The Dice of God

Hoffman Birney

• Publisher: Barakaldo Books
• Year: 2020
• Topic: Social Sciences
• eBook ISBN:
  9781839744655
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

When the men laid down gun and saber at Appomattox Courthouse, many headed West to settle new land. Many, the taste for soldiering in them now, took up gun and saber again and went to press the Cavalry's tough, thankless fight against the Indian. The hard-bitten veterans came, and the fuzz-cheeked boys, and certain violent men who lived for the moment's opportunity; and their lusty women followed on the skirts of enterprise.
They came from every part of the country and every cut of society. On the way westward some brushed elbows unknowingly, as people do; some crossed paths and soon forgot one another; some found their lives inextricably bound together by circumstance. And it seemed that the strongest, as if singled out by their own excesses of passion or arrogance or ruthlessness, were drawn toward the Black Hills, where fate was preparing for them a grim retribution that would shock the nation—Little Big Horn.
In this hearty, virile novel Hoffman Birney tells their stories in wonderful profusion, with a mature mastery of character and a historian's command of authenticating detail. He tells of three love affairs—one young and hesitant, second adult and frankly sensual, the third makeshift and rich in earthy humor. The color and flavor and excitement of the times—Washington and the frontier and points between—a great slice of America and American life in the backwash of the Civil War—all are here, a proud background for the adventuring of proud men.

THE DICE OF GOD

1 — A HANDSOME FILLY

The hotel proprietor did not linger over his coffee. He gulped it hurriedly, murmured that his presence was required in the office, and left the table. The captain watched him cross the dining room, then grinned wryly and gave his attention to the wine the man had ordered. A mild drink, a ladies’ drink, but it brought a little life to the whisky he’d had before dinner. Won’t you ever learn sense, Demos Harrod? Are you going to sound off every time you hear the name of Tuthill? He’s your commanding officer, remember. Now you’ll have to find that hotel man again and apologize for your rudeness. You were rude, goddam it!

He drew a cigar from his pocket but refrained from lighting it in the presence of the ladies in the dining room. St. Paul was still on the edge of the frontier and the Metropolitan Hotel was a long way from Willard’s in Washington, but there were some women here who didn’t have to take a back seat to the best of ‘em in Washington or New York. Take that one over by the window—a handsome filly if there ever was one. Nice hands and slender wrists—always a sign of small feet and a well-turned ankle. She was married, though. There was a ring on the third finger of her left hand and she chatted gaily with the man who sat across from her. Not for me! I don’t fool with married women—especially in a town that’s department headquarters, like this.

He pushed back his chair, rose, and walked toward the lobby and the bar on the further side, quite unaware that the eyes of the woman followed him until he was out of sight. He lit his cigar at the gas flame of a torch held by the bronze figure of an Indian maiden at the end of the bar—whoever made that thing sure hadn’t seen many squaws—and signaled the bartender.

“Yes, sir, Captain, be right with you. ‘Tain’t often I get a chance to serve two captains, both at once.”

Harrod glanced toward the other man on his side of the bar.

“Captain—?” he began hesitantly.

“Yes, sir,” the bartender said proudly. “This here is Captain Jonas Whiteman of the packet Des Moines. Meet Captain Harrod of the Twentieth Cavalry, Fort Doniphan.”

The two shook hands. The packet captain invited the cavalryman to drink and the bartender supplied a glass. The bottle held an old—an unbelievably old—brandy which was Captain Whiteman’s especial pride. He had purchased the last dozen bottles to be found in New Orleans, twelve bottles which by some miracle had survived the war, the thirst of the occupation forces, and the chaos of Reconstruction. He had resold them to Davidson, proprietor of the Metropolitan, and now...

“Whenever I get to St. Paul he lets me buy some of my own liquor back from him. Drink hearty, Captain, and tell me if any sweeter liquor ever touched your tongue.”

