by Len Levinson
“Yes—some nigra sued the government or some such nonsense. If you cut through the rhetoric and posturing of the great ‘slavery issue’, it's no secret the Yankees want to subjugate us.”
Beau smiled. “You don't own slaves, but you've always been the staunchest fire-eater of all.”
“Slaves are the sideshow, my friend. The real issue is the northern industrial power sucking out blood, and what're we going to do about it.”
They entered a saloon filled with freighters, cowboys, soldiers, and drifters, with a pert blond woman sitting at a piano and playing “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,” by Stephen Collins Foster.
“That's Nathanial's widow,” said George.
Beau stared at the woman, who somewhat resembled his own wife from the back. “I don't know what to say.”
“She's a friendly person—just mention whatever comes to mind. If the truth be told, I'm madly and hopelessly in love with her.”
George grabbed Beau's sleeve and pulled him toward the pianist, but Beau wrenched loose and headed for the door. George followed him outside. “What's wrong?”
Beau made for a Mexican cantina on the far side of the street. “Nathanial was my best friend, and if I meet his wife without preparing myself, I'm afraid I'll burst into tears.”
They entered the cantina and bellied up to the bar. “Senors?” asked the man behind the counter.
“Mescal,” said Beau.
The small dingy chamber was filled with bearded vaqueros who smelled like horses, cattle, and boots, while something that looked like a dead cat lay beneath a table. The bartender filled both glasses, and the officers raised their libations.
“To Nathanial,” they said in unison.
They tossed the mescal back, then exhaled loudly, to cool their flaming throats. “Poor son of a bitch,” said Beau. “Nathanial was the most decent Yankee I ever met.”
“Good old Nathanial hated politics and all other things false,” replied George. “Sometimes I think he wanted to die, because life was too crass.”
“I've spoken to officers who'd been with him in the Mogollon Mountains,” confided Beau. “Evidently, he was charging Apaches by himself when they shot him out of the saddle. Visibility was poor due to gun-smoke and dust, and that was the last anyone saw of him.”
“Possibly he was confused,” said George. “How I wish he were with us, but at least he's where dirty politics can't sully his mind. You really ought to stop reading newspapers, Beau. They rot the soul—I'm absolutely convinced of it—because they're written by the most detestable liars alive. Tell me—have you thought of what you'll do if the South secedes from the Union, as appears likely?”
“Don't be so pessimistic, George. The obvious fact that you don't comprehend is that most people don't want war, therefore it won't happen. What’ s Nathanial's wife like?”
“Don't get any ideas,” said George. “She's mine, even though she doesn't know it yet.”
“But Nathanial is barely cold in his grave!”
“That poor unhappy widow needs a man to comfort her, and I shall do my duty.”
“If Nathanial were here, he'd punch you in the nose. And I might do it myself. Is there nothing that you won't drag through the mud, George?”
“Nothing,” replied the colonel's procurer.
Captain Covington's fear that he might lose his commission wasn't entirely unfounded, because occasionally officers were expelled from the service. One of these, another West Pointer, stood on a windswept corner of St. Louis that wintry night as pedestrians passed without acknowledging his presence, and horses in the street splashed mud onto his boots.
The solitary ex-officer was five feet eight inches tall, black-bearded, with deep lines around his eyes, wearing his old blue army greatcoat, a kerchief protecting his ears from icy blasts. A sign had been nailed to the pole sticking out of his wagon.
FIREWOOD FOR SALE
WILL LOAD INTO YOUR WAGON
NO EXTRA FEE
He hadn't sold any that night, because there was much competition, but he'd failed at other endeavors as well, although he'd served with distinction in the Mexican War. The army had dismissed him in ‘54 for drunkenness on duty, and now he had fallen with his wife and two boys into poverty.
After the Mexican War Captain Sam Grant had been posted to remote Fort Vancouver, Oregon, where his wife had been unable to join him. Loneliness descended, plus the boredom of measureless distances, and he sought solace in alcoholic beverages, thinking he could control the effects, even as they destroyed him. Captain Sam Grant hadn't been the kind of officer who went to saloons, but preferred to guzzle in private, where no one could see his shame.
