Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  A large church is situated at the western end of the square and, though we did not enter its outer walls, it looks stately. They rang the great tower bells upon our arrival even at the late hour. An official from the town came out to receive us and Rodriguez conversed with him in Spanish. I understood a little of what was said. McMarrow’s Indian host clearly made the official very nervous. It was agreed they would make camp outside the perimeter of the town. McMarrow said that they were not Navaho, only “false savages” and would be no threat. Rodriguez seemed pleased the Major didn’t get his way.

  It was too late to prepare a hot supper but we did dine on cold meats and champagne. It was a strange and chilly reception. Sitting next to me, Rodriguez whispered to me that Santa Fe didn’t care for McMarrow or his Indians. If there were an incident, he said, he would not intervene. This is an unsettling thought, to say the least.

  I was then shown to my quarters, under the shadow of “La Iglesia.” No doubt the quality of my placement is credit to the friendship of Rodriguez. I take this to be the quarters of nuns. I have a long room with dirt floors, a plank ceiling, and whitewashed side walls. It is startling how unlike a home this foreign structure feels to me. The ground under the open sky has been my bedroom for so many long nights now.

  The size and manner of this room is the same as the school I attended as a boy in Chicago. It was situated in Fort Dearborn, in one of the two-story barracks there, no longer used as residences for soldiers. Do you know it? With mud, this room would be identical.

  One night there, when I was seven years of age, a great storm erupted, of the sort Chicago has in the springtime. The preceptress thought it safer to hunker down in the barracks for the night, until the storm had passed. Blankets and some candles were fetched, and we were forbidden to return home.

  I had never spent a night away from home. Without my father to look over me, I became very afraid of the night. I forget now the incident that caused it, but I must have thrown some sort of howling fit. This led to the usual punishment. I was sat on a chair, nose held against the fireplace. Sitting there with my back to the other children, I espied the key brick was not fit snug in the fireplace. I do not know what drove me to it, but I managed to wiggle it loose. The whole fireplace collapsed into a heap of soot and ash and brick, causing a loud commotion. It was lucky the whole of the wall did not collapse.

  The other pupils had to remove the soot from their own jackets as best they could. They were all quite thrilled to have a night away from parents. They played soldiers throughout the night, taking turns on “night watch.” I was given further punishment: a quill and a bottle of ink and the tedious task of copying out copperplate lines.

  It was a masked kindness, as the preceptress knew penmanship was calming to me. I was still scared, but likely a good deal better off than at the mercies of my rough-and-tumble classmates. I spent the evening sniveling in the corner, listening to the storm and copying out a stereotyped phrase repeated and rhymed…

  My teacher’s kindness made me think of you, of course, and the kindness I have seen you show children. I indeed loved her, and never wanted to return home from school after that night. How much more will our children long for you, if the fates grant us offspring? I have imagined that in our home together we might have such a room as this. I could use it for drawing and drafting my field notes, and you could have a desk and quill as well, at which to compose your verse. I had been desperately wondering if you’d composed something recently. How cruelly this morning answered my question.

  I have become accustomed to sleeping out-of-doors. A night spent under a roof was strange and claustrophobic, and I had troubling dreams. In hope of recovery I determined to stay beneath the sky this morning. As the sun came up, Santa Fe buzzed with anxiety. Word of the Indians had spread, and the townspeople seemed agitated. In spite of this I made to explore the town. The streets were quite active with nuns, women, and children of all ages. The tower bell was clanging ceaselessly and trumpets blared, bright as the morning sun.

  I was having a midday meal in the main square with all of our company while the mail was being passed around. Seeing others receive unlooked-for letters with such gladness filled my heart with the hope that I would receive word from you. Men were dancing about or weeping at the thought of loved ones so far away. I began to feel buoyed by the light mood. Some men were kind enough to pass around their telegrams and letters for all to share in. Indeed the mailbag seemed a bottomless well of joy for a short time.

  It was as the bag was running dry that I then received the darkest news of this trip. Upon opening your telegram, the stars betrayed me. There is no cure for the foul mood that is now set upon me.

