by John Jakes
“I thought they didn’t attack unless somebody provoked them.”
“They’s always the exception. I’m afraid that’s what we drew in the head man of this bunch.” Eyeing the dark Indian unhappily, he went on, “He’s a war chief, and a mighty young one at that. His name’s Man-Ready-for-War. Whites call him Scar. Chivington’s men, they killed his ma at Sand Creek. They cut off her hair. I mean all her hair.” Back turned to the Indians, he tapped his groin. “Then they hung it out together with a lot of scalps at that Denver theater where Chivington showed off his trophies. Dunno how Scar heard about it—maybe third or fourth hand. They’s a number of tame old Indians hangin’ around Denver beggin’ or stealin’ to live. But I know for a fact he did hear about his mama’s shame, and he won’t forgive or forget that. I guess I wouldn’t either. Understanding his reasons don’t help us much, though.”
“What about the treaty?”
“You think that counts a pin for him? I told you the treaty chiefs signed for only eighty lodges.”
“He did a lot of talking. What does he want?”
“Scar and his friends are gonna take us into the village. Then they’ll decide what to do with us.”
“Shouldn’t that be all right? Isn’t it Black Kettle’s village?”
Bleakly, Wooden Foot said, “It is, but he ain’t come back from the treaty ground yet. He’s overdue. Till he gets here, Scar speaks loud. In one way, he’s a lot like white folks lookin’ at Indians. Can’t tell friend from foe, but in his case he don’t want to, either.”
Charles felt chillier than the falling snow. “What do we do? Grab our guns?”
Wooden Foot turned slightly, enabling him to see his nephew. Boy had his arms wrapped over his chest, clutching; his eyes were huge. “We do that, it’s all over. It may be all over at the village, too, but I think I’d rather go there ’fore we dig our heels in. Boy can’t defend himself ’gainst a bunch like this. Maybe some of the women’d take pity on him. Keep the men from carvin’ him up.” He sighed. “Ain’t really fair that I ask you to string this out with me. But that’s what I’m doin’.”
Charles finished the cigar stub and flipped it down on the buffalo bones. The cigar had tasted more savory than usual. He decided it was because it might be the last he’d ever smoke.
“You know I’ll go along with you.”
“All right. Thanks.”
With the trader leading, they walked back to the Cheyennes. Rapidly, Wooden Foot conveyed the decision to accompany the Indians without a fight. The braves smiled, and Scar yipped like a dog, which set Fen dancing in his harness. Scar reached over his shoulder to his arrow quiver and produced a three-foot stick wrapped in red-dyed buckskin decorated with quills. Painted eyes ornamented one end, eagle feathers the other. Dewclaws taken from some animal turned the stick into a rattle, which Scar brandished as he jumped from his pony.
He darted forward, shaking the rattle. Before Charles could sidestep, Scar slashed the rattle against his cheek. Charles swore and brought his fists up. Wooden Foot held him back.
“Don’t, Charlie. I said don’t. He just counted a coup, a little harder than he ought.”
Charles knew about counting a coup by touching a vanquished enemy. It enhanced an Indian’s reputation. But again, understanding how things worked didn’t help their situation, or lessen his fear.
The dark-eyed Indian threw his head back and yipped and barked. Some of the others took up the cry, driving Fen into a frenzy of jumping and barking. One of the Cheyennes aimed his trade carbine at the dog. Wooden Foot grabbed Fen by the scruff and held him down, getting a nip on his hand for his trouble.
Charles stood rigid, scared and angry at the same time. Boy nuzzled against his side, trying to hide his sad misshapen head in the folds of the gypsy robe. Three of the Cheyennes dismounted and dashed among the pack animals, knifing open the canvas parcels. One Indian crowed over a bunch of porcupine quills. He cut the binding thong and tossed the quills in the air.
Another stabbed into a bag that spilled a diamond waterfall of pony beads. The Indian cupped his hands beneath, filled both, and ran among his friends, distributing some to each. Wooden Foot restrained Fen, clenched his teeth, and said “God damn,” over and over.
