Tin cups lowered.
“If we had been on scout, or if this had been courier or supply duty or anything else, I would have taken you out of here last night. I mean that. Most of us would have made it. But you five have had more than your stint of luck lately. Congressional Medals of Honor are usually posthumous; that is, awarded to the dead. My duty was to get you to base without losing even one of you to the law of averages.’’
He looked into the fire. He could not tell if they were silent because they followed and accepted or because it was habit to hear an officer out. He went on slowly. He said there had never been another detail like this. Normally a campaign might produce one or two highest awards, yet from
Ojos
and
Guerrero
there were five of them, all to be bestowed upon living men, and this presented an opportunity no one had ever had before. Referring to the belief, universally held, that the strongest instinct is that of self-preservation, he said this was surely invalid since a few men by their deeds proved there is something stronger, something called courage or heroism or sacrifice or bravery, but which by any name has always remained a mystery to men, and that this is what he meant by an opportunity. Here he stopped, back-tracking. Someone sipped coffee noisily.
“What I am trying to say is that men have always wondered about courage, what it is and where it comes from and how it works. If we are ever going to find out, the best chance may be from men like you. It may even be that if there is an explanation for everything, a reason why things happen as they do, you five have been brought together for this very purpose. That is why I had to see you were spared today. That is why I have asked each of you why you conducted yourselves before the enemy as you did. None of you has been able to tell me. But I hope you will think about it between here and base and see if you cannot remember what you felt at the time, or if there is anything in your past life that might account for your behavior. What you say may be very important and valuable to all men. And I would consider a personal favor any help you can give.”
At this Trubee’s eyes widened, caught the firelight, glowed.
What Thorn had said, now that there were no horse sounds to listen for, no rip and ricochet of bullets through the branches overhead, seemed to hover in the cold air. And with his last words he felt the old constriction of his throat. He had told them enough. It was time to go to his own fire.
He rose, only to find himself speaking again, swiftly, unable to stop, giving all of himself.
“Night before last I said that at
Ojos
you had lived beyond the limits of human conduct. It was the truth. I am humble in your presence. For a few minutes you proved that there is something above and beyond the law of nature, that the human race is human after all. In the space of those few minutes you became great men. And for the rest of your lives you will have to live up to what you have shown you can be. You have a new responsibility now and a new privilege. Whatever it is you discovered in yourselves at
Ojos
and
Guerrero
you must guard and build on. You must be better soldiers than you were before, do you understand, you must be nobler men!” So hoarse with passion was his voice that it was almost unintelligible. “You do not realize what will happen to you. You have heard about the war in Europe. As surely as I stand here our country will be in it soon, and we will need heroes to look up to and to show us how to behave in battle. You will be our example. After the Medal of Honor is put around your necks you will probably be sent home on furloughs, your pictures will be in the papers and people will point you out on the streets. It may even be that you will be given discharges from the service if you want them. But no matter what you do, you can never escape your new selves, you can never shirk your new duty. You will marry and raise sons in your image, you will grow in the soil of our country and we will reap your harvest! Men like you must be the bread of the earth, the rock of the world!”
From a great distance he saw the stares, the uncomprehending faces, heard his own echo loud in the dark canyon, and swept away by his vision he strode unsteadily from the soldiers.
He went to his own fire. It was almost out. He did not know what he had said. He built up the fire, then sat down, removed his glasses, cut off another length of the loosened tape of the left bow, and putting them on again without cleaning them got out pencil and notebook and wrote rapidly.
Milo Sharp Trubee, 111644, Private, C Troop, 12th Cavalry, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty, in action involving actual conflict. On i6 April, 1916, at 05.41 hours, during an attack by Provisional Squadron, 12th Cavalry, upon Villista forces holding a ranch called
Ojos Azules
near
Cusihuiriachic, Mexico
, A and C. Troops, on the left flank of the line of charge, ran head-on into a three-strand barbed wire fence strung across their front. Before wire-cutters could be used, heavy enemy rifle-fire was directed upon the massed target from a log corral among the outbuildings of the ranch to the west. One of A Troop was killed instantly. Further casualties might have been incurred had not Private Trubee of his own volition spurred from his troop and ridden perpendicular to the fence for more than a hundred yards, calling the enemy fire upon himself. Pulling up near the corral without cover, he emptied his pistol at it, killing one Mexican, then taking his rifle dismounted, climbed through the fence and ran towards the corral. Reaching it he fired over the logs, killing two more of the enemy and disabling three horses, so that the remainder of the Mexicans fled on foot.
