by Len Levinson
The new chief had promised assistance to widows and children of those who'd perished, but had not apologized for his failure, for he had not expected bluecoat soldiers to be prepared for an ambush. Did they see us? he wondered. He recalled the bluecoat war chief who nearly had shot him. Who has ambushed whom? wondered Cochise.
That night they camped alongside a stream. A horse was butchered, but no victory dance held, and the wailing of widows and orphans could be heard. Cochise ate little and felt as if he had failed the People. In the future he would not consider bluecoat soldiers easy prey.
He sat with his wife and sons, Taza and Naiche, the former fourteen harvests old, the latter only two. Dostehseh placed her hand on her husband's knee. “There will be other battles,” she said. “Even the greatest chiefs have failed on occasion.”
“But not so soon,” he replied, “and not so ignominiously.”
“The medicine men sing of the glory of heroes, but never their defeats.”
Cochise pondered her words as he gnawed his chunk of meat. After the meal, as the People prepared for bed, Esquiline and Elias approached Cochise, who was laying his robe upon the bare ground. “We wish to council with you,” said Esquiline.
Cochise stood and peered first into Esquiline's eyes, and then Elias's. “I know what you are going to say, my brothers. You want to take your clans and part company from me.”
The two sub-chiefs appeared surprised by Cochise's response. They glanced at each other, then Elias said, “That is so.”
“It is easy to crack a twig in two,” replied Cochise. “But hold a handful of twigs, and no one can break them. So it is with the People. We are stronger together.”
Esquiline lowered his eyes. “I did not want to mention my reason, but since you have disagreed, I will tell the truth. I have lost confidence in your leadership.”
Cochise maintained his outward calm. “Even chiefs such as Miguel Narbona and Mangas Coloradas have suffered defeats.”
There was silence at the mention of two such noble names, then Esquiline said, “You are right, but Miguel Narbona is no longer available to counsel you. We require a new war chief.”
Cochise smiled. “You?”
Esquiline nodded solemnly. “You would be surprised at how many warriors would follow me.”
Cochise turned to Elias. “Would you follow him?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you wanted to be chief, Elias.”
“I have given my support to Esquiline.”
“How many horses did he offer you?”
Elias's eyes flashed with anger. “How dare you insult me, just because you were the favorite of Miguel Narbona.”
“It is difficult to imagine that you would support anybody if you were not paid, Elias.”
Elias's lips quivered with rage as a crowd formed around the three war chiefs. Each had his supporters and detractors, and this moment had been building since the failure of the attack on the bluecoat soldiers. “You speak with arrogance,” shouted Elias, “though warriors have died due to your lack of ability.”
“It is true that warriors have been lost,” replied Cochise. “But if you were in charge, what would you have done differently?”
“ I . . .” Elias's voice trailed off.
Cochise followed his advantage. “You did not disagree when I planned the attack.” He turned to Esquiline. “Nor did you.”
“I thought I would give you a chance,” replied Esquiline, “because I respected the will of Miguel Narbona. I now see that Miguel Narbona had become old, and his judgment evidently failed him.”
“If you thought the bluecoat soldiers had seen us, why did you not give the signal of danger?”
“I did not want to interfere with your plans.”
“Liar,” said Cochise in a conversational voice.
Warriors looked at each other, and mothers shepherded their small children away from the gathering.
“How dare you call me a liar?” asked Esquiline, touching his hand to the hilt of his knife.
“That is what you are, unless you are also a demon, because only a demon would permit his warrior brothers to be killed.”
Esquiline took a step backward and smiled. “First you call me a liar, then a fiend. Do you have any other words for me, son of Pisago Cabezon?”
“What about jealous?"
Esquiline drew his knife, but before the point cleared his scabbard, a foot rose out of nowhere and whacked his nose. Esquiline went reeling backward, as Elias, war club in hand, leapt toward Cochise, but a fist slammed into Elias's mouth, staggering him. As he was trying to figure out what valley he was in, another fist collided with his ear, and it was like being struck with the trunk of a tree. Elias's eyes closed as he fell to the ground.
