The Last Martin (19 page)

“Psst.”

I lean forward and peer around. The sound came from nowhere, and I gentle back against cold wood.

“Psst yourself.” I fold my hands. “If this is some wacko curse-related voice in my head, I’m a little busy right now.”

“Psst. Kid.”

The voice rises from beneath me, and I stand and kick my talking stool.

“Ouch! Never seen a bench speak before?”

A young boy, maybe eight, leaps out of a nearby rain barrel and plops down on my stool. “Did you like
that? Did you know there are tunnels? Everywhere. Beneath all the buildings. Most of the men don’t know ‘em, but I do.”

I retake my seat. “I’m Private Boyle. And you are?”

“Squirrel. Call me Squirrel.” He looks me all over. “You look like a kid.”

“Am not. I’m engaged, you know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Am too. Her name is Julia.”

“Let’s see your ring.”

I stretch my bare fingers. “Lost it. It was bitter cold, and fortunately I came across the teepee of friendly Indians. I traded the ring for food.”

He wipes his sweaty hair from his eyes. “Wise move. Do you want to take a look around? Since you’re new here and all.”

“That would be good.” I grimace. “I have a few hours to kill. The Officer of the Day —”

“Officer Fennel.”

“Yeah,” I say, “him. He’s trying to decide whether I should be allowed to start sentry duty. I guess I caused quite a disturbance when I arrived. Wait.”

Thankful. I haven’t erupted yet today.

“I’m having trouble thinking — Got it. I’m thankful for this squirrel that crawled out from beneath my bench!”

“Quiet down!” he hisses. “It’s best not to let everyone know where you are.”

I whisper, “Fair enough. Lead on.”

Squirrel shows me the barracks and the guard towers.
He introduces me to everyone in the commissary and shows me how to work the well.

“One last place you should see.”

He leads me to a stone building. I know what it is, iron bars are a giveaway. “The Guard House. There’s a Reprobate in there. That’s the reason for the guard.”

“I don’t need to see inside.” I turn.

“Okay, I’ll get back to my tutor.” Squirrel skips away. “I just thought that being a Boyle, you might want to talk to him about Martin.”

I freeze. “Come back!”

Squirrel is gone.

My heartbeat quickens and I breathe deeply.
Calm down, Martin.
I approach the guard. “I hear you have a Reprobate.”

“A drunkard.” The guard turns his head and spits. “You know how the Colonel feels about drunkards.”

“Absolutely.” I bite my lip. “Mind if I step inside?”

“Go on in.” Spit, spit. “Don’t speak to him. He’s to be isolated for another twenty-four hours.”

I slip inside the darkened building. It takes my eyes time to adjust, and when they do, there’s not much to see. A table, a bench, and a thick wooden door with iron bars. I step forward and peek through the door. Inside are two solitary confinement rooms and a third enclosure with a mattress and a sleeping man.

“Excuse me,” I whisper. “Mr. Reprobate, sir?”

He doesn’t shift.

“Um, hmm!” My throat does nothing either. I lower myself onto the long bench outside the cell area. Castiron keys hang above my head.

This is dumb. What am I thinking? Like some snoozing actor is gonna know anything about two hundred years ago. Go to the origin of the curse? Thanks for nothing, Dr. Death. You have a nice office and nice plants and a nice secretary and lots of years ahead, but I have a little over a week, and I’m feeling dizzy for no reason and I’m only thirteen.

“I’m running out of time to search —”

“Who you looking for?” The Reprobate rolls over and groans. “What day is it?”

“Uh, I don’t even know what year it is. Oops, I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

He winces and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “I don’t deserve to be in here. I didn’t do anything uncomely.” He pushes his hands through his hair. “I just wanted to forget.”

I peek toward the door and lean in. “Forget what?”

He shakes his head and buries it in his hands.

“I know how that feels.” I stand. “Well, I gotta get going. It’s almost noon. Nice to meet you.” I shoot him an awkward wave. “I’ll be around when you get out, so
in case I bump into you, my name’s Boyle. Martin Boyle.”

The Reprobate hurtles himself against the bars and
reaches for my coat. “Martin, is that you?” He wipes his eyes. “I knew you looked familiar … But I saw you buried! I dug the hole myself. How — “ His eyes narrow and he whispers, “How?”

I yank free, trip over the spit can, and fall on my butt. The guard rushes in.

“What did our Reprobate do to you?”

“Nothing,” I say. “He did nothing.”

“Do you have amnesia, Martin?” The prisoner strains his arm through the bars. “It’s me, James. James Delaney, the stonemason. Your neighbor! You saved my family. You saved the entire camp. Don’t you remember me?”

The guard rounds my shoulder with his arm and leads me outside. “I apologize. Poor man suffers from fits.” He leads me outside, but James’s voice rises to a holler. “It was my hand on the stone. I chiseled it last winter; I would do it again for you. There can only be one Martin!”

A knife-like pain jabs my leg. I spin slowly and stare at the entrance.
Dad’s words. Each year at the cemetery. Those are always Dad’s words.

“I need to go back in there!” I yank free, but the guard blocks my way.

“Calm, man. Do you not understand isolation?”

“Do you not understand
curse
?” I feint to the left, feint to the right, and leap toward the door and a screaming James.

The guard swings his musket, catches my foot, and I tumble to the ground. “You’ve just earned yourself a trip to the Colonel.” He yanks me by the sleeve. “Howard!” Another soldier comes running. “Take my post!”

We stagger across the parade grounds. With each step I move farther from someone who knows something I desperately need to hear. Ahead is the nicest looking building in the whole place. The house. The Commanding Officer’s Quarters. A distant bugle blows — the 12:00 p.m. call.

