Stag Party

Occupying a corner table at the Bell in Hand tavern, Boston’s popular establishment with its occasional politician and poet patrons rubbing elbows with commoners, Scott sat back while aiming a moue at his friend. “MacCallister, what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” George’s waved arm captured the attention of the tavern’s curvaceous server, Millie. “Ordering us two more pints.” Raised fingers forming a V confirmed his request.

“May I remind you we step off for Camp Meigs at daybreak, which according to my watch will be” - Scott fished the timepiece from his vest pocket for a glance that surprised its viewer - “Four hours from now?”

“Where’s the worry, old boy. Readville’s only a hop, skip and jump from here.”

“Right.” The ticking reminder returned to its residence. “Well, I foresee the Union army may give a nod to jumping and possibly condone hopping… however ” - a booze-urged eyebrow arched. “I believe skipping would result in a court martial.”

“Nonsense! We’ll start a new trend: Sheridan’s Carefree Cavalry.” 

“Here ye go, gents.” Much like the ale tempting to spill out from their generously filled mugs thunked down on the table, Millie’s attributes challenged the low, restraining brim of her bodice as she leaned in. “And what’s this word about ye marchin’ out t’find rebs hidin’ under rocks?” Absconding cleavage moved enticingly toward Scott to fill his line of sight. “Why this place won’t be the same without those bonny sky-blue peepers sittin’ at me table.”

Indignation landed on the ignored patron holding a palm over his broken heart. “And what about me, Millie?” 

“Your eyes are brown, MacCallister.” A grin and sky-blue wink blessed the buxom server.

“That they are, sir.” George’s ale-laced guffaw forecasted a punchline. “Because I’m full of shite.”

“And that ye are fa’certain with the flirtin’.” Millie’s hand tousled MacCallister’s hair until he resembled a disheveled schoolboy. “Considerin’ yer now under a promise.” Turning, the woman’s hips swayed a path back to the barkeep, collecting empty mugs along the way.

“Under a promise?” Mock chagrin returned. “Why, it appears word travels too damn fast in this town.”

“Indeed it does, George.”

“It is a fact. I’m still in awe that lovely creature said yes.”

Scott’s smile flashed over his raised mug traveling to deliver a quaff. That lovely creature in MacCallister’s spoken wonderment referred to Sarah Sophronia Shaw.

Ah, Sarah. Her beauty had floated across the lawn of a summer afternoon’s garden party and smote thirteen-year-old Scott into a mute admirer. It was George who’d valiantly led the charge to initiate introductions only to receive a box-eared ambush from Sarah’s overprotective great aunt. 

Introductions did finally take place and the three adolescents became cherished friends. Although Scott’s fondness for the charming Miss Shaw continued, over time it became apparent MacCallister was the one who had succeeded in capturing the girl’s devotion. So, choosing friendship over enchantment, Scott stood aside, allowing destiny to take its course resulting with the couple’s recent engagement and their wish for him to be George’s best man.

With the honor, Scott embraced his role. “Stag party.” An arm swept out to present the scenario. “Right here at the Bell in Hand. On our return I’ll throw you the grandest of all stag parties serving so many plates of oysters Casanova will rise from the dead to be on the guest list.”

“Sir, are you inferring that my manly fortitude is in need of bolstering?”

“A woman’s strength is the unresistible might of weakness.” The best man’s voice lowered with jesting seriousness. “May I suggest this would be an unfortunate time to start questioning Emerson’s enlightenment, George.”

“Ho ho, Lancer! Agreed!” Standing, improper etiquette reigned with a toast to his own self. “Here’s to Bachelor MacCallister and his timely demise.”

*********

“Scott, what are you doing?” Crossing arms, Kinsey leaned against the bedroom door frame while targeting her older cousin with a dubious frown.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” A folded shirt joined the travel bag contents of a suit jacket. “Packing for tonight’s stay in Stockton.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.” Grinning, Scott didn’t turn around to address the query. No need. He felt the female glare slowly burrowing a hole into the back of his skull.

