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Devil Dance

Page 17

by Len Levinson


  A tall, strapping fellow with curly side whiskers attached to a brushlike mustache, Hampton welcomed Tom and Clarissa to his rustic country mansion, which reminded Clarissa of castles she'd seen in Bavaria during her honeymoon. The guests sat around a blazing fireplace, wore rough hunting clothes, and pretended to be hearty woodsmen and trappers, when actually they were exceedingly pampered individuals.

  Among the women was sprightly twenty-seven-year-old Mary McDuffie, daughter of former Governor and Senator George McDuffie of South Carolina, and Hampton was betrothed to her, because his first wife, Margaret Preston, expired during the summer of ‘55.

  Clarissa learned that southern men and women were extremely charming and hospitable, yet in the kitchen, barn, and fields, slaves worked long hours. It would have been easier for Clarissa if her hosts were obviously disgusting, but they were decent Americans, provided one didn't mention the occasional whipping. Besides, no one ever suggested how to feed slaves on the day after emancipation.

  Later, while walking Clarissa to her room, Tom couldn't help remarking on Wade Hampton. “He'll probably end up governor of South Carolina someday, and you may be surprised to know that he's a moderate, speaking against secession, which makes him unpopular in certain quarters, but I can tell you a story that neatly sums up the man. Like most of us, he was raised by a Negro nanny—she was called Mauma Nelly. After he grew up, she became nanny for his sons, and finally, in recognition of her faithful service, he told her that he had decided to set her free, buy her a farm in the North, and provide a small income. He thought she'd be overjoyed, but instead she cried and begged him not to send her away. ‘What did I do wrong?’ she kept asking, until he withdrew his offer. So it's true that occasionally we kill a nigra, but it's also true that often we become quite devoted to each other. This is a complicated land, unlike the simple morality tales retailed by abolitionists.”

  Since Tom and Clarissa were unmarried, he could not enter her bedroom, at least not openly at the estate of Wade Hampton. They had told the lie that they intended to marry as soon as Clarissa's divorce became final, and everyone pretended to understand. So she and Tom kissed good night in front of her door, and she was pleased for the opportunity to sleep alone for a change.

  Attired in a diaphanous pink gown, she crawled into bed. Despite rational arguments, she continued to believe that slavery was horribly wrong. While wrestling with the great issue of the age, Clarissa heard her door open. She opened her mouth to scream, when Tom appeared out of the darkness, attired in his robe. “Good evening,” he whispered with a bow. “'Tis time for mice to run through the halls, searching for beautiful bits of cheese.”

  He removed his robe, then covered her with kisses while she lay wondering how many other mice were creeping about at that hour, and perhaps Wade Hampton was on his way to the boudoir of Miss McDuffie. There are two Souths, reflected Clarissa—the seen and the unseen.

  Clarissa and Tom embraced not out of profound passion, yet the pairing brought something new and deviant out of her, which satisfied Tom greatly. I think she's in love with me, he mused as he bit her earlobe, but she was using him as he used her.

  They slept briefly, and before dawn there was a knock on the door—time to get up. They heard horses in front of the main house, dogs barked, and a slave cursed beneath Clarissa's window.

  Everybody enjoyed a breakfast of ham, eggs, grits, and biscuits cooked by slaves who'd been up most of the night. Then hunters and huntresses gathered in the yard and mounted their horses, whose reins were held by slaves. The seigneurial Wade Hampton wore a wide-brimmed dark brown hat with a feather in the crown and a sword in a scabbard at his waist. He looked like a general of dragoons as he nodded to one of the slaves.

  Whining and yapping dogs were released, and they took off like buckshot, headed for the deep woods. Wade Hampton spurred his horse, an Arabian stallion, who eagerly moved after the hounds, and they were followed by the remainder of the hunting party, the ladies riding sidesaddle, but ladies were not expected to kill anything, only to inspire hunters.

  It wasn't long before there was shooting, cheers of victory, groans of disappointment, much joyous confusion, and the gathering of dead animals by slaves. Even Tom managed to shoot a wild turkey that had fled from its hiding place, chased by a dog.

