And how much a miasma of the mind that depletes, obscures, and corrupts the thought process?
During those first few days in San Melas, she believed that it was the effect of the sun, of the desert ordeal that had depleted and obscured, that had confused her thought process.
But, from time to time, that miasma had come and gone, and then come back again . . . affecting her mind and body both . . . as if pressured by an unseen force, a hypnotic conjuration to conform to some somniferous command.
But whose?
And why?
Or did all this presage madness?
It was her husband whose head had been wounded, who suffered the effects of that wound with nightmarish dreams and demons, while her mind had always been uncluttered and clear . . . until San Melas.
And in a strange way, too, her husband had been affected by this place and these people who considered him a “miracle worker,” who, if not idolized him, were at least overly attracted to him: Caleb, Joseph, the Bryants, Ethan, the entire citizenry, and in particular . . . Deliverance.
Lorna was not unaware of the seemingly innocent, but inwardly wanton look in the eyes of Deliverance, even when she glanced at Jonathon Keyes. She was a beautiful young lady, with an exotic aura about her, not of her native New England, nor even of this country, but of some symmetrical blend of Scandinavian Valkyrie and august princess of Araby. Attractive, aloof, and yet inviting, especially when it came to Lorna’s husband.
There were other women in other churches, where Jonathon Keyes had been invited to give guest sermons, where other ladies of the congregation were obviously attracted to him, but not in the sensuous way of Deliverance.
And Lorna couldn’t help wondering, despite his piety, how much he couldn’t help being drawn to her.
As she fought against the thought, she once again saw the two of them walking close together in harmonious step toward the shed.
Walking, she thought, like two lovers, as did she and Keyes years ago, from a Sunday picnic—not in any hurry to reach the place where they must part, but walking with lingering footsteps before arriving at their parting destination.
But was this the place where the two of them would part?
The shed.
Or...
This time when she opened the door and motioned toward the interior, with words that Lorna could not hear, this time would he, or would he not, accept her specious invitation to look at her latest handiwork with wax and savory scented perfumes?
She held her breath.
Watched and waited.
This time a little longer . . .
As Deliverance opened the door and went through the nearly identical procedure.
Once again Keyes reached up, this time touched her cheek, smiled, then took a step back, turned, and walked away.
Lorna breathed again as Deliverance closed the door of the shed.
“Jon, your shirt is wringing wet,” she said from the bed, “it looks like you’ve been swimming in it.”
“Not swimming,” he smiled, “just sweating. Helping to build that church for the last few hours. The sooner it’s in shape, the sooner the sermon, the sooner Saguaro. It’s hotter today than it was yesterday, and I put in more hours.”
Keyes had unbuttoned and was taking off his shirt.
“There’s a nice clean shirt in the second drawer, Jon.”
“Good. And speaking of good, do you know who else was working at the church today?”
Keyes sponged himself off and reached for a towel.
Lorna was reasonably certain he was about to bring up the presence of Deliverance but cleared her throat and inquired.
“Who, Jon?”
“Sam Hawkins.”
A quizzical look came over her face.
“Sam Hawkins?”
“The blacksmith, Lorna.”
“Yes, I know who he is . . .”
“The blacksmith who’s been working on our wagon.”
“Oh, yes, of course, and . . .”
“And he says it’s fixed. It’s ready to go, so we can leave anytime right after the sermon.”
“Jon, that is good news,” she nodded, “it’s wonderful. Come over and sit here. Let me button that shirt.”
“Lorna, I’m perfectly capable of buttoning this shirt,” he grinned.
“So am I . . . and in the first place I want to do it . . . and in the second place . . .”
“In the second place . . . what?”
“In the second place,” she smiled warmly, “I want to feel the touch of my fingers against your . . . nice, clean shirt.”
“And . . . vice versa,” he bantered, then moved and sat on the edge of the bed.
He kissed her.
“I love you, Lorna.”
“And . . . vice versa,” she bantered, then went to work on the shirt buttons.
“Say, did anyone ever tell you that you are a very good shirt-buttoner?”
“No, kind sir, because I’ve never buttoned anybody else’s buttons before.”
“Well, you better practice some more because we’re going to have some boy babies and they’ll need to have their shirts buttoned for them when they’re young.”
“Just boy babies, my husband?”
“You just watch the boy and girl population of Saguaro grow after we get there.”
“Oh?”
“More than just watch, my wife.”
“I intend to.”
“So do I.”
“He kissed her again. This time longer, more intensely.”
“There,” she said, “all done.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“All done. The shirt’s all buttoned.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” He rose. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“At the church that’s being built?”
“No, but that’s where I saw Bethia, and she said she was coming over to tend to you, and that’s why I stayed to help out. Did she bring you something to eat?”
“She did.”
“And did you?”
“Eat?”
“Yes, eat.”
“I did . . .”
“But not enough. Lorna, you haven’t eaten enough since we got here.”
“I’ll make up for it after we leave.”
“Sure you will, they’ll kill the fatted calf when we get to Saguaro.”
