The Bride of Texas (51 page)

“It certainly wouldn’t,” Shake agreed. “They’ve used the Latin alphabet since the day they started. So, as a good American, you ought to be glad of the chance to learn it.”

“Don’t bring that into it!” Padecky said. “Me read English? I can’t hardly ask for the time of day in English and I’m supposed to learn to read it?”

“You learn to read Czech first,” explained Barcal, who was turning out to be quite the toady
.

“I’ll tell you what kind of Czech you are, Franta!” barked Padecky. “The emperor makes a decree and you break your neck trying to obey!”

“Incidentally,” Shake remarked, “it was the emperor who decreed that Czechs had to use the Gothic script. After the Battle of White Mountain.”

“Don’t spread mystification just because you’re educated,” Padecky snapped. “And as for this, I qui —” But before he could say “quit”, Kyspersky burst into the pub with the news that a bunch of soldiers was drilling on the green below Monroe Street. “They’re wearing bright red floppy trousers!”

“Zouaves,” someone said
.

Their trousers were indeed bright red and floppy. Each soldier was also wearing a red fez and high white spats. A zouave colonel in gold epaulettes stood in the middle of the green, barking orders in a shrill voice. The white spats executed an “about-turn” and a “left turn” and a “right turn” and the trousers rippled elegantly as
they marched back and forth like a big red centipede. A row of carriages was parked on one side of the green, with little fans in fluttering hands at the windows
.

“Are they Mohammedans?” asked Kristuvek
.

“That’s all we need,” grumbled Padecky, the free-thinker. “As if America didn’t have enough religious maniacs already.”

“Don’t mock the faith, you pagan!” declared Kafka, a converted Catholic. “But you’re right about that — Mohammedanism shouldn’t be allowed here. America is and must remain Christian.”

This put Padecky in a rage. “If you want to tell people what to believe in and what not to believe in, why don’t you march back to old Austria? Everybody else here is enjoying the freedom!”

“Calm down, neighbours,” said Shake. “These people don’t pray to Allah. They just came up with these uniforms so they’d look good in the war.”

“What war? Are you trying to tell us there’s a war on?” snapped Padecky
.

“There will be soon enough,” said Shake
.

“The hell there will!” Padecky roared. “The South wouldn’t dare break away from the Union.”

“Neighbours, take a look at that!” Slavik interrupted, pointing across the green to a sight much more interesting than politics. Several ladies had stepped out of their carriages and, with rapt curiosity, were taking a closer look at the marching men in their red trousers. One of them, a lady in burgundy velvet, was peering at them through a lorgnon. Their colonel barked an unintelligible order, the soldiers’ white tunics expanded as chests swelled, and the white spats began flying up and down while the red trousers flapped splendidly. The lady dropped her lorgnon and let it dangle from its golden chain, and began clapping. The others joined her. The colonel gave another order, and the zouaves halted in formation. He dismissed them, then led them over to the ladies. More
passengers stepped daintily out of the carriages. The listeners across the green could hear animated conversation interspersed with female laughter
.

“They wouldn’t dare!” Padecky’s irate voice drowned out the congenial sounds. “There ain’t going to be a war!”

Nobody felt like arguing with him, for they were all staring enviously at the vivid display of spats and trousers and ladies’ dresses. Slavik stroked his moustache as though he were contemplating a complicated military manoeuvre
.

“Neighbours,” he said, “I’ve got an idea.”

At the founding meeting it turned out that no one had any experience as a soldier — except for Filip Ferdinand, and he’d been discharged from the Austrian army after six months for flat feet. Then Vasek Lusk came forward and volunteered to lead them
.

“You?” Kristuvek asked in amazement. “Vasek, you weren’t even seven when your dad brought you to Chicago.”

“But we sailed to America to join my uncle,” said Lusk
.

“So what, kid?” challenged Padecky
.

“Uncle Amos was Moravian Brethren,” said Lusk. “A staunch one. And it’s in our blood.”

“What is?” said Slavik
.

“Soldiering. My great-great-great-grandaddy was killed on White Mountain,” said Lusk. “We were clandestine Moravian Brethren till after the Toleration Patent. But Uncle Amos left for America before that, and Cousin Dianthe married that fellow Brown. So it’s in our blood.”

“What Brown, you runt?” yelled Padecky
.

