by Len Levinson
Each had distinguished himself in jurisprudence, and each brought the full weight of his sagacity to the task. The times demanded no less, for internecine killing had begun in Kansas Territory, and flames of civil war threatened to engulf the land. The nation's highest judges expected their decision to be attacked from every direction, especially the increasingly hysterical national press. Like their revolutionary forefathers, the justices lived in times that tried men's souls.
Their precedent-shattering adjudication concerned a Negro named Dred Scott, whose owner, John Emerson, had transported him from the slave state of Missouri to the free state of Ohio, then to the free territory of Wisconsin, and finally back to Missouri. Emerson died in the latter venue, and his heirs claimed Dred as their property, but Dred promptly sued for his freedom, arguing he no longer was beholden to the jurisdiction of the slave state Missouri, due to his previous residences in free Ohio and Wisconsin.
The case finally rose to the Missouri Supreme Court, which decided that Missouri could not invoke the laws of another state to set Dred Scott free. Then Dred and his lawyer, Montgomery Blair, former Mayor of St. Louis, had petitioned the Supreme Court for redress.
The wrinkled faces of the justices emerged from the dim corridor into a large rectangular sanctum packed with reporters, their notepads and pencils at the ready. Many congressmen and senators also had come to hear the decision, plus lawyers from the Attorney General's office, army officers, representatives from the State Department and other agencies. The wizened justices solemnly made their way to the dais, as the aura of their majesties filled the basement.
Everyone studied Chief Justice Taney as he arranged notes on the podium. Cadaverous, wearing spectacles, he was a southern planter who voluntarily had freed his slaves, a Catholic who attended Mass every day, and attorney general during the Andrew Jackson administration. In a thin, reedy voice, he spoke his historic words, and it wasn't long before a scowl appeared upon the craggy visage of Senator William Seward of New York, a leader of the abolitionist bloc, while an expression of triumph radiated from the tanned cheeks of Jefferson Davis of Mississippi, the Senate's most vociferous supporter of southern rights.
The long-awaited decision, as tediously articulated for the next three hours by Chief Justice Taney, stated fundamentally: (1) A slave held no citizenship; therefore Dred Scott possessed no right to sue. (2) A slave was property that could be transported anywhere, even to a free state, yet the slave property status would remain. (3) The federal government possessed no authorization to restrict property rights; therefore the Missouri Compromise was null and void.
The latter decision fell like a bomb, because the Missouri Compromise was the glue that somehow had held America together during the repeated nullification and secession crises of the past thirty-five years. Now it was gone, and the ship of state foundered perilously upon the rockbound coastline of the slavery debate.
A cheer went up throughout the South, vindicated at last, while in the North and West, a tornado of anger erupted. The abolitionist press accused the court of “gross historical falsehoods,” “a wicked and false judgment,” “an atrocious doctrine,” and a “perversion.”
From that point onward, whatever restraints remained in the slavery debate were removed, as outrageous insults and vicious innuendo passed back and forth as a matter of course, and naturally each side believed, deep in their collective souls, they were 100 percent correct, and God was backing them.
American presidents generally receive a few months of grace after being inaugurated, but this was not James Buchanan's good fortune. Two days after his gala inauguration, just as he was recovering from his lifelong run for the presidency, the Dred Scott decision fell in his lap, and an unmarried Pennsylvania lawyer, who had been expelled from Dickinson College for rowdy behavior, found himself at the center of a maelstrom beyond anything the young nation had hitherto known.
The bear opened his eyes, blinked, and grunted in the blackness of the cave. He heard water dripping, snow melting, and felt the temperature warming. He was thirsty, but couldn't move, and his blood barely pumped. He licked his dry lips and sniffed the fragrance of wet, decaying vegetation, his lungs inflating.
A breeze blowing past the front of the cave carried the fragrance of sap running in ponderosa pines, as the world returned from its deep sleep. The bear hardly could swallow, so decided his first business was water.