“Jon, is it as hot in Saguaro as it is here?”
“Don’t think so. There’s a river that runs through it, and it’s not in the middle of the desert.”
“These people here don’t seem to be affected too much by the heat . . . especially Deliverance. Was she at the church today?”
“She was.”
“Even in this desert heat she always seems so . . . cool, calm, and composed, doesn’t she?”
“What?”
“I said, doesn’t she? Deliverance, seem so . . . decorous.”
“I never thought about it,” he shrugged, “but maybe after all those years of not being able to speak . . . she’s acquired . . .”
“Acquired what?”
“A certain,” he shrugged again, “I don’t know . . . a certain composure.”
“Jon,” Lorna couldn’t help smiling, “what’s that got to do with sweating?”
“I don’t know, Lorna . . . I honestly don’t. You brought up the subject . . .”
“. . . Of sweating?”
“Of Deliverance, my dear.”
“You’re right . . . and I’m going to change the subject.”
“Good,” he chuckled, “to what?”
She rubbed her chin in mock seriousness, furrowed her brow, and responded.
“How about that river that runs through Saguaro? What’s the name of it?”
“I really don’t know. Reverend Mason mentioned a river, but not by name.”
“Do you think it’ll be as beautiful as the Raisin in Monroe?”
“It will . . . if you’re there.”
“The Raisin
River,” she reflected, “that last picnic just before we left Monroe. The four of us at our favorite spot along the bank . . .”
“. . . Custer, his eyes literally glowing with thoughts of glory . . .” Keyes said.
“Libbie, who could hardly take her eyes off of him. And you and me getting ready to pack for a new place and a new life.”
“Yes,” Keyes nodded, “and I remember, Custer and I were both in civilian clothes, but he asked that we both wear our red scarves for old-time’s sake.”
“Well, Sports, this is the last camp before our paths divide—mine and Libbie’s—and yours and Lorna’s . . . Libbie and I by rail to Duluth and by wagon to Fort Lincoln in the Dakotas . . . and you two damn fools, by steamboat to St. Louis, then Conestoga to some benighted flyspeck called . . . what’s the name of that flyspeck, Reverend . . . Sedona . . . Sonora . . . Somalia . . .”
“It’s Saguaro, General, and you know it.”
“Sure I do, Reverend . . . but do you know . . . what you’re in for?”
“General, nobody knows for certain . . . any more than we know if the four of us will ever be together again.”
“What do you think, George, do you think you and I will ever meet Lorna and Jon . . . after Monroe?”
“Well, Libbie, there’s an old saying, ‘it’s a creation-big country, but trails cross.’ Ours just might do that, somewhere, sometime.”
“It’s a long way from Saguaro to the Dakotas.”
“True, Lorna, and it was a long way from Monroe to Appomattox . . . and back. But here we are . . . the Reverend and I. And what were the odds of that after Winchester, Waynesboro, Falls Church, and Yellow Tavern? Thousands and thousands of dead men ago?”
“But that was war. We’re at peace now. The war’s over.”
“Is it, Lorna? And even if it is, what does that mean? It only means that for the time being, we’re between wars. But I’ll tell you something, all of you, Jon, Lorna, Libbie—we picked the right time to be born, here and now . . .”
“You mean Monroe?”
“Hell no, I . . . oh, excuse me, Libbie, Lorna, Reverend—I gave up a lot of other ribald habits, but just can’t quite quit that damn curs . . . see what I mean?”
“Yes, Autie, we see what you mean and hear it, too.”
“Sorry, Libbie, I’ll try to ease off, but what I really meant about time and place was the United States of America at the time of a new birth, with a whole new frontier. The land west of the one hundredth meridian to be surveyed and settled . . . there’s gold, silver, and all manner of rich minerals waiting to be discovered in nature’s laboratories. There’re more railroads being built, one that will connect the United States to its Manifest Destiny, coast to coast. There’s never been a time and place like the American West. But much of that West still has to be fought for and won. And we’re a part of all that.”
“General, you mentioned Manifest Destiny. What about the Indians’ destiny? A lot of that real estate belongs to them. You, also, mentioned the transcontinental railroad. The Indians won’t like that. And there’re rumors of gold in their sacred Black Hills where you’re going, and some white miners are already sharpening their pickaxes.”
“Reverend, the Indians need too damn much land. They’re movers and hunters, not settlers. There are going to have to be some adjustments made . . .”
“Mostly by the Indians.”
“There were adjustments made between the North and South. We fought for the Union against slavery. Some of the Indian ways are worse, much worse, than the South. They’ve got slaves, too. They buy, sell, trade, and steal women and children like horses. They’ve got to understand that all that has to change. Oh, they talk peace, but as Patrick Henry said, ‘there is no peace.’ Look, Reverend, from what I’ve heard about their chiefs, men like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, they’re good soldiers and good men. So were some of my best friends at the Point, but they were fighting for a lost cause, like those chiefs. One of the last things that Lincoln said was ‘the West must be made secure.’ It can’t be so long as settlements and wagon trains are being indiscriminately attacked.”
