“The men were surprised, Elizabeth,” he said when he returned. “And very pleased.”
“Well, why should officers’ wives be the only ones playing Lady Bountiful,” she responded.
After the New Year celebrations, it became clear that volunteers were not sufficient for what Carson and Carleton had in mind and Michael came home on January third with such a black look on his face that Elizabeth was sure he was ill.
“What is it, Michael,” she asked before they even sat down to supper.
“In three days we are setting off to Canyon de Chelly.”
“ ‘We’? But I thought Carson had his own troops?”
“Not enough for what they are wanting to do, Elizabeth. The only good news is that Mr. Cooper goes with Carson and I have been assigned to Lieutenant McLaoghlin.”
Elizabeth sat very still. She did not think she could bear it if she lost Michael also. But a soldier’s wife never protested or cried. She just got busy making sure her husband’s uniform and equipment were clean and in good condition. So she only said, “I’d better make sure you have enough long underwear and stockings, hadn’t I?”
She said it so calmly, with neither worry nor agonizing in her voice, that all the hopes that Michael had had for their marriage seemed to die in that moment. They were friends and lovers, true—but she could let him go easily, it seemed.
That night they did not make love, but lay apart from each other after a cool good night. Elizabeth knew she could not have trusted herself not to cry out her love and fear for him and she couldn’t send him off with that burden. He had enough to carry. And Michael knew that seeing her passionate arousal so separate from her feelings for him would be too painful.
Elizabeth busied herself with her mending and laundering and Michael with his careful cleaning and repairing of his gear for the next two days. They had quiet meals and no reading, for as Elizabeth said, gesturing to the stockings in her lap, Mr. Dickens would not keep his feet warm in this weather. She would go to bed first and Michael would stay up awhile to give her time to get to sleep. Their good-night kisses were cool and both made sure not to have any lingering physical contact in bed or out of it.
The morning of the sixth was crisp and cold and Elizabeth awakened before reveille. The water in the pitcher had frozen overnight and she was almost glad to feel the sting of the icy water as she splashed her face. It made her pay attention to something besides the pain in her heart.
Breakfast was quick and silent and Michael was dressed in his wool greatcoat and ready to go before she had even finished clearing the table. She handed him a small package. “Here is some fruit bread I made with the last of the dried peaches, Michael. It is not a Twelfth Night cake, but it will have to do.”
“Thank you,
muirneach
.”
It was the first time in days he had used the endearment and she had to turn to the stove so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
She walked him to the door and wondered if he would kiss her good-bye. When he turned toward her she reached her hands up to his shoulders, but he only dropped a kiss on her head and she pretended to be retying his wool scarf so that he wouldn’t think she had been waiting for a more loving good-bye.
“Shut the door after me, Elizabeth. ‘Tis freezing out.” As she closed the door and began to slide the bolt she heard his boots clattering down the steps. Dear God, what if she never heard them coming back? What if the next steps she heard were his lieutenant’s calling to tell her he had been killed in action? She opened the door and stepped out. “Michael!”
He turned, and forgetting everything, she ran down the stairs and flung herself into his arms.
“Be careful, Michael. Please be careful,” she sobbed. It wasn’t all she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him she would die without him, that she loved him more than her own life, that she….
He was murmuring in her ear in Irish. She couldn’t understand a word. She didn’t need to. The words were full of comfort and care and that would have to be enough for her. For now. Please God, he would return and then, she vowed to herself she would tell him she loved him with all her heart and soul, whatever the cost.
* * * *
Michael had mustered and inspected his men automatically. His mind was on his duty, but his heart was with his wife. Thank God she had called after him. He had so wanted to hold her, but had been afraid to break through the barrier that had been between them these past few days. Maybe she was afraid of being left alone again, but surely some of it had been her care for him. It was hard to leave without knowing. And harder still to be going on such a duty.
As the troops moved through the gates, the band struck up a tune. It was an old Irish tune, but the men sang new words to it:
“Come dress your ranks, my gallant souls, a standing in a row,
Kit Carson he is waiting to march against the foe.