Thirty-four years old, citizen Sam Grant had come a long way from humble beginnings in Point Pleasant, Ohio, only to fall from his modest army pinnacle. His Christian name was Ulysses S. Grant, but boyhood pals had dubbed him “Useless” because he was so impractical, while at West Point his friends had preferred “Sam” to Ulysses.
As a boy the only subject at which he'd excelled was mathematics. His father couldn't afford college, so Useless Grant had applied to West Point, although he wasn't especially drawn to military life, and against the odds had received an appointment. Even more miraculously, he'd graduated twenty-first in a class of thirty-nine, and had accumulated 290 demerits for improper behavior.
West Point graduates with highest grades usually entered the elite Corps of Engineers, or the splendid mounted units, even the infantry and artillery, while quartermasters were at the bottom of the barrel, and that's where Lieutenant Sam Grant had ended up.
He'd never performed heroic deeds in the Mexican War, as did Robert E. Lee, Thomas Jackson, Jefferson Davis, and Albert Sidney Johnston, but he'd learned to ensure that ammunition and food arrived at the proper coordinates of place and time, perhaps due to his coldly calculating mathematical intelligence. Lieutenant Grant had comprehended early on that the application of force depended upon the accumulation of soldiers and supplies, and he might have become Quartermaster General someday, were it not for his retiring manner and tendency to drink himself into stupefaction. Sam Grant could've gone with prostitutes, but was not that kind of officer, either.
He was a tanner's son who'd married a rich man's daughter, and now she shared his destitute life due to his failures and inadequacies. Every night he gazed at the faces of his children, whom he couldn't feed were it not for the humiliating generosity of his father-in-law.
Sometimes ex-Captain Sam Grant felt like taking his old army revolver and blowing his brains out. Other times he thought of deserting his family, because they'd be better off without him. But he was a stubborn midwestern son-of-a-bitch who believed in the immutable laws of mathematical probability. So he stood shivering and scorned on the windswept St. Louis street corner, hawking his hopeless load of wood, unable to afford a cheap cigar or a cup of coffee, waiting impatiently for his luck to change.
One chilly day in February, guarded by his faithful dog and wrapped in his wolf fur robe, Nathanial sat in a cave and gazed at ponderosa pine-covered mountains and gray mists arising from deep gorges. The landscape appeared otherworldly, a kingdom of leprechauns and dragons, perhaps the highlands of Scotland, his family's ancestral home.
His mind was dear due to cold-water swimming, his wounds mostly healed except for an occasional twinge. Strength returned steadily, but best of all, he'd never felt so serene, for he'd spent most of his life striving, and rested only when recovering from wounds.
During Ghost Face, with nothing to do or become, he felt almost happy, even somewhat wise. The People lead a sacramental life, he'd observed, and no wonder they resisted becoming farmers, bent over rows of beans. ‘Tis better to die nobly as a warrior than be a bone-weary farmer who works himself to death. What is civilized about laboring in filthy factories for twelve hours a day, seven days per week, or living in tiny, rat-infested hovels? What is uncivilized about moving in adjustment with the seasons?
Nathanial wa
sn't anxious to depart the holy Life-way that had healed his body and mind. And there was Jocita, in whose presence he felt disoriented, and frequently he fantasized certain disreputable acts, such as ripping off her buckskin blouse, exposing her bosom, and having his way with her. Often he lay awake for hours, unable to escape her memory.
But Juh watched his every move. Plus Chuntz had been hanging about lately. This is a dangerous situation, Nathanial reminded himself. Soon as the snow melts, I'm off to Fort Craig.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice above.
The dog snarled, and at first Nathanial thought the Lord God had spoken to him in Apache language, but then Nana dropped to the floor of the cave from the ledge above. He landed in a crouch, faced Nathanial, and peered deeply into his eyes. “You know nothing of our holy Lifeway,” he intoned. “Always apart from the People, you wear different clothes, and observe us rather than be one of us.”
