by Len Levinson
The steamer stopped at West Point; Nathanial and a few visitors debarked on the pier, then climbed the steps to the plain on which the great institution was situated. Nathanial remembered the day he'd first arrived, filled with optimism and fear, then walked across the parade field on which he'd marched under the watchful eyes of Army officers. Standing in the ranks with classmates, he'd dreamed of becoming a general one day, but instead had resigned his commission after a brief, undistinguished military career. What made me think I was destined for high command? he asked himself. In truth, I am a useless man, but I dare not communicate my doubts to Jeffrey, because I don't want to undermine his confidence and permit him to contemplate that he might carry the disease of insanity.
Nathanial sucked in his stomach, squared his shoulders, and pulled his chin back, as he marched into the administration building. He identified himself to the first clerk he saw as Captain Nathanial Barrington of the 1st Dragoons, neglecting to mention he'd resigned his commission, then inquired as to the whereabouts of his brother. The clerk examined a roster, then said, “Mathematics class.”
Nathanial retreated down the corridor, emerged outside, and was on his way to the academic building, when a voice called out, “Is it Nathanial Barrington I see?”
A diminutive gentleman about Nathanial's age, wearing a closely clipped black mustache, gray civilian topcoat, white shirt, and red cravat stood before him. Nathanial tried to remember his name.
“George McClellan,” said the former underclassman of Nathanial's, holding out his hand. “Don't you remember me?”
“But you weren't wearing a mustache in those days, and you've gained weight, I see.”
“So have you,” said George Brinton McClellan, son of a Philadelphia lawyer.
Both men examined each other, estimating the wreckage that only time can provide. Nathanial had heard about McClellan, for the younger man had been considered one of the most promising junior officers in the Army, an aide to General Scott during the Mexican War, and Secretary of War Jefferson Davis's choice to report on the Crimean War.
“What're you doing these days?” asked Nathanial.
“I'm vice president and chief engineer for the Illinois Central Railroad, and my office is in Chicago, but I've come to New York for a business meeting, because the failure of the economy has undermined the strength of the company. In fact, I may be unemployed soon. Are you still in the Army?”
“I resigned my commission a few months ago and have just secured a position as assistant Indian agent in New Mexico Territory.” Nathanial felt embarrassed, for assistant Indian agent was many steps down from vice president and chief engineer of a rail road.
“Sounds like an interesting job,” said McClellan, apparently trying to be polite.
Nathanial decided to change the subject. “I followed the Crimean War in the newspapers and wondered what really happened at the charge of the Light Brigade. Since you were in the region at the time, what have you heard?”
“I didn't actually view the charge,” explained McClellan, “but it was led by Lord Cardigan, who had bought his commission and had no real battle experience, while his commanding officer was Lord Lucan, who also had bought his commission and was equally inept. Add to that poor communications and inadequate intelligence concerning the Russians, and that's what caused six hundred men to be killed, according to what I've heard. At least in the American Army, an officer must earn his rank, not buy it like a bolt of cloth at a Broadway store.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the whistle of the paddle wheeler returning to New York City. “Got to be going,” said McClellan. “If you're ever in Chicago, you must look me up.”
They shook hands, then McClellan ran toward the landing, leaving Nathanial staring at him in awe. Nathanial wondered why George McClellan was vice president and chief engineer for a railroad and had been selected for special European duty by then Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, while he, Nathanial Barrington, never had been selected for anything.
He continued to the academic building, where he sat on the front steps and contemplated what he perceived as his many inadequacies. I've failed at my career, two marriages, and everything else except apprentice warrior among the Mimbrenos. How odd.
Cadets spilled out of the academic building, and Nathanial arose, looking for his brother. Faces rushed past, animated with exuberance, dedication, purpose, mischief, and confusion, as had been his. He spotted a curly-haired blond lad, with broad shoulders and a slim waist, carrying books, chatting with friends. Nathanial angled toward him and said, “Hello, brother.”
