The Railroad War Read Free

restrain him.
    “You may have noticed, or you may not have,” he said, ignoring her hand, “but the girl is already showing a fair portion of
     naked breast. Not that anyone would bother to notice the shame of it, not in the condition it’s in right now.”
    “Oh!” Ariel cried, realizing he was right, for Miranda’s left breast was almost entirely exposed. Hastily Ariel draped her
     shawl over it.
    Miranda moaned deeply when she did it.
    “Idiot!” Ashbel said. “She
hurts!
Don’t let anything touch that!” And he flung the shawl aside. Then he unfastened several more of the blouse buttons. “Can
     you breathe better now, darlin’?” he said to her. “What about your waist? Is that too tight, too? Damn women’s clothes. I
     don’t know who decided to bind up so ferociously a machine God wanted to make loose for dropping babies.”
    “Uncle Ashbel!” Ariel protested, shocked.
    “Yes, Uncle, I can breathe better,” Miranda was saying. “It hurts, though. Mightily.”
    “Of course it does.” He gave a hard look at the charred and blackened flesh. “It’s ugly,” he said, “but maybe not as bad as
     it looks.” Then he raised his head and looked around. “Where’s that damned conductor?” He turned to his brother. “Well, Pierce,
     move. Quick. Go to the conductor and make him give you some cold, clean water. I’m going to clean her up.”
    “Do you think you’d better?” Pierce Kemble said. It was his first contribution to the incident. “Don’t you think there will
     be a qualified doctor at West Point? Shouldn’t she be greased or something?”
    “You go do what I told you, Pierce, and we’ll argue later about further treatment.”
    Pierce did as he was told. Soon he returned with a pitcher of water. While he was away, Ashbel tore Ariel’s shawl into strips,
     and then he asked Ariel if she would wash the wound, which she did—gently, lovingly.
    Even so, Miranda cried out a number of times. Ariel soothed her as best she could. While Ariel was cleansing the wound, Ashbel
     offered Miranda some whiskey from his hip flask. She refused it.
    When Ariel was done, she and her uncle both carefully inspected the result. “You’ll live,” he announced, “though you might
     end up with some kind of a scar. But don’t worry, girl,” he smiled. “It’ll give you a story for your husband. In fact, if
     I were you, I’d work up more than just one story about it.” His smile broadened, and he once more surveyed the burned spot.
     Then with an amused roll of his eyes, he said, “You could have picked a lot worse place to have a scar.”
    “Uncle!” Ariel admonished.
    But Miranda, lowering her gaze, giggled a little. Then she raised her face and sought first her uncle’s and then her sister’s
     eyes. After that she touched each of them lightly on the cheek. Without speaking, she reached across Ariel’s lap to where
     her shawl was lying, and, arranging it carefully so it wouldn’t touch her wound, she drew it over her nakedness.
    There was a bustling, noisy crush of people on the South Dock at West Point after the ferry from Garrison’s Landing arrived:
     the train from New York had carried a large number of those who planned to attend tomorrow’s commencement. There were, additionally,
     officers in blue and cadets in gray who had come down to the dock to greet families and guests, and a number of army enlisted
     men who had been called in to act as porters.
    Over the dock, festive pennants and streamers had been strung on lines connecting lamp poles, and on taller poles flew the
     national ensign and the flag of the Academy. Off to one side, on shore, a small band played snappy tunes. Beyond the band,
     on the wide graveled lot that flanked the dock, carriages and wagons waited to take the arriving guests and their baggage
     up the hill to the Academy. To make everything perfect, there was a blue sky and warm sun.
    The Kembles were among the last to alight from the ferry, in