Читать книгу Bloodshed of Eagles - William W. Johnstone - Страница 10

Washington, D.C.

When Falcon met Custer at the train depot the next morning, both men were in uniform. And although they were the same rank, Custer had taken liberties with his uniform. Under his tunic, Custer was wearing a sailor shirt, with wide collars that protruded over the tunic. He was also wearing a bright red scarf held together at the neck with a turquoise and silver ring. The cuffs were trimmed in gold. He was wearing a white Stetson hat with one side pinned up by a pair of crossed sabers, while the other side was decorated with a long red feather.

“What do you think of it?” Custer asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My uniform. I see that you have taken an interest in it. What do you think?”

“I’ll say this for it, General. It is about the most”—Falcon paused to come up with the right word—“unique uniform I’ve ever seen.”

Custer laughed. “Yes, unique,” he said. “That’s exactly the way I want people to perceive it. Unique.”

Falcon had noticed, for the last several moments, that a young woman had been standing nearby, unabashedly staring at Custer. Finally, as if screwing up her courage, she approached him.

“Are you General Custer?” she asked.

“Yes, madam, I am he,” Custer replied a bit grandiloquently.

“Oh, I knew it!” the woman squealed excitedly. “I told my sister that’s who you are. I’ve read all about you, General. It is so exciting to be able to meet you.”

Custer took off his hat, made a sweeping bow, then lifted the lady’s hand and kissed it.

“Believe me, madam, anytime I get the opportunity to meet a beautiful woman, the pleasure is all mine.”

A uniformed official of the railroad stepped up onto a large box, around which was a fixed array of megaphones.

“Attention, attention! The train for Newark, Philade-phia, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C., now boarding on track number nine!”

“That’s us,” Custer said. “Come, we’ll find a comfortable seat.”

The two men walked through the door that read TO TRAINS, and stepped out into the huge, covered train shed. Here, at least fifteen trains were gathered, some arriving, some departing, some backed up to the ends of their respective tracks. The sounds of trains in motion, the heavy rolling of steel on steel, and of engines at rest, from the puff of relief valves to the hiss of boiling water, permeated the shed, combining with the shouts and conversations of passengers and railroad workers to create a cacophony that was only slightly below a roar. Steam that was released from the engines drifted through the shed, forming clouds that gathered under just under the roof. As the railroad industry was in transition between fuels, there was a strong, though not unpleasant, smell of burning wood and coal. Finding track number seven, the two men boarded the cars, located a seat, then waited for the train to depart.

“The hardest thing about fighting Indians is in getting them to stand and fight,” Custer said. It was noon, and Falcon and Custer were eating their lunch in the dining car. Custer had been very talkative throughout the trip, his conversation extremely self-centered.

“Now, you take the Washita campaign,” Custer said. “There have been some in the press who have criticized me for attacking the village in the predawn darkness, but I knew that if I didn’t hit them when they were least expecting it, they would all get away. Those who truly understand the art of warfare, and who understand the nature of the Indians, realize that the campaign was a brilliant one.”

Custer was not at all inhibited when it came to talking about himself. He told Falcon stories of his exploits during and since the Civil War; he spoke of his writing, and he mentioned that he had been approached to give a series of lectures during the summer for the princely fee of two hundred dollars per lecture.

“I can’t accept the offer, though,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier, the Seventh Cavalry will be making an expedition this summer, and I shall be riding at its head. I expect it’s going to make news.”

Throughout the afternoon, as the train proceeded through Pennsylvania and Maryland, the conversation turned to politics and the upcoming conventions.

“There are some who think I should run for president,” Custer said. “And I confess to having given it some thought, but, I have to tell you, Falcon, over this last few weeks, watching how our government operates in Washington, I don’t know if I would really want any part of it. No, sir, a horse under me and a regiment behind me is all that I have ever wanted.”

After leaving the train in Washington, the two men ate dinner together. Custer had been invited to be a house guest of Ben Holladay. “I’m sure you know of him,” Custer said. “He has built stagecoach and railway lines. He is a fascinating man.”

“I have heard of him, yes.”

“I would be glad to ask him to extend the invitation for you to stay with him as well. I’m sure he would welcome you.”

“Thank you, but I have already wired ahead to the Willard,” Falcon said. “I’ll be staying there.”

“I have stayed at the Willard,” Custer said. “It is a fine hotel and you will be very comfortable there.”

The two men hailed cabs, one going one way, and the other, the opposite. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again while we are here,” Custer called back to Falcon as his cab drew away.

Falcon smiled. He hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. He believed that Custer had more to talk about than anyone he had met.

According to author Nathaniel Hawthorne, the Capitol, White House, and State Department ranked behind the Willard Hotel as the center of Washington. It had its beginning in 1847 when Henry and Edwin Willard first set up as innkeepers on the corner of 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. In 1853, the brothers purchased the entire row of adjoining houses, uniting them architecturally in a major remodeling. Presidents Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln, and Grant had stayed at the Willard, and it was Grant who coined the term “lobbyist” because so many representatives of special interest groups would camp out in the lobby of the hotel in order to approach Grant with their petition.

In addition to presidents and statesmen, other famous people had stayed at the hotel, including Charles Dickens, Buffalo Bill Cody, and Falcon’s father, James Ian MacCallister.

Falcon read about the history of the hotel on a small brochure that lay on the bedside table. He smiled, as he read the part about his father.

Jamie Ian MacCallister, pioneer, trailblazer, scout, and hero of the Alamo made our hotel home while he was in Washington. Songs, articles, books, and plays have been written about this legendary figure.