At this very moment they are cooking with wheat flour that was farmed and milled by white men. They’re hunting with rifles we gifted to them to make their hunting easier, and they’re wrapped in blankets manufactured by white workers. All we’ve asked in return is to be able to live peaceably on this land that God has ordained us to dwell in.” He stood and paced the length of the tent, then turned and leveled a finger at John.
“But the red man is not peaceable. Not at all. Most particularly the Sioux and Cheyenne. Long before the first white man ventured west, the Indians were making war on each other. The Sioux drove the weaker tribes away from their hunting grounds, murdering the men and boys, and taking women and young girls captive to use as breeding stock to strengthen their numbers. More recently, the Cheyenne and Arapaho have aligned themselves with the Sioux, and together they’ve been raiding innocent settlers and attacking emigrants on the trails. For the last year they’ve rampaged through the countryside, murdering entire families only to steal a few head of livestock—they’re abducting women and carrying them off to face God only knows what horrors. Two months ago, somewhere near a thousand braves attacked Camp Rankin and, after indiscriminately killing soldier and citizen, burned most of the town to the ground.” He stood on the opposite side of the table from John and placed his hands flat on the wood, leaning over until his face was just inches away from John’s. His golden eyes blazed and his voice was thick and full of emotion. “They skinned some of their victims, John. Good and decent God-fearing people whose only crime had been the desire to make a better life for themselves.”
“I still don’t understand why my resignation is required—”
Frank Picton raised one hand and slammed it back down on the table. “THESE SAVAGES MUST BE BROKEN OR ERADICATED!” He stared at John intently. Then, straightening up and seeming to gain his composure, he picked up his empty glass—glancing briefly at John’s still full one—and walked slowly to his trunk to pour himself another two fingers of the confiscated whiskey. He continued: “This is what we’ve been tasked with, John—as patriotic citizens, not soldiers.
The policy-makers of the east and their constituents are weary of war, and have no stomach for what needs to be done. Congress bickers back and forth and patriotic men like Colonel Chivington, who justifiably moved against a renegade Cheyenne camp this last winter are used as scapegoats to appease wealthy bleeding-hearts who’ve never experienced the brutal and inhuman nature of these uncivilized devils. So I’ve been instructed by certain unnamed parties from the office of the now deceased president—may God rest his soul—to hunt down and kill all hostile enemies. And I’ve been empowered to do so without the encumbrances of political and military constraints. We will appear to be nothing more than a local militia protecting what is ours.
“Do you understand now?”
“May I see the letter?” John asked.
Picton picked it up and handed it to him without a word.
As per our discussion, the west must be opened.
Please proceed with haste, Colonel.
John looked up at Picton incredulously. “This is hardly an official order.”
“Your naiveté exceeds what can be excused by your tender years, John. Allow me to simplify: this is a covert affair. You will sign the discharge and assist me as you were instructed to do by Henry Black, or you will leave my tent, Fort Laramie—and the territories for all I’m concerned—and return east where you belong. You’re an untried young officer with no field experience, and whether you stay or go means nothing to me. I was ordered to utilize you, that is all. If you have a grievance, I’m sure General Moonlight will be around sometime in the next several days and you can bring it up with him. I don’t expect him to be very sympathetic, however. He knows what these savages are capable of and supports this endeavor to the fullest.”
“How long before I’m posted closer to New York?” John asked, thinking of Clara.
“We intend to pursue hostile bands through the coming months of good weather.
We’ve hired some Pawnee scouts—they’ll do anything to see Sioux killed—and there’s a nigger who’s supposed to know this territory like the back of his hand. A claim I find dubious but hard to dispute. We’re going to fight these redskins the same way they fight us: we’ll travel light, hit them and run like that bushwhacking murderer Bloody Bill did to our boys down in Kansas and Missouri. I’ve got better than forty freed confederate prisoners camped out here—Missouri bushwhackers every one of them—in addition to forty of my own men, who are hand-picked veteran fighters. We’ll push the wagon-burners hard until winter, and, if we can, we’ll surprise them at some of their winter camps when the snow flies and chase down more next spring. By mid-summer they’ll be broken, scattered, or dead. You should be having Christmas dinner with your family next year.”
“You’re going to accomplish all of this with eighty men?”
“In the future I will ask that you do not question me. For now, suffice it to say there will be more men when required. For the present, we will use stealth and the skill of our fighting men to accomplish things that marching regiments of soldiers could not. I will explain my strategy further, in good time.”
“I met the scout…the colored one. He worked on the supply caravan I came in with. I think he moved out right after we arrived.” John downed his whiskey and reached across the table for an inkwell and pen.
9
New York, New York. April 10 1865.
“How dare you have a hand in facilitating this…this outrage.” Jonathon Hanfield shouted at his cowering wife as she shrunk down into one of the parlor’s four wingbacked chairs. He towered over her, spittle flying from his lips as he bellowed.
“You; helping our daughter slink around backdoors like a common trollop. And I have to discover this through a witless kitchen maid? How long has this been going on under my very nose?” He leaned down and grabbed her chin, squeezing painfully. He raised her head toward him.
