33.
In the morning I figured maybe I’d dreamed it. Everything went on the way it should. We ate our beans and bacon, we drank our coffee, we broke camp, we moved on. Didn’t nothing unexpected happen. But once or twice I felt him looking at me. His eyes, brushing against my skin. Each time I turned my head he was staring in the other direction.
About noontime we ride into a real pleasant spot. The hills come rolling down to meet in a valley where a river flows slow and steady between them, the banks lined with tall cottonwoods. The only thing that wasn’t pleasing to the eye was the government buildings, squatting like dung heaps at the foot of the hills. And what was even less pleasing to the eye was the civilian agent who come out to meet us.
His face was burned red as the wattles on a rooster. And I ain’t never seen no one strut so much. He was what, nineteen? Twenty? Something like that. He was so young and ignorant he didn’t know how much he didn’t know. He was acting like he was the biggest toad in the puddle. Seemed to think he was just about the smartest and the most important man in the whole of America. And the way he talked about his Indians brought to mind the master talking about his property.
“My Indians don’t mind leaving here, not now I’ve explained it to them. They’re like children: they require a firm hand. They know it’s for the best. They’re glad to be heading somewhere new. It’s a fresh beginning for them. They’re loyal creatures, you know – they’d follow me to the ends of the earth. It’s absurd, sending an army escort. I told Washington I could manage quite well without you.”
See, it turned out the place we’d arrived at had been a reservation. Only it wasn’t one no more. I guess the government had decided the spot was a deal too pleasant for a bunch of heathen savages. Them Apaches had been living quiet, doing what they been told, but it wasn’t enough. Their land was being given over to settlers. We got to escort all them Indians to a new reservation. I didn’t especially like it, but orders is orders, and we got to follow them.
We have all them folks line up and Captain MacIntyre says we got to take everything off of them before we leave. Knives, belts, ropes, itty-bitty bits of twine: anything they got has to be taken. I’m going on down along the line and them folks is handing over their things peaceable but then I come to a girl maybe four, five years old. She got a little pouch tied to her waist with a piece of cord. When I cut it off her she start crying. She don’t make no sound at all but them tears splash on my hand as I get that pouch free. It’s light as a feather. There ain’t nothing in it. Nothing at all. I turn it inside out and there ain’t even a speck of dust. And I figure, What in the hell does it matter if one little Indian girl gets to keep her pouch? It’s probably all she got in the world. I take it off the cord. Fold the pouch real small. When Captain MacIntyre ain’t looking I pick her hand up, shove it into her palm, fold her fingers over it quick so don’t no one see.
Excepting Jim does. He give me a look. But I can’t read what he’s thinking.
When we done taking them folks’ possessions off of them we fetches out the prisoners from the guardhouse and load them onto a cart.
“Dangerous hostiles,” the agent calls them. Then he tells the Captain, “You know, I captured them single-handed.”
“Yep. Sure you did.” I say them words so quiet I can hardly hear them myself. But Jim look at me. And sweet heaven above! he come on over.
He nod at Red Face. “Gobbling Turkey.”
“That what you call him? Figures.” My heart’s thumping so loud I’m sure he can hear that too. I’m trying to cover it up when I says, “This here’s a mighty pleasant spot.”
“I was born here.”
“These your folks, then? Your family?” I’m looking to see if there’s a wife. A sweetheart. But there ain’t no one looking at him special.
He nod. Don’t say nothing more for a while. But then he says, “My mother was Mexican. She was – how would you say? – a captive.” He don’t mention his pa.
“You mean like a slave?” That hit me like a kick to the chest. “Hell!” I breathe it out between my teeth. “So where is she?”
“She died. I don’t remember her.”
“I don’t recall mine neither.”
Silence come down between us, but then he glance about at the rest of Company W and he says, “Do any of them know?”
And I don’t say, “Know what?” because it’s plain as day what he means.
“No.”
“Just me?”
“Just you.”
