by Len Levinson
“Well, some of us must earn a living,” Beau reminded him.
Sometimes Nathanial forgot the economic gulf that existed between him and most people. “Who could have guessed, back at West Point, that you and I would end in this tent in New Mexico Territory, with you a major and me a rancher?”
They sat in the glow of faded memories, formerly inseparable companions gazing into each other's eyes unflinchingly, feeling something important had been lost due to romantic shenanigans. Both were tempted to blurt the truth, but gunplay conceivably could ensue, so they spoke of family, ambitions, and politics as the sun sank behind distant shadowed ravines.
In Santa Fe, after her children had gone to bed, Beau's wife Rebecca was free to indulge her passion for reading. Alone in her parlor, in the soft glow of an oil lamp, she sat in her favorite chair with a copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin that she had ordered from an eastern bookseller.
Rebecca, like Clarissa Barrington, was blond, but Rebecca's hair was darker and thicker, and she had become more full-bodied, even voluptuous, since her marriage. She was curious to read the novel about which she'd heard so much, which sold over three hundred thousand copies in its first year of publication, 1852. The authoress, Harriet Beecher Stowe, was a poor college professor's wife, daughter of the northern preacher Lyman Beecher, and had become wealthy, while her novel supposedly had transformed history.
But Rebecca was from Virginia, and therefore disposed to hate the novel, said to be a vicious attack on southern institutions by a woman from a rabidly abolitionist family. But it must express something true, decided Rebecca, otherwise so many people would not have loved it.
She felt like a traitor to the South as she opened the novel. Eagerly she turned to the first chapter, then commenced reading. Two men discussed the sale of a slave, thereby dividing the slave's family, and Rebecca became angry, because she'd never heard southerners speak so callously of slaves.
Rebecca knew about slave owners who mistreated Negroes, but such ill-bred planters were a minority, at least among the Virginia gentry, and decent people had nothing to do with them. Rebecca's uncles always had been solicitous about their slaves and never would break up a family, but conditions were said to be far harsher in the deep South, such as Alabama and Mississippi.
Rebecca reflected that a healthy field slave was worth from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars, and no intelligent businessman would kill such valuable stock for sheer pleasure, although there was no doubt that some slaves were worked excessively on certain plantations. Slavery presented numerous moral issues of which Rebecca was keenly aware, but she didn't like the way Harriet Beecher Stowe loaded the deck so blatantly against the South.
Rebecca closed the novel and set it aside. So this is what the Yankees think of us, she concluded. They see us as coldhearted beasts, not people, yet Harriet Beecher Stowe never visited a plantation in her life, knows nothing about us, nor does she care to learn. She has a perverse morality, because the Irish in New York are far worse off than most slaves, who at least have roofs over their heads, and three meals a day.
Rebecca arose from her chair, carried the book to the fireplace, and dropped it onto the coals. As flames leapt around the binding, she understood for the first time, deep in her heart, how implacable the slavery debate had become. It's not about morality anymore, she told herself. It's become pure contempt.
She watched the famous novel disintegrate, and within those orange and red tongues, saw burning cities, wailing women, and naked children running about screaming.
Nathanial returned home following his discussion with Beau, and found Clarissa asleep, a thin blue army blanket to her chin. Creeping closer, he bent over her, studying her face in the moonlight. Her mouth was half opened, an expression of peace covering her features. She looked like a fourteen-year-old girl as the faint sound of her breathing came to his ears.
He loved her because of her innate goodness, and her fresh beauty. It frightened him to know he'd almost lost her during the time he was supposedly dead, and during their estrangement. He feared something terrible might happen, for it wasn't unusual for people to die from a variety of illnesses, with childbirth killing women regularly.
Suddenly she started, opening her eyes. “What's wrong?” she asked.
“I was looking at you.”
“Am I getting old?”
“Not at all.”
“Where have you been?”
“Beau and I had quite a talk.”
“What about?”
“Everything.”
