Once an Eagle (8 page)

Davis was standing in: a spray hitter, crowding the plate, waving his bat back and forth like an angry cat switching its tail. Kintzelman, staring at him, took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his forearm. Sam knew what the big man was thinking: if he didn't get Davis he would have to face Corporal Hansen, the big blond Swede who had hit him all afternoon, who could always hit him—who would drive in the two runs and the game would be over. Company B would have won still again, in the late innings. Merrick was dancing up and down again, taunting him; he called something to Hansen, who was flailing three bats around his head and grinning. Sam glanced at Parrish; the Captain was standing now in front of the bench beside the water bucket, his arms folded. His face was expressionless.

Thomas gave Kintzelman a sign; he shook it off, shook off another. Sam scowled at his burly back. Jumbo was a good sergeant as sergeants went, but he thought too slowly, and along only one line. Couldn't he see Thomas wanted him to throw something different? Jumbo wouldn't. Two fast balls and a curve, two fast balls and a curve. He never varied the pattern no matter what Thomas or anyone else tried to tell him. Wisconsin Dutchman. And now he was tired, and worried; his mind was on Hansen more than the batter. But Captain Parrish would never take him out: Jumbo had once played with the Pittsburgh Pirates and Jumbo could therefore do no wrong.

The nervous tension of waiting in the outfield while Kintzelman fiddled around, the sense of powerlessness in a crucial situation, was irksome. He kicked at the withered stalks of buffalo grass about his ankles, swung his arm round and round to loosen it, and crept back another step. Captain Parrish had not moved. He could go in there and get Davis on curves if Parrish would only give the word; but he was a rookie and Jumbo was a sergeant and had played with the Pirates. Inflexibility—it was the worst human failing: you could learn to check impetuosity, you could overcome fear through confidence and laziness through discipline, but rigidity of mind allowed for no antidote. It carried the seeds of its own destruction.

The first pitch was in the dirt, Thomas making another fine stop and keeping Hassolt from breaking for second. The Company B crowd were all roaring and yelping now, riding Jumbo for all they were worth. Now he'll groove this one, to try to stay even, Sam thought; he'll put it right down the pipe, and Davis will know it's going to be a fast ball, a Fiji Islander would know it's going to be a fast ball, and he'll belt it. He crept back one more step and came to the set position as Jumbo reared back and threw. Davis' bat licked around like a yellow wagon tongue. Blue darter. It was coming toward him on a line, over Slattery's outstretched glove—then all at once it began to curve, bending down and away from him toward left center, coming very fast, bounced once flatly and kept on. He just had room to cut it off. Just barely. He was vaguely aware of everyone roaring, a shrill cry from Devlin at third, the streaking figures—and then, racing to his right, bending, in the most luminous and evanescent of flashes the thought: Merrick will hold Hassolt at third, they're afraid of my arm, he won't gamble on tying it up now, he'll hold Hassolt at third and Hansen will come up and knock them both in; and here I am, running through this particularly heavy patch of scraggly old buffalo grass—

Without any conscious thought he dipped down, trapped the ball deftly; then spun around in the wilted yellow grass as though bewildered, took a step back. There was an outcry and he could hear Merrick distinctly now, shouting, “
Go on, go on!
” He wheeled and threw with all his might. The ball went in low, just to the right of the mound, skipped once—and everything took on a perfect clarity: Thomas, his mask off, standing like a bulldog, waiting, Hassolt racing down the line from third, the ball taking a nice hop into the big black mitt and Hassolt falling into his slide early, much too early, and Thomas reaching down to him, the cloud of ocher dust that hid everything for a second, and then Sergeant Major Jolliffe's arm shooting into the air. Out. Out a mile. The game was over. He came running in with the others to the milling knot of players and spectators halfway between third and home. Merrick was protesting violently, square black mouth spread wide, his brows drawn down. He began to push his way toward Damon.

“Why you sneaky little rookie—what kind of a play is that?”

Devlin was capering with glee. “Go on,” he crowed, “he gave you the decoy and you fell for it!”

