by Len Levinson
The animal gushed fountains of blood as it collapsed onto the ground. Mangas Coloradas was thrown clear, helped to his feet by bodyguards, and continued on foot, rushing the barracks. The tactic of the warriors was to draw close to Mexican soldiers, attract their fire, dodge wildly, and when Mexican muskets had emptied, smash skulls and ribs with war clubs, or cut them with lances.
Mangas Coloradas's bodyguards remained close as additional Mexican companies hit the Apaches on all sides. Battle lines broke down, visibility became obscured in dust and smoke, and the fighting became hand to hand, a form at which the Apaches excelled.
Houses and barns went up in flames, while Apache hatchets, clubs, and lances were utilized at close range. But the Mexicans were armed with Colt pistols, and the Apaches discovered their Killer of Enemies Bandoliers did not convey invulnerability. Jocita sat stolidly in her saddle, bleeding from a head wound while rapid firing arrows, but many warriors went down in the volleys, including Cascos and Tonje, while Victorio bled from a shoulder wound, and Cochise had sustained a lacerated left biceps, despite wearing the bandolier given him by Miguel Narbona. The People were overwhelmed by Mexicans, but the blood of warriors was hot, and it was a good day to die.
The mood of heroic resignation transformed suddenly when the great chief Mangas Coloradas was shot through the chest. Bodyguards rushed to safeguard his inert body, then they lifted him roughly and threw him over a horse.
Command devolved to Cochise, a more modern leader, who could see no point in the cream of Apache warriors slaughtered on one day. “Enough!” he shouted. “Retreat!”
Some warriors chose to disobey the command and fight on to their majestic deaths, but even Nana the medicine man, covered with his own blood and that of Mexicans, decided to continue another day. “Retreat!” he hollered, giving his approval to Cochise.
“Back!” cried Victorio to the Mimbrenos. “Do not fail me now!”
The combined survivors shot, lanced, hacked, and bashed their way free, but the Mexican soldiers had no terrific desire to detain them, for they had lost nearly a quarter of their complement, and it wasn't easy to reload with Apaches firing arrows at close range.
The Apaches broke loose, leaving fallen brethren behind, among them the two sons of Mangas Coloradas. It was the worst defeat in the history of the People; they fled into the great Sonoran wilderness.
Nathanial sat in the sutler's store at Fort Thorn, drinking a glass of whiskey. The futility of making peace, the demoralizing condition of Mescaleros on the reservation, and self-loathing had immobilized him. He toyed with the notion of returning to the Mimbreno Apaches, then thought of renouncing everything and becoming a Franciscan monk.
Sometimes he felt like drinking himself into unconsciousness, but needed to care for his children. Occasionally, in the dark corners of the sutler's store, tears came to his eyes. I had the most wonderful woman in the world, he thought, and all I ever did was behave like a rogue. Nathanial wanted to put his fist through the wall.
The sutler's store usually was empty during duty hours, but the door opened, and a small boy appeared. “Captain Barrington, Doctoro Steck would like to see you pronto.”
Nathanial hadn't bothered to shave, his blond unruly hair hanging to his shoulders. He also exuded the fragrance of cheap whiskey, and it preceded him into the office of his employer, Dr. Michael Steck, who frowned. “Are you in your usual stupor?”
Nathanial's hand darted to his waist, and before Dr. Steck could blink a second time, a pistol was aimed at his nose. Nathanial said, “I never get that stupefied.” Then he holstered the pistol, dropped onto a chair, and said, “Something important must have occurred for you to disturb my drinking.”
“According to my information,” replied Dr. Steck, “an army of Mimbreno Apaches attacked Janos, but the Mexicans beat the hell out of them. I wouldn't be surprised if the Apaches are ready to talk peace with us, so could you go to Mangas Coloradas and arrange a powwow?”
Nathanial stared blankly, realizing his friends had suffered a serious reversal. “Do you know the names of any dead Apaches?”
“No, but we mustn't let this opportunity pass. We can offer them land north of the Gila, where they'll be left alone.”
“For how long?”
“Who can say? Washington has not yet acted on my proposal.”