The brandy was superb. Harrod would have enjoyed taking it to a side table and there devote himself to the pleasant task of lowering the level in the bottle, but Captain Whiteman was already maudlin and Harrod had little desire for further acquaintance. He made his excuses—“I’m leaving for Fort Doniphan tomorrow and have an appointment with an officer from the department”—and returned to the lobby. The woman he had noticed in the dining room was seated in a chair beneath one of the artificial palms. She was alone now and when she met his eyes she smiled.

“Good evening, Captain Harrod.”

He bowed. His eyes flashed to the hand in her lap. By God, he’d’ve sworn she’d been wearing a wedding ring in the dining room, but the third finger was bare now.

“Your servant, madam, but——”

“But you don’t remember me—is that it?”

“I’m ashamed to confess it, ma’am, but that’s the truth.”

“I can’t blame you, really. It was a long time ago and a lot has happened since—to both of us. You were in St. Louis on the unpleasant duty of inspecting mules and approving their purchase by the army. My father had a contract to deliver several hundred and——”

“Wait a minute!” he interrupted. “Your father is Cyrus Pierce—’Long Cy’ Pierce. I dined twice at your home on the Bluff Road. Your name’s Louise. I remember now.”

“The name’s Lulu, but outside of that you’re quite right. You left out only one thing—we rode together one Sunday. Have you forgotten that?” She smiled gaily.

“Of course not! That ride is the most pleasant memory I have of St. Louis.” He had dined at the Pierce home on Saturday and after dinner, mellowed by Long Cy’s excellent whisky, had remarked that his life followed a rut between his boardinghouse and the stockyards. He was a cavalryman, he had said, and he missed his horse. Pierce’s daughter had suggested instantly that they ride together the next day; her father had several excellent saddle horses which were eating their heads off. She was a skinny youngster, much younger than he, and not particularly attractive. A born horsewoman, though; nice hands, a good seat, and quite fearless at the fences they’d taken when they left the road and struck cross-country. He’d enjoyed every minute of the afternoon and had thanked her sincerely for the pleasure she’d given him. Then, as she clung to his arm, he had turned her face upward and kissed her. Damn if he knew why, but something had told him that she wanted him to. She had returned the kiss—if she’d been a couple of years older he’d have said she was passionate about it—and then had dashed into the house without a word.

“You can’t blame me for not recognizing you at first, Miss Pierce. That was some time ago and—well, you’ve changed.”

“You mean I’m fatter!”

“No, no!”

“Well, I am—nearly twenty pounds—and I’m glad of it! It’s been more than six years and I was just a skinny girl, as skinny as a plucked jaybird, who was trying to keep house for my father and to entertain his friends. And it’s not Miss Pierce now—it’s Mrs. Gorton.”

“My apologies again. Was that Mr. Gorton I saw you with in the dining room?”

“No, merely an acquaintance who happened to arrive today on the Des Moines packet. I’m a widow, Captain, and have been for three years.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know——”

“Of course not, how could you? I’m flattered that you even remembered Cy Pierce’s skinny daughter. Do tell me, Captain, what are you doing in St. Paul? Are you stationed here—and if you are why haven’t we met?”

“That’s my misfortune, Mrs. Gorton. I only reached town this afternoon and am leaving again in the morning. I’m on my way to South City—Fort Andrew Doniphan. I’ve been assigned to the Twentieth Cavalry.”

He heard the quick intake of her breath.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Please tell me you’re not going there!”

“The orders were pretty clear, Mrs. Gorton, they said Fort Doniphan and the Twentieth.”

“But”—her breast rose and fell quickly—“that means you’ll be in the fighting—in the war against the hostiles!”

“Probably so.” What the hell’s the matter with her? “I’ve heard, quite unofficially, that such a campaign is being planned. It’s too late for it this year, though.”

When she spoke again she had regained her control.

