by Len Levinson
Amid tumultuous ovations, the great southerner mounted the podium, a tall, thin, severe-looking ex-soldier. He began his speech with praise of Massachusetts patriots such as John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere. Then he advanced to his main text, where he explained how oppressed the South felt by northern economic and political domination. At first he didn't mention slavery by name, preferring to focus instead on states’ rights and the basic freedoms accorded every American citizen.
Nobody ever said Jefferson Davis didn't know how to work a crowd, and as his speech proceeded, he gradually increased his intensity. “With Pharisaical pretention,” he declared, “it is sometimes said to be a moral right to agitate! But who gives agitators the right to decide what is a sin? By what standard do they measure it? Not the Constitution, which recognizes southern institutions in their many forms. And neither the Bible, that justifies those institutions in books from Genesis to Revelations. Let us admit, ladies and gentleman, that servitude is the only agency by which Christianity has ever reached that poor, degraded race of Negroes.” Then Jefferson Davis paused, raised his right forefinger in the air, and issued his declaration of war. “But if one section should gain such predominance as would enable it to usurp power, and impose its will upon another section, they shall awaken the blood of the Revolution that still runs in the veins of the sons of heroes, and those sons shall not fail to redeem themselves from tyranny, even should they be drawn to a second American Revolution!”
Bostonians applauded enthusiastically at the speech's conclusion as Jefferson Davis stepped back from the podium, placing his hand in his coat. Onlookers imagined he was striking the popular Napoleonic pose, but he touched the butt of his pistol, in case a mad abolitionist tried to assassinate him.
To his amazement, the crowd clapped wildly, shouting hurrahs. Jeff Davis stood, mouth agape, wondering what had happened, then Varina joined him and whispered into his ear, “Time for your bow, dear.”
Hats were thrown into the air, and cheering reverberated across Faneuil Square, as the southern couple bowed together. Didn't they hear what I said? wondered Jeff Davis, waving numbly to the multitudes. War is coming as sure as I'm standing here, and they cheer?
Chapter Nineteen
Culhane sat beside the trail, hoping a stray traveler might come his way. He'd been living like a rat, gaunt, ragged, with the glare of a lunatic in his eyes. The desert spread in autumnal splendor around him, with multicolored birds flitting about, but he saw none of it, so enwrapped was he with survival. He prayed a woman might happen by, so he could have some fun, but definitely wasn't looking for a stagecoach with armed guards, and whenever one passed, Culhane fled for cover.
He'd shot a rattlesnake which he'd roasted over a fire, and on another occasional had killed a javelina pig. At night he slept in caves or little clearings, his finger on his trigger at all times. He was the outsider, the man who believed in nothing except himself.
Sitting in the hot sun, he hallucinated crickets six feet tall, and butterflies as big as saguaro cacti. Sipping from his canteen, he heard a faint rustle, but the desert wind frequently trembled leaves, and he paid no mind. Shortly thereafter, something struck his skull.
He awoke tied head-down over a horse's back, his arms and legs wagging from side to side, and at first thought the law had caught him, but then angled his head and saw an Apache riding the lead horse. Culhane's heart sank when he realized a worse fate had overtaken him, for the Apaches preferred to torture their victims. He became covered with sweat, wanted to cry, but no tears came. He wished he could kill himself quickly and cleanly, but was tied like a calf at branding time. In the extremity of terror, he could not pray.
They stopped for the night, he was pulled roughly from the horse, slapped a few times, then his hands were untied and he was permitted to eat pemmican. He studied his Apache captors and saw they clearly hated him. He wanted to bargain for his life, but had no whiskey, guns, or gold, and it wouldn't matter if he did; they'd steal it and kill him anyway. I'm finished, he thought as panic rose in his gorge. Shrieking, he tried to run away, but they tackled and beat him, then tied him again.
