If Mr. Dunne had been the wilful child before, now he was contrite. He blurted out, “Oh, Mrs. Tarr, I don’t know what I done to offend you, but I am most grievous sorry. I only done what I was told, what needed to be done to keep you safe and somehow I …”
She looked down and saw the pocket pistol resting in the middle of his enormous palm.
Impulsively, she took him by the sleeve, drew him into the house, and walked him to the parlour, saying, “Mr. Dunne, I most sincerely apologize for leaving you without an explanation. You are most chivalrous and kind. I promise you I will keep that gun close. For your sake, to ease your mind.” She took the gun from his hand and stowed it away in her bag. “There. It is settled.”
And Mr. Dunne had beamed.
Ada Tarr turns her eyes back out the window where faithful Mr. Dunne keeps watch over her. This morning she made sugar doughnuts before the heat of the day took hold. There is a pitcher of fresh lemonade. Mr. Dunne is a robust man, the kind of man with a great hunger to feed. She gets up and goes to the kitchen to prepare him a tray.
Stepping out onto the porch she murmurs, “Mr. Dunne, would you care for some refreshment?”
And Mr. Dunne, anticipating his treat, is the very illustration of heart-felt gratitude.
FIVE
August 4, 1876
REACHED FORT BENTON two days ago. The place is strained to the bursting point with sanctuary seekers. With a bit of luck I was able to secure lodgings for Hathaway, Joe, and myself in the Overland Hotel. A Methodist circuit rider had just been evicted because he was in arrears with his bill. The offer of two weeks’ payment – in advance – secured the room McMullen and I now share; greasing the palm of the bloodsucking proprietor with a little more cash got Hathaway a spot on the floor of the pantry.
Climbing the stairs to our room with Joe, I felt as if I was held together with nothing but flour paste. When McMullen stripped off his clothes and tossed himself down on his bed to sleep, I thought the glue had crumbled. I couldn’t trust my eyes. Stretched out on the counterpane, Joe resembled the corpse of one of those slaughtered bandits American lawmen lash to a board and prop up against a wall so they can have their photograph taken with the trophy. I saw that he is riddled with old bullet holes. Seven. I counted them to prove I wasn’t hallucinating. Maybe that sight gave me the jolt needed to shake loose that other picture from my head, the coyote’s accusing eyes, the slick guts hanging from its jaws. At any rate, given a respite from that, I slept the sleep of the dead, did not wake until three o’clock in the afternoon.
McMullen was up and about by then, spry and chipper, ready to embark on a tour of the saloons. He is determined to have a high old time in town before he returns to Fort Walsh to sell his cabin and its contents and collect his backpay from Walsh for breaking a string of mustangs for B Troop. No love lost between those two men, largely because Joe has never been able to hide his amusement at Walsh’s vanity, his taste for “dressing up.” The first time Joe saw the Major swanning about in a fringed buckskin shirt, a dress sword, and a slouch hat – which like a fussy milliner he had decorated with an eagle feather and a long silk scarf – he feigned wonder and amazement, saying within earshot of the Major that “Buffalo Bill himself could learn a thing or two from our very own eye-dazzler on how to primp and preen and prance.” It didn’t help Joe’s standing with the Major either when it got back to him that B Troop’s horse breaker was calling the hero-worshipping constables who sported imperials in admiration of their commander’s own dashing beard “Walsh’s Chinny Chin Chin Hairs.” The Major is not a man to be mocked; he holds a grudge.
Joe did his best to coax me to join him in a night on the town, but I begged off, pleading fatigue. I felt a contemptible sneak when he finally left, but I need to be discreet regarding my business with Major Guido Ilges. Joe is such a garrulous fellow that he is apt to drop a careless word on some occasion. This is a matter that requires circumspection.
Setting out to pay my call on Ilges, I had no idea of the character of the man I was about to encounter. Once or twice, when I’d been on leave in Benton, I had noticed him going about the street in uniform, but that hardly qualifies as acquaintance. And Walsh had been of little help in providing insight into his American counterpart. If the Major gets off on the wrong foot with a man, as he did with Joe, it blinds him to any virtues that individual might possess. “Six-foot-six of stogie-smoking, sauerkraut-farting Prussian” was the best he could do to sum Ilges up. The only useful thing for me in that description was the reference to Ilges’s weakness for cigars, so on my way to the post I stopped off at Wetzel’s General Merchandise to buy a peace offering to deliver along with the lettated f introduction I carried in my pocket.