“I never could become one of you, no matter how hard I tried.”
“That is what you say. Perhaps, after you leave, you will make big war against us.”
“I will never make war against you. When I return to my people, I intend to remove my bluecoat forever.”
“Perhaps you say one thing and do another, like Steck.”
“When have I ever betrayed you?” asked Nathanial.
“Your heart is not with us.” Nana spat at the ground to show his contempt.
Nathanial had to admit that in fact he did hold himself back, like a scientist studying a remote mountain tribe, although occasionally he smoked with them, to show how brotherly he felt. “What would you like me to do to prove my loyalty?”
“You know.”
Nathanial wondered if he should immerse himself in their holy Lifeway, removing his White Eyes judgment and so-called scientific objectivity. The snow wouldn't melt for another month, and he couldn't travel home anyway. “All right,” he said, rising to his feet. “But you must teach me how.”
“Take off that Pindah uniform and put on the clothing of a warrior.”
Nathanial wondered if he'd been swindled out of his tailor-made army uniform and boots. He removed his clothing and handed everything to Nana in exchange for a clean white breechclout, deerskin shirt, moccasin boots, red headband, and a necklace made from deer sinew and small, smooth blue stones. When finished, Nana resembled a deeply tanned officer in the First Dragoons, his uniform several sizes too large, while Nathanial had become a blond-bearded Apache. Even his faithful dog appeared impressed.
But Nana said, “You cannot be a warrior just by wearing a warrior's clothing. You must live a warrior's life, which is based upon strength. First, no warrior chooses for his companion a mangy cur, so get rid of that flea carrier.”
“But who will take care of him?”
“Himself.” Nana kicked the dog in the rear end, and the dog went flying out of the cave. Upon landing, he sped back to camp, to seek his next employment opportunity. Nana turned to Nathanial and made a fist, his knuckles going white in front of Nathanial's eyes. “I have the power of geese, which is the power of endurance, and nothing is more valuable to a warrior than endurance. I shall teach it to you, if you want it.”
Nathanial thought the proposition over. Oh, what the hell, he thought, which was the way he made most important decisions. “All right—give me the power of geese.”
“Start running.”
“Where?”
“Up and down the mountains.”
Nana snapped his fingers, and Apache boys dropped to the floor of the cave, where they giggled and pointed at Nathanial's new clothes. “You and your stupid dog did not know we were here,” said Nana derisively. “That is because you are a dreamer, and I do not know how to treat that ailment, but I will consult with Mangas Coloradas and Cuchillo Negro. However, first you will receive the power of geese, if you do not disappoint me again.”
Flabbergasted, Nathanial let the boys lead him outside, noting little Running Deer among them, wearing the crucifix around his neck. “Come on, White Eyes,” he said. “Do not be so weak.”
The boys broke into a run, and Nathanial rambled behind them, noting that his new moccasin boots gripped the snow crust better than his army boots. Neither did the breechclout impede his movements, as did army pants, and it felt wonderful to work his muscles again.
He wasn't so optimistic fifteen minutes later, while running up an incline. His lungs gulped air, and his muscles felt flaccid, for he'd been an invalid so long. He struggled to keep up with them, but hope faded in another half hour when his legs gave out and he dropped wearily into the snow. Hoarse sounds came from his throat, and he thought he'd never rise again.
“What are you doing, Pindah soldier?” asked one of the boys. “It is not time for bed.”
“Go on without me.”
“No wonder the White Eyes are no match for the People.”
Another boy threw a snowball at Nathanial, and a third kicked him in the rear end, while a fourth stuffed a twig into his ear.
“You will never have the power of geese,” said Running Deer. “Perhaps we should let the buzzards get you.”
Laboriously, Nathanial climbed to his feet, unwilling to let mere children, including his own son, defeat a grown man, a soldier, and former swimmer, fencer, and baseball player at West Point.
“Come on, sickly White Eyes,” taunted one of the children, throwing a snowball that struck him on the nose and filled his eyes with chips of ice. “What is wrong with you?”
