by Len Levinson
She could not return his gaze, but continued to dance with him, clapping her hands and rocking her shoulders. The other dancers formed a circle around them, chanting and stamping their feet. Drums beat faster, Clarissa's heart raced, and perspiration covered her body, for never had she danced with such abandon or felt so oddly aroused. The glee on the faces of the Negroes transported her to Africa, where she imagined herself with dusky skin, performing the marriage ritual. So this is what it's like to be a Negro, she thought.
The great issue of slavery somehow seemed irrelevant before the power of the dance. These people will never be destroyed, realized Clarissa, as she whirled dizzily in the light of the fire. And then, in a blinding flash, she understood the deeper meaning of music, that it elevated people from their humdrum lives, and therefore was like prayer.
Just as she experienced renewed hope, suddenly the beat stopped. Everyone ceased dancing, her Negro partner shrank into the darkness, and Clarissa found herself traipsing alone. A bolt of fear shot through her as she turned to the door.
Tom and the overseer, Tibbs, had arrived, the latter carrying a shotgun. “What are you doing?” asked Tom, an angry note in his voice.
“Just dancing,” she replied.
“Follow me.”
She dared not disobey, for she was literally at his mercy, and if she disappeared in a nameless swamp, no one would be the wiser. She and Tom returned alone to the main house, he fixed drinks for both, then they sat in the parlor beneath the painting of an Oglethorpe patriarch.
“It does not occur to you that you have disgraced me,” began Tom. “Till now, I never truly appreciated how little Yankees understand our way of life.”
“But I was only dancing.”
“Your partner happened to have been a nigra, and that is especially embarrassing to me, because in this country, white men do not share their women with nigras.”
“But it was completely innocent,” she insisted.
“Liar!” he retorted. “I saw the lustful expression on your face and your hips moving suggestively. Do you want to sleep with a nigra? Is that your sick little Yankee woman's dream?”
“Tom—you're being rude.”
“Scratch a Yankee—find a nigra lover. Is that why you want to free them, so you can rut with them like the white bitch that you are?”
Clarissa found herself curiously calm, perhaps because she considered her moral position unassailable. “Regardless of what you think of me,” she replied coolly, “I have done nothing wrong. Moreover, I believe the Negroes should be freed at once, for the moral crime is far worse than the problems of feeding them next morning.”
“If three million free Negroes ever descend upon New York City, I doubt you'd remain long.”
“They can be educated,” she replied. “Once I attended a lecture by the former Maryland slave Frederick Douglass, and he was as articulate as any white man.”
“Superficially, like a parrot, perhaps.”
“You are unable to see anything worthwhile in Negroes.”
“That's because I've been around them all my life, and they are lazy, worthless, quarrelsome bastards.”
“Yes, because they have been demoralized by your ‘special institution,’ and whenever one musters the courage to stand up for himself, he's either shot out of hand or beaten to within an inch of his life. Someone should enslave you, so you can learn what it's like.”
He smiled, moving closer. “But I'm your slave, darling.” He placed his hands on her hips and murmured into her ear. “Do you know how exciting you looked, shaking your ass like a nigra?”
She let him kiss her. “I would like to return to New York.”
He unbuttoned the back of her dress. “I should chain you to my bed, but if you wish to leave, I shall not detain you.”
“I'll bet you've been with another woman tonight, and that's why you were late.”
“Women have one principal function, and it is this.”
He lifted and carried her down the murky hall to his bedroom, and she didn't struggle, for he never failed to stimulate her basest desires. Closing her eyes, she pretended he was the muscular Negro slave. She may have lied to Tom, but could not to herself.
Next morning, slaves carried luggage to the front parlor, and a carriage was summoned, time for Clarissa to leave Larkspur. As she proceeded to the door, Tom appeared with his shirt half unbuttoned, liquor on his breath, hair uncombed.
“Heard the carriage,” he said nonchalantly.
