by Len Levinson
She sniffled, and Beau moved to comfort her. Ordinarily, she kept her emotions under control, but meeting Nathanial's best friend unsettled her, and she realized how empty and forlorn her life was. If it wasn't for Natalie, thought Clarissa, I'd have no reason to live. She covered her face with her hands.
Beau was a rugged dragoon officer like Nathanial, and he placed his arms around her, to comfort her. She didn't push him away, and instead leaned against him, resting her cheek against his, for he was much shorter than Nathanial.
“I'm so unhappy,” she whispered.
“How lonely you must be,” he murmured into her ear, feeling aroused by the pressure of her body. He'd been away from Rebecca nearly a month.
“Oh Beau,” she whispered, “you remind me so much of Nathanial. Why'd he have to die?”
“Everybody dies,” he counseled as he brushed his lips past her ear. “We're going after the Apaches in the spring, and perhaps I'll be the officer who never returns.”
She held his face in her hands. “Don't say it, Beau. Don't even think it.”
Their noses were approximately six inches apart, and they peered into each other's eyes, feeling the other's throbbing body. He kissed her throat, and she clutched him more tightly as slowly they sank to the floor.
***
On a remote crag high in the Pinos Altos Mountains the bear sleeps profoundly, his heart slowed and liver functions ceased. He is alone, for he is a young bear with no mate or cubs. Violent winds whip the icy peak, but the cave is deep, with many curved passageways; no wind touches the hibernating bear.
He weighs four hundred and fifty pounds, but weight is not a concept he recognizes, even when awake. He is a highly skilled fast-moving hunting machine with four-inch fangs and terrible claws. When he finishes one meal, he starts looking for the next, the cycle broken only during winter sleeping, or spring, when his thoughts turn to wide-haunched lady bears.
He wears a thick wool coat that others might desire, but this concept too is foreign. Dominated by his belly, he can smell food over vast distances, his vision acute, his hearing extremely sensitive. The People consider him the most fearsome being in their homeland, far worse than the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee.
A big fuzzy creature curled like a kitten in a cozy dark corner, he dreams of snow-blanketed forests, streams full of juicy fish, or feasting like a cub in a field of wild strawberries. He has no future, past, ambitions, investments. In the season known among the People as Ghost Face, the bear conserves energy.
What have I done? Clarissa asked herself. Beau just had left, sealing their adultery with a soulful kiss, and now she was alone, doubting God, morality, and the golden rule.
The first thing she did after the great encounter was check little Natalie, who lay cuddled with blankets in her crib. A torrent of love passed from mother to child, accompanied by a tremor of guilt.
Beau was married, although Clarissa never had met Beau's wife, and hoped she never would. Clarissa considered herself a widow, but just because she was legally unattached, it didn't mean she should remove her clothes with a man she barely knew and give herself to him.
She felt embarrassed, and if her mother ever found out, there'd be hell to pay. What's happened to me? she wondered as she looked at herself in a mirror and saw a tanned blond frontier woman with a troubled expression, not a giggling New York debutante holding a teacup in her dainty fingers.
She had to admit that it had been pleasurable in a perverse, clandestine way, but what did it prove, and how could she ever look her daughter in the eyes? If Beau hadn't been married, it would be a reckless act regardless. Clarissa despised vapid moralism, but betrayal of trust was no simple matter in her estimation, and together with Beau, they'd betrayed his wife.
She didn't know Rebecca, but that didn't make it less adulterous. We were two lonely people who fell into each other's arms out of desperation and grief.
She opened the closet door and pulled out the wooden trunk with iron bands where she'd stored Nathanial's personal belongings. Unlatching it, she found a bottle of whiskey, which she uncorked and raised to her lips. It descended her throat like liquid fire, and she broke into a paroxysm of coughing as she sat on the floor, regretting her wicked ways.
Wind blew across the rooftops of Albuquerque as Beau made his way to the saloon district. What have I done? he asked himself. It seemed inconceivable, but he actually had fornicated with his best friend's widow on the floor of her home, while her child slept in the next room.
