by Len Levinson
“I'll miss you,” she said.
Nathanial turned to Miss Andrews. “May I be alone with my niece?”
The schoolmarm stepped back to the door, and when they were alone, Nathanial said, “I shouldn't mention this, but while I'm gone, I don't want you stealing anything or killing anybody.”
“You don't trust me,” she said sadly.
“Let's say my confidence was undermined when you stole that wallet in Texas.”
“I've learned my lesson,” replied Gloria. “F’ God's sake, you nearly got shot.”
“If you want to test your skills, apply them to learning, not crime. But if anybody ever threatens you, and I think you know what I'm talking about, just take your little gun and blow his brains out. Understand?”
“I wasn't afraid back in Texas, was I?”
“Never have I felt more like your proud Uncle Nathanial.”
Meanwhile, in the kitchen-parlor, Miss Andrews sat on a chair near the fireplace, hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes focused on the middle distance, the picture of repose, but a troubled lady. She felt guilty about leaving the Shaker community, doubtful about sleeping with Lieutenant Wood (who had relieved her of her virginity), and ashamed of lustful feelings she experienced toward men in general.
She didn't love Lieutenant Wood, but he provided a certain useful function. Sometimes she was tempted to rip off her clothes and sleep with every man on the post. A virgin until thirty-five, her frustrated desires threatened to overwhelm her. Only Protestant theology stood between her and total harlotry.
Desire for men had caused her to leave the Shaker community, in addition to her need to help children. She'd hoped to get married, but had yet to fall in love. She found herself thinking about Nathanial Barrington, about whom Gloria had said much. The drunkard's affection for the child was touching. He's a good man underneath, she evaluated, but he needs a good woman to calm him down.
The bedroom door opened, then Nathanial appeared. “I'm going to miss her,” he said. “Funny how we grow attached to people.”
She arose from her chair. “She loves you so . . . why, she couldn't stop talking about you all the time you were gone.”
“What did she say?” asked Nathanial, who realized that Miss Andrews was nearly as tall as he, and it was rare that he met women that tall.
“She talked about how good you are.”
“I have done amazingly selfish things,” admitted Nathanial.
“But God loves sinners most of all, and contrition is the core of Christian life. You're a wonderful man, although it probably embarrasses you to hear it.”
The heat from their bodies radiated as they looked into each other's eyes from a distance of five feet. “Good night,” he said. “I'll be back in about three weeks.”
She followed as he groped for the doorknob. “Please be careful.”
They were only inches apart. He placed his hands on her shoulders, lightly kissed her lips, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the moment. He wondered whether to press his attack, but she was a kindly religious woman, and he decided to be honorable for a change, although her long legs felt miraculous against his. Simultaneously, each took a step backward, breathing more heavily than normal. There were several awkward moments, then he said, “I look forward to seeing you again.”
He opened the door and propelled himself into the cool night air. This is an excellent woman, he told himself as he climbed into the wagon. I must not treat her like a saloon tramp, and after I'm divorced, perhaps I'll marry her. The wagon rumbled toward the gate, and a smile creased Nathanial's features as he thought of sitting opposite her, gazing at her long legs.
Lost in lascivious imaginings, Nathanial didn't realize he was under observation by the post commander, Lieutenant Wood, who stood in the shadows on the far side of the parade ground, certain Nathanial had planked Miss Andrews. Lieutenant Wood pretended to be inspecting the post, a perfectly normal activity for the commander, and no one took any special note as gradually he worked his way toward the schoolhouse.
He rapped on the door, and finally it opened a crack. “What do you want?” Miss Andrews asked coldly.
“To see you,” he replied.
“I have a child with me.”
“Sure, but it's proper for him to come here.”
“Shsshh. The child is in the next room.”
He stepped into the parlor, closed the door behind him, grabbed her chin tightly, forced her to look at him, and said, “Did you do anything improper, my dear?”
“You have no right to speak to me this way.”
Rather than provoke himself further, Lieutenant Wood left the schoolhouse abruptly and walked briskly toward his adobe hut. Who the hell does Barrington think he is, coming here and interfering with the schoolmarm's and my little romance? Next time he wants an escort, he can whistle at the moon. And if an Apache kills him, so much the better.