The tinkle of Wetzel’s bell, the aroma of oiled floorboards, sugar-cured bacon, coffee, soap, leather, pickling brine, boiled sweets, cheese, lanolin, and kerosene took me back to those happy Saturday mornings before what Mother euphemistically called the Great Disruption – a phrase that always capitalized itself in my boy’s mind as the title of a mysteriously arcane book whose meaning I could not grasp. But when I was five or six years old, long before the Great Disruption, long before Father flung himself at the feet of the scullery maid, every Saturday morning he and I would stroll down Ottawa’s streets to, as he put it, “take a look at the accounts” at Case’s Merchandise, son and heir, hand in hand. By then, Father’s business concerns had expanded beyond logging. The Merchandise was only one of his many enterprises and a very minor cog in his money-making apparatus, but to me it seemed his crowning achievement. Other boys may have dreamed of being Captain Cook, Francis Drake, or General Wolfe, but I can remember only one overweening ambition – to succeed lucky Mr. Tunbridge and to someday manage the Merchandise and take charge of that treasure house of mints, harnesses, oranges, enamelled pans, nuts, shovels, dates, shotguns, bolts of cloth, and gingersnaps. I wandered up and down the aisles touching and smelling all the wares, stood gazing up at the stamped-tin ceiling, mesmerized by the play of sunlight on its shiny surface while Mr. Tunbridge and Father examined the ledgers in a backroom. On those Saturdays I felt a happiness that seemed inextinguishable.
When I told Wetzel’s cordial clerk that I was looking for a box of cigars for the commander of the garrison, he was delighted to inform me the Major was a regular customer and to point me to Ilges’s favourite brand, manufactured by Kennedy Bros. of Canaan, Indiana. With the box tucked under my arm, I proceeded through the town. Fort Benton has suddenly become a gloomy place now, displays little of the rollicking high spirits I remember from my last visit here. Out-of-work river rats and freighters hang about on corners, hands stuffed in empty pockets, mourning the whores and whiskey a shortage of funds puts out of their reach. Poke-bonneted countrywomen eye the prices in shop windows, hands folded up in their aprons, calculating how to feed their families on a thin dime. All were so wrapped up in doleful thoughts that I did not merit so much as a glance as I made my way down Front Street – except one from a billy goat perched on a hogshead, chewing on an old flour sack.
Near the post I passed an encampment of soldiers, reinforcements in transit to face the Sioux. They are bivouacked hard by an alkali flat, and when a wind comes up, it raises a blizzard of dust. That afternoon it was blowing, and a spectral picket line of horses powdered in bitter white alkali was standing there, heads hung low in the heat. The soldiers sat drooped on campstools, or wandered about with a haunted, aimless air, their blue uniforms turned ashen. They looked to be at the end of a long campaign rather than at the beginning of one.
I gave the officer of the day Walsh’s letter of introduction, requested him to give it to the commander, and asked him to inquire whether Major Ilges would be so good as to grant me an interview. After a short wait, I was ushered into his office, a large, airy room spartanly furnished with a few cane chairs and an oak filing cabinet. Ilges was seated behind a baize-covered desk, a big map of Montana Territory on the wall behind him. He was wearing a green eyesh
ade and was toying with the letter he had just been given. When he stood to shakemy hand the room suddenly seemed to shrink, the ceiling to lower. The man dwarfed everything in sight.
Although his manner was professionally amiable it was also distinctly wary. His English is fluent with only a slight trace of the Deutsch. We passed a few pleasantries and managed to achieve an absolute unanimity of opinion on the weather: hot and with little prospect of rain. I gave him the cigars, accompanied with the white lie that they came with the compliments of Major Walsh. Ilges’s eyebrows gave a skeptical bob when he heard that, but he politely replied, “That is very kind of him.” At his insistence I helped myself to a cigar. We sat down and passed a few moments of awkward silence camouflaged in smoke.
