Free When the War Is Over by Stephen Becker

suit. That’s all. Even the horse is only borrowed.
    â€œNot long now,” Phelan sang out. They clattered across a bridge. “Check small arms.”
    It was true: in the distance Catto saw a light. A mile, two. He drew in a deep breath, and the cold air seared, and abruptly his body was hot, and there was a deep, flickering, lapping ache in his belly, and all upon him, as if he lay at the bottom of the sea, yearning for air, dizzy and dying. He blinked again, firmly, and brought his knees tighter against the horse. He wondered again what she would look like. Smell like. Better than leek soup? Cold air streamed beneath his collar; he hunched; Phelan had led him into a canter and he had not really noticed. Quick! Quick!
    And there they were, whickering into the stable-yard like a couple of knights-errant, with a hostler emerging to take the reins, and Phelan dismounting with all the grace and nonchalance of some silly dook somewhere, as if he would fling the man a bag of silver. Faint odors steamed from the inn, contended briefly with manure, lost, regrouped, steamed forth again. Catto had never seen, or smelled, or heard so clearly; his fingertips tingled. “Pound for pound,” he said, “I am the strongest man in the whole world.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Phelan said. “Just behave now.” An oil-lamp glowed above the door, another on the porch. Phelan strode in; Catto shut the door carefully, and removed his hat timidly. They stood in a bright hallway, before them a grand staircase rising wide, curving both ways like a ram’s horns; to the right and left of them were doors, a saloon, a dining room. Upon a polished table, candlesticks, a dancing flower of light. “Some house, hey? It was once a rich man’s.”
    â€œI believe that.”
    From the saloon peered a slight man of some distinction; his hair was brushed, his shirt ruffled. He was bare of whiskers, and wore black. “Jack Phelan.”
    â€œHello, host. This is Lieutenant Catto.”
    â€œHow do,” Catto said.
    Their host bowed. “Stanley. Give me your hats and coats. Gloves. There’s a bottle of the best inside. Go on. Ladies be along shortly.”
    The saloon was properly dark, three or four candelabra, and a low fire in a long stone fireplace. Catto, jittery, stepped to the fireplace and performed traditional rubs, claps and hand-wringings until he realized that he was not at all cold. “God’s sake,” he said, “give me a drink.”
    The barkeep, who might have been Stanley’s brother, announced that his name was Horgan and handed a bottle to Phelan. “All alone tonight,” Phelan said.
    â€œPlace is yours,” Horgan agreed.
    With bottle and glasses and boots Phelan clinked and creaked to a table; he drew the cork, whiskey flowed. “Drink, boy. This is more like.”
    But Catto paused. He sniffed the whiskey, and dipped the tip of his tongue, and then stood calming his flutter, telling himself that he was a silly fellow: this was a beautiful night in November, a fitting fall night, and there was not a man in the house that he could not put down if necessary, and there were steaks and ladies to look forward to. So there was no need for shakes, and no need to force himself into the evening with quick whiskey, and really no need to think of this, or of himself, as unusual. A soldier’s night. No: an officer’s night. And by God! but I am glad to be an officer! Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow you will not die, and what is the sense of living if you cannot eat, drink and be merry?
    Phelan raised his glass. “Now what are you thinking of?”
    â€œWhiskey and women,” Catto said lazily. “I was wondering if you wanted advice.”
    Phelan jeered silently and said, “I know your kind. Ignorant and blustery.”
    â€œI can’t be ignorant. I spent ten years in school and was given a certificate.”
    â€œAnd