BLACK POWDER, GRAY HOPE:
A CIVIL WAR ROMANCE

Chapter Two

A Letter from Maryland

     Sharp sunlight cut through crisp air. The sun was moving higher in the southern sky each day, signifying the slow return to warmer days. Piles of snow flanked the broad streets of the little town at the bend of the Minnesota River. On the roofs of the one- and two-story buildings snow reposed sedately waiting for melting warmth from the sun. On several roof edges little drips of water fell straight down where the water burrowed a vertical 'tube' into the piled snow. Brick chimneys and steel stovepipes sent columns of smoke into calm air. In the streets steam rose from piles of horse dung.
     On the boardwalk in front of Morgan's Saloon dry wood led to the edge where steaming wood marked the demarcation line between sun and shadow. Standing on the dry edge, a man in Union blue with black riding boots looked up the street, then across toward the river. He heard the bells on the harness of a team of dray horses pulling a sledge loaded with twenty-foot tree trunks. ‘Heading for the mill,’ he thought. He looked at the reins in his hand, bent over and tied the reins to a steel ring fastened to the top of a wood post. The brown mare with its saddle and dark blue saddle blanket watched the man with passive eyes. He had allowed her to drink at the water tank up the street. Fort Lincoln was three miles from the center of Mankato; he knew his mare deserved a drink.
     The smell of frying pork and acrid tobacco assailed the young officer's nose when he pushed open the door to Morgan's. A puff of smoke escaped past his head. Blue haze fogged the air at eye level; the young man's eyes turned moist. Half a dozen oil lamps and candles added to the nearly toxic mix of smoke and carbon particles. At the mid-point of the long, narrow saloon stood a pot-bellied stove that held a steel-blue coffee pot, largely ignored. The stove appeared to be sucking the toxic air into its chimney while drawing fresh air into Morgan's. There were many people present, but only the bar's owner was likely to suffer an excruciating headache from the fumes. Sol Morgan, the owner, managed to squeeze out a smile at the young officer.
     Union Army capes were hung along the wall. Four of the new U.S. Model 1861 Springfield rifles were also hung on hooks, like four soldiers standing at attention. Their owners, dressed in the standard woolen uniform, sat at one table with mugs of beer, playing a game of cards. The men were playing a game they recently learned, called Bluff. The men had heard the game was also called 'Poker.' At a second table, two Union officers also had mugs of beer. The six Union men puffed on pipes, intent on adding to the blue haze. Two of Sol Morgan's regular customers sat at the bar, likewise enjoying the fresh beer from a new keg.
     “Sullivan,” ventured one officer. “Tis 'bout time.”
     The young officer with the sparkling blue eyes and handsome nose broke into a smile and walked to where Captain Rufus Ambler and Sgt. Ezra Thompson of the 10th Minnesota were enjoying a 'beer break' from the daily tedium in Fort Lincoln. Sullivan pulled a chair out and sat on it, waving to Sol Morgan behind the bar. 'Three more' he gesticulated with three fingers.
     “It's always about time with you, Ambler, isn't it?” Sullivan admired the military bearing of the older Ambler, but disliked Ambler's untrimmed beard. The fact that Sergeant Thompson was clean shaven ('each and every day') had earned the Sergeant a measure of respect among the officers and men of the 10th Regiment. Duty on the frontier during the long winter of 1862-63 had been dull, devoid of excitement. Most of the men of the 10th had taken to growing beards, mustaches or goatees.
     Captains Ambler and Sullivan knew their time was limited. Their men were building stockades while their company sergeants drilled the men in close order drill and marksmanship. The men in Company A and H were struggling to master the steps in the firing sequence. Ambler and Sullivan had a side bet of $5 that all the privates in their companies could fire twice within 60 seconds. Sergeant Thompson was frustrated. 'We get 89 men to do it correctly and number 90 forgets his powder,' as Thompson noted with a laughing growl about 'his' men.
     “We have our orders,” said Sullivan.