He was watched. Trubee stood, his lips working.
“Beggin’ the Majer’s pardon. . . ”
Sight of him set off the alarm in Thorn. Lieutenant Fowler had told him he thought Trubee knew about Columbus. If he did, the officer sensed deadeningly what was coming.
“Be at ease,” he said. “Just a minute.”
And only then did he recall he had decided to wait until base before writing Chawk’s and Trubee’s citations. He hesitated, then bent over his notebook.
By his daring and sacrifice, Private Trubee, a veteran of twenty-two years service in the cavalry, enabled Troops A and C to cut and pass through the wire fence without further loss, the former to engage an enemy stone-fence position on a hill to the south, his own troop to cut to pieces and prevent the escape of the bulk of those Villistas attempting to reach their horse herd. Signed and sworn to, 19 April, 1916, Thomas Thorn, Major, Cavalry, Awards Officer, Punitive Expedition, U.S. Army.
He put the inevitable off as long as possible, rereading the citation and signing it before folding it away.
“Well, Trubee?”
“That was a right movin’ speech, Majer, sir. Made me recollect a lad in my troop was stationed up at tha San Carlos Agency in the old days. He knowed a piece from tha ainshunt Greek, called tha Phoe-bee or such like, and would speel it off till there weren’t a dry eye. ‘Twas all about tha soul an’ tha spent, as I recollect.”
“What can I do for you?” Thorn asked.
Trubee swivelled his head as though to make sure no one was within earshot. When he turned to the officer his expression was malevolent.
“No grudge about you layin’ hans’ on me, Majer. I don’t carry a mean bone in my body. But a common, ordin’ry soljer has to look out for himself or be took advantage of. I know suthin’ you may not figger I know, an’ it puts me a leg up on you.”
“Columbus,” Thorn said.
“That’s tha short of it.” Trubee scratched at an eruption on his cheek. ‘I don’t plan to make a stink less I have to. But they’s two things I’m after, an’ I don’t see as you can turn me down.”
Thorn got to his feet and moved to the other side of the fire.
“One.” Trubee raised a finger. “I don’t want no damn dekkeration. I don’t hanker to be made lead mule. I get dekkerated an’ all tha officers’ll have it in for me.”
Thorn scarcely had time to wonder at the similarity between Trubee’s objection and Lieutenant Fowler’s before the private held up two fingers.
“Two. I ain’t had no tail since we come down here. Tha lootenant was tellin’ about that woman. She’s no better than a up-town fancy whoor. She’d have give good US soljers to them Mixicans, wouldn’t she? You turn ‘er over to me, Majer, an’ after I get astraddle she won’t be so damn fancy. You let me put the bit to ‘er. . . ”
“That’s enough!” Thorn snapped. “I refuse to bargain.” He stood erect, knowing full well rank would not serve him now. “I told you not fifteen minutes ago you had to be a better soldier and a better man. For the sake of what you did at
Ojos
I will overlook . . .”
Trubee scrambled up, snatched off his hat and shook it at the officer. “Don’t you rare up at me, Majer!” he hissed. “You’re lucky I kep’ my mouth shut this far or big Chawk would’ve broke you in two yestiddy! Oh, I been bidin’ for this! Twenty-two years officers been dealin’ to me but for one time I got tha cards! You give me tha woman insteada the medal, give me ‘er from here to base or I’ll raise such billy-hell about Columbus you’ll be tha one in stockade, not ol’ Milo!”
“You cheap, blackmailing. . . ”
“Major Thorn.”
Both men started. Out of the shadows Hetherington swayed towards them, might have fallen had the officer not supported him.