Although we march to moqui o’er lofty hills of snow
To meet and crush the savage foe,
bold Johnny Navajo, Johnny Navajo! O, Johnny Navajo.”
“ ‘Tis no ‘lofty hills of snow’ we’ve been climbing,” Michael muttered on their third day out as he heard Mahoney humming the tune next to him. “There’s nothing lofty about this atall.”
They were two of the fifteen men Captain Pheiffer had assigned to break trail, and as he wielded his pick, Michael was reminded of the crews of men and women he had seen as a boy, building the famine roads of Ireland.
It took them five days of making their way through deep snow to reach the entrance to Canyon de Chelly. The men who had been hacking out the trail were kept with the advance troops under McLaoghlin, and they were to march from east to west, meeting Colonel Carson at the west entrance.
A creek ran through the canyon and every few minutes a mule or horse would break through the ice and Michael would have to talk the animal to safety. A few times, one went down completely and he and Mahoney would run to unpack the supplies and push the animal up.
Almost immediately after they entered the canyon, the Navajo appeared on the rim above them, hurling sticks and cursing the troops in Navajo and Spanish. Several troopers fell back to kneel and fire up at them, but they only managed to wound a few trees.
They camped halfway, and huddled together for warmth.
“Whatever are we doing here, Sergeant Burke,” Mahoney asked as they drank their coffee and chewed on the last of Elizabeth’s fruit bread. “We can’t get up at them. They’re not even living down here in the winter. What’s the point of it all?”
“The point of it all, boyo, is that we’re showing them that they can’t stop us from invading the very heart of their country. That’s what this canyon is and even if we never kill or capture any of them, Colonel Carson will have made his point.”
“So I’m freezing my balls off to make a point!” protested Mahoney.
“Be thankful they’re just freezin’, lad, and that ye’re not dead and some warrior relieving you of them.”
“They are terrible savages,” said Mahoney, automatically rubbing at his groin as if to reassure himself he was still intact.
“All men are fearful savages, Mahoney. Did ye never hear of being hung, drawn, and quartered? The British have been cutting out a man’s guts and cooking them before his living eyes for centuries.”
Mahoney gagged.
“And I’ve seen cavalrymen carrying pouches made of a woman’s…em…private parts, so don’t talk to me of savage, boyo,” Michael said bitterly.
“Then why are you in the army. Sergeant?”
“ ‘Twas a good job, I told meself. Better than shoveling manure in a livery stable. And I wanted to see Indians.” He was silent for a moment, gazing into the coals of their small fire. “And so I did, lad, so I did.”
It was too cold to rest against the rocks, and so Michael and Mahoney dozed off back to back.
It took them two more days, but they finally reached the main camp at Chinle, where they were at last able to rest while awaiting Carson and his men. Two nights later, three Navajo came in, wanting to surrender, and before the troops started their return march to the fort, almost sixty starving Indians had arrived, saying they were now willing to go to the Bosque.
* * * *
Michael was lucky to have been in the advance detail. Seventy-five men under Captain Pheiffer had been left to burn any hogans they could find. And to destroy the peach trees. But his troop was to return to the fort with Carson. Had he been with Pheiffer’s men he was not sure what he would have done. Followed orders, he supposed, for this time following orders didn’t mean directly killing women and children. But he was glad he didn’t have to make a choice, for Carson’s policy was designed to destroy the hearts and souls of the Navajo.
Elizabeth had spent an agonizing week and when the returning troops were finally spotted, she joined the other wives who were lined up waiting to see if their husbands had come home safe and well. The men looked exhausted as they came through the gates. They weren’t marching proudly, but limping in on frostbitten feet. It seemed to Elizabeth it took forever for the unfamiliar faces of the volunteers to file past before she recognized the men of Michael’s troop.