Scar strutted to the trader and smacked his shoulder with the snake rattle; another coup. He barked louder than ever. The snow accumulated on Charles’s hat brim and shoulders and melted in his eyebrows while a strange sense of finality dropped over him. He’d felt something similar on the eve of battle in the war. The premonition was always fulfilled by someone’s death.
“Guess you’re pretty damn sorry you listened to me,” Wooden Foot muttered.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I kept sayin’ they was exceptions to everything, only I guess I didn’t learn the lesson good enough myself. I’m some teacher.”
With more cheer than he felt, Charles said, “Any teacher can make a mistake.”
“Yep, but in this case even one’s too many. I’m sorry, Charlie. I sure-God hope we don’t travel the Hangin’ Road ’fore this day’s over.”
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EXECUTION OF WIRZ
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Closing Scenes in the Life of the Andersonville Jailor.
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Final Effort of His Counsel to Obtain Executive Clemency.
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Firm Demeanor of the Prisoner on the Scaffold.
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He Asserts His Innocence to the Last, and Meets His Fate with Fortitude.
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A Remarkable Attempt to Poison Him Just Brought to Light.
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A Bolus of Strychnine Conveyed to Him by His Wife.
News coverage of the death of the only American executed for war crimes
November, 1865
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MADELINE’S JOURNAL
November, 1865. Cool Carolina winter replaced our smoky autumn while I slept. The live oaks rise from thick white mist this morning; the air smells of the salty river tides. When such beauty abounds, I miss you so terribly.
Now I wish reality were as pacific as today’s prospect from my doorstep. Cash very short. Wagon axle broken. Until Andy repairs it, we can move no timber to Walterboro or Charleston, hence have no income. Wrote Dawkins pleading for a few weeks’ grace with the quarterly payment. No reply as yet.
Nor have I had any word of Brett from California. She will come to term before Christmas. I pray the confinement is not hard.
School will be rebuilt in 30 days or less. Prudence holds classes on the lawn by the house meanwhile. Another setback: after the fire, Burl Otis, Dorrie’s father, forbade her to attend. He is in sympathy with the unknown arsonists, or afraid of them, or both. Went in person to plead. He cursed me and called me a “troublemaking nigger.”
A red-haired man has been seen twice at Gettys’s store. The Charleston dancing master, I am told. He is said to be without pupils and to be living in reduced circumstances, which enhances his bitterness. Who but a few scoundrels live any differently in Carolina these days?
… Gettys, always the dilettante, now fancies himself a journalist. There came to hand a copy of his new, poorly printed little paper called the White Thunderbolt. Read but a few of the headlines—THE LOST CAUSE IS NOT LOST; CAUCASIAN WIDOW MARRIES NEGRO BARBER, etc.—before burning it. Vile stuff. Doubly so because Gettys claims to represent Democrats. If he can afford to print such a scurrilous rag, his Dixie Store must be returning usurious profit. A second store named Dixie has opened on the Beaufort-Charleston road, and am told a third is coming to the latter city. Gettys not connected with these. Cannot imagine who in S.C. has the capital to build and finance them …
The exile traveled down from Pennsylvania to Washington, craggy and cynical and confident as ever despite his wartime misfortunes.
Simon Cameron, who had brokered his votes at the 1860 Republican convention in exchange for a cabinet post, was one of those ambiti
ous, ice-hearted rascals who didn’t understand the word defeat. As Secretary of War, he had caused a scandal with his favoritism in handling supply contracts. Lincoln had got rid of him by exiling him to the post of foreign minister to the court of Russia, and the House of Representatives had censured him for corrupt practices. Yet by 1863 he was back, trying to secure a Senate seat from his home state.
He failed, withdrew to Pennsylvania, and proceeded to strengthen his hold on the state machine. I will not be kept out of the national government forever, he wrote to his pupil and campaign contributor Stanley Hazard, when announcing his current visit to Washington.
Stanley invited the Boss to the Concourse Club, to which he had recently been admitted through friendship with Senator Ben Wade and some other high-ranking Republicans. In the club’s lavish second-floor rooms, teacher and pupil settled into deep chairs near a marble bust of Socrates. Elderly black men, instructed to be servile, waited on members. One such took Stanley’s order and tiptoed away. Immediately, Cameron asked for a donation.