Then, suddenly, Ilges embarked on an anecdote about a bizarre decree passed by the Prussian government which had forbidden the smoking of cigars in public unless they were fitted with a wire mesh to prevent their ends coming into contact with women’s crinolines. The Kaiser feared for the ladies’ lives, feared mass incinerations in the ballrooms of his kingdom. As he related this, Ilges’s accent noticeably thickened. It was as if he were performing in a music-hall skit, lampooning an officious German puffing away on his own terrible incendiary device. Finishing his story, he looked me steadily in the eye and said, “Ah, the Germans. So obsessed with rules, with order. Ridiculous, nein?”
I suspected this self-parody was a response to the tantrum Walsh had confessed to throwing, some slur he had probably cast on the Teutonic race in the heat of the moment. I took my time replying. “Don’t mistake me for Walsh,” I said. “I am a cautious man. Unlike him, I have a taste for order.”
Ilges gave a pat to the letter of introduction lying on the desktop. “That is what Walsh says in this. He claims you are a rational man. That you calculate like an abacus.” I could see him studying me closely, and was pleased to think that in choosing to describe myself as an abacus I had intrigued him. “He mentions you bring me a proposal – one that he hopes I find agreeable. I am not convinced agreement between the Major and me is possible. The last time we met was not a pleasant occasion. When I spoke of my intention to keep a copy of any report I sent him, and suggested that he do the same with any he submitted to me, Walsh was outraged. He said I had insulted him by suggesting he was likely to distort any information I provided him. I hurried to assure him my motives were simply this: if any of my superiors in this time of crisis charged me with being negligent in the performance of my duty, I wanted proof to the contrary. But Major Walsh stormed out of my office.” A brief smile flitted over Ilges’s lips. “I do not want my crinoline set aflame by President Grant’s cigar.”
I was realizing that the man did not conform at all to Walsh’s disparaging description of him. Then my eyes fell on a framed daguerreotype on his desk, which depicted Union officers gathered around cannons, and what I took to be a captured Confederate flag. Ilges was easily recognizable among them because of his great height. Walsh, who has yearned for battle and never seen it, must have felt the thorn in his paw when he saw his counterpart in Fort Benton pictured this way. I said, “Major Walsh was wrong to view your actions in such a light. Yours was an eminently sensible precaution. He sees that now.” I paused before adding a qualification. “What you say about establishing a record is all very well, but I think you wacknowledge official correspondence has its limitations.”
Ilges took off his green eyeshade and carefully stowed it away in a small mahogany box. I sensed that was a stratagem to mask that his curiosity had been piqued. “In what sense?” he asked, careful to display no particular interest.
“I’m sure that it is your experience that anything to be read by a higher-up encourages circumspection, a certain guardedness in the writer.”
Ilges conceded that with a slight dip of the head.
“Here we are talking about an even touchier situation, one in which the governments of our respective countries are demanding you and Walsh to keep each other fully apprised of developments on your side of the border. But we know that perfect frankness is not possible.”
“Do we? It is very kind of you to speak for me.”
It was a mild reproof, accompanied by a faint smile, but I felt the force of it. “I beg pardon, Major. Perhaps I am too much in love with abstractions, but permit me to pose a hypothetical. Let us say that you provided an estimation on the morale or fighting quality of the troops in the field, or passed an opinion whether your generals were likely to succeed or fail in suppressing the Sioux uprising in the next few weeks or even months. How would that sit with the higher authorities? It would not be appreciated.” I shrugged. “But surely that is exactly the kind of information that would be very useful because it bears on the possibility of the Sioux arriving in Walsh’s vicinity. It would influence how, when, and where he readies himself to meet the threat.” I paused. “I could think of other instances of a similar kind. But no matter how pertinent such information could be, no one would commit it to writing for fear of being seen to criticize those in command.”
“So this is what Walsh is proposing?” demanded Ilges with some asperity. “That I pull his fat from the fire and leave mine to burn?”