Cochise said nonchalantly, “If any warriors desire to go, I shall not stop them.” Then Cochise turned his back and strolled toward his smiling wife and sons.
No one departed the leadership of Cochise that day.
Nathanial and his mother rode a train to Washington, D.C., then a coach to Georgetown, where they stopped at the patriarch's home. They climbed the stoop, she pounded her fist on the door, and sometime later it was opened by Mattie. The maid took one look at Nathanial, then his mother. “Oh-oh,” she said, stepping out of the way.
Mrs. Barrington strolled jauntily into her husband's home. “Where is the great beast?”
“In his office, ma'am.”
“I can't wait to see what work he does there.”
Nathanial wondered how his mother knew where to go, since presumably she'd never visited her husband's Georgetown home, or had she? They climbed to the second floor, made their way down a corridor lined with moldering newspapers, and Amalia pounded on a door. “It's me!” she said.
A fit of coughing and other sounds of distress erupted on the other side of the door.
Nathanial frowned. “You shouldn't surprise him this way.”
“Too bad,” declared the deserted wife and mother.
Shuffling footsteps could be heard on the far side of the door, and then the gray-bearded colonel stood before them, food stains on his old Army tunic, a mournful expression in his rheumy eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked meekly.
“You're coming home with me,” she told him in her no-nonsense voice.
“Like hell I am,” he replied.
She placed her hands on her hips and narrowed one eye. “You're filthy, half mad, can't take care of yourself, and ought to be ashamed, but shame isn't a word in your vocabulary. Follow me.”
“I'll never follow you anywhere,” he insisted. “You're the worst tyrant I've ever known. Has the President sent you?”
“What makes you think Ten Cent Jimmy Buchanan cares about your miserable disreputable life? You're a fool, you always have been a fool, and you always will be a fool.”
She grabbed the front of his military tunic and dragged him out of the office. Nathanial was alarmed to see his mother bullying his father, but was afraid to open his mouth. The retired colonel tripped over his feet as he descended the stairs, but his wife held him erect. In the parlor Mattie was waiting, an anxious expression on her face. You can t treat the massa this way,” she said in a shaky voice.
“He is returning to his home in New York City,” replied Mrs. Barrington. “You might as well come along unless you have another job.”
The wronged wife pushed her husband into a chair, where he dropped with a dazed expression, sputtering and blubbering, the old soldier unable to defend himself. “You can't treat an officer in this manner,” he protested.
“I'll treat you any way I like,” she replied, then bent at the waist, gazed into his eyes, and said, “You never dreamed that one day I would be stronger than you, did you? You should thank whatever God you pray to that I don't give you a thrashing for deserting your family. You wanted romance with an exotic woman? Well, my fine Lothario, where is she now that you are old and ugly?”
“I have always believed the P
resident offered her a job in the diplomatic service.”
“Is it the President's fault that you haven't had a bath? Nathanial, find a trunk and pack his things—no, never mind, we'll buy new clothes in New York. And that goes for you too, Mattie.”
“But my maps,” pleaded the old soldier. “How can I plot strategy without my maps.”
Nathanial cleared his throat. “Mother, a soldier needs his maps.”
“What if the British attack?” asked the old colonel.
“All right, pack his maps and uniforms, because I know how men love maps and uniforms. But hurry, because I want to go home first thing in the morning.”
She rampaged through the house like a conquering general as the old colonel suffered his worst defeat.
During his stay in Washington, D.C., Nathanial found time to visit the Interior Department, in his continuing hope of securing a position with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Attired in a neatly tailored dark brown suit, he felt naked without his Army uniform and weaponry.