Stanley had expected it. He responded with a pledge of another twenty thousand dollars. Lacking talent, he had to buy friendship and advancement.
Though it was only half past eleven in the morning, Stanley looked puffy about the eyes and dazed. “Feeling faint,” he explained.
Cameron said nothing. “How do you find your work with the Freedmen’s Bureau?”
“Revolting. Oliver Howard can’t forget he’s a soldier. The only Bureau men who have his ear are the former generals. I mean to tell Mr. Stanton that I want to be relieved. The trouble is, I don’t know where to go if he agrees.”
“Have you considered political office?”
Stanley’s mouth dropped.
“I’m quite serious. You’d be a great asset in the House.” Ah, now he understood. Cameron didn’t base the assertion on ability. Stanley would be an asset because he contributed generously and never questioned the orders of party superiors. And obedience was necessary for him, since he didn’t have a single original idea about the political process. Still, granting those limits, he found Cameron’s suggestion exhilarating.
The stooped black waiter brought their drinks. Stanley’s glass contained twice the amount in Cameron’s. While his imagination was still soaring, the Boss dashed him down.
“You know, my boy, you’d have a sterling future were it not for one liability.”
“You must mean George.”
“Oh, no. Your brother’s harmless. Idealists are always harmless, because they have scruples. In a tight situation, scruples tame a man, and make his responses completely predictable.” Cameron’s sly eyes fixed on Stanley as he murmured, “I was referring to Isabel.”
Stanley took a few moments to comprehend. “My wife is a—?”
“Major liability. I’m sorry, Stanley. No one denies that Isabel’s a clever woman. But she grates on people. She takes too much credit for your success—something most men find offensive.” Cameron tactfully ignored his pupil’s reddening face; Stanley knew the charges were true.
“She lacks tact,” Cameron went on. “A smart politician hides his enmities; he doesn’t flaunt them. Worst of all, Isabel no longer has credibility in this town. No one believes her flattery because she is so open about her ambition for social eminence and power.”
After a swift look to check on possible eavesdroppers, the Boss lowered his voice. “But if you should ever find yourself—shall we say independent?—and if it should come to pass without any scandal attaching to you personally, I can almost guarantee you eventual nomination to the House seat from your district. Nomination is tantamount to election. We make certain of that.”
Astonished and thrilled, Stanley said, “I would love that. I’d work hard, Simon. But I’ve been married to Isabel for years. I know her. She’s a very moral, upright person. You would never find her compromising herself in any, ah, personal scandal.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Cameron said with sincerity. He thought of Isabel’s face; no one would be interested.
“Still, my boy, scandal isn’t limited to illicit romance. I’ve heard rumors about Isabel and a certain factory in Lynn, Massachusetts.”
The old pirate. He knew very well that Stanley and his wife had been jointly involved in wartime profiteering through the manufacture of cheap army shoes. Cameron’s pointed glance suggested that the truth need not be graven in stone.
The thought of returning to Isabel the kind of scorn and abuse she routinely heaped on him was likewise new, and intoxicating. On her orders, Stanley had abandoned his mistress. He owed Isabel for countless humiliations—and here was the Boss, promising him a prize if he got rid of her.
He didn’t want to appear too eager. He exaggerated his sigh. “Boss, I’m sorry, I don’t think what you describe will ever happen. However, if by some chance it does, I’ll notify you at once.”
“I wish you would. Good and loyal party men are hard to find. Women, on the other hand, are available anywhere. Think about it,” he murmured, and sipped his drink.
After Cameron left, Stanley could hardly contain his excitement. The Boss had opened a door, and he wanted to leap through. How could he do it?
He refused an invitation to dine with a fellow club member and ate alone, stuffing down huge forkfuls of food, liquefied with great gulps of champagne. As the dessert course arrived—a whole quarter of a blueberry pie, with a creamy sauce—inspiration came, too. He saw a foolproof way to strike at Isabel behind her back, and insure her eventual downfall.