Tired as they looked, none seemed to be injured and by the time she saw Michael’s face, her heart was beating at close to its normal rate. He looked as worn out as the others, but he was back, whole and alive, and she offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving before turning away. She could go home now and prepare supper and dream a little of what it would be like to have his arms around her again.
When he walked through the door she was appalled at how thin and drawn he looked. She helped him take off his coat and scarf and hung them up while he was pulling off his boots.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, kneeling down and pulling. The boots were stiff and hard and when she got the second one off, she was upset, to see that his socks were bloody from where his feet had been rubbed raw.
“Thank God, ‘twas only blisters I got and not frostbite,” he said reassuringly when he saw the look of horror on her face.
“Thank God, even if it was frostbite. You are safe and whole and that’s all I care about,” she said as he pulled her up and into his arms.
“ ‘Tis so good to be home,
muirneach
,” he whispered.
“Your poor face, Michael,” she cried as she reached up to stroke his cheek. “It is almost as red and raw as your feet.”
They both smelled something burning at the same time.
“The soup!” said Elizabeth, pulling herself away.
Michael wanted to say,
Damn the soup
, but the truth was he was as hungry for food as he was for her and so he let her go.
He ate three bowlfuls despite the slightly burned flavor.
“You look like you lost almost ten pounds, Michael.”
“I am sure we all did. ‘Twas hard going and I was one of the ones breaking through the snow and ice,” he told her, leaning back in his chair.
“Was there any fighting?”
“Only some firing at those who were foolish enough not to pull out of sight after dumping rocks on top of our heads.”
“What was the point, then, of such a march in the middle of winter?”
“The point was to show the ‘Johnny Navajo’ that even in the deep snow we can reach their strongholds,” said Michael with some bitterness. “Surrender or be burned out. ‘Tis what Pheiffer and his men are doing now, burning every hogan and destroying the peach orchards.”
“The peach trees Serena told us about?”
Michael nodded. “Almost one hundred Navajo surrendered to us while we were there. After Carson is finished with them, they will have nothing left to stay for.”
After dinner, Michael excused himself to have a “decent wash,” and Elizabeth cleared the table. She didn’t want to read tonight, she wanted her husband. But he was exhausted. Much too tired to make love to her, she was sure.
When she went into the bedroom, she found him asleep in the copper tub they kept in the corner of the room, leaning back against the rim, his mouth open and gently snoring.
Elizabeth smiled at the sound and shook his shoulder. “Michael, the water is getting cold. You must come to bed.”
He awoke instantly. “
Día
, I didn’t realize how tired I was,” he said sleepily as she handed him a towel.
“I’ve hung your nightshirt by the stove to warm it. Let me get it for you.”
When she came back, he was sitting on the end of the bed, half asleep again, and she slipped the flannel over his head as though he were a child.
“Lift your arms, Michael. Now get up so I can pull the covers back.”
As soon as she did, he crawled into bed and was out like a light.
She stood there, amused and disappointed. However was she to tell him she loved him when he fell asleep on her! She slipped on her own nightgown and crawled in next to him.
* * * *
They were standing there, sunken-eyed, just looking at him. Their clothes hung from their skeletal frames. They said nothing, just looked at him. There was no expression on their faces, no appeal in their eyes. They were the living dead and he thought he had left them long behind.
Elizabeth was not sure what woke her but she was immediately aware that Michael was no longer next to her. He could have gotten up to relieve himself, she thought. But she lit the kerosene lamp next to their bed and went into the parlor.
He was sitting in the chair, his head in his hands.
“Michael,” she called softly, “are you all right?”
When he didn’t lift his head, she put the lamp down on the table next to him and rested her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Come to bed, my dear, my dear. You’ll get a chill.”
He lifted his head and she reached down and took his hand. When he didn’t immediately respond, she said again, “Come back to bed with me, Michael. Please.”
He could hear the concern in her voice. He would go back with her, he thought. Pull the covers over him. Pull her to him. Fail asleep and forget his dream.
But when they were under the covers, she wouldn’t let him.