by Len Levinson
He wished he could retire to a farm in Pennsylvania, but lacked dinero. It troubled him to reflect upon Cuchillo Negro's simple trust in the federal government. That old Apache will be disappointed many times, and I wonder how strong his peaceful convictions will prove to be. He'll be put to the test in the months to come, as will I. Perhaps, before he returns to the warpath, he'll kill the White Eyes who has deceived him.
The office of the Commanding General of the Army in New York City was far from the Department of the War in Washington, D.C. The reason was General Scott and Secretary of War Davis had been feuding via the mails and the press ever since Davis had been appointed to President Pierce’s cabinet.
General Scott could not take seriously a man who'd been in diapers when he'd been wounded twice in the Battle of Lundy's Lane, War of 1812. General Scott had won so many honors and glories that sometimes he saw himself as a living monument, not just a man.
The Department of War ran the Army, while General Scott remained its figurehead. Occasionally he visited military posts, but usually could be found at his office near Wall Street, or at his home on Bond Street.
A few days after Nathanial's party, General Scott was having lunch at Delmonico's with Major General Persifor Frazer Smith, commander of the Department of Texas. Smith had come east for a vacation, but actually to renew acquaintance with old army friends and perhaps win another star for his shoulders.
“In my opinion,” said General Smith as he sliced into a perfectly cooked carrot, “if the South seceded from the Union tomorrow, three-quarters of the best officers would resign their commissions and fight against us.”
General Scott wasn't surprised by the news. The Army was facing the worst crisis in its history, because like the rest of the country, the officer corps was split along proslavery and antislavery lines. “The news from Kansas couldn't be worse,” he muttered. “Bull Moose Sumner refuses to fire a shot against abolitionists or proslavers without written permission from the White House, and naturally President Pierce is afraid to put his name on the dotted line.”
“He tries to please everybody,” replied General Smith. “A man's got to show backbone if he wants to sit in the White House. Why don't you run again, General Scott?”
“If I were nominated . . . how could I refuse to serve my country? But I don't intend to run for anything, and I wouldn't worry about the Army if I were you. There are plenty of fine young Northern officers that you never hear about, and in fact I met one over the weekend. His name's Nathanial Barrington and he's been shot up by Apaches. I'm supposed to see him tomorrow afternoon, in fact. Young officers are closer to the action, or at least this one was.”
“Did you say Barrington, sir?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“Perhaps I shouldn't say, sir, but . . . I saw him when I was in the War Department last month. He's the son of Colonel Barrington, whom I believe is retired now, and Lieutenant Barrington was having a discussion with . . . Jefferson Davis.”
At the mere mention of the name, General Scott's bushy eyebrows knitted together, a scowl came over his face, and he grunted. “Evidently young Barrington is playing both ends against the middle, but this time he has outsmarted himself. Thank you so much for the information, General Smith. I know exactly what to do with the likes of Lieutenant Barrington.”
Miguel Narbona of the Chiricahuas and Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbrenos smoked together every day, while pondering the future of the People. The Mimbrenos now resided in the Chiricahua homeland, but Mangas Coloradas longed to return to his own domain, the one that had been given his people by Yusn.
The two aging chiefs were observed by all members of the encampment, for everyone knew the fate of the People was being decided in those long conversations. Miguel Narbona and Mangas Coloradas were becoming old, sometimes they lost the threads of conversations, and both had become infected by cynicism, the most debilitating illness of age.
“I wonder,” said Miguel Narbona, “why Yusn gave us this land in the first place?”
“We see that all things die,” replied Mangas Coloradas, “from the creatures of the desert to the plants that grow on mountains. Perhaps the epoch of the People is coming to an end.”
“I cannot believe it,” replied Miguel Narbona, shaking his head. “Yusn would not play a trick on the People.”
The two old war chiefs struggled with faith and the challenges of the future, while the younger generation turned increasingly toward Cochise of the Chiricahuas and Victorio of the Mimbrenos. Cochise was forty-four, Victorio twenty-eight, and both had distinguished themselves by great deeds of valor.
Cochise and Victorio had been measuring each other since the Chiricahuas had welcomed the Mimbrenos into their camp. Finally one dawn they rode off together to have their first private council. They sat silently in their saddles as their war ponies carried them to a secluded spot high in the Dragoon Mountains.
Upon their arrival at the selected plateau, each sprinkled sacred pollen to the four directions, then sat cross-legged and faced each other. Both wore scars from fights with the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee, both were full-muscled and deep-chested, with Victorio two inches taller than Cochise. They peered into each other's eyes, trying to make contact with each other's spirits.
Victorio spoke first. “My heart is against the White Eyes,” he said. “I don't trust them, but many Mimbrenos are tired of running. They desire peace.”
Cochise stretched out both his arms, as if to encompass his surroundings. “There is peace here, and we Chiricahuas shall always have room for our Mimbreno Brothers.”
In the distance, on a brownish red trail bordered by chaparral, a stagecoach and its escort could be seen. Other than it and a few isolated shacks there were no White Eyes or Mexicans in the Chiricahua homeland.