He looks at me and there’s an understanding passes between us. It’s like something deep down inside recognizes one another. There’s a bond, fastens us together like the buckle on a belt strap. I don’t need to explain myself because he knows why I’m here. And I don’t need to ask him what in the hell he’s doing working for the army either because I know. We’re both getting by the only way we can. When it come down to it, we’re the same.
We get them Indians ready to move on out. Didn’t none of them make no sound. There was no weeping, no wailing, no complaining. Gobbling Turkey thought they was fine: that they wasn’t making no fuss because they plain didn’t care. As far as he was concerned they was happy as hogs in muck.
I knew what was keeping them so quiet. Hadn’t never thought much about a people’s pride before. But that was what I seen then. Pride. And grieving so deep it was way beyond words.
The cart with the prisoners rolls out first and the rest of them follow along. Silent. Sorrowing. Like folks walking behind a coffin.
But Jim hangs back. When I look over my shoulder I see he’s flat on the ground, lying in the dirt, taking handfuls of that earth and squeezing it in his fingers. Rolling in it. Different directions. Head pointing north, south, east, west. Then he’s back up on his feet and he got his arms around one of them cottonwoods. His face is pressed to the bark and he’s breathing deep, like he trying to fix the smell in his head.
Then he come on after us, running to catch up.
I guess maybe it was having my soul stuck in his body that done it. When we left that valley I felt something tearing. I could hear a sound like a clod of grass being pulled up or a tree falling. Roots, ripping from the ground.
34.
There was around about a hundred of them Indians and a hundred of us and didn’t none of them give none of us any cause for alarm the whole way so maybe Gobbling Turkey was right about not needing no army escort.
When trouble come, it didn’t come from them Apaches. It come from the good and noble citizens of America.
Ain’t nothing some folks like more than kicking a person who’s already down. We was passing through a little town. There was maybe one blacksmith, one general store, one bank and about twenty saloons lining the street either side. Bill Hickey should have known there was sure to be trouble in a place like that. Maybe he did. Maybe he was even looking forward to it. Because he steered us right on through.
Each and every one of them citizens who come out to watch the fun was mean, ugly drunk.
To begin with watching is all they do. But then they start whispering. Once one starts, the others get to joining in. Soon they’re yelling out. Before too long they’re baying like a pack of hounds. I ain’t repeating what they said.
Now most all of that yelling is aimed at them Indians. But some of it is aimed at us too. They’re screaming and one or two are making monkey noises and pulling faces and thinking they’re just the smartest and the wittiest folks in the whole of creation. Don’t none of them seem to have grasped the notion that Company W is here to protect them. That we’re the ones who are civilizing the place so they can live peaceful in it.
But if they was being bad to us and them Indians they was even worse to Captain MacIntyre. Hell, he should have been ashamed of himself, leading the likes of us! Didn’t he have no self respect? How could he call himself a man? What did he think he was doing?
Now while they was just shouting and staying put, we carried on riding and them India
ns carried on walking. But then five of them citizens step out in front of the Captain, blocking the way, and he ain’t got no choice but to stop.
One of them men look the Captain up and down. He got a straggly beard. His coat is torn and he look real rough but it don’t seem to bother him none. He got a length of rope coiled in his hands and I can see precisely what he’s planning to do with it. He spit at the Captain’s feet. Then he says, “Where y’all heading?”
“Step aside, man. We’re escorting these people to their reservation.”
“They ain’t people.” And he’s looking straight at Jim when he says, “They’re Indians.” He walk on over to the wagons. “And these here are thieving, murdering, savages.” He start uncoiling the rope. “Time we had ourselves a hanging.”
“These prisoners are in my custody. You will do nothing to harm them.”
“You sure about that? We don’t need no help from no army. Give us the prisoners. Then you can ride on out.”
Captain MacIntyre’s tempted. You can see it in his eyes. But he tell them men to back off, to move away, to let us proceed.
Now we was all stone-cold sober and them men was staggering drunk. If it come to a fight it was clear as day who was gonna win.