The trip continued for three days and nights, and on the following afternoon Culhane heard new voices. Many horses gathered, then he was escorted into what appeared to his upside-down vision as an Apache camp. He was pulled off the horse, then an Apache delivered a speech. Culhane didn't know what was said, but figured his death sentence had been passed. He hoped it wouldn't be too painful.
The Apache was Coyuntura, who had captured Culhane. “We have found this Nakai-yes," he said. “He will help pay for the sins of Fronteras.”
Culhane was dragged to a clearing near the encampment. Four stakes were driven into the ground, then he was forced down, his hands and feet bound to them. Almost immediately, he felt tiny bites in his back and legs, because they had positioned him over an anthill. “No!” he screamed. “Please!”
The Apaches poured honey over his face, especially into his eyes. A feeling of desperate helplessness came over him, and he begged, slobbered, and even vomited his fear, as tiny jaws began their work.
He blinked wildly, trying to see, offering big angry insects opportunities to nibble his corneas. He bounced furiously on the ground, struggling to break free, and at one point saw a familiar face, Barrington the rancher dressed as an Apache. Culhane thought he had gone mad, and howled in stark terror as ants crawled into his nostrils and ears, while continuing to chew his eyes.
He sneezed insects out of his lungs, but many remained, munching sensitive membranes. Then something hard struck his head, stunning him. He opened his eyes and saw another familiar face, this time an Apache woman with medium brown wavy hair, club in hand, but he couldn't place her.
“Remember me?” she asked in perfect English.
“Please help me!” he pleaded.
“I'll help you the way you helped me, when you let them rape me, and left me to die.”
In agony, he recalled his romance with Esther Rainey. “I couldn't stop them,” he told her thickly as a platoon of ants feasted upon his tongue. “You know I loved you, Esther. In God's name—turn me loose!”
“I'm a-gonna watch you die, you bastard,” she said. “And I'll be grateful forever to the Apaches fer givin’ me this day.”
“No!”
“Yes,” she whispered as she slammed him on the head again, opening a new wound, which immediately was invaded by bugs. Culhane twisted and howled as ants slowly devoured his brain. His screams were heard for the rest of the day, all night, and most of the next morning, providing satisfaction to those who had lost relatives at Fronteras, and also for a certain Pindah ex-whore. Next afternoon, Culhane's voice weakened, he became delirious, and expired after sunset. By the time three more suns had passed, a variety of creatures had picked him clean.
The Franciscan nunnery sat in a remote region of the Sonoran Desert, about one hundred forty miles southwest of Santa Fe. It was here that devout women took vows to heal the sick, teach children, feed the poor, and abstain from fornication.
The nuns were ordinary women called to the sanctified life, and none had renounced more than the mother superior, a slender lady of fifty, daughter of a wealthy Mexico City landowner. The Mother Superior had been a beauty in her youth, but turned from her life of privilege to become daughter of Christ, all her passions elevated to greater zeal on behalf of the unfortunate.
One afternoon she sat in her office, studying a request from the cellarer, when there was a knock on the door, then her secretary Sister Maria entered the sanctum. “A lady to see you, Mother.”
The mother superior was not surprised, because many came to receive advice, and the peasants believed she could perform miracles, but she never turned anyone away. A young woman, dusty and careworn, entered the office, and the mother superior could see another acolyte had arrived. The newcomer had the haunted expression of the true seeker after God.
“How can I help you, my daughter?”
>
“I would like to join this order, your holiness.”
“Why?”
The young woman looked down. “Because the Apaches have massacred my family, and I have nowhere to go. I wanted to kill myself, but that is a sin.”
“What is your name, dear?”
“Constanza Azcarraga.”
The mother superior knew of the Azcarraga family, and had heard about the tragedy. “If you wish to escape the world, this is not the place, my child. Because the world is here with all its illness, misery, and poverty. You will work long hours, and you may not always have time for prayers. You may even contract a disease and die.”
“My mind is made up, and I will accept any hardship, for I feel that I must do penance.”