  The telegram indeed bore the address of the museum. Your name was there typed out at the bottom and my heart leapt into my throat. But the message itself was short and full of despair…

  I have read it a hundred times now and cannot think of what to do. I am not even able to weep as my heart wants to. Instead, I find myself encased in a black despair, unable to think clearly. There is no telegraph office here to answer you. The mailbag came by way of Fort Smith.

  The telegram is troublesome in its brevity and I cannot discern your intention. It is difficult to imagine that you want to be wed now. No doubt your father is quite willful. It has occurred to me that he may have been present when the telegram was sent, forcing your hand.

  Or perhaps Buell has worked some charm on you. Do you love him? Should I be angry with him? I should have anticipated this attack and never left you to be courted by him alone. I thought my acceptance of this errand would prevent him from dragooning you into a courtship. That he would take advantage of my absence pains me.

  The date you have set is impossibly close. At the rate of my travel thus far, I could not deliver the letter and return before this wedding date. Have you devised it so? I had an immediate desire to turn back and travel with the traders who will soon retake the Santa Fe Trail back to Westport. If I were to do this, I could return in time.

  But that would mean I’d return with the letter your father gave me still in hand and his errand incomplete. It is difficult to admit, but I know he would not give me your hand in marriage if I return to Chicago a failure, my task unfinished and without any money besides.

  I think it better to make haste toward Irion and the endpoint of my journey. Traveling with a smaller mounted party, I can make many more miles in a day. The caravan has provided safety in numbers, but it is slow, and the dangers mostly consist of rain and snakes. Reaching Irion quickly and delivering the letter, I might return to Chicago before the week of All Hallows’. Before you are married.

  I resolved to request a special dispatch of men to escort me. Interrupting the Major’s usual morning game of cards, I framed my request with the urgency of the letter and your father’s business in respect to the war. I made no mention of you. I said the telegram was from Mr. Gray, and when he demanded to see it, I said it had been destroyed. I impressed upon him that I must meet Irion and his men, wherever they may be, as soon as is possible.

  McMarrow then flew into a rage, tossing his cards to the floor. He asserted the date I proposed for return was impossible. He excoriated me for dallying along the road, stopping with leisure to look about and draw feeble creatures. He said I had lost true sight of the task at hand and was unfit for the errand, and that the burden now fell to him.

  His face was a reddened mask glistening with perspiration. He had drank not a little, yet his words stung true. I offered to go alone and officially relieve him of my errand, as the burden should be mine. He refused outright and ordered me to remain in the company.

  I was storming after this encounter. I told Rodriguez of my impossible circumstance. He said that McMarrow was mad—given his violent tendencies, we would be safer without him. He suggested the two of us leave McMarrow behind and ride south. His deputies could easily drive his wagons the remaining seventy-five miles to his estate. On horseback, he and I could arr
ive there by to-morrow morning.

  So I have taken a soldier’s ration and a steed, whom I have named Raison d’Etre. This is to reflect that I have but one purpose now—to deliver the letter without fail. Theft is wrong, but what am I to do?

  We will travel south along the Camino Real farther down along Nuevo Mexico and come eventually to the disputed border of Mexico and the Republic of Texas. My plan is to look for news of Irion at every stop. Deserting will anger McMarrow, but we can afford no delay.

  I think it a good plan, but fear I will need much luck. My heart is heavy at the thought of the telegram and I sorely wish for you. I beg you, wait for me. Reconsider what you are doing. I am coming for you with all the will of my passion. To the front, with all haste!

