by Len Levinson
He let it go, it crashed onto the floor, water splashed in all directions. Carmen looked up and smiled, because she copied everything her brother did. She grabbed one of his toy soldiers and threw it across the room. Zachary ran toward the bookcase and began pulling volumes onto the floor. The maids swooped down on him, but he wrestled, squirmed, and managed to punch one in the mouth. It wasn't a powerful blow, but without thinking she hauled off and delivered a backhander to the side of his head.
He went flying across the room, rose immediately, balled both fists, and charged the maid, who was three times his size. She'd either have to kill the determined boy or get the hell out of there. She chose the latter course, leaving the other maid alone with the children.
“You'd better behave yourselves,” she said, looking at them from on high, wagging her exceptionally long finger.
Zachary kicked her in the shin, she wanted to strangle him, but instead said, “These children are impossible, and I quit!”
She too fled the room, to be replaced by other maids, who tried to mollify the children, giving them cake, cookies, and candy, as one maid ran for Maria Dolores.
Belinda awakened Nathanial at the crack of dawn. A pot of coffee sat on the dresser while a tub of hot water waited in the bathroom. He gulped coffee, soaked for a half hour, then dressed in his best uniform and inspected himself carefully in the mirror. He couldn't allow one hair or thread out of place in the meeting with Jefferson Davis.
The lieutenant climbed into a carriage waiting in front of the Emory Hotel. “The War Department,” he called out to the driver, a dour man with a nose like a turnip.
Nathanial sat erectly in his seat, hands resting upon his cane. He passed consulates, legations, the offices of lawyers, the Bureau of Patents, the post office. On sidewalks, government clerks and officials raced about purposefully, while the nation sank deeper into chaos.
What America needs, thought Nathanial, is a strong man to hammer out a fair solution to the slavery situation. The lieutenant of dragoons had no idea what the resolution should be, but easily could imagine himself in General Scott's job as Commanding General of the Army, or even a senator, possibly the President himself. I couldn't do any worse than Franklin Pierce, he mused.
The carriage stopped before the War Department, a two-story red brick edifice. I could even become military attaché to France, if I play my cards right, thought Nathanial, climbing the steps to the front door.
He entered the building and limped down the main corridor, reminding himself never under any circumstances to mention his antislavery sentiments to Jefferson Davis. I'd seal a bargain with the devil himself, if I could make captain.
He came to a sign that said:
SECRETARY OF WAR
Jefferson Davis
He knocked on the door; a sad-faced clerk opened it a few moments later. “May I help you, sir?”
“I'm Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington, First Dragoons. I have an appointment with Secretary Davis.”
The clerk looked at the floor. “Evidently you haven't heard, sir. Secretary Davis's baby boy has died during the night, and he won't be in today, nor I suspect for a good many days to come.”
Juh and Running Deer rode on the same horse across a mesa covered with paddle cactus and aloe vera bushes. The boy sat in front of the saddle, his head turning from side to side as he studied the terrain, his body loose against the belly of Juh.
Juh had more important duties to perform, but would do anything to return to the wickiup of his first wife, Jocita. He thought he could accomplish his goal more easily if he was kind to her son, so this was their first day together.
It touched Juh to know that the boy trusted him, although Juh occasionally felt like choking the little bastard. It had been a tremendous defeat when he'd learned of Jocita's infidelity.
Why do I love her? he often asked himself. But he'd been obsessed with Jocita since they were children growing up in the Sierra Madre Mountains. She'd always wanted to play with the boys instead of girls, and had been considered exceptional from an early age, like himself. They'd been destined to marry, but the mountain spirits had played a cruel trick on Juh. Jocita had been barren with him, but produced a son for the White Eyes war chief. Will it be worth it when she admits me to her wickiup? wondered Juh. Perhaps I love her too much, like a sickness.
They came to a region of thorns and weeds, dismounted, and Juh opened his saddlebags. The boy wrinkled his nose in distaste as Juh unwrapped a rotting chunk of beef. “Come with me,” said Juh. “We are going to kill the lion.”