Nathanial sat on the wagon's seat as his workhorses carried him into the night. It was another mile to Mesilla, where he hoped to find a decent restaurant, a thin gauze of clouds obscuring the moon and stars.
I should have married an ordinary woman like Gwendolyn Andrews, he told himself, because ordinary women are faithful, unlike concert pianists. He saw himself lying naked with the love-starved schoolmarm, those statuesque legs wrapped around him. It was the first real desire he'd felt since Clarissa had skipped, and he began to feel alive again.
In the glow of new love he did not anticipate an ambush, but fifty yards ahead, lurking behind boulders and cactus alongside the road, were four half-starved Mescalero warriors from the nearby reservation, armed with knives, war clubs, and lances, but no rifles or pistols.
They observed the approaching wagon, the driver apparently asleep, and Apaches considered horses their second favorite delicacy, after mules. Moreover, articles of value doubtlessly were carried by the wagon, and the driver might have a new rifle and ammunition.
They were Lamey, Muchacho, Cebolla, and Panjaro, and they'd planned a bold act of terror as an alternative to semistarvation at Fort Thorn. As the wagon drew closer, they glanced at each other meaningfully, their eyes glowing like those of coyotes. Booty or a warrior's death was their plan, for peace had delivered no benefits.
Meanwhile, Nathanial dreamed about long legs, and the more he thought about it, Miss Andrews really wasn't that ugly, because who was more beautiful, she who dedicated her life to children, or she who needed the worship of the multitudes?
True, Miss Andrew's mouth was small and not well defined, like a rosebud with a bent petal, or a piece of candy that had been slightly squashed. But would the candy be less sweet, or the rose less fragrant? The more Nathanial thought about Miss Andrews, the more entangled he became in her long legs.
Nathanial came abreast of the four disgruntled Mescalero Apaches, and at a signal from Lamey, they rushed the wagon, expecting to dispatch him easily, but their quarry had lived among the Mimbreno People, and his senses remained alert regardless of lustful impulses ravaging his mind. At the first sound he drew his gun, thumbed backed the hammer, and opened fire.
His first bullet struck Lamey on the forehead, and his second dropped Muchacho. Then he turned to deal with the others and saw a war club looping toward his skull, while a lance was thrust toward his side. Nathanial threw himself backward, performed a reverse somersault on the bed of the wagon, and came up with his gun blazing. His bullet smashed into Cebolla's stomach; the warrior shrieked as he went down. Panjaro thrust his lance at Nathanial, who batted it out of the way with a sideward sweep of his left arm, then brought the barrel of the gun down on the Mescalero's head.
The force of the blow hurled Panjaro out of the wagon and onto the side of the road. Nathanial threw a dead Apache off the seat, grabbed the reins, and slapped them against the horse's haunches. “Giddyup!” he hollered.
The great equines required no encouragement, for the surprise attack had unnerved them. Straining their harnesses, they galloped down the road, the
wheels of the wagon bouncing off the boulders, carrying Nathanial to Mesilla. Guess it's not as safe around here as I thought, he told himself, struggling to hold onto the reins, the cold breeze whistling past.
Panjaro's vision blurred, and he felt as if his head had cracked in two. He prodded his fingers into the wound, but his skull appeared intact.
Bodies lay nearby, making him shudder. He rolled his friends onto their backs. They were dead, but miraculously he had survived. He wanted to bury them properly, but his head continued to bleed. I will go back and get the others, he decided.
Panjaro stumbled toward the horses. It would be a disgrace to admit the war party had failed. The women will laugh at me. Finally, he climbed onto his war pony's bare back. “I cannot see well,” he said. “Take me home.”
Panjaro tasted the bile of defeat as he returned to the reservation. How can one White Eyes defeat four Mescaleros? he wondered. He arrived before dawn, staggered toward the tipi of Chief Zeenata, and said, “I must talk with you.”
