Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  The critical day was February 5, 1858, when Galusha Grow arose in the well of Congress to speak against Lecompton. With all the passion of a formerly poor semi-orphaned boy, he delivered a blistering attack on President Buchanan's pernicious legislation, claiming it was “abounding in epithet and denunciations of the majority of the People of Kansas, without furnishing the facts the official record ought to show.”

  During the speech Grow realized that many Democrats were absent, for it was late Friday afternoon, and they'd departed for a series of free dinner parties organized by the administration, while others had repaired to their favorite taverns for liquid refreshment. Seeing his advantage, Congressman Grow terminated his speech abruptly and called for an immediate vote on Lecompton.

  Congressman Alexander Stephens of Georgia, leader of the southern bloc, was caught off guard. He'd never served in the Army, but politics was warfare by other means, and he ordered a filibuster, then dispatched the sergeant-at-arms to find errant Democratic congressmen and usher them back for the vote.

  Southern congressmen were enraged by what they considered the underhanded tactics of Grow, and the debate became increasingly acrimonious. It continued into the night, gaslight illuminating the ghostly scene, the galleries empty, and the voices of several clerks gave out while calling yeas and neas as the battle raged back and forth.

  Some members collapsed onto chairs after speaking themselves hoarse, others reclined on sofas and slept between roll calls, and a few drank coffee and other stimulants to stay awake. Newspaper reporters had gone home for the night, never dreaming a historic encounter was about to occur.

  At the height of the stormy session Grow sauntered onto the Democratic side of the aisle for a conference with John Hickman, a middle-of-the-road Democratic congressman also from Pennsylvania. “Johnny, let's put this damned thing to a vote once and for all,” said Grow.

  Meanwhile, John Quitman of Mississippi, a hero of the Mexican War, requested consent to submit a motion. Grow protested so vehemently from the Democratic side of the house, he woke up nearby Laurence Massilon Keitt of South Carolina.

  Representative Keitt was one of the foremost fire-eaters of the South, an ardent secessionist, supporter of slavery, and hater of northern principles. A lawyer, thirty-three years old, graduate of South Carolina College, his father owned twenty-five hundred acres and more than fifty slaves. Half asleep, possibly under the influence of strong drink, and thoroughly indignant, he spotted the Republican foe in his midst. Rising to his feet, he shouted at Grow, “If you wish to object, get back on your side of the aisle!”

  Grow was no effete Boston abolitionist who shrank at the first sign of physical danger. No, Grow had been a hard-working farm boy, and schoolyard brawls had been common for him. So he turned to Keitt and replied, “This is a free hall, and I have a right to go where I choose.”

  Keitt, seeing himself challenged, stepped toward Grow and said, “I demand to know what you mean by speaking to me in that insolent manner.”

  “I mean what I say,” replied Grow staunchly. “What's it to you?”

  “Why you black Republican son-of-a-bitch!” retorted the now thoroughly enraged Keitt.

  “No Negro driver will ever crack his whip over me,” declared Grow.

  Both distinguished representatives of the American people rushed each other, a flurry of punches were thrown, and seconds later, northern and southern congressmen joined the fray. All the rage and passion of the slavery debate exploded, as esteemed statesmen tried to smash each other into insensibility. In the midst of it all, farm boy Grow landed a solid right on slave owner Keitt and dropped him to the floor.

  Meanwhile, Congressman John Potter of Wisconsin, a compactly built, athletic man, charged into the center of the conflagration, dealing Congressman William Barksdale of Mississippi a blow to the mid-section, doubling him over and sending him crashing to the floor. But Congressman Barksdale managed to arise, whereupon he was struck so hard by Congressman Cadwalader Washburne of Wisconsin, that Barksdale's wig flew off. Barksdale hastily returned the wig to his head, but he positioned it backward, sending nearby combatants into peals of laughter.

  Speaker Orr seized the moment to call for order, but Owen Lovejoy of Illinois and Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar of Mississippi were heavily engaged and did not hear. Then Richard Mott, a gray-haired Quaker from Ohio, tried to break them up, but Reuben Davis of Mississippi aimed one last lick at Grow, who unceremoniously knocked him cold. The coup de grâce was delivered by Representative John Covode of Pennsylvania, who picked up a heavy stoneware spittoon and tossed it at the southern side, showering his enemies with spit, cigar butts, and other substances too reprehensible to name.