Juh hobbled his horse, then plunged into the foliage on his hands and knees. The boy followed dutifully, although sharp thorns made red marks on his body. Finally they came to a small clearing. “If you want to catch the lion,” taught Juh, “you need bait.”
He lay the meat on a clump of gama grass, then withdrew, covering their tracks carefully. Finally they took positions behind a thick creosote bush. “You must be still,” said Juh.
“What if the lion does not come?” asked the boy.
“Every hunt cannot be successful, but the lion lives in this place and I have killed him here before. Ssshhh.”
The boy had learned from his mother how to be still. He lay belly down, scanning from side to side as Juh examined him. He thinks I am his father, and how strange if he succeeds me as chief of the Nednai.
They lay side by side for a long time, the sun baking them and insects crawling over them, yet they refused to move. The sun rolled across the sky, shadows changed formation, the boy became thirsty, but had been taught to deprive himself. It felt good to be with his father, who was bigger and stronger than his mother, and a better warrior. The boy didn't understand his mother, but had no difficulty with his father. He felt honored to be with the great man.
Juh touched the boy gently with his elbow. Running Deer narrowed his eyes, then noticed a leaf trembling. A few moments later, the head of a great cat appeared cautiously. It snarled as it spotted the meat, showing long fangs, then his bloodshot eyes glanced back and forth. Running Deer felt the beam of the beast fall upon him, but didn't flinch. Then the lion advanced to the lump of meat, looked around once more, and lowered his head.
Juh silently drew back the bow, and the boy saw muscles standing out in his putative father's arms. Juh closed one eye and let fly. The lion dug his teeth into the meat as an arrow pierced his heart. In the midst of chewing, he fell to the ground.
Knife in hand, Juh approached carefully. “Stay where you are,” he said to the boy. “He may still be alive.”
A ribbon of blood rolled out of the lion's belly as Juh dived onto him and cut his throat. The boy advanced as Juh skinned the animal with quick, sure strokes. “His fur is very soft,” said Juh. “It will make a beautiful shirt for you, my son.”
Running Deer's heart swelled with pride when he realized that his father was giving him a present! Juh peeled the last length of fur off the lion's back and held up the unblemished coat. The boy touched it thoughtfully as flies buzzed around the red carcass.
Juh placed the wet fur over the boy's shoulders, then stood and drew his arm across gleaming expanses of desert. “You are not an ordinary boy, but the son of a great war chief. One day you may succeed me as leader of the Nednai, and all this will be yours. I have felt this about you since you were in your mother's womb. You are one who shall transform the world!”
The words embedded themselves into the child's growing bones as his gleaming eyes opened wide. Paradise stretched before him, its rays bombarding his skin as lion power energized his soul. “All this will be mine,” he whispered, holding out his little arms.
What does it matter if it's not true? wondered Juh as he led the boy back to the horse. It is better for him to have great dreams, especially if they win me favor in the eyes of Jocita.
Next day during the siesta hour, Cole Bannon lay in bed and pondered his future. Do I really want to marry a woman who's richer than I? he asked himself. He knew what the bul
lwhackers and vaqueros were saying behind his back, that he was Maria Dolores's lapdog.
Cole didn't like to take money from a woman, even if he worked hard for every penny. It wasn't easy to run a saloon, but she made the final decisions. It rankled to be placed in an inferior position to a woman, dependent upon her whims. It made him less attractive to himself.
The sun dipped toward the Jemez Mountains, time to return to the saloon. He sat in front of the window and pulled on his boots, then glanced out the window, surprised to see Maria Dolores approaching through the back alley in broad daylight. He was surprised to see her that time of day, because she worried about her reputation.
Then Cole noticed a soldier at the far end of the alley, as if he'd followed her. She entered the hotel; the soldier stopped cold, then turned and walked away. I wonder if he's the strangler, or just a fool soldier wandering around?
