Read Online In The Face Of Death by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Free Book Online Page B

worried glance toward the tall windows at the end of the ballroom. “Fires are so dangerous in a wooden city, like this one.”
    “Yes,” said one of his companions who owned two commercial warehouses near the waterfront. “I am very troubled.”
    “There has been no alarm, and no sign of flames. That must be a comfort to all of us,” said General Hitchcock in his steady way. “And no other soldiers have come here. If the riot were spreading, that must have happened. We may assume that Sherman is taking the situation in hand.” He lowered his chin onto his chest. “A pity he left the army. We need more officers like him.”
    “He appears to have an aptitude for command,” said Folsom, not entirely approvingly.
    “He is a very intelligent fellow, and persistent to a fault,” said General Hitchcock, and continued more openly, warming to his subject, “He was barely twenty when he was graduated from West Point. There were great hopes for him: he excelled in tactics, engineering, and languages, as I recall, all useful skills. He would have finished top of his class if he had not argued so much with his instructors. But he left the army. He couldn’t support his family on peace-time pay, like many other young officers.”
    “So he’s a banker and not a soldier,” said one of the men listening at the fringe of the little group around Hitchcock.
    “It’s the army’s loss, I’m afraid,” said the General.
    “How unfortunate,” said Folsom, making it a final statement.
    “Not for us, tonight,” said Folsom’s companion with a sour smile.
    Three servants carried trays of coffee cups around the ballroom, making a second effort to provide the guests with the hot, enlivening drink. At one end of the ballroom, two cooks prepared oyster-and-bacon omelettes in chafing dishes set over little oil cooking lamps; at the other, more servants poured champagne into French crystal.
    “These omelettes are all the current fashion,” said Muriel Hazellet to Madelaine as she once again attempted to coax her foreign guest to join the rest of the party in supper. “They are part of the Gold Rush tradition.”
    “So I understand,” said Madelaine, her eyes widening as she heard the sharp sound of a door opening in the distance.
    “You have nothing to fear, Madame,” her hostess told her with less certainty than she liked. “If there were any trouble, the servants would alert us.”
    “No doubt,” said Madelaine with a courteous nod.
    For the second time that evening all conversation in the ballroom stopped, as William Tecumseh Sherman strode in. His evening clothes were in disarray, his tie and collar entirely missing, and a large bruise marred the left side of his face. His red hair stood out in spikes. Dust and blood smirched his shirt and vest and there was a long rent in his trousers. Yet he was smiling fiercely. As he reached the center of the ballroom, he halted and said, “The riot is quelled. We have two dozen miscreants in jail, five with cracked skulls; only three of our men sustained any real injuries, and they are receiving treatment as I speak. The unrest is over. Order is restored. You may leave for your homes without fear.”
    The announcement was met with a cheer and more than one exclamation of relief. Captain Hazellet hurried up to shake Sherman’s hand, and was quickly followed by most of the men in the room. Someone offered him a cigar, and another lit it for him.
    Suddenly the ballroom was as noisy as it had been silent, everyone talking at once, trying to be heard above the din.
    Baron deStoeckl came up behind Madelaine once again. “He seems to have shaken off the megrims.”
    “For the time being,” said Madelaine with less certainty than the Russian. “I hope he may be in good spirits tomorrow.”
    “How little faith you have, Madame; a fight was just what he needed,” said deStoeckl, and sauntered over to the gathering around Sherman.
    Madelaine watched the celebrating, her face clouded