool gaze on him.

"Miss Howland, this is Major Canby," he said to cover his discomfort.  "And Mr. Howland."

"How do you do?" said Canby.  "I must beg you to excuse me, I have great deal to do.  I'll see you at the staff meeting, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir," said McIntyre. 

He'd decided, it seemed.  Didn't make him feel any better.

Canby gave a short, approving nod and returned to Headquarters, passing Jimmy in the door.  The slave carried a second crate of wine, which he carefully placed in the wagon under the sharp eyes of the driver.  Shouts from the teamsters by the depot heralded the departure of the wagon train.  McIntyre glanced back at the long line of wagons, trying to spot Owens. 

"Mr. McIntyre?"

The sound of his name in that New England voice sent a chill down his back.  Turning, he saw Miss Howland beside him, close enough he could almost see her eyes through the veil.  He was suddenly glad he had chosen to stay.

"Is that man indeed a slave?" she asked.

"Yes," said McIntyre, watching Jimmy climb into the wagon among all the furniture.  "He belongs to Captain Sibley."

"I had thought the Territories were free of slavery," said Miss Howland.

"It's kind of up in the air," said McIntyre.

The driver's whip cracked, making Miss Howland jump, and the wagon rumbled forward to join the train.

"Come, my dear," said her uncle.  "The post sutler will sell us some refreshment."

McIntyre watched Miss Howland walk away with her uncle.  The wagon train was moving, blocking their path to the sutler's, and they stopped to watch it pass.

"So you stayed," said McRae's voice behind him. 

McIntyre turned to see McRae coming up to join him, and gave him the best smile he could muster.  Together they watched the train's departure. 

McIntyre spotted Owens riding in the foremost wagon with Wheeler and a handful of others.  Sibley was among them, he saw, and as their wagon passed the Headquarters building Sibley stood up and turned to them.

"Boys," he called, "if you only knew it, I am the worst enemy you have!"

McIntyre glanced at McRae, whose mouth curled in a grimacing smile.  "You're your own worst enemy, Henry," McRae said softly. 

He turned and headed up the steps to the Commander's office.  McIntyre stayed to watch the train a little longer, though the dust raised by the wagon wheels was beginning to block it from view.  Still, he thought he saw a gloved hand raised in farewell.  He waved back, then hurried into Headquarters, hoping Canby would give them too much to do so he wouldn't have time to think. 

Glorieta Pass copyright © 1999, 2009 by P. G. Nagle.  All rights reserved.

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