Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  “Are you all right, Herbert?” asked his wife, and then she screamed as her husband toppled to the floor.

  Clarissa sent a servant for the physician her father had dubbed Dr. Rumsoak,” residing across the park. Then Clarissa returned to her mother, who told her, “This is your fault.”

  Finally, Dr. Rumsoak arrived with his black bag of implements and clouds of whiskey fumes. “He's still alive,” he declared after listening to the patient's chest. Then the master of the house was carried to his bedchamber, where the doctor bled him to take pressure off his heart, a common medical procedure often producing unintended results.

  Clarissa's father died later that night.

  Everyone blamed Clarissa for the demise of her father, and some said she had been corrupted totally by the infamous Nathanial Barrington. But Clarissa believed she had done nothing wrong, so she moved with her maid and child to the Saint Nicholas Hotel, and after the funeral the first thing she did was visit Nathanial's parents, accompanied by Rosita and Natalie.

  She'd notified the Barringtons in advance, and the old folks were delighted to see their granddaughter, who reminded them so much of Nathanial. But they couldn't keep up with a babe, and finally were tired. Rosita removed Natalie from the room to continue play in the backyard, leaving Clarissa with her in-laws.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “if you've heard from Nathanial lately.”

  “Why yes,” replied the colonel's wife. “We received a note the other day.”

  “When was it mailed?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “There was a massacre in New Mexico Territory, and I wonder if he was in it.”

  Amalia Barrington stared, then leapt from her chair, ran up the stairs, and could be heard roaming about. Meanwhile, Colonel Barrington leaned forward, as if he wanted to say something significant.

  “Yes?” asked Clarissa with a smile.

  “Don't ever disappoint the Army,” he said.

  Amalia returned, carrying the letter. “It's dated February 12.”

  “The massacre was on the 8th,” said Clarissa. “Apparently he's still alive, thank God. I'm so relieved.”

  Amalia appeared surprised. “I thought you were angry at Nathanial.”

  “On the contrary, I plan to go back to him, but unfortunately he doesn't know it. He's not married by any chance?”

  “Not that I know of, but he mentioned a certain schoolteacher.”

  Clarissa nearly gagged and for a moment thought she would join her father in the grave. “I can't blame him for finding someone else,” she admitted. “I plan to tell him that I have wronged him and then leave.”

  “Now let me get this straight,” said Mrs. Barrington. “He nearly tore apart the Academy of Music when you were rehearsing, and humiliated you in front of everybody, but you wronged him?”

  “He was fighting for my love, I now realize, because I had been neglecting him.”

  “Extraordinary,” said the queen of Washington Square. “Don't you think you should warn him of your coming?”

  “No, because he'll order me to stay away.”

  “I'd give anything to be there.”

  “Why don't you come?”

  Amalia patted her husband's hand. “I must stay with the colonel.”

  Clarissa turned to Nathanial's father, who sat, a serious expression on his face, as if listening to commands being shouted on fog-shrouded old parade grounds.

  13

  * * *

  Near the end of Ghost Face, one hundred and eighty heavily armed Chiricahua and Mimbreno warriors rode south toward Mexico, their mission to destroy Janos, city of poisoners.

  Led by Chief Mangas Coloradas, Chief Cochise, and sub-chief Victorio, they numbered among their ranks such famous warriors as Elias, Esquiline, Juh, Barbonsito, Partay, and Cochise's brother, Coyuntura, carrying a Bible in his saddlebags. They were augmented by noted medicine men such as Nana the Mimbreno and Geronimo of the Bedonko clan, while in the fighting ranks rode a sprinkling of warriors on their first raid, among them two young sons of Man-gas Coloradas, Cascos and Tonje.

  The warriors had prepared with a dance that lasted four days, during which they'd asked the Mountain Spirits for power. Now the music had ended, they wore Killer of Enemies Bandoliers and rode in a column of twos across a desert that still showed patches of snow.

  In days to come, when a bluecoat detachment was reported, the warriors headed in a different direction, fixed on the objective, Janos. But their cautious posture altered once they crossed into Mexico, where they unleased their full fury, leaving flames and death in their wake.