“It's been lovely knowing you,” she replied, extending her hand. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It was wonderful having you,” he replied, kissing her hand lightly, then sticking his tongue in the space between her fingers.
They looked at each other one last time, remembering freakish contortions and blazing mattresses, but she had tired of slavery, and he couldn't bear constant abolitionist lectures. So she turned, twirled her parasol, and walked to the carriage, where Ebenezer held the door.
“Good-bye missy,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Thank you for all that you have taught me.”
Ebenezer appeared surprised. “What have I taught you?”
“To dance,” she replied.
He beamed with pride as she climbed into the wagon. Horses pulled Clarissa away from Larkspur, and she wondered how many friendships and loves had been rent asunder by the great slavery issue. There can be no compromise on this matter, she told herself. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs, to warn of the approaching catastrophe, but too many angry people were loose in the land, forgetting those most vulnerable. She shuddered as the carriage transported her to the train station, the first leg of her journey back to New York City.
The pawnshop sat in a rundown St. Louis neighborhood, and the graybeard behind the counter was an immigrant from Galicia, descended from a long line of Jewish peddlers. Necklaces, brooches, watches, guitars, guns, and articles of clothing passed before his scrutiny that Christmas season, each carrying its tale of woe.
The old pawnbroker tried not to judge his Christian brethren too severely, but they were a violent, hard-drinking lot, just like the Russians, and naturally they treated their humble pawnbroker as if their bad decisions and ridiculous spending habits had been his fault.
Customers visited in a steady procession, some poorly dressed, teeth chattering in the cold, while others obviously had been rich, fallen on hard times due to the Panic. In such a neighborhood many prostitutes offered the delights of their persons, but the pawn broker did not believe in monkey business.
His problem was more sellers than buyers, and often he was forced to decline an article difficult to resell. For this reason he was referred to as a “dirty, cheating Jew,” although he tried to be a just man and live according to the laws of Moses.
One evening, the door to his ramshackle shop opened to reveal a man in his mid-thirties, of less than average height, wearing a shabby Army greatcoat and looking about embarrassedly. The old pawnbroker smiled inwardly, because many decent people preferred not to be seen in his establishment. “May I help you, sir?”
The customer's shoulders were soldierly, his back erect, and he wore a short black beard, which made him resemble the sainted Rabbi Menachem Mendle of Kotsk. He failed to look the pawnbroker in the eye as he approached the counter, then reached into his pocket and extracted a gold watch. “How much?”
The pawnbroker took out his glass and examined the merchandise carefully. The gold was high quality but worn, crystal scratched, but the mechanism ticked and was an item a prostitute might give her lover. “Vhat do you vant for it?” asked the pawnbroker in his throaty east European accent.
“Twenty-five dollars,” said the man hopefully.
“If it vas in better condition, I could gif that. Vould you take fifteen?”
The man shook his head, dropped the watch into his pocket, and headed for the door.
“Vait a minute!” called the pawnbroker. “How about tven
ty?”
‘Twenty-two,” said the man. “And I'll pick it up in a month.”
That's what they all say, thought the pawnbroker, for he had to evaluate his customer as well as the merchandise. This one had the look of a cashiered Army officer, perhaps a decent family man who needed to buy Christmas presents for his children, and secretly the old Jew loved the happy faces of children during the Christmas holidays, like the angels of the holy ark. “All right—twenty-two,” he grumbled, pushing the ticket forward.
The man hesitated, as if he didn't want to write his name, then scratched on the dotted line as the pawnbroker counted the money.
The customer pocketed it nervously, leaving as furtively as he'd arrived. After the door closed, the old pawnbroker turned the ticket around, to read the shy stranger's name: U.S. Grant
It was Christmas Eve on the desert between Santa Fe and Fort Thorn, and three figures sat around a campfire, eating bacon and beans. No candles adorned fir trees, and no choruses sang Handel's Messiah, but Nathanial felt like a shepherd following the holy star to Bethlehem. He glanced at his son, a chubby lad in a vaquero hat, who had grown without his father, and now appeared soft, unathletic, unsure of himself on the open land.
