by Len Levinson
He hailed a carriage at the corner of New Jersey Avenue, then told the driver to take him to Georgetown. The carriage rolled past the Mall, where the Washington Monument and Smithsonian Museum were being constructed by teams of workmen. His father's home was a two-story red brick building on a gaslit block. The ambiance reminded Nathanial of Washington Square, as he limped from the carriage toward the front door. His father had retired from the army in 1852, after more than forty years of service.
Nathanial hit the knocker and it wasn't long before a uniformed elderly Negro maid opened the door. “You must be Lieutenant Barrington,” she said warmly.
“Indeed I am.”
“I'm Mattie. Right this way.”
Nathanial wondered where his father's octoroon mistress was as the maid led him to a parlor. Above the fireplace hung a full-length oil portrait of his father as a captain of infantry, with barracks and soldiers in the background, painted by Theodore Sydney Moise.
Studying his father's painting, overcome with conflicting emotions, he heard footsteps behind him. “I was about your age when that painting was done,” said his father.
Nathanial's first impression was that the colonel had become old and somewhat shrunken. They embraced, and his father felt almost frail against him. Nathanial's voice choked in his throat, because he didn't know what to say.
“Can I get you something to drink?” asked his father.
“A cup of coffee, if you don't mind.”
The colonel relayed the order to Mattie, then father and son sat on two chairs facing each other. For a few moments neither could speak, then his father said matter-of-factly, “You're wounded again.”
Nathanial nodded, there was silence, then the younger Barrington realized he couldn't just sit like a porcelain statue. “How are you feeling, Father?”
“Quite well. How do you like New Mexico?”
“I like it a lot, except for the Apaches.”
“I've been following your career. Evidently you're something of a drunkard, and you've been involved in fisticuffs with fellow officers. Is that more or less correct?”
“I've cut down on my drinking, sir, and have become much more conciliatory in my relations with others.”
His father smiled. “To tell you the truth, my boy—I'm proud of you. Because it all comes down to combat command, and you've acquitted yourself well in a number of scrapes with Apaches.”
“Maybe, but I'll probably be a first lieutenant until the day I die.”
“Don't you think it rankled when I was a colonel and many of my contemporaries became generals? All soldiers have is their duty, but I'm sure I've given this lecture before. How's your wife?”
“She's thrown me out.” Nathanial's voice caught in his throat, when he realized that his mother eventually had thrown his father out also. Is this becoming a fine old family tradition? he wondered.
His father raised his hand. “You needn't speak the details. I understand.”
Nathanial felt closer to his father now that they'd both committed similar transgressions against womanhood. “Are you still with . . .” The son couldn't finish the sentence because he couldn't bring himself to say the octoroon's name.
“She's out right now.” His father's facade cracked for the first time. “It's rather awkward, isn't it?”
Nathanial didn't know how to respond, so his father continued. “When we're young our passions carry us along. I'm not the man I was, not that I ever was much. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you.” His father leaned toward him and narrowed his eye. “Are you staying at the Emory alone?”
“No, I have a slave. Bought her in South Carolina, and I'm going to turn her loose once we get into New York. In case you're wondering, I'm not having a love affair with her.”
“For some reason I believe you. Yes, you have changed, Nathanial. There's nothing like mortal combat to mature a man, and you've seen your share. I admit I haven't been much of a father, but perhaps we can be friends after all. In fact, I have an idea. Tomorrow we'll go to the War Department and I'll introduce you to some friends. You're right—it's time you made captain, and perhaps I can help with your promotion.”
Eighteen hundred miles to the west, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, the great chief Mangas Coloradas lay among rocks and cacti, observing a column of Mexican cavalry passing in the distance. The old chief's eyes weren't as sharp as previously, but he could perceive the Mexican officer riding in front, followed by one hundred and fifty-odd soldiers armed with rifles, pistols, and knives.
