“I see.”
“I came west from a small town in southeast Missouri,” she said. “I thought I could make it on my own, but it is very hard for a woman, alone, to find honest employment. Out of desperation, I drifted into prostitution. You can’t be just a little bit of a prostitute—you either are, or you aren’t. And I am. I was told that it would be easy work, and I would make a lot of money.”
“Och, but it isn’t what you thought, is it?”
“You got that right, Mister. The saloon gets most of the money, and as for easy work”—she put her fingers to the scar on her face—“there is nothing easy about dealing with drunken cowboys when they get frustrated because they can’t—uh—perform.”
“Yes, I saw an example of that back in the Occidental Saloon.”
“That was Clyde Shaw,” Martha said. “He isn’t the one who cut me, but he does like to slap the girls around a bit. You haven’t told me your name.”
“Oh, please forgive me, lass, I apologize for my lack of manners. The name is MacCallister. Duff MacCallister.”
“Mr. MacCallister, believe me, you have nothing to apologize for.”
Duff chuckled. “If that were but true,” he said.
“MacCallister. Are you kin to Falcon MacCallister?”
“Aye,” Duff said, surprised to hear Falcon’s name mentioned. “He would be my cousin. ’Tis surprised I am to hear ye say his name! How is it that ye know him?”
“I know who he is, but I don’t know him. I’ve never met him,” Martha said.
“Then, how can it be that ye know who he is, if ye’ve never met him?”
“Don’t you know?” Martha replied. “Falcon MacCallister is well known throughout the West. Why, there have been books written about him, as well as his famous father.”
“He has a brother and sister who are famous as well,” Duff said. “They are actors upon the stage in New York.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Oh, how I would love to visit New York someday. And go to a play. And see all the sights. Have you been to New York, Mr. MacCallister?”
“Aye.”
“If I ever get to visit New York, I will never leave,” Martha said.
Duff and Martha continued their visit for the four hours it took to travel from North Bend to Central City.
“I had a true love once,” Martha said. “But his father was a very wealthy man and he wanted his son to marry the daughter of a wealthy man. My pa was a preacher man and he barely made a living from it. Leo, that was my beau’s name, came to see me the night before he was to get married. He wanted me to still be there for him after he got married. He said he would set me up with a house and would come see me when he could. I got very angry with him for asking me to do something like that. I wanted to know what kind of woman he thought I was. The truth is, I wanted to do it, but I was afraid to. Something like that would have killed my pa. So, I left home, rather than stay there and take a chance that I might take Leo up on his offer.”
Martha made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “I was too good to be a kept woman—but now look at me. I am a whore.”
“We cannot always direct the paths our lives will take,” Duff said. “We can only but go where life leads us.”
“If you mean we have no control over our own lives, you’ve got that right,” Martha said. “Take you, for example. You said you are from Scotland, but here you are in America. Did you plan to come here?”
Duff shook his head. “I had no such plans.”
Duff told Martha about Skye, and that she had died on the day before they were to wed. He did not tell her how she died, nor did he tell her of his own actions after she died. But he did tell Martha how deep his love was for Skye and how much he grieved for her.
Duff’s tale left Martha in tears, and she reached across the space that separated them and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. MacCallister, you are a good and decent man,” she said. “You are as good and decent a man as I have ever met. I hope that you can find peace in your heart. And I hope that someday you can find a woman who is worthy of your love.”
Duff had welcomed Martha’s company while she was on the train, for the conversation helped pass the time on the long journey. As the train continued west, Duff stared through the window at the vast, open, and featureless plains, interrupted occasionally by small, strange-looking houses that appeared to be made of the same ground from which they rose. That idea was confirmed when he asked the conductor about them, and was told that they were sod houses, built by cutting sod from the ground. They passed through places like Elm Creek, Plum Creek, and Oglala, and he was once again alone with his thoughts. Being alone with his thoughts was not all that pleasant, for he could not get that last picture of Skye from his mind.
Skye lifted her hand to his face and put her fingers against his jaw. She smiled. “’Twould have been such a lovely wedding,” she said. She drew another gasping breath, then her arm fell and her head turned to one side.
Duff shook his head to clear it of such thoughts, then continued to stare through the window at the boundless, grassy plains. On the one hand, there was nothing to see; on the other, there was almost a grandeur to the vast openness and desolation, a vastness of solitude without a tree, river, bird, or animal of any kind.
As they approached the mountains, now a purple line far to the west, the plains began to change. The grass was greener and the wildflowers more profuse and more colorful. Finally, the isolation, the rhythmic motion of the car, the drone and clack of the wheels as they passed over each rail section, and the comfort of his seat caused Duff to drift off to sleep.
Duff was cold. It had surprised him when he first arrived in Egypt to learn that the desert could get cold at night. Part of the chill, he realized, might be the task that lay before him. The Egyptians had set up their defenses at Tel-el-Kebir. The desert around Tel-el-Kebir was extremely flat, so any approach by the British would easily be spotted. As a result, the British decided to march across the desert by night and attack the Egyptian positions at dawn. The British army was guided by Commander Wyatt Rawson, naval aide-de-camp to Lieutenant-General Wolseley. Calling upon his experience as a navigator, he plotted their course across the desert as if they were at sea, using the stars to guide him. The army reached their destination, then moved into position silently.
As a captain, Duff MacCallister was the commanding officer of one of the companies in the 42nd Foot, and once they were in position, he visited with his troops, calming them, preparing them for the battle that was to come.
“Captain, will we hear the pipes?” Private Kirk asked.
“Aye, lad, the pipes will play.”
“Pity the man who hears the pipes and was not born in Scotland,” Kirk said.
Although many of the men were visibly nervous, none seemed so frightened as to be unable to perform his duty, and after visiting every one of his men, Duff returned to the front of his company.
“’Tis a good officer ye be, visitin’ with the men like that,” First Sergeant Wallace said.
“’Tis easy to be a good officer when I have good men and good NCOs, First Sergeant,” Duff replied.
“Captain MacCallister? Where is Captain MacCallister?”
Duff heard his name being called in the darkness, and he recognized the voice of Colonel Groves, the commanding officer of the regiment.
“I am here, sir,” Duff called back.