by John Jakes
Charles’s hesitation annoyed Custer. “Something unclear about what I said, Mr. Main?”
“No, sir. It’s clear.”
“Good,” Custer said, no longer quite as friendly.
Charles took it as dismissal. Standing up, he inadvertently knocked the stack of newspapers onto the frozen ground. Retrieving them, he saw several other articles marked in ink. “You must be interested in politics, General.”
Custer gave him a cold look as he stood and drew on fringed gauntlets. “I make no secret of that. I’m watching General Grant’s campaign closely, because some important people in the East have suggested I consider running for office. From a military victory to the presidency isn’t such a long step, provided the victory is substantial, and gets headlines.” Charles wondered how that might affect tactics on the campaign.
“Good evening, sir,” Custer said, lifting the tent flap and following Charles outside. Charles’s attention was caught by a man crossing the far side of the lamp-lighted headquarters area. Although his features were indistinct—light snow was falling again—his russet beard and stiff bearing were unmistakable.
The officer ducked into a tent. Custer said, “Do you know that man?”
“Unfortunately, I think so.”
“If you have a grievance against him, keep it to yourself. General Sheridan is planning to join us. A number of his aides from Departmental staff are already here. Captain Venable is one of them.” Pointedly, he added, “A first-rate officer. Capable and loyal.”
Loyal. That word confirmed something Charles had heard before: You were Custer’s admirer or you were his enemy. There was nothing between.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“You will excuse me.” From the way the general turned his back, Charles knew Custer’s final impression of him was poor.
Custer rode away into the dusk. The snow gathered on Charles’s shoulders and hat brim. Venable. Good God. He recalled the sentry’s remark about luck when he rode in. His had turned bad again.
47
HE WAITED THERE ON the high seat, the wagon parked close to the wall of the granary. Above him on the wall loomed a huge head, the heroic head of a soldier in uniform, bordered in red and blue with a decoration of white stars. LET US HAVE PEACE appeared in large letters in the decorative border above the head. Similarly large, the lower border said GRANT.
Cold rain poured from the night sky. Bent sat glaring at the portrait of the candidate, from time to time a shiver shook him; the November air was as bitter as January. All the residents of the tiny farm community of Grinnell were safely indoors.
From the granary came Drossel, a wad of cash in his fat hands. Drossel was a farmer for whom Bent had worked since drifting into this hamlet in Iowa late in the summer. He was smaller than Bent, an elderly but hardy man. He stepped close to the wagon, counted off bills, and handed them up. “Your wages,” he said in his heavily accented English.
“Thank you, Herr Drossel.” Herr and Frau Drossel addressed one another that way, with old-world formality, and he’d fallen into the habit.
The Drossels had migrated to America shortly after the political upheavals in Europe in 1848. They had found rich land in Poweshiek County, Iowa, and a promising future. They were Republicans, Lutherans; gentle, industrious people who had unquestioningly accepted Bent’s assertion that he was a Union veteran traveling west in search of relatives believed to have gone to Colorado during the war. He wanted to be reunited with his family, he said. The Drossels understood that kind of quest, and the loneliness that fueled it. God had blessed them with everything but children, Frau Drossel had told him at supper on Bent’s third day at the farm. Saying it, she wept, her head averted.
“The last of the crop is sold, handsomely. Our cribs are full for the winter. Follow me home, Herr Dayton. I have a special schnapps put by for this festive evening.”
“Not very festive weather,” Bent said, watching the roll of cash Drossel put away beneath his shabby wool coat. Drossel was portly, wore half-spectacles, and had a neat fringe of white beard running from ear to ear. His boots slopped in the mud as he walked toward a wagon parked ahead of Bent’s. His mind racing, planning, Bent pointed at another poster on the granary wall. Grant’s had been pasted over it, and all that was visible of it were the letters MOUR.
“I take it the Democratic candidate isn’t popular in this part of Iowa?”
“Tcha,” Drossel said, a kind of clicking sound. He clamped his round wool hat on his head and climbed the wheel to the seat of the first wagon. “What do we know of that Seymour? A New York governor. He might as well come from the moon. Grant, though, Grant we know. Grant is a national man. That is why he was nominated. That is why he will win.”
