The Wanton Troopers by Alden Nowlan Page B

be flowers from some exotic land like Nepal or Peru, grew on either side of the front door.
    The front dooryard belonged to the house. The back dooryard belong to the farm. Here there were weeds and thistles and discarded tools and odds and ends of harness, and if Kevin did not watch his step he was likely to step in hen dung or cow manure. Breathing hard from his run up the hill, he went to the back door.
    Miss Sarah was in the kitchen, white-aproned, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. The air was sweet with the scent of sugar, nuts, raisins, and flour.
    â€œGood day, laddie.”
    â€œHiyuh, Miss Sarah.”
    â€œPlanning to do a little reading today?”
    She smiled at him, absently wiping her flour-covered palms on her apron.
    â€œYeah, if it’s all right.”
    â€œYes, if I may,” she corrected him.
    â€œYes, if I may,” he parroted obediently.
    â€œThat’s ever so much nicer. Well, run along. I’m much too busy to talk to you.”
    â€œGee, thanks.”
    â€œJust a minute, haven’t you forgotten something?”
    â€œHuh? Oh, gosh, yes!”
    He ran back to the porch and washed his feet.
    When he re-entered the kitchen, she gave him a strange look. In trying to adapt himself to his parents’ unpredictable moods, he had acquired the habit of studying faces and of giving names to the expressions he saw in them. He could not think of a name for the way in which Miss Sarah looked at him. Her eyes held something of the slavish gentleness he had seen in the eyes of sheep, yet there was something else . . . something almost like hunger.
    â€œIt isn’t nice to stare, Kevin.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was starin’.”
    â€œIng,” she smiled.
    â€œâ€” staring.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. Run along with you, now.”
    He tiptoed down a dark, carpeted hallway, turned a dark-shining brass knob, and entered the parlour.
    He was rereading A History of the United States. The final chapter said that the Spanish-American War had been one of the most crucial conflicts in the history of the world. William McKinley, the nation’s war leader, would be remembered as one of the greatest of presidents, fit to be numbered with Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Grant, the book said. Kevin was not sure that he agreed with this. He had a soft spot for William Jennings Bryan. There was something fine about that speech of his. “You shall not press down upon the head of labour, this crown of thorns! You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold!” He studied the pictures . . . pictures of the battles of San Juan Hill and Manila Bay. He wished that generals still rode horseback. He would like to be General Kevin O’Brien, on a grey charger like Traveller, the war horse of General Lee. Flipping pages, he turned back to the picture of the battles of Gettysburg and Antietam and Bull Run. He looked at General Pickett, on foot, hat in hand, reporting to a mounted General Lee. “General, my noble divisions are swept away,” the caption read. A cold shiver of joy rippled up Kevin’s spine and into his scalp. He closed his eyes and saw General Kevin O’Brien in a grey tunic and an orange sash. “Now, gentlemen, give them the bayonet!” “Don’t cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying!” “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” “We have met the enemy and they are ours!” “Have lost a cheek and ear but can lick all hell yet!”
    From his shirt pocket he extracted a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. Shaping the letters with care and tenderness, he wrote:
    Kevin Kaye O’Brien, born Atlanta, Georgia, January 25, 1833, the son of Colonel and Mrs. Judd O’Brien. Graduated from West Point Military Academy, 1851. Lieutenant, United States Army, 1851. Served with great distinction against Plains Indians. Captain, United States Cavalry at outbreak of