by Len Levinson
“What is it that you do?” she asked.
“Oh, I own a small plantation.”
“Do you play a musical instrument?”
“Only the harmonica.”
He whipped one out of his jacket's inner pocket, dusted it against his shoulder, and blew a Negro plantation song while tapping his foot and making his eyes dance about. Technically, he wasn't a refined player, but he managed to carry the tune and appear hilarious. She couldn't help laughing, and applauded gaily at the end of his song, her resistance melting away. “I should hire you as my accompanist.”
“How much would I have to pay for the honor?”
“What about your wife?”
“Actually, I'm looking for one. Would you like to marry me?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“But you don't even know me.”
“I have seen your naked soul on the stage, and now I yearn to see your naked body.”
“I happen to be a married woman, and I don't want you to speak that way.”
“Where's your husband?”
“Either he left me, or I threw him out. I'm not sure which.”
“In other words, he's gone, and you're not married in the strict sense of the word. It's as I suspected, for you were weeping your poor heart out only minutes ago. Well, I've always believed that when a person is unhappy, he or she must start out anew. This may sound like an indecent suggestion, but why not run off with me?”
“To where?”
“Larkspur, my plantation. It's not exactly opulent, but very cozy and quite adequate, although the roof in the kitchen occasionally leaks, but we're working on it. You can be my guest, my carriage will be at your disposal, and I even have a piano, although it's out of tune.”
“I carry my own tuning instruments, but what will people say when they learn you are living with an itinerant pianist?”
He leaned toward her and peered into her eyes. “My dear lady, people like us don't worry about what others say, and besides, after we're married, no one will dare criticize us.”
“I would not dream of sleeping with you until after we're married.”
“Of course not,” he replied, a twinkle in his eyes.
The town of Mesilla existed to satisfy the needs of Fort Thorn, such as meat, vegetables, whiskey, and whores. On a Saturday night its narrow muddy streets were full of hard-drinking soldiers, vaqueros, bull-whackers, and desperadoes.
Raphael Fonseca slouched among them, hands in his pockets, sombrero on the back of his head. He wore white pants, a white shirt, no weapon, and had contempt for the Americano soldiers. They drink their money away, or give it to whores, instead of planning for their futures, he thought, spitting into the street.
He'd planned for his future, but the Apaches had stolen it, and fury sent him roaming the night. A dark, bloody cloud covered his eyes, and he estimated he should kill a dozen Apaches to even the score. How? he wondered.
He came to a square dominated by an adobe church, lights shining through its windows, a cross above the door. He wondered what God would permit children to be killed, and what religion would require a man to turn the other cheek to the most horrible outrages imaginable. Fonseca entered the church, nearly empty that time of night, but the priests had left their net open, hoping to catch the stray wayward soul, and indeed a few drunkards were passed out in the pews, resting in the bosom of God.
Raphael moved into a pew, dropped to his knees, and crossed himself. He gazed at the crudely carved and painted wooden statue of Jesus, blood dripping from his crown of thorns, and flashed on the butchered corpses of his family. No benevolent hand dropped from heaven to soothe him, and no celestial voice whispered into his ear the great comforting truth that he longed to hear. He was alone with the stench of rotting blood in his nostrils and had the urge to commit mayhem. He realized that Christianity was fine as long as no one murdered your family. How could any priest tell me to forgive the Apaches?
The Apaches had shown no mercy to his children, and Fonseca found no mercy for Apaches. Perhaps I should look not to Christ but to Joshua, who waged a war of weapons, violence, and bloodshed.
Fonseca departed the church, then cut into an alley, hoping to find a stray drunken Indian, so he could choke him with his bare hands. Instead, he saw brightness in the backyard beyond. He expected another cantina, but instead it was a barn with a lantern hanging on either side of the door, and a sign: MESILLA GUARDS MEETING TONIGHT
Curious, Fonseca drifted closer to the door, where a group of men were talking. One noticed Fonseca and beckoned for him to come closer. “Welcome. I am Roberto.”
“I am Raphael Fonseca.”
Roberto introduced the other men, then said, “I do not believe I have seen you before.”
“I am new to Mesilla.”
“We need every good man we can get.”
“For what purpose?”
“We are a volunteer militia, because the U.S. Army does not give a damn about us. They have put nearly three hundred Apaches beside Fort Thorn, and the soldiers are safe in their barracks, while we are exposed to danger.”
“What must I do to join the Mesilla Guards?”
“Take the oath and pay your fee.”
“But I have no job.”
“Senor Ortega will find one for you. He is our leader and will be here soon.”
The vaquero known as Antonio snorted. “The gringos believe they can live at peace with the Apaches, but they do not realize the red devils are using them like the big fat fools that they are.”
“The Americano Army,” added Pedro, another of the Mesilla Guards, “is wonderful after you are dead. They will give you a fine funeral and tell your wife how sorry they are, but do nothing to punish the ones who kill you, or prevent them from killing again.”
Miguel said, “The Apaches use the gringos against us, and the gringos give them free food to buy them off. If the Apaches steal your cattle, the gringos will look the other way.”
