The Rift

by H Schmidt

---

  The major was taking notes, occasionally looking at the lieutenant when he noticed the young man became silent.

  “Is anything wrong, Lieutenant Housman? Do you feel ill?”

  A member of the Adjutant General’s Office of the Southern Command, he had been assigned sensitive issues before, and truth as he would report it would often come well before an investigation was completed. He had the truth yesterday, but had lost it today.

  Billy’s voice was only a whisper as he spoke. “I was watching Theresa as I eased out of the saddle. I was tethering my horse as best I could; I saw her hands come free. I watched not fifty yards away, as she swung her left leg over the neck of her horse ...”

  ---

  The major said nothing, just waiting for the lieutenant to speak, sure now that he did not want to hear any more, that he wanted to walk out of the door and walk away from the job they had given him to do. Don’t say it, Lieutenant, he shouted to himself.

  “She jumped down to the ground and simply ran into space above the ledge and was gone. For just that brief second I yelled but I know she could not hear me. I could barely hear my own voice over the roar of the water.”

  ---

  The colonel could not hear the sounds behind him. Gently, he guided his white stallion along the ledge, looking above him for signs of falling rocks, trying to imagine once again being on firm ground. He had placed two men in front of him, between him and anyone who might fire upon them from the front. He thought about Theresa. She was more beautiful than any of the others. He began to think what she would be like when he saw Hernando stiffen in his saddle, then fall, bouncing as he hit, then lying twitching at the edge of the trail. In panic, he looked to his front, across the river, and then began to turn to look back. In front of him, he heard the squeal of Ignacio’s horse, then watched it carry its rider into the gorge. It was coming from behind him. He dug his spurs into the stallion, causing it to squeal in pain and anger, then rear to throw its tormentor from its back. Lunging forward, the right foreleg of the huge horse struck the right edge of the trail, breaking off a great section and spinning the horse out into space. As the horse pawed in the air, the rider clung to the pommel, screaming into the white roar below.

  ---

  The major’s mind was racing, trying to think of relevant questions to complete his report.

  “Did any of the men get off the ledge, Lieutenant?”

  “No. None returned fire. Most went over the edge in panic. I wanted them all dead.”

  “We will need corroboration of your story, Lieutenant.”

  “I don’t know whether Father Michael would talk to the United States Army or not, Major. We are not the liberators the newspapers tried to paint us as. You know that, I’m sure.”

  “You said this happened in the middle of June, you did not report until the first week in July.”

  ---

  “There were seven lying on the ledge as I walked among the bodies. Some of the men were still alive. One of the horses that I had hit was still lying on his side, helpless. I looked into his eyes. I aimed my pistol between them and fired. As I went by each of the men, I disarmed them and tossed their weapons into the gorge. I kept three of the best rifles and their ammunition. I had decided when I followed Theresa that I would try to do one other thing.”

  ---

  “You did not look for Theresa’s body?”

  Billy had now recovered his composure. Why would the major ask that question? Credibility, he thought. He is after credibility. Why would a young man who professed to be in love with a girl not run to the edge of the trail to see if he could spot her? He had thought about that many times. Had he gone mad and could not stop his attack on those who kidnapped Theresa and caused her death? Had he been afraid of what he would see? He still did not know the answer.

  “I don’t know how much time passed while I wandered among the men and horses. I spent some time with one of the men, a Yaqui, who had a shoulder wound. I asked him why he had not tried to shoot me. I remember he said simply, ‘I am going home; I must find my children.’

  “I don’t know what made me walk to the edge of the trail where Theresa disappeared, but I did, and looked down. I think I expected to see only the boiling white water because she had jumped away from the edge. Below me, above the water, she was wedged between the gorge wall and a rock that jutted up and out. Finding two lariats, I tied the ends of both to the saddle of the horse I rode, and lowered myself down with one while holding the other to where her body lay. There was a small ledge where I could stand, looking at her. The body was broken...”

  ---

  Again, the major waited, this time patiently. Let him take as long as he wishes, he decided.

  ---

  “But her face… The eyes did not have a look of terror as one afraid of death might have. They were peaceful, like death had been a friend. I reached over and touched her cheek as I had done only a few hours ago, then closed her eyes. Tying a rope under her arms and around her legs to place her body into a kind of cradle, I slowly worked my way back to the horse.

  “Loading one of the horses with rifles and supplies I had collected, I placed Theresa on another and walked the three horses back the way we had come. I led the horse with Theresa. The mare seemed restless when she felt her on her back. The night was very quiet when I saw the village. From where I stood, I could see that someone had built a small fire in the square and a crowd had gathered around it. Dismounting, I took Theresa in my arms and walked back to the village with her. I did not want them to see her strapped over the back of a horse.

  As I walked out of the darkness, the murmuring crowd all turned toward me, then became silent. It’s strange, Major, how you remember real silence.

  “Anna was the first to recognize me and the girl I was carrying. She began to wail, and began to stroke the beautiful face. I could see Victoriano hovering to the side, standing with a crutch under his left arm. I could see his eyes glistening in the firelight. As someone took her from me, I remember thinking that I had said goodbye to Father and Theresa that morning.”

