by Len Levinson
Nathanial leaned toward Clarissa and kissed her ear. “If we're as rich as everybody says, why don't we stay in Venice for the rest of our lives?”
One bright November afternoon on the Journado del Muertos, the army scout Thaddeus Singleton spotted a figure that looked like a man on the trail ahead. Singleton had known something was waiting for him, for he'd seen buzzards circling since early morning. The scout rode ahead to investigate, and it was indeed an emaciated bearded traveler in raggedy clothes, barefoot, filthy, barely moving, mumbling about his mother. The rest of the detachment arrived, commanded by recently commissioned Second Lieutenant Arnold Haskell.
“He's alive,” said Singleton, “but not by much.”
Private Johnson was a medical orderly, and the first thing he did was search for wounds. There were none, but the stranger appeared nearly starved. “Who are you?” asked Johnson.
A strangled wheeze emitted from the stranger's throat. Johnson cradled the hapless traveler in his arms and gave him water from his canteen. “What are you doing here?”
The man whispered something that sounded like, “The Apaches.”
“Give him something to eat,” said Lieutenant Haskell. “Looks like he was on a wagon train and Indians got them.”
Fletcher Doakes was able to swallow a bit of biscuit soaked in coffee. He'd lost track of time.
“What's your name?” asked the orderly.
Doakes managed to shake his head slightly.
The orderly looked at his commanding officer. “I think his mind's gone, sir.”
“Load him onto the wagon and let's get a move on. I'd want to be in Fort Craig by sundown.”
In January of 1855, Captain Richard Stoddert “Baldy” Ewell sat on his horse in the Pecos country of west Texas and watched a Mescalero Apache encampment of eighty teepees go up in smoke.
The newly expanded U.S. Army was finally getting serious about Apaches, and in the Ninth Department, it had been a difficult winter campaign, but Captain Ewell had just delivered the death blow to the Mescalero resistance. Surviving warriors fled on foot into the mountains, women and children wailed over the dead as the tribe's economic base burned before their eyes. The victorious dragoons felt exhilarated, for no training can prepare a man for shooting another at point-blank range.
Captain Ewell was a Virginian and a graduate of West Point, class of 1840. He knew that the majority of warriors had escaped, but the destruction of a village would send an important message to the Mescaleros. The dragoons also had captured a large herd of horses, mules, and stolen sheep.
Captain Ewell wasn't a lover of war or an ogre in a blue-and-gold army uniform. His job was to defend American settlers, and he never doubted the correctness of that policy. Next time the Mescaleros decide to steal sheep or ambush stray American detachments, they'll give it a second thought, he calculated. If they don't stop their damned raiding, I'll burn the whole damned Apache nation to the ground.
The Journada del Muertos, the Santa Fe Trail, and the Gila Trail were highways through New Mexico Territory, but there also existed other less used paths and trails. Here and there, on those barely marked ways, the weary traveler might find a small general store and saloon with a makeshift bar, a few tables, and shelves suspending an odd collection of merchandise, depending on what the owner had been able to acquire.
One general store sat in the Pinos Altos Mountains, where occasionally a pack train of miners passed by, or a few lost wandering vaqueros. They permitted the owner, Pedro Martinez, to eke out a meager existence.
He was sixty-seven years old, with a thick head of white hair and a long, white beard. His old wife helped him run the place, and they spent long hours together, going about their respective chores. Apaches never bothered them, because Pedro merely bought their stolen goods and sold them back whatever they wanted, including guns and ammunition. Throughout the bloodshed and betrayals of the Apache Wars, certain Apaches and Mexicans went on with business as usual.
One night in February, as Pedro was about to blow out the candle on the bar, he heard a hoofbeat outside. He glanced at his wife in alarm, because both knew the frontier was full of thieves, murderers, and cutthroats. His wife carried a Colt .44 beneath her serape, and he maintained a shotgun behind the bar.