“On his reputation,” Bent said, experiencing the first turn of the awl of pain between his eyes. Pinpoint lights began to wink in his head. Military success could have carried him to the nation’s highest office if only his enemies hadn’t denied him an Army career.
Calm, he thought. Stay calm. Thinking of old wounds only reopened them. They could never be healed. All he could do was continue to extract a blood price from them. He’d done it in Lehigh Station and soon would do it again with his next, thoughtfully chosen victim.
“Herr Dayton, are you asleep?” Drossel was teasing, but with a certain Teutonic sternness. Many times during the weeks of hard labor in the cornfields, Drossel had ordered Bent to do this or do that, and Bent had almost gone for the old man’s throat. Only the larger goal, the money he needed to continue his quest, overcame the strong urge to choke Drossel’s orders down his throat.
“The rain is very hard. We are wasting time. Frau Drossel is waiting with a special supper.”
In Bent’s head, a white light-burst shaded into warm pink. Another flashed scarlet. That isn’t all that’s waiting tonight, he thought, with a sly smile Drossel didn’t see. The old man was shaking the reins over his mules, turning the wagon into the dark, away from the lights of the farming community.
The Drossels lived a half hour from Grinnell, on rolling land. There was no neighbor within two miles, and the topography made it hard to catch a glimpse of their neat white house and barns from a distance.
Once in the house, Bent changed to a dry shirt and socks in the cramped garret space up a short stair from the entrance to the Drossels’ second-floor bedroom. Frau Drossel, resembling some little girl’s button-eyed doll, and always prattling, brought steaming platters of schnitzel and red cabbage to the lace-covered table. Herr Drossel offered his dusty bottle of schnapps as though it were French champagne. Its hot peppermint bite soothed Bent’s nerves somewhat; it warmed him and made him forget the tedious sound of the rain. Presently, the rain stopped. Bent was gratified. That would help his plan.
“We are so sorry you will be leaving, Herr Dayton,” Frau Drossel said after the meal was over. “It is lonely out here. So hard to fill the long winter nights.”
You’ll never have to fret about filling another, Bent thought. He was barely able to grunt an answer, because his head hurt so much. When Drossel left the table, Bent noted the bulge of the cash in his pants pocket. The farmer kept the money with him as he busied about the downstairs, checking window latches, locking doors. Bent pleaded tiredness and said good night.
“Good night, Herr Dayton,” Frau Drossel said, impulsively standing on tiptoe to kiss his stubbly cheek. He fought to keep from recoiling in disgust. Her weepy old eyes sickened him. “It has been so good, your company for all these weeks.”
“I wish I could stay, Frau Drossel. You and your husband are like a family to me.” The lights were flashing and bursting behind his eyes. His low-hanging shoulder throbbed from the damp cold. “I shall truly miss you. But life takes each one of us along a different road.”
“Yes, what a pity,” she exclaimed, while he envisioned the hell-bright glare at the end of her road. He nearly giggled. But he maintained his pious expression as she patted him. “But I understand that you must locat
e those who are dear to you.”
“Yes, and I’m close now. It will be soon.”
“Good night, Herr Dayton,” Drossel called as Bent climbed the narrow little stair. Closing the garret door, he heard Drossel’s parting remark. “You are a good man.”
Instead of preparing for bed, he donned his coat again, then wrapped a long wool scarf around his neck. He pulled his valise from under the bed and examined the contents. He did it every night, a kind of superstitious ritual to guarantee success.
The rolled-up painting lay in the bottom under a few dirty garments. He groped down among the clothing until his fingers touched the teardrop earring.
Smiling, he shut the valise and snapped the clasps. From a corner shelf he took the soiled plug hat stolen to replace the one lost in Lehigh Station. He put the hat on, then drew on mittens with most of the fingertips missing. He sat fully dressed on the edge of the bed while the awl of pain bore deeper into his skull, and the imaginary lights burst and dazzled.
Below, he heard the clock in the old couple’s bedroom chime half after twelve. Time.