The chief crawled outside, the bandanna crooked on his head. Demoralized by too many relatives killed by bluecoat soldiers, Chief Zeenata had surrendered to the White Eyes. “What happened to you?” he asked as he gazed at Panjaro's wound.
“It is best you do not know,” replied Panjaro, “but Lamey, Muchacho, and Cebolla are dead on the road to Mesilla.”
Chief Zeenata scowled. “You will bring the wrath of the bluecoat Army upon us.”
“The people are hungry because peace does not fill their bellies.”
“A bullet should fill your belly, you renegade. Go to your tipi and stay out of sight. I will take care of the others.”
Panjaro made his way among conical tipis, found the one he shared with his parents and young brothers and sisters, crawled beneath a torn U.S. Army blanket, and closed his eyes. I am tired of being hungry, he decided. When I am able, I will join Chief Gomez in the mountains.
Chief Gomez was leader of a renegade band of Mescaleros who lived in the Davis Mountains. He refused to surrender or accommodate the White Eyes in any fashion, and most of the raiding in southeastern New Mexico Territory was his work.
***
Next morning, Lieutenant Wood received a note from the new assistant Indian agent:
Dear Lieutenant Wood:
Last night I was attacked by four Apaches on the road to Mesilla, and killed two or three of them, and maybe all of them. I recommend that you post a regular patrol on the road, to prevent such encounters in the future. I'm off to Sante Fe in about an hour, and will discuss these matters with you in detail when I return.
Nathanial Barrington
Assistant Indian Agent
“Too bad they failed,” murmured Lieutenant Wood.
Later in the day, Juan Ortega asked to see the post commander, and Lieutenant Wood couldn't refuse an audience with the mayor of Mesilla. “What can I do for you?” asked the lieutenant curtly, as Ortega stood in front of his desk.
“I am here concerning the wanton attack on the new assistant Indian agent last night on the road to Mesilla. Why have there been no arrests?”
“The guilty parties haven't been identified.”
“You know they are from the reservation, because where else would they come from?”
“The Davis Mountains, where Chief Gomez is holed up.”
“Apaches are the same wherever they live, and if you do not punish them, they will be emboldened to do worse next time.”
“In the United States of America, we don't punish without proof,” said Lieutenant Wood.
“You will not even fight for your own people.”
“A soldier must follow the law like everybody else.”
“If the law does not make sense, it cannot be a good law.” Ortega yanked out his gun. “This is what Apaches respect.”
Lieutenant Wood looked him in the eye. “If you harm any Apaches, I will not hesitate to hang you.”
Ortega grinned sardonically. “If I kill an Apache, you will hang me, but if an Apache tries to kill one of your government officials, it is perfectly fine. Do you see the inconsistency?”
“I see the law, but that may be a difficult concept for a Mexican to comprehend.”
They stared at each other in undisguised hatred, for America and Mexico had fought a major war only nine years previously. Then, without another word, Ortega stomped out of the office. Lieutenant Wood leaned back in his chair and lit a cheroot, reflecting on the encounter. I wouldn't be surprised if we had a full-scale massacre around here one of these days.
Mesilla buzzed over the latest outrage, and for Raphael Fonseca, it carried painful memories of the night his family had been murdered. He broke into a sweat, his pulse pounded, and he had to drink cold water to settle himself down. No one is safe, he said to himself as he glanced around fearfully. How much can we take?
At the Mesilla Guards meeting on Saturday night, Juan Ortega told them, “The Americano Army will not help us, so next time the Apaches strike, we shall strike back! Maintain your weapons ready at all times, companeros. When the moment arrives, we must move fast.”
9
* * *
Clarissa had expected a white mansion with Grecian columns, lavish rooms, and a wide veranda suitable for entertaining, but instead the so-called manor house was boxy, smallish, paint peeling, roof leaking, with slaves grouchy, tattered, and rebellious.