  In the afternoon it was reported that the dogs had found the trail of a bear, and Hampton was going after him, since he especially enjoyed hunting bears. Hampton's horse galloped onward, followed by one of his slaves, while the party followed at a cautious distance, the men with pistols ready, no one wanting an encounter with a four-hundred-pound monster with five-inch claws. Horses dodged giant pines as they raced toward a gray steep-sided cliff.

  “There they are,” said Tom, pointing straight ahead.

  Hampton and his slave dismounted, while the bear reared on its hind legs, back to the cliff. It snorted angrily as it looked at riders converging around, aiming their pistols.

  Clarissa thought the contest one-sided, for evidently they were going to shoot the hapless animal. Instead, Hampton climbed down from his saddle, drew his sword, and advanced toward the bear. Clarissa turned to Tom, who placed his finger over his lips, indicating she should keep her Yankee tongue silent.

  Hampton raised the sword over his head, then brought it down on the bear, which raised an arm to protect itself. The blade sliced through to the bone, the animal shrieked in rage, then rushed Hampton, who backstepped quickly, cracking the bear on the skull. Dazed, blood pouring into its eye, the bear charged once more, holding its right arm for protection, but Hampton nearly chopped it off at the elbow. The desperate bear lunged suddenly, baring its teeth, and the hellish blade produced a compound fracture on its skull. The bear's vision terminated; it fell to the ground and lay still, brains steaming in the cool mountain air.

  Everyone applauded politely as Hampton grinned with pleasure. Then he sheathed his sword, lifted the bear, and laid it over the saddle of a packhorse brought especially for the purpose. His head held high, Wade Hampton rode away, followed by the bear hanging head down over the saddle, blood dripping onto swishing leaves.

  Clarissa felt like vomiting as she followed the others to the feast. In her mind Hampton's killing of the bear seemed to sum up, in a few frenzied moments, the truth of the South: its courage, honor, and utter cruelty. It was difficult to imagine a northern man, even her brawling husband, going out of his way to kill at close range an angry black bear.

  We northerners are too civilized for serious bloodshed, she concluded, while my southern companions do not hesitate to swim in the stuff. If civil war comes, they probably will defeat us. Clarissa felt the full force of the tragedy toward which America was headed and remembered the gleam of pride on the face of Mary McDuffie as Hampton hacked the bear into submission. I might live in the South for the rest of my life, thought Clarissa, but I will never understand these people. She would dream about Wade Hampton killing the bear for the rest of her life.

  After arriving in Santa Fe and having a few drinks, Sergeant Duffy headed for the whorehouse district, and Nathanial made his way to the neighborhood where his former wife had lived, where he knocked on the door of her large adobe home. A maid whom he didn't recognize appeared, looked at him coldly, and said, “What do you want?”

  “Is this the Barrington residence?”

  “It is.”

  “I'm the father of Zachary and Carmen, and I'd like to see them if you don't mind.”

  “They are at school, and their mother would not want you to disturb their studies.”

  “I'll return tonight,” said Nathanial, relieved he didn't have to see Maria Dolores so soon. Then he strolled to Fort Marcy, a short distance from the Palace of Governors, and passed the familiar barracks, parade ground, and flagpole, finally arriving at the orderly room, where he found Sergeant Major Randall behind the desk. “I'm Dr. Steck's new assistant, and I'd like to see General Garland.”

  Sergeant Major Randall escorted him to Gener
al Garland's office, and the commander of the New Mexico Military District arose behind his desk. “I'm sorry that the service has lost you, Nathanial,” he said. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I thought we should talk about Apaches, to see how best to deal with them.”

  “I know how to deal with them, and I can't understand why you became an Indian agent. It's an impossible job.”

  “Maybe, but we shouldn't starve them to death, which is happening at Fort Thorn.”

  “I have no extra rations, because the men don't have that much themselves.”

  “Without rations the Mescaleros are forced to steal.”

