Canary Feathers

OMAHA SOCIAL EVENT! 

LET THE SEASON OF GALAS BEGIN!

Engine Company No. 2 Firemen’s Ball will be held this Saturday evening. Once again, Shoaf’s Hall has been finely decorated by the lovely ladies of the Mt. Hope Methodist Church. A wide range of musical selections will be provided by the Omaha Volunteer Firemen’s Orchestraband.

*********

The Omaha Volunteer Firemen’s Orchestraband consisted of three violins, a banjo, a guitar, one cello, two trumpets, a piccolo, one bass drum, a french horn and the biggest, shiniest tuba I had ever seen. My guess was half the members considered themselves a band - the other half claimed the status of an orchestra. Thus, fending off a city divided, the word ‘orchestraband’ unofficially entered the dictionary of musical terms. 

Writer’s cramp. 

Setting aside the silver-cased pencil, Scott cracked his knuckles one at a time; a habit which started with long lines of Latin verse being written under a headmaster’s watchful eye. At the time, the pop-crack-pop served as a willful boy’s subtle defiance in a hushed room of pencil scribbling. Now, it served as a more positive testament to columns of ledger figures and reflective journaling. 

“And letters to a lovely head chef.” Scott smiled as he mentally revisited the long goodnight kiss given down the hall at Emily’s bedroom door.

Kinsey was immediately taken by Omaha’s Orchestraband when we attended the Engine Company No. 2 Fireman’s Ball under the ruse as newlyweds stranded in one of Nebraska’s fair cities by buckled tracks outside Fremont.

So today, what better way to celebrate my cousin’s status of being ‘officially’ newly-wed than to gift her musical entertainment as a meaningful surprise…

And much safer than a Boneshaker.

*********

The boisterous gents comprising Omaha’s Orchestraband were, much like their instruments, an eccentric ensemble of constitutions that painted dubious expressions on guests questioning the men’s tuneful ability. 

However, with the troupe’s beginning notes of The Rose of Tralee, an Irish ballad supposedly written by William Pembroke Mulchinock out of love for Mary O'Connor, a poor maid in service to his family, nods of approval quickly extinguished any cynicism among attendees. The tune's wistful, gentle flow provided the perfect slow-tempo melody for Mr. and Mrs. Seth Westcott’s first waltz on a courtyard dance floor with family and friends looking on.

“Your business partners make a beautiful couple, Mr. Lancer.”

“Indeed they do, Miss Browning.”  Scott put his arm around the woman at his side. “Much like the best man and his fair lady.”

“Your modesty knows no bounds, Mr. Lancer.”

Grin.

“Indeed it does not, Miss Browning.”

The Irish ballad's final refrain drifted seamlessly into Oh, Shenandoah, a sailor’s sea shanty that had found its way in popularity at landlubber social events. Kinsey’s request for the song wasn’t lost on Scott. If not for his seafaring adventure on The Enchantress the two cousins would have never reconnected. 

“I believe there’s a request for our presence on the dance floor.” Emily’s whispered observation broke through Scott’s reminiscing of his time in Melbourne to focus on the bride’s waving signal to join them. 

“Learning from past experiences, it is ill-advised to disappoint my cousin.” A bent arm was offered in quiet, practiced gallantry to escort with ease. “Shall we?” 

The groom, with his own pointed gesture, encouraged Teresa and her beau, Richard, to also take part in sharing a dance with the newlyweds. No polished marble floor. No ornate ballroom. No grand orchestra. Instead, the three couples glided across courtyard terra cotta bricks under San Joaquin’s cloudless cyan-blue sky to a melodic forte equal to any Boston musician. It was a damn perfect moment, in Scott’s opinion. And one he would never forget.

The orchestraband’s shift to a lively Scottish reel, The Earl of Crawford, brought cheers and applause from the onlookers as their feet propelled them to kick up their heels.

A heavy hand on Scott’s shoulder introduced an intruder’s non-negotiable suggestion. “My son, I believe it’s best Miss Browning has a well-seasoned and knowledgeable dance partner for this particular song.”

“Sir, I bow to your expertise.” Guiding Emily’s hand to his father’s, teasing took hold. “Take it easy with the gent. He has a bum leg.”

Fatherly rebuttal answered. “Your week’s chore list just doubled.”

With crossed arms and slight cock of the head, an amused Scott watched the Lancer patriarch sweep his dance partner away to a toe-tapping tempo, joining the other couples; bum leg be damned.

“That’s the trouble with bringing a good-looking woman to a party.”

The best man’s side-eye greeted the arriving observer. “And what trouble would that be?”

Seth’s quick nod toward the twirling guests offered an explanation. “Well, suddenly the little lady’s escort gets his name bounced right off her dance card.” An index finger pointed out the bride was now in the arms of the elder Westcott showing off his nimbleness to a spirited tune.

“I believe it is a fact - we’ve been abandoned.”

“One could say… discarded.”

“Forgotten.”

“Left in the dust.”

“Kicked to the ditch.”

“Tossed with the bath water.”

“Run over on the road of romance.” Scott frowned. “By God man, I sound like Miss Providence. Time for a drink.”

Finding an empty table that provided enough distance from celebratory chaos to allow a conversation, the two business partners toasted Murdoch Lancer with a sip of the good stuff provided by a distillery a few miles northwest of Crieff in Perthshire, Scotland. 