  News of the raid spread across Sonora and Chihuahua, and substantial Mexican Army units were sent to the field, hoping to intercept the Apaches, their visit long anticipated. According to reports of newly hired scouts, the Apaches were headed toward Janos, confirming speculations of Mexican commanders and their U.S. Army liaison, Captain Beauregard Hargreaves.

  Beau was in the field when the dispatch arrived from Colonel Garcia. All units were ordered to converge on Janos for the final showdown. With Captain Marrero and forty Mexican cavalrymen, Beau headed back to that ill-fated village.

  Mexican Army scouts cut the Apache trail as Colonel Garcia's forces continued to deploy. On the night of February 23, the Apaches torched a ranch near Santa Cruz. Next day they hit Cuchuta eight miles farther south. Exultant with victory, riding fresh horses, the warriors sped toward Janos, where Colonel Garcia waited with one hundred and ten infantrymen plus two twelve-pounder mountain howitzers on loan from the United States Army.

  As additional field units arrived, Colonel Garcia positioned them to the north and south of the city, augmenting his force to 350 soldiers, while Apaches advanced from the west. The stage was set, and every player knew his part. The collision could come at any time.

  Beneath a full moon the Apaches stopped about five miles from Janos. They needed to rest horses and themselves, because at dawn the town would be assaulted.

  The warriors checked weapons, conducted final rites, and all was silent, because no idle chatter was permitted in war. Nearby, the great chief Mangas Coloradas stood on an eminence and gazed down at the faint flickering lights of Janos.

  The lust for revenge burned hot in his heart, for he could not forgive Mexicans who'd tried to poison the children of the People. His scouts had told him additional Mexican units were on the way to Janos, and a great battle would occur in the morning, one that would live forever in the annals of the People.

  Mangas Coloradas was sixty-four years old, covered with scars, veteran of countless campaigns. He remembered when only a few Nakai-yes had lived in the homeland, and the People had run free as antelopes. Now pressed on all sides, the People were called to higher sacrifice. War makes us strong, thought Mangas Coloradas. We wear out Killer of Enemies Bandoliers, we have obeyed the precepts of the Mountain Spirits, and nothing shall deny us our rightful revenge.

  Twenty paces away, Cochise and Victorio watched the chief silhouetted against the night sky, his nose like the beak of an eagle. They were next in command and had voiced quiet doubts to each other about the boldness of Mangas Coloradas's raid. But the People were enraged, they needed to strike a blow at Janos, and no one dared ask for moderation. So Cochise and Victorio clasped hands in friendship. “May the Mountain Spirits ride with you tomorrow, my brother,” said Cochise.

  “I will remain within sight of you,” replied Victorio. “And you must remain within sight of me. If the battle goes against us, we cannot afford to waste warriors, as we have discussed. But you must make the decision.”

  “And you must watch our great chief, for he no longer is a young warrior.”

  “I have selected the best Mimbreno warriors for his personal bodyguard,” said Victorio. “Let me speak honestly, for it is possible that I shall not return. I have always admired you, Cochise, and I consider you a fine warrior. I look forward to seeing you in the next world.”

  Cochise smiled. “You are
a brilliant sub-chief, and you above all others shall survive, but one day everyone will reside in the next world. We shall sing victory songs unto eternity.”

  “And dance with the maidens,” added Victorio.

  “Especially the maidens,” agreed Cochise. “Now that is something to look forward to.”

  They heard Mangas Coloradas returning. “I have bared my soul to Yusn, the Lifegiver,” he said sonorously, holding his arms like a medicine man. “The time has come to avenge the suffering of the People.”

  Before retiring, Mangas Coloradas spoke with his two sons, who would experience large-scale battle for the first time in the morning. They sat in the shadow of a barrel cactus, and Mangas Coloradas told them, “Do not be afraid to die. For a noble death is the highest honor a warrior can achieve.”

  They were young men, nineteen and seventeen harvests each. “We will not shame you,” said Cascos, and Tonje nodded his assent.