Cole was buttoning his shirt when she knocked on the door. He bade her enter, and she appeared agitated as she said, “I have been having terrible problemas with Zachary, and you must help me, Cole. I will increase your salary again if you manage all my businesses and investments for a few months. You are the only one smart enough to do it, because I must spend more time with my children.”
“Did you notice anyone following you here?” he asked. “I saw a soldier in the alley just now.”
She looked out the window. “Santa Fe is full of soldiers and I am even married to a soldier, but not much longer. My husband must have received the letter from my lawyer.”
I hope not, thought Cole, less eager to marry a woman with two brats. “Sure, I'll run your businesses for you, but I'll need help.”
“Hire anybody you need, but no women prettier than I.”
She reached for him; he didn't push her away. She was, after all, an extremely lovely woman, and he a lonely man. Together they sank to the mattress while removing each other's clothing.
Even in the throes of passion, she felt as if she was using his body. The mattress squealed in protest as they struggled to recapture the halcyon hours of their first encounter, but the past is gone forever.
Chapter Twelve
The train arrived in Jersey City on a hot July day. Nathanial paid a porter to transfer his bags to the ferry boat, then he and his slave boarded with other passengers.
Belinda gripped the rail and stared in amazement at the spectacle of New York City across the river. Sulphurous fumes arose from distant chimneys, as tall buildings gleamed dully in the summer haze. It looked far larger than Washington, D.C.
The ferry rumbled across the Hudson River, filled with high masted ships and paddle wheelers. Nathanial had a lump in his throat as he surveyed the city in which he'd been born. At the pier, an army of porters begged to carry luggage. Nathanial selected a big fellow with a wheelbarrow, then headed toward the row of two-horse hackney coaches waiting at the curb.
The luggage duly loaded, the driver flicked his reins. Murray Street was filled with wagons, coaches, riders on horseback, scarlet and yellow omnibuses, producing a percussion symphony on cobblestones, everyone in desperate haste.
The closer the coach advanced toward Broadway, the more the noisy dockside commercial district gave way to fashionable shops and hotels. Now they were nearing the heart of the city, Belinda's eyes like saucers. She appeared overwhelmed as the coach turned left on the most famous main artery in America.
Broadway was filled with conveyances of every type, all inching toward their destinations. The noise was deafening and Belinda was tempted to block her ears, but didn't want to appear unsophisticated. They passed luxury hotels, palatial restaurants, theaters, and vast emporiums of fashionable clothing and jewelry.
Nathanial pointed to a large white building in the midst of a vast lawn. “That's City Hall. And across the street is where the newspapers are printed, on Printery Row.”
Never had she seen such pandemonium, and in the midst of it all were ornate barouches and cabriolets transporting well-dressed and wealthy ladies on shopping tours. That's the life I want, thought Belinda.
They passed A. T. Stewart's famous store at the corner of Chambers Street, facing Taylor's Restaurant, one of the finest in the city. On sidewalks, men in suits carried satchels filled with documents, passing women ogling store windows. On the next corner, Nathanial spotted a ragged newsboy. “Stop the carriage!” he ordered.
The driver pulled back his reins, Nathanial jumped to the cobblestones, lost his balance, nearly pitched onto his face, and landed in front of the newsboy. He bought a Tribune, climbed back into the coach, and eagerly read:
TERRIBLE ASSAULT
WITH A DEADLY WEAPON
Last Sunday night at a late hour, Andrew Hoffman, who keeps a lager beer shop at No. 127 Avenue A, was struck on the head with a club or stone in the hands of one James Morris, and injured in such a fearful manner that Death may result.
Hammering came to Nathanial's ears as he turned toward a new building under construction on Thomas Street. He realized that nothing had changed, people were killing each other as was customary in New York, buildings were being torn down and built up, and beautiful ladies entered or departed stores in unending streams.
He wondered if Layne Satterfield was still in town, and how many children she had. She'd been his first true love, they'd even been engaged, but Layne Satterfield decided to marry an Astor, and thus had ended the initial great romance of Nathanial's life.
