by Jeff Shaara
“There’s more and more talk that if Lincoln wins, the country could divide up, fall apart altogether. The slavery business, the government sticking itself into the affairs of the states, there’s a good many people who see Lincoln as the man who will destroy the country. And you’ve got loose cannons like Hamilton throwing this stuff out at people like it’s the word of God. Around here we’re pretty far removed from what the government says, Captain. Things like ‘law’ and ‘Union’ don’t mean much to people who don’t even speak your language. Sounds pretty scary to me, Captain.”
“And, the Spanish . . .” Hancock paused, began to understand.
“The Spanish, the Mexicans, are sitting back, taking it all in. I tell you, Captain, if the country splits apart, there’s talk, right outside this damned window, these boys don’t think I know what they’re saying. . . . They’re waiting for the day, because the bet is they can walk right in and grab California away from the army. Hell, they already know there’s American soldiers who are talking about quitting, going home to their states. You scared yet, Captain?”
He looked past Banning, out the wide window. He had heard some talk, most of it coming from San Francisco, from Benicia, the angry talk of politics. He had never been too political, had supported the Democrats because it was what his father had done. He felt there was some logic in their issues, the right of the states to determine their own course. But . . . the collapse of the Union? It seemed too far beyond reason, too irrational to be taken seriously.
“You expecting any help here, Captain, any troops?”
“I haven’t asked for any. There has never been any trouble.” He realized now he sounded naive, that the demonstration in front of his house could be far more serious than he wanted to admit.
“The local boys might need some discouraging, Captain, so keep the lid on. If they start feeling their strength, thinking they can push the army a little harder, they will.”
Hancock began to think, his mind seemed to come awake, clear. The warehouse . . . the property of the army . . . the munitions . . . could not fall into the hands of anyone.
“Phineas, you could do your country, and me, a great service.”
Banning smiled, nodded. “At your service, Captain.”
“Spread the word. There’s cavalry coming, several squadrons, no, a regiment. Captain Hancock is . . . outraged . . . that local citizens would defy the military authority, by the . . . the . . . disgraceful lack of respect paid to me and my wife, the threats against my home. How’s that?”
Banning laughed. “I must say, Captain, I have never seen such fury from a military man. It could be . . . my God, the army could be coming here to . . . oh, my Lord, it could be a massacre!”
Hancock felt the rush of energy, but did not laugh with Banning. It had to work, a show of bravado, throw uncertainty into a growing mob. It would slow them down, at least until he could send to Tejon for real troops to back up his rumors.
Hancock stood, made a slight bow. “You are a friend, Mr. Banning. Thank you for your time.”
Banning sat back in his chair, and Hancock saw he was already planning how he could spread the word. He said quietly, “Hamilton,” and Hancock knew, of course, the newspaperman would jump on this story, a military invasion, full-scale occupation, martial law . . .
Hancock left Banning’s office, walked out into hot sunlight, thought, Go to the warehouse, just to be sure. He turned a corner, passed several new shops, with Spanish and English signs, then made his way out beyond the street where his house sat, where Mira waited for him. He reached the long wooden building surrounded by a short picket fence with flaking white paint, saw the sign over the wide doors, U.S. ARMY SUPPLY DEPOT. He suddenly felt naked, very weak, unarmed. He pulled keys from his coat pocket, found the one for the old brass lock, swung open the thin wooden door. Inside were stacks of goods, high piles in neat rows, cloth and canvas. This is insane, he thought. All this, enough to equip, what? A small army? At least, to supply a good-sized bit of trouble. In a far corner he saw a wooden box, large and square, and he leaned over, pulled at the wood planking. It came loose, and he put his hand inside, felt through thick straw, worked his fingers in until his hand touched hard steel. He pulled the large pistol out through the top of the box, held it up toward the open door of the warehouse, aimed at nothing, then tucked it in his belt. He reached back into the box, pulled out another, then paused, thought, Maybe one more.
The wide flat door began to move, pushed by an afternoon breeze, and he jerked to attention, startled, and grabbed at a pistol. He laughed at himself, felt his heart beating with icy quickness, and thought of Banning. Are you scared yet, Captain?
THE SPANISH “soldiers” had come again, more of them this time, another absurd parade, and there had been others with them, people on foot, following along, yelling at the house, at him as he watched from the window. He could still see the faces, the infection spreading in the crowd.
They sat together in the fading light. Mira had brought him supper, and he was finishing the last piece of bread, drinking a cup of coffee. Outside the cavernous warehouse the last bit of orange glow was fading on the flat western horizon.
“You had better leave soon. It’s already dark.”
She took the plate from his hand, set it on the ground, slid closer and leaned against him. They sat on the wooden box that held the pistols, and he wrapped his arms around her, leaned back against the side of the building.
“In a moment, there’s no hurry. Consuela stayed late today, probably has the children in bed by now. She’s been a godsend, really.”
Hancock thought of the sweet old woman Mira had found to help with the house. She knew almost no English, but he could see in her hands, her touch, an understanding. She seemed to know just how to deal with the children, what they needed. Hancock had never actually spoken with her. She would not look at him, always looked at the floor when he was there. Very strange, he thought, and he wondered if it was fear, respect, or just old Spanish custom. She had been in Los Angeles since she was a child, and Hancock guessed she was maybe sixty-five, seventy years old. He began to think out loud.