“I’m sorry,” she said lightly. “I hoped you were going to tell me that you were stationed here and that we’d see something of each other. I”—she dropped her hand to his—“I was so glad when I recognized you. I have very few friends in St. Paul and when I saw you leave the dining room, I just made up my mind that I’d wait right here in the lobby until you came back.”

“Now I’m the one who’s flattered, Mrs. Gorton, We”—Captain Harrod considered for a moment—“it’s not at all late. We could return to the dining room and have a cup of coffee, or perhaps a bottle of wine, together.”

She shook her head quickly. The jet beads on her bonnet jingled musically.

“No, that wouldn’t do. Somebody would be sure to see me and——”

“You can be seen just as easily here in the lobby.”

“I know. Light a cigar, Demas—I’m going to call you Demas and I want you to call me Lulu, please. Light a cigar and let me think for just a minute.”

He smoked quietly. There was half an inch of ash on his cheroot when she broke the silence.

“I live here in St. Paul now, Demas,” she said at last. “It was Mr. Gorton’s home and after he died—he was killed in an accident at his factory—I kept right on living here. His people, his mother, and his brothers and their wives resent it. He left his business to me and they think it should have gone to his family—to them. They want me to sell it back to them at a perfectly ridiculous figure. Nothing would please them more than to spread the gossip that I’d been drinking with a man in the Metropolitan.”

“That sort of gossip can’t hurt you.”

“It can—that’s where you’re wrong. Oh, Demas, I’m lonely here, terribly lonely.” Again her restless hand touched his, clutched it quickly, and was withdrawn before he could return the pressure. He dropped his cheroot in the tall brass cuspidor that stood beside his chair.

“Demas?”

“Yes, Lulu.”

“You don’t gossip, do you? If I suggested something very, very unconventional you wouldn’t gossip about it, would you?”

“Of course not, Lulu. I hope——”

“Listen to me. Fourth Avenue and A Street, can you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“The third house on A Street north of Fourth Avenue, west side of the street. It’s a white house with a porch in front and it sits back from the street a little. There’ll be a light in the second floor window but none downstairs. You’ll remember all that?” He nodded and she continued hurriedly. “It’s a quarter to eight now. Don’t hurry. Wait until—oh, until nine o’clock—and then take a hack and tell the driver to take you to Fourth and B. That’s a block away and you can walk over. We...we won’t be disturbed and I can promise you something a lot better than wine. I still have some of father’s old Monongahela whisky.”

“I remember it well.”

“Now walk with me to the door, Demas. I’ll tell the porter to call a hack for me, and don’t pay any attention to what I say where the desk clerk can hear me.”

He walked at her side across the lobby.

“It’s been so pleasant to meet you, Captain,” she said clearly, “and I’ll wish you the best of luck on the expedition next summer. When you write your mother please give her my very best regards.”

“It will be a pleasure, Mrs. Gorton. I never expected to meet an old friend in St. Paul-—it was a pleasant surprise.”

“To us both, Captain. There—the porter has a hack for me.”

Captain Harrod turned toward the bar, then recalled that he’d probably find the steamboat captain there and considerably drunker than he’d been half an hour before. The situation seemed to call for a drink, several drinks, but he returned to the chair beneath the straggling palm and informed himself that he’d be goddamned, good and goddamned. By God, it’s been six or seven years and she...

Table of contents

• Title page
• DEDICATION
• 1 - A HANDSOME FILLY
• 2 - THE CAPTAIN (1)
• 3 - THE CAPTAIN (2)
• 4 - CY PIERCE’S DAUGHTER
• 5 - THE TROOPERS (1)
• 6 - THE TROOPERS (2)
• 7 - THE TOWN AND THE FORT
• 8 - MARTIN HALE
• 9 - THE SCOUT (1)
• 10 - THE SCOUT (2)
• 11 - THE WOMAN
• 12 - THE COLONEL
• 13 - WINTER
• 14 - THE DICE OF GOD
• 15 DIES IRAE
• Author’s Note: