by Len Levinson
“If somebody ever called me nice, I'd be insulted,” she snarled. “And I ain't afraid of you, neither.”
“Well, I sure as hell am afraid of you, because you're liable to walk up behind me some night and hit me with a lead pipe. Are you coming or not?”
“You won't call the coppers?”
“You belong in the Tombs, but I'm not the man who'll put you there. Well?”
“Lemme think about it.”
He tipped his hat, then headed for Broadway. She stood in the dark alley, scowling at his receding figure. Hungry, alone, she shivered as cool autumn air sliced through holes and tears in her clothing. She had no family, prospects, school, or church, and feared one day she'd be sent to the Tombs.
She wanted to believe the big gentleman. He seemed softhearted and obviously wealthy. She was confident of her ability to fight, scream, or run like the wind should he get fresh. Besides, I got nothin’ to live fer anyways, she thought. With a shrug she ran after him. “Hey, mister—wait fer me!”
Thus did Nathanial Barrington place a new burden upon himself, but she was one of God's neediest children, and Christ had admonished all Christians to Feed my sheep. He held out his hand. “Who are you?”
She placed her small, birdlike palm in his and said, “They calls me Gertie, but I hate that name.”
“Who would you like to be?”
She pinched her lips together, then looked up, as if pondering the question. “Gloria.”
“Then Gloria it is, and we'll forget old Gertie.” He took her hand, towering over her as they walked side by side down Broadway, denizens of the night observing the ragged child and her well-dressed companion. “I am Nathanial Barrington.”
“Can I have anything to eat I want?”
“And as much as you want. If you stay with me, I'll send you to school. Wouldn't you like to know things, like why trees grow, and why dogs bark?”
“I know why dogs bark—when they're hungry.”
“And when you're crawling through the back window of a house that doesn't belong to you, I imagine.”
“Once I stoled a big jool.” Her eyes danced delightedly.
“What did you do with it?”
“Sold it to a feller in Chatham Square.”
“Who probably robbed you more than you robbed that house. From now on you won't have to steal. And we're going on a little trip.”
“Where?”
“New Mexico Territory.”
“Is that near New Rochelle.”
“It's on the frontier. You've heard of the frontier, I assume.”
“It's where the Injuns are.”
“It'll take about a month to get there, but I think you can manage it.”
She stopped suddenly, tears in her eyes. “This ain't happenin’. It must be a dream.” She pinched her arms. “Why are you helpin’ me? I ain't nothin’ to you.”
The drink swirled in his mind. “I want you to show me the innocence I once had, although I doubt you have any left.”
“Don't you have a wife?”
“I've had two official wives, and a few others. It's awfully complicated.”
Out of the night approached a copper in his leather hat, club tucked beneath his arm. “What've we got here?” he asked suspiciously.
“My friend found something,” replied Nathanial, holding out the wallet.
The copper accepted it. “What're you doing with this child, mister?”
“I'm going to feed and clothe her, and if she's agreeable, I'm going to adopt her. Unless you want to take her home with you.”
“Oh, hell no. I've got five of my own.”
Nathanial and Gloria continued to the Atlas Hotel and found a crew of traveling salesmen drunk in the lobby. Holding Gloria's hand, Nathanial escorted her to the desk. “I wonder if you could do me a favor,” he said to the clerk. “Could you scare up a fairly decent dress and a pair of shoes for this child?”
The desk clerk wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Surely, you're not taking that to your room, sir.”
“She also needs a hot meal, with ice cream and cake for desert.” Nathanial dropped fifty dollars onto the counter. “Think you can manage it?”
“I can manage anything, sir,” replied the clerk as he scooped up the wealth.
Gloria glanced about, bedazzled by her surroundings, for she'd peered into fancy hotel lobbies, but never had been inside. Nathanial lifted her as though she were a feather and carried her up the stairs to his room. He lit a gaslight, then led her to the bathroom and turned on the water. “Gertie can be as dirty as she likes,” he told her, “but not my dear Gloria.”