“For what?”
Constanza hesitated. “I have fornicated.”
“Often?”
“Yes. And with a married man.”
“Since your parents were killed?”
Constanza nodded.
The mother superior was not the cold imperious creature she sometimes appeared to be, for she understood the need for solace that could force women into the arms of men. “We should be thankful for our sins,” she said, “for they provide the necessity to pray. If you are willing to meet the challenge of our demanding life, I shall accept you.”
The young woman dropped to her knees before the mother superior, who placed her hands upon the novice's head and blessed her. “You have suffered much,” said the mother superior tenderly. “And now you shall be washed clean.”
***
Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln continued their grueling campaigns for the rest of the summer and fall. Forests were demolished to provide paper for journalists promulgating opinions, predictions, and observations concerning the Illinois senatorial campaign.
The turnout was unusually heavy on election day, although the names of Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln were absent from the ballot. In 1858, senators were elected not by the people, but by state legislators who themselves had run campaigns, however Democrats could be expected to vote for Douglas, and Republicans, Lincoln.
When results were announced, the Republican ticket had won 125,275 votes, the Douglas Democrats 121,090, and the Buchanan Democrats only 5,071, a stunning setback for the President, and a severe blow to Senator Douglas, while Republicans across the nation rejoiced.
But despite winning a plurality, Abe Lincoln did not go to Washington. The Illinois legislature previously had apportioned seats according to the census of 1850, which omitted population increases in northern Illinois, long an abolitionist stronghold. When legislators met to vote, they gave forty-six votes to Lincoln and fifty-five to Douglas, but everyone knew Abe Lincoln was the true winner.
A badly battered Stephen Douglas returned to the Senate, while Abraham Lincoln had emerged from the backwoods of Illinois to become the hero of the national Republican Party. Many mentioned him as a possible candidate for the presidency in ‘60.
Most Americans knew nothing of Apaches, but an exception was John B. Floyd, fifty-two, Secretary of War. The U.S. Army engaged in undeclared war against Indians across the frontier, and it was Floyd's job to allocate troops and funds, but there never seemed enough to subdue so many hostile tribes.
Floyd never had served in the military, but rose to his position due to his devotion to President James Buchanan. A lawyer and former governor of Virginia, Floyd was accused of profiting unduly from his new position and transferring excessive amounts of military supplies to forts in the South in preparation for the civil strife many expected to break out at any time. In addition, he was much reviled in the abolitionist press because as governor of Virginia he'd proposed taxing the products of those northern states which refused to return fugitive slaves to the South.
Among Secretary Floyd's new projects was a string of forts to be constructed across the Apache frontier to protect the new Overland stagecoach line. He even conferred with President Buchanan on the subject, and Old Buck agreed, so the proposal was written as legislation and forwarded to Congress.
But the thirty-fifth Congress was mired in the slavery issue, which insinuated itself into the debate over the transcontinental railroad, the Homestead Act, the annexation of Cuba and Central America, and Senator Jefferson Davis's fight for government protection of slavery in the territories.
Southern senators demanded the immediate reopening of the slave trade, while northern senators complained that the illegal slave trade was shipping greater numbers of Negroes than when the trade had been legal. Then, as if to confirm the fears of the North, the ship Wanderer was seized off the South Carolina coast by the federal government, with three hundred sickly slaves aboard. The owner of the Wanderer, Charles Lamar, admitted he had lost two out of three Negroes on the journey from Africa, but the Charleston grand jury refused to indict him, and the government sold the Wanderer at auction. Lamar bought it back for four thousand dollars, outraging the abolitionist North.
In the midst of such contentious issues, not many government officials had time for Apaches and ranchers in far-off New Mexico Territory. So the forts never were built, and the Apache Wars continued unrestrained.
Zachary and Gloria told their parents about the white palace near their ranch, and in the season known among the People as Earth is Turning Brown, a column of warriors and women traveled to the site.
