Walk in Hell by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

conviction that more men could handle a battalion in combat than could keep General Custer out of mischief.
    Before Custer could go off like a Yellowstone geyser, a pretty young light-skinned colored woman poked her head into the room with the map table and said, “General, suh, I got your lunch ready in the kitchen. Mutton chops, mighty fine.”
    Custer’s whole manner changed. “I’ll be there directly, Olivia. Thank you, my dear,” he said, courtly as you please. To Dowling, he added, “We’ll resume this discussion after I’ve eaten. I do declare, Major, that young lady is the one redeeming feature I have yet found in western Kentucky.”
    “Er—yes, sir,” Dowling said tonelessly. Custer took himself off with as much spry alacrity as a man carrying three quarters of a century could manage. He didn’t bother hiding the way he pursued Olivia. Amused First Army rumor said she’d been caught, too, not just chaste. Dowling thought the rumor likely true: the general carried on like an assotted fool whenever he was around his cook and housekeeper. The adjutant was more inclined to fault Olivia’s taste than Custer’s. You’d think the old boy would have had his last stand years before.
    An orderly came in with the day’s mail. “Where shall I dump all this, sir?” he asked Dowling.
    “Why don’t you give it to me, Frazier? The general’s eating his lunch.”
Or possibly his serving wench
. Dowling shook his head to get the lewd images out of it. Coughing, he went on, “I’ll sort through it for him so he can go through it quickly when he’s finished.”
    “Yes, sir.” Frazier handed him the bundle and departed. Dowling made three piles on the map table. One was for administrative matters pertaining to First Army, most of which he’d handle himself. One was for communications from the War Department. He’d end up handling most of those, too, but Custer would want to look at them first. And one was for personal letters. Custer would answer some of those—most likely, the ones full of adulation—himself. Dowling would get stuck with the rest, typing replies for the great man’s signature. His lip curled.
    And then, all at once, the sour expression vanished from his broad, plump, ruddy face. He arranged the piles and waited with perfect equanimity for General Custer to return. Meanwhile, he studied the map. If they could break through at Morehead’s Horse Mill, they really might accomplish something.
    Custer came back looking absurdly pleased with himself. Maybe he’d managed to get a hand under Olivia’s long black dress. “The mail came in, sir,” Dowling said, as if reporting the arrival of a new regiment.
    “Ah, capital! Let’s see what sort of big thing it brings us today,” Custer said grandly, hauling out a piece of slang forgotten by almost everyone since the War of Secession. As Dowling had known he would, he picked up the stack of personal mail first. As Dowling had known he would, he went from grand to glum in a matter of moments. “Oh. A letter from my wife.”
    “Was there, sir? I didn’t notice,” Dowling lied. He twisted the knife a little: “I’m sure you must be glad to hear from her.”
    “Of course I am.” Custer sounded like a liar himself. His letter opener was shaped like a cavalry saber. He used it to slit the envelope. Elizabeth Custer was in the habit of writing long, even voluminous, letters. So was the general, come to that, when he bothered to write her at all. Dowling would have bet he hadn’t said anything about Olivia in any of them, though.
    Custer fumbled for his reading glasses, perched them on his nose, and began to wade through the missive. Suddenly, he turned red, then white. His hand shook. He dropped one of the pages he hadn’t yet read.
    “Is something wrong, sir?” Dowling asked, wondering if God had chosen this moment to give First Army a new commander.
    But Custer shook his head, sending his curls flying once more. “No,” he said.