Chapter Text
They got him to a hospital eventually. Time blurred and a fever set in. All the money in the world couldn't get him out of the Confederacy in this condition, so they waited. At some point, Freeman went back up north, but Corcoran stayed, playing cards and talking until the fever broke and the bleeding stopped.
He didn't have much else to do, he said. Under normal circumstances, Robert would've asked he go back and be with his men, but this was different. He needed the company, and he didn't want the company of his fellow officers. Corcoran hadn't saved his leg, but he'd saved his ass.
They talked about everything. Family. Money. The slave trade, the railroad, the best way to win a bar fight. Corky told him about coming to America, fighting for work and money, then literally fighting- boxing- for money. He joked that life was an ass-kicking contest, and he reckoned Robert was about to be a busy man.
Coming home was a different story. He'd been on furlough once before, when the riots broke out, but his unit had reassembled and been on their merry way. This time, Robert knew they were still assembled, with some newer, younger trust fund bastard at their head, marching forward without him. His father's best doctors were dumbfounded, lies were put in place, and the debts were repaid in ways only a Morehouse could manage. Appearances were kept, painting Robert as the hero, the brave Major, wounded in battle. Behind closed doors, the place was like a morgue.
The first wooden leg wound up on the cobblestone street in a bed of broken glass. The second narrowly missed a nurse's head and made a hole in the bedroom wall. Robert Morehouse couldn't walk worth shit, but his aim was improving.
A disagreement on the issue between himself and an esteemed dinner guest nearly came to blows, and his father suggested that perhaps he spend a bit more time amongst other young men, reintroduce himself to the city.
That was how Robert Morehouse ended up on a chaise in Five Points, drinking Kevin Corcoran's whiskey.
"I have two questions for you," Corky said upon finding Robert on his doorstep. "What the fuck are you doing, and how the fuck are you doing it?"
Robert noticed the house was empty. No sign of the wife Kevin had mentioned, nor the daughter. He didn't want to know. He beamed his most charming smile. "I'm slumming, dear heart. As for this-" he smacked the prosthetic "-magic."
"Haven't seen much of the aftermath from the riots, I'm guessing?" Kevin slurred, refilling his glass for the fourth or sixth time. "View ain't too good from the top of your tower."
"On the contrary, I was on my way to church when I saw you pitch a large man through a second-story window. Quite the detective work, Corky."
Kevin chuckled. "Second story brothel window. I'll be in confession the rest of my life for that."
"I thought you people confessed one and done. Always liked that about you," Robert said. "Also, your women don't need condoms."
Kevin's face grew dark. "What's gonna happen to this city?"
Robert thought for a moment. "New York is a phoenix. We're not good at much but burning down and building back up." He stood slowly, suddenly very sober. "On that note, I need to be home. My father will never believe I was in church."
Kevin nodded, sparking up a cigarette. "Take care."
Robert smiled with a confidence he didn't feel. "I always do."