He crept down the stairs and slowly turned the knob of their door. He opened the door, listened to the regular breathing from the two sleepers. He stepped in and shut the door, which clicked faintly. A moment later muffled cries filled the house.
The rain had passed, but a residual damp remained. Bent was shivering as he hobbled out of the dooryard of the farm. He turned left into the westbound road, a rutted mire of standing water and wet brown soil. His boots went in and out of the mud with sucking sounds.
He walked a quarter of a mile before feeling safe enough to stop and look back. He kept his left hand in his pocket, the fingers stroking and caressing the huge lump of cash taken from Herr Drossel. His excited manhood pushed against the lump from the inner side of the pocket.
“Ah—” A beatific sign. The farmhouse was no longer merely a white blur in the night. Rosy light glowed behind smoking curtains in upstairs windows. As he watched, the curtains ignited.
Bent huddled at the roadside, anticipating the delicious sound that he heard a moment later. The old couple. Bludgeoned unconscious, then securely lashed to their bed with strips of sheet. They were waking up. Feeling the heat of the fire he’d set in the downstairs parlor. Feeling it scorch and cook the floor under their bed—the bed they couldn’t escape from.
They had thought him such a good man. They should have learned it was dangerous to trust appearances, or take strangers at their word, in this shit-hole world.
An upper window burst, then another. Flames shot out. Behind the roar, he heard screaming.
Bent turned his back on the brilliance and crouched over his valise. From it he took the teardrop earring in its setting of filigreed gold. He passed his fingertips over the pearl several times, each time with an exquisite sexual thrill. The memory of Constance’s gashed throat was vivid.
Small foamy bubbles on his lip burst as he screwed the post of the earring into his left lobe. Wearing the memento of his punishment of George Hazard pleased and amused him.
He set the plug hat on his head and hobbled westward. The bobbing pearl caught the light of the burning farmhouse; it was as if an iridescent drop of coagulated blood hung from his left ear.
Slowly the firelight receded to the horizon and he hobbled in darkness, keeping himself warm by squeezing the great lump of cash and imagining his next victim and thinking, Soon. Soon.
_________
LESSON XI.
Boys at Play.
Can you fly a kite? See how the boy flies his kite. He holds the string fast, and the wind blows it up. …
Boys love to run and play.
But they must not be rude. Good boys do not play in a rude way, but take care not to hurt any one.
When boys are at play they must be kind, and not feel cross. If you are cross, good boys will not like to play with you.
When you fall down, you must not cry, but get up, and run again. If you cry, the boys will call you a baby. …
McGuffey’s Eclectic
First Readers
1836-1844
_________
MADELINE’S JOURNAL
October, 1868. Civil authorities can find no culprit for the murders of May and Ridley. Why did I assume they would? Justice might be done if the military investigated, but they cannot. S.C. is “reconstructed.” …
Theo bought an old ship’s bell in C’ston. I rubbed off the tarnish and nailed it up beside the front door to sound an alarm if it’s needed. We now have our own Ashley District militia—all Negroes, most from M.R.—organized to prevent interference at the polls. The Klan is seen frequently in the district Tensions remain very high. So a man stands guard over this house each night. In a civilized country, a country at peace, it seems unimaginable. Yet I hear the watchman patrolling, his bare feet rustling the mat of pine straw on the ground, and I know the peril is real. …
M-L growing listless because of her confinement here. Her education is neglected. An unsatisfactory situation. Must do something. …
November, 1868. To town, on the second-to-last day of the campaign. Saw a soldier’s parade—marching unit calling themselves “Boys in Blue for Grant.” Posters by Thos. Nast, the N’York cartoonist, render the Gen’l. with a marble elegance. But Badeau’s and Richardson’s campaign biographies go begging in a bookshop.