How squalid, he thought, as he pulled the collar of his greatcoat tighter around his face. He remembered Rebecca and his children waiting for him at Fort Union. The only way to handle this is never mention it to anyone, he advised himself. I'm sure Clarissa will never whisper a word, either. It'll be our own little secret, and who knows, maybe it's a dream I had.
He walked past the first saloon, because it would be full of soldiers, and instead headed for a small ramshackle cantina with no name, catering mostly to Mexicans, where no one would know him. Only a few customers sat at the bar when he arrived, with a dozen or more at tables, playing cards, drinking mescal, or passed out cold. The waitresses were a mélange of young and not-so-young prostitutes.
He found a table in the darkest corner, sat, and proceeded to brood. How can I ever look Rebecca in the eyes? he wondered. What is this honor that I claim to have?
A slim waitress with prominent collarbones revealed by a low-cut red silky dress sat opposite him. “You do not look happy, gringo,” she said. “Has someone died?”
“Sorry, but I'd rather not talk just now.”
“If you get bit by a snake, and you do not let out the poison, it will kill you.”
“Maybe you should bring me a glass of mescal.”
“Maybe what you need is me.”
“Mescal,” said Beau.
She launched herself toward the bar, leaving him in the wake of her insinuation, and he couldn't help wondering if Rebecca had ever surrendered, out of human frailty, to one of his brother officers, such as Nathanial, for instance. Although Rebecca was a woman above reproach, so had been Clarissa Barrington.
“What're you doing?” asked a familiar voice. Beau raised his eyes from the cigarette-scarred table and saw George Covington headed toward him, Jeff Davis hat slanted low over his eyes, stogie sticking out of his teeth. “Are you trying to hide?” George sat opposite Beau and looked both ways. “How was it?”
“How was what?”
“Clarissa Barrington.”
Beau nearly fell off his chair. “How did you know?”
George chortled knowingly. “I saw you departing her home with a rather furtive gait, if I may say so, and followed you here like the meddler and scamp that I am. By any stretch of the imagination, have you planked Clarissa Barrington?”
Beau stared at him, dumbstruck that his deepest, most shameful secret could readily be perceived by others, and moreover that poor Clarissa's name was soon to be bandied about the officers’ mess. “Now just a minute, George,” he said, pointing his finger at his comrade's nose. “If you breathe one word of this to anyone, I shall be forced to kill you. And it won't be in some moon-dappled forest, with seconds holding our coats and matched pistols selected according to the rules of etiquette, but you son-of-a-bitch, I'll walk up behind you and blow your head off.”
“As well you should,” replied George quickly, “if ever I betray your trust. Because, you see, it's not as easy as that; no, this has far deeper implications, because you and I are old friends and classmates, are we not?”
“Well . . . yes,” replied Beau.
“This is between us, companero, to dispose of as we wish, but I've always had a sense of irony, and who would imagine in their wildest dreams that our dear Clarissa could behave in such a scandalous manner, or you, a scion of the southern aristocracy, born with a silver cotton ball in your mouth, able to control your emotions in the most dire circumstances. I can't help wondering—what in hell happened?�
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At that critical juncture the waitress arrived with a bottle of mescal and two glasses, which she placed on the table, and then poured two hefty shots. “What are you two gringos plotting?” she asked diplomatically. “Because I know you must be up to something bad, otherwise why would you be sitting in this cantina, where none of your amigos come?”
“We were wondering which of us will have the pleasure of sleeping with you tonight,” replied George.
“You,” she replied without a moment of hesitation. “Because you have the look of a dog, while this gringo is worried, and doesn't care much about a poor Mexican senorita paying her rent.”
“Consider it paid,” said George, “and I'll see you later. But now, if you don't mind, I have business to discuss with this worried man.”
She withdrew, swinging her hips flirtatiously, and George watched her go. “All Mexican women, from eight to eighty, have that little wiggle, if you know what I mean.”