     “Ridgely?” asked Ambler. The rumor around Fort Lincoln was that the 10th Minnesota would be sent to join Colonel Sibley's punitive expedition into the Dakota Territory.
     “Almost,” said Sullivan. “The rendezvous will be at the Redwood River. From what I hear, that was where Captain Marsh was ambushed, was it not?” he said looking at Sergeant Thompson. The older man, a veteran of the Mexican War in 1848, nodded his head in agreement.
     “Finish the stockades, drill the men, and get them ready for a long march into Dakota Territory. Leave 40 men in place and march for the Redwood River on April 15th.”
     “Split the company?” stammered Ambler. He was protective of his men. Company A had built a formidable stockade near Garden City, one of the string of forts to protect the frontier. Ambler did not relish the idea of leaving 40 men to guard and defend Garden City if the massed army of the Dakota attacked the small stockade.
     “Split on a temporary basis,” added Sullivan. “The 11th Minnesota will arrive at Mankato on April 30. Your Sergeant can then muster the 40 troops and march them up the Minnesota where you will find the rest of us enjoying the camaraderie of warm campfires on the breezy prairie,” added Sullivan with a chuckle.
     “More drills?” said Sergeant Thompson wondering why Col. Sibley would want his men drilling while in camp in hostile territory.
     “Drills and a show of force, according to our Lieutenant Colonel Jenison.” It was no secret that the former governor of Minnesota, Colonel Sibley was not in favor of an all-out war with a mounted Dakota cavalry. “Sibley wants the word to travel to the Dakota. He is going out with 1500 men and 30 cannon.”
     “Our regiment numbers 870 men," said Thompson.
     “The remaining companies of the 9th Minnesota will come west and join Sibley's army on the Redwood. There are rumors that three companies of cavalry will join us in camp.”
“Three companies?” said Thompson with a skeptical sneer.
     “Organized inactivity in January, training at Fort Snelling under the watchful eye of his pomposity, the indecisive, slow-moving Sibley.”
     “That's right,” laughed Sullivan. “They will want privates with shovels for special details on the picket line each morning.”
     “I only have one word that can adequately describe picket line detail with shovels…” began Thompson. He laughed and added, “Horse pucky.”
     Sullivan raised a hand to stop him. The young captain saw a young woman coming out of the kitchen with plates of fish and fried potatoes. She was dressed in a lightweight 'greenish' cotton smock over a white blouse and wrapped in a gargantuan white apron. She had the nicest smile and the prettiest teeth he had seen in a while. She was looking directly at him, as if she was challenging him. For a moment Sullivan felt the heat of her eyes. She was appraising him like a jeweler examines a curious rough-cut stone. Her eyes were dark in the dim light and her hair was pulled behind her head in a round knot.
     When she passed Sullivan he saw a bulge on her hip. He began to wonder and looked at Ambler with a question. Ambler remarked, “She wears an officer's model .38 caliber pistol.”
     “Do you think…” began Sullivan when he turned to watch Kelsey where she was fussing over the four privates at the next table. He found himself looking at her bottom and he quickly glanced away.
     He looked at Ambler and repeated his question. Ambler, for his part, stalled while a smile formed behind his considerable beard. “She's not,” he said finally. “Save yourself the trouble. Mr. Morgan made that much clear to me when we first arrived.”
     Sullivan felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned slightly and saw the greenish smock and apron out of the corner of his eye.
     “What trouble, Captain?” she said, directing her question to Captain Ambler. When Ambler said nothing, she looked at Thompson and he looked down into his mug of beer. “You said, 'She's not. Save yourself the trouble.' Were you referring to me?”
     The color was coming up in Ambler's cheeks. He tried to look Kelsey in the eye but found he couldn't. He looked at Sullivan, sitting there with Kelsey's hand on his shoulder, almost as if he was asking Sullivan for a little help out of his predicament.
     “Well, young Captain, what do you say?”
     “Sullivan,” said the new man at the table. “Company H of the 10th Minnesota. And you are?”