  ---

  At the fort, it would soon be dark. The air had begun to cool, and the buildings still glistened golden on the east side of the parade ground. Billy could see a guard detail passing by to relieve those at their posts.

  “Is there much more you would like to say, Billy?” The major reached over with a pack of cigarettes. Billy took one, then moved forward as Major Somersville reached over to light it. He breathed deeply, letting his body relax.

  “There isn’t much left, Major. Maybe we can finish this evening. The following day, we buried Theresa. Father Michael said a Mass for her. I asked to speak at the grave site. When we finished, I talked to the alcalde about needing two men to go with me. I wanted to go after Margarita and Elena.

  “The next morning, we left the village with Victoriano and a young man who was hiding from the Villistas. His name was Rodrigo; that was the name he gave us. That night there was no moon, and we were able to get inside the Kelly hacienda before anyone saw us. I was satisfied that the two men left to guard the girls had not harmed them. I had questioned the girls carefully for I wanted a reason to hang the two men. We let them go. By the next morning, the two girls were home in their own village. Father Michael told me later that they had been taken to the convent in Pacifica. He told me they had many such girls there, and that they would be taken care of.

  “That day the alcalde asked me if I would be a guest in his house. The invitation surprised me because they knew I had killed Lopez, and the word would soon spread. The alcalde was an old man, his faced lined, his eyes sad. He told me when Lopez had taken two girls, then Theresa, Father Michael had gone to Colonel Cervantes for help. Cervantes was known as a fierce fighter, but he maintained strict discipline regarding what he called the innocents, the women and children. Once, when two of his men had attacked a young girl in a nearby village, he had hung the two men in front of the village and his
own men. Cervantes, he said, knew of the gringo who had killed Lopez and that the gringo now was a guest in Santa Maria. Cervantes gave Father his word that he would not punish the village for hiding the gringo lieutenant.

  “Why didn’t I leave then?” Billy looked at the major, who nodded. “Because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her.”

  The major smiled to himself as he realized the lieutenant was compiling the report along with him. “And then you came in.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. On a morning a lot like the one when I said goodbye the first time I said my goodbyes and rode over to Namiquippa.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. You will continue to be confined to quarters. Your orders not to talk to anyone, or contact anyone still stand. Is that clear?”

  As the guard escorted the lieutenant away, the major looked at the information he had about Lieutenant William Housman’s return. One of the statements caught his eye.

  I was coming out of the general’s tent when I saw the man dressed in simple cotton blouse and pants of a peasant. He wore the bandolier over his shoulder and the cartridge belt of a damned Villista. He was a lot taller than most of the Mexicans I had seen. His sombrero was tucked back on his head, and the ebony face with its black eyes looked down at me and casually saluted. He smiled. ‘George Patton, class of 1908, isn’t that right? They talked about you when I was at the Academy. Billy Housman, class of 1915.’ When he passed me by heading for the XO, all I could say was, I’ll be damned.

  Lieutenant George Patton August 10, 1916

  Chapter Five

  He was going home. Twenty-five years ago, he, Maria, Friederich, and little Maria had watched as their ship pulled out of Bremen harbor, saying goodbye to their native land. As he stood on the deck of the Mombasa, leaning out to catch the sea breezes cooling the thick, damp air, he thought about that day. It was a cold spring day, a fine rain falling, the water gray; the mist covered the harbor. The four of them stood at the rear of the ship and watched the buildings grow dimmer, then vanish behind the fog rolling in from the North Sea.

  What had he felt then? He was younger, healthier, as younger men are. He had not yet been touched by the malaria which still sapped his energy, nor the parasites that attacked his gut. He had not seen the wonders of a world so different that to describe was to diminish. Could anyone describe to a lifelong citizen of Berlin the raw power of stampeding buffalo, the surreal movements of the giraffe, the majesty of a male lion or the terror of the silent crocodile?

  Twenty-five years of his life. In what he had dreamed, done, seen, there seemed little left now. He was returning to another world, more crowded, more energetic, more chaotic than the one he was leaving. He had remembered the fears of the settlers for their safety and thought, how trivial beside those faced by people who lived in Europe today. It was a difficult time. Behind him lay the fruits of twenty years gone badly. The British settlers from Kenya and Uganda who marched through Moshi when war broke out made it clear to the German settlers that the lands they owned would be taken from them. All that Germany had invested in farms, mines, factories, communications, railroads, government buildings and machinery would all become the property of the British Empire. All that he had worked for, all that he dreamed for his family, gone.

  A British ship carried Gustav von Mecklenburg. He would land in Marseille and return to Germany through Switzerland.

  He thought about Germany years ago. Germany was the creation of visionary men like the kaisers and the crafty Bismarck. Full of self-confidence, growing in economic and military strength, it lacked the patience and guile of its adversary, Britain. By the beginning of the war, Whitehall had aligned the world against it. Germany, out of loyalty and desperation, had tied itself to the dying empires of Austria and Turkey. Gustav knew of the Von Schlieffen Plan as did the rest of the world. Designed to win the war by achieving a tactical victory over the French and British in one great offensive, Gustav had seen it as an illusion of men whose dreams had stolen their reason.