The coach turned left on Waverly Place, they passed two- and three-story brick and stone residences, then came to Washington Square, an acre of grass and trees surrounded by homes on three sides, with the University of New York and the Reformed Dutch Church on its eastern border. “This is where I live,” Nathanial said to Belinda.
Her ears still rang with the tumult of Broadway, the people had seemed mad, but Washington Square was serene, children played in the park, dogs daintily sniffed trees. The faint odor of rotting garbage was in the air as the sun beat down on America's largest city.
The coach came to a halt before a three-story mansion on the north side of the square. Nathanial helped Belinda to the ground, then unloaded the luggage, the driver making no effort to help. Nathanial paid him, then climbed the stairs and was about to knock when the door opened suddenly, revealing a wrinkled and stooped old lady, Shirley Rooney, his mother's maid.
“We've been a-waitin’ fer you,” she said, then screwed up her eyes and recognized the black woman standing next to Nathanial. At first the elderly woman appeared shocked, as if Nathanial had brought home a new scandal for the family.
“Shirley—this is my slave. Her name is Belinda.”
The slave appeared well-mannered to Shirley's rheumy old eyes. Then a familiar voice came from the far end of the vestibule. “Your slave?” asked his mother.
Nathanial was shocked at how gray and wizened she'd become. My God—she's going to die soon, he realized as he limped toward her. They met in the middle of the corridor, and she was a scarecrow beneath her crisp tan summer dress. “May I present Belinda, whom I met in South Carolina. I'm going to set her free as soon as I speak with a lawyer.”
The mother looked at her son askance, because he'd performed bizarre acts in the past, such as marrying a Mexican woman. “You're not having a love affair with her, I hope,” she whispered into Nathanial's ear.
“How can you think such a thing?”
“You're limping, Oh, Nathanial, I do wish you'd be more careful.”
A dark figure appeared in back of his mother, and Nathanial recognized Otis, another of his former slaves. The two men shook hands. “Glad to see you, sir,” said Otis.
They'd been in Santa Fe last time they'd talked, Otis a raggedy-ass downtrodden slave, whereas now he seemed like a gentleman of means in his black suit. If it hadn't been for Nathanial, his owners would've sent him to the cotton fields of Georgia. “Do you think you can find a room for Belinda? She's come an awfully long way.”
Otis and Belinda studied each other, then
Otis lifted her bags and carried them to the servants’ quarters. Shirley headed for the kitchen as Amalia led her son into the parlor. The mother was shaken by how much her son had aged, with a haunted expression in his eyes.
“Oh, there's a letter for you,” she said. “I'll get it.”
“Are my brothers home?”
“They're spending the summer on Cortlandt Lake.”
She climbed the stairs to her sitting room while he dropped into his father's old easy chair. Above the fireplace hung a painting of Nathanial's great grandfather on his mother's side, in the uniform of the Continental Army. Nathanial gazed at familiar polished wood cabinets and plush furniture, but he missed the purple-and-orange mountains of New Mexico, with the fragrance of sagebrush in his nostrils. Is this my home, or that? he wondered.
His mother descended the stairs, holding out the letter. He looked at the return address, saw the name of a lawyer in Santa Fe, and murmured, “Uh-oh.” His eyes widened as he read the first few lines, then refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “My wife is divorcing me, and I can't say it surprises me.”
“I hope you're not planning to marry that Negress.”
“Do you think I'm insane?”
“Sometimes I've had that thought, I admit, but now you're free to marry someone new, someone more appropriate to your station. I've never been able to understand exotic marriages, but I suppose they carry a certain novelty at the beginning.”
“Is Layne Satterfield still around?”
“She has three children and I believe she's away for the summer. By the way, has anyone mentioned the cholera epidemic? Be careful what you eat and drink, because there were fifty-seven deaths last week, and the toll is climbing every day.”
In the servant's quarters, Otis escorted Belinda to an empty room. “You can stay here,” he said.
It was small, the walls covered with beige wallpaper. There was an oaken bed, a dresser and a chair.