     “Kelsey O'Welin, Cook First Class at Morgan's.”
     “Now that we have been introduced,” added Sullivan, “your question was…?”
     “Am I some kind of trouble?”
     “Do you want to be…” mumbled Sullivan, “trouble, that is?”
     “I can take care of myself,” she answered, patting his shoulder.
     “No doubt of it.”
     “Captain Ambler, you know me. We met …what? …four weeks ago?”
     “Yes, we did,” said Ambler meekly.
     “Have I displayed any temerity in handling myself around these men, these big brave soldiers that are itching for action?”
     “Honest to God, Sullivan. What she says is true.” Ambler began to describe an incident in which Kelsey whipped out her pistol and whacked a man up side of his head for patting her on the bottom.
     “I would think,” remarked Sullivan, “that a young lady who works in a saloon ought to expect to get patted on the bottom.” He said this with a bare smile on his face. When Thompson's head came up he saw that Sullivan was winking at Ambler.
     “In point of fact, these men who are contributing their own sweat and labor to building forts out here on the frontier might be entitled to a little pat on the bottom of a beautiful woman,” added Sullivan.
     Ambler held up a hand, as if to stop Kelsey from shooting this stupid man who would make such a remark. “You'll have to forgive him, Miss Kelsey. He is suffering from two months in the field, much too long without seeing a member of the female tribe.”
Kelsey leaned forward and wagged a finger at Ambler. “That's no excuse. You men are gentlemen.” Sullivan was aware of the soft curve of her breast inside her smock. He turned and looked up at her face. Her lips were raised in a gentle smile. Her lips were painted in the color of summer pansies, a pale pink. Her eyes reminded Sullivan of the dark green on the underside of oak leaves. His hand came up and rested on her hip, enjoying the feel of her body beneath his fingers.
     For three …four …five seconds and then he realized what he had done and pulled his hand away in time to see Kelsey had her hand on her pistol and was turning toward him.
     “Honest to God,” he began.
     “I hope so,” she said smiling. “I hope you are honest.”
     Sullivan sat without moving. He was aware of her hand on her pistol. He looked up at her lips, and then he discovered that her eyes were a dark green, like a forest at mid-day. She began to smile at him. He felt his stomach growl. He forced a smile onto his face.
     “Whatever you are fixing for lunch …we will have three,” he said quickly.
     “Fast thinker, are you?” said Kelsey.
     “That's our Captain Sullivan,” said Sergeant Thompson.
     “Never bash a customer,” she said.
     “I'm forgiven then,” said Sullivan, “for my lack of judgment a moment ago?” He saw her hand come off her pistol when she moved to pick up the empty beer mugs off the table.
     “This time only, Captain Sullivan,” she answered with the severe tones of a rural school mistress. She looked at him and smiled. “Cause I like your style.” She stood and looked at him, ignoring the other two men. Thompson cleared his throat. Ambler picked up his mug, pulled his beard down and proceeded to drink. For a moment Sullivan looked like a deer startled in a clearing. He straightened up, tried to smile back but gave up and watched her while she walked back to her kitchen.
     “Lucky man,” said Ambler.
     “You are referring to me?”
     “As I said.”
     “How so?”
     “You are the first man I have seen her smile at in the last two months.” Ambler remembered his first day at Morgan's and the two men who began to argue. Apparently they both wanted to ask Kelsey O'Welin to the Saturday night dance at the Mankato House. They both had firm grips on the other's shirt and suspenders when one set of suspenders let loose of their charge and the man's pants began to fall. He was so surprised that he tried to step away from his opponent; they both fell in a tangle of arms and legs and laughter throughout the saloon. Ambler glanced back to the kitchen and saw Miss O'Welin watching the scene. She did not smile. Her face reminded Ambler of nothing so much as his own mother saying, 'that’s how men are, brutish and rough.’
     “She smiled at you,” said Sergeant Thompson. “What did you do?”
      "Something I dare not do again,” said Sullivan laughing.