His kidneys began to filter blood as he moved huge paws and tried to roll over. But he didn't have agility, so rocked back and forth a few times. The floor was hard, and he was becoming tired of solitariness. He wanted to see pretty birds, and possibly eat one.
Finally, he rolled to his four paws, stood unsteadily, and flicked his short tail. He felt immense and unstoppable, feared by one and all. It became brighter as he approached the mouth of the cave, but he wasn't so sleepy that he'd stumble where he could be seen. Instead, he hovered in the shadows and examined the land beneath him.
Snow dissipated, revealing dirt where mice and bugs might be dug. Perhaps a jackrabbit would cross his path, or he could find tender buds. He examined the terrain for movement, sensing odd colors and strange shapes, but found nothing threatening.
He lumbered to the front of the cave, raised himself laboriously on two legs, and placed his long red tongue beneath a thin stream of water. His throat felt unfamiliar as he swallowed the blood of the forest, his bear energy coming on slowly.
Then he lowered himself and walked on all fours into the valley below, his head angling from side to side, hoping for his first meal. I am the mighty one, and this land is mine.
Not far away, a jackrabbit hopped along muddy earth dotted with patches of snow. The buck-toothed creature was hungry, his winter supply of nuts and seeds nearly depleted, and he searched for a tender green shoot to eat.
Every several steps he stopped suddenly and glanced about, for a jackrabbit was tasty food to many creatures. Ahead lay a narrow passageway flanked by thick foliage. There wasn't much room for maneuver, but it looked like it might be green.
The rabbit hopped onward, peering into tangled branches for signs of coyote, cougar, or bear. Then he glanced overhead, to make certain a hawk wasn't swooping down upon him. The narrow passageway appeared pristine, with no coyote hairs sticking to the branches. The rabbit was happy and healthy, anticipating the fruits of the season, when he heard a sudden rushing sound. Then the arrow struck, pierced his ribs, and stuck out his other side. His last sensation was the sound of a creature crawling toward him.
It was little Running Deer, child of the People, bow in hand, his cougar-fur quiver at his waist. He added to his family's food supply like all other boys, even though he was son of Chief Juh and the warrior woman Jocita. Running Deer reached for the rabbit to string it from his waist when he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He went for his knife as two arms clasped him and held him high in the air.
It was Cousin Geronimo smiling amiably. “You are very good, little Running Deer, because when we look upon our kill, we forget enemies, but you were ready, and if you had been twenty years older, you would have killed me.”
“I could never kill you, Cousin Geronimo. You will always be too strong for me.”
Geronimo tossed Running Deer into the air, and Running Dear laughed with delight, because he admired cousin Geronimo, greatest of the Bedonko warriors. Geronimo caught the boy, sat him on the ground, and peered into his eyes.
“I have observed you, Running Deer,” he began, “and seen that you are a good boy with strength, courage, and skill with bow and arrow. You obey your mother and father, and you are not lazy. Neither do you provoke fights with other boys, nor do you tell lies. Your curse or treasure is your pure heart, because it is to pure hearts that power gravitates. Perhaps one day you will be the one to whom the People will turn for healing and strength.”
“A di-yin? the boy asked. “Like you?”
“Do you want the power of the bat?”
Running Deer
felt as if he were floating above the ground, while the sound of tinkling bells came to him through the nippy spring air. “Yes, I want the power of the bat,” he replied.
“And if the power asked a high price, such as your arm.” Geronimo whipped out his knife and held it to the boy's small biceps muscle.
“I would not give my arm, but would the power take the rabbit?”
Geronimo stared at him in astonishment, then burst into laughter. “Yes, I think he would.”
The boy pulled the arrow out of the rabbit, then lay the warm corpse neatly upon the ground. He raised his small arms and intoned, “I offer this rabbit to the bat. Please teach me your power.”
This was no empty liturgy, for the boy believed deeply in the religion of the People, as did his mother. And perhaps because he believed, he wasn't surprised by cloud formations that somehow resembled a huge white bat floating overhead, an affirmation that his offering had been accepted.