  Eventually, order was restored. No weapons had been brandished, and no one had been killed, although many notables presented a disorderly and bloody appearance.

  The debate was equally venomous in the Senate, minus fisticuffs. One morning Senator George Badger of North Carolina rose to present the southern view of slavery, and he spoke almost tearfully of his dear old Negro mammy, who had suckled him at her breast, raised him, and taught him religion, morality, and good table manners. He claimed that he loved her, and she loved him, but if the Lecompton Constitution was voted down, he couldn't take her to Kansas. Turning to Benjamin Wade of Ohio, a champion of abolition in the upper house, he said plaintively, “Surely, suh, you would not seek to prevent me from taking my dear old black mammy to Kansas, would you?”

  Ben Wade was a cool, acerbic man, a longtime foe of slavery, and a former judge. He gazed unflinchingly at Senator Badger and replied dryly, “It is not that you cannot remove your dear old black mammy to Kansas, sir. But we do not want you to sell her once you get there.”

  And thus did the great slavery debate continue, overshadowing all other concerns such as the Apache wars.

  11

  * * *

  In the early hours of Sunday, February 8, 1858, the soldiers at Fort Thorn had no notion that a brawl had occurred in Congress on the previous Friday night. All was silent, as was the case on the Indian reservation, where Mescalero warriors lay in drunken stupors. The Indians had been plied with cheap whiskey during the evening, and even devout Mescalero women had partaken of the libations, now sprawling unconscious with their men.

  However, children had not drunk alcoholic beverages, so were more alert than their irresponsible parents. One of these was eight-year-old Chino, who was stuck with his mother at the reservation, his father having been killed by Captain Richard Stoddert Ewell's dragoons during the Mescalero Wars of 1854-55. Out of the night, Chino heard the soft pad of footsteps.

  In an instant he was up, but did not give the alarm because it might be Mescalero warriors returning from a raid. He poked his head outside and was horrified to see Mexicans tiptoeing closer, carrying rifles, swords, and pistols. “Wake up!” screamed Chino.

  His mother grumbled sleepily, wiping an imaginary gnat off her lips. The drunken warriors barely heard him. Chino screamed again and was continuing to scream even as Juan Ortega shot him through the chest, then opened fire on the tipi, killing his mother.

  The Mesilla Guards rampaged across the camp, shooting and murdering with glee. Among them was Fonseca, carrying a sword, splitting the head of a former proud Mescalero warrior too drunk to defend himself. Then he hacked the Mescalero's wife and infant child. These Indians never will kill again, he told himself exultantly, awash in blood and gore. I have avenged my family at last.

  Meanwhile, at Fort Thorn, the sergeant of the guard was running to the residence of the commanding officer, Lieutenant Wood. Before the sergeant could arrive, the door swung open suddenly, and Lieutenant Wood stood there barefoot in his underpants, eyes glazed with excitement, a rifle in his hands.

  “Civilians have attacked the Mescaleros, sir! It's a massacre!”

  Nathanial heard shots, and his first thought was of his Colt in the holster hanging from his bedpost. Drawing it, he leapt toward the window. Shots were com
ing from the Mescalero camp, and he surmised what had occurred.

  He dressed quickly, ran to the stable, saddled his horse, and rode hatless toward the reservation as soldiers were roused out of the barracks. The big black horse galloped through the night, and Nathanial feared that his worst suspicions had been fulfilled. It wasn't long before tipis could be seen, with figures moving about. The shooting had stopped, replaced by screams of pain and anguished pleas for help. Nathanial's horse charged among the tipis, and through the darkness the assistant Indian agent saw children lying on the bloody ground, their elders milling about dazed, some bleeding from wounds.

  The Mescaleros recognized Nathanial, and a group of quickly sobered warriors advanced as he climbed down from his horse. “How could you let this happen?” asked one of them, his face wrenched by grief and agony.