Denunciations continued as a heavyset man in business suit, tie, and flowing black mustache emerged from the alley, atop a black horse with a white diamond on its forehead.
“That is Juan Ortega,” confided Angel into Fonseca's ear. “He is mayor of Mesilla, owner of ranches and much property.”
Ortega carried an air of confidence and indomitability as he climbed down from his horse, threw his reins over the rail, and tipped his hat to men waiting for him to speak. He proceeded into the barn, the others followed, and there were no chairs; everyone had to stand as horses looked at them bemusedly from their stalls.
Neither was there a podium, so Ortega stood in front and hitched his thumbs in his belt. He carried no paunch and appeared a vigorous leader, the typical self-made man who believes he can do anything. “Hombres, I will be brief,” he began. “Ever since that reservation has been set beside Fort Thorn, we have had nothing but trouble from Apaches. They steal a horse here, massacre a family there, burn something—you know what I am talking about. Since the Americano Army has more important work to do, such as getting drunk, we must look to the safety of our loved ones. The Mesilla Guards train on Sunday afternoons, and you do not need to sign anything, just show up with your weapons. If there are any men who wish to join, please step forward.”
Fonseca advanced, joining eight others in front of Ortega. As the recent widower raised his right hand, he thought, this truly is providence, but was it Joshua or the devil who answered my prayer?
On the night of November 6, 1857, the Lecompton Convention voted for a constitution with slavery, prohibited a popular vote, and forwarded the document to Congress. The convention then dispersed in the early hours of the morning, their tricky deal completed.
Shortly thereafter, President Buchanan was advised that the states of Alabama, Mississippi, and South Carolina would secede from the Union if the Lecompton Constitution was rejected by his administration. After consulting with his southern-dominated cabinet, President Buchanan placed the full weight of his office behind the
Lecompton Constitution. He decided that the nation, struggling to rise out of a depression, needed peace above all.
But the radical wing of the Democratic Party refused to abandon the principle of Popular Sovereignty as articulated by Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, their leader. All of Washington waited breathlessly for the collision between the President and Senator Douglas, as the press trumpeted rumors, innuendoes, and the usual lies, in their never-ending effort to sell newspapers.
The Little Giant and his comely wife returned to Washington from Chicago on December 2 and were greeted with cheers, bonfires, and a parade. After the ceremonies Stephen and Adele traveled to their mansion on Minnesota Row. “By God,” declared the Little Giant in the privacy of his home, “I made Mr. James Buchanan, and by God, I will unmake him.”
Next day Senator Douglas went alone to the White House to confront the President personally, and the President dared not back down. Senator Douglas was ushered into the Oval Office, and Old Buck sat behind his desk, creased and worn, like a boulder exposed to constant storms. Aides and cabinet officers left the office, and the President found himself alone with his most dangerous foe.
Old Buck feared nothing except the breakup of the Union, and after initial pleasantries, came directly to the point. “I understand you plan to oppose me on Lecompton.”
“As chairman of the Senate Territories Committee, I should have been consulted before you accepted the Lecompton Constitution, Mr. President.”
“I do not need to consult with you when I propose policy, Senator Douglas.”
The Little Giant angrily tossed his mane of black hair. “The Lecompton Constitution is a farce, because it has not been voted upon by all citizens of Kansas.”
President Buchanan felt like throwing his inkwell at Senator Douglas. “The nation is being torn apart by this issue, and the only way to heal the rift is pass the damned Lecompton Constitution. Then the crisis will pass and we can deal with the economy, which is our greatest difficulty. Every reasonable man knows that slavery never will take root in Kansas, due to terrain and climate.”
“The Kansas crisis shall never pass,” replied the Little Giant, “because the Lecompton Constitution is illegal, and all the power of your office, plus terrain and climate, cannot change that fact.”
Old Buck narrowed his eyes. “May I remind you that no Democrat ever differed from an administration of his own party without being crushed. Beware the fate of Tallmadge and Rives.”
The President referred to senators read out of the Democratic Party during the administration of President Jackson for their defiance of his campaign against the Bank of the United States.
“Mr. President,” retorted Senator Douglas, “I wish you to remember that General Jackson is dead!”
They glowered at each other, and each contemplated the first fist fight in the history of the White House, but they were men of ideas, not pugilists. “The blood spilled in Kansas has been caused by your damned Kansas-Nebraska Act,” accused President Buchanan.
Senator Douglas glanced from side to side, to make sure no eager reporter was lurking beneath a windowsill, notebook in hand. The Little Giant seldom lowered his voice, but lower it he did, to say, “I never realized what a coward you are, for you will not stand for the basic American principle of one man and one vote. Let me make my position clear, Mr. President. When it comes to Popular Sovereignty, I have bought my ticket and checked my baggage.”
Word was leaked to the press that the President and senator had exchanged bitter words, and various versions of the encounter were supplied by both camps, but no reporter had been there, and none could say for sure. All of Washington waited anxiously for Senator Douglas's speech on the Lecompton Constitution, scheduled for December 8th, 1857.