Mangas Coloradas was accompanied by twenty-two Mimbreno subchiefs and warriors, not enough to take on the Mexicans. The chief and his tribe had fled south to Mexico to escape the American Army, but now the Mexican Army was hunting them. He felt trapped beneath tons of enemy soldiers.
Then Cuchillo Negro arose, shook his head, and spat in disgust. The oldest fighting subchief among the Mimbrenos, he was even older than Mangas Coloradas himself. “It is no use,” said Cuchillo Negro in a deep, resonant voice.
The chiefs and warriors were silent, because they appreciated their predicament. They could become farmers, like Tomaso and his band, or join forces with the Chiricahua People to the north, but their usual haunts were no longer safe.
Mangas Coloradas said, “My heart is against planting seeds in the ground. I am going to our brothers, the Chiricahuas.”
“But must we leave our homeland forever?” asked Delgadito.
“I do not know” replied Mangas Coloradas.
Then Victorio arose, and all eyes turned to the next chief of the Mimbrenos. “We are the children of the Lifegiver,” he declared. “He will remain with us no matter where we go.”
Cuchillo Negro shook his head in disagreement, but he was from the old time. “There is no separation between the homeland and the Mimbreno. It is the place that Yusn has given us to inhabit forever. If we abandon it, it means we have abandoned Yusn, who made us all. Yusn did not want me to be a Chiricahua. He wants me to be a Mimbreno. If I must plant seeds—so be it.”
Delgadito, another old-time warrior rose to his feet. “I do not know about you, Cuchillo Negro, and I mean you no disrespect, but I do not believe Yusn wants me to walk bent over all day long, pulling weeds out of the ground.” Everyone laughed as Delgadito mimicked a farmer tilling the land.
Cuchillo Negro replied, “I have participated in many battles, and I have seen many friends killed. I also have heard women and children weeping, and it is more than I can bear. I believe that Yusn has given us life so we can be happy, and not run this way and that, trying to elude enemies. Dr. Steck is a good man and I trust him.” Cuchillo Negro pointed toward the Mexican soldiers. “If we do not change our ways soon, there will be a river of blood flowing through this land, and most of it will be ours.”
Belinda stood across the street from the Congress, staring at it in wonderment and delight. It was the largest most splendid building she'd ever seen. She'd read mention of the Congress in newspapers and magazines, and now she actually was seeing those immense walls, hundreds of windows, and the cupola. Walking up and down the stone steps were congressmen, senators, lawyers, businessmen, and clerks, as a never-ending stream of carriages rolled to the front entrances.
She imagined great debates taking place in hallowed chambers, for she understood well the significance of the Kansas legislation. The fate of slaves like her was being decided within that imposing edifice, and she wanted to tell her story to congressmen and senators, but Southerners would laugh while Northerners would never actually do anything. The North wanted peace, she knew, and would make any compromise necessary to preserve it, no matter how many darkies were worked to death every day, or whipped, kicked, raped, and shot.
“What the hell're you doin’ hyar, nigra?”
Her blood nearly backed up as she turned toward two bulky men wearing badges. “Is you talkin’ to me, massa?” she asked, and her trembling wasn't completely pretend.
“Who'd you run away
from?” asked one, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. “And if yer lyin’, I'll whup yer black ass myself, get me?”
“I ain't no runaway, suh.” She opened her purse and withdrew the note from Nathanial. “Look at that, suh.”
The constables examined Nathanial's note. “I figgered there was somethin’ wrong with her head,” declared the other constable, who puffed a corncob pipe. “Belinda, do you know which way's the Emory Hotel?”
She pointed. “That way, suh?”
“No, you goddamned fool, the other way.” He aimed in the opposite direction. “You'd better git a move on, and if I see you wanderin’ around again, I'll throw yer ass in jail, hear me?”
“Please don't tell my massa, suh. ‘Cause he'll hit me, he will.”
“It's just what you need, but I'll let you go this time. Get a move on.”
He slapped the back of his hand against her fanny, and she wanted to put a ball of lead between his eyes. Instead she bowed humbly, stuttered, muttered, and shuffled away like a frightened ignorant slave.