Beau went slack on his chair. “I'm tired of women and the obligations they place upon us.”
“But I'm not finished with you, churl. Could you please tell me how you and the talented Clarissa fell into each other's sweaty arms? Don't leave out pertinent details, and whatever you do, don't tell me it's personal, because you and I are going to war in the spring, and who knows, maybe we'll run into Apaches, and one of us might not come back.”
“Just because we may die together, that doesn't give you a lien on the most personal incidents of my life.”
“Yes, it does, because you and I are knights of the Round Table, in case you've forgotten. We owe each other complete honesty, for our very lives depend upon each other.”
“I doubt that Lancelot ever told Galahad about Guenevere over a glass of mescal at the local cantina.”
“Did you ever stop to think that the real knights of the Round Table were soldiers basically like us, who drank mead instead of mescal, but who gathered and discussed intimate thoughts. I don't want to die without knowing what you said or did that caused Clarissa to surrender, not out of puerile interest, as you may suppose, but purely as a student of human nature. Because if life isn't a freak show—what is it?”
“Once,” replied Beau, “in a moment much like this, Nathanial told me that everything he'd ever done had been to please women, starting with his mother.”
“We're all breeding animals, and speaking of breeding animals, it appears that you've evaded the subject yet again. Exactly how did such a cataclysmic event occur?”
Beau threw up his hands in exasperation. “We were talking, and it sort of happened.”
George twirled his brown mustache rakishly. “Come now—we know it never really just ‘happens’, and usually is the result of carefully executed strategic planning.”
“I just felt drawn to her, and apparently she felt drawn to me. It's not as sinister as you say.”
“Except for the inconvenient fact that you're married.”
All the air went out of Beau. “I don't know how I'll ever face Rebecca again.”
“I'm sure you'll find a way, and please don't make everything worse with your morbid Presbyterian moralizing. You and Clarissa weren't being malicious, and no one was harmed. I have observed that solemn vows between men and women are about as reliable as Mexican manufactured revolvers. If Nathanial is looking down on us from on high right now, I'm sure he'd suggest you relax and have another drink.”
Nathanial didn't think about dear old friends the next day, for he was more concerned about breaking his neck. It had snowed again, covering a slippery lower crust with fine powder, and all he could do was struggle to keep up with boys leading him to the heights of yet another craggy precipice.
Occasionally, his moccasin boot broke through the crust, jamming his shin painfully, but he pulled himself out and kept going, his legs like pistons. Blood coagulated on his bruised shins, but he barely felt them in the cold air. Up the defile he ran like a sure-footed goat, and he hadn't felt so strong since his years at West Point, yet he still couldn't keep up with the boys. Now he understood more clearly why Apache warriors were formidable opponents. They had acquired the power of endurance.
The laughing boys dodged around snowcapped yerba de chivito bushes as ravens flew above juniper trees, hoping one of the two-leggeds might fall. Nathanial's breath came in strangled gulps, and he felt a cramp in his left leg. He summoned his final reserves of strength as he neared the summit.
The boys arrived first, throwing snowballs at each other. Nathanial saw wooded valleys and a river; the sun shone brightly, and the expanse appeared pristine, throbbing with energy, glittering like diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and ophir.
I love this land, he told himself, dizzy from the rapid climb. This is man's country, where you must tear life out of it, as the People tear roots out of the ground. For this homeland I'm willing to die.
He was surprised to find that he was alone. Somehow, while having his vision, the boys had disappeared, and he had no idea of where he was.
“Where are you . . . boys?” he asked tentatively.
Only the wind whistled over the top of the mountain. High in the sky an eagle circled. What's going on here? wondered Nathanial. “Nana?” he asked, as if expecting the medicine man to appear, but there was nothing except miles of snow-dappled scenery.