A horse snorted outside, then the door opened. A stranger of medium height, wearing a brown cowhide jacket and a black wide-brimmed hat, entered the general store, his hand near his holster. He glanced around, then relaxed and sauntered to the bar. “Bed for the night?”
“That is what we are here for, senor. You look like you need a drink.” Pedro poured a half glass of whiskey. The stranger took an enormous gulp, then sat heavily at the table.
“I hope you've got feed for my horse.”
“The best oats, sir. Do you need tobacco?”
“Don't mind if I do.”
The storekeeper placed a white cotton bag filled with two ounces of tobacco on the table. “Are you a miner?”
“No—a Texas Ranger.” Cole Bannon displayed the tin badge affixed to his shirt. “I'm looking for a man named Fletcher Doakes, although I suspect he's changed his handle by now. He's about five feet ten, got a face like a rat, and acts kind of strange, as if somebody dropped a can of worms down his back. Ever see anything like that?”
Pedro looked at his wife. “There are many men who fit that description, senor.”
“Have you heard anything about murdered women?”
“It is only my wife and me here, senor. I will take care of your horse and she will prepare your bed.”
Maybe the Apaches got him, Cole figured as he relaxed in the cozy saloon. Or maybe I'll ride into some little settlement one of these days, and they'll tell me about murdered women. I'm the only one who can stop Fletcher Doakes, but next time I won't lock him in jail. Cole drew his Colt and aimed at a knot of wood on the wall. Next time I'll take care of him myself.
Chapter Twenty
Jefferson Davis's reorganization of the Army became official on March 3, 1855. The new First and Second Cavalry Regiments were authorized, along with a new regiment of mounted riflemen, plus three more regiments of infantry. The Secretary of War's efforts to designate all mounted units as cavalry failed due to resistance from the First and Second Dragoons, who held fast to their traditions, achievements, and sacrifices.
Also effective that day, the musketoon was scheduled for replacement by new rifles utilizing the Minie ball principle. Invented by a French infantry captain, the Minie ball was a lead plug that expanded upon detonation, filling the grooves in the bore, greatly improving accuracy. Units would be issued the new muzzle-loader in .58 caliber as fast as they could be manufactured, while old musketoons would be rebored for the new projectile. In addition, new Sharp's breechloading rifles were issued to selected units for testing in the field.
On April 20th, 1855, Jefferson Davis's own Second Cavalry Regiment was commissioned at the army barracks in Louisville, Kentucky. Officers and men in newly designed uniforms sat on their mounts and presented arms as the gold-and-black regimental colors were run up the flagpole.
All was silent except the breeze over parade ground grass, the slap of the flagpole rope, and the occasional thud of a hoof. Every officer and soldier in the ranks knew it was a hallowed moment, and each had been especially selected.
Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston of Texas, commander of the Second Cavalry, was absent on that auspicious day, pulling court martial duty at Fort Leavenworth, but instead his executive officer led the inauguration ceremony, sitting upon his white stallion, holding his sword hilt before his eyes.
He was Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, Mexican War hero from Virginia. Other Southern officers present for duty that morning included Captain Earl Van Doren, Captain Kirby Smith, Lieutenant John Hood, and Major William Hardee, author of the Army's manual on cavalry tactics.
Their uniforms had been designed by Jefferson Davis himself, consisting of close-fitting blue jackets, yellow braid, silk sashes, an
d stiff black hats decorated with ostrich feathers sticking out of the hat-bands, their left brims fastened to crowns with gleaming gold eagle insignia.
They also wore highly polished brass shoulder shields to turn sabre strokes of the enemy, and all were armed with the latest Colt .36 caliber pistols. In addition, enlisted men carried across their pommels experimental models of the new Sharps breech-loading carbine. Their horses cost one hundred fifty dollars apiece, twice what the Army usually paid for mounts. Their orders were proceed to Texas and sub-due the Comanches.
And thus was the nucleus of the new Southern Army born.