“Your father’s contribution certainly is an inspiring addition to the day’s festivities.”

Scott reached inside his coat pocket and produced two cigars. “So are his imported Cubans.” Matches appeared and the ritual of lighting a good smoke commenced. 

Sitting back, Seth blew a hazy ring, thoughtfully watching it float and slowly dissipate above his head. “Reminds me of our late night strategy meetings in Sacramento. Guess a few things have changed a bit since then.”

“Yes, they have.” Squinted scrutiny traveled to the gent sitting across the table. “As your wife would comment -”

“Wait. My wife? What happened to your little cousin?”

“The Gauntlet of Responsibility was passed with the I Do’s.” 

“Fair enough.” Sip. “Although, I may need to rely on your insights, sir, from time to time.”

“Of course. Goes without saying.” Puff. “May I continue?”

“By all means.”

“As your wife would comment - you have a look on your puss. I, on the other hand, would call it the cat that swallowed the canary. Mind speaking on what needs to be said other than you’re now a happily married man?”

“Governor and Mrs. Stanford spoke to Kinsey and me earlier.”

“I saw.” Sip. Grin.

“I’ll be damned. Mind spitting out a few of your own canary feathers and fessing up to what you already know?”

“Well… ” Puff. “I’ve discovered Jane Stanford possesses one slight flaw - she revels in sharing a good secret that surpasses a Boneshaker as the outstanding wedding gift.”

“Sweet Jesus, Scott! Unlimited gratuitous transportation. Can you believe it? Do you know what this contract with the Transcontinental means?”

“It means Westcott wine corks will soon be popping up and down the East Coast at a handsome profit.”

“Right.” Sip. Puff. “Tell me… are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What’s the catch.” Scott felt it unnecessary to deliver the statement as a query.

“Leland Stanford’s a politician. Not to mention having ties to wineries, race horses, land deals… hell, what doesn’t he have his fingers in?”

“Loyalty.” Sip. “I once had a headmaster who asked me on several occasions: young man, do you know what travels faster than the speed of light?”

Seth grinned. “A cane?”

“Close. Actually, the man’s answer… Bad news. Your grandfather will be arriving momentarily… which, I may add, is now headed our way.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Not exactly.” Scott’s nod indicated for Seth to glance over his shoulder. “But bad news all the same.”

Conniption.

It was a state of being Winifred MacLoughlin loved to use.

Change yer muddy clothes, ScottyGarrett befer yer grandfather has a conniption.

Mrs. O’Leary is havin’ herself a conniption. Some raspcallion pirate dug up her carrots.

Is that a rip in yer knickers… again? Do ye want to be givin’ me a conniption, lad?

It didn’t matter the who, it was always the what that never changed; the expression of a crimson-face, vein-popping conniption. An expression now sported on the face of an approaching George West.

“You conniving sonavabitch!” El Pinal’s proprietor spat out the words to land in front of the younger Westcott. “You thought the governor wouldn’t tell me?”

“Hold up.” Confusion furrowed Scott’s brow.  “I thought I was the conniving sonavabitch.”

West turned on the source of the possible contradiction. “Shut up, you ungrateful bastard!”

“I stand corrected, business partner.” Scott’s glass toasted confirmation. “You are indeed the conniving sonavabitch. Congratulations.”

Seth’s glass joined in. “Here’s to achieving distinction among the many. However, business partner, I never considered you as an ungrateful bastard.”

“Oh?” West sneered. “Alright. Let’s go with simply… traitor.”

Traitor.

He knew he had triggers that would bring on his temper, as Val would say, like a damn brick falling from the sky. Over time, Scott disciplined himself in tamping down his spontaneous reactions to certain words.

However.

Traitor hung on. He’d heard it too many times ricocheting between desperate men as they were incarcerated guests of the rebs. The most serious accusation of military betrayal being reduced to describe the simple acts of survival - accepting an extra hunk of moldy bread or the submissive nod to avoid a beating - had angered Scott.

Traitor.

Scott never gave, received or insinuated the damning word while in prison but it still managed to follow him a few years later to Lancer courtesy of Dan Cassidy and now, out of the mouth of George West.

“An unwise choice of a word, sir.” Tossing his cigar aside, Scott stood.

“Is it? I showed you hospitality at El Pinal while patiently answering your questions and offering valuable guidance. And, how do you repay me? By partnering with Westcott.”

“At your suggestion.”

“Yes, but it was never my intent for you to - ” 

“George West. There you are.”  

The stern female voice left the accuser’s unfinished statement hanging in the air.

Seth rose in gentlemanly protocol. “Mrs. Stanford.”

A mustached, toothy smile replaced West’s previous display of a conniption while grasping the presented hand of the governor’s wife. “Jane, a pleasure.”

“I’m disappointed George. Musical selections started forty minutes ago and you haven’t yet asked me to dance.”

“Forgive me.” An escort’s bent elbow was offered. “Please give me the honor of rectifying this unspeakable oversight.”

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us. George and I have some catching up to do.”

“Did you see the look on that woman’s face?” Seth’s lopsided grin hinted at his upcoming humorous observation. 

“I did.”

“My grandmother would give me the same look right before she picked up a wooden spoon.”

“It is a fact. I believe Mr. West is in line for a verbal spanking.” 

“What do you think he was going to say? It was never his intent for you to… what?”

Scott downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Be successful.”