“Major, I’m so sick. . . ”
Thorn laid his hand on the youth’s forehead. The skin was dry and very hot. Quickly he unrolled his blankets and helped Hetherington into them, taking off his shoes and leggings. The private said he had been poorly all day, but the run after the woman had brought the weakness on fast.
“You should have told me, son.”
“Didn’t think I ought, with a long hike ahead,” the private groaned. “But sir, I never been so bad off before.”
Thorn’s first thought was that it must be malaria. In his saddlebags he had quinine, which he could administer until the fever ran its course, but a bout of malaria, he recalled from Cuba, might last four or five days, and they could not wait even one. Unaware that Trubee had gone, he stood over the youth and bowed his head in despair. Finally, forcing himself to act, he got the quinine-box and holding Hetherington up pushed a tablet between his chattering teeth, and when he could not swallow it let him have a little water from a canteen. The youth shook with chill. Gently Thorn moved him closer to the fire and pushed into the pines. Trubee was nowhere to be seen. The others, bedding down, inquired about Hetherington, and he told them he would have to wait until morning before saying how serious it was. He said there would be no guard posted, they would all need as much rest as possible. Then, on an idea, he searched for the Geary woman in the dark, finding her where they had dropped her. She was not asleep. He ordered her to come with him, and after a moment she wrapped a blanket about her shoulders and followed.
Thorn led her to Hetherington. The youth’s eyes were closed and he breathed through his mouth. He lay still, his cheeks flushed, and the officer, fearing him too close to the fire now, lifted him farther from it. He did not move.
“He has come down with something,” Thorn said quietly. “Fever and chills. I am no surgeon, and all I could think of was malaria. I gave him quinine a few minutes back. You have been down here a long time. Is it malaria?”
“No. We don’t have that north of Jalisco. I expect it’s typhoid.”
“That can’t be. The entire Expedition was immunized before crossing the border.”
“We have typhoids your shots won’t touch. I had it once. The
gente
are naturally immune.”
“What can we do for him?”
“The fever will go up and down for a day or two. If it finally breaks, he’ll pull through. Otherwise he’ll die.”
She spoke dully, showing neither interest nor pity. She seemed empty, as though the impact of her failure to free herself and her fit of hysteria had taken the arrogance, the fight, out of her. The tears she had at last allowed herself had puffed the flesh about her eyes so that though she was less handsome, she was less hard.
“Is there any way it can be kept down?”
“A lot of cold water. Or rubbing alcohol.”
“Will the quinine help?”
“A little. Not enough.”
Thorn looked down at the private. “Do you know of any water near here?”
‘‘No.’’
“I will use all we have to save him,” Thorn said.
She started away.
“Rubbing alcohol!” Thorn’s head snapped up. “You have a bottle of tequila in your saddlebag. Bring it.”
‘‘That’s mine.’’
He clenched his fists. “Bring it.”
She shrugged, dropped her blanket and walked out of the light. Thorn waited. The youth moaned softly. They could not stay, they had to move out in the morning, and if Hetherington were not better, if he could not walk, if taking him or leaving him became an issue, if Trubee talked. . . His shoulders slumped with fatigue. Minutes passed. The Geary woman did not return. When she did there was a trace of the old swagger in her stride, and as she held out the bottle he saw why. More than a third of the tequila was gone.
“You drank it.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “One for the road.”
He tore the bottle from her, wanting to smash it in her face. “How you could—what has he done to you?” Fury choked him. “You give him to his enemies to kill, mark his face like some animal, you steal what may save him—a boy, good and brave and selfless.”
“Sure, bread of the earth, so on and so on,” she said. The liquor had revived her. “There must be something wrong with you mentally. If you’re so blind you can’t see them for what they are.”
“Do you know them?” he burst out. “You told me yourself—a stranger might be God. . . ”
She looked at him appraisingly. “Just what the hell is wrong with you?”
He heard Hetherington. From the boy’s open mouth sounds became words, took on pattern.
“And Ar-phaxed lived after he begat Salah four four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters. And Salah lived thirty years, and begat Eber: and Salah lived after he begat Eber.”