He closed the door, and she waited to see what he'd do, but he was puttering in another part of the suite. She knew he carried a gun because she'd felt it in his belt, and indeed had been tempted to steal it. In the mirror she stared at her dirty face and snarled hair, noting that he owned a fine brush and comb. She expected to be thrown out after he sobered up, but the sooner she bathed, the sooner she'd eat. Humming an Irish jig, she stood in front of the mirror, took a wash-cloth and soap, then scrubbed years of dirt and grime from her face, replacing them with angry red blotches. Often she'd wished she could be clean and well-dressed like rich children she saw on Broadway, and she didn't enjoy striking people over their heads with lead pipes, but a wild force within her had wanted to live.
Gertie knew what her mother had done for a living, and if the truth be told, Gertie had engaged in certain disgraceful acts herself, for child prostitution was common in New York City. She believed that no matter how hard she scrubbed, the stain of wickedness would remain.
As her face emerged, she decided she was sort of lovely, and after viewing herself from a variety of angles, thought she might pass for a rich kid, as long as she didn't open her mouth, for she knew she was uneducated, unlike the strange Nathanial Barrington, who spoke like a prince. What does he want with me? she wondered. He had something up his sleeve, she was certain, because everybody, in her experience, had something up his sleeve, usually a knife or gun. You'd better make the best of it, Gertie old girl, she told herself. And if that drunkard throws me out in the morning, at least I'll be clean fer onc't in me life.
She undressed, slid into the bathtub, closed her eyes, and lay in the water, letting it unclog her pores. Many times she'd been bitten by rats as she slept with an empty belly in Five Points cellars, but she'd known no other life. She'd always been hungry, and sometimes her gums bled. There was something furtive about her, as if searching for her main chance.
He knocked on the door, and she stiffened in the tub. Here it comes, she thought.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Well—where'd you think I was?”
“I thought perhaps you'd floated down the drain. It may interest you to know, Miss Gloria, that supper is served.”
She bounded out of the tub. “What'll I wear?”
“The desk clerk has found you a robe. Open the door, and I'll give it to you.”
He's gonna grab me—I know it, she calculated, so she took down the razor from the shelf above the sink, extended the gleaming blade, and cracked the door, prepared to chop off the first hand that came for her.
Instead, a yellow flannel robe was suspended before her eyes. She snatched it out of his hands, returned the razor to the shelf, and put on the robe. Then she brushed her wet hair, wrapped a towel around it, and emerged from the bathroom, resembling an Arabian princess.
A table had been spread in the middle of the sitting room, covered with platters of roast chicken, broiled steaks, sliced ham, a variety of vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a pitcher of milk. Meanwhile, he sat on the sofa, coat off, suspenders showing, tie hanging loose, reading a newspaper.
“Don't you look sweet,” he said. “Well, help yourself.”
Gloria stared at the food, unable to move, then a sob escaped her lips.
“What's wrong?” he asked, dropping the newspaper, for the moods of females never failed to amaze him.
Angrily, she wiped the tears away. “Why're you doin’ this?” she asked. “I ain't nothin’ to you!”
“You'd better eat before it gets cold. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
She approached the table and never had she seen so much food. What the hell, she thought. I got nothin’ to lose. She sat and filled her plate with helpings of everything.
Nathanial took the chair opposite her, marveling at the intensity of her appetite, and she didn't slow herself with knives, forks, and spoons. He knew she feared him, because he'd noticed the razor missing from the shelf when he'd opened the door. What dark secrets does this poor child harbor? he wondered. “Have you ever fired a gun?” he asked.
“Nawp,” she replied, mouth full of food.
“I'm going to buy you your own little gun. And I'll teach you to use it, so you don't have to be afraid of anybody.”
“Mister, I know you want somethin’ from me. Maybe you'd better tell me what it is.”
“I want you to be good for a change.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What's in it fer you?”
“The honor of assisting your redemption. This may be the only chance you'll get, so you'd better make the most of it.”
“In the mornin’, you'll look at me and say, ‘What do I need this kid fer?'”