On the other side of the fire Sergeant Duffy sat contentedly, munching his biscuit, his brain aswim with memories of the whorehouses of Santa Fe, where he'd thoroughly debauched himself.
“Do you believe in Santa Claus?” asked Nathanial of his former first sergeant.
“Where would I be right now,” replied Sergeant Duffy, “if it weren't fer Santy Claus? When I seen you at Fort Thorn, and you invited me to escort you to Santa Fe, that was the work of Santy Claus.”
“Do you really believe Santa Claus wanted you to go to a ... house of ill fame?” asked Nathanial incredulously.
“It waren't no ‘house of ill fame,’ but a reg'lar whorehouse, and if'n I know Santy Claus, he was right thar with me.”
Nathanial glanced at his son. “Perhaps we shouldn't speak this way in front of the boy.”
“Hell, he's got to l'arn someways. Besides, he prob'ly knows more'n you.” Sergeant Duffy looked at Zachary. “You been with a gal yet?”
Zachary blushed. “Not yet.”
“Wa’ al, be careful.”
Nathanial cleared his throat. “He's much too young for this, Sergeant Duffy.”
“No I'm not,” said Zachary, although he barely knew what they were talking about.
“But this is Christmas Eve,” insisted Nathanial, “and we should direct our attention to the higher spheres. What do you think of Jesus, Zachary?”
“He died for my sins,” said the boy, for his mother had sent him to church.
Sergeant Duffy snorted, “But you ain't old enough to have committed no damn sins.”
Zachary considered himself wicked, because his mother said he fought too much. “I'm bad enough,” he said staunchly.
Nathanial put his arm around his son's shoulder. “I'm sure it's not serious, and Christmas is the season when we forgive each other and give presents. I thought I'd give you yours now, Zachary.”
Nathanial removed from his saddlebags a new Colt pocket-pistol in .36 caliber with dark walnut grips and the name Zachary Taylor Barrington engraved on the barrel.
“It's a beauty,” commented Sergeant Duffy appreciatively.
Zachary stared at the gun lying cold and heavy in his hands. He thought it the most miraculous object, glowing deep within its depths.
“I could've bought a silver-plated model,” explained Nathanial, “but it might give away your position. You don't want your enemy to see you before you see him.”
Zachary held the gun in both his hands. It was heavy, difficult to aim, but incredibly wonderful.
“Your hand will grow into it,” said Nathanial. “It's the best friend you'll ever have.” Then Nathanial hugged his little boy, who held the Colt in his right hand like an extension of his arm. When I grow up, I want to be just like my father, Zachary told himself.
10
* * *
A letter from Rebecca was waiting when Beau returned to Janos. Eagerly, he read about Beau II and Beth, and Rebecca also mentioned offhandedly that she had run into Nathanial Barrington briefly in Santa Fe, and that Nathanial's wife was divorcing him.
The envelope contained news clippings that Beau, an avid student of national politics, ordinarily would read next, but the part concerning Nathanial bothered him. Now what was that about? wondered Beau as he sat in Janos's adobe military barracks.
Unwashed, unshaven, exhausted from the scout, he couldn't help wondering if something was occurring between Rebecca and the scoundrel Nathanial Barrington. A man of the world, Beau suspected that Clarissa probably had blurted the truth about her brief session with Beau to Nathanial, who now wished to obtain the only possible revenge, planking Rebecca.
Beau failed to perceive that a woman like Clarissa never would admit such an act, even under threat of the guillotine. Instead, he puffed a cigar nervously, figuring Rebecca was bored with marriage, while Nathanial would feel duty bound to even the score.
The more Beau thought of it, the more certain he became of his wife's infidelity. He'd never mention it in a letter, but when he returned to Santa Fe, he'd confront her with his suspicions. If I ever catch them together, I'll shoot the son-of-a-bitch on the spot, he thought.
