by Len Levinson
One morning President Buchanan and Secretary Cobb sat in the Oval Office, discussing the downwardly spiraling situation in Kansas. “If you were me,” said Old Buck, “what in hell would you do?”
Howell Cobb was a hulking farmer's son, with a double chin that made his face appear enormous. “No respectable Northern politician,” he began, “not even Senator Seward, is ready to secede from the Union, but I swear to you that many influential Southerners such as Jefferson Davis, William Yancy, and Robert Barnwell Rhett will lead their states out if the Lecompton government is abandoned by this administration.”
“But the majority of Kansans oppose Lecompton,” protested Old Buck.
Secretary Cobb leaned forward, adopting his most sincere tone. “Northern extremists may give speeches, but Southerners are ready to fight. Mister President, have you ever considered what will be required to subdue the South if it secedes, and how many lives will be lost? But if we maintain the integrity of the party, the furor over Lecompton will end. Because nobody really cares about Kansas. It's just a pawn in the abolitionist game.”
Old Buck tended to agree because he believed the strident demands of abolitionists were the main source of dissension. “But what about Senator Douglas?”
The President referred to Stephen Douglas of Illinois, leader of “Young America,” the radical wing of the Democratic party. One of Young America's main principles was “Popular Sovereignty,” the right of a territory to decide by vote whether or not it wanted slavery, the very privilege the Lecompton government wished to ignore.
“Senator Douglas is up for re-election next year,” replied Cobb. “If he dares defy this administration, we shall destroy him.”
The most beautiful woman in Washington, D.C., was said to be the former Adele Cutts, grand niece of Dolley Madison, but not even such an exquisite creature was immune from the baleful efflorescence of the devil dance. Back in 1856, when she was twenty-one, everyone wondered what lucky gentleman would win this extraordinary raven-tressed belle, but when the time came to choose, Washington was aghast. Miss Adele Cutts had accepted the proposal of none other than Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, known popularly as the “Little Giant.”
Not only was Senator Douglas short, stout, and twenty-two years her senior, he also had become a disheveled drunkard following the untimely death of his first wife, the former Martha Reid of North Carolina, in January of 1853.
To forget her, the Little Giant had sailed to Europe, where he roamed like a heartbroken vagabond from London to Paris, Copenhagen, Athens, Odessa, and St. Petersburg, where he had met Tsar Nicholas, who told him that America and Russia were the only two “legitimate nations” in the world, and all the rest were “mongrels.” Finally, the Little Giant decided he could not escape from himself, so he returned to America, resumed duties in the Senate, and then had been introduced to the vivacious Adele Cutts by a mutual friend, Senator Jesse Bright of Indiana, during the holiday season of ‘55. Adele and Stephen Douglas were married on November 20, 1856.
Why did she accept his proposal? This was the question asked by one and all, but none could deny that Senator Douglas was a brilliant, powerful, and wealthy senator, unlike unformed fellows her age, and perhaps she wanted to move into the White House, where her grand aunt had resided.
With Adele at his side, the Little Giant was able to stop drinking. She brought her impeccable taste to bear on his wardrobe, and since their marriage, he'd been clean, well-barbered, with no bits of food or soup stains on his lapels, a paragon of courteous behavior. He lost the Democratic nomination for President in ‘56, but astute politicians saw him as a strong contender in ‘60.
To look at Adele Douglas, one might imagine her husband would desire to spend a considerable portion of his nights in her proximity, but she frequently slept alone, her husband pacing the floor in another part of their mansion in a prosperous Washington neighborhood known as Minnesota Row.
Senator Douglas couldn't rest because like many Americans he fretted over the Kansas debacle, which his own legislation had unwittingly produced. But, still, he believed in Popular Sovereignty and blamed the Pierce and Buchanan administrations for the turmoil, due to their toadying to the South.
One night Adele put on her blue satin robe and went to her husband, carrying a whale-oil lamp through the darkened corridors of their mansion. She found him in his study, pacing in front of the desk. He had the stern face of a judge (which he had been), the chest and torso of a wrestler or professional boxer, and comically short legs, but no one ever laughed at Steven Douglas of Illinois. “What's wrong?” she asked.