He poured water into the basin, and Clarissa couldn't help wondering if Beau had spilled the beans. But Nathanial appeared relaxed as he washed in the basin, then removed his clothing, crawled into bed with her, and kissed her cheek. She decided Beau never would dare admit such a transgression, due to the possibility of bloodshed, and neither would she. My secret is safe, she thought. I have nothing to worry about.
But she forgot that many angry people walked the face of the earth, and some possessed long memories.
Chapter Four
Esther rode alongside Steve Culhane on the sunny morning the band of thieves departed Austin. She wore a long calico skirt, because she preferred to be a lady, but with a man's pants underneath, and the additional clothing made her appear more hippy than ever. She imagined that she was desired by all the men, but had fallen in love with Steve, not just for his wonderful smile, but he had been generous, and a lonely woman needed generosity on the remorseless frontier.
In her saddlebags, nestled inside one of Sam's old socks, was her remaining fifty dollars, her entire fortune, with which she hoped to make a new start after she killed Mrs. Rich Bitch. She turned and saw Austin falling back in the Pedernales Valley. Alone with eight men on the open land, she'd learned that thieves respected a woman, and she was confident Steve would protect her should difficulties arise.
He looked at her, and they smiled as if in agreement that their previous night had reached new heights. “How're you doin?” he asked with his strange crooked smile, saliva always pooling at the corners of his mouth.
“Don't worry ‘bout me,” she said. “I can handle myself.”
“You sure can, sweetheart.”
He held her hand as they led the thieves west, far from laws, sheriffs, and judges. Peering into his eyes, seeing that twisted roguish smile, her remaining resistance broke, and she loved the touch of his strong callused hand, making her feel safe, as when she'd been with Sam Rainey. Most people never find love in their whole damn lives, she considered. But I was lucky enough to git it twic't.
They stopped in the shade of cottonwoods for a midday meal, and some of the men glanced sideways at her, odd expressions on their faces, but she figured they were lonely rovers, similar to her former customers. After lunch they rode for the rest of the day, hoping to reach Fort Davis in about a week.
Occasionally she heard snickers behind her as the men shared private jokes. There was something in the tone that troubled her, but she brushed off suspicion, considering it absurd. As the sun set, they camped beside a stream lined with brakes and cottonwood trees. Esther helped prepare their dinner of dried beef, biscuits, and beans, then they sat together and ate heartily in the light of the fire.
Again, she couldn't help noticing the men glancing at her in strange ways, but Steve appeared not to notice, and she was sure everything was fine. What makes me think they're talkin’ ‘bout me? she asked herself.
Finally the meal was consumed, and they washed tin plates in the nearby stream. Steve opened his saddlebags and took out a bottle of whiskey. “Let's have a party,” he said.
“Don't you think we should get to bed early?” she replied.
“A few drinks won't hurt nawthin’.”
The men crowded around, forcing her to step backwards. They passed the bottle and giggled among themselves, making her feel increasingly uncomfortable. Somehow it didn't seem like Sam and the other bunch, but nothing was the same, she lectured herself. Be
sides, Steve is here to protect me.
He held out the bottle to her. “Come on—have a drink?”
“I'm not in the mood.”
“Why the hell not?”
“We should make an early start.”
“We ain't in no hurry. Are you?”
“Not really.”
“So what's a l'il whiskey? Come on.” He walked toward her, a foxy expression on his face, and held out the bottle.
She forced a smile, because she didn't want to disappoint him. “All right.”
She reached for the bottle, but suddenly he snatched it away. Then two outlaws pounced, each grabbing one of her arms, and she almost fainted from terror. Gulping hard, she took a breath, blinked, then glared at Steve.
“Check her bags,” he ordered.
The outlaw named Dunphy, who had the dour lips of a goat, stalked toward her bedroll, kicked it out of the way, then opened her saddlebags, pulled out personal items, and tossed them over his shoulder. “Here it is,” he said, raising the sock full of coins.
The men cheered, and Esther looked at Steve, who laughed derisively. “You dumb whore—did you really think I was in love with you?”