“I wonder what these people think of us.”
Mira stared ahead, still pressed against him. “What people, you mean the Spanish, the Mexicans?”
“Yes. We won the war, took over their government here, and they just go on like they always did. Maybe they never considered themselves Mexicans, any more than they consider themselves Americans.”
“It’s the Church. They worship at the same place they have since they were children, the same priests. I don’t think Consuela even understands what the government is. She talks about the priests as the authority.”
“She told you this?”
“In not so many words. The priests always were in control here, even before the war. If the people have problems, that’s who they see.”
“And now the Americans are having problems, and the priests see an opportunity to regain control.”
She sat up, turned, tried to see his face in the darkness.
“Do you really think it’s the Church?”
“I don’t know. Someone is organizing this resistance, the protests. Those people today, the protesters, they have leaders, behind the scenes. They’re smart enough not to show us who they are. All it takes is one, one man who knows how to use words, charismatic, who commands their respect, a man like Santa Anna.”
“Surely not the Church . . .”
“I don’t know. We may never know.”
She stood, stretched her arms upright, and he could barely see her. We should have a lantern, he thought, but no, if they come, they must not know I am in here. It’s the only advantage I have.
The word was out, Banning had seen to it, and the Spanish citizens were buzzing, hostile and afraid, and Hancock knew it had been a risk, but no one had come near the warehouse, not yet. But now the rumors came back at him. At a meeting, even a rally, tonight, the militant leaders o
f the Spanish community were going to take their own actions. Many of the locals had been speaking out, calling for a rebellion, taking back control from the Americans.
And though his rumors had seemed to work, and slowed down the hot talk, there were still no American soldiers, they had not come, no great military presence to keep down the talk of rebellion. He had sent a message to Tejon and a civilian courier to Benicia, but it was slow, no telegraph, no railroad. There had been a squad of infantry passing through, going to Arizona. They stopped briefly for provisions, the normal function of the Quartermaster’s Depot, but they had not stayed, could not. Their captain had orders, an Indian raid near Yuma, did not see Hancock’s problems as a priority, and so they loaded a few wagons with supplies from the warehouse and were gone.
“This is all because of the election.”
She bent down beside him, put a hand on his, and she knew he wanted to talk, did not want her to leave, not yet. “What do you mean?”
“This trouble—it’s all because of the election, all the talk in the paper, Hamilton’s damned newspaper, his great oratory about the collapse of the country if Lincoln is elected. It’s madness, pure idiocy.”
She sat quietly beside him. “It’s his right, he can print anything he wants,” she said. “I don’t think people pay much attention to that kind of talk.”
“But they do. They are—it’s not just Hamilton, it’s the South . . . the states. The infantry unit that just came through, their captain told me that soldiers at Benicia are talking about going home, quitting the army if Lincoln wins the election. The newspapers come from back East and fights break out over pieces of news. They are talking about the slave states pulling out of the Union, making a new country . . .” He paused, lifted his hat from his head, ran his hand through thick hair, and she sat closer again, next to him, felt his tension.
He took a deep breath, said, “We have a system, a democratic system, and if one man is elected, it’s because the people choose him. But not this time. This time if the wrong man wins, the system gets torn down. And not just back East, but right here. Most of the local Americans are Southern sympathizers. Hamilton speaks to them, they listen. Banning . . . at least Banning is reasonable, some of the others I guess, too. But if the Union collapses, what will these men do? We are so isolated, so far from the Federal government. It’s not just the Spanish who want California to be independent, it’s men like Hamilton. How easy it is to be so reckless, to make grand pronouncements about rebellion and independence, when the authority, the system, the responsibility is so far away.” He paused, held her gently away from him, stood up and began to pace, feeling the nervous energy.
“I wear the uniform of that authority, I’m the only piece of the government here, and this post is my responsibility. No one will start any rebellion with these guns.”
She watched in the dark, felt his movement, and then he stopped, leaned down and took her hand, helped her stand.
“You had better leave, go on home, before it gets much later.”
“Please, Win, please, be careful. These are just . . . things. The army can replace them.”
He hugged her, held her hard against him. “It’s all right. Besides, it’s only rumors. You know what rumors are like. Help should be here soon anyway. It’s probably just for tonight.”
He didn’t sound convincing, knew it, didn’t believe it himself. He was glad she could not see his face; he could never lie to her.
“All right, my dear husband. I’ll be back in the morning, I’ll make a big breakfast for you.”
“Wait, do you have—”
“Yes, Captain, I have the pistol right here. I will be fine.”
He walked her over to the doors, pushed them open slowly, quietly. The moon was coming up over the far trees, and he was relieved to see the street was not as dark as the inside of the warehouse and it would be a short walk to their house. She kissed him, quickly, did not want to draw it out, make it worse than it was, and then she moved away. He followed her with his eyes until she was gone in the dark.