  He was returning to a Germany where, one year after the war began, people were starving in the cities, denied food by the British blockade. He was an old man. He worried about his children and their children. What would happen to them? Gustav noticed the pace had quickened. Men ran to untie the moorings of the Mombasa. She was about to return to the sea. The ship had stopped in Alexandria to load troops from India headed for the western front. It was October. He smiled as he watched the lightly dressed Indians come aboard. It would be a difficult winter for them.

  Outside the harbor, the U-boat Sea Wolf waited on the surface. Captain Scheer had been in the Mediterranean for three months. To the captain, his work reminded him of the hare hunts in his native Saxony, the frightened animals so easy to shoot that the hunters talked of other things while their barrels grew hot with the killing. Like hare hunting, waiting outside of harbors for ships like the Mombasa was not sport, not a contest, but the mechanistic destruction of helpless ships and the murder of men and women aboard them. It was a part of war the captain detested. He could not decide whether he detested himself or the British more, who deliberately placed civilians among the soldiers and equipment, and used each sinking to convince America that it should join it.

  As the ship pulled away from the dock, soldiers came on deck to catch the night breeze and to smoke. Hidden by the darkness, Gustav could only see the lighted ends of their cigarettes, reminding him of fireflies. He had kept to himself as much as possible after leaving the port of Mombasa. Although he spoke French and English, he found the likelihood of discussing the war distasteful.

  Little Willie. Maria had carried him inside her when they came to Moshi. Only Willie would not return. When the prison commandant had contacted him to tell him the news about his son, it had depressed him. For fifteen years they had held out hope, now he knew Willie was in America. He told himself that he should be happy that Willie was alive, but he could not escape the irrational feeling that the news was of his son’s death. He was the child of someone else now. Someone else, he thought bitterly, had watched him grow into a man. He would be twenty-one now. He knew Maria and the children would ask. He would tell them the truth.

  The ship had left the harbor after midnight. As it reached the sea, all lights were extinguished. While the full moon made night almost like day, the Mombasa had no further leeway in meeting its schedule. Ten miles off shore, the Sea Wolf waited.

  ---

  The trail the man and the boy watched was covered with pine needles, patched golden brown from the light which filtered through the pines. The man had selected a stand of laurel downwind on the trail, less than fifty meters from the point where it turned toward them. The spot where Friederich and Tomas sat quietly was less than thirty kilometers from the great battle of Tannenberg. Just over thirteen months since the Russians had poured across the border, he found few signs of the battle. The farmers had returned to their villages, cattle could be seen in the fields, and life as it had been lived for hundreds of years resumed. Only when you traveled through the villages where the battle had raged could you find the people still busy rebuilding. The red deer had returned, as well, and the two waited hopefully for one known to follow the trail they watched.

  It had been a year since he had been carried to the field hospital, the bullet that struck him missing his heart by inches. The doctors had assured him he would be as good as new in a matter of months and they had arranged to send him to St. Olaf ’s Hospital in Konigsberg.

  When word reached Berlin that the Russians had been defeated, and had retreated back into Russia, a great celebration had taken place throughout Prussia. While the fighting still raged on the western front, while Austria had proven an albatross around the neck of Germany, the German Eighth Army had uplifted the spirits of all Germans. Friederich had felt the adulation of the nurses and doctors in the hospital and most of all, his son Tomas.

  He looked down at his son, who watched the trail intently. When they had planned the trip, Friederich
had told his son, “To kill a deer, Tomas, it takes cunning and patience. You must find out his habits, and place yourself where he will not see or smell you before you see him. And you must be patient. You must understand that any movement will frighten the deer. Sometimes, you will wait for hours and you will not see him. But while you are waiting, you cannot move or make any sound that will frighten him.”

  Tomas had not moved for two hours. When they left the cabin, it had been dark. The ground was white with frost and they could see their breath as they rode their horses to the spot they had selected the day before. After tethering their horses in a meadow several hundred meters behind them, they placed themselves and waited. With his son to his left side, slightly to his rear, Friederich had placed his deer rifle across his right thigh. Sitting on a slight decline, Friederich was positioned to raise his rifle to his right shoulder while in the sitting position. Only the rifle had to move.

  For Friederich, the deer was not important. It was not important that they get one today. Or tomorrow. They had planned to stay at the cabin for three days, and Friederich was content merely to have his son beside him, away from the army, from their comfortable home. But for Tomas, he knew it was important to kill a deer, to see his father shoot a great buck with antlers he could show his friends.

  What did he want Tomas to learn? He must be honest. He wanted his son to look up to him. He knew his son would be impressed with his knowledge of guns, lighting fires, finding a way to keep the rain off of you, stalking a deer. But Friederich knew that his father took him hunting for another reason. To teach him to set out to do something and to do it. To do it although you may be wet, and cold, and face great odds to get that deer, boar, or bear you are after. It is a way to make the connection between effort and success. As he watched his son, he thought about hunting the great animals in Africa. Certainly, getting the great head of a buffalo in your sights makes your heart pump, but the abundance made killing a small challenge.