The Last Martin (18 page)

“Perhaps, Sir Knight, she also looks for you.”

“Who goes there?” The knight spun around. “Show yourself, coward!”

“Down here, sir.”

The knight sheathed his sword, dropped to his knees, then lowered himself further onto his belly. There he was, face-to-face with a centipede.

“You, dear sir, are a centi —”

“I know what I am, and I also know who you seek.”

“But how?”

The centipede slowly turned and gestured with thirty legs. “Do you see that imprint in the sand?”

“Aye.”

“I had this same conversation one day ago with a fair maiden.”

“Alia!” The White Knight crawled to her impression. It was her. He could feel it.

He grabbed the bug by a leg and lifted him to nose level. “Where did she go?”

“She looks for you, sir.” The bug twirled slowly in the air. “If you’d kindly set me down —”

The knight did. “And where does she look?”

The bug brushed himself off and saluted. “I told her to return to the spot you found her last.”

“Horrors! That would be the dungeon. The dungeon beneath the magic fortress.”

I slam the notebook closed. The magic fortress. The residence of the Black Knight. And the one place that,
according to both Dad and Google, the first Martin has been. If I want to find the beginning …

To the fort.

I rise and light-foot toward the basement door, reach it, and silently descend.

Underwear World is accurately named — briefs ball-up everywhere, and socks are strewn across the floor. Dad’s fast asleep on the La-Z-Boy, his nineteenth-century rifle across his lap. And in the corner, resting on the table, his Fort Snelling uniform, buttons shined and ready to go.

I creep up to him. He cracks open an eyelid and I jump.

“Never sneak up on a man with a gun.” He straightens his chair.

I clear my throat. “But —”

“Sentries never sleep.” Dad stretches, cracks his knuckles. “How is the story going up there?”

“You know about that too?”

Dad sets his gun down beside the chair. “I do.” He cocks his head. “Over the past month or two, you’ve been doing some changing. Some growing. I’ve been watching closely. Julia. The running team. Even detention. You’re living, son.”

I swallow hard. “It’s harder than I thought. It’s been a strange few months …” I swipe underwear onto the floor and plop onto the couch. I try to speak, but words don’t come. Dad squints and strokes his chin.

“Go on. What is it?”

“I’ve never asked you before, but … would you ever take me to work? Not just to see the place, but to, you know, stay there with you for a whole reenactment? Three or four days or whatever?”

Dad’s hand freezes. “Say that again.”

“I asked if you would ever take —”

“Oh, I heard you the first time.” He rubs his palms together. “Now we’re talking. I’ve been waiting for this moment!” Dad flies from the chair, scurries to the closet, and pulls out a tiny blue uniform. He walks it back to me and holds it up to my chest. “A small man’s uniform just right for my big man!”

I stroke the front of it. “I take it that’s a yes. Would you mind if we brought someone along? Well, if I can find him?”

“Sorry, son. We don’t have time for late-night permissions.”

I nod. “This kid comes with his own permissions. He’s, well, kind of a vagrant.”

“Vagrant, huh?” Dad eases back into his chair. “Is he local?”

“Very.”

“And you’ve know him for …” “A couple months. I even had him over when you were gone.”

Dad nods. “Well, if he’s been to the house and passed the Elaina test, I don’t see a problem.” He smiles. “Get some sleep, sentry. We’ll leave in four hours.”

I lay back. It’s been years since I’ve been down here. Years since I’ve felt close to Dad. It feels too good to lose him now.

P
OOLE! WAKE UP!”

I shake his carcass. I have no idea how rocks sleep, but I better understand the phrase.

“Poole!” I kick his legs hard. He doesn’t flinch. “Poole!” I punch his shoulder. “Fool!” Punch. “Drool!” Punch. “Poole!”

He rolls over, eyes wide open, and leaps to his feet. “Mornin’ Marty.” He stretches and shakes his head hard. “What’s going on?” Two seconds from out cold to wide awake. Freaky. He walks a circle around me, reaches out and tugs at a button. “The Civil War ended, you know.”

I clutch his forearm and drag him out of the boxcar. “We have work to do. You’re coming with me and Dad to Fort Snelling.” I face him square. “This is some serious
first Martin research. I might need help.” “Think Julia might be helpful — “ “No, she wouldn’t.”

“Just asking, is all.”

We meet Dad, the soldier, next to the Suburban. He whistles and pitches weapons through the hatch. He pauses, bayonet out, and stares at Poole. Poole stares back at Dad. This is brutal — it’s a stare-off.

Dad slowly reaches out his hand. “Who do we have here?”

“Name’s Poole.”

“Is that first or last?”

“Sorta both.” They still vice grip each other with their gazes.

I slap my hands over both their faces. “Break it up.”

“So be it.” Dad shakes my hand free. “You have a good, tough stare. I like that in a kid.” He glances from Poole to me and back again. “My son tells me we don’t need to check with any parents before …”

Poole blinks watery eyes — I reckon from the stareoff — and shakes his head. Dad tousles his hair. “A rug like this, you’ll fit right in.” He winks. “I don’t have a uniform for you, but I reckon I can scrounge up something at the fort.” Dad grabs Poole’s shoulder. “So long as you don’t mind fighting on our side.”

The 5:00 a.m. ride is quiet and lulls me to sleep. I wake to pebbles clinking against our underbelly, and we pull into the Fort Snelling lot.

“Up, soldiers.” Dad slaps my knee. “It’s time to go inside. You’ll meet the rest of the Fifth Regiment.”

I groan and push out and take one step toward the fort. My stomach aches and my head spins. I grab for Poole’s shoulder.

“Hang on to me. I think I’m going to — Whoa.”

