THE BETTER PART OF VALOR. Morgan Mackinnon
Did you know Robert made the first known recording of a human voice? He did it on a wax cylinder in an Edison recording device.”
Cresta sipped, thought about what he’d just said, and then uttered, “Wait a minute…”
“I understand, my dear. Your young soldier is of concern?”
Cresta’s thoughts were getting muddled. Was she really drinking ordinary scotch or something a little more mystical than that? She struggled to reply.
“Of course not. We have just had a little misunderstanding, that is all.”
The Master stroked his moustache. “Yes. You have seen him with the young lady.”
“How could you know that?”
“I see many things. The young lady is the daughter of the ship’s captain, and your Lieutenant Colonel was asked to escort her to supper. He would rather have been with you.”
Cresta was flustered. “What? Are you on his payroll? And he is not my Lieutenant Colonel.”
“As I said, I see many things. Sadness, frustration, decisions, desires. Even blood and death.”
“That sounds ominous, Mister Master of Illusion. Do you have a real name?”
“I do but it would be meaningless to you at this time. Perhaps someday I will tell you for I am sure we will meet again. Until then, let me show you a little magic trick I learned long ago.”
He reached up behind her ear and produced a coin.
“There you are, my dear. Don’t be too hard on your soldier as you will need each other before the end.”
Cresta looked down at the coin and then looked again. She began to involuntarily sweat more. What was going on? The coin had the image of George Washington on it and said In God We Trust. It was dated 2002. When Cresta raised her head again, the flask and glasses were gone along with the Master of Illusion.
He had been playing mind games with her, but how could he possess a coin from the future? The easy answer was he couldn’t. Yet there it lay on her palm. For now, she would mention this to no one and see if she could figure out the identity of the mysterious man who had given it to her. Eventually, she rose from her table in the reading and writing room and made her way to her cabin.
Shortly after Cresta had hidden the coin away in her trunk and locked it, she heard a tap at her door. Opening it a tiny crack, she saw Myles Keogh standing there. You will need each other before the end… She couldn’t speak at first, and Myles asked, “May I come in? I wish to speak to you.”
Regaining her wits, she peered out into the hallway. “Do you think that safe? Mister O’drette may be skulking behind a life jacket.”
She let him in and observed to herself he looked pale and drawn. His impeccable style was apparent as he was dressed in a civilian afternoon jacket and vest of light green wool, black trousers, white tab collar shirt, and black cravat. It was his face. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days.
“Please sit down. Would you care for a drink?”
Not waiting for an answer, Cresta turned and poured a tiny shot of bourbon from the cut-glass carafe on her bar.
“Here. You look tired, Myles.”
“I am not sleeping.” He took the goblet she offered and drained it.
“No. No more at present. I fear I have been drinking too much lately. I sometimes drink when I am depressed and sad.”
Here was the opening she had been waiting for, and she sat down opposite him with her notebook.
“Can you tell me about it?”
He told her again of how he’d left his home in Leighlinbridge, Carlow County, Ireland, to go fight for Pope Pius IX in Italy. He was assigned as a Captain, but the Papal army lost the fight at Ancona. He had been awarded the Medaille Pro Petri Sede, which was awarded to all Irish volunteers who had fought in the war. He’d received the Chevalier Ordine di St. Gregorio Magno from the Pope for bravery.
Once back in Rome, he served as a guard at the Vatican for a short time and then offered his sword to the Union when the United States was desperate to find experienced officers for the Civil War. Serving on the staffs of four Union Generals, Shields, Buford, McClellan and Stoneman, he’d enjoyed the thrill of leading cavalry charges, of infiltrating Confederate lines to gather information, the responsibilities of a staff officer. The brevets had come and at the end of the war, he’d earned a brevet of Lieutenant Colonel. Still, a reluctance to retire from warfare led him to enlist in the regular US Army and, mostly through his own initiative, collected recommendations from any senior officer he knew and sent them to President Johnson and the War Department for consideration. Out of twelve captaincies available, he’d secured the fourth top spot out of a field of five hundred contenders.
Keogh stopped for thought. Cresta didn’t laugh at the picture they presented but she could see the irony. She was sitting with her notebook, jotting down notes, and by this time, Keogh absently leaned back against the arm of her sofa. Sort of like a shrink and the guy on the couch.
She urged him on. “It sounds as though you have done very well under the circumstances. You could not elicit the help of a state representative since you were not a citizen of the US.”
“No.” He looked at her. “I became a US citizen in eighteen sixty-nine. That is when I got my American passport.”
“Go on.”
He explained as a boy, his favorite book was Charles O’Malley: The Irish Dragoon. It was the story of an orphaned boy who enlisted in the Irish Dragoons and found the thrill of the sabre flash, the glory of the cavalry charge, the burst of adrenaline as soldiers fought on the field of battle.
“I see. What were they fighting for?”
“For valor. For country. Once I took the oath to offer my sword to the Union, then I was as bound by that oath as any native-born man in the corps.”
“It sounds as though you were in your element. Why the depression and sadness?”
Keogh sat up. “The book about Charles O’Malley made it a point to stress that a man who has sold his soul to the military ought not think about having a normal life with marriage, a wife or children. That sort of thing is distracting to the soldier and unfair for the wife and children. Having pledged my life to the cavalry, I forwent any possibility of happiness. I mean…”
She knew he couldn’t explain what he was trying to say, so she led him a bit.
“You were making a distinction between happiness in the military sense of adherence to duty versus satisfaction found in the fulfilment of a home life.”
He nodded. “Yes. A soldier makes a decision as to what is important, and that decision is his life. Many of the senior officers do marry, and some bring their wives to established forts sitting in untamed wastelands such as the Dakota Territory where I am presently assigned. I told you my base is at Fort Lincoln. Even my commanding officer has his wife present. But it is a rough life, even with such comforts as we have, and a wife constantly has the fear when her man rides off on campaign, she will never see him again. Cresta, I miss…something. Someone. Perhaps as I enter middle age, I am beginning to feel a part of my soul is missing. I am not old yet, but I am now thirty-five and my chances of advancement are fading with every year.”
He rose to his feet to pace, and despite this being a first-class apartment, there wasn’t much room. She decided to offer him another goblet of bourbon, and this time, he took it.
“Hair of the dog. I do not need to tell you I have been drinking the past couple of days. I know you can tell just by looking at me. You have this unnatural ability to look into my mind. Unnatural and perhaps refreshing. I know I drink overmuch because it takes my pain and loneliness away for a time. I believe I am digressing. Cresta, I enjoy the ladies. The ladies enjoy me. I once fell in love and vowed to make her my wife.” His voice