Seymour, Grant’s opponent, poorly regarded here, but Blair, his running mate, is a darling of white citizens. Blair calls the Reconstruction gov’ts “bastard and spurious,” offers broad promises of restoring the Southern “birthright,” and openly declares the white race “the only race that has shown itself capable of maintaining free institutions of a free government.” No wonder Yankees say, “Scratch a Democrat and you will find a Rebel under his skin.” Judith said she feared to scratch Cooper lest she learn the truth. I saw great anxiety behind the weak jest; C. is rabid for Blair. …
… All over, with no surprises. Grant is elected. In Dixie, Seymour carried only Louisiana and Georgia. So much for Blair’s promises to “disperse the carpet-bag state gov’ts and compel the army to undo its usurpations.” Every eligible man at M.R. voted, of which I am very proud. …
Theo here for supper. Left just before I sat down to write this. For the first time, he and M-L raised the subject of marriage. I do not oppose it, but she is Cooper’s child. How far do I dare go to abet something sure to inflame—Must stop. Noise outside—
In single file, the riders turned into the lane from the river road. A sickle moon set white highlights flashing along the barrels of their weapons.
They proceeded slowly under the arch of trees and rode around the white house quietly. They drew up in a line at the front door. In the moonlight their shimmering robes and hoods had a black cast. The eyeholes reflected no light at all.
The horseman in the center of the line raised his old squirrel rifle. A man on his right saw the signal, scraped a match on the heel of his plow shoe, and touched it to an oil-soaked torch. The light blazed up, illuminating the half-dozen riders.
“Call her out,” said the man at the extreme right of the line. He sat his horse near the lowest limbs of a huge gnarled live oak. The upper portion of the oak’s trunk was all but hidden by Spanish moss. Some bird or squirrel moved there, a faint rattling. The rider on the end peered upward, saw nothing.
The man at the center of the line raised an old speaking trumpet. Suddenly the front door flew back and Madeline stepped out, her left hand rising toward the rope of the ship’s bell.
“Stay,” ordered the man with the trumpet and squirrel rifle. Madeline looked pale as she clutched the front of a man’s cotton robe worn thin at the elbows. Behind her, the stout schoolteacher peered out, and then Marie-Louise.
“We are the knights of the Invisible Empire assembled,” said the man in the center. His nervous horse shied.
Madeline startled them all by laughing. “You’re little boys hiding your faces because you’re cowa
rds. I recognize your long legs, Mr. LaMotte. At least have the decency to remove that hood and act like a man.”
A Klansman at the left of the line hiked up both sides of his robe and put his hands on the matched butts of revolvers. “Let’s kill the damn bitch. I ain’t here to debate a nigger.”
The man in the center raised the squirrel rifle to quiet the speaker. To Madeline he said, “You have twenty-four hours to leave the district.” The torch hissed. There was a clicking sound, a lever action putting a cartridge into a chamber, and a voice behind and to the right of the line boomed out:
“No, sir. Not just yet.”
They all turned as Madeline’s glance flashed to the mossy tree. A burly, round-faced black had crept into sight on a thick limb that bent under his weight. He braced his shoulders against a limb above, freeing both hands for his rifle. Madeline recognized gentle, reticent Foote; she hadn’t known who was standing guard tonight.
“I think you gen’men had just better turn ’round and ride off,” Foote said.
“Jesus, it’s only one nigger,” protested the man with twin revolvers.
“One nigger with a repeating rifle,” said another of the Klansmen. “I wouldn’t be hasty, Jack.”
“No names,” the man in the center exclaimed. Marie-Louise whispered at Madeline’s shoulder:
“It is Mrs. Allwick’s dancing teacher. I know his voice.”
Madeline nodded, her lips compressed. The man in the center of the line began, “Madam—” Madeline leaped forward, shot her hand upward, and tried to snatch his hood.
His horse danced and sidestepped. He batted at Madeline with the squirrel rifle but she wouldn’t be driven back. She jumped and clawed at the hood again. This time, she pulled it off. Des LaMotte’s face was red with fury.
“Well. At last. The notorious Mr. LaMotte. And I have a souvenir of your visit.” She held up the hood.
All of them watched her—the other two women and the Klansmen and Foote on the sagging limb. During the struggle for the hood, the Klansman with the two revolvers had drawn both of them. Still unnoticed, with everyone’s attention on Madeline, he bent his right arm, laid the muzzle of his left-hand gun on it, and squeezed the trigger.