by Len Levinson
The passions of the people, which should have been pacified for four more years, were revived by the speech. A few days later. Republican Senator Joshua Giddings of Ohio stood in the Senate well and criticized slaveowners for literally beating Negroes into submission, and for “polluting Negro women with their seed,” then selling their dusky children down the river. The speech went on for two hours, as he berated the South and its northern sympathizers, such as President Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire.
Finally, Senator Giddings sat, red-faced with exertion, to be answered by Senator Bramwell Bennett of Mississippi, who countered by speaking proudly of southern determination to manage their own institutions. Then, in his summation, Senator Bennett turned dramatically toward Senator Giddings, pointed his bony finger, and declared: “I challenge the member from Ohio to please draw the distinction between the slaveholder bringing his property into subjection by the lash, and the northern industrialist forcing his poor workers into subjection by starvation!”
And thus the great slavery debate continued, leading the nation unswervingly toward the most terrible disaster imaginable.
Disaster appeared far-off during Christmas of ‘56 as horses pulled sleighs with jingling bells up Broadway, and Buck Barrington returned home from West Point to spend the holiday with his mother and brother. Sitting in a hired coach with torn seat cushions, he noted Christmas decorations in the windows of expensive shops and the gay atmosphere of carolers on street corners, his eyes especially attracted to fashionably dressed young women, for Buck was at the age when females occupied approximately 100 percent of his mental processes.
He saw Washington Square festooned with multicolored lanterns and a twenty-foot Christmas tree had been erected in the middle of the parade ground as the coach came to a halt before the familiar three-story brownstone mansion. Buck stepped to the sidewalk, attired in his tight-fitting West Point Uniform, with gold buttons down each side of his gray jacket, and wearing a long black cape.
The door was opened by Belinda, the Negro maid who once had been Nathanial's slave. “How handsome you look,” she said, kissing his cheek in a sisterly manner. “Your mother is waiting in the parlor.”
She took his cape as he studied himself in the mirror. He wanted to pass inspection before his mother, not because she was fussy about appearance, but because he didn't want to cause worry. She sat in her favorite purple upholstered chair, wearing a high-necked black dress, her gray hair pulled back into a bun. “You look just like Nathanial when he returned home from West Point,” she said.
He bent and let her kiss his cheek, feeling as if his life had been lived in Nathanial's shadow. “Where's Tobey?”
“At the library, but he'll be back soon. He can't wait to see you.”
Why isn't he here? wondered Buck as he sat opposite his mother. They studied each other, and he saw an elderly lady with sad lines around her eyes and a handkerchief visible in her fist, while she studied a robust pink-cheeked lad with wavy blond hair, so similar to Nathanial. A tear came to her eye, which she wiped away with the handkerchief.
Buck didn't like home, because everything had become melancholy, as if Nathanial's ghost were haunting them all. “Well,” he said, trying to be cheery, “why don't we take a walk down Broadway?”
“I detest Broadway,” she replied. “The crowds, the smells—why, I remember when only the finest families lived on Broadway, but now it's like an Arabian bazaar. How are you getting along with your studies?”
“To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about leaving West Point.”
“Excellent idea,” she replied. “We don't need another death in the family.”
He was surprised, because he'd thought she expected him to follow Nathanial's footsteps. “A man must have a career,” he said, “but I don't know what to do with myself.”
“I'd rather you be a wastrel than massacred like poor Nathanial. If you leave West Point, you'll receive no criticism from your mother.”
“What about my father?”
She waved her hand impatiently. “Who cares what he thinks?”
Buck sensed new cynicism in his mother and himself. “What's the point of anything?” he asked vaguely. “America might not even be here in another year, especially with James Buchanan in the White House. We need a president who'll stand up to the South, not another Democratic party hack like Franklin Pierce.”
“Idiots on both sides will push the nation into war—I'm convinced of it,” she said. “I don't want you involved.”
The front door opened, and Tobey entered the living room, a small sparely built youth with a narrow, sallow face and short black side-whiskers, immaculately attired in a business suit. Buck leapt to his feet and embraced his adopted brother.