Jeffrey stopped. “Nathanial—what are you doing here?”
“I came to say good-bye.”
“Where are you going?”
“West.”
“But you just arrived!”
“Do you think we could have dinner together, and I'll explain everything.”
“I'll ask my commanding officer.”
Jeffrey ran off, and Nathanial vowed not to plague his brother with his lugubrious musings. After a while, Jeffrey returned and said, “I must be back by eight.”
They walked toward the front gate, glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, for this could be their last meeting in many years, if not forever.
“Why are you going away?” asked Jeffrey.
“I've found a job as assistant Indian agent in New Mexico Territory, and Clarissa and I have become estranged. She's become a concert pianist and evidently feels imprisoned by marriage.”
“But you're reasonable people. Surely you can settle your differences.”
“If I remain in New York, I might well strangle the bitch. You should see how she treats me, like one of her servants. Have you ever been in love, little brother?”
“How can I be in love when I've spent nearly three years where there are no women?”
They passed through the gate and continued to the town of Highland Falls, which consisted of small homes and farms, the most notable structure a tavern known as Benny Haven's, a mecca for thirsty travelers and cadets who dared sneak away from West Point discipline.
It was a small, rough-hewn cabin with a bar and fourteen tables, military accoutrements hanging from nails banged into the walls. Only a few civilians were present when Nathanial and Jeffrey arrived.
“How're you getting along?” asked Nathanial after they were seated.
“I've been thinking about leaving West Point,” replied Jeffrey.
“For what?”
“I don't know, exactly.”
The waiter brought whiskey for Nathanial and lager for Jeffrey. The brothers clicked glasses, and Jeffrey studied his brother, who took a few gulps of refreshment. Jeffrey had admired his older brother at a distance all his life, Nathanial appearing almost mythic, because he'd fought in the Mexican War, slept with countless women, and lived with the Apaches. Jeffrey believed he'd never be a man like his brother.
After reflection Nathanial said, “I suggest you remain where you are, since you feel no powerful attraction to another profession. You'll receive a sound engineering education, learn self-discipline, and you're not being a wastrel. Besides, if the nation keeps on the way it's going, we'll all be in uniform anyway. It's better to be an officer, because officers don't scrub pots and pans and clean latrines. You're a Barrington, after all, and speaking of Barringtons, it may interest you to know that your father has gone insane.”
Jeffrey nearly dropped his fork. “My God—is he in an asylum?”
“He's living with Mother on Washington Square, and she's pretending they're a happily married couple. When you return home for Christmas, just act as though Mother and Father never separated, and all's wonderful.”
“Sometimes it's embarrassing to have such a family,” said Jeffrey sheepishly.
“Every family has at least one lunatic, so I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. If you never betray a fellow soldier, you have nothing to fear.”
They discussed West Point,
family matters, and the Army; soon it was eight o'clock. The brothers hugged good-bye on the plain, then Jeffrey returned to the castellated barracks in which he resided, and Nathanial caught the last steamship to New York City.
Next morning, Jeffrey sneaked into the mammoth West Point kitchen, where he observed an exhausted man surrounded by huge pots and greasy black frying pans, scrubbing away in a deep sink. While studying this singular individual, who was drenched with sweat and soapy water, his color deep green, with an utterly miserable expression on his face, Jeffrey became more clearly aware of the superior benefits of becoming an officer. And thus Cadet Barrington determined to remain at West Point, manipulated by his older brother yet again.
At Fort Buchanan Major Enoch Steen stood at his map, wondering what town or ranch would be the next target of the Apaches. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.
The door opened on Raphael Fonseca, the rancher who'd been found nearly dead in the Sonoita Valley, then nursed back to health at Fort Buchanan. “Good afternoon, Senor Fonseca,” said Major Steen. “So good to see you up and around.”