  “Who did it?” asked Nathanial.

  Another warrior stepped forward unsteadily. “You know very well who did it—the Mexicanos from Mesilla. It is all your fault, because we trusted you!”

  Nathanial felt as if he'd dropped into hell as he looked around the devastated camp. He'd expected trouble, yet was surprised that it finally had occurred. On his hands and knees, he gazed inside a tipi at a decapitated squaw and a boy with his chest split apart. The familiar odor of innards came to Nathanial's nostrils, but he did not faint or become nauseated. It was not the first time he'd seen hideous carnage, but that didn't mean he was completely cold. He struggled to hold himself under control and was tempted to ride to Mesilla and shoot Juan Ortega between the eyes.

  He staggered about the scene, trying to understand, his eyes repeatedly drawn to mutilated corpses of women and babies. He could manage dead soldiers, but butchered women and children were more than he could bear. A shiver passed over him, and he wanted to shriek his outrage to the heavens, but Captain Nathanial Barrington did not snap.

  The first of the soldiers finally arrived, then Dr. Steck appeared, his jaw hanging open. He too was no stranger to cadavers, having carved up a fair number during medical training, but that had been cold and antiseptic, whereas this was pure grisly horror. The good doctor found himself repeatedly looking at the sky, because the scene below was impossible to digest.

  Lieutenant Wood wandered about mumbling to himself, “Sons of bitches, bastards.” Finally, he turned to Sergeant Duffy and said, “Leave twenty men here, and direct the others to mount up. We're going to Mesilla.”

  The orange dawn glowed on the horizon as the soldiers approached Mesilla. The town was quiet, all lights out, citizens sleeping peacefully, seemingly unprotected, although Nathanial guessed he and the soldiers were under observation.

  Lieutenant Wood said, “Damned civilians are more trouble than the Apaches. It's time somebody stood up to the bastards.”

  The column entered the village and made its way among jacales to the larger residence of Ortega. Lieutenant Wood climbed down from his horse, walked to the front door, and pounded.

  A sleepy-faced maid appeared. “Senor?”

  “I want to speak with Senor Ortega.”

  “He is asleep, sir.”

  “Get him up!”

  “Are you arresting him?”

  “Tell him that he might well hang before the night is over.”

  The maid widened her eyes in alarm, then retreated into the house, slamming the door in their faces.

  “Threatening a civilian is against the law,” reminded Nathanial, who had managed to calm himself now that murdered children were out of sight. “Perhaps you'd better let me do the talking.”

  “I can do my own talking!” said Lieutenant Wood in a strangled voice.

  The door reopened, and Juan Ortega stood in his nightshirt, eyes half closed. “You want to see me, senors?”

  Lieutenant Wood stared at him. “You son of a bitch—you're not fooling anybody!”

  “But senor—I have been with my wife all night. Whatever can you be speaking about?”

  A hefty madonna emerged from the darkness, and one could see she'd been a beauty once. “It is true,” she said. “He was here all night.”

  “Liars,” replied Lieutenant Wood. “You have blood on your hands.”

  “I?” asked Ortega, raising his pristine palms. “But I have been asleep.”

  “You and your Mesilla Guards are guilty of murder. You're under arrest.”

  “Where is your proof?”

  Lieutenant Wood drew his service revolver. “Right here.”

  “You'll need more than that to convict me, I'm afraid.”

  Wood raised his gun to whack Ortega in the mouth, but Nathanial caught Wood's hand and said gently. “Let's have a talk.”

  He pulled Wood to the side, and they walked about twenty paces away. Wood shook with rage, not a good characteristic for a combat officer. “That scum,” he said bitterly. “You know he did it, Nathanial.”

  “Of course he did, but you'll be the man at the southern end of the rope if you don't simmer down.”

  “I can't let him get away with it.”

  “You're not without a trick of your own.” Nathanial leaned closer and mumbled a few words to Lieutenant Wood, whose eyes widened as he listened, then a smile broke onto his face. “That's a wonderful idea, Nathanial.”