  May the Speed of Fate Accompany Me, Zadock

  MR. BUELL CALLS ON ELSWYTH. THEY GO FOR A WALK ALONG LAKE MICHIGAN. A PROPOSAL IS MADE AND ACCEPTED.

  arely rapping on Elswyth’s door, Aunt Anne whispered, ‘Mr. Buell has come calling.’ Elswyth was hardly surprised. She was sitting at her desk when the knock came, thinking on The City-State, her mother’s book. The last remaining copy was in Aunt Anne’s possession. She remembered it only vaguely, a story set in an imagined land where there were proper social roles, the dishes and clothes were very beautiful, and everyone lived in a safe city behind enormous walls. The plot was difficult to follow. It revolved around some imaginary letter—she couldn’t bring herself to care what it contained. But the bumbling historian was easily recognizable—her father’s foibles were rendered precisely. It made her miss her mother’s gentle teasing a great deal.

  She thought it might finally be time to share it with Louisa. But how could she read it to her sister, if she couldn’t bear to read it herself? The tale could perhaps serve as instruction about the pitfalls of love now that her own book was destroyed. Elswyth would explain that some women give up the married life for a higher calling. She was older and better prepared to take charge of a child, yet they could both be like mothers in administering love. Although this would be difficult, there was nobility in it still. There were many things Louisa was too immature to understand.

  Chief among them was Mr. Buell. Elswyth opened her door. ‘We don’t tolerate such disturbances in the Auspicium,’ Aunt Anne said, presenting Mr. Buell’s tattered calling card.

  ‘When did you know that Louisa was with child?’ Elswyth asked.

  ‘Your sister has the blood, as do you, as will her child. If our ways are to continue we need to pass them on. We can teach your soul to soar to new heights, and its fortress to fend off death’s hand. We know well the alchemy of pregnancy.’

  ‘We must all stay here. Father is destitute and can’t look after his own affairs. Someone must see to him and the household.’ Elswyth snatched the card from Aunt Anne’s hand as she might a servant’s. She examined it. The card disgusted her. Buell printed it himself on her father’s press. She felt as though she could smell the black ink on him already. She longed for the days spent in her sickbed, when she could receive no visitors and had quiet stretches to read her books. It had been a sort of paradise to her. She had even begun to look forward to the bleedings, grisly as they were. They provided an acceptable reason to lay about in bed, light-headed and warm. All callers were optional.

  When Elswyth came down the stairs, Mr. Buell was standing inside the door picking through the stand of canes and umbrellas. He was dressed all in black, and had a noxious amount of pomade in his hair. Grease made from the fat of a boar, most likely.

  ‘My dearest Elswyth, you look as lovely as the morn you were born.’ He spoke the words as though reciting some tedious script he no longer cared for. ‘I thought I might come calling and fetch you for a little walk on the lakefront. I imagine it would suit your disposition. Shall we?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Even if something isn’t the best of all possible situations,’ he quickly lowered his voice, ‘is there just cause to be unpleasant about it?’

  ‘Very well,’ she replied. He was maddening. She wished he would be done with it, so she could return to her room. To be in his presence was unbearable. How would she contain her anger?

  They went out the front door and into the wide boulevard. The muddied street had not entirely dried from the day before, and though it was still full of wheel ruts and holes it was busy yet, with businessmen walking about and ladies in full skirts, lifting them above the muddy earth. Small carts were pulled wearily along the ruts. A man in a vest and wide-brimmed hat peddled water in front of the dry goods store for a few cents a barrel. The sun was shining, and Chicago moved forward.

  On the far end of the street a team of men were putting down wooden planks. ‘Plank streets are ghastly,’ Mr. Buell remarked. ‘Vehicles press upon them, and all that mud and sewage seeps out. Best to have streets open, so that it can be dealt with. Or at least pave it properly.’

  ‘I rather like them,’ Elswyth said. She was aware of a tightness in her chest. ‘They keep the dust from blowing about. And I think us lucky to have a finished street. Not all cities have them.’

  ‘That’s partly my concern, the way this city is run. If there were some order, then it would not be such a crime-ridden…’

  ‘I prefer it.’ Elswyth couldn’t simply converse. She kept picturing Mr. Buell with her sister. She had to remind herself that it was for Louisa’s benefit that she must endure his company. How would they raise a child together? They continued down to the lake in silence. Elswyth became lost in her own thoughts.