“The one they hanged!”

“Oh, that Brown!” said Padecky. “But wait a minute. He can’t be your blood kin. You ain’t got anything in your blood.”

“But Uncle Amos was all for it.”

“And she was too?” asked Kristuvek. “That cousin of yours?”

“She went nuts” said Lusk. “When she died, Brown married again.”

“Look,” said Padecky, “the only soldier was your great-great-great-grandfather, and you’re just a common busboy at the Swan Hotel.”

“I’m a waiter already,” protested Lusk
.

“Busboy or waiter,” declared Padecky, “you’re still no soldier.”

“But it’s in our blood,” Lusk insisted. “Uncle Amos came to America on the same ship as Jakub Benjamin, a Jew from Prague who joined Brown in Kansas and fought beside him in a battle against Kentucky slave-owners!”

“A Jew?” Kafka piped up. “Jews don’t fight battles.”

“In America they do. Everything is possible in America,” said Lusk. “They say there were three of them with Brown. Somebody called Weiner — he was older and fat; and then Gustav Bondy — he was supposed to be from Prague too. He was the wildest of them all. He even fought Kossuth in the revolution in ’48.”

“Do you by any chance happen to be a Jew?” Kafka asked darkly
.

“Why?”

“Because you keep going on about having things in your blood!”

But before Lusk could deny it, Padecky asked, “Did your Uncle Amos do any soldiering with them three Jews under Brown?”

“Well, no,” admitted Lusk, “he just knew them. Well, at least he knew Benjamin. They were on the same ship.”

“So what exactly have you got in your blood?” Padecky was getting mad again. “Was your Uncle Amos a soldier with Brown or wasn’t he?”

“No, but my aunt baked bread for him.”

Molly Kakuska walked into the pub with Schroeder
.

“Why?” asked Slavik
.

“Because he loved it,” said Lusk. “It was rye bread with caraway
seeds, like they make in South Bohemia. Brown couldn’t get enough of it.”

“Oh, so this is where you all are!” said Molly Kakuska. “I’ve been waiting for you an hour in the hall —”

“That’s how Auntie snared him,” Lusk went on. “It was on account of that bread he married my cousin Dianthe. She wasn’t much to look at.”

“You’re all supposed to be in the Readers’ Circle,” said Molly
.

“Let us alone, girl,” said Padecky. “We’re dealing with more important matters.” He turned to Lusk. “Look here, if it’s bread-baking you’ve got in your blood, you can be chief cook and bottle-washer if you want. But commanding us just because your uncle was buddy-buddy with some Jew from Prague who says he fought under Brown in Kentucky — I’d have to see it to believe it! What we need is somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing, not some busboy whose great-great-great-great-grandfather croaked on White Mountain!”

“We missed our chance,” said Shake later. “We could have had a commander with a direct line to the famous John Brown. Instead we picked a Slovak, a Hungarified one at that, who worked as a valet to Dr. Walenta, who was a Germanized Czech who made his reputation in Chicago as a skinflint on the insurance company’s side, fixing the entitlements of the crippled workers in that big train wreck in ’58.”

“That’s what I said, you had a valet for a commander,” said Houska.

“Geza was about as much a valet as you are a —” Shake couldn’t think of an adequate comparison.

“Me, I’m never any different,” said Houska. “Call me an ordinary farmer.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly what Geza said: he was never any different,” said Shake. “He was a soldier, first and last. Even in Chicago, when he dressed up in tails and held the door open
for Dr. Walenta’s classy patients.” And he went on to quote Molly Kakuska’s reply.

“More important matters? Is bending your elbow more important?” she said, pointing to the empty beer steins that were banned at the Readers’ Circle
.

“We’re drinking for courage, girl,” declared Padecky, who was undergoing an opportunistic change of opinion. “There’s going to be a war.”

“Jesus in Heaven!” exclaimed Molly
.

“Was sagt er?”
Schroeder wanted to know what he was saying
.

“There’s going to be a war!” Shake translated into German for him
.

“Well, I should hope so,” replied Schroeder in German
.

“Jesus in Heaven!” repeated Molly
.

They told Schroeder what their meeting was about, and the Prussian immediately offered to command them. Kafka said it wouldn’t be possible
.

“Warum nicht?”

“Because we’re going to call ourselves the Slavonic Rifle Company.”