But drunk folks don’t see nothing clearly. They don’t back off and they don’t back away. They all come on over to the wagons. They start pulling out the prisoners.
Or they try to. The minute one of them lay a hand on the first, Captain MacIntyre fires a warning shot in the air. They’re drawing their guns but they all too slow from the whisky. Before they can get a finger to the trigger me, Elijah and all them nearest to the wagon has our guns aiming at their heads. The rest of Company W is pointing theirs into the crowds watching on the sidewalks.
It still don’t stop the man with the beard. He’s way too fired up. He’s reached in, got the end of his rope around a prisoner’s neck. When he gives a tug the Captain fires.
He’s aimed low. Hit the man’s boot, was all. Just through the toe. But that man fall to the ground like he dead. He lay there for a second or two then he start hollering about how he been murdered.
It seemed to have something of a sobering effect on the rest of them. They drag him to the side, and we go on our way, rifles trained on the citizens as the Indians get clear. Me and Elijah was detailed to sit tight until the last of them was free of the town.
As the column of prisoners disappear over the horizon them good folks start advancing on us. We was outnumbered and they knew it. When we turn tail and gallop after the rest of Company W we got a hailstorm of bullets fired after us. Was lucky they was all too damned drunk to shoot straight.
We was ten days marching them Indians to that reservation. Some of them got sick and about eight of them died so we left a line of graves across the desert marking the way we come. And all the time Gobbling Turkey was telling them he’s leading them to the Promised Land, like he’s Jesus, Joseph and Moses all rolled into one. And all the time I’m aching from thinking about Jim but there ain’t nothing I can do about it. I wanted to go on and talk to him, but I knew it wouldn’t stop there. I wanted so bad to touch him it scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t do that, not if I wanted to stay in the army. And there was no place else to go. So I kept away. And he didn’t come and find me.
When we arrived at that reservation my heart sank right down into my army-issue boots. It was the most godforsaken place I ever did see. I figured the only reason the government had given it to them Indians was because no settler would ever have a use for it. The river water was bad. Wriggling with worms. Stinking to high heaven. The rest of it was desert. Couldn’t nothing live there but rattlesnakes and scorpions. And what was them Apaches supposed to do all day? Couldn’t grow nothing, like they been told to – was just a heap of dry dust. Couldn’t do no hunting. Couldn’t do nothing but sit. Lie down. Die. Which I guess is precisely what them fine gentlemen in Washington had in mind when they sent them there.
Looking at that godawful patch of sand put me in mind of when we been riding through Indian territory all them years ago. For the first time I admitted to myself that them Cherokees wasn’t the simple-minded crazies I’d once took them for. They hadn’t given up their land to the Delaneys voluntary. They been forced off of it, same as these Apaches had. Being civilized – being tame – hadn’t benefited them any more than it had benefited Captain Smith’s turkey chicks. Any more than it had benefited them bears. Hell and goddammit! They wasn’t the dumbass fools. I was. Why had it taken me so long to work that one out?
Captain MacIntyre tells them Indians that if any of them moves so much as a toe beyond the reservation boundary they’ll be shot as hostiles. Elijah was hanging his head. So was Isaiah. I couldn’t even look in Jim’s direction.
As far as I could see them Indians had a choice. Die on that reservation. Die on the run. I figured sooner or later most of them would prefer to die running. I could see them Indian wars was a long way from over yet.
I reckon the whole of Company W was feeling bad. Then Gobbling Turkey starts telling Captain MacIntyre how we won’t have no more trouble from them Apaches. All his Indians is real happy now, and wasn’t it a wonderful journey – a migration to the land of flowing milk and honey, just like the Israelites coming out of Egypt?
If Reuben had of been there, he would have pissed his pants laughing.
35.
If the Lord been playing games when it come to Jim it was nothing compared to what he had in store for me next.