Hassolt put a restraining arm on Merrick, who flung him off. He was livid with rage. “—a cheating trick! That's a cowardly, underhand farmer's trick …”

Sam stopped grinning. “You can take that back, Merrick,” he said evenly. “You aren't in uniform now.”

“Why, you insolent hayseed recruit,” Merrick shouted. He lunged at the outfielder, swinging both hands. Sam took the blow on his shoulder, ducked the right and drove his own left hand into the Sergeant's side and felt the heavy man grunt with pain. Then there were arms pulling them both apart, holding them, everyone was shouting something—all of it silenced by Captain Parrish's thin, metallic voice:

“Men! Men!
Come to attention!
” Everyone became rigid. “I won't have this! On a field of sport. Disgraceful! Any more of this and I'll have you up for company punishment, each and every one of you….” Severe and precise in his tight khaki uniform, wasp-waisted, the waxed points of his mustaches gleaming, he paced back and forth in front of them as if on a wound-up spring, while they stood there at attention, panting.

“Now. We strive to the utmost in contests of skill and strength—that is the way games were meant to be played. But we are sportsmen. Good sportsmen at all times. We do not cease acting like gentlemen and good Americans even in the heat of endeavor. Now …” He stopped pacing back and forth; and for all the priggish punctilio in his manner there was a steely force about him that destroyed any thought of laughter. Captain Parrish had come out of West Point to fight the Sioux at Wounded Knee Creek, he had assumed command of the remains of a company at Santiago de Cuba while shaking with dysentery and Yellow Jack, and he looked as if he was ready to do it all over again if he had to. He fixed Merrick with his cold blue eyes and raised thumb and forefinger.

“Item one: Private Damon's maneuver—if it was that—was a perfectly permissible one, in the same category as a batter feigning a bunt, or a base runner bluffing a steal of base. You were perfectly at liberty to hold your man at third, Sergeant Merrick: you elected to commit him. Item two: you therefore had no just cause to assault Private Damon in any manner. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Merrick said.

“Item three.” The icy blue eyes rolled around to Damon and the Nebraska boy knew it was his turn. “Private Damon—even though in some measure provoked, you are guilty of striking a noncommissioned officer. A grave offense in itself. Very grave. I trust you are aware of that. Are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” Captain Parrish dropped his hand and resumed his pacing, and Sam saw that there was a method in the officer's madness. This ostentatious display of analysis and army regulations was artfully designed to allow time for tempers to cool. “Item four: however, you were both under stress, the incident was not in line of duty. And the occasion”—and Sam thought he saw the trace of a frosty smile quiver the company commander's mustaches—“we might all agree, was a highly unusual one.” He struck his yellow leather riding crop against his breeches. “The incident will therefore be closed. Is that clear to everyone concerned?”

There was a low chorus of respectful assent.

“Very good. Sergeant Merrick, Private Damon: I want you to shake hands.”

Sam stepped forward, his hand extended. They shook hands, but the Sergeant's eyes glinted in anger.

“Well met,” Captain Parrish concluded. He glanced at the group again and brushed at one end of his mustache. “There may be those among you who feel the gesture superfluous. But it is ceremony that ennobles our everyday lives. We salute as a ceremony of respect, not to the man, but the rank which he wears and of which he aspires to make himself worthy; at colors we salute, not the flag itself, but that fluttering symbol of this great nation, one and indivisible …” Captain Parrish caught himself up, barked a cough, and slapped his thigh viciously with the riding crop. “We are a family,” he pronounced. “A select and honorable family. We work hard and play hard, but at all times we practice good fellowship, personal honor, and fair play. We are the vanguard of the nation. We must be worthy of it.” He brought himself to attention in a fierce little quiver, as a sign that the scene was to be concluded. “Very well. We will consider the incident formally closed. At ease, men. As you were and carry on.”

The groups broke into talk again, a little subdued but still jubilant. Company B left the field dejectedly. Devlin was again capering for joy, his eyes dancing, his red hair gleaming in the afternoon light.

“Did you see old Sam give him the decoy?” he asked Thomas. “Did you see it? Ah, what a jewel of a play! Did you see it, Sarge?”