Geronimo appeared disconcerted, because he too saw bat clouds. This child is highly chosen, he decided. I will teach him as best I can. Geronimo believed the mountain spirits capable of miracles, and a powerful di-yin could enlist their aid, changing the course of history.
They left the rabbit in the open, then made their way to two horses tethered to a mesquite tree. Geronimo placed Running deer atop the old mare, then climbed onto his chestnut roan stallion. They rode among maple and locust trees, heading to the lower regions.
“How long will we be gone?” asked Running Deer.
“A warrior's future is unknowable. Are you afraid?”
“Not with you, Cousin Geronimo.”
“But I am nothing compared to the power.”
“Nana says if we are honest, the power cannot harm us.”
He understands, thought Geronimo. Perhaps this misbegotten boy is destined for greatness after all.
“We are going for a ride,” said Nana, the di-yin medicine man.
Nathanial was smoking alone in front of his wickiup and said nonchalantly, “When?”
Suddenly, Nana charged, and Nathanial was a hair too slow. The point of a dagger came to rest against his throat.
“You will never learn,” said Nana sadly. “Sometimes I think there is no hope of making you a warrior.”
“How can a person be prepared to fight at every moment? It's natural to relax in safe surroundings.”
“No surroundings are safe, Pindah soldier. Meet me at the horses—now.”
Why does he always defeat me? wondered Nathanial as he crawled into his wickiup. What is it that these people know, and can I ever truly be an Apache? Perhaps we're imprinted from birth with a special rhyme, which we cannot change. He collected his rifle, pistol, knife, and bag of pemmican, in addition to Apache clothes, then headed for his appointment with Nana.
Jocita watched him go from her position behind her own wickiup, and it appeared that he was weighted with every weapon he could find, when a simple bow, a few arrows, and a good sharp knife were all a warrior required. Someone always kept the Pindah busy, as if to separate him from her, and she was thankful for their concern. Many warriors seemed to like the bluecoat soldier, perhaps because he was a fighter like them, courageous in his own thoroughly debased Pindah way.
Sometimes Jocita considered her secret lover a buffoon, but it was fun to laugh. He was a lumbering Pindah bear, but he also carried characteristics of the cougar, and appeared not to worry about dying. He'd told the warriors, who promptly had passed the word to their wives, that he came from a village of White Eyes who lived in wickiups piled on top of each other.
She felt aroused merely by looking at him carrying his saddle, and thought of running after him, tackling him, and throwing him to the ground. Then she'd rip off his clothing and . . . turn her mind to another subject, before she felt sickly and gasped for air.
“Do you love him?” asked a masculine voice in her ear.
It was Juh, who had snuck up while she stared lustfully at the Pindah. "Who?” she replied innocently.
“Do not play with me, wife. I refer to the bluecoat war chief.”
“You are being foolish again. Because I barely know him.”
“That did not stop you from making love with him.”
She lowered her head. “How many times must I apologize, my husband? Particularly since you spend your nights with Ish-keh.”
“Must you stare at him so openly? But whatever foolish thing you do, you must never dishonor me. I know you are tempted, for I know more than you think, little cheat, but do not forget the consequences. You may not be afraid to die, but there is the matter of your son, Running Deer.”
Jocita's blood ran cold. “You must not hurt Running Deer.”
“That is up to you, dear Jocita.”
“Look into my eyes, Juh.”
They had grown up together, learned to hunt side by side, and she'd even joined her lover on the warpath before they married. Never had they lied to each other, although the truth had been extremely painful at times.
“If you are worried about dishonor,” she said, “continue to keep him away from me.”
“In other words, you are out of control,” her husband said, a tone of amazement in his voice.
“It is not his fault, for he has done nothing wrong, except be a man. The fault is yours, because you have made me wicked. If you had not married Ish-keh . . .”