The Department of the Interior was located in the new Patent Office building on North G Street, not far from the White House. No one questioned Nathanial's credentials as he made his way through the building, because he appeared a lawyer or secretary to a cabinet officer, possibly even a congressman. Finally, he came to a door marked
BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS
He opened the door to an office filled with clerks. One of them looked up and said without smiling, “May I help you, sir?”
“I'd like to speak with Commissioner Denver if he's available.”
“Sorry, but he's in Nebraska, negotiating a treaty with the Pawnees.”
“Who'd he leave in charge.”
“That would be Mister Mix, sir—The chief clerk.”
“Please tell him a visitor is here.”
“Your name?”
“Nathanial Barrington.”
“Whom do you represent?”
Nathanial had to lie, otherwise he wouldn't get beyond the clerk. “I'm Senator Seward's new assistant.”
“One moment, please.”
The clerk walked off, while Nathanial examined rows of scriveners who never had seen an Indian in their lives, yet formulated policy that affected thousands. Finally, the clerk returned. “He'll see you now, sir.”
Trying to appear as all-knowing as any government official, Nathanial pushed the door that had been left ajar. Seated behind the desk was an official in his forties, with graying hair and spectacles hanging on his small nose. He smiled as he arose, and was neatly attired in a conservative gray suit, bearing a resemblance to an owl. Shaking Nathanial's hand, he said, “What can I do for Senator Seward today?”
“Actually,” said Nathanial affably, “I'm not Senator Seward's assistant, but a former Army officer recently returned from New Mexico Territory. I speak fluent Apache and Spanish and was wondering if a position might be available as Indian agent.”
“How did you learn to speak Apache?”
“I lived among the Mimbreno clan for nearly a year. They accepted me because I'd done a favor for one of them.”
There was silence as Mix studied the large, well-dressed gentleman. Unknown to the world, it was Mix who managed the day-to-day affairs of the Indian bureau, because commissioners were politically appointed and constantly changing, sometimes serving no more than a year or two. Despite his unassuming appearance, he knew more about Indians than any other man in Washington. “Have you met the present Indian agent, Doctor Michael Steck?”
“No, but I've seen him at a distance. The Apaches consider him a liar, while the Army thinks he's inept.”
“Sounds like he could use an assistant, but I doubt we can give you the salary you require.”
“You don't have to pay me anything. Just give a chance to save the Apaches from the Army.”
Mix leaned back in his chair, weighing the decision. According to his information, Apaches were the most warlike of all Indian tribes, even worse than Comanches. “How soon can you report for duty in New Mexico Territory?” he asked.
“About two months, I'd say.”
Mix smiled. “We'll take a chance with you, Barrington—perhaps a man with your unique qualifications and background can be helpful. I'll write a letter of introduction to Doctor Steck right now. It's a cauldron of hell you're stepping into, but good luck.”
Nathanial returned to New York and rushed to the Saint Nicholas Hotel, eager to see his beloved wife, but found no one home, not even Rosita and Natalie.
Nathanial wanted to tell Clarissa he'd been awarded an important government position, although assistant Indian agents often were illiterate, their jobs lowly and of little consequence. He unpacked his bags, took a shot of whiskey, then another, and finally set out in search of his family.
His first stop was the office of his wife's manager, who conducted manipulations out of a building at Broadway and 12th Street, not far from Union Square and the Academy of Music. Nathanial climbed to the top floor, knocked on the door marked MARTIN THORN-DYKE, but no one suggested he enter, so he turned the knob and pushed.
A gentleman with a long, thin nose sat at a desk. “I don't recall inviting you in,” he said indignantly.
“I'm looking for my wife, Clarissa Barrington.”
“You mean Clarissa Rowland Barrington. But we never reveal the location of our artists, sir.”
“I'm her husband!”
“We make no exceptions.”
“Where's Thorndyke?”
The man scowled. “It's Mister Thorndyke.”
“You'd better tell me where my wife is, or I'll tear this office apart.”
“If you don't leave at once, I shall call the police.”