Nathanial had brought home a street urchin one afternoon, or perhaps it was the other way around, for Nathanial had been drinking heavily, and passed out cold on a sidewalk near Printing House Square. Tobey had been adopted into the family, given the best possible education, and now was an upper-class gentleman, instead of a beggar and petty thief.
“I'm sure you have a lot to talk about,” said their mother. “Perhaps it's time for that walk on Broadway.”
“Why don't you come with us, Mother,” said Tobey. “You never go anywhere.”
“I'm tired,” she said.
“She used to love Broadway,” explained Tobey as he and Buck walked along that crowded thorough-fare. “But since Nathanial died, she's lost her faith in God.”
It was evening, the sidewalks crowded with shoppers illuminated by gaslight, huge windows displaying the latest clothing, jewelry, furnishings, the treasures of the world accumulated for the tastes of discriminating New Yorkers.
“I can't accept Nathanial's passing either,” replied Buck, “as if he'll arrive in a carriage one of these days.”
“I doubt the army makes mistakes of that magnitude,” commented the legalistic Tobey.
“Never overestimate the army, my dear brother. The average enlisted man can't speak English.”
“Sounds like the average New Yorker.”
“Let's have a drink in here.”
The St. Nicholas Hotel was a six-story white behemoth extending from Spring to Broome streets on the west side of Broadway, Nathanial's address during his last visit to New York, and site of his and Clarissa's wedding reception. The two young men climbed the stairs, and in the lobby many curious eyes were drawn to the broad-chested West Point cadet, not the pale figure coasting alongside him. Buck and Tobey found a chandeliered lounge with a polished mahogany bar, before which gentlemen stood three deep, while others were seated at tables, and oil paintings of landscapes and mythical beings adorned the walls. Not a female was in sight, but no one thought that cruel or disgraceful, for women had their own preserves within the sumptuous hotel.
Buck worked his way to the bar, followed by Tobey. When the bartender appeared, Buck ordered whiskey and Tobey asked for a cup of coffee. Then Tobey took out a leather case of long black cheroots and offered one to Buck. Both lit up and blew smoke into the already heavily laden air, happy to be together once more.
They'd grown up relying upon each other, for Father had been in Washington and Mother spent most of her time in her room, crocheting and brooding over Father's betrayal. They'd had maids and servants, but no real parents.
“I told Mother that I'm leaving West Point,” Buck said. “To my surprise, she offered no objections.”
“What will you do?” asked Tobey, who believed people must have goals and purposes.
“Maybe I'll move west and raise cattle. The population of the nation is growing by leaps and bounds, and everybody needs roast beef. What's the latest in the city?”
“We've had a spate of garrotings this year, and there are swarms of child prostitutes roaming the streets. The Times has called Mayor Wood a Communist. I've been curious to know: How do northern and southern cadets get along?”
“We try to avoid the issue, otherwise there'd be a fight
every night.”
“In my opinion,” lectured Tobey, “America should be split into three countries, the North, South, and West. But whatever happens, New York still will have one of the finest harbors in the world, the Erie Canal, railroads, and great financial institutions. The Empire City will continue to grow, no matter what the damned fools in Washington decide.”
“Speaking of damned fools, look who's here,” murmured Buck.
Ronald Soames, Nathanial's lawyer and old friend, approached giddily, glass in his hand. He'd been engaged to Clarissa Rowland before Nathanial wooed and won her. A skinny gentleman, he was wearing a cutaway coat, and had a long upwardly curved mustache and deep lines beneath his eyes. “You look splendid, Buck,” he declared, “while you, Tobey, have the aura of a Supreme Court justice. I've been told you've become uncles, since our dear Clarissa has given birth to a daughter. To think it might have been mine. Let me buy you a drink.” He beckoned to the bartender. “Another round over here, my good fellow, and be sure to pour a spot of brandy into Tobey's cup, because he looks like he can use some spirit.” Then Soames became serious. “Alas, poor Nathanial—I miss him profoundly. He certainly knew how to have a good time, and speaking of good times, there's a lovely new brothel that just opened a few blocks from here. Take it from an old bachelor—it's cheaper to buy the milk than feed the cow, and you won't have to change diapers.”