The slavecatchers were named Jim and Bob, and they watched her go with more than passing interest. “Not a bad-looking nigra bitch,” said Jim. “How'd you like to toss one into her, Bob?”
“A little dark meat never hurt nobody,” replied his slave-catching partner. And he knew whereof he spoke.
A few blocks away, Secretary of War Jefferson Davis gazed at a map of Russia, Turkey, Austria, and Greece mounted on the wall of his office. Davis was a slender, severe-looking man of forty-six, and former senator from Mississippi. It appeared that the next great war was about to break out in central Asia. He intended to send military attachés to report from the area, so he could adapt the lessons to his own impending reorganization of the U.S. Army.
Davis planned to replace musketoons with rifles, while tests with the latest breechloaders were underway in the Ordnance Department headed by Henry Craig. A pay raise was in store for all officers and men because one ex-soldier, Franklin Pierce, sat in the White House and another in the Department of War.
One of the most famous heroes of the Mexican war, Colonel Jefferson Davis, knew how victory crowns he who fights with fanatical fire. His favorite new project, which he kept secret from everyone except his wife, was an elite military unit. He didn't dare call it “elite” in public, because the rest of the Army would be jealous, and it would be commissioned with no special fanfare, as if it were just another regiment. He couldn't name it the First Cavalry, because First would imply special favor, so he intended to call it the Second Cavalry, with the best man in every slot. If most happened to be Southerners, so much the better. The former Colonel Davis could see that ultimately the slavery issue would be settled in blood, and he wanted the South to have as many advantages as possible.
His wife had told him that morning that their two-year-old son Samuel had been feverish during the night. It was a hot summer day and the father thought he might go home early for once, to see how the boy was doing.
He put on his jacket, for Jefferson Davis would never be seen in public without his jacket. Proceeding down the hall, he headed for the front door of the War Department.
He couldn't see well out of his left eye because it was covered with thin white mucus which doctors couldn't cure. His range of vision had narrowed and he couldn't spot the source of a voice calling out to him. “Secretary Davis, may I have a word with you?”
Jefferson Davis turned toward Colonel Barrington, whom he'd met at military functions over the years. Standing next to Barrington was a tall, beefy army officer wearing a short blond beard and holding a cane.
“May I present my son, Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington. He's stationed in New Mexico and this is his first trip East in six years.”
Jefferson Davis noticed the clear expression in the younger officer's eyes. “What happened to your leg, Lieutenant Barrington?”
“Apache arrow, sir,” said Nathanial matter-of-factly.
Jefferson Davis was one of the few Washingtonians who knew about the Apache Wars, because they fell within the purview of his duties. “It appears that you fellows have the situation pretty well in hand.”
“I wouldn't go that far, sir. The largest and most warlike tribes are still on the loose.”
Jefferson Davis took a step backward, as erect as if on the parade ground at West Point. “It's rare that I meet junior officers who actually fight the nation's battles. I'd like to speak with you more about Apaches, Lieutenant Barrington. Could you drop by my office tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.” Nathanial tossed off a smart West Point salute.
Jefferson Davis continued down the corridor, light from the front door outlining his body. Retired Colonel Barrington leaned toward his son and murmured, “Just what I was hoping for. You make a good impression on him tomorrow, you'll be getting your captain's bars before long.”
* * *
Amalia Barrington sat in her study, reading The New York Daily Times. The first U.S. Consulate was under construction in Japan, following the Treaty of Kangawa signed in March by Commodore Matthew C. Perry. Amalia wondered about the strange exotic island nation whose emperor was descended from the sun and now had been forced at the point of guns to open his ports to the world.
There was a knock on her door, then Otis, her Negro footman, appeared. “Your mail, Mrs. Barrington. There's a letter on top from Santa Fe.”