Both legs buckle. Poole wraps his arm under my shoulder and lowers me back into the car. “Sit here, friend. It just hit ya?”

I swallow hard and swipe sweat off my forehead. I’m clammy. The curse.

Dad laughs with a clump of soldiers near the fort’s gate. Poole swallows hard. “Is this sick the same sick as the sick at the cemetery?”

“I think so.”

He rubs his chin. “We might be getting close. Can you stand?”

I rise slowly and the world steadies. Poole pats my back. “Onward soldier.”

We join Dad beneath the Gatehouse.

“Gentlemen,” Dad eyes me and straightens. “I’d like to introduce you to Privates Boyle and Poole, fresh up from — where did you two say you were from?”

I peek at Poole. He smiles confidently. “St. Paul. Fresh up from St. Paul.”

A fat soldier spits a wad that splats over my shoe. “Ain’t never heard of it. Lad’s had a touch of the scurvy.”

1820. We’re in 1820.

I slap Poole. “What my friend meant to say is St. Louis.”

“Home.” The fat guy smiles and nods. “Heard talk that the First Regiment is coming up to spell us. That true, Boyle?”

Dad bumps my foot with his rifle butt.

“Uh, yeah. There’s talk. You might be heading home soon.”

“Hallelujah! Private Scuttle at your service.” A slim soldier reaches out his hand. “I don’t think I could bear the privations of another winter up here. It’s not possible —”

“What do you know of privations, Scuttle? You spent the cold snap feigning sickness and heating your backside in front of a fireplace.” The big man turns to me. “Private Cork. Pleased to meet you. Any relation to Martin Boyle —
the
Martin Boyle?”

Dad jumps in. “A naming coincidence. He and Poole are new recruits. The first reverie is in five minutes, and if Colonel Snelling sees Poole out of uniform, he’ll be cat-whipped for sure. Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get him an army issue.” He grabs Poole. “Can you run? You don’t want to make a bad impression on the Colonel.”

They hustle beneath the Gatehouse arch and into the fort.

“Let’s go, men.” Dad leads us into the central clearing, where sleepy soldiers and musicians with drum and bugle mill about.

I grab Dad and pull him to the side. “This pretending is great and all. But I was wondering if there was someone around who could give me a tour and answer questions and stuff.”

The look he gives me is grim and terrible. “You didn’t travel seven hundred miles up the Mississippi to take a tour. Your mother and fiancée —”

Fiancée?

“Aren’t you pushing this fantasy a little too far?”

“Perhaps you
were
touched with the scurvy. The missive I received from Julia was clear. She wants to see you back safely in a few years. She was none too pleased when you enlisted, remember that.” He straightens my buttons. “Sharpen up, soldier. Or you’ll find yourself in the Guard House.”

I smile. Fiancée. Julia. Okay, I’ll go along with this for a while.

Fifes tweet and bugles blast around me.

Dad yanks me back to the stone barracks. “Roll call. Look sharp.”

I don’t feel sharp. I feel dull. Very dull.

A fine-dressed man strides out from the only house within fort walls. Clad in a clean, blue uniform with shiny buttons, the soldier struts like Mr. Halden, as
though men should cower before him. They do. He slows when he reaches the hundred soldiers gathered on our side of the parade grounds. Beside him, a weasely man with a nasal voice:

“Arrington.”

“Here.”

“Artle.”

“Aye.”

“Bain.”

“Present.”

“Boyle.”

“We’re.” My
what
and Dad’s
here
combine and the regiment chuckles.

“Silence. Boyle step forward.”

Dad takes two giant steps forward. I peek around the head in front of me.

“Officer Boyle. Are you mocking the calling of the roll?”

“No, sir!” Dad shouts.

“Your display caused a disruption. For that, you will be given —”

“Hang on.” I step out and slowly weave between rows of men. “Are you Colonel Snelling?”

More laughter.

“Speak one more time at your peril, soldier.”

I raise my hands toward the sky. “But I just got here and I didn’t get the official rulebook, you know, like
when Halden gave me The Treatment. Hot shower, cold shower, like that. I didn’t get the rules. And I don’t want Da — this officer to get in trouble when it should be me. My bad.”

It’s silent throughout the fort.

Snelling clears his throat. “Do you realize that insubordination leads to mutiny?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. You’ve helped me see the error of my ways.”

“Meet me in my quarters at noon.”

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir. Where are your quarters?” I scan the yard, point at the only two-story home in sight. “In there?”

Laughter explodes from the men, and a lone voice calls, “He’s a jester from St. Louis!”

“We’ll see if he still jests after our visit.” Colonel Nasty backhands the Weasel. “Continue the call!”

“Bronson.”

“Here!”

They finish roll and Snelling leaves and men exhale. They gather around me and pat me on the back.

“I’ve been wanting to speak at ease during the call ever since I got here,” Scuttle salutes me. “Boyle, you’re a man after your own name.” He turns smartly and disappears into the barracks.

“Hey! What does that mean? What do you know about my name?”

“Martin,” Dad pulls me aside, whispers, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“But I screwed up. I’ll take the punishment.” I point over my shoulder. “What did that guy mean ‘A man after your own name'?”

Dad exhales. “We’ll go talk to the Colonel. He’ll understand that you’re just here for fun and you’re not a recruit.”

I press my hand against his forehead. “Sir, you seem to have a touch of fever. I did too before I left my Julia in St. Louis. A poultice of fig juice seemed to do the trick.”

Dad removes his cap and rubs his forehead. “Private Boyle. As you were.”

I
SIT OUTSIDE THE FORT’S GENERAL STORE — THE ONE marked Luther Leonard, Sutler — watching soldiers and women shuffle in and out.