Dangerously Close to One Another
Byron Hale had never gone to Sacramento, but Sacramento had gone to him.
Upon finally reaching Drum Barracks, he had struck a fast friendship with his commander, Colonel Lee. With the numerous building projects ongoing at the site, Hale had not resisted name-dropping a certain Cameron Lumber Mill. Shortly thereafter, he had been pleased to hear that this same company had made inquiries as to their needs for lumber and workhands; so Eliza was working her magic there, as well. A woman of many talents, indeed.
There had been one winter meeting in Denver, at the new mill acquired by Mr. Cameron, to show off the various new essences the Colorado locale provided. Miss Cameron had proven the most charming of hostesses. Although their reunion was carried out under the guise of mere acquaintances from a former life, and her attentions shared dutifully between all attendees, she had more than made up for that polite neglect in the night that followed; despite the steady snow that had fallen and the fire eventually dying out, he had never once felt the cold.
Weeks later, they had met once more, at the Easter service at the newly consecrated Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in San José. How no one had stumbled upon them behind the penstemons during the following picnic and egg hunt was truly a miracle.
On the Fourth of July, in the heat of Hell itself, his battalion had marched proudly in San Francisco as she’d watched the parade from the sidewalk, even going as far as waving a Union flag in perhaps reluctant support. That night, at the lavish ball held by the Civil Guard in honor of the Russian Pacific fleet, she had granted him four dances, and one more in the privacy of a darkened parlour.
Between these, they had been numerous letters, the paper burning to be read in his pocket throughout the day: always a surprise and a delight, alternating between polite small talk, scandalous gossip, comical commentary, and sprinkled with plenty of intimate innuendos. From reading her first letter in the mess hall, surrounded by his battalion, he had learned the hard way that she was just as talented in that department with her pen as she was with her person, and that her letters would be best saved for the privacy of his quarters.
For weeks, he had paced, planned, projected this very day, making sure every aspect would be perfect. That morning, he had woken with a flutter in his chest, a spring in his step, a tune on his lips. That afternoon, under a pleasant October sun, at last, there she was, the one handing him, on a velvet cushion, the shears with which he cut the ceremonial ribbon and declared Drum Barracks Hospital open. Her applause and visible pride made him feel to be the luckiest man west of the Mississipi. The King of California.
A tour ensued, of which he was the eager maître d’hôtel. To the many visitors, Hale proudly showed off the spotless wards over the gleaming redwood floors; the apothecary with the fine, hand-worked glass cabinets, full to the brink of all possible tinctures and potions; the lavish staff offices with their mahogany desks and imposing bookcases, of many an erudite tome, and finally, the state-of –the-art operating theater. He took the greatest pleasure in displaying the new surgical tools, the massive table in the center, the mirrored chandelier above and large windows on two sides to ensure constant adequate lighting from the ever reliable California sun.
Once all visitors had admired his new domain, they moved on, spurred by the promise of food and refreshments in the yard, until only Eliza remained. At last, he was free to openly gaze upon her, resplendent in her rose pink dress, or perhaps was it carnation? Or amaranth? A beautiful flower, in any case, touched here and there with dark blue details; the perfect complement to the sea of navy uniforms, and surely much more comfortable under the lingering summer heat than his own heavy wool jacket, now growing increasingly warmer along with the smile she no longer held in check.
“Anywhere else striking your fancy where I may be your humble tour guide, my dear Miss Cameron?” he asked, with an obliging bow of his head. “Perhaps, after the picnic, you might care for a visit of.... the officers’ quarters?”
“Hmmmm… I’ve seen a fair share of those. I wouldn’t mind staying here a little bit longer.” Carefully, she drew undone the perfect bow at her neck, removing her hat.
“Here?” Hale swallowed, taking stock of all these windows, of the hundred guests right outside of them, a mere few feet below.
She nodded, placing the discarded bonnet on a shelf, gliding towards the exit. “That handsome door does lock, doesn’t it? I made special instructions to that effect.” In one fluid, almost silent motion, the door was shut, the deadbolt, drawn, and she turned back to face him, rather pleased. “Fine craftsmanship, indeed; the carpenter shall have a nice bonus this Christmas.”
“It’s all splendid, truly-,” he started to thank her, but she waved him off. One finger at the time, she pulled off her lace gloves, watching him follow each movement as hypnotized.
“I also stipulated for that surgical table to be especially sturdy,” she said. “Let’s see if that request has also been granted, shall we?”
“The table,” he repeated dimly, his throat now incredibly dry, his neck unbelievably tight.
With a final flourish, the last glove came off, and was set down next to the surgical tools. He watched her touch the surgical saw, her fingertips running along the mirrored-finished metal. “You once told me you could remove a limb in under five minutes,” she said lightly, before returning her gaze to him, a challenge if there ever was one. “Let’s see if you can remove a hoopskirt faster.”
That woman will be the death of me.
Drum Barracks photo from here (yes, that is apparently a camel. I no longer question the absurd when it comes to these two.)
