Fire jolted in my chest and I gasped as air that had been denied me rushed in. A lady in gray coveralls with wings on her left pocket smiled down at me as she flashed a penlight in my eyes. She looked calm and friendly, big blue eyes that had laugh lines at the corners and she smiled with her whole face.
“Hi, there, sweetheart. Glad you came back. My name is Azalea. I’m a flight nurse. What’s your name, honey?”
I felt the dark coming back and my eyes rolled up, her voice droning away where I could no longer hear it. The tunnel came for me, hovering just out of reach, the light so bright that I wanted desperately to claw my way into its warmth. I was so cold, and I missed mom. I did not know where she was or why she did not come when I called for her.
“Pa, I’m thirsty,” I complained. I rolled over in the big bed and snuggled up against his warm back. He smelled clean, one of the first things he done was ask the hotel to send up a tub and hot water. He had tucked me in and washed me from my head to my toes and proceeded to wash his own self with the leftover water. When we were done, the water was gray and cold but that didn’t stop Mr. Fitz from climbing in and making it three men in a tub. I laughed as I recited the nursery rhyme.
We’d eaten, he’d sent me to bed and come up later pleasantly drunk and smelling of beer and whiskey.
“Crispin, hang on,” he said sleepily and fumbled for the oil lamp. Sudden brightness flooded the room and made me blink. Mr. Fitz groaned and rolled over. He was lucky enough to have his own trundle bed; there were times Dad had to share with seven or eight men.
“I’ll get the lad a drink, Captain,” he offered. Dad sighed in relief and laid flat.
“Too many beers,” he said and went back to sleep. Mr. Fitz brought me a ladle from the pitcher, and I drank the whole thing without spilling too much. Ten minutes later I had to pee, so a patient manservant took me to the outhouse. The two of us padded down the stairs in our long johns, me barefoot and he in his beloved brogues. He waited patiently outside the outhouse for me to finish.
The street was lit by oil lamps on poles and almost as busy as in the daytime. Barges still came up from the river and unloaded, freight came in on wagons day and night. Riders drifted in on horseback and even Army patrols wandered in. I saw two of the men we had seen back on the trail. They saw me, glared and I stifled the comments I was going to say to Mr. Fitz. He cursed under his breath, said a bad word.
They watched from their horses as we climbed the stairs back up to our room and Mr. Fitz tucked me back in bed beside my Dad. He reached his arms around me. I snuggled into his warmth and was asleep in seconds.
The sound of his boots hitting the floor woke me. I had the entire bed to myself, Dad was up in the chair pulling on his cavalry boots and he was already dressed. Mr. Fitz was nowhere to be seen, he was probably in the stables seeing to the team and wagon.
“Morning, Crispin,” Dad smiled. “Ready to get up and eat?”
“Pa,” I said sleepily and slid my feet onto the cold boards. He lifted me by my armpits and pointed to the chamber pot. I went with obvious relief, wondering why he hadn’t made me use it last night.
I dressed all by myself, pulling on yesterday’s old clothes over my long johns. He took my hand and we trooped down the stairs to the fancy dining room where a man dressed in a black suit served us. Dad ordered eggs, bacon, and coffee. I had porridge and milk. I was almost done when Mr. Fitz came in and joined us, ordering the same thing as my Dad. Both put away pots of strong black coffee.
The sun made its appearance warming up the room through its real glass windows. I heard the escalating bustle of the town awakening, horses whinnying, wagons creaking, voices raised in anger and warning, even the lonely sound of a steamship whistle.
“Wagon’s loaded," Mr. Fitz said softly. “Dispatches are in your saddlebags. The hostler promised to hitch the team and I threw in a sack of oats with the animals.”
“Good. Don’t know how the grazing will be once we hit the Trace. Dispatchers say it’s been a dry year.”
By eight, we were on our way, Mister Fitz was driving the team and I was on the seat with him. Dad was mounted on Ballycor.
I loved watching my Dad ride. He looked like he was part of the horse or one of those creatures called a centaur. There wasn’t a prettier seat on a horse, and he could ride anything. This morning he wasn’t wearing his uniform, but leather pants and wool shirt covered with a long coat with caped shoulders and on his head, he wore his favorite dress hat, a wool tumbler.
He led the way and we followed. The trail out of town lay along the river for a good 5 miles before it took a turn into the hollows and bottoms before we climbed up onto the ridge.
The mules had a tough time, straining into the harness as they climbed. We rode in companionable silence and I stared at everything noting the difference in birds and animals from our last posting in New York at Fort Ti. I saw the same type of Blue Jays that shrieked at us, red-eyed vireos and bluebirds darting in the early morning as they searched for mosquitoes.
Once we climbed away from the river, the flies and skeeters weren’t as obnoxious although the big horse flies sent the mules tails to twitch like a sheepdog.
“Where are we going, Dad?” I asked and startled him out of his quiet contemplation. He answered me slowly, wiping the sweat from under his hatband.
“St. Louis. My orders are posting me to Fort Merrick near the river,” he answered.
“What’s it like?” I asked.
“Raw. Wild. Not like Washington. And the Mississippi is the biggest river you’ll ever see.”
“Will we ford it?”
He laughed and reached out to tousle my head. “Too wide and deep, Cris. Full of sandbars and quicksand. We’ll take the ferry across if we must cross it. Are you hungry? We’re going to stop for something to eat in a little while and let the mules rest.”
Another hour dragged by and then Mr. Fitz pulled the mules off into a small meadow hacked out of the woods. Swiftly and efficiently he and Mr. Fitzsimmons unharnessed and picketed them, set up a small campfire ring, and made a quick meal of fried rabbit and johnnycakes. I ate quickly and quietly, wiped my hands on my leggings as I slipped into the brush to make my toilet.
Finishing, I started to stand up from my squat and someone’s hands encircled my neck and mouth, lifted me off my feet and carried me deeper into the woods.
I heard gunshots and struggled, earning me a quick buffet to the head which knocked all thoughts from me. I remembered smelling greasy hair, bloody hides and then nothing.