They built ladders, climbed into the rooms, and found shards of pottery, arrowheads, and weird writing on the walls. Mangas Coloradas stood on the topmost roof, gazing into the valley below as night fell, and warriors built a bonfire in the courtyard. “These people were the Tohono O'Odham,” he explained to Zachary, Gloria, Natalie, Sunny Bear, and Sunny Flower. “Some say they were killed by enemies, while others tell that they journeyed to another world. Then, many harvests later, we came to this region, and now it is ours. But we shall not disappear like the Tohono O'Odham, for we are the eternal People, and our spirit shall never die!”
The fire blazed into the night as warriors danced with wives, songs were sung, and tales of glory related.
In late November, Cole Bannon returned to Texas Ranger headquarters at Austin, where he reported to Major John Salmon “Rip” Ford. “I've been in Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Mesilla, Tucson, and Nogales,” said Cole, “but haven't been able to track down Steve Culhane.”
Major Ford nodded sympathetically. He was forty-three, a former doctor, lawyer, mayor of Austin, another veteran of the Mexican War, and an experienced Comanche fighter. “You did your best,” he said reassuringly. “And don't worry about Culhane. My experience with these sons of bitches is they eventually get what they deserve, one way or the other.”
In December of 1858, Dr. Michael Steck traveled west for a powwow with Mangas Coloradas in Apache Pass, not far from the San Simon River. His escort was Captain Richard Stoddert Ewell and eighty dragoons, with a wagon of gifts and ten head of cattle for the Apaches.
Dr. Steck rode at the head of the column, and was under no illusions about Mangas Coloradas becoming a peace-loving agrarian philosopher. The old chief was squeezed by the Mexican Army in the south, while the American Army pressured from the north, plus the Santa Rita Copper Mines had reopened in the most sacred part of the Mimbreno homeland, and if that wasn't enough, the new Overland Stagecoach Line had been in operation since September, with nine stations in territory claimed by the Chiricahuas. The Apaches were ready for a peace conference because they were desperate to survive. They also were said to be short of food.
Dr. Steck had been dealing with Apaches since 1854, but never had visited them in such a remote area. He was struck by how otherworldly their camp appeared, with hutlike wickiups strewn across the valley, and the Apaches themselves dirty, alien, sullen, yet somehow childlike in their breechclouts, long hair, and moccasin boots.
The soldiers approached warily, for the history of the frontier was betrayals, ambushes, and massacres. It occurred to Dr. Steck that the Indians outnumbered the army, but he fe
lt confident that even heathen savages would hesitate to murder an important American official such as himself.
Old Baldy ordered the troop to halt, then Dr. Steck climbed down from his saddle. Unarmed, he stepped forward, smiling and nodding his head, the peace ambassador from the Great White Nantan in the East, as a group of warriors advanced toward him, led by an extraordinary-looking personage who could only be Chief Mangas Coloradas.
The chief had become old, yet still was sturdy, over six feet tall, with a mane of silver hair hanging to his waist. He didn't smile or appear especially happy, but Dr. Steck was in high spirits and addressed him in Spanish. “It is an honor to meet you, Chief Mangas Coloradas,” he declared.
“What do you want?” asked the Apache sovereign.
“To make friends.”
“That is what you tell me, but what do you want?”
Dr. Steck hadn't wanted negotiations immediately, and felt uncomfortable before the old chief's searching eyes. “Let us sit and talk together.”
“What do you want?” persisted Mangas Coloradas.
“Leave the stagecoaches alone.”
“What will you give me?”
“Peace.”
Mangas Coloradas waved his hand. “It is done.”
Dr. Steck was surprised, because he'd expected Mangas Coloradas to bargain. “Will you sign a treaty?”
“When Mangas Coloradas speaks, that is his treaty. And what about the diggers at the Santa Rita Copper Mine?”
“I cannot do anything about them, but you must leave them alone.”