“The doctor says I am well enough to travel,” said Fonseca weakly. “My brother lives in Mesilla, but I have no money, horse, or anything except my life and these clothes given me by the Army. I was wondering if I could borrow from the Army, so I can travel to my brother's home.”
“There is regular traffic between Fort Buchanan and Fort Thorn, which is near Mesilla,” replied Major Steen. “Next time we make the trip, we'd be happy to take you along.”
“Gracias.”
Fonseca shuffled out of the office, a huge purple scar on his sunken left cheek, but a more painful one on his heart. The loss of his wife and children still devastated him, and he could not believe a decent God would permit such crimes.
A detachment of dragoons approached from the other direction, but Fonseca barely noticed them, so lost was he in fantasies of retribution. He saw himself hacking Apaches with a hatchet, their arms and heads flying through the air, a river of blood beneath his feet. For only blood could compensate for the murder of his family. As the dragoons rode past, guidon flag fluttering in the breeze, Fonseca plotted his future.
When well, he thought, I shall seek out Apaches and kill as many as I can. And I won't stop until one of them kills me. For I died on the night my family was murdered, and I was spared to become their avenging angel. Death to the Apache shall be my creed from this day on.
***
Due to preparations for the devil dance, Cochise had not found time to smoke with his warrior brother Victorio. Finally, he stopped all tasks, collected pipe, tobacco, bow and arrows, and headed for the wickiup where Victorio and his family lay, recovering from poison. He called Victorio's name and said, “Come smoke with me.”
There was a groan, then finally Victorio's head appeared. “I am too sick,” he said.
“Soon the devil dance will cure you. Give me your arm.”
Cochise helped Victorio into the wilderness, and some distance from camp, lowered him onto a carpet of needles in a grove of bristlecone pines. Cochise gathered twigs, made a small fire, added larger branches, and finally sat opposite Victorio. From a leather pouch Cochise took a hefty pinch of tobacco, placed it on an oak leaf, rolled it into a fat cigarette, and passed it to Victorio.
The smoking mixture consisted of wild tobacco and Americano tobacco mixed with herbs, leaves and roots sprinkled with mescal juice by Nana the Medicine Man. Cochise and Victorio puffed alternately and soon felt relaxed, even mildly euphoric. “How have you been faring since Miguel Narbona passed on?” asked Victorio.
“Whenever I have doubts,” replied Cochise, “I ask what Chief Miguel Narbona would do.”
“You have gained power, while I have suffered setbacks. A bluecoat soldier shot me not long ago.” Victorio laboriously lowered his breechclout and showed a red scar on his groin. “And now I am poisoned. But we must develop plans, because the bluecoat Army is headed this way.”
“That will be their mistake,” replied Cochise, “because the People shall not run away. Here in the Chiricahua Mountains we will make our stand.”
As they sat and smoked, planning great deeds, it appeared as if Miguel Narbona and Cuchillo Negro were standing in the bright blue sky above them, offering blessings.
Nathanial walked down Broadway, passing theaters, restaurants, and high-priced merchandise emporiums. Approaching from the opposite direction, amid stylish shoppers, were about a dozen little girls, ragged and filthy, making raucous remarks and gestures, skipping along. Good ladies clutched their purses, while gentlemen placed hands on their wallets.
One of the scandals of New York was roving bands of derelict girls who engaged in theft, prostitution, and occasionally murder, according to newspaper reports. Nathanial examined them closely as they passed, for he'd never seen such a spectacle. They looked like ragged imps, but were mostly Irish children from the poorest classes, their parents too busy working or getting drunk to care for them, and according to the Tribune, many had been born out of wedlock.
One of the scrawny, dirty-faced urchins, who had curly red hair, looked at Nathanial and made a face. “What're you lookin’ at, mister?”
“Everything,” he replied.
“Well, keep yer dirty eyes to yerself!”