On June 7, 1855, the Mescalero Apaches and some Gila Apache tribes signed a peace treaty with Dr. Steck at Fort Thorn. The doctor was painfully aware that Mangas Coloradas wasn't a party to the agreement, because the old chief staunchly refused to cede any Mimbreno land to the U. S. government.
Following the signing ceremony, Dr. Steck gave presents to the defeated Mescaleros. The ex-physician felt like an accomplice to a crime, but General Garland's tactics had achieved results decisively and quickly.
The proud Mescaleros were a conquered people like their brothers and sisters, the Jicarillas. With great shame the warriors accepted bags of beans given them by sarcastic soldiers. Dr. Steck knew it wouldn't be long before General Garland took the field against the western Apaches, and that would be the end of Apaches in America.
Dr. Steck wished he could heal pain in the hearts of the Mescaleros, but defeat was bitter to proud warriors. There has to be a better way, the doctor told himself as he returned to his office after the ceremony. It's a dirty job that I've got, but better than shooting poor, ignorant savages, like the soldiers.
Maybe something hopeful will come out of this shameful day, he thought. Mangas Coloradas might come to his senses when he hears about the destruction of the Mescaleros.
* * *
One morning the nearly decrepit Miguel Narbona and the aging Mangas Coloradas went off by themselves and held council. They selected a rock plateau atop a tall mountain covered with spruce and pine. Incredible distances spread before them, expanding the walls of their minds. They sat cross-legged on the ground, laid out the food they'd brought, and ate nuts, jerked venison, and dried mescal, at ease with grand vistas surrounding them.
After the meal, they passed the pipe back and forth. The horizon took on a golden hue, the blue sky pulsated, and two old chiefs viewed each other as young warriors again, covered with war paint.
In truth, Miguel Narbona was ancient and gnarled, but his eyes glowed like amethysts as he broached the subject that had brought them together. “Are we next?” he asked.
Mangas Coloradas nodded tragically. “First they destroyed the Jicarillas, now the Mescaleros. But they will not destroy the Chiricahuas and Mimbrenos.”
“But your holy mountains are now occupied by the White Eyes.”
“Perhaps, if I sign a paper, I can gain time.”
Miguel Narbona's wrinkled eyes grew wet with tears. “The era of the People is ending, I fear.”
Mangas Coloradas held the older chief's shoulder steady. “No—the People are like the mountains themselves, who remain unto eternity. A terrible holocaust is coming, but you and I will not be here to see it, my warrior brother. It is Cochise, Victorio, Juh, Loco, Chatto, Nana, and Geronimo the Bedonko—they are the ones who shall meet the challenges in times to come.”
Miguel Narbona looked both ways, as if someone else might hear. Then he turned to Mangas Coloradas and said, “They are young warriors, and their blood may be too hot for the tribulations of the future.”
The great chief Mangas Coloradas replied, “They are exactly the ones whom the People shall require, to show the White Eyes we are not weaklings. Perhaps Yusn has ordained the ultimate defeat of the People, but the deeds of the warriors I named shall be written in blood, and their names shall never be forgotten.”
In the small bustling settlement next to Fort Craig, an adobe church and convent had been dedicated to Saint Cecilia. It was here that the survivor of the massacre was nursed back to health.
The patient no longer called himself Fletcher Doakes, and his story of the massacre had been pure fabrication. He lay on clean white sheets in a tiny cell, similar to the ones occupied by nuns. The pious women brought delicious meals, prayed over him four times a day, treated his wounds and believed he was a merchant.
He now called himself Norbert Denigran, because the name had a certain flair that he admired. The convent was far from Fort Macy, but next to an army camp, of all places.
The reborn Norbert Denigran was happy to be alive. After the horse meat had been consumed, he'd lived on any hapless creature that came his way, regardless of how many legs or wings it possessed. When at death's door, he'd finally stumbled upon a trail. Now he was fellowshipping with pious nuns.
One was Sister Teresa, sixteen, with bright rosy cheeks and a slight form beneath her pale blue habit. She carried his breakfast tray into the room and said, “You look wonderful today, Senor Denigran. May I feed you?”