With a sinking heart, she wanted to cry, but she had known cruelty before. “What're you gonter do wi’ me?” she asked, holding her voice steady.
Steve snorted. “What'dy'a think?”
“Yer gonter kill me?
“That part comes later, but right now we're a-gonna have that party I told you about.” He spat into the dirt. “Go ahead, boys.”
They came at her, and she felt their hands ripping her clothes, forcing her to the ground. Oh God, no, she thought, and when she resisted, one of them punched her in the mouth. Her head banged against the ground as she fell, nearly knocking her unconscious, but still they undressed her, cutting away her remaining garments, while four of them held her spread-eagled on the ground.
It wasn't the first time she'd been raped, beaten, and mauled by men. Her heart became cold, she closed her eyes, and said to herself, I will get through this somehow.
One by one they took her, as she lay with tears streaming down her cheeks, trying to convince herself that childbirth was worse, hoping to remember blue skies and yellow butterflies, anything other than what was happening.
“I think she died,” said the outlaw called Clay, a grizzled red-bearded escaped jailbird. His pants were down, but he had no difficulty drawing the knife and pressing it against her throat. “Hey, whore—you'd better give me some goddamn good fuckin’, or else!”
She roused herself, and it wasn't difficult for an experienced whore to pretend excitement. They assaulted, threatened, and pinched, but a silent, gentle place existed within her, a rage she had found during childhood, after her stepfather had done the same things, then warned her never to speak of them.
It felt as though hours had passed, and she knew she was bleeding seriously, and indeed might die, but she would not give them the satisfaction of defeating her.
Mullins, a beefy-faced bank robber and safecracker, smacked her bruised hindquarters. “Hey—she ain't a bad old whore after all. Whoop-de-doo!”
“Hurry up—you been at it long enough.”
She caught a glimpse of Steve sitting on his blanket not far away, making his charming smile, obviously enjoying the show. Tears filled her eyes as she realized the dimensions of the treachery, and for a few moments her refuge was rent asunder. I'll never trust anyone again as long as I live, she told herself as waves of torment came over her.
Finally she fainted dead away, with no slapping able to stir her. They even dumped a bucket of cold water over her head, but she failed to respond. That didn't stop them as they continued to degrade her in every imaginable way.
At dawn, she was a bloody, unconscious mess. “I think she died,” said Mullins. “We should bury ‘er.”
“Let the buzzards have a meal,” said Steve generously. “Let's git out of here.”
“What if somebody finds ‘er?”
“There's nobody out here ‘cept us, and what the buzzards don't eat, the coyotes'll finish off. But if you want to dig a hole, go right ahead. Jest don't expect me to wait fer you.”
Mullins didn't feel like digging by his lonesome, so he said, “I'm ready to leave, boss.”
At dawn the men packed their gear, loaded it onto horses, and continued west, leaving a naked, ravaged woman behind.
On June 28, 1858, Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville and his soldiers crossed the border to Mexico, following the tracks of an Apache army. Although the incursion was illegal, American and Mexican detachments frequently violated each other's territory in pursuit of Apaches, never reporting the measures in official communications.
Colonel Bonneville rode at the head of the formation, wide-brimmed vaquero hat low over his eyes, tan shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He was covered with alkali and sweat, his hindquarters ached and his vision blurred, but he'd been fighting Indians all his life, didn't believe in their innate goodness, and considered military pressure the only reasonable way to deal with them.
Yet he looked comical in his saddle, a dumpy old gnome wearing an ill-fitting dark brown wig beneath his hat, and a scar on his chest, having stopped Mexican grapeshot in the battle of Churubusco. Flags flapped overhead as he studied tracks in the soft sand. The Indians made no effort to conceal their route, and the Papago scout estimated eight hundred warriors, but Colonel Bonneville thought the Papago was exaggerating.
Old Bonney Clabber looked like the usual aging officer, but actually was an American celebrity. During his youth, he'd taken a furlough from the army and gone west to explore the Rocky Mountains for John Jacob Astor. Afterward, a record of his exploits appeared in a popular book by Washington Irving, The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A.