After we deliver all them Indians to their reservation the scouts take us back to the fort. When we arrive we get told our new officer has come in. Captain MacIntyre is relieved of his command, which put a great big smile on his face. We was told to get ready for inspection.
Wasn’t none of us expecting no second Captain Smith. We all knew how lucky we been with him. I wasn’t expecting much. But I was hoping for something other than what we got.
When he walk out of the officers’ quarters I catch a glimpse of golden curls out the corner of my eye. Right away I get that familiar clenching in my stomach. Come on, Charley, I tell myself. Don’t be such a damned fool. Get a hold on yourself. Your bowels can’t go turning to water every time you see a stranger with that colour hair.
But the closer he get the more my stomach’s churning. Because as he come nearer that shape don’t resolve itself into a stranger. The closer he come and the nearer he get, the more familiar he look. I know that walk. I know the way he flap his hands when he’s all uptight like he is now. I know every line, every look, every gesture. It ain’t no stranger. It ain’t Angel Face. It ain’t Private Creech. Hell and goddammit! It’s him. This time it really is him. Hellfire and damnation! Damn his eyes! It’s Jonas Beecher.
My stomach’s clenching so bad I want to bend double. I want to run. Not just for the latrines. To run and run and never stop running.
“You all right, Charley?” Elijah’s seen the look on my face.
“Nope.”
What in the hell Jonas is doing in the army is anybody’s guess. Suppose it ain’t no stranger than Reuben ending up with them Indians. No stranger than me being here.
“You know him?”
“Yep.”
“That ain’t good, right?”
We can’t say nothing more. I give the order and everyone’s stood to attention. Jonas is gonna come down the line. Starting with me. Because I’m his sergeant.
I got a burning sensation now. I’m clenching my butt cheeks together tight as I can but they about to give up on me, I just know it.
Jonas take a look at me. He don’t do much more than glance in my direction. I was used to meeting Captain Smith’s eyes. I spent years holding my head up. All that pride vanish in a heartbeat. My eyes fix on the dirt at his feet.
He can’t know me, not after all this time. I been a child when he last laid eyes on me. It was before the war! There was no way he could put together that little girl with the sergeant in front of him.
Was there?
His eyes has moved on. I start to breathe again. But there’s something in me that he finds interesting because he look back. Then he ask the worst possible question. “Ain’t I seen you someplace before?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.”
“What’s you name, Sergeant?”
“O’Hara, sir.”
“Where you from?”
I don’t answer. Don’t have to.
Because that’s the moment my butt cheeks give up on me. Ain’t much go leaking out. But Jonas catch the smell.
“You goddamned dirty, stinking nigger,” he says. “Get outta here.”
I clean myself up as best I can. And then I find I’m on report. The rest of that day I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing out Captain Beecher’s quarters as a punishment for having gotten my uniform soiled.
“Who is he, Charley?”
“Overseer’s boy.”
“They letting Confederates into the army now? Dammit!”
“His pa was a Yankee.”
“You had a Yankee overseer?”
“Crazy, ain’t it?”
Elijah shrug. “No crazier than anything else, I guess. He figure out you know him?”
“Nope.” He can’t have. I’m still here, after all. Wearing my uniform, not a dress. “He didn’t say nothing. Guess he figures we all look the same.” I mean, we had plenty of that over the years: General Michaels’ men, roaring with laughter, “How do you tell your men apart, Captain Smith?”
“He look like a mean cuss.”
“Yep. He is.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m thinking, He wasn’t always that way. I was sure, now I’d seen him again, that them pictures in my head of him happy, smiling, was things I’d recalled, not dreamed up. He’d lifted me into that tree because I’d asked him to. I’d wanted to see for myself what the world looked like from up there and he’d obliged.
It was a damned fool notion but I started wondering if I could figure out what had turned him mean. If I knew what it was, maybe I could figure out a way to turn him back again. Jonas was a train heading off down the track, full steam ahead. But if I could find the points, if I could make them switch? Maybe, just maybe, Jonas might change direction.
Buffalo Soldier Page 19