Jumbo Kintzelman nodded. As they started back toward the barracks the big man slapped Sam on the shoulder and murmured: “Nice going, younker.”

“Damon…”

Sam turned, recognizing the voice. “Yes, sir?”

“
Was
that intentional?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Parrish's gaze was bright and piercing. “I played a good deal in my palmy days. Sometimes a fielder is unaware that he's trapped a ball in his glove.”

“No, sir. I knew I had it.”

“I see. That's interesting. You thought it out, then, as you were playing the ball?”

“No, sir—it was more like a picture: Sergeant Merrick would hold Hassolt at third, and Hansen would hit safely again. And then the grass around my feet.”

“I see. Remarkable.” Captain Parrish ran one fingernail to each side of his mustache. “Of course if you had thrown wildly—”

“I didn't intend to throw wildly, sir.”

“No, of course not.” Captain Parrish's face broke into one of its rare smiles, a tight grimace involving scores of seams and wrinkles. “First rate. Let me congratulate you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Captain frowned faintly at this reply—a rookie was not supposed to thank an officer for commendation; Sergeant Kintzelman among other noncommissioned officers had impressed this fact on Sam, and he realized his error the moment he'd made it—but this was a moment of celebration, the realization of a dream, and Parrish merely nodded and smiled his bizarre smile as he walked away, murmuring: “Remarkable …”

Sam found himself staring after the officer. Devlin was tugging at his sleeve, saying something about the look on old Traprock Merrick's face, but he only half heard him. Was it remarkable? He didn't know. It had happened: it had worked. That was all he could for the life of him say.

 

The land was
endless. Flat plains, and then arroyos whose channels were littered with boulders big as grain sacks. They slid or half-fell down one sheer water-cut side and crawled up the other, hauling each other up laboriously. There were mesas like huge rose-and-ocher hills sliced flat by giants, and more arroyos, and again more plains that stretched out and away until their eyeballs ached trying to stare to the end of them. There were hills, and thickets, and here and there enormous cactus trees with arms like signposts to nowhere erected by idiots. And over and under and through everything was the heat, and the wind, and the dust it bore, that coated them as they walked until they looked like a horde of tramps made out of dough.

They had started out from the post merrily enough, with the regimental band arrayed just outside the gate playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Captain Parrish had given them “eyes right” as they swung past the colonel, a short, red-faced man with white walrus mustaches, who saluted them smartly. They were marching to battle, they were going to catch up with a mean old Mexican bandit named Camargas who had invaded United States territory and robbed a United States post office. They were going to track him down and defeat him in open battle. Three columns flanked by cavalry were going to converge on Montemorelos, where Camargas' base of operations was—or at least that was what the sergeants said. It was going to be Buena Vista and Chapultepec all over again. Outnumbered five to one, twenty to one, it would make no difference—they were going to rout the infamous Greasers, avenge the insult to the flag, and plunge on to glory. It had been a still, clear morning and they'd been able to hear the strains of the regimental band for a long while. The sergeants had kept them at a smart column of fours, their packs were light and riding easy, and their veins pumped with the wine of adventure.

But that had been six days ago, and in the meantime the country had begun to tell on them. Their feet were sore, they had slung their rifles, and their shirts were stiff with dust and dried sweat; there was very little joking, and no singing at all.

“When we going to run into this Camargas joker?” Devlin queried aloud. “My feet hurt.” He had a blue handkerchief drawn tight over his nose and mouth, and his campaign hat was pulled down over his eyes: he looked like a cowboy bandit on a drunk. “Tell you what, Sam.”

“What?”

“I'm going to put that Pancho C. in a cage and take him back with me to Chicopee Falls and exhibit him at twenty-five cents a head. Then I'll retire on the profits. What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to lie in a pool for three days and nights.” He was dying of thirst; he saw water everywhere—in still mountain lakes, in rivers, in thunderous waterfalls. His head throbbed and his throat was like scraped leather. His tongue felt like a bag of resin. It was dry country, a cruel country. A country without water. Only fools and outlaws would choose to live in a country like this.