  “When we attack, strike hard,” advised Mangas Coloradas. “There can be no compassion for this enemy, no hesitation in following orders, no unworthy thoughts. Remember that you are young, your souls are spotless, and glory is your destiny.” He hugged each of them. “My dear children, remember that I have always loved you.” Then he ran his fingers over their Killer of Enemies Bandoliers. “May the Mountain Spirits safeguard you tomorrow on your day of days.”

  Less than five miles away, Beau strolled around the Mexican Army camp, making certain guards were awake. He expected the Apaches to attack outlying Mexican forces piecemeal, and could not believe they'd charge a fortified Mexican town head-on.

  But Apaches craved revenge, and Beau suspected it had distorted their thinking. A terrible clash was looming however the Apaches attacked, and they obeyed no rules in close fighting. Beau wondered if he'd ever see his family again as he approached a guard snapping to attention and saluting.

  Beau nodded to him, then continued his prowl. The difference between life and death was spotting the Apaches as early as possible. Besides, Beau couldn't sleep on the night before battle. An ordinary soldier's one function was to fight, but an officer worried about myriads of details, because if he erred, it would mean the loss of lives, possibly even his own.

  Under normal circumstances memories of Beau's wife and family would provide comfort, but instead they caused doubt. Beau wondered if Rebecca was rolling with Nathanial Barrington on the bunk of a dirty little hotel in Santa Fe at that very moment. If I know Nathanial, he thought, he won't stop until he has thoroughly debased her.

  But Beau had more important worries, such as how long fifty Mexican soldiers could hold off an Apache army until help arrived. I wonder if these Mexicans are mad enough to fight hard, or maybe I'll be killed defending a nation of which I'm not even a citizen.

  Beau's old friend and former West Point roommate wasn't sleeping with Rebecca that night; he wasn't sleeping at all. Smoking a succession of cigars, sipping whiskey, he paced in his bedroom, wearing a black greatcoat made in New York City.

  He'd awakened in the middle of the night in the grip of a frightening realization. What if the failure of my marriage was my fault? he mused. Why in the hell didn't I let Clarissa have her silly musical career if that's what she wanted? Why'd I insult her, throw a tantrum, and practically spit in her eye?

  Back and forth he paced, feeling more ashamed with every round. Why didn't I let her find the truth for herself, he thought, instead of constantly trying to dominate her? And if she liked to dress in pretty clothes and play the piano before audiences, so what? If I truly adored her, I would have shown it by helping instead of bullying her, just because she's a few years younger than I. Maybe I was jealous of the attention she was receiving, like the low schemer I am, instead of rejoicing at her success.

  Nathanial sat at his desk and wrote a love letter to Clarissa, apologizing for everything, begging forgiveness, and promising anything if she'd take him back. The letter was filled with words of love, and he even stole a few lines from his favorite remembered poems.

  After completing the letter, he had the mad urge to return to New York on the next stage. But she 11 probably kick me in the teeth, he decided, because of my revoltingly vulgar behavior. We were destined for each other, but my conceit spoiled everything. If only I could turn back the clock and start our marriage anew.

  14

  * * *

  In the hour before dawn Mimbreno and Chiricahua warriors formed one long rank on an undulating stretch of cactus- and sagebrush-covered plain about a mile from Janos. Their bows and rifles ready to fire, faces stony, they awaited the order to attack.

  Leading them, Chief Mangas Coloradas, the greatest Mimbreno who ever lived, sat solidly in his saddle, lance in hand, pistol in belt, staring ahead. His tactic was direct: He would strike the heinous town like lightning, smash it to bits, and if anyone got in their way, the warriors of righteousness would sweep right over them.

  Behind the great chief, to his left and right, were his two principal lieutenants, Cochise and Victorio, and the order had been passed along that if Mangas Coloradas went down, they were to obey Cochise, and then Victorio. Behind the commanders were arrayed warriors steeled for the ultimate sacrifice.

  Each knew a violent conflict lay ahead, but they'd trained for this moment virtually all their lives. Even the women warriors among them, such as Jocita of the Mimbrenos, were deadly with all weapons, especially rapidly fired arrows on horseback.