“I think I'm going to take on the administration,” he told her.
Her eyes glittered in the gaslight. “I'm confident that you can defeat Ten Cent Jimmy Buchanan, because Americans admire a man of principle. But even you must sleep, Stephen.”
Somehow the mess in Kansas didn't seem so bad, with the former Adele Cutts to warm his bones. He extinguished the light in the office, then followed her down the corridor to their bedroom. Later, after exhausting themselves, they slept peacefully, an odd but happily married couple who had chosen to challenge the bachelor President of the United States, the Democratic party, and the solid South. It all boiled down to a simple proposition for Stephen Douglas of Illinois. Why shouldn't the citizens of a territory be permitted to vote slavery up or down?
6
* * *
Dr. Michael Steck, U.S. government agent to the Apaches, sat in his office at Fort Thorn, reading reports of Indian marauding throughout New Mexico Territory and Northern Mexico. Thirty-nine years old, of Pennsylvania Dutch heritage, he held little authority, practically no funds, and was forced to compete with the Army, whose method of dealing with Apaches was unrelenting warfare.
Dr. Steck believed peace could be achieved if Apaches became farmers, but his efforts were frustrated by lack of shovels, hoes, seeds, and wheelbarrows. The government preferred to spend tax dollars on new breech-loading rifles, crates of ammunition, and forts, which tended to produce dramatic, albeit bloody, results, unlike the slow painstaking work of diplomacy.
Later that day, Dr. Steck strolled through the Mescalero reservation alongside Fort Thorn, observing resentment on the faces of the warriors, who blamed him for their plight. He knew that young men slipped away at night to augment their meager food supply, and perhaps kill a farmer or rancher in the process. Sometimes Dr. Steck felt like returning to Pennsylvania, but he'd migrated to New Mexico Territory for the sake of his wife's health, which had improved considerably since their arrival.
New settlers were pouring into New Mexico Territory, their towns moving farther west where the most warlike Apache bands roved free. High-speed mail delivery was planned between San Francisco and the Mississippi River, the proposed route passing through the sacred hunting grounds of Mimbreno and Chiricahua Apaches. They never would never tolerate such incursions, and the Army naturally would fight back, massacring large numbers of Indians.
Dr. Steck decided that in the spring he would visit the western Apache tribes, in an effort to hold off war. Perhaps a treaty can be made in advance, without the interference of the Army, thought Dr. Steck, as he gazed at a gathering of drunken Mescalero Apaches in front of a tipi, because the Mescaleros built tipis like plains Indians, unlike the wickiups of western Apaches. What good am I really doing these people, he wondered, and who cares?
He wanted a new reservation out of the path of the stagecoach route and towns that would follow its wake, such as north of the Gila River, otherwise the wheel of the Apache wars would continue spinning. After returning to his office, he wrote the Commissioner of Indian Affairs in Washington, outlining his relocation ideas. But there was so much hatred in New Mexico Territory, sometimes he felt helpless before it. Apacheria had been peaceful since the Bonneville campaign of the previous summer, but he wondered how much longer it would last.
***
Not far from Dr. Steck's office, a stagecoach rumbled north on the tr
ail to Mesilla, escorted by a detachment of dragoons. Inside sat two Army officers, two lawyers, a salesman, and a pale bearded man with burning eyes, Raphael Fonseca, on the way to the home of his brother, Reinaldo.
Fonseca looked out the window at a scattering of tipis near Fort Thorn, and rage overcame him at the mere sight of Apaches. The murder of his family and own near-death had driven Fonseca partially mad. He trembled uncontrollably and felt an urge to tear Apaches limb from limb, to swing their babies through the air and dash their little heads, as had happened to his children. Fonseca did not view Apaches as people defending ancestral rights, but as criminals. He felt contemptuous toward Americanos who attempted to make peace with such animals.
One of the Army officers placed his hand on Fonseca's arm. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” grumbled Fonseca.