Nathanial was approximately two hundred miles southeast of Santa Fe, having returned to Fort Thorn with Zachary and enrolling him in Miss Andrews's school. Nathanial's duties as Indian agent resumed, and one afternoon he rode across the reservation alongside Fort Thorn, observing Mescaleros drunk, sick, arguing, or asleep in front of their tipis, with tents of whiskey traders nearby.
Nathanial fought to hold back prejudice, yet could not deny, in the cold light of that January day, that Indians had, for whatever reason, an almost insatiable thirst for whiskey, which distorted their otherwise sharp minds and transformed them into drunkards and brawlers.
Like Dr. Steck, Nathanial believed Apaches needed farm implements, seeds, education, and land where they wouldn't be molested by white men, but Washington had more important worries, such as the breakup of the Union. Finally, Nathanial arrived at the tipi of Chief Zeenata, removed his hat, and bowed. “I would like to council with you,” he said in Apache language.
Chief Zeenata beckoned to the ground beside him. “You are the one who has lived with the Chiricahuas, no?”
“For one harvest,” replied Nathanial. “I rode with Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, Nana, and Juh, and that is why I understand your situation. If you go raiding, the Army will hunt you down, but if you stay here, you may starve to death.”
“If you know so much,” replied Chief Zeenata, “what should we do?”
“Dr. Steck wants to set aside special land for the Mescaleros, where no White Eyes will trouble them, but the White Father has not granted his request.”
“And he never will. I have heard the story many times, but I see nothing good for the Mescalero people.”
“If a chief feels this way, the People will lose faith.”
“It is better to be faithful to the truth!”
Nathanial had no rejoinder, so he sat in silence with the chief, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the sky, letting their spirits merge. Toward suppertime, Nathanial did not want to take from the tribe's meager larder, so he rode to Mesilla, where he consumed chili and beans at a cantina owned by Juan Ortega. Afterward, he made his way to the office of Ortega, who was guarded by a vaquero with a gun in his holster and a knife sticking out of his boot.
“Is he in?” asked Nathanial.
Without answering, the guard opened the door. Seated behind the desk, Ortega counted coins. “Come in, my friend.” He opened a drawer in his desk and tossed Nathanial a bottle of tequila. “Help yourself.”
Nathanial pulled the cork, took a swallow of the sizzling beverage, sucked wind, then settled down and said, “I've just returned from a visit to the Mescaleros, an
d—”
Ortega interrupted. “And you want to tell me that they never in their wildest dreams would slit a man's throat or steal his horse. You are a good man, Captain Barrington, and I respect you. You want to make peace, but at the expense of American citizens who are killed regularly, and we are supposed to be satisfied with the arrangement? You fail to understand that Apaches are a nation of murderers and have never lived at peace with anyone.”
“Perhaps because no one has lived in peace with them. What did the conquistadors do with Indians? They killed them whenever they got in the way. Apaches believed themselves oppressed because they were.”
“And now we are oppressors because we are peaceful farmers and ranchers? Come, Captain, and please don't tell me that this land belongs to the Indians, because land belongs to whoever can conquer it, such as when you defeated my people, the Mexicans. The only solution for the criminal Apaches is military subjection, because you cannot reason with such a people. It should not be difficult for an Army as powerful as yours, and we will help in any way we can.”
Nathanial groaned. “Ever since I came to this territory, I have heard hatred from all directions, because everyone believes his opponent is an incarnation of the devil. But the only way to make peace is to stop fighting, as Christ admonished us to do.”
“The Apaches do not view us as people, but as owners of valuable possessions they feel compelled to steal. This is no biblical parable.” Ortega shrugged. “You have a good heart, and you feel deeply. The only problem is you do not understand Apaches.”
“I lived with them for nearly a year, and from their point of view they are defending their land.”
“And from my point of view I am defending my land.”
“There is plenty of land for everybody.”
“Tell that to the Apaches.”
“I have, but the resolution will take time.”
“In the meanwhile are we to be sources of cattle and sheep for the Apaches?”