“Speak, woman, and I had better hear the truth.”
Louisa Hanfield averted her eyes and attempted to turn her head, but her husband held her fast, moving his face within inches of hers. Angry red splotches had risen on his normally pasty features. He lowered his voice, his tone menacing.
“You have ten seconds before I welt your backside so severely you will not sit for a month.”
“We—” she began, her voice cracking. “We thought once he graduated and received his commission, you would see what a fine young man he is, and…and, warm up to him.”
“Warm up to him?” he said softly, his anger turning to incredulousness. She could smell cigars and sweet brandy on his breath.
“Warm up to him,” he repeated, releasing her face with a little shove before straightening up and walking to the window. Staring out at the street below and speaking calmly, he said: “You do realize that this fine young man’s father nearly brought ruin down on this house with his ramshackle fleet of worthless ships, his tireless ambition, and his damnable pride? I tendered a more than generous offer for those splintery vessels of his. Had it not been for Senator Dickinson’s intervention on my behalf in securing the government contracts that should have been mine by right, I would have been reduced to running coal barges on the river instead of owning one of the most profitable fleets on the eastern seaboard.”
He turned from the window and faced his wife.
“And you would repay all of the comforts and luxury I have bestowed upon you through my hard work by embarrassing me? By allowing my only daughter to be courted by my most hated enemy’s son without my knowledge or consent?” He moved toward the door. When he reached it, he turned and pointed a finger at his wife.
“You will be leaving in the morning to visit with your gib-faced sister in Pennsylvania until I send for you. By the time you return our daughter will have completed her schooling and will be engaged to a suitable young man of my choosing. As far as the young Mister Elliot is concerned, he will be fightin
g hostiles in the west before month’s end. Take heart, I had requested that he be court-martialed and hanged.”
He turned back toward the door and spoke over his shoulder as he walked through, “You will not see Clara before you leave. I have arranged for her to pay a visit to the Davenports tonight.”
10
Louisa Hanfield watched her husband of nineteen years walk out of the parlor. She listened to his footfalls fade until she heard the familiar sound of the heavy, oak door to his study closing. She could picture him standing in front of his bar and pouring a glass of brandy while examining his stately features in the mirror above the mantle. She did not love him. She had never loved him. The marriage hadn’t been arranged, exactly, but it was the nearest thing. She’d been relentlessly driven into it by her father, and he hadn’t been a man to be refused.
She supposed that was why she’d hidden Clara’s relationship with John Elliot from her own husband, who was so much like her father in so many ways: a driven, sometimes cruel man who accepted nothing less than absolute subservience from his family.
She fell asleep weeping silently.
11
Clara Hanfield listened to the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles and the occasional muttered words of encouragement from the driver while gloomily watching pedestrians as they hurried about their business. She hated the city; it was all ambition on one side and desperation on the other. It also stank. She missed the tranquility and fresh air of the farmhouse at Cornwall where she and her parents frequently wintered. Her father had grown up in the modest farmhouse, and inherited it when his own father died the year before Clara was born. Jonathon Hanfield never seemed happy during their stays, however, and he had not accompanied Clara and her mother to the house in three years. Her mother once told her in confidence that he was ashamed of his simple roots.
Cornwall was also closer to West Point—and John. She imagined him squatting down next to her, his wild shock of straw-colored hair blowing in the icy evening breeze while he tossed stones into the lake…
“I should go and see your father,” he said, tossing a final stone and turning to her.
“That’s a terrible idea,” she replied, smiling faintly. She leaned back on the small square of oilcloth he’d laid on the partially snow covered ground for her and gazed up at him, searching his face. She couldn’t decide whether or not he was being serious.
“Oh,” he said, “and why is that? What happened between our fathers was a long time ago. And I am not my father. I should think yours would appreciate a man with courage enough to stand before him and speak plainly of his love for you.”
“So you love me, then?”
“You know I do.”
“If that is true, then you will trust me when I tell you that my father will not see your declaration of love for his daughter as courage, but will look at it as arrogance.” She reached up and took his hand. “Please wait a little longer. Once you receive your commission—and coming from the top of your class—my mother will convince my father to allow us to marry.”
“So I’m to marry you, then?” He was smiling wryly.
She gave him a shove, causing him to lose his balance and fall sideways into the damp grass. She stood, glaring down at him with mock indignation. “Perhaps one of my other suitors would show more enthusiasm at the prospect, John Elliot.”
He reached a hand up to her. “Help me up.”
She took his hand and let out a startled laugh as he pulled her down on top of him. He put both of his hands gently to the sides of her face.
“I would have no choice but to kill him and any other unworthy would-be husband seeking your affections.”
He kissed her.
“There aren’t really any other suitors…are there?”
Now she was the one with the wry smile. “That’s for me to know. Kiss me some more and I may tell you.”
12
“We’ve arrived, Miss Hanfield.”