Nathanial moved to the side of the desk, tipped it over, and contracts, letters, checks, and the inkwell went flying into the air. The clerk shot to his feet, his face white as snow, but he wasn't accustomed to the manners of New Mexico Territory. Next, Nathanial knocked over a cabinet, threw a potted plant against the wall, then grabbed the front of the clerk's shirt, put him up against the wall, and said, “Well?”
“She's rehearsing at the Academy of Music,” confessed the terrified man.
Clarissa sat on the gaslit stage, precisely fingering Frédéric Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G Minor to an audience consisting of Thorndyke and a sprinkling of theater managers, plus her maid and daughter. The stage had been cleared, with the piano placed in its center. The big concert was tomorrow night, the house nearly sold out, thanks to articles by Reginald van Zweinan and other bought members of the press.
Clarissa didn't reflect upon crass business arrangements, as her fingers danced over the keys. She was lost in her world of glissading notes and cascading chords, never imagining disaster about to befall.
Dressed in a simple dress of vermillion wool, she wore no jewelry or cosmetics, her golden hair tied into a bun, accentuating her long neck. She bent over the piano and examined the keys carefully, as her delicate fingers caromed about, landing in the proper place at the critical juncture, the result of fifteen years intensive practice.
Her concentration sharp like the edge of a razor, in the most moving and nuanced section of the ballade, a commotion broke out backstage. “See here,” said someone testily, “you can't walk in here like that.”
“Out of my way!” declared an all-too-familiar voice.
Clarissa's fingers froze on the piano, a lump grew in her throat, and there were sounds of struggle. Clarissa had spent enough time in Santa Fe to know a punch in the mouth when she heard one, not to mention the singular noise made as a body hit the floor. She arose from the piano as her husband appeared red-faced in the wings.
Thorndyke shot to his feet. “What are you doing!” he screamed.
Nathanial leapt from the stage and, moving amazing swiftly for a man his size, drew closer to Thorndyke. “You're lucky I don't throw you out the window.”
“Nathanial,” said Clarissa crossly, “please leave Mr. Thorndyke alone.”
&
nbsp; Nathanial turned to his wife. “Why is it so difficult to see you? Do I need a ticket or an introduction from that bloated pig to whom the world refers as Thorndyke?”
Clarissa became temperamental and even poisonous when her music was interrupted. Stamping her foot angrily, she said, “How dare you make a scene in the middle of my rehearsal!”
“I happen to be your husband, and I have important news.”
“I am not interested in your news. You are behaving disgracefully!”
Perhaps Nathanial Barrington had been a soldier too long, but he looked for something to destroy, and then a wail went up on the far side of the orchestra. It was his daughter, awakened from her soothing musical slumber. Nathanial caught a glimpse of himself as an ill-mannered buffoon. He wanted to apologize, but false pride wouldn't let him. “I'll speak with you later,” he said ominously, then headed for the door, “I after stepping over the unconscious form of the stage worker whom he'd knocked cold upon his arrival.
Broadway featured taverns on every block, and Nathanial entered the first he found, pushed his way to the bar, and ordered a glass of whiskey. When it arrived, he knocked it back with one smooth motion, then asked for another, which he carried to a table against the wall, sat heavily, and looked at his skinned knuckles.
He realized that lawsuits might be in the offing, not to mention a night in jail. It pained him to recall the expression of distaste on Clarissa's pretty face, but at least she knew he was not to be trifled with. Nathanial felt like buying an axe and demolishing every piano in New York.
The frontier Army had taught him to present a moving target at all times, so he finished his second drink, then meandered downtown on Broadway, stopping at more taverns, oyster cellars, and saloons. The afternoon became muddled, and he held inarticulate conversations with inebriated strangers, finally arriving at the Saint Nicholas Hotel at ten o'clock that evening. Bleary-eyed and weak about the knees, he opened the door of his suite, expecting to find Clarissa in tears, but the rooms were vacant, her clothing and that of his daughter and maid gone, a note atop the bed.