Juh covered his ears with his hands as he walked away from his wife. Her words pierced his hide like barbs, and the worst pain was knowing she was right, because by marrying Ish-keh, he'd lost his one true love. Sometimes Juh thought about abandoning both women and living in a cave.
Geronimo and Running Deer arrived in broken desert country marked with clumps of paddle cactus and outcroppings of banana yucca. Little conversation had passed between them, and therefore Running Deer was surprised when cousin Geronimo turned toward him and said, “Soon we shall arrive at our destination.”
They rode onward, the sun rising in the sky. Running Deer had learned that size was valuable when riding, his legs too short for a firm grip on the horse's belly. Perhaps I should have waited until I was older to receive the power of the bat, he thought.
Shortly before midday, Geronimo said, “This is the place.”
They were surrounded by massive boulders twice the size of a man, tumbled together or lying alone, as well as mesquite trees, creosote bushes and clumps of grama grass. “I don't see any bats,” said Running Deer.
Geronimo climbed down from his saddle, then lowered the boy to the ground. Running Deer stretched his stiff little legs as Geronimo led their mounts to a clearing sheltered by boulders and trees. He picketed both animals, hid the saddles in a nearby cave, then returned to Running Deer. “Are you afraid?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should be. This will be no simple rabbit-hunting expedition.”
“Now can I be afraid of anything when I am with you, Cousin Geronimo? You are the greatest of the Bedonko warriors, and even Mangas Coloradas treats you with respect.”
“But I am not stronger than the power of the bat, little boy. You will need to defend yourself against him. Are you ready?”
The six-year-old boy drew his knife and held its blade up. “You would not have brought me here if you did not think I am ready, Cousin Geronimo.”
Geronimo took out his bag of sacred pollen, dropped a pinch on Running Deer's forehead, and made the sign of the cross, an ancient symbol of the People signifying the four holy directions. Then he sprinkled pollen about while performing a little dance. Running Deer watched closely, trying to understand the deeper meaning, because he'd been taught since birth that everything has a deeper meaning, to be interpreted by men of power.
He was too young to be properly afraid as he followed Geronimo through passageways winding between massive rock formations, some balanced precariously upon others, or so it seemed to Running Deer. He'd never been to that range before.
Geronimo stopped suddenly, made an od
d motion with his right hand, then turned to Running Deer. “This is your last chance.” He held his arm in front of Running Deer's eyes. “Look.”
Close-up, Running Deer noticed Geronimo's arm covered by innumerable barely visible scars. “Was it the bat?” asked Running Deer.
“Yes, and the same will happen to you. Give it thought, boy. If you don't wish to proceed, no one will think less of you. A painful experience awaits you, have no doubts about that.”
“A warrior must conquer fear, my father said. I have fought with the other boys, and I know how to kill rabbits. I am not afraid.”
“What if a bat attacks you with sharp claws and fangs?”
The boy held up his fist. “I will steal his power.”
Never had Geronimo met such a perspicacious child. The sun glinted off strains of the boy's light hair as Geronimo sprinkled more pollen upon him. Then Geronimo crawled into a crevasse between two immense piles of igneous rock leaning against the side of a mountain, and when his moccasin boot disappeared, Running Deer looked both ways, took a deep breath, and followed him in.
The tunnel was hard, dark, and narrow. Running Deer imagined himself crushed beneath tons of rock and felt like crying for his mother, but she would slap his face if she heard such nonsense. Besides, it didn't appear as if the rock was going to fall on him. Everything became pitch black, and Running Deer struggled to dominate fear as he continued after Geronimo. There was a scraping sound, as if his cousin had fallen. Running Deer stopped, his heart beating rapidly in the darkness. What if something happens to Geronimo?
Two hands grabbed him, pulled him into open air, and set him down on a ledge in what appeared to be a large, dark underground chamber, with dripping sounds echoing about. Geronimo found a niche cut into the stone wall, removed the sacred clay goblet, held it beneath a stream of water falling from the upper reaches of the cave, then raised it to Running Deer's lips. “Drink the blood of the bat cave,” he intoned.