In addition, Old Bonney Clabber was something of a philosopher, having been raised at the knee of Thomas Paine. Although a loyal American Army officer, Colonel Bonneville had been born in Paris, his parents 100 percent French, and his father, Nicholas de Bonneville, a celebrated writer and liberal politician, had permitted the great philosopher to live in his home at 4 rue de Theatre Francois for six years. As little Benjamin grew up, he heard ideas bandied about, and it inspired him with dreams of the new Republican nation, the United States of America, which had thrown off the shackles of moribund aristocratic rule and had entered a new era of enlightened government.
Paine returned to America in 1802, and the de Bonnevilles followed later that year, when little Ben was eight. They resided with Paine at his home in Bordertown, New Jersey, and Ben became an excellent student, but money was in short supply and West Point offered a free education. So the lad who had pondered abstruse principles proclaimed by Thomas Paine, became a soldier of the frontier.
Colonel Bonneville believed in America, not just as acres of land, but a principle guaranteeing freedom for all. Unlike Europe, success in America was based on merit, otherwise the intelligent but impoverished son of a writer might well have become a beggar.
Farther back in the formation, Major Beauregard Hargreaves rode among the staff officers, and he'd been chosen for the mission due to his successful work the previous year as liaison with the Mexican Army in Janos. He also had fought Apaches in the Valley of Dead Sheep, among other venues, but his chief consideration that morning wasn't Colonel Bonneville, or even Apaches, but his old friend Nathanial Barrington.
Sometimes, drowsing in the saddle, Beau wished he could die gloriously, so he could escape life's contradictions. It was a popular motif for painters of the day, the gallant soldier giving all for a noble cause, unwilling to surrender his flag. As a youth, Beau had read of knights jousting before galleries of beautiful damsels.
He and Nathanial had been drawn together by mutual idealism, love of adventure, and lust for females. Together they had engaged in countless daring pranks, never realizing that one day Beau would seduce Nathanial's widow, although reports of Nathanial's death had been highly inacc
urate. Through it all, we're still friends, thought Beau. But perhaps I'll get my wish, and this jaunt into Mexico will be my last campaign.
Forty miles to the southeast, Don Pedro Azcarraga sat on his bedroom balcony and sipped a cup of coffee as he gazed at his vast holdings. One of the foremost caudillos in northern Sonora, he owned ten thousand acres, numerous cattle and horses, and employed twenty-five heavily armed vaqueros. He ruled his domain like an Aragon prince, and indeed was descended from the Spanish nobility, his ancestors arriving with Hernan Cortes in 1519.
Forty-five years old, he had much to be thankful for. His herd was multiplying according to the latest scientific principles, and beef prices were holding in the south. Moreover, his wife was virtuous, his children growing strong, and he was another veteran of the Mexican War, having served with distinction at Buena Vista, where he had lost his left leg.
Now he wore a hardwood peg leg, and it pointed like a pool cue at the potted flower in the corner of the balcony. Azcarraga crossed himself and gave thanks to the Virgin for his good fortune. Life was good, but he did not consider, in that moment of euphoria, that life can be short.
As he gazed at his land, he noticed something glimmer in the morning sun. It was an Apache arrow, but he never saw it or anything ever again. It pierced his heart, and with a final gasp he toppled to the floor of his balcony, a red ribbon of blood extending from his mouth.
A horrific scream went up as the People burst from foliage surrounding the house. Defending vaqueros were taken by surprise, most killed in the first minutes of the attack, guards having been dispatched earlier. One swarm of Apaches captured the barn while another took the main house, and the third roved the outbuildings, killing everyone they saw.
In the main hacienda, Victorio ascended the curved staircase to the second floor, searching for weapons, jewelry, and other articles of value. He and his warrior brothers did not hesitate to shoot or stab anyone in their path, as the Nakai-yes had shot and stabbed the People.