Not especially clean, the manor house also lacked running water and central heat, but offered comfortable old furniture. It was far more lugubrious than Fort Craig, her standard for lowdown living. She accustomed herself to the outhouse, less frequent bathing, and pork chops, while Tom spent little time managing his holdings, for that task was left to his overseer, a stout, jolly fellow named Tibbs, who carried no whip and seemed on reasonably good terms with the unenthusiastic slaves. Everyone's expectations, including Tom's, seemed modest to nonexistent. Clarissa tried to maintain an open mind, recognizing that her northern “go-ahead” opinions were foreign to old Beaulah Land.
The slave quarters consisted of a log hut, not especially crowded, with a fireplace for warmth and cooking. Most slaves weren't friendly or cooperative, but Clarissa attributed their hostility to lack of hope for better lives.
Somehow Tom's plantation, Larkspur, endured, growing its food, refining sugar, and selling sufficient cotton to provide whatever cash was necessary. The slaves were permitted to raise their own vegetables, chickens, and pigs, a task left to the very old and very young, for everyone else had to work in the fields or the manor house.
With slaves to perform all labor, the gentry was free to indulge their favorite pastimes, which centered on hunting. Every several days the masters and their ladies would gather on someone's plantation, dogs were released, and the men rode across the country-side, shooting deer, rabbits, foxes, and anything else that had the misfortune to stumble their way, while women followed on horseback, cheering them on.
Then edible creatures were skinned, gutted, and roasted over open fires, to the accompaniment of much drinking, gambling, riding contests, and other pleasurable activities, with great bonfires blazing into the night. The men became besotted, good fellowship prevailed, and her hosts discussed a variety of subjects, from Virgil and Plato to Sir Walter Scott and Jefferson Davis, for education and knowledge of current events was considered a mark of good breeding among the planter class, and even the women were sent to special academies, where they studied the same subjects as the men, although northern propaganda portrayed belles as empty-headed, giggling children, and their men as ignorant, violent buffoons.
Clarissa's dresses grew tighter as she fell into the easy self-indulgent round of activities. Maintaining her scientific objectivity, she had to admit that planters were not nearly as anxious as northern businessmen, while the darkies whom she saw daily were no worse off than the lower tier of unemployed freemen in the North, who lived in alleyways and begged in the streets. But in her gut she still felt it was wrong for one man to own
another, like a dog.
She saw herself sojourning in a strange foreign land, such as the mountains of Carpathia, with new customs and a different language, for the accents of her companions sometimes were incomprehensible. Meanwhile, they treated her as an oddity, and occasionally she was insulted obliquely, but she always smiled politely and held in her anger, like the researcher that she considered herself to be.
An important component of a planter's existence involved visiting each other's homes, most of which were as wretched as Larkspur. One afternoon, while enjoying tea and cakes with the Danforths, who lived down the road from Tom Oglethorpe, a slave spilled tea onto the lap of the mistress, who slapped the slave's face rather hard, then sent her to the fields.
The incident passed without comment, for evidently such an outrage was common, not worth discussing. Another time, riding a carriage to the Newcombe plantation, Clarissa was astonished to see in the distance a slave hanging by his hands from a tree, while a white man whipped him.
“What's that about?” asked Clarissa.
Tom shrugged. “Perhaps he tried to escape, or maybe he sassed the wrong person. Beating slaves disturbs me as it does you, and whenever I have trouble with one of them, I sell the son-of-a-bitch. You Yankees consider yourself compassionate because you merely allow children to starve in the hovels of your cities, but that slave, who is being beaten to within an inch of his life, will be fed and sheltered until he recovers. And if he does his work, he will have nothing to fear, unlike northern laborers who are fired at the whims of their bosses. Which is worse?”
Clarissa felt guilty living on the backs of others, but had no desire to make herself suffer, so she continued her southern interlude and tried not to worry about slaves, even when they looked at her with pleading or angry eyes.
In early December Clarissa and Tom traveled to North Carolina to attend a hunt given by Wade Hampton in, one of the wealthiest men in the South. Aged thirty-nine, scion of a proud old family, he owned thousands of slaves on plantations from Virginia to Mississippi, was a state senator in South Carolina, had traveled in Europe, and received his education at the College of South Carolina. If America had an aristocracy, he would have been a prince, for his grandfather, Wade Hampton I, had been a hero of the Revolutionary War.