Victorio pointed at the stagecoach as the breeze lifted a few strands of his jet black hair. “That is the way it began for us, a few stagecoaches, a few soldiers. What will you do when you are engulfed by the White Eyes, as were we?”
The Chiricahuas will fight for these mountains,” replied Cochise. “Because there is no place else to go. Are you afraid to die, my brother?”
“No, are you?”
“What is there to be afraid of?”
“Then we shall fight together, the Chiricahuas and the Mimbrenos, against the invasion of the White Eyes.”
“So be it,” replied Cochise.
Each took his knife and cut a small gash in his forearm. Then they leaned forward and pressed arms together, commingling blood. This was the mutual defense treaty sealed between the Chiricahuas and the Mimbrenos in the Dragoon Mountains, during the season of Many Leaves.
The headquarters of the commanding general was an imposing three-story stone building near Wall Street. Nathanial's coach stopped at the front door, he climbed to the sidewalk, and was attired in a freshly pressed blue summer uniform, brass and leather gleaming. He limped slightly as he climbed the stairs, accepting salutes from two soldiers on duty at the entrance.
Nathanial entered the cool, dark building and made his way to General Scott's office, passing officers and clerks in the corridor. Stopping at the commanding general's door, he adjusted his uniform and made sure he was perfect. He knocked on the door, and after a brief interval it was opened by a slender officer around Nathanial's age, only he wore the bronze maple leaf of major on his shoulder straps. “May I help you, Lieutenant?”
“My name's Nathanial Barrington, and I have an appointment with General Scott.”
“I'm sorry, but he's not available today.”
“But . . . has our meeting been rescheduled?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would you speak with him about it?”
“If I were you, I'd write a letter. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Major Thompson closed the door on the perplexed face of the lieutenant, then permitted himself to smile. He crossed the carpet and knocked on the door of the c
ommanding general.
“Come in.”
Major Thompson opened the door. “I've just got rid of that Barrington fellow.”
“Excellent.”
Nathanial frowned as he walked up busy Broadway. Was I born beneath an unlucky star? he wondered. Why were Napoleon, Wellington, and Caesar promoted, but not I?
Why does Lady Luck smile on one man and not another? he asked himself as he passed ladies gazing into the window of a jewelry store, while a few blocks away men competed for the right to pay the bills. At the same time, dragoons were scouting the Apache homeland, where death came suddenly, with no warning. The world seemed warped and out of balance to the frontier officer.
What do I lack? he wondered. He wanted to leave his imprint on history, but wasn't receiving cooperation from above. Is military life a roulette wheel? he asked himself. Winfield Scott fell into the commanding general slot while I dropped into New Mexico Territory.
Am I being vain? he mused as he paused at the window of another jewelry store. In fact, my record of accomplishments is dismal. Were it not for my family, I'd probably be a beggar, my bedroom a back alley of Five Points.
“Nathanial?”
He turned toward a tubby well-dressed woman with blond hair and a double chin. “Have I changed that much?” asked Layne Satterfield, his first great love. “Don't you recognize me.”
“You haven't changed at all,” he lied courteously, although she looked like somebody's mother, which in fact was the case. “I was hoping I'd run into you and am pleased to see you're lovely as ever.”
“You were always so complimentary, Nathanial.” She smiled. “I saw you limping—have you been wounded again?”
“No, I fell off a horse.”
“You must be more careful.” She became wistful. “You always were a hellion.”
“How are your children?”
They exchanged polite information about the accomplishments of their progeny as Nathanial wondered what it was like to be married to a big lady. Must be comfortable on cold winter nights, he decided.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I have an appointment with my dressmaker around the corner.”
“I was hoping to share a pot of coffee with you. We could talk further . . .”
She smiled. “I'm not sure I could manage the temptation, Nathanial.”
“The only way to manage temptation is surrender totally. Do you believe in destiny?”
“Nowadays I believe only in my children and certain memories of when I was . . . young.”
“I have a better idea. Why don't you come to my suite?”
She appeared delighted by his invitation. “But, Nathanial—I'm a married woman.”
“And I'm engaged to get married, but we can't let that stop us. Haven't you ever wondered . . . ?”
She cut him off. “Of course I have.”
“So why don't we?”
“Do you see that man standing over there, pretending to read a newspaper?”
“The fellow whose suit is too tight?”
“He's my bodyguard.”
“It appears we've been saved from the sin of adultery.”
“I must say that I'm flattered by your offer, for I'm not the woman I was.”
“You're lovelier than ever, but I'm sure it's better being an Astor.”
“Not always, because I can't be seen speaking for an extended period with a gentleman to whom I was formerly betrothed.”
“Whom you unceremoniously tossed aside, as I recall, to marry the Astor millions. Your destiny ultimately was not mine, but perhaps it's best this way.”
They were married but not to each other as they gazed into each other's eyes. Then they turned and continued on their respective Broadway strolls, as if they'd never embraced passionately in darkened carriages eight short years ago.
In Gramercy Park, Clarissa sat down to dinner with her parents, brothers, and sisters. A roasted haunch of beef lay in the middle of the silver platter, surrounded by roast potatoes and onions. Clarissa ate sparingly and seemed distracted as conversation swirled around her.