Noon. Right on time.

I’m whisked inside the brick building. It feels modern; at least it probably was in 1820. It kind of looks like our house, which feels years away.

Inside, kids laugh and race around. One scampers up to me.

“Squirrel? You live here? You’re the Colonel’s son?”

He grins. “Daddy.” Squirrel peeks nervously into the back room. “I’m supposed to keep my distance from you.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Josiah? Away from that man.”

“Yes, Father.” Squirrel turns and runs outside. I think to follow him, but three soldiers posted inside the doorframe change my mind.

“Come, Private.” Colonel Snelling motions toward the back room. I follow him in and he closes the door behind us. Inside are a desk, two chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling post.

He shoots me a Creaker-look, eases down behind the desk, and lights a pipe. “Private Boyle … with such a name.” He blows a perfect smoke ring. “You know the standard events of this residence. To welcome strangers to the fort, for balls, for celebrations.”

I straighten. “That sounds fun!”

He tongues his cheek. “None of these constitute why I’ve brought you here. You cannot plead ignorance to the riotous behavior you’ve caused.”

“You call a few chuckles riotous? It’s a good thing you don’t serve prunes —”

“Silence!”

“Right,” I whisper. “Not another word.”

“You will find me a fair man, but a harsh one. When a soldier under my authority sparks discord, I act quickly. It is a cancer that must be dealt with immediately.”

I say nothing.

“Good, you just took the first steps toward civility by holding your tongue. The cat should finish your journey.”

“The cat?”

He strides to the door. “Steward!”

The Colonel turns back to me. “Remove your shirt and lean against the pole.”

“You’re kidding. Wait. This is enough. You’re not Colonel Snelling, and I’m not Martin Boyle — well, okay, I’m Martin Boyle — but you’re not Snelling. Your name is probably Leonard or Harry or something and your wife is Tina and you live in downtown Minneapolis. I’m not stripping for —”

“Strip!”

“Okay, okay.” I slip out of my shirt. “Why am I doing this?”

“Nine lashes with the knotted rope should thrash the insubordination out of you.” He turns toward the open door. “Steward!”

“Sorry, I was havin’ trouble finding the cat.”

Poole walks in and winks.

I stare. “How did —”

“How many lashes, sir?”

“Nine.” Colonel Snelling puffs out one more blast of smoke. “Then show Private Boyle out.” The Colonel exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

I stare at Poole. “How did you get this job?”

“You didn’t bring me along for nothing. Now lean against the pole.”

“You’re not using that on me!” I back toward the wall.

Poole drops his arms and his volume. “'Course not. But in case the Colonel steps in …”

“Oh, good idea.” I wrap my arms round the pole. Poole steps behind me.

“One!” Poole yells.

“Oh, stop, I can take no more!” I smile and give my most pitiful howl.

“Two!”

“The pain, the pain!”

We fake the beating, and I pretend to holler in agony.

“Nine!”

Whack! The knotted rope rips across my back and I fall forward.

“Oh!” I stumble up, my back on fire. “Why did you hit me?” I hiss.

“He might check your back. It should be welted a little. I had to give you one —”

The door flies open and Snelling stands in the entry. “Steward, you may leave. From the looks of it, our young Private Boyle will cause no more problems. Private Boyle, report to sentry duty at the Half Moon Battery.” Poole leaves. I slip into my shirt and stumble outside. I don’t know where I’m headed, I just need to be out of there; where my friend whips me because some guy named Leonard pretending to be Colonel Snelling tells him to.

“Half Moon. Half Moon.” I peek back toward the Guard House where James sits behind bars. “I’ll be
back.”

I run up the limestone steps to the top of the battery and my jaw drops. It’s a stony platform that overlooks two huge rivers. I walk to the edge.

“One hundred feet down.” A voice squeaks behind me. “That there’s the Mississippi, and over there’s the Minnesota. They come together beneath your feet. There’s no more important watch than this.” The sentry on duty walks up to me and extends a hand. “Private Powell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I shake his hand. “My name’s Martin Boyle, uh, Private Boyle.”

“Funny.” He rolls his eyes, then squints hard and looks at me. “You’re aren’t jesting.”

“No, that’s me.”

“Well, all right then, Boyle. You should know your way around.” He frowns. “Where’s your rifle?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Here.” Powell hands me his. “Take mine. I’d be honored.”

I slowly reach for the gun. “Is it … loaded?”

“Of course. Ever shot a hostile Indian with a blank?”

I shake my head.
Mom would freak. Absolutely freak.

“And one more thing. What am I watching for?”

“Anything.” He points a pretend rifle over the edge. “Indians!” He runs to the other side of the battery and
takes aim at the invisible enemy. “British!” Powell
drops to his knees, whips his torso around and shoots. “French.”

“Right.” I turn toward the rivers, and my vision starts to blur. I swallow and lean hard on the rifle.

Powell descends the stairs behind me. “It really is an honor to have you here.”

The wind whips over the top of the battery, and I sit down as dizziness returns. This may all be pretend, but it’s the realest pretend I’ve ever known. In time, my legs feel strong enough to support, and I stand and watch mighty rivers converge. In the distance, a speedboat skips over the waves, coming closer, closer.

“Sentry Boyle spots danger! He rises to his feet. The threat approaches, fast, furious. It’s a speedboat filled with hostile Indians. Boyle must think fast if he is to save the fort. He grabs the loaded gun, realizes not even the crackpots in this fort would give him a loaded weapon, takes aim at the boat, and fires —”