He went back inside, pulled the doors together, could see the moonlight coming in between them, through an opening a half-inch wide. He felt his belt, the pistols, felt a little foolish, thought, You must look like some kind of buccaneer. He sat down on the box, adjusting the pistols, a one-man army. He leaned back against the hard wall, maybe would try a nap, but he was wide-awake, began to listen to the silence. He looked away from the doors, from the small sliver of moonlight, tried to see in the dark, the high stacks of supplies, up to the tall ceiling. He thought of wild animals, the night creatures. What was so different about their eyes? Damned dangerous beasts if they could see in this.
He did not know how much time had passed, could not see his watch. It was late, near midnight, certainly. He stood up slowly, flexed stiff knees, walked toward the crack of the doors. He peered out, saw nothing, no movement, and felt relief, confident Mira had made it home all right. He thought of the children, told himself, purposefully, they would be fine, there would be no danger to them, it was the supplies they would want, the munitions. He went back again to his corner, to the open box of pistols, sat and leaned against the wall, listening to the quiet night.
His hand rested on something, a tin cup, his coffee. He brought it up, smelled it, took a small sip of cold mud, made a face Mira would have scolded him for, set the cup back down on the hard ground beside the box. He heard a horse whinny in the far distance, and a dog barking. He froze, listened hard, heard nothing else, leaned his head back now, his hat a thin pillow against the wood siding.
He heard a horse again, closer this time, and he sat up, felt a burst of cold in his stomach, and quickly he was standing. He moved over against the far wall, listening, and now there were more. He heard the dull rhythm of slow hoofbeats. The cold spread through his body, his heart pounding his brain into a clear alertness. He pulled a loaded pistol from his belt, touched the cartridge box in his coat pocket, moved in a silent glide to the doors, peeked out and waited.
The horses came closer, outside the picket fence, and he saw them now, saw the riders, could not tell much, just gray shadows, no voices. He watched the men dismount, tried to count . . . five, six. One man walked to the gate, pushed it open, and they began to move toward the building, to the wide doors, quiet slow steps, and Hancock stood straight, took one step back from the crack, raised the pistol, could see one man’s form moving up closer, blocking out the moonlight, and he held the pistol with both hands, felt a rising heat, his heart sending a roar of sound through his head.
He set the barrel of the pistol in the crack of the door, aimed at the man’s chest, and the man stopped and said in a loud whisper, “Captain Hancock? Captain, you in there?”
It was Phineas Banning.
Hancock pulled the pistol back, stood for a moment in the dark, fought the urge to laugh, then slid a steel bar through heavy metal rings on the door and pushed it open.
“Captain? We heard you were in here. I called on your house earlier, saw your wife. She damn near shot me. Guess it was late . . . sorry . . . but she said you were here, standing guard.”
“What are you doing here? Who is with you?”
Hancock tried to see faces, now others began to speak, familiar voices, men he knew well from the town. Banning quieted them, said, “Captain, we have been hearing things, talk of trouble, and we’re here to help.”
Another man spoke, Joseph Brent, a lawyer, a man who dealt with the Spanish people.
“Captain, you are in some danger here. There is organizing going on, men gathering west of town, talking about a raid on this warehouse. We got together to see what we can do to help.”
“Gentlemen, this is dangerous business. I can’t . . . I’m not authorized to issue guns to civilians. This is the army’s problem, I can’t ask you—”
“Captain, we can’t have the army treated like this. It’s bad for business.” Banning laughed and pulled back his coat. Hancock could see
the reflection from a pistol in his belt. Now he saw other guns, men held up rifles, old muskets.
Another man spoke, Ben Wilson, a rancher. “Captain, we are your friends. Just tell us what to do. We’re here to help.”
Hancock looked at the faces, tried to see them in the dark, began to feel a sense of confidence, of strength. He pointed to the fence, said with a quiet firmness, “There, one of you in each of the four corners of the fence. One at the gate, one with me, here, by the doors. Use your ears, you’ll hear them before you see them. Don’t hesitate. If you hear anything, call out, be loud. Let them know we’re here. And, gentlemen, don’t shoot at anything without my order. No innocent casualties. Are we clear?”
There were short murmurs, nods, and the men began to spread out. Banning moved up and stood beside him.
Hancock said, “Phineas, thank you. I am fortunate to have such friends.”
Banning put a hand on his shoulder. “So are we, Captain, so are we.”
THE RAID did not come. Hancock sat quietly, a few feet from Banning, leaned against the wooden doors of the warehouse, began to see the bright glow in the east, heard the men begin to stir, standing, stretching, and now it was light enough to see faces clearly. He called them together, watched as the small army assembled. He wanted to say something, something more than a thank-you, but from down the road, away from town, there were hoofbeats, many horses, and a cloud of rising dust. His men turned, started to move, and Hancock listened, felt a rising alarm at the growing sound of many horses; too many. Then he saw them—a small flag, dull blue coats in the dim morning light: it was the cavalry.
The front of the column stopped at the picket fence, the line stretching down the road and around a curve, a full squadron, maybe a hundred men. Hancock’s civilian army came back together, stood in their own kind of formation, and he felt their pride, his friends standing at attention—they were being relieved.