is a busy season for a farmer, and I have had little to do with anyone of late.'
'Galtier, Lucien.' Major Quigley took a piece of paper from one of the many pockets with which his uniform was adorned. From another pocket he drew a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, which he set on his nose. He unfolded the paper and studied it for a moment. 'Ah, yes. I regret that the requisitions drawn from this farm were so heavy last winter. I should not be surprised if it turned out that the soldiers who carried out the program did so with an excess of zeal. As a result, you must think less than kind thoughts of the American military government for this district.'
'Major, in a war, each side does what it can to win,' Galtier answered with a shrug. 'I am not a soldier now, but you must know I served my time. I know these things.' He chose his words with great care. This American major who talked like a Parisian aristocrat was liable to be as dangerous as half a dozen of the likes of Father Pascal.
Quigley folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. He got out a pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and a match safe. After a glance toward Marie for permission, he lit the pipe. Once it was drawing well, he spoke in musing tones: 'I am confident that, when requisition time comes round again, it will be easier to restrain the enthusiasm of the soldiers carrying out their duties.'
Not, it may be easier to restrain them — if you cooperate. Most men, trying to establish such cooperation, would have spelled out the terms of the bargain to be struck. That was how Father Pascal operated, for instance. Not Major Quigley. He started at the point of assuming cooperation and went on from there. A man to reckon with, indeed.
And, of course, it would be impossible to keep the neighbors from learning he and Father Pascal had been here. Some of them would assume that alone meant Lucien was collaborating with the Americans: why else would the major and the priest have come? Keeping his good name was going to take Galtier some work.
He wanted to glance over at Marie, to see what she was thinking. A winter free of requisitions-or anything close to that-would all but guarantee a successful year. A full belly, peace of mind against what was in essence robbery at gunpoint-those were not small items on the balance sheet… provided he grew a beard so he did not have to look at himself in the mirror when he shaved every morning.
But looking at yourself in the mirror was not a small item, either. 'As I say, Major, I am only a farmer, and spend most of my time here on my land. I am not a man who often hears things of any sort-certainly not scandal and slander spoken about the pious father here.'
'No, eh? Father Pascal led me to believe it might be otherwise. What a pity,' Major Quigley said. He didn't snarl and bluster at Lucien. He didn't turn and glower at Father Pascal, either. He just spread his hands. 'Such is life.' He got to his feet, which meant the priest also had to rise hastily. Major Quigley bowed to Marie. 'Thank you, Madame Galtier, for your generous hospitality. We shall not take up any more of your time, or of your husband's-he is, as he says, a busy man.'
He didn't even warn Galtier that the requisitions, instead of being extra gentle when harvest time came around, would be extra harsh. If Lucien couldn't figure that out for himself, he'd learn come fall.
But Lucien knew perfectly well what would happen come fall. He also knew he'd have to spend almost as much time working to make the farm seem poor as he would making sure it really wasn't. As the major with the strange Christian name had said, that was life.
Major Quigley climbed into the buggy. Father Pascal untied his horse, then joined the American soldier. The priest was expostulating violently and gesturing with such passion, he could hardly handle the reins. But the horse must have been used to his theatrics. It turned around and started back up the road toward Riviere-du-Loup.
Lucien Galtier sighed. Now he did turn to Marie, wondering if she was going to shout at him for guaranteeing the whole family a harder time when autumn rolled around. Instead, she ran to him and squeezed the breath out of him with the tightest embrace she'd given him outside the bedroom in years. A moment later, Nicole and Georges piled onto him, too, and after that his three younger daughters, who must have been listening somewhere out of sight. Only his son Charles, busy in the barn, didn't know to join and mob him, and Galtier knew perfectly well how Charles felt about the American occupiers.
'Oh, Papa, you were so brave!' Nicole exclaimed.
'I was?' Lucien said: that had not occurred to him. 'What was I sup posed to do, turn my coat? For a little more in the barn? It is not worth it.'
'You were very brave, Lucien,' Marie said; if she thought so, it was likely to be true. 'We would have loved you whatever you told the American, but after what you did-we are proud of you.'
'Well,' Galtier said, 'this is all very good, I am sure, and I am glad you are proud of me, but pride does nothing to weed the potato patch. I shall have to work harder today because of the Boche americain and the foolish priest. For that, I do not thank them. I work long enough as it is.' He disentangled himself from the arms-the proud arms-of his family, went outside, picked up his hoe, shouldered it, and headed back toward the potatoes.
Not much was left of Slaughters, Kentucky, a few miles north of Madisonville. U.S. troops pushing east had managed to drive the Confederates out of it only a few days before, after fighting that fully lived up to the name of the place fought over. As far as Abner Dowling was concerned, the fight, like most of those General Custer planned, had been far more expensive than it was worth.
However much he wanted to, he couldn't say that to the war reporter walking through the ruined streets of Slaughters beside him. Custer's famous name was what had drawn Richard Harding Davis out to Kentucky to see the American troops in action.
Davis had seen a lot of wars, all around the world. His reports from Manila as the Japanese were entering the city were classics in their way. So were his reports on what they'd done to the Spanish prisoners they'd taken, though those hadn't been filed till he was safely out of the Philippines.
And now here he was with Custer's First Army- and with the chance, even if he hadn't known it when he got here, to write stories about something new in warfare on the North American continent.
'You're sure the general will let me go right up to the front?' the reporter asked Dowling for about the fourth time. Davis was fifty or so, ruggedly handsome (though his color wasn't all it could have been, and he panted a little as he walked along beside Dowling), and wore a green-gray jacket halfway between a military style and one a big- game hunter might have used. It had more pockets than you could shake a stick at. Dowling wished he owned one like it.
'Mr. Davis,' he answered, 'General Custer is going up to the front. He wants to see this for himself. He has already told me repeatedly, you are welcome to accompany him and me.' Now that you're here, Mr. Davis, General Custer would strangle with his own liver-spotted hands anyone who had the gall to try to get between him and headlines, which is to say, between you and him.
Custer had billeted himself in one of the few houses in Slaughters only lightly damaged: a two-story Victorian structure whose windows had only jagged shards of glass in them but whose walls and roof remained intact. A couple of sentries stood outside the front door. They'd dug foxholes nearby, into which they could dive in case the Rebs started shelling the town again. They saluted Dowling and eyed Richard Harding Davis with respectful curiosity. He wasn't just a reporter, but had a name as a novelist and playwright as well.
'Go on in,' one of them said, opening the door. 'The general should be finishing up his breakfast about now, and I know he'll be glad to see you.'
As the sentry had said, Custer sat at the kitchen table. The view through the bay window had probably been lovely, back before it turned into a prospect of charred rubble and shell holes. The general was attacking his plate with knife, fork, and great gusto.
He turned when Dowling and Davis came into the room. Pointing down at his breakfast, he exclaimed, 'Raw onions!' Such was his delight that, had he been writing, he probably would have used capital letters and four exclamation points.
Dowling did not share that delight. He coughed and did his best not to inhale, but his eyes started watering to beat the band in spite of the improved ventilation the shattered bay window gave the kitchen. He'd known about Custer's love for onions- anyone who had anything to do with Custer found out about that- but why had the general chosen today of all days for them?
Richard Harding Davis did his best to take the potent vegetables in stride. 'A warm-up for the rest of the day's show, eh?' he said, but could not help wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
'That's right, by jingo!' Custer said, shovelling another odorous forkful into his mouth. He went on till he was