  “I understand, but there's nothing I can do.”

  “Except kill them.”

  General Garland nodded. “I'm afraid that's so, because I can't let Apaches run wild, shooting arrows into American citizens, stealing sheep, cattle, and horses. The Apaches must accommodate us, because we are not going to accommodate them. They must obey the law.”

  Both knew they were at an impasse, and awkwardly they parted company. Nathanial didn't look up old Army chums, because they would argue about Apaches. So he returned to downtown Santa Fe, where he intended to have a drink. What makes me think I can bring peace between Apaches and Americans? he thought.

  He realized that the Apache problem was like the slavery issue—intractable. But someone had to fight for Christian decency. He walked west on San Francisco Street, headed toward a certain establishment in Burro Alley, when out of the passing crowd a woman's voice said, “Nathanial Barrington?”

  He froze in his tracks, fearful of who it might be. A thirtyish woman with dark blond hair, wearing a sheepskin coat, approached with a smile. “Don't tell me you've forgotten me?”

  “It's the former Rebecca Harding, unless I'm mistaken.”

  She gave him a hug. “How are you, Nathanial.”

  Nathanial had courted Rebecca long ago, and they'd even participated in rather exciting kissing and touching on several occasions. Now she was the wife of the man whom Nathanial considered his best friend, his former West Point roommate, Beauregard Hargreaves.

  Nathanial and Rebecca separated, then examined each other. They had planned to marry, then Nathanial met Maria Dolores, who somehow had captured his fancy. “Is Beau at Fort Marcy?” he asked.

  “No, he's in Mexico. What are you doing back here?”

  “I'm Dr. Steck's new assistant.”

  “How did you deserve such a terrible fate?”

  “I lived with the Apaches—”

  She interrupted him. “Yes, Beau told me you nearly killed each other when you met in one of those canyons. Thank goodness you came to your senses. Otherwise, I might be a widow.”

  “And then perhaps I could court you again,” murmured Nathanial, like the scoundrel he sometimes became in the presence of appealing females.

  “I never would dream of marrying you, and thank God that He spared me your company. How many times have you been married?”

  “Twice according to American laws, but my current wife is divorcing me, or I'm divorcing her—which will offer new opportunities for making women unhappy.”

  “When Beau returns, you must come over for supper.”

  “You're afraid to be alone with me, because you still have that old feeling, eh?”

  “I'm a married woman, and I have two children. That's all I know.”

  “What if I said I couldn't be trusted alone with you.”

  “It wouldn't surprise me, because everyone knows what a scamp you are.”

  With the conversation degenerating dangerously, they decided to part. Nathanial continued to La Estrellita, a small, disreputable cantina in Burro Alley, where he stood at the bar and sipped mescal. Why didn't I marry Rebecca Harding when I had a chance? he pondered. She would have made the perfect officer's wife, but instead I wanted an exotic woman and ended with Maria Dolores.

  He wondered why he'd made so many bad decisions, as a fight broke out at a card table, two men winging punches, smashing each other's noses, blackening eyes. Nathanial was in a mood to beat the hell out of somebody, but then the sheriff and his deputies arrived, arrested both of the combatants, and marched them to jail.

  Nathanial wanted to drink himself into forgetfulness, but decided to stay sober for the sake of his children. So he walked to the Alameda River, sat on its banks, and looked at the sun dropping toward the Jemez Mountains in the west. As he reflected upon his past, it appeared thoroughly disreputable, as he'd hopped on one woman after another like a damned rabbit.

  Gradually, the view calmed him, and he fell asleep by the banks of the river, not awakening until sunset. After washing his face in the rippling currents, he decided the time had come to confront his first wife. He made his way to the part of Santa Fe where wealthier families resided and hoped Maria Dolores wouldn't throw a frying pan at him.

  He knocked on her door, and it sounded as if a riot had erupted within. The portal was opened by a blond, tousle-headed seven-year-old boy whom Nathanial recognized as his flesh and blood. “Hello, Zachary,” he said. “Remember me.”