“Far from it,” I assured him. “On the face of it, it may appear you have more to give in such an exchange than Major Walsh. The telegraph office here surely provides you with updates on the latest military developments, troop movements, and so forth. Steamboats from downriver bring news and rumours concerning the Sioux from every place they pick up cargo and passengers. In that sense, you have a great advantage over Walsh, who is isolated from the wider world. But he has resources you do not. His half-breed scouts are welcomed in all the Indian camps. He and his troopers go wherever they please, unmolested by any of the northern tribes. I put this question to you with the greatest respect – does the American army have that freedom of movement, those kinds of friendly relations with the Indians?”
“I admit that we do not,” he said grudgingly.
“Presently, no one knows where the Sioux are. They must be located before they can be beaten. Other Indians are likely to know their whereabouts. Walsh has access to those Indians, he can go straight to the horse’s mouth.”
I could see Ilges was weighing what he had just heard. Coaxingly, I said, am well aware of the size of the garrison here, Major. It is small. Hardly adequate to protect Fort Benton and its outlying areas if the Sioux arrive here. Am I correct in assuming that you do not have sufficient soldiers at your disposal to reconnoitre the border area?”
“The answer is obvious. I do not.”
“Walsh is as eager to know where the Sioux might be as you are. Let me put you another hypothetical. If his Métis scouts and police patrols extended below the line, might that not be useful to both of you if something were learned about the hostiles’ location? Of course, the question is rhetorical because no government will countenance extraterritorial incursions. They are a violation of national sovereignty, no matter how practical they might be.” There I left it hanging.
Ilges wore a doubtful look. “You are suggesting Walsh and I go behind our superiors’ backs.”
“I am suggesting that you strike a gentleman’s agreement so that you can do exactly what you have been charged to do. You have been ordered to share information fully, but your hands are tied. As the crow flies, Fort Benton and Fort Walsh are separated by less than a hundred miles. Everyone expects that if the Sioux make for Canada, they will pass this way. This is your ground. You will be held responsible if a mishap occurs here.”
Ilges sat thinking. When he spoke, I detected indecision in his voice. “I cannot refute what you say, but I am not prepared to act recklessly.”
“One could say that under the circumstances the advantages outweigh the risks. Yes? The authorities will settle for nothing less than success. I suggest that what I and Walsh propose offers the best chance of achieving it.” I hesitated before adding, “I tell you this in confidence. Major Walsh fears
that if he does not produce results, no explanation for failure will serve to satisfy his masters. They will have him out on his ear.”
“He left no such impression with me,” said Ilges.
“Walsh does not admit fear. He is constitutionally incapable of that. But I heard it in his voice when we talked about these matters.”
With great caution, Ilges said, “And how would this utter frankness, this perfect honesty, be achieved?”
“I plan to establish myself here in Fort Benton. If you were amenable, I could act as an honest broker. Anything sensitive could pass through me. As a civilian, my communications with Walsh would naturally be assumed to be personal and private. They would not be subject to scrutiny. Whatever you told me that could be viewed askance by your superiors I would convey to him by letter. Whatever Major Walsh wrote me I would pass on to you verbally. Whatever you learn from each other unofficially,” I said, laying stress on the word, “can appear in your reports without mentioning from whom it came – present it as hearsay, your own deductions, the fruit of your own intelligence gathering, however you wish. Or do not pass it on at all. That is for each of you to decide.”
He shook his head. “I am an orderly man. It goes against the grain.”
“I understand your reservations, but in a crisis like this it seems to me the gravest danger to you and Walsh is to be regarded as having failed those above you. In times of panic blame is seldom allotted fairly.” Ilges was listening closely. “All one has to do is read the papers. Do you see any willingness on the part of Congress or President Grant’s administration to shoulder any blame for Custer’s defeat? No. It is shifted to those lower in the chain of command, men like you and Walsh. I have read a good deal about the damage foreigners have done to your army – the Irish and others,” I said. “Some would even like to lay the defeat at Little Bighorn on the shoulders of the Italian trumpeter who carried Custer’s order for reinforcements to be sent up – it is claimed his English could not be understood. A battle lost because of an accent.” I paused. “Some people make better scapegoats than others.”
A Good Man Page 8