  They wore their Killer of Enemies Bandoliers, which they believed would make them impervious to enemy fire. They were so angry, they felt so justified, and had been so purified, they believed the Mexican Army could not stand up to them.

  Mangas Coloradas raised his lance in the air, pointed it straight ahead, prodded his horse, and the old warrior advanced, followed by Cochise and Victorio then the main force. In attack formation, the war ponies walked toward the town barely visible in the distance. The hour of vengeance had arrived.

  Mangas Coloradas knew young warriors watched him, so he sat bolt upright, shoulders squared, elbows close to his waist, although he had a terrible backache and pain in his bones. I do not have many more battles left, he thought, and perhaps I will be killed this day. He looked to the sky, hoping to see the ghost of Cuchillo Negro, but the night was blank, no foreshadowing of victory or danger.

  The warriors drew closer to the iniquitous village, each remembering the pain and near-death of poisoning. It was difficult for the People to imagine minds that would conceive such a crime, and only one reaction was possible. How could such dastardly miscreants hope to defeat honest warriors? The People believed that battles ultimately were decided not by numbers, but by the faith of warriors. The seeds of vengeance would be nourished by the blood of enemies.

  The village came into view, all lights out, soldiers behind barricades, waiting for the onslaught. The two cannons manufactured in Harper's Ferry, Virginia, gleamed cruelly in the first glimmer of dawn, ready to fire. The great chief Mangas Coloradas took a deep breath. “My warriors!” he cried. “The time has come to avenge your sacred honor!”

  He kicked the withers of his horse, and that creature had heard so much hatred toward the Nakai-yes, it despised them as well. Stretching its long limbs, pumping haunches and shoulders, it accelerated into a full gallop, feeling the lithe weight of the valiant chief upon his back. And from behind came the thunder of hoofbeats, as warriors sang battle songs and shouted encouragement to each other, while others like Chuntz hollered deprecations at the Mexicans. The sun peeked warily over the Sierra Madre Mountains as the warriors of the People sped across the desert, determined to transform Janos into a funeral pyre.

  Mountain howitzers fired noisily, but the Apaches were spread out, and cannonballs flew through open spaces. The Mexicans then commenced musket fire, but the range was too great and the balls fell short. It looked as if the Apaches would have no difficulty penetrating the defenses of the town, but other forces were in motion as well, Mexican companies to the north and sout
h charging toward Janos, hoping to catch the Apaches in a giant pincer.

  The Mexican soldiers knew if they lost they could expect death, torture, and mutilation, while the Apaches could not shrink from their duty. The wheel of destruction spun more furiously as the warriors descended like locusts upon the barricades.

  Cannons fired again, and this time grapeshot ripped the bodies of four warriors, but now the rest were at the edge of town, firing bullets and arrows. The soldiers in that sector fell backward, then Juh and Geronimo hopped the barricades, set fire to barrels of gunpowder left behind, and fled.

  The powder exploded, and a huge ball of black smoke rose into the air, a breach blown into the barricades. On horseback, Mangas Coloradas led the first wave through, firing his pistol, protected by bodyguards, who laid a swathe of death around them.

  Mexican soldiers retreated in orderly fashion under the command of Colonel Garcia, who prayed for his support units to arrive. Women, children, and the aged huddled in the barracks, hearing Apache screams for their blood. The Apaches set fires and gathered additional weapons from dead enemies as they forged ahead. Some warriors found a cantina and swallowed whiskey to strengthen their resolve. In the main, discipline held as the warriors unleashed a barrage of arrows and bullets, pressing ever closer to the Army compound. And in the middle of it all was Jocita the warrior woman, lobbing arrows that flew high into the air, then dropped down on retreating Mexicans. Nearby Chief Juh of the Nednai put an arrow into any Mexicano who appeared to draw a bead on his faithless first wife.

  Some Apaches were on foot, others mounted, making good progress when shots erupted behind them. More Mexican soldiers had arrived on the killing ground, the moment Mangas Coloradas had been waiting for. He let out a bloodcurdling battle scream, but he'd been conspicuous leading the attack, and a well-placed ball struck his gallant steed in the throat.