“I guess that’s why they sent for you, General.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“But it almost sounds like you’ll enjoy doing it . . . and after all you’ve seen and done . . .”
“It’s because of what I’ve seen and done. I know that sometimes it takes war to make peace. But, Reverend, there are different paths that lead to the same place. In some ways, as of now, war is the engine of my existence—that and Libbie, of course—the paths of Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon, and as for your path, Reverend—well, a few names come to mind, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed . . .”
“Just a minute there, Wolverine, you mention yourself and my husband in the same breath as Caesar, Napoleon, Jesus, and Buddha?”
“I did.”
“Well, then, what does that make Libbie and me?”
“Let me see, now . . . oh, Apostles, I guess.”
“Why you shameless . . .”
Libbie threw a tomato at her husband but missed.
“Libbie, I hope those Indians aren’t any better marksmen than you.”
“Husband, I meant to miss.”
“I know that.”
“But General, the Indians won’t . . . want to miss, I mean.”
“Neither will I, Jon. Captain. Reverend . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“I asked you to wear that Wolverine red scarf today not as a reminder of the past, but for another reason.”
“What’s that, General?”
“The future. You said you turned to the ministry because of what Reverend Mason did for you and the rest of the soldiers.”
“That’s a big part of it.”
“Well, Sport, I’ve got a feeling that up there in the Dakotas, with what the Seventh Cavalry is going to have to deal with . . . those hostiles, we’re going to have need of a man like Reverend Mason . . . . or you.”
“I thought that might be coming, General.”
“Well, it came . . . so, Jon, what’s the answer?”
“Lorna and I talked about this . . . and because of our friendship with you and Libbie, it’s a hard choice, but . . .”
“But, what?”
“Saguaro, it is. We made a promise. Reverend Mason has nobody else. You’ll have your choice of a dozen good men up there.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“For us either, but Jon and I think that’s the thing to do.”
“George and I will miss you so much, Lorna.”
“That’s true, but in every war there’s a last battle . . . and after the one in the Dakotas, maybe I can quit soldiering.”
“And do what, Autie?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But I do know my mission in the military is not over yet. I’ve been called a glory seeker, and right now the West is where the glory is. Over a hundred years ago a poet wrote, ‘One crowded hour of glory is worth an age without a name.’”
“General, you’ve already had your hour of glory.”
“I guess that’s true, but sometimes one hour is not enough . . . and as I said, maybe after that last battle in the Dakotas I can quit soldiering.”
“I repeat, and do what?”
“I repeat . . . I don’t know.”
“There’s a phrase that’s already being rumored around.”
“What’s that?”
“‘Custer for President.’”
“That’s a long shot.”
“Long shots sometimes hit the mark. And it’s happened to generals before: Washington, Jackson, Harrison, and it looks like Grant’ll be next. And if it does happen, I’ll vote for you, General.”
“So would Lorna and I . . . if we could vote.”
“Well, Sports, I’ll say this for myself, George Custer hasn’t talked so much since Sunday school recitation, but it’s true, trails do cross, and as long as you have that red scarf... I’ll be looking for you. We’ll h
ave a lot to tell our grandchildren.”
“I know you still have that red scarf, Jonathon.”
“Right there on the dresser . . . a little the worse for the wear, but then so am I.”
“How do you think the General and Libbie are doing up there?”
“Well, from what I’ve read in the newspapers along the way, he’s already whipped the Seventh into shape and even whipped the Sioux in a couple encounters, to the tune of ‘Garry Owen.’”
“What about it, Jonathon?”
“What about what?”
“Do you think we made the right choice?”
“Well, the first choice was my being a minister; that was my choice, and it was the right one for me.”
“I know it was.”
“But the second choice was Saguaro and neither of us knows what that will be like. At Lincoln there will be other officers’ wives, parties, dances, parades . . .”
“. . . and the killing of Indians. Do you think you could be a part of all that?”
“I don’t think, Lorna, I don’t think I could bear watching Indians being killed over land that belongs to them.”
“And in a way, it takes more mettle to stand alone and do what you’re doing than . . .”
“. . . Fight a war?”
“There are different kinds of wars.”
“Sure there are Lorna, George Armstrong Custer would point to Caesar and Napoleon . . . and then to Jesus and Buddha . . . I . . . I . . .”
Keyes stopped as he saw the abrupt change that came over his wife.
Lorna gasped, struggled for breath. All color was drained from her face. Her eyelids squeezed nearly shut in pain. Her pale lips trembled. Her shoulders shuddered. Her head fell back against the pillow.
It was uncertain if she were still conscious.
Keyes hurried to the bedside and hovered close to her.
“Lorna, honey . . . can you hear me?”
As suddenly as it had come, at least some of the pain and its effects seemed to subside, but only some. Her breathing became less labored, her face, less pallid, her eyes, more focused.
“Oh, Jonathon . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Lorna, don’t talk. Just lie back and rest.”
“I will, but oh, Jonathon, I can’t help feeling . . . we’re in one of those wars . . . right here and now.”
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