“We’re going to have red trousers,” Kyspersky interjected
.

That was when Schroeder told them about Mihalotzy, Dr. Walenta’s valet. He wasn’t certain whether the man was a Slovak or a Hungarian, just as he didn’t know if Dr. Walenta was a Czech or a German. But they were both Austrians, he was sure of that
.

“Are you hanging about with that Hun?” Shake asked Molly after the meeting
.

“I don’t hang about with anybody, Mr. Schweik,” declared Molly. “He just keeps coming around, and besides, Franta went to Cedar Rapids for potatoes.”

“Does Schroeder come around when Franta is home?”

“Well, he can’t then,” said Molly, blushing
.

Schroeder walked over to them and Shake backed off with a touch of regret in his heart
.

“Poor Franta,” said Stejskal.

“Did she marry Schroeder?” asked Paidr. A cannon boomed from the direction of Bentonville. The sergeant couldn’t shake his ominous thoughts.

“No, she didn’t. She married Franta Kouba. But he was taken prisoner at Chancellorsville and died in Andersonville,” said Stejskal. “I was there with him. I got exchanged, but by that time Franta was dead. I had the sad duty of telling Molly.”

“What happened to Schroeder?” asked Paidr.

“He’s fighting with Sigel, as far as I know,” said Stejskal. “At least that’s what he said. Except that Sigel hasn’t been in action for a long time, not since he got knocked on his backside by those cadets from the Virginia Academy.”

“And Schroeder?” asked Paidr.

“What makes you so interested?” asked Javorsky. “You got eyes for the young widow Kouba?”

“She must be worth the sinning,” Paidr said, “from the way Shake talks about her!”

“Yes, well, there’ll be no sinning with her, brother,” Shake sighed. “Not for me, anyway.”

“Maybe there will be, now she’s a widow,” said Houska. “Widows are easier.”

“What do you know about it, farm-boy?” Javorsky said.

“Nothing,” said Houska. “That’s what they say.”

The sergeant looked at Salek and saw Salek looking at him. But Salek had never found out about the moonlit night the sergeant had spent with his wife. Salek had been dead drunk that night and the sergeant had left early the next morning. Salek had finally caught Vlasta
in flagrante
with the priest of the Polish Church of the Immaculate Conception, and the only reason he didn’t cause a scandal in the Church was that
Vlasta agreed to divorce him. Salek took his place in Chicago history as the first Czech to divorce his wife. Cup entrusted little Annie to the Kakuskas to raise, and joined Lincoln’s Slavonic Rifles on their way to the battlefield at Perryville. Vlasta became a waitress in the fancy Swan Hotel and continued to sin against the fifth and ninth commandments.

Salek dropped his gaze. A horse neighed. A shooting star streaked across the North Carolina sky.

“No, friends, it will never happen,” said Shake. “But how could a man hold himself back in the presence of such beauty?”

He went on to describe the second slap in the face Molly had given him — when he tried to steal a kiss from her that night in the dance hall on the corner of Van Buren and Canal, because she looked so beautiful in the costume the ladies had made for the Ladies’ Circle Ball to raise money for the Slavonic Rifles’ red trousers; Molly’s dress was pink with a blue-trimmed white apron and a blue ribbon around the waist.

“Why didn’t the women just make the trousers for you and be done with it?” asked Javorsky.

“You can’t deny a woman the pleasure of dressing up,” said Shake.

“Was it you going to war or was it the women?”

“Nobody much figured on a war,” explained Shake. “By that time the Slavonic Rifles had fifty members, and we thought that once we had the red trousers we could draw another fifty to the Union cause and then we’d have enough for a whole company. Mihalotzy even had a Hungarian colonel take a letter to Lincoln asking the president’s permission to use his name.”

“So Mihalotzy was actually a Slovak?” said Salek.

“I don’t know and I don’t think he really did either. More than anything he was a soldier, eager to get fighting, and it’s like they say — as ye sow, so shall ye reap.…”

“Was he killed?”

“At Buzzard Roost Gap, in the spring of ‘64,” said Shake. “He was in command of Hecker’s Twenty-fourth Illinois. I wasn’t with them any more. He was a real hit at the Ladies’ Circle dance, though. He charmed them with the way he spoke Slavic. That whole night it was ladies’ choice.”