  Nathanial bowed slightly in acceptance of the compliment, then followed the post commander back to Ortega, who continued to stand at the door with his wife, as soldiers filled his front yard and spilled into the alleys, joined by the arrival of the Mesilla Guards.

  “Senor Ortega,” said Lieutenant Wood stiffly, “you have convinced me that you and your friends are capable of defending yourselves, so I am recommending to General Garland that Fort Thorn be closed and the garrison withdrawn.”

  The half smile of superiority vanished from Ortega's face. “Now just a moment!”

  “Good morning to you, sir. And when you die, I wish you the everlasting flames of hell.”

  Lieutenant Wood marched back to his horse as Ortega, his nightshirt flapping around his knees, ran after him. “But we are American citizens, and you are obligated to protect us from the Indians.”

  “You have forfeited that right, you fucking pig.”

  Ortega swung at Wood's head, but Wood dodged to the side, then replied with a straight right at Ortega's jaw. Ortega ducked under it and dived at the Lieutenant's waist, driving him backward. Both men fell to the ground, punching, kneeing, and elbowing each other, as soldiers struggled to pull them apart.

  “I will kill you!” screamed Ortega as his men dragged him back inside his house.

  “Here I stand,” replied Wood, held by Sergeant Duffy and two corporals.

  Nathanial sidestepped in front of Lieutenant Wood and looked at him sadly. “I hope you've got a good civilian job lined up, because I don't think you have much longer with the Army.”

  Lieutenant Wood's eyes popped as he struggled to break loose. “How can you be so complacent, with dead children lying a few miles away?”

  “If I let go,” replied Nathanial, “I'll end up in the cell beside yours. But if you evacuate Fort Thorn, I suspect Chief Gomez will do the dirty work for you.” Nathanial patted the angry officer on the back. “I'll bet a messenger is on his way to Chief Gomez even as we speak.”

  Later that day, Lieutenant Wood led the bulk of his force on a scout, leaving behind ten soldiers to defend the fort, commanded by Sergeant Duffy. The soldiers were confident that Chief Gomez would leave them alone, because the citizens of Mesilla would be his objective.

  Juan Ortega could not believe the Army would dare expose American citizens to danger. He presented a staunch front to his guards, but inwardly he feared an imminent attack on Mesilla and blamed Nathanial Barrington, whom he thought had convinced Wood to move the troops away. Barrington remained at Fort Thorn, and Ortega was tempted to blow out his brains.

  Three days after the massacre, Chief Gomez and 250 angry Davis Mountain fighters were spotted heading toward Mesilla, armed with the latest stolen rifles, ready to t
ake on the entire U.S. Army if need be, and Panjaro rode among them.

  Dr. Steck and Nathanial were conferring in the former's office when news arrived of Chief Gomez's appearance. “I've got to stop him,” said Dr. Steck, rising to his feet.

  “I'd say that Ortega has got it coming to him,” replied Nathanial.

  “You're too enthralled by revenge, which is precisely the factor that keeps the wheel of hatred turning—don't you understand?”

  “But there's something wonderfully satisfying about revenge,” said Nathanial. “Haven't you ever got mad at anybody?”

  “I'm mad at everybody, but I keep it where it does no harm.” He headed unarmed for the door. “You needn't accompany me. I can manage on my own.”

  “If you get caught in the crossfire, perhaps I can be of assistance. Sometimes soldiers are useful, you know.”

  Both men rode at a canter to Mesilla, where Sergeant Duffy and the skeleton crew of soldiers already had arrived. At the edge of town Juan Ortega and the Mesilla Guards were armed and prepared to fight renegade Mescaleros.

  “It's one of those beautiful New Mexico mornings,” declared Nathanial cheerily.

  “You sound overjoyed that Chief Gomez is coming to destroy the town,” replied Dr. Steck.

  “According to the holy Apache Lifeway, he has a right to execute criminals.”

  “Have you ever stopped to consider that your time with Apaches has made you somewhat barbaric?”

  “When the American Army does it, it's for glory, honor, and the flag. When Apaches do it, they're savage beasts. Come now, Doctor. You're not being objective.”

  “As Christ said, we must turn the other cheek. And if the robber takes your coat, give him your pants and shirt.”