The galleries were full on that historic day, and among the crowds sat gorgeous Adele, who had dressed and otherwise prepared her husband for his moment of glory. Yet if a foreigner had wandered into the august chamber, he might consider Senator Douglas a circus freak, with his long body and ridiculously short legs, but the Little Giant spoke in a rich baritone, understood the art and science of phrasing, and knew how to work an audience.
His posture was that of a general at the onset of battle as he began his peroration. “My fellow senators,” he told them, “please permit me to say, with profound respect for the President of the United States, that on the point of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, he has made a fundamental error—an error which lies at the foundation of his whole argument!”
Senator Douglas employed the tried and true gestures of oratory, his carriage confident, perhaps even arrogant, as he described the history of the act he himself had drafted while President Buchanan had been out of the country as ambassador to England. “It was the intention of my committee, and subsequent votes of Congress, to establish the principle of Popular Sovereignty on all issues, including slavery. I have spent too much strength and breath, and health, too, to establish this principle in the popular heart, now to see it frittered away. I have been informed by men well posted in Kansas that this Lecompton Constitution would have been voted down by a majority of four to one, while others say ten to one, and twenty to one. How can we adopt this system of trickery and jugglery to defeat the fair expression of the will of the people?”
He banged his fist on the podium for emphasis, then continued, “I care not whether slavery is voted down or voted up! My only concern is that the people of Kansas have the right to express themselves by ballot! But I say to you—if this Lecompton Constitution is stuffed down our throats, in violation of the fundamental principles of free government, under a mode of submission that is a mockery and insult, I will resist it to the last!”
The galleries burst into applause, and Adele blew her husband a kiss. Sympathetic Democratic senators rose to join the jubilation, which became so loud and uncontrolled that Senator James M. Mason of Virginia, a staunch supporter of the administration, angrily moved that the galleries be cleared.
And thus did the great Democratic Party split in two, dropping the nation into the abyss.
8
* * *
The deeper Clarissa rode into South Carolina's back country, the more bizarre and almost prehistoric became her surroundings. Vine-laden trees drooped alongside a barely perceptible road overgrown with weeds and filled with holes, causing the stagecoach to rock from side to side on its leather thoroughbrace suspension. Foggy mists arose from the glens, while the sun shone brightly above the trees. It was a far cry from the airy forests of Westchester County, and she saw no prosperous family farms, only crude log shacks, wild-looking white children in raggedly clothing, and dangerous-appearing dogs.
“The land isn't fertile, apparently,” suggested Clarissa to Tom Oglethorpe.
He'd removed his jacket and tie now that he was in the back country, and smoked a panatella cigar. “What makes you say that?” he asked pleasantly, one arm familiarly around her shoulders, for they had begun sharing the same bed, not out of love, but loneliness, compassion, and unwholesome desires.
She did not push him away, for they considered themselves sophisticated individuals; they had been abroad and seen differing civilizations and felt unfettered by the standards of the mob. “The farms are so poor,” she insisted.
He chuckled as he puffed his panatella. “You Yankees—you see a plot of land, you can't wait to dig it up, but we Southerners are not constantly striving, and we'd rather enjoy the Eden that God has given us than work our fingers to the bones.”
“I doubt it's Eden for children who appear poorly fed.”
“They play in the woods, hunt—it's not a bad life, especially when New York children live in alleyways and are fed milk from diseased cows who eat garbage, according to what I've read. We Southerners are a people who distrust the so-called benefits of industry.”
They passed a fence, on the other side of which a field could be seen, covered with faded brown bushes, a rank of slaves shoveling.
“They're prepa
ring the soil for next year,” explained Tom. “And I know what you're thinking, since you're a Yankee. You look out there and see the purported inhumanity of slavery, but try to forget the abolitionist babble you've heard all your life, open your mind, and ask yourself—where would they be if they weren't slaves? Do you think Africa was paradise? Who do you think sold them to the white slave traders in the first place, but their own black brethren? Don't you know that slavery was a fine old institution in Africa long before the white man ever arrived? Don't blame everything on us Southerners, and besides, if we freed our slaves tomorrow, they'd depress the labor market, throw white men out of work, and riots would ensue. There's no simple solution to this dilemma, despite the proclamations of abolitionists. I hope you don't intend to lecture me continually on slavery. Besides, who among us is really free?”
“To be fair, you must admit we're more free than they, Tom.”
“I suppose,” he agreed wearily. “But the truth is more complex than either abolitionists or fire-eaters would have you believe. Please don't pass judgment before you live among us awhile. Think of this as a trip abroad, instead of trying to change us.”
“All right,” she agreed. “I'll look at slavery coldly and dispassionately, then make up my own mind. I have a feeling it'll be even more disgusting than I imagined, but I won't continually criticize you, and if it ever becomes unbearable, just drop me at the nearest train station.”
He held out his hand. “It's a deal.”
After Mangas Coloradas's strength returned fully, he scouted the terrain surrounding the Chiricahua camp, accompanied by Victorio, Juh, Barbonsito, and Chuntz. Situated on a sprawling mountaintop, surrounded by pine and fir trees, the camp was easy to defend due to steep drops in all directions; great distances could be seen from the wickiups.