“You make heartfelt promises that somehow you never deliver.” Nathanial raised his finger and pointed accusingly. “You more than any other man have destroyed the Mescaleros.”
“Why—I've done more for them than anyone!” replied Dr. Steck indignantly.
“If you violate one of your treaties, you merely tear it up and write another, equally worthless.”
“I never claimed to be perfect, but perhaps I've prevented a few drops of bloodshed along the way. It's childish to think a sudden bold gesture will bring peace, because only the slow, painstaking steps of diplomacy can do the job. Have you ever read the life of Metternich?”
“How long can peace last when it's based on lies?” “I am bargaining with the Apaches, and you fail to comprehend the niceties of negotiation. But, unfortunately, you're all I've got. Will you go to Mangas Coloradas and tell him I wish to speak?”
“He might kill you for your many betrayals.”
“He wouldn't dare kill me, because I'm his only chance. Who else can he talk with—General Garland?”
Nathanial thought of visiting Nana, Victorio, Man-gas Coloradas, Geronimo, and all his other friends. “It'll take a while to make arrangements for my children, but sure—I'll go.”
“Take all the time you need. I'd like the Apaches to stew over this defeat for a few weeks, and maybe they'll finally reach the obvious conclusion that they don't have a chance against us.”
The failed warriors limped back to the Chiricahua Mountains, scouts posted to avoid another catastrophe. The People had expected the Mountain Spirits to give them Janos, but a cataclysmic setback had occurred, and Chief Mangas Coloradas appeared close to death.
He wasn't the only wounded warrior, but many had been killed, and the People could not enlist warriors from other regions. One of the women warriors had fallen, but Jocita survived, scarred on the chin and part of an ear shot off, marks she would wear proudly unto death.
She estimated that she had struck at least five Mexicans with her arrows, so the poisoning had been avenged. But the price had been too high, and she could not understand why. The pain in her heart was worse than her ear, for she suspected the Mountain Spirits had been angry at the People, perhaps because not all were as holy as they pretended, such as Jocita's episode with Sunny Bear at the Santa Rita Copper Mines.
Jocita wasn't the only warrior reflecting upon the failure of their religion. It was as if the very foundation of their lives had been shattered. Faith had held them together, but now appeared insubstantial when facing excessive odds. Expensive Killer of Enemies Bandoliers had not stopped bullets, and Nana felt especially humiliated. Once, long ago, he thought, I was a man of power, but now I have cheated not only the People, but myself. He swore to return all payments. No longer will I claim to be a medicine man, because my magic has deserted me. Why?
He could find no answer, and neither could Victorio, riding alongside Chief Mangas Coloradas, who lay head down over his saddle, arms and legs wagging with the movement of his horse. It was heart-rending to see the great chief humbled.
The full moon threw a silver sheen over the gashes and bruises on Victorio's torso, for he had been in the thick of the fight, many Mexican soldiers falling beneath his club. But he feared the responsibility that lay ahead. “Please live, Mangas Coloradas,” he whispered. “I am not yet ready to lead the Mimbreno People.”
Like the others, Victorio had achieved a new realization during the press of battle. Purity of spirit cannot overcome numbers and guns, and the old time has past. From now on, Victorio thought, we must follow the example of Chief Gomez of the Mescaleros. Let there be no more glorious charges, no silly notio
ns, no vain hope. The Mountain Spirits want us to utilize our warrior skills, not fight impossible odds. And we must respect the Mexicans, for they will never run from us again.
Sergeant Major Randall knocked on General Garland's door. “Captain Hargreaves is here, sir.”
“Send him in.”
General Garland rose behind his desk as a dusty black-bearded, thickly built officer marched into the commander's sanctum, came to a halt, and saluted. General Garland extended his hand. “Congratulations, you have done a magnificent job.”
Beau smiled, showing bright white teeth behind the beard. “I'm pleased to report that my mission was a success, sir.”
“To show our appreciation . . .” said the general, tossing a black box to Beau.
He opened it, revealing the insignia of a major. A cough erupted in his throat, and his heart respiration increased, for such is the power of the bronze oak leaf insignia of a major on the mind of a captain. “I . . . I . . .”