If she were a man, Nathanial would have punched her through a store window. But what does one do with poor, neglected little girls? he wondered. Take her home and give her a bath? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, picked out a five-dollar piece, and flipped it to her. “Have a bowl of soup on me.”
Suddenly, the girls were all over him, and one smacked his hands upward. Coins went flying into the air, and the little girls jumped gleefully, or crawled along the gutter, retrieving them. They reminded Nathanial of vultures at the carcass of a deer.
He joined other pedestrians crossing the street to escape from the hoydens. Then a policeman blew a whistle, and the girls scattered like Apaches. Nathanial couldn't help admiring the saucy little wretches. They are the Indians of New York, he realized.
He didn't feel like talking with a policeman, so continued on his journey to Delmonico's and a meeting with his adopted brother, Tobey. Delmonico's was at 25 Broadway, with white tablecloths and wood-paneled walls displaying oil paintings of hunting scenes. The headwaiter ushered Nathanial to a table near the middle of the dining room, where Tobey rose to his feet, a frown on his face. “You're late again, Nathanial.”
“I was accosted by a band of child criminals, and I'm afraid they took my money. I hope you have enough for both of us.”
“I always carry assets with me,” said Tobey, a note of reproach in his voice.
Nathanial made allowances for Tobey, who had been a street urchin himself, rescued by Nathanial, or who had been rescued by him, one afternoon seven years before when Nathanial had passed out cold due to excessive whiskey consumption on a sidewalk near Printing House Square.
“I always carry money too,” replied Nathanial, “and it's not my fault I was robbed.”
“Why is it you're always in trouble, while most people lead perfectly tranquil lives?”
“You talk as if I'm to blame for everything.”
“You are.”
Nathanial studied Tobey, who looked like a gentleman of the upper classes, because he was trying desperately to escape his childhood in Five Points, the most dangerous neighborhood in Calcutta-on-the-Hudson. “The reason I wanted to see you was to say good-bye,” said Nathanial. “I'm leaving for the frontier in a few days.”
Tobey appeared shocked, as the waiter appeared with his notepad. Nathanial ordered baked halibut, because such delicacies were nonexistent in New Mexico Territory, while Tobey asked for roast chicken. The waiter departed, then Tobey leaned across the table and said, “What about Clarissa's concert tour?”
“Clarissa has left me, and I've landed a job with the Bureau of Indian Affairs in New Mexico Territory. Besides, I n
eed the fragrance of greasewood in the morning, with mountains and vistas where a man can spread out his mind. For example, if we were sitting in a saloon in Santa Fe right now, I could pull out my pistol and shoot a bullet through the ceiling. But such an act would be unthinkable at Delmonico's.”
Tobey appeared confused. “Why would anyone want to shoot a hole into the ceiling?”
“Sometimes it makes a man feel better.”
“But that's stupid.”
“Just because someone disagrees with you, that doesn't make him stupid.”
“What's intelligent about shooting a bullet into the ceiling?”
“Haven't you ever felt the need to do something outrageous?”
“Whatever for?”
Nathanial realized a vast gulf lay between Tobey and himself. “I suppose you're right,” he conceded in the hope of dodging the issue. “Have you been home lately?”
“I've been studying.” Tobey lived in a hotel for students near the new Columbia College uptown at 49th and Fifth Avenue.
“Did you know that Father is back?”
“Of course—I visit my parents more than you.”
“While I'm gone, you'll have to watch over them.”
“Have you ever stopped to consider that you have an obligation to your parents?”
“Sounds like you're not pleased with me, little brother.”
“You're a completely selfish man.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Do you know how much reading I must do?” replied Tobey. “Sometimes I feel as if I'm going blind. And what does love have to do with anything?”
“It is the inspiration for life,” declared Nathanial.
“You've become bored with Clarissa, and it's time for more adventures on the frontier—is that it? And as for little Natalie, she'll have to get along on her own.”
“You've become an acerbic, self-righteous son-of-a-bitch. I can't wait to see when you're forty.”