  She had never imagined she would be married this way. Her imagined husband had always been well-off. Her dream of a large house to call her own was now lost. She could never plant her own garden, or decorate the home in a way that suited her. The thoughts of selecting furniture and draperies and a fine set for tea would have to be banished now. She could never make that lovely place to receive her friends and their husbands. She was bound to her father’s home.

  They sat on a bench overlooking Lake Michigan. Presently, Mr. Buell spoke. ‘Shall I tell you of Zed Blackfoot, and the time he scaled the walls of the City of Silver and Gold?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Elswyth’s eye lingered on the golden sunset reflected on the lake. ‘I don’t care for fanciful stories.’

  ‘It’s hardly fanciful. I’ve met the man, and he is every inch of his legend and…’

  ‘I doubt very much you’ve met him, Mr. Buell, even if he does exist.’ She felt her face flush. ‘In fact, I’ve never seen you away from the museum. If you want an adventurer, why don’t you look to Mr. Thomas? He is bravely traveling all the way to…’

  ‘He is a fool, Elswyth, patently.’ Mr. Buell seemed to match her anger with his own, though he had no right to. ‘Don’t mistake foolhardiness for bravery. He is now on the border of Texas, a land that three nations war over. How will he survive there? He is on an errand that is beyond him. I consider him lost to us.’

  ‘His letters have been lost to me. How do you know his whereabouts? When you visit the post, are there letters addressed to me?’ Her hands began to tremble a little. He was a liar.

  ‘I wouldn’t know which letters you speak of. I have seen none. And I deeply resent the accusation.’ Mr. Buell’s voice seemed to drip with the same putrid grease that coated his hair. ‘I know he was your suitor, and now he has gone and left you. We are cousins, if you don’t know it, and it pains me greatly to think on the untimely demise of one of my kin.’

  ‘Cousins? Well, that puts to rest your boasts of noble blood, doesn’t it? I am surprised, then, that you aren’t more trustworthy.’

  ‘There are greater magnitudes of difference between us. Still, a tragedy and a shame besides.’ Mr. Buell laid his hand over Elswyth’s. ‘I was contemplating that sad fact when your father came to me…’

  ‘Did he?’ She removed her hand and slid farther down the bench, away from him.

  ‘And he told me of the terrible situation your sister is in. I just can’t imagine how she
got herself into such a predicament.’ He was sweaty but eyed her with an unnerving certainty.

  ‘And then a thought occurred to me.’ He continued, as though speaking of the weather, or the lake. ‘What could be done about these two lovely, yet bloodless, young women, one who has lost her suitor and is getting on for marriage, and one who is too young for marriage yet approaches motherhood? I thought to myself, How can I serve this family and employer that has provided for me so kindly? Then an idea arrived like a bolt of lightning.’ He paused that Elswyth might ask what it was.

  ‘I’ve heard of ideas,’ she said. ‘Once there was a man who committed suicide simply because he was tired of putting his boots on each morning and pulling them off again in the evening. Seems quite natural to me.’ She stared out at the lake.

  They would have separate rooms. Perhaps even separate wings of the house. She and Louisa could live in their own wing with the baby and bolt the door at night.

  Finally he spoke again. ‘Louisa is a rare specimen, with radiant beauty. I would be loath to see it all evaporate. But your father has before looked kindly on my courting of you. And I can see now, the righteous thing to do is that I should ask for your hand in marriage, and thereby solve it all.’ He had returned to his script, his voice tired and unwilling. ‘What would you say to that?’

  Elswyth remained motionless on the bench.

  ‘I have your father’s blessing,’ he added.

  She still gave no reply. It was such a terrible fate, now that she heard it aloud. She must uphold her family’s reputation, otherwise there could be no future for Louisa. That Mr. Buell’s reputation would be saved by her actions as well seemed grossly unfair. Especially if he insisted on acting beastly and two-faced about the entire incident. Would he maintain his lies, even when there was no one to mark them?

  Despite his shortcomings, Mr. Thomas was honest—an open book. He would have treated her with all due magnification, and worshipped any child they had been given care of. That she knew.