General Garland chuckled. “I'll pin them on in an appropriate ceremony, but I just want you to know how much I appreciate your work. I won't keep you, because I'm sure you're anxious to see your family. You may take the rest of the week off, Major Hargreaves.”
After leaving his horse at the stable, Beau headed home in a state of euphoria. I'm finally a major, he thought. The rank was a significant step upward from captain, and many captains never made the grade. I'm headed for a general's stars, Beau told himself. Now he could support his family on a slightly higher scale.
The mere thought of his wife caused his brow to furrow, and joy over his promotion faded like dew on a desert morning. He wondered if dear Rebecca was lying with Nathanial Barrington at that moment, and would he catch them together. Could I kill both? he wondered. Or just Nathanial? Beau strongly suspected his wife had deceived him, but if he shot her suitor, he'd never receive his major's oak leaf. I mustn't be rash, he advised himself. If they're together, I'll make no dramatic upheaval, but just turn and walk out the door, demonstrating my utter contempt for them.
Finally, he arrived at Rebecca's address, a squat adobe house slightly larger than those lived in by peasants. He knocked on the door, and presently it was opened by their Mexican maid, who appeared surprised to see him.
“Where's my wife?” he asked.
“In her bedroom, sir.”
Beau's jealous mind suspected the worst as he ran down the hall, nearly tripping over his boots. He stopped at her door and knocked.
“Come in,” said a soft, tired voice from within.
He yanked open the door and found his wife lying fully clothed on the bedspread, hands folded on her flat belly, alone. “Beau!” she cried happily.
He could see that she was glad to see him, but a residue of suspicion remained. He closed the door and sat beside her on the bed. They kissed.
“I've missed you so much,” she told him warmly, rubbing his back.
“I was so lonely for you and the children,” he replied.
“Were you a good boy?”
“How could you even suggest such a thing? By the way, is Nathanial in town?”
“No—he left shortly after the incident described in my letter. He's at Fort Thorn, where they had that massacre not long ago.”
Beau had heard of the Mesilla massacre and was relieved that Nathanial had been away from his wife. “Did you invite him here?”
“Perhaps I should've had him over for a home-cooked meal, but he seemed busy. I fear he'll drink himself to death one day. He's quite broken up over his wife.”
“I'm surprised he hasn't found someone else by now. He didn't make advances to you, did he?”
She stared at him. “Don't be absurd—there was not even the suggestion of it,” lied Rebecca, because she didn't want to rile her husband.
Should I give her the benefit of the doubt? Beau asked himself. “I have good news. Guess who's been promoted to major.”
She appeared thunderstruck, for she'd expected to be the wife of a captain forever. “At last,” she sighed.
He kissed her lips. “You must have a new wardrobe, for the wife of a major will be noticed, and people will wonder if she has what it takes to become a general's wife.”
She hugged him tightly. “I wouldn't have married you unless I thought you could be a general. Oh, Beau, how wonderful! Maybe they'll send us to Washington!”
She smelled clean, sweet, remarkably similar to the maid he'd married. “Are the children at school?” he inquired.
“Yes, for another hour and a half.”
He unbuttoned the top of her blouse. “Then we have time.”
Myra Rowland, Clarissa's mother, took ill after her husband's funeral, forcing Clarissa to remain in New York a few extra weeks. Finally, one day she walked into her mother's bedroom and said, “I'm leaving.”
Myra Rowland opened her eyes. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To my husband.”
“But I need you here.”
“The doctor can't find anything wrong with you.”
“What about Natalie?”
“She's coming with me.”
“If you walk out that door, I shall disown you, ungrateful little witch.”
“Not so little anymore.”
Clarissa bent to kiss her mother's cheek, but her mother raised her hand as if to slap her. Clarissa caught her wrist, smiled, laid her mother's hand on the pillow, then walked to the door, on her way back to New Mexico Territory.