She appeared placid as Otis withdrew from the room. The moment the door latch clicked shut, she pounced on the letter. She'd been about to tear it open, when she realized the letter was addressed to “Lt. Nathanial Barrington,” and the return address was a Santa Fe lawyer.
Amalia wondered what was in the letter, and of course would never, under any circumstances, tear it open and read the contents. Is he being sued? she wondered. Perhaps he's killed somebody and the lawyer wants to get paid for defending him. She wouldn't put anything past her firstborn son.
She carried the envelope to the kitchen, where her elderly maid, Shirley Rooney, was preparing supper. A kettle of boiling water sat on the stove, and Amalia casually held the envelope over the steam.
Shirley never said a word, although everyone in the household was curious about the mysterious letter. Gradually the wax softened and Amalia was able to open the envelope. Her eyes widened at the words:
Dear Lieutenant Barrington,
It is my unpleasant task to inform you that your wife, Maria Dolores Barrington, wishes to dissolve the union that presently exists between you.
Amalia stared at the document as Shirley and Otis read over her shoulder. Amalia had never seen her grandchildren, and it appeared she never would. Nathanial had been in trouble with women since his teens, and she wouldn't be surprised if he married an orangutang.
The door chimes went off, startling everyone. Otis rushed toward the vestibule to see who it was. A young blond woman stood on the doorstep, carrying a carpetbag. “I'm Clarissa Rowland and I'm here to see Mrs. Barrington.”
“I'll tell her you're here, missy. Please have a seat and she'll be right with you.”
Clarissa sat in the parlor and looked at paintings of distinguished Barrington ancestors. Then Amalia Barrington strolled into the room. “You're right on time, my dear. May we get you something?”
“I'd as soon get to work,” replied the young woman.
She opened her carpetbag and took out her piano tuning tools. Then she opened the front of the piano, exposing hammers and strings. She sat at the keyboard, hit a few notes, then made adjustments with a wrench. When finished with one key, she tuned the next. “They lose their tension so easily,” she explained. “You should have this done at least once a year.”
“I love the piano,” said Amalia wistfully, “but play so seldom now.”
“I don't know what I'd do without music,” replied Clarissa.
Amalia sat quietly and watched the young woman work. Clarissa was attired in a plain light blue cotton dress, no cosmetics or jewelry, and a navy blue ribbon held her
blond hair. She appeared deeply concentrated and thoroughly professional, yet also had the air of an earnest child.
Amalia remembered when she'd been young, but then her husband betrayed her with other women, and she'd banished him from Washington Square. There'd been days when she'd thought of killing herself, but stayed her hand for the sake of her boys. Tears came to her eyes when she realized that once she'd been pretty like Clarissa Rowland.
When finished, Clarissa sat on the bench and played a selection from Franz Liszt's first Hungarian Rhapsody. She hit the last note triumphantly and said, “Perfect tune.”
“You're so talented, and how lovely you are.”
Clarissa looked at the floor, “I wish I could be a great lady like you, Mrs. Barrington, instead of the fool I sometimes am.”
“Don't judge yourself too harshly, dear. There are plenty of others who'll do that for you.”
“Isn't Nathanial supposed to arrive soon?”
“He's in Washington with his father.”
“I've heard so much about him. My fiancé is one of his friends, and says he's the most wonderful person.”
“Sometimes,” said the mother. “And at other times he's been extremely thoughtless.”
“Marriage generally makes men more mature, according to my mother. Maybe he's changed.”
“Extremely doubtful,” replied Amalia, the letter from Santa Fe in her hand.
In Santa Fe, Zachary Taylor Barrington was nearing the end of his patience. Nearly four years old, he constantly tried to be a good little boy, but gained no advantages.
He was playing with his sister while two maids on the far side of the nursery conversed about men. His mother was gone most of the time, his father had totally disappeared, and everybody was always saying how cute his sister was.
The more he tried to be good, the more he was ignored. If being good wasn't getting what he wanted, he picked up a vase of flowers in both little hands and waited for the reaction.
“Zachary—put that down!” shouted one of the maids.