  The boy hesitated, then threw his arms around his father. Nathanial hugged him, then saw five-year-old, dark-haired Carmen standing shyly in the back of the vestibule. Nathanial scooped her up and kissed her cheek. “My dearest child,” he said.

  “Where you been?” she asked scoldingly.

  The children each took one hand and led him to the parlor, where Maria Dolores sat nervously on the sofa, every hair in place, combed to a black bun in back of her head, and she had gained many pounds since he'd seen her last, like a middle-aged fandango dancer. “Welcome,” she said unconvincingly.

  “Glad to be here,” he lied.

  “How long are you staying?” asked Zachary.

  “Only a few days, because I must return to Fort Thorn, where my new job is. I'm a civilian these days.”

  “It is about time,” said Maria Dolores, tossing in the harpoon.

  Nathanial tried to think of an effective riposte, but nothing came to mind.

  “Can I come with you?” asked Zachary.

  “You must stay with your mother,” replied Nathanial.

  “I've always stayed with Mother, but why can't I stay with you?”

  “You're too young.”

  “I'm not too young!”

  “But your mother would never let you go.”

  “Oh, yes I would,” replied Maria Dolores. “He is a bad boy, and maybe you can do something with him.”

  Nathanial turned to his son. “What have you done?”

  “Do not ask him,” interrupted Maria Dolores, “because he will lie. Some days he does not go to school, and occasionally he steals things. He also spends time with the worst boys, and I am afraid he will be arrested one day.”

  “If he comes with me,” said Nathanial, “he'll go to school or else. And if he ever steals anything, I'll kill him.”

  “I'll be good if you take me with you,” pleaded Zachary.

  Nathanial barely knew his son, but said, “All right—but I'm going to be hard on you, and I will beat the hell out of you if you break my rules.”

  “It is what he needs,” said Maria Dolores.

  “If you had raised him, instead of having maids do your dirty work, maybe he wouldn't be such a problem.”

  “Where were you all those years?” asked Maria Dolores, and then she answered her own question. “Sleeping with other women, getting drunk, making a fool of yourself.”

  Nathanial smiled thinly. “I never realized how much I dislike you.”

  “You are a stupid man, and I do not know what I ever saw in you.”

  She arose from the sofa and walked away, swinging her wide hips, as if escaping something detestable. Little Carmen stood in the middle of the parlor, glancing back and forth at her father and mother. Then she turned and ran after her mother. “Don't leave me with him!” the child screamed.

  Nathanial found himself alone with Zachary, who shrugged and
said, “Women.”

  He understands, thought Nathanial, as a wave of familial love passed between them. The boy looked like Maria Dolores, except for his aristocratic Barrington nose. “In a few days we're off to Fort Thorn, where I shall enroll you in school. If you sass the teacher, I will stake you to an anthill and pour honey over your face.”

  “I always knew you'd take me someday,” replied Zachary.

  Maids provided two sacks, into which Nathanial and Zachary packed the boy's clothes. “Before we leave, you should say good-bye to your mother,” ordered Nathanial.

  “She doesn't care about me because I remind her of you.”

  “Yes, she does care about you, but she's too busy to show it.”

  “I hate her.”

  Nathanial dropped to one knee and gazed into his son's eyes. “You must not hate your mother. She does the best she can.”

  “But it's all right for you to hate her, I suppose.”

  “That's different, because we were married. Say good-bye to her so you can part on good terms.”

  Zachary would tell any lie if he could be with his father, so he stepped to his mother's office, knocked on the door, and found her sitting at the desk, her eyes red with crying, while Carmen lay on the sofa, also crying.

  “I'm leaving, Mother,” said Zachary.

  “I cannot manage you anymore,” she replied.

  Zachary kissed her damp cheek, then turned to his sister, who had been his little toy. “ ‘Bye Carmen,” he said.

  “You don't love me,” she pouted.

  “There comes a time when a man must move on.”

  He attempted to kiss the child, but she pushed him away. He shrugged, then returned to his father. “I'm ready,” he said.

 

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