They got him to a hospital, eventually. Time blurred and a fever set in. When it broke, he found that Kevin Corcoran was still by his side. Didn't have much else to do, he said. Under normal circumstances, Robert would've ordered he return to his unit, 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 about literally fighting- boxing- for money. He joked that life was an ass-kicking contest, and Robert was about to be a busy man.
Coming home was a different story. Robert was on furlough once before, when the riots broke ut, 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 the helm, marching forward like nothing ever happened.
His father's best doctors were dumbfounded by his amputation, lies put in place, and debts were repaid in ways only a Morehouse could manage. Appearances were kept up, painting Robert as the hero, the brave young Major. Wounded in the biggest battle thus far. Behind closed doors, the estate 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 sizable 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 more time amongst the other young men in society would do his boy good.
That was how Robert Morehouse ended up on a chaise in Five Points, getting balls-out blotto with Kevin Corcoran.
"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 noted taht the house was empty. No sign of the wife Kevin was so enamored with, nor the little girl. He didn't want to know. He flashed his most charming smile.
"I'm slumming, Dear Heart," he said. "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 tenth time. "View ain't too good from the top of your ivory tower."
"On the contrary," Robert grinned, about half a shot away from feeling nothing. "I was on my way to church when I saw you pitch a man through a second-story window. Quite the detective work."
Kevin chuckled. "Second-story brothel window. I'll be in confession the rest of my life for that."
"I thought your people confessed one and done. I always liked that about you," Robert said. "Also your women don't require prophylactics."
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 rebuilding from ashes." He stood slowly, suddenly very sober. "On that note, I must get home. My father will never believe I was in church."
Kevin nodded, sparking a cigarette. "Take care."
Robert smiled with a confidence he didn't feel. "I always do."