Everyone appeared concerned about him, and they all offered their sympathies, but nothing would satisfy except the extirpation of Apaches. He ground his teeth angrily as the coach arrived in Mesilla, only a few miles from Fort Thorn. Fonseca looked out the window at adobe homes, the faces of the townspeople, dogs, children, but nothing moved him; he was dead inside. All he wanted was to kill Apaches.
The stagecoach stopped in front of the general store, and Fonseca's brother Reinaldo was waiting. They embraced as luggage was thrown to the ground.
“My poor little Raphael,” said Reinaldo.
Fonseca picked up his carpetbag. “This is all I have left of my family, ranch, everything I ever worked for, thanks to the Apaches.”
Reinaldo took the carpetbag, then led his limping brother home. “You will have to sleep with Angelito,” he said, referring to his oldest son.
“I am grateful you have taken me in.”
They arrived at Reinaldo's small adobe home, for Reinaldo was a peasant who worked in a store. His wife, Maria, waited with their two small children, and there was much hugging, kissing, and commiseration.
When he was alone, Fonseca reflected bitterly that he'd struggled to rise above poverty, but had been thrown back by the Apaches. Unpacking, he removed a tattered rag of cloth, stiff and stained with dried blood. It had been part of his wife's nightgown, and he held it against his face, weeping uncontrollably. Then, at the bottom of the carpetbag, he found his wife's scorched rosary beads.
Fonseca held the crucifix in the air and looked at Jesus nailed to the cross. You could not save yourself, he pondered, so how could you save Cecilia and the boys? Now we see the results of loving enemies. I spit on your religion, and I'll show you what I think of your holy Gospel.
Raphael carried the rosary outside, opened the door to the outhouse, and dropped it into the hole. From this day onward, thought Fonseca, I shall look to the devil for justice.
Brigadier General John Garland ended his leave during the fall of ‘57, resuming duties as commander of the 9th Department, headquartered in Santa Fe. His first official act was to confer with the officer who'd commanded during his absence, Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville.
Both were battle-scarred old war dogs, General Garland having served in the War of 1812, the Seminole War, and the Mexican War, while Colonel Bonneville had graduated from West Point in 1815 and fought Indians in many venues since, in addition to leading the Sixth Infantry Regiment in the hottest battles of the Mexican War.
Colonel Bonneville's most recent achievement had been his Gila campaign of the summer, when he had surprised Mimbreno Apaches in the Mogollon Mountains and avenged the murder of Henry Linn Dodge, Indian agent to the Navajos. Thanks to this success, a certain insouciance accompanied Colonel Bonneville as he entered General Garland's office, saluted, and reported for duty.
General Garland was a tall, florid-faced officer who resembled the seasoned old fighter that he was, while Colonel Bonneville was short, rotund, puckish-looking, and could be mistaken for a casket salesman.
In fact, Colonel Bonneville was a famous American, while General Garland was barely known to the public at all. Colonel Bonneville had been the subject of a popular book called The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A., by Washington Irving, which told of Bonneville's explorations of the northern Rockies and Great Basin during 1832-35, an epic of high adventure, low comedy, survival against the odds, and encounters with strange, elusive beings known as Indians. Although General Garland outranked Colonel Bonneville, each man examined the other through lenses of mutual respect, the shared hardship of war, and protocols governing military behavior.
“Congratulations on your Gila expedition,” said General Garland, opening the interview.
“I'm more convinced than ever that we can subdue the Apaches,” replied Colonel Bonneville.
General Garland made a crusty smile because he appreciated a confident officer. “If I had not returned to duty, what would you do next?”
“According to my spies and scouts,” explained Colonel Bonneville, “the Mimbrenos have fled to Mexico. If we coordinate campaigns with the Mexican Army and deny the Apaches their traditional hide-outs in Sonora and Chihuahua, we can squeeze them into a diminished range, where systematically we can bring them to heel.”
It was not a new idea, and indeed General Garland had considered such a plan himself. “The main obstacle is the Mexican government,” he replied. “They don't cooperate with the American Army because it opens them to domestic political criticism that they're our lackeys.”