At the same time, the solution would remove him from a situation that, although profitable, bred great anxiety when he considered the possibility of exposure. He could continue collecting his profits for another year, perhaps two. Then, at a time entirely of his choosing—
“Magnificent,” he said, and he didn’t mean the champagne or the pie.
Before he left the Concourse Club, he set the plan in motion. He was astonished by its simplicity, and pleased by his own ingenuity in devising it. Perhaps he’d sold himself short for too long. Perhaps he wasn’t the idiot that George and Billy and Virgilia and axe-faced Isabel thought he was.
He handed a sealed note to the elderly white man at the club’s entrance desk. “Please put this in his pigeonhole so that he gets it next time he stops by.”
“Is it urgent, Mr. Hazard?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Stanley said with an airy wave of his cane.
The doorkeeper read the envelope as Stanley went down the stairs whistling. Mr. J. Dills, Esq. He slipped it into the proper slot, thinking that for the last year or two, he had not seen Mr. Stanley Hazard so high-spirited or so sober in the middle of the day.
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A curt letter from the Palmetto Bank. Leverett D. says his board will allow a late payment this once, but not again. In his salutation he addressed me as “Mrs. Main,” rather than by my given name, as in the past. I am sure it is the school issue. We are indeed on the eve of winter …
15
THE SERGEANT FROM FORT Marcy left at midnight.
Ashton touched the mussed bed. Still warm. Disgust wrenched her face, then grief. She sat down and held her head while the sadness rolled over her.
She clenched her hands. You’re a spineless ninny. Stop it.
No use. With each of tonight’s customers—a greaser who lacked the manners of Don Alfredo; an oafish teamster from St. Louis; the soldier—she’d come closer and closer to screaming her frustration and outrage. Here it was November and she was ready to run, and never mind the risks of starvation in the wasteland or cruel punishment if the señora’s brother-in-law caught her.
She cried for ten minutes. Then, after she blew out the candle, she spoke to Tillet Main, something she hadn’t done since visiting his grave a long time ago.
“I wanted to make you proud of me, Papa. Because I’m a woman, it was harder, but I came close with Lamar Powell. Close isn’t good enough, is it? I’m sorry, Papa. I’m truly sorry …”
Tears again. And waves of hatred. Directed against herself, this place, everything.
That was Tuesday. On Friday, a man walked in and hired her for the entire night.
An old, old man. She’d hit the bottom.
“Close that blasted window, girl. Old wreck like me gets the chilblains this time of year.”
He put down a battered sample case with brass corners. “Sure hope you’re warmblooded. I want to snuggle up and enjoy a cozy night’s sleep.”
Lord, what a disgusting specimen, Ashton thought. Age sixty if he was a day. Bland blue eyes, gray hair hanging every which way over his ears and neck, not more than a hundred twenty pounds soaked. At least he looked clean—her only consolation.
Toss, pop, snap, the old man doffed his shabby frock coat, dragged down his galluses, removed pants and shoes. He opened the sample case, revealing a pile of printed sheets, each with an engraving of a fat woman seated at a grand piano. Rummaging among the handbills and items of soiled linen, he found a whiskey bottle.
“For my damn rheumatism.” As he sat on the bed, his knee joints snapped like firecrackers. “I’m too old for this traveling all over hell.” He swigged whiskey.
Putting on her best professional smile, Ashton said, “What’s your name, lover?”
“Willard P. Fenway. Call me Will.”
She dimpled. “That’s cute. Are you all hot and bothered, Will?”
“No, and I’m not gonna be your lover, either. I hired you for some civilized conversation, a snuggle, and a good long snooze.” He peered past the bottle lifted to his lips. “You’re a stunner, though. Like that yella dress you got on.”
“Will, do you really mean you don’t want—?”
“Fucking? No. Don’t go all blushy on me, that’s a good straightforward word. People who rant and rave about impure speech usually do a lot worse things themselves, only secretly.” He stretched out and guzzled some more, admiring her cleavage. “What’s your name?”
For some reason she couldn’t explain, she didn’t lie to him. “It’s Ashton. Ashton Main.”
“Southron, aren’t you?”