His eyes glowed in the gaslight. “But I do need you, because you're going to be my friend. And you won't run away, because you need a friend as well. Let me remind you that despite my many shortcomings, I'm better than Five Points.”
She didn't interrupt her eating during his confession and thought the biscuits better than anything she'd ever tasted. “Long as you keep yer hands off'n me,” she told him, “we'll git along jest fine.”
5
* * *
Night swept across America like a curtain covering a stage, as lamps were extinguished from east to west. Pitch black in some regions, the sun was setting in other lands, such as remote New Mexico Territory.
On a mountaintop deep in the Chiricahua homeland a fire blazed into the twilight, sending flickering shadows of wickiups against fir, aspen, and juniper trees. It was the night of the devil dance, and Chiricahua warriors carried sick Mimbrenos from their wickiups to the fire, while musicians sat with pottery drums, beating and singing softly.
The Chiricahua singers told of the People's devotion to the Lifegiver, White Painted Woman, and the Mountain Spirits, then chanted sagas of heroism, such as Killer of Enemies removing monsters from the homeland, making it fit for the People. Finally, they called upon the Lifegiver to heal their Mimbreno brothers and sisters, so they could more effectively defend themselves from encroaching enemies.
Among the poisoned lay Victorio, and with every throb of pain he hated the Mexicanos more. When I recover, we shall visit a holocaust against them, he swore.
Chiricahua women passed among the sick, carrying jugs of tulapai, letting them drink. Made from the fermented dried root of the mescal plant, spiced with holy herbs and leaves, tulapai was considered strong medicine for body and spirit. Cochise's wife, Dostehseh, approached Victorio, kneeled beside him, and held the jug to his lips. He took a few swigs, then had to stop, as fiery liquid burned down his throat.
Dostehseh passed on, Victorio closed his eyes, and on the other side of the fire, Jocita lay beside Fast Rider, holding his hand, praying fervently. The sun sank toward ragged precipices on the horizon, and she had the feeling the Mountain Spirits were looking down at her, some with compassion, others with accusation in their eyes.
Sometimes she thought the wrath of the gods had been unleashed due to her immoral behavior with Sunny Bear, but that betrayal had produced a beautiful child, who had demonstrated magical powers from an early age. And Sunny Bear had been no weasel, but a notable Pindah war chief who had seen many visions and been admired by Mangas Coloradas, gallant Victorio, Nana the Medicine Man, and even Juh and Geronimo, the two most ferocious warriors in camp. It was not as if Jocita and Juh had been living together in the same wickiup.
Not far away, Mangas Coloradas lay, thirst slaked by tulapai. Now he too hurtled across the vast reaches of space, wondering if his demise had occurred. The suffering of the Mimbrenos is my fault because I trusted the Mexicanos. But I never will trust them again, and if I recover, I will lead the combined Chiricahuas and Mimbrenos against Janos. Justice will be done, if the Mountain Spirits so favor us.
Chanting and singing continued, rhythmic sounds exerting a hypnotic effect on the People, augmented by copious draughts of tulapai. Close to midnight, seven balls of fire could be seen rolling down the mountain. They seemed to be dancing, spinning about, and making light paintings against the starry sky, but then, drawing closer, became torches in the hands of ceremonial Gahn dancers.
They wore tall headdresses of painted yucca lathe crests, decorated with beads and sacred stones, looking like the spreading tails of peacocks. Behind their black cloth masks, they were warriors especially selected for the honor of not just impersonating, but becoming the Mountain Spirits. Many regulations attended their ministry, and illness or even insanity could result if they violated the purity of the practice. They formed a straight skirmish line and swept toward the fire, then danced backward, repeating the ritual again and again in series of sacred pulsations intended to evoke the deeper energies of the universe.
The musicians sang and beat drums louder, more tulapai was consumed, and selected warriors threw logs onto the bonfire, spilling heat and light across the campsite, while high in the sky, bats circled and darted as if they too were part of the devil dance.