Finally her mother turned and said, “Are you all right, dear? You're hardly eating anything.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“I know when something's bothering you,” thundered her father. “You can't fool me. Come on—out with it.”
“I had intended to tell you after the meal,” replied Clarissa.
Her father raised his eyebrows. “How can I enjoy supper when you're withholding a secret? What is it?”
Clarissa took a deep breath. “This may come as a shock, but I've decided not to marry Ronald Soames.”
There was silence as her parents and siblings looked at each other meaningfully. “Have you so advised Mr. Soames?” asked his mother.
“I thought I should tell you first.”
Her father shook his head in despair. “The wedding date has been set, Clarissa. The invitations have been sent. It's a little late to change your mind.”
“I realize this is embarrassing, but I've decided that I don't love Ronald.”
“Then why'd you agree to marry him?”
“He seemed clever and entertaining compared to men my own age.”
“I always thought Soames was too old for you,” admitted mother. “I never wanted to say anything, but . . .”
Father added, “There were many disreputable incidents in his past, but I kept my peace.”
“From what I could see,” said her younger brother Tim, “he was awful.”
Her sister Marion, only nine years old, said, “He's ugly.”
Clarissa shrugged. “If none of you liked Ronald, why didn't you say something before?”
“Who can stop you, once you set your mind on something?” asked her mother. “Now everyone will look at me strangely next time I go to A. T. Stewart's. If you ever consent to marry again, I hope your selection will be more prudent. No reputation can survive two such incidents in a row.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Clarissa, “after a decent interval, I intend to marry someone else.”
It became silent at the table, and even little Marion was impressed. “Who?” she asked.
Clarissa looked at the ceiling, sighed, and said, “Nathanial Barrington.”
A violent cough developed in her father's throat. His face turned purple, his wife clapped his back, and Tim passed him a glass of water. The patriarch caught his breath, then said, “Clarissa—have you lost your mind?”
“I know it sounds odd,” she replied. “But we have fallen in love.”
“Fallen in love with Nathanial Barrington?” asked her father. “Is it conceivable?”
“I'm sure his reputation has been greatly exaggerated,” countered Clarissa. “It's obvious that you don't know him well.”
“Neither do you,” reminded her mother. “He just arrived a few weeks ago.”
“Has the scoundrel actually proposed?” asked her father.
“Yes.”
“I thought Ronald was one of his best friends.”
“Not any more,” uttered her mother.
Father shook his head sadly. “I knew it would turn out this way, because she spends too much time with her piano, and not enough with other people.” He gazed levelly at his daughter. “You were bound to veer into eccentric directions, I now realize. Don't you understand that marriage is built on trust? It's not that the gentleman in question is wicked, but he has virtually no character, he's a morally wicked man, and does whatever he pleases, regardless of how much it hurts others.”
Clarissa sat stalwartly, unwilling to surrender. “I know him far better than you,” she replied coldly, “and I trust him completely.”
“I wonder how many other nice girls said that,” commented the matriarch.
Jocita picked pinyon nuts with other women as warriors searched for enemies. The children played in a clearing nearby, watched over by an old woman named Three Moccasins.
The People trave
led to higher elevations for pinyon nuts every year at that time, just as they visited other locations to harvest mescal, berries, and prickly pears. Later, back at the village, they'd pound the pinyon nuts into a flourlike substance for bread.
Jocita's hands worked swiftly as she advanced among the bushes, dropping nuts into a sack. Every few minutes she glanced at the children, to make certain her son was safe. Heat pounded her, but she looked forward to eating bread.
Toward noon, she turned around and her heart nearly stopped when she realized that Running Deer was nowhere to be seen. She called his name but there was no answer. Then she ran toward Three Moccasins, as the others stopped work. “Where is my son?”
“I don't know,” replied the befuddled old lady.
They organized, combed the chaparral, and it wasn't long before Chatto shouted. “He's over here, but there's a snake!”
Jocita dropped her bag of nuts and strung an arrow in her bow. Then she stalked toward Chatto, who was perched on one knee, aiming his bow and arrow into the thicket straight ahead.
“Let me,” replied Jocita.
She took careful aim. Her son stood still in the small clearing where he'd wandered, and the rattlesnake appeared to be dancing from side to side in front of him, while shaking his tail.
“Don't move, my son,” murmured Jocita.
The boy didn't flinch. He was entranced by the creature in front of him. He'd never seen a live rattlesnake so close before. The snake's forked tongue flitted and his fangs dripped with venom. The boy had been told to be motionless if ever he saw a rattlesnake.
He heard a zzzzttt sound, then an arrow pierced the snake's belly. The creature twisted and writhed as Jocita rushed forward, knife in hand. In a quick movement she pinned the snake with the arrow, then cut off his head.
The snake tied himself into death knots as Jocita turned to her son. “Why did you walk off?” she demanded. “The snake almost killed you.” She wanted to slap him, but realized he was too young to understand everything. More importantly, he hadn't been afraid.