“What about love?” asked Buck.
“In the future,” expounded Soames, “people will be freed from such old-fashioned conceptions. Have you ever read Arthur Schopenhauer? He said our most intelligent act would be to commit suicide.”
“If you had the courage of your convictions,” said Tobey good-naturedly, “you'd jump in front of a speeding omnibus.”
“Schopenhauer forgot one small item. There's too much money to be made.”
“What's the address of the brothel?” asked Buck.
Soames placed his hand over his heart. “My God, you sound just like Nathanial. For a moment I thought he was standing beside me. Is it possible that Nathanial has been resurrected or reincarnated in his younger brother? If Nathanial were here right now, do you know what he'd do? He'd have another drink, just to fortify himself, because Nathanial always liked to be fortified, and then he'd go to that brothel. So let's drink up, boys, and be on our way.”
As Soames raised his glass, he was bumped gently by a tall redheaded gentleman in an immaculately tailored wool plaid suit. He turned to apologize, then smiled and shook hands with Soames, who said, “Hello, Fitz—Merry Christmas. May I present my friends, Buck and Tobey Barrington? They're Nathanial's younger brothers; you remember Nathanial Barrington, don't you? Boys, this is Fitz-Greene Halleck, a friend of your brother.”
Buck and Tobey stared at one of New York's foremost poets, whose words were read by thespians before audiences across the nation, a leader of New York's literary set, and former secretary to John Jacob Astor. “I'm so sorry to hear about Nathanial,” said the literary lion as he reached for his hot buttered rum. “What a wonderful storyteller he was, and I'll never forget one night at Pfaff's, when he held us in his thrall with stories about wild Indians he'd met at some copper mine in New Mexico Territory. He lived more than most men his age, and of course, all the ladies adored good old Nathanial. It could be said of him, as I wrote once about a dear departed companion . . .
Green be the turf about thee
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee
None named thee but to praise.
Juh wasn't praising Nathanial as he walked guard around the encampment that night. It was snowing and so silent Juh could hear delicate ice crystals breaking upon contact with the ground.
The People slept while Juh was awake, searching for enemies, because what better time to attack than when least expected, as in a snowstorm. The White Eyes had defeated the Mescalero People during Ghost Face, and Juh worried that bluecoat soldiers might surprise the camp, shooting women and children indiscriminately. The People were being pushed back and forth by the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee, and an ultimate clash would come soon, he feared.
He felt as if the White Eyes had invaded him personally, because Jocita was in love with the bluecoat war chief. Always exchanging glances, they pretended they weren't longing for each other, hoping for the opportunity to run off.
Juh closed his eyes, because he couldn't bear the thought of Jocita with another man. Although married to Ish-Keh for sons, he'd never faltered in his long affection for Jocita. They'd grown up together, had gone on raids side by side, and great predictions had been made for both of them. Oh, mountain spirits, why have you delivered misfortune to your faithful Juh?
Juh stealthily approached Nathanial's wickiup. I could kill him while he sleeps, and blame it on Chuntz. He moved his hand toward his knife, but couldn't remove it from the sheath. The Pindah was a brave warrior, and lonely Jocita had been attracted to him for good reasons. The mountain spirits have ordained that I suffer, or a sorcerer is plotting against me. Juh imagined the Pindah reclining peacefully inside. I cannot kill this warrior in cold blood confessed the war chief of the Nednais.
He heard the growl of a dog inside the wickiup, then heard the Pindah's voice. “What's wrong, boy?”
Juh retreated hastily, obscuring his tracks on the newly fallen snow with sweeping motions of his hand. Meanwhile, inside the wickiup, Nathanial thumbed back the hammer of his Colt .36. On his hands and knees he looked outside. “What the hell are you barking about?” he asked the dog.