“May I remind the best man that my wedding is the day after tomorrow?”

“No call for worry. The groom will be with me. I’m almost positive he’ll remember the date.” As personal items were added to the leather valise, mental calculations commenced on a young lady connecting the dots.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Ssss-

“Nooooooooo.”

Six. A personal best for Inquisitive Kinsey.

“You’re throwing one of those highly questionable stag parties for Seth!”

“Oh, there’s no questions regarding the gathering.” Tossed over his shoulder, Scott’s grin widened to a smile. “I personally handled all the arrangements down to the last detail.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s not?” Facing his accuser, Scott donned a mien of innocent befuddlement. 

“I know what happens at these raucous male gatherings. Excessive drinking. Off-color jokes. Hussies dancing on tables.”

“Hussies? No. The McGuire twins weren’t invited, Freckles.” 

Teeth clenched. “I suggest you purchase a supply of wit while in town. It appears you’re all out.”

Touché, little one. “All right. Mind telling me where you get all these pertinent particulars regarding stag parties?”

“I’ve heard my father and his associates tell stories.” A tone of smugness confirmed the presence of great knowledge.

“And I’m guessing you heard these tales through the wall of your father’s study with a jelly jar to your ear when it was past your bedtime.”

“For your information, I didn’t have a couvre-feu.” 

“Well, obviously you should have, along with a sound fessée.”

Blushing cheeks redirected the conversation. “So, which one of you men were going to tell me about this?”

“Seth and I were planning to flip a coin. Rather a moot point now considering the recent turn in discovery.”

“Does Emily know she’s being abandoned for the evening?”

“Miss Browning helped plan the party’s menu.”

“Oh!” Eyes narrowed. “There’s been a breach in sisterhood loyalty.”

“Hold up.” Scott stepped forward and placed hands on his little cousin’s shoulders, dissipating the possibility of an impending thunder cloud. “Listen to me. You and I both know when Teresa arrives later today all the females under this roof will be immersed in bow tying, flower arranging and petticoat fluffing while telling us Neanderthals that we are in the way.” A brow quirked. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

Eyeroll. 

“Waiting.”

“You are not wrong.”

“Very good. Now, I can assure you there will be no excessive drinking or off-color jokes.” A final moment of teasing presented itself. “However, Johnny’s attending so the McGuire sisters may make a brief table-top appearance.” Grin. It couldn’t be helped.

“You, sir, are reprehensible.” 

“I am.” Scott’s gentle squeeze on Kinsey’s shoulders ushered in a promise. “We’ll behave.”

“Right.” Stepping back to leave, the bride-to-be paused. “Oysters.”

“Pardon?”

“Will there be oysters on the evening’s menu?”

“I see.” Hands placed on hips for a stern stance of feigned disapproval. “Why are you asking, little one?

“Because when women cease to be handsome, they study to be good.” Brown eyes danced with mischief. “Benjamin Franklin.”

********

“Could the best man inform the groom why they’re standing on the platform at the Stockton train station and not in their rooms at the Stockton hotel preparing for an evening of male comradery?”

“The groom and best man are waiting for the 6:15 from Omaha.”

“Why?”

“Can’t say. It’s a surprise wedding gift.” The groom’s silent, debatable demeanor required Scott’s stifling of a chuckle to allow campy concern. “You appear worried, sir.”

“Well, let’s review the list of wedding surprises thus far, starting with tonight’s agenda. Then there’s the intended buy-out of my mother’s vineyard shares. And let’s not forget the Boneshaker that my ass still hasn’t recovered from riding. Me? Worried? Oh, hell no.”

Vibrations traveling through the station’s wooden platform, accompanied by a low train whistle, signaled the arrival of Leland Stanford’s Transcontinental. “On the dot.” Scott rubbed his hands together in anticipation before giving a directive. “Follow me.”