Nathanial stumbled after them as they headed for an especially sharp rise. He believed that his heart would burst, yet he plodded onward, legs exposed to the mountain wind, air filling his heaving lungs. As he struggled to stay upright, for no apparent reason, an odd thought came to mind. I wonder what Clarissa is doing right now?
Clarissa sat at the piano in the Golden Spur Saloon, singing and playing her own nimble-fingered version of “On the Lake Where Drooped the Willow,” by Charles E. Horn and George Pope.
On the lake where drooped the willow, long time ago
Where the rock threw back the billow, brighter than snow
Dwelt a maid beloved and cherished, by high and low
But with autumn leaf she perished, long time ago . . .
It was morning, a scattering of customers around her, some reading newspapers, others playing cards, and a few still passed out cold from the night before, for the Golden Spur remained open around the clock.
Clarissa played the piano every morning at the Golden Spur, her repertoire a medley of everything from popular American tunes to Chopin and Mozart. Customers never complained, although occasionally there were arguments about politics, who dealt the last hand, and who slept with whose wife the previous night.
Everything unpleasant vanished before sharps and flats floating from the cigarette-scarred nameless piano, which had arrived in Albuquerque in a wagon filled with whiskey, canned goods, and gunpowder. A bullet hole could be seen on the front panel, beside which Clarissa had propped her music, and a piano with such a history could not help add its own special weird intonations.
A clock sat on the shelf and told her it was time to return home. She finished the piece, hit the last note triumphantly, then gathered her music to light applause.
She made a little bow, inwardly pleased by their appreciation. Among them sat a barrel-chested officer about her height with black curly side-whiskers, who arose and strolled toward her. “Mrs. Barrington?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I was a friend of Nathanial's—we were roommates at West Point. My name's Beau Hargreaves.”
She stared at him for several seconds. “Nathanial spoke of you many times. He said you were his best friend.”
Beau's eyes grew salty; he glanced away so she wouldn't see the tears. “I've just arrived in Albuquerque,” he said, trying to sound casual, “and thought I should say hello. You play the piano beautifully, and I can understand why Nathanial married you. You're quite lovely, a real beauty.”
Compliments concerning her appearance made Clarissa feel superficial, self-conscious, and something of a freak. “I was about to go home to care for Nathanial's daughter, who looks just like him, by the way. Would you care to meet her?”
On the way to the door he noticed her grace, ease, upthrust of breasts, and tanned girlish features. “I've avoided meeting you,” he confessed as he stepped outside, “because I haven't been able to accept Nathanial's death. My only consolation is that he probably went quickly, because he'd never let himself be taken alive.”
Clarissa caught an image of Nathanial ripped by knife-wielding Apaches, and wanted to cry out, but instead asked, “Are you married?”
“Yes, to one of Nathanial's old flames, as a matter of fact, the former Rebecca Harding, daughter of our commanding officer at Fort Marcy back in ‘50. Nathanial and Rebecca were supposed to marry, then Nathanial met Maria Dolores, his first wife, so I pulled together the courage to court Rebecca. Have you ever met Maria Dolores, Nathanial's first wife?”
“Yes, and in fact she's my employer. She owns the Golden Spur Saloon.”
“Sounds like she's buying up the world.”
They walked along a planked sidewalk, passing the bank, barber shop, and another saloon. A guitar could be heard, and a vaquero was passed out in the middle of the sidewalk. Clarissa raised her skirts and stepped over him.
They arrived at her home, finding Natalie asleep. Clarissa sent Rosita to the market, as Beau gazed at the child, noting her resemblance to Nathanial. Perhaps I should resign my commission before I get killed, thought Beau.
Beau's sympathy for Nathanial's family didn't prevent him from admiring Clarissa as she bent over the crib. She's a capable young mother, obviously well-educated, not a spoiled tart.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Don't you have anything to drink?”
“Sorry, but I don't drink.”
“Perhaps you should start.”
“I'm alone for the first time in my life,” she told him, “and some days I feel as if . . . I don't know. I was so happy with Nathanial, and now he's gone.”