Someone was creeping up on you, the dog whined.
“You were having a bad dream. Go to sleep.”
The dog snarled, then rested his chin on his paws, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. I was only doing my job, boss.
Nathanial returned to his skins. He'd been dreaming about Broadway at night—the theaters, oyster cellars, saloons, and hotels—except Apaches rode war ponies on the crowded streets, gazing in wonder at windows filled with glittering merchandise, and seated in an ornate barouche was Jocita attired in a long red gown with diamond necklace and earrings.
I am so obsessed with this woman, I even dream about her, thought Nathanial as he sought to make himself comfortable upon the skins. When I am well, how will I control my passions when she is in the vicinity?
Not far away, in her own little purgatory, Jocita searched unceasingly for a shred of comfort and a few moments of rest, before it was time to rise. She felt as if the Pindah had cast an evil spell over her.
There was no one with whom she could speak, and she certainly didn't dare breathe a word to Nana, because he had become the Pindah's friend. Jocita wanted to flee, for Juh would kill her and her lover without hesitation if he found them together.
The Pindah intruded into her thoughts constantly. She wished they could marry normally, but that was impossible given the presence of Juh. Yet she could be tempted into wickedness, as could the Pindah, who possessed a warrior's typical narrow range where his fundamental needs were concerned.
Jocita and Nathanial teetered at the edge of the abyss, and neither could pull back. Each saw heavenly pleasures ahead, to be followed by possible destruction. They abandoned themselves to their most lascivious fantasies, as Juh stood near Jocita's tent, wondering if he should attempt to seduce her while she was too tired to resist. He was after all her legal husband.
But sometimes she hurled the most cruel insults at him and made him feel like a traitor for marrying Ish-keh. Meanwhile, he felt no special pleasure with his sons from Ish-keh, because he did not love her as he did Jocita. The bond between him and Jocita had been strong since childhood, until he broke it.
It is my fault, he told himself as he turned away from her wickiup. My treacherous deed has destroyed our love. He continued his rounds of the camp, peering into dark shadows and winding snow trails for signs of enemies, as he protected his friends and family from danger.
Among the wickiups two slitted eyes studied
his progress. It was Martita, the sorceress, huddling in the snow, a new pimple on her nose. She looked to her sides and behind, to make certain no one was observing her. A woman of the night, she hid in her wickiup during daylight and laid dark plans.
Her main problem was she possessed no real magical powers, otherwise she would not be poor and miserable. But that didn't mean she lacked malice. Martita didn't pray to the mountain spirits, because they had disfigured her, and no warrior would bring her meat. Even the bizahn sluts shunned her, and she didn't dare take off her clothes in the Victory Dance, for fear she would horrify everyone. She scuffled bent beneath the weight of her loneliness, pausing every few steps, to listen and watch, a trick she'd learned from rabbits. Many creatures were afoot in the darkness, where secret assignations were held, and forbidden deeds discussed.
She made her way to the men's latrine, where she crouched behind a cluster of chaparral and waited for her quarry to happen along. Her new steady diet of fresh meat would end unless she made good her promises, and she had formulated a plan.
Several men visited the latrine that night, and in the murkiest hour Chuntz stumbled along. He spat into the snow, scratched his backside, and adjusted his breechclout, but no matter how sleepy he was, he searched for enemies.
“Chuntz!” whispered a voice.
He reached for his knife, but it was only the wretch Martita emerging from behind tangled foliage. “What are you doing there, ugly toad?” he inquired.
“I must talk with you.”
Chuntz was tempted to flee the hobgoblin, but then she said in a whisper, “About the Pindah soldier.”
Chuntz hesitated, because if he went off with her, it could open him to accusations of consorting with sorcerers, and possibly could get him killed.
“And Juh,” she added, to sweeten the deal.
Chuntz's feet carried him toward her, because his humiliation at the hand of Juh overwhelmed his trepidation. He joined her at the bush, looked around, and said, “What do you want, hag?”