Then a new dancer rushed into their midst, swinging above his head a carved block of wood attached to a rope, producing a roaring sound. He was Posito, impersonating the devil, wearing horns on his head, a breechclout, and moccasin boots. Cavorting and somersaulting, he screeched incantations, whipping the air with his rhombus. The evil one caused all illness, but he was a shy deity, and suddenly turned, ran back to the mountain, and disappeared.
The Gahn dancers coaxed him back with stylized hand and arm gestures, because his presence was necessary for the healing. Meanwhile, the singers pleaded the case of their Mimbreno friends and begged the devil to forgive them.
Coyuntura, brother of Cochise, was leader of the Gahn dancers. As a mark of high office, he carried a triple medicine cross adorned with eagle feathers. He offered the medicine cross to other dancers, then with-drew as they reached. He repeated the same ceremony with the singers, who begged for the healing device.
The devil became interested in the medicine cross and drifted closer to the fire, resembling a huge dancing tarantula. Coyuntura encouraged more onlookers to join the dance and help the Gahn impersonators enchant the devil. The newcomers formed a giant six-spoked wheel and gamboled in a circle that continued throughout the night.
Finally, the devil returned to the fire, accepted the healing wand, and whirled among the sick Mimbrenos, touching them, drawing their disease into the holy implement, then raising it to the heavens and making a hissing sound, dispelling the illness to the four directions.
The devil was followed by Coyuntura, who dropped handfuls of sacred pollen upon sick Mimbrenos. Musicians sang loudly and beat drums with such energy that some of their fingers bled. More Apaches joined the dance, adding their power to the exorcism. Small boys wiggled in a circle at one end of the fire, and little girls at another, with the most beautiful maidens forming a five-pointed star and performing their own special medicine dance, carrying wands eight feet long, each with a cross at the end.
Coyuntura approached Nana, a fellow medicine man stricken with illness. Kneeling beside him, Coyuntura placed dots of pollen on his forehead, cheeks, mouth, and torso. “Soon you will be well, my brother,” he murmured.
Nana barely heard him, for he had burst through the membrane between the land of warriors and the realm of gods, as essence of tulapai saturated his brain. He thought he had gone to the happy hunting ground, but could see no deer
or antelope, only spirals of fire swirling in the night sky. I ask not for life or good fortune, he prayed. I ask only that you save the little ones, for they are the future of the People.
Out of the vortex of night and fire came a voice. “I will save you for the sake of your holiness, but you must never drink and eat foreign food again, otherwise you shall surely die.”
It will be as you say, thought Nana, as the Gahn dancers spun in a circle around him, and gorgeous maidens continued their plaintive song.
And so the evil emancipated by the devil dance was released into the atmosphere, where it merged with other prayers, songs, dances, and incantations of the nation known as America. All events influence other events, according to the wisdom of the People, and the hateful vapors floated into every corner of the land, from the barns of Missouri, where horses sniffed the air nervously, to the Great Plains, where buffalo stirred in their slumber.
Snakes, elk, and cougars felt the emanations of the devil dance, aware that strong medicine was loose in the land. It even invaded the wharves of San Francisco, where ships filled with the jewels and silks of the Orient lay at anchor, and it dropped down the chimneys of shuttered homes in New England, where descendants of Pilgrims slept in their feathered beds.
Great mountains were strewn across America, but nothing could stop the putrid effusions of the devil dance. It even made its way into the dreams of countless citizens, and next day they'd awaken ill at ease, vaguely aware of having been somewhere extraordinary, but not certain where. The devil dance of the People even sent its stirring vibrations into the halls of the mighty and powerful, exerting its power on the important decisions of the day.
President James Buchanan was sixty-six years old, a lifelong bachelor, and a former senator, secretary of state, and ambassador to England and Russia. Known popularly as the Sage of Wheatfield by his friends, Ten Cent Jimmy by his enemies, and Old Buck by those in between, when he needed advice, naturally he turned to his cabinet. And the cabinet member he most trusted was Howell Cobb, forty-one, secretary of the treasury, ex-speaker of the House, former Georgia lawyer.