“Can feed myself,” he wheezed, his hand trembling as he raised the fork.
She smiled beatifically and held her hands together.
“Are you praying?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, for you.”
Had he possessed strength, he would've laughed in her face. But instead he said, “Pray for someone more needy than I, perhaps a sick child, or a mother.”
“You are a good man, Senor Denigran,” she replied. “When first they brought you here, you looked like Christ. Your experience in the desert has brought you closer to Him, I think.”
She smiled beatifically, and he wondered how she'd look with a rope around her throat, her tongue distended, and her eyes popping out of her head.
Miguelito stood in the doorway. “There is a drifter who wants to be a guard.”
“What does he look like?” asked Maria Dolores.
A hand appeared, pushing Miguelito away. Then a gigantic cowboy or bullwhacker strolled confidently into her office. “If you want to know what the hell I look like, why don't you use your own two eyes?”
Never had she seen such a chest, not even with her former husband. This brute's biceps bulged at his shirtsleeves. “You're the biggest fellow I've ever seen,” she said in genuine awe.
He stood before her desk, a knife sticking out of each boot, a pistol slung low and tied down. He had the face of a bulldog. “Name's McCabe. Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to the chair in front of her.
“What can I do for you?” she asked politely, not wanting to rile such a man.
“I'm lookin’ fer a job and I'll don't care what it is.”
“I could use a guard, but not a hired killer.”
“It's a deal.” One moment he lay back in the chair, a grin on his face, and then in a blur he whacked out his Colt, pointing it at her head. “I know what you want, Mrs. Barrington. I'm not afraid of a goddamn thing ‘cept gettin’ old.”
“At the rate you're going, I doubt you have anything to worry about. You're hired.”
He winked confidently. “I don't want to be rude, but I heard you live alone.” He leaned closer and shrugged. “Don't you ever get lonely?”
“What an odd question.”
He angled his head toward the sofa. “Why don't you and me . . .”
She stared at him. “Just like that?”
“Why the hell not?”
“We don't even know each other!”
He grinned. “It's the best way to find out!”
“Mr. McCabe—let's understand each other. You're my employee, not my lover.”
He peered confidently into her eyes. “We'll see about that.”
Chapter Twenty-one
On September 9th, 1855, the Russian Army evacuated Sebastopol, after seven months of siege, battle, starvation, and shelling. In October a Freesoil Constitutional Convention was held in Topeka, Kansas, to elect a new antislavery government. The popul
ation of the disputed territory was estimated at eighty-five hundred, of which two hundred forty-two were slaves, and peace farther away than ever.
These events seemed distant to Nathanial and Clarissa, who were spending the autumn in Rome, following summer on the beaches of Sicily. They visited the usual Roman fountains, museums, and churches, and even attended a Mass in Saint Peter's Square presided over by Pope Pious the Ninth, known among the people as “Pio Nono.”
It was in Rome that mail caught up with the honeymooners. One large envelope had come from Nathanial's mother, and inside was another envelope from the War Department.
Dear Lieutenant Barrington,
How long do you intend to remain on sick leave?
“What are you going to do?” asked Clarissa.
They sat in a café near the Coliseum. “I don't know,” he replied, “but to tell you the truth, I'm getting tired of ruins.”
She gazed at him in surprise. “I was just thinking—isn't it wonderful to be from a country that's growing every day, instead of always looking backwards?”
“History teaches many valid lessons, say the philosophers.”
“I don't care about philosophers. I want to do something.”
“We could go out West and build our own ranch,” suggested Nathanial off the top of his head. “We've seen beautiful European cities, but there's nothing quite like a New Mexico sunset.”
“What about the Army?”
“I'll resign my commission.”
“Who'll defend our ranch against the Apaches?”
The fatal flaw in his grand design caused the ranch to crumble in his mind. It always came down to Apaches. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I always liked the idea of you and me in the frontier Army. At least it's not boring.”