It was night at Fort Thorn, and Nathanial, unable to sleep, sat in the parlor of his home, reading a recent copy of the Chicago Daily Tribune that Dr. Steck had given him. On the front page he learned that Napoleon III and his wife, the Empress Eugenie, had survived an assassination attempt on January 14. The royal couple had been headed to the opera when an Italian revolutionary named Felice Orsini and two accomplices lobbed bombs at the imperial carriage, killing two bystanders and wounding over a hundred, the emperor and empress unscratched. The police had apprehended Orsini, who believed the emperor an obstacle to Italian independence.
In India the British Army was fighting the Sepoy Rebellion, considered by correspondents a particularly ugly conflict, because the Sepoys were natives trained and armed by the British. The Sepoys had captured Meerut Cownpur and Delhi, with atrocities and massacres perpetrated by all sides.
Nathanial shook his head in despair. Everywhere he turned he found hatred, bloodshed, horror. He worried about his Apache friends, slaked his thirst with whiskey, and had nightmares about dead children. He was unable to take steps necessary to own a ranch, because all aspirations seemed pointless when measured against the world's malevolence. Every day he sank deeper into melancholy. When I travel to the homeland of Mangas Coloradas, he thought, maybe I won't come back.
Sometimes, sitting on the train, Clarissa feared her husband would dismiss her with a few carefully selected cruelties. What an empty-headed pumpkin he must have thought I was when I thrilled to read my name in newspapers, knowing the journalists had been bought and paid for by Thorndyke. How disappointed Nathanial must have been by my shameless pandering to the public, she brooded.
She looked out the train window at snow melting from bare trees in the Pocono Mountains. The train's engine sang its staccato song, like the percussion of a symphony orchestra. She steadied a pad of paper and wrote notes dancing in her mind.
She often composed music out of sounds around her, mixing in memories of plantation slave melodies, the religious themes of camp meetings, and children's nursery rhymes. We Americans must create a new music, she told herself, as she annotated sharps and flats. Not just imitate Mozart and Beethoven. Perhaps one day I'll stitch these tunes together and write a symphony to America, but only when I am alone, so audiences cannot encourage my worse tendencies. But I'll never be free until I settle my marriage to Nathanial, one way or the other. I only hope he hasn't married that damned schoolmarm.
As the Lecompton Constitution came to a final vote, the Buchanan ad
ministration offered vacillating Democrats from $10,000 to $15,000, plus special plums such as government jobs for friends or family members, while stubborn Democrats were threatened with political ruination.
On March 23, 1858, the Senate voted 33 to 25 for the Lecompton Constitution, a tremendous victory for the administration, but on April Fools’ Day the House of Representatives defeated Lecompton 120 to 112, with 22 anti-Lecompton Democrats voting with 92 Republicans and six Know-Nothings. This effectively killed the measure, a crushing blow to the President, and Kansas remained a territory.
President Buchanan felt betrayed as he fumed and stewed in his office or wandered the White House like a ghost, grinding his teeth. He had accepted party discipline throughout his career and never once defied his leaders.
One night he sat in his office, wondering how to punish traitors, when there was a knock on the door. He was startled to see his niece, Harriet Lane, wearing a pink robe. “You really must get some rest, Uncle Jim,” she said.
“How can I rest when the nation is headed toward insurrection?” he asked.
“No man can suppress it alone,” she replied. “Do you want to be the next James Polk or Zachary Taylor?”
James Polk had been president from ‘44 to ‘48 and died a few months after leaving office, his health broken by the slavery ordeal. Zachary Taylor, ‘48 to ‘50, had died in office for the same reason.
“I wouldn't give them the satisfaction,” said Old Buck.
“No president can govern without the support of his party,” she reminded him, and not many Washingtonians comprehended the hidden power of the un-elected but commonsense Miss Harriet Lane. “Why not publicly limit yourself to one term and devote your energies to the needs of the nation, not the distractions and compromises of a re-election campaign? Besides, I don't think the people deserve you.”
President Buchanan went to bed at his niece's behest and lay alone in his bachelor darkness, feeling as if a weight had been removed from his heart. She's right, he decided. I'll wait a decent interval, then announce my intention not to run for a second term. That will free me to do what's right for the nation, because the people don't know what they want anymore, so harangued are they by the dirty, lying press. And if Senator Douglas thinks he can do this job better than I, he's welcome to try.