Clara was startled awake by the driver, Mister Peyton, or Clayton—she couldn’t remember which—peering into the buggy. He wasn’t her regular driver. Her father only used him on the rare occasions Miles Penbrook was unavailable.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering vaguely why her father had suddenly decided to have her call on the Davenports. Lilith Davenport was Clara’s best friend, but she would normally send a note along if she wanted Clara to pay her a visit. Lilith’s father oversaw a good portion of Jonathon Hanfield’s business and was his oldest and dearest friend. Lilith and Clara were born exactly eight weeks apart; Lilith in March, and Clara in May. They were seventeen.
She stepped out of the buggy and strode up the walkway to the familiar red brick house. The front door opened before she reached it and she saw Nathan Peck, the Davenport’s aging butler, standing expectantly in the doorway. The driver handed her bag to the butler without a word before tipping his hat to Clara and hurrying back down the walk. The butler looked after the driver distrustfully.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hanfield. I trust your ride over was uneventful?” Nathan inquired, standing aside so Clara could enter.
“It was fine, Nathan. Thank you.”
“Miss Davenport is in the garden room. Shall I escort you?”
Clara laughed. “No, thank you. I believe I can find my own way.”
“Of course you can. I will bring along some refreshments shortly.”
The Davenport’s garden room was located at the rear of the sprawling house, and was constructed entirely of mullioned glass. Lilith, who was as short and portly as Clara was tall and slender, was seated at a small, ornately carved wooden table that was the room’s only furnishing. Exotic looking plants hung from brass hooks throughout the room, giving off a damp, earthy smell that always made Clara think of early spring, regardless of the season.
“Is there a piece of gossip so urgent that you couldn’t take time for an invita—” Clara began.
Lilith looked up from her book as Clara approached the table; the look on her face was one of guarded sympathy. The smile Clara was wearing when she entered the room began to falter.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, stopping in front of the table. She looked down at Lilith with concern.
“Did your father tell you why he sent you here?”
“He just said, ‘You’re going to visit the Davenports for the weekend.’ He didn’t seem as though he was in the temper for questions, and I was excited for the visit so I didn’t ask. I assumed you were having a dinner…”
Lilith stood and put her hands on Clara’s shoulders, looking up at her earnestly. “He found out about you and John.” She looked past Clara at the open door, then lowered her voice. “I overheard my father talking to my mother. You’re father had John expelled. They sent him to Indian territory.”
“Oh, my. No! How could he have discovered—Lillian.”
Lillian Holt was a kitchen helper; she posted letters to John from Clara, and received letters for Clara from John at her family’s house on the lower side.
Clara and Lillian had known each other for the better part of their lives, and were as close to friends as propriety would allow. Lillian’s mother and father both worked at the Hanfield’s home. Her father was both the head groundskeeper and head carpenter. Her mother worked as a cook in the kitchen. Lillian began helping in the kitchen when she was ten.
Clara pulled away from Lilith and paced across the room. After a moment she turned back, her face pinched with anger. “I must get home at once. Can you have Nathan arrange for a buggy?”
“But your father—”
“Damn my father, Lilith!” She shouted suddenly. “Please.”
Lilith started, looking chagrined. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll locate Nathan.”
13
It was dark by the time Clara returned home. She’d pressed the Davenport’s driver (who was already nervous due to the declared urgency of her errand) repeatedly to hurry. The streets were busy, however, and he decided getting
her home in one piece was more important than whatever business prompted her sudden departure from the Davenport’s.
“Leave my things at the door,” she called over her shoulder as she nimbly exited the still rolling buggy.
“Yes, Miss Hanfield,” the driver replied after her, but she was already halfway to the front door.
Clara stormed through the door and into the dimly lit foyer.
“Father?” she called out with barely contained anger. “Mother?”
She strode into the room, glancing up to the second floor landing that overlooked the foyer before turning in the direction of her father’s study. She could see light from beneath the door. She was starting toward the study when she heard her mother speak from above her.
“Do you know you sound just like him when you’re angry?”
Clara stopped and wheeled, startled. Her mother was sitting in the shadows at the top of the open staircase.
“Did you know of this?” Clara asked.
“Yes.”
“And you chose not to tell me? Why?”
“Darling, I…” her mother rose and began descending the stairs. “…I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you—”
“Because I forbade it.” Jonathon Hanfield stated matter-of-factly, stepping out of his study behind them. He stopped just outside of the open door and puffed at his cigar—something Clara had never seen him do in the house, save for the confines of his study.
“I forbade it, and knowing your mother as I do, knew she would be utterly incapable of keeping silent.” He gestured toward Clara with his cigar. “Which is why I sent you to the Davenport’s. Tomorrow morning your lovely mother will be on her way to Pennsylvania and, had you stayed where you were supposed to, you would be none-the-wiser when you left for Vermont next week. Certainly your go-between would have been unable to enlighten you, as I released the entire Holt family from my service this morning along with a substantially greater severance than they deserved. I have no doubt they were well aware—the girl’s mother, most certainly—of their sneaking daughter’s clandestine forays into the postal business.” He pulled a thick stack of envelopes bound together with a ribbon from his smoking jacket and waved them in the air.
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 8