His only reasonable course was return to camp, not an insurmountable task for an officer skilled in terrain and graduated from the best engineering school in America. He clomped down the mountain, wondering why the boys had left him. It was getting late, and he might not return before nightfall. I hope I don't have to spend the night in the wilderness. He carried his Colt Navy, but otherwise was dressed like an Apache, except for his blond beard. Passing pinyon and cypress trees, he gazed at an immense white plateau, and at its edge he could perceive the gentle curve of the horizon. Yes, the world is a ball among many, spinning through the universe, with suns and moons and planets strewn as if by the hand of a careless God.
“Fool,” said a voice behind him.
Nathanial spun, reaching for his Colt Navy, but it was only Nana, a perplexed expression on his face. “A warrior never lets anyone get so close, but your mind is always elsewhere, leaving you open to danger.”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Creeping up on people is one of the greatest skills a warrior can possess, but bluecoat soldiers know nothing of it.”
“Why don't you teach me?”
“It is not possible, because you think like a White Eyes, though you dwell among us. If you want to be a warrior, you must abandon everything you have ever learned and open your heart to the People.”
“But I have. What more can I do?”
“Are you ready to die?”
“Why must I die in order to be a warrior?”
One moment Nathanial was standing opposite Nana, holding a conversation, then the medicine man moved suddenly, and a knife touched Nathanial's throat.
“Don't move,” said Nana.
Nathanial was stunned by the sudden turn of mood. “Easy with that blade,” he said.
“You are always sleeping, so it is easy to kill you. I do not question your courage, only your warrior ability. You must remain alert, especially in unfamiliar circumstances.” Nana withdrew the knife and stuck it into his belt. “You think you are sincere, but it is just talk.”
“How can I prove myself to you?”
“Have a seat.”
Both men dropped cross-legged beside a swarm of black beetles climbing a bearberry honeysuckle stalk. Nana picked up one of the beetles, popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it. “Do that,” he said.
Nathanial hesitated, because insects never had been served at his mother's table on Washington Square or the mess hall at West Point. But he knew that Nana was testing him, as he watched Nana's hands for another attack. Oh, what the hell, he thought as he picked up a beetle, pushed the squirming leggy creature past his lips, and crushed it with his teeth, expe
cting the most horrific taste to burst onto his tongue, but instead it was bland, perhaps a bit on the tart side, and he tried not to think as he swallowed it.
Nana smiled. “The bluecoat army travels with wagons full of food and moves oh so slowly, but the warrior of the People lives off the land and moves oh so quickly. There is food all around, so why carry it with you? I will show you how to find food, but you must make a solemn oath that you will never divulge secrets I teach. I fear you will use what you learn to lead the bluecoat soldiers to us.”
“You are my friends, you have saved my life, and I shall never fight the People again, or do anything that might harm them.”
Nana threw his knife on the ground. “Prove it.”
Nathanial stared at the knife a few moments, but he'd dwelled with the People several moons, and understood something of their ways. How far do I want to carry this Apache game? he asked himself. Then he reached for the knife and wondered where to make the ritual cut. He decided his left shoulder might provide good hunting, so he held the knife in his fist, grit his teeth, and jabbed his flesh. The violent pain nearly made him faint, but he held himself steady, then passed the knife hilt back to Nana.
Without hesitation, the di-yin slashed his own right shoulder, sealing the arrangement. Blood dripped down both their arms as they stared into each other's eyes. “I will teach you what I know, Pindah,” intoned Nana. “I hope it does not kill you.”
Six
On March 6, 1857, a stooped eighty-year-old jurist in black robes and a badly fitting brown wig hobbled down a dark corridor in the Capitol basement, like a druid from eons past. He was Roger B. Taney of Virginia, chief justice of the United States, on his way to deliver a momentous decision.
Behind him shuffled associate justices John A. Campbell of Alabama; James M. Wayne, Georgia; Peter B. Daniel, Virginia; Samuel Nelson, New York; Robert C. Grier, New York, and John Catron, Tennessee, each bent beneath the gravity of their joint deliberations, praying their sober judgment would lay to rest the slavery issue for all time.