Colonel Bonneville glanced both ways, to make sure no junior officer was taking notes, then said, “My Gila expedition was successful because before it began I made an unofficial visit to my opposite number in Janos, Colonel Alejandro Jimenez, who drove the Apaches north into my hands.”
“Perhaps I should have another unofficial talk with Colonel Jimenez.”
“He's been replaced by Colonel Gabriel Garcia, a much younger man. May I make a suggestion, sir?” asked Colonel Bonneville politely, for he would not antagonize a superior officer.
General Garland appreciated the deference in Colonel Bonneville's voice. “I'm most interested in what you have to say, Colonel.”
“If you traveled to Mexico, you would attract widespread attention as I did last year. Instead, I'd send a capable officer unobtrusively to act as liaison. He should be an experienced Apache fighter, fluent in Spanish, and set high standards in all matters.”
General Garland smiled. “I have a notion you've already selected this officer.”
“I was most impressed by his abilities during the Gila expedition. He is Captain Beauregard Hargreaves of the First Dragoons.”
“Oh yes—Hargreaves—a fine officer. But isn't he married? He won't be able to take his wife to Mexico.”
“The duties of the service come first,” replied Colonel Bonneville. “His wife is the daughter of Major Harding, and I'm sure she'll understand.”
“You're going where?” asked Rebecca Hargreaves two days later, standing in her kitchen at Fort Buchanan with her sleeves rolled up, disjointing a chicken while her maid filled the firebox with wood.
Her husband, attired in regulation blue tunic with polished brass buttons, stood with vaquero hat in hand. “I'm being transferred to temporary duty in Janos, and you can't come with me.”
She stared at him, her hands bloody, an expression of annoyance of her face. “I thought we were going home for Christmas. Why don't they send one of the single officers?”
“General Garland doesn't explain his reasoning to a mere junior officer such as myself.”
She washed her hands in a basin, looked at herself in the mirror, and blew back a strand of blond hair that had fallen across one eye. Then she turned to her husband. “What about me and the children?”
“You're going to Santa Fe.”
Rebecca's spirits improved instantly, because at least she'd be out of Fort Buchanan. “What will you do in Mexico?”
“Coordinate operations with the Mexican Army, but nobody's supposed to know, so don't say anything.”
She embraced her hus
band, placing her cheek on his chest. “But we'll be apart so long. Will it be dangerous?”
“I doubt it,” replied Beau, “because I'll be in Janos most of the time, and the Apaches would never dare attack such a large town, with its own Army garrison.”
The acrid fumes of the devil dance continued to blow across the fields and hamlets of America, from Key West to Dakota Territory, from southern California's rockbound coast to the pine forests of Maine, dissipating the illness of the Mimbreno Apaches, who had become stronger, more clear-minded, stomach pains subsided. All proclaimed the success of the devil dance, the dancers and musicians were rewarded with horses, and soon Mimbrenos were seen walking around the Chiricahua campsite as in the old time.
One day Chief Mangas Coloradas rode off by himself, and when he found an isolated canyon, he dismounted, cut his arm with his knife, and said to the sky, “At the end of Ghost Face, when mountain passes are clear, I will make big war on Janos and wipe it off the face of the earth. This I swear before the Mountain Spirits and the Lifegiver, and if I fail, may I fall before the gates of that wicked town!”
As autumn fell on the northeast, Nathanial and his adopted niece rode west by railway car, passing forests ablaze with color. Nathanial read books and magazines to pass time, while Gloria stared out the window at miles of uninhabited wilderness.
Never had she realized America was so huge, and how long the journey would require, but she was stylishly attired, with a trunk of pretty new dresses on the rack above the seats. A gaily costumed clown doll sat on her lap, and in the clown's back, beneath his clothes, was a buttoned flap that would conceal the gun Nathanial had promised to give her.
Gloria had filled out since being adopted, but still was on the slim side, with flaming red hair and big brown eyes. She still feared she'd wake up in a Five Points cellar, but somehow continued to live as a princess, with servants available to do her bidding, and her adopted uncle providing anything she required.