Breakthroughs

“I’ll tell you who’s lucky.” Herk pointed at Cinci

“That ain’t bad,” Burrhead agreed.

Cinci

A trolley line ran from the wharves to the edge of Covington’s Negro district, over by the Licking River on the east side of town. Cinci

The trolley ran past the charred ruins of a general store. Cinci

He might hear from Conroy even if the storekeeper didn’t get back into business. He looked forward to that even less than he did to smallpox. The fire that had gutted the store hadn’t been an accident.

When he got off the trolley car, he did not immediately hurry home as he’d thought he would. Instead, he paused and sniffed. A delicious, spicy odor hung in the air. Sure enough, around the corner came the horse-drawn delivery wagon from the Kentucky Smoke House, Apicius’ barbecue palace. Apicius’ son, Lucullus, was driving the wagon. He waved to Cinci

“No thanks,” Cinci

Lucullus waved again and drove on. Cinci

But not tonight. Tonight Cinci

When he opened the door, he gri

“Dadadadada!” Achilles came toddling out toward him on stiff legs spread wide. An enormous grin spread over his face, wide enough to show he had four teeth on top and two on the bottom.

Cinci

Elizabeth came out, too, and tilted her face up for a kiss. “You look tired,” she said. She was still in the shirtwaist and skirt in which she cleaned house for white Covingtonians.

“So do you,” he answered. They both laughed-tiredly. “Ain’t life bully?” he added. They laughed again. He had a pretty good notion of how the rest of the night would go. They’d eat supper. She’d wash dishes while he played with the baby. They would sit and talk and read for a little while-they both had their letters, unusual for black couples even on what had been the northern edge of the Confederate States. Then they’d get Achilles to bed, and then they’d go to bed themselves. Maybe they would make love. Odds were better they’d fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, though.

Through the first half of the evening, things went very much as he’d expected. The stew was delicious, and Cinci

Elizabeth was just drying the last dish when somebody knocked on the door. “Who’s that?” she asked, frowning. “Curfew’s comin’.”

“I’d better find out.” Cinci

Tom Ke

“Who?” Cinci

Before the white man could answer, a rifle shot rang out. “My God! I am hit!” Ke

In the barrel yard behind the U.S. First Army’s front in northern Te

Armorers carried belts of machine-gun ammunition and crates of two-inch shells for the guns of the traveling fortresses. Each one mounted not only a ca

Lieutenant Colonel Irving Morrell walked slowly along a path through the mud corduroyed with fence posts and house timbers and whatever other scraps of wood the folks who had made the path had been able to come up with. He was a lean, fit man in his mid-twenties, with a long face, pale eyes, and sandy hair he wore short. When he wasn’t paying attention to the way he walked, he limped a little, a reminder of the leg wound he’d taken not long after the start of the war. Whenever he caught himself doing it, he stopped and made himself walk straight.

The farther he went into the barrel yard, the slower he walked and the more noticeable the limp became. Finally, he stopped altogether, and stood and stared in complete fascination. He might have stood there for quite a while, had a soldier coming up the path with a roll of tent cloth on his shoulder not found him in the way and, in lieu of cursing him, inquired, “May I help you, sir?”

Thus recalled to himself, Morrell said, “Yes, if you please. I’m looking for Colonel Ned Sherrard.”

“That tent right over there, sir,” the soldier answered, pointing to one erection of green-gray among many. “Now if you’ll excuse me-”

More slowly than he should have, Morrell realized he’d been given a hint. “Sorry,” he said, and stepped aside. The soldier trudged on. He was shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Morrell had no doubt what sorts of things he was muttering, either.

No corduroyed track ran toward the tent to which the soldier had directed Morrell. Without hesitation, he stepped off the path and tromped through the mud. A couple of mechanics looked up as he squelched past them. He caught a snatch of what one of them said to the other: “-ficer not too proud to get his boots dirty.” He had been walking straight before he heard that. He walked straighter afterwards.