by Len Levinson
“What mirage is this?” he replied, terror on his face.
“It's me, standing in the need of prayer,” she said gently. “Oh, Nathanial, you look terrible.”
“Do I?” He glanced at his stained shirt and mucky pants, then raised his eyes to her once more. “I . . . I . . .” He had no idea what to say, and finally decided he had lost his last shred of sanity. “Is this the asylum?” he asked, glancing about fearfully.
“It's your wife—Clarissa. I apologize for my unannounced visit, but I had to speak with you.” She removed the bottle from the table and placed it out of his reach. “Can you hear me all right?”
He stared at her. “Is it really you?”
“Yes, and I've come to apologize because, although I hate to admit it, you were right about the advice you so generously offered me in New York. The life of a concert pianist soon became thoroughly wearisome and distasteful, and if I had listened to you, I could have saved myself the trouble. How superficial and silly I must have appeared. It's quite embarrassing to think about.”
Nathanial struggled to clear the sludge from his mind. “Now let me get this straight. You've traveled all the way here to apologize?”
She nodded her head. “It's true.”
He laughed hysterically, and she wondered if another bucket of water was required. “But I'm the guilty one!” he shouted. “If I were a real man, I would have been patient and loving, instead of breaking up your rehearsal and punching that poor stagehand.”
“As a matter of fact,” she agreed, “you needn't have demolished my manager's office either, but you've always been, shall we say, a demonstrative man, and perhaps that's one reason I fell in love with you. I can't ask your forgiveness, but I do want you to know I'm sorry for the pain I've caused.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, trying to straighten his backbone, “I should have been more kind, because I was supposedly the more mature party.”
“But public performing was even more tawdry than you indicated.”
Nathanial realized that it was indeed the former Clarissa Rowland of Gramercy Park, she had in fact returned to him, and the black cloud of misery evaporated like fog in the hot summer sun. He admired her pink cheeks and golden hair, her simple but fashionable clothing, that bright expression in her blue eyes, and realized he truly did have something to live for, his very own wife. He dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and uttered, “Thank you, Jesus.”
She smiled as she held out her hand. “Will you take me back?”
“I'm not a good man,” he replied as he raised himself off the floor, “or even an especially pleasant one, and I am subject to disgraceful outbursts.”
“Balzac said, ‘A woman should always forgive the follies a man commits for her sake.’ Perhaps I can teach you, as you have taught me.”
He stumbled before her, his jaw hanging loose. “But I am an unmitigated swine and truly don't deserve you.”
“And I'm the vainest bitch alive, but God has brought us together for some purpose, which I cannot fathom.”
They were only inches apart and always had been powerfully attracted. Many events had occurred since their schism, but he saw no point in mentioning a certain schoolmarm, while she conveniently forgot an Oglethorpe, not to mention a carriage ride in Washington D.C., and certainly not the afternoon with Beau. It seemed as though they were enclosed in a golden cloud as they peered into each other's wide open eyes. Then he lifted and carried her to the bed as on their wedding night.
They embraced in the darkness, and each felt the delicious flame that had been omitted in their relations with strangers. Sinking into the mattress, they wrestled playfully, familiar with each other's curves and hollows. It wasn't long before the old oaken bed began to groan as the last nefarious effusions of the devil dance were banished from their marriage.
17
* * *
Fonseca smelled campfires, heard shouts of children, and realized he had arrived in the Apache camp. He could not see well, his eyelids caked with dust, but he heard conversations nearby. He was pulled off the horse, and they cut the rope that bound his legs, but his hands still were tied behind him.
"Arriba!” he was ordered.
He struggled to rise on numbed feet, stumbled, dropped to his knees, and stared at Apache warriors, women, children, tipis, and dogs. Apparently he was on a high plateau, and in the distance mountains, basins, and a winding blue river could be seen. Apache warriors lifted him, and this time he managed to stand.
An important-looking Apache strode onto the scene, and Fonseca suspected he was Chief Gomez. “This is one of the Nakai-yes who committed the crimes at Fort Thorn,” the chief declared in Apache language. “Now he is yours.”
The warriors stepped backward as surviving reservation squaws advanced, knives, clubs, and rocks in their hands. Fonseca realized with a bolt of terror that his hour had come. He tried to run, but his legs were stiff and sore. They threw rocks at him, a few of which bounced off his head, leaving bloody welts.
Dazed, he fell to the ground, unable to protect himself due to tied wrists. Apache women crowded around, wielding knives, pounding him with clubs. Strips of flesh were peeled from his body, he was dented with blows, he shrieked hysterically, and pain drove him to his feet once more. He forgot his prayer and fled blindly, even as knives made deep incisions into his muscles.
Covered with blood, he dropped again to his knees. Opening his eyes, he saw massacred Apache children rising from the ground around him, pointing their fingers accusingly, and one's belly had been brutally ripped. “I couldn't help myself,” he whispered to them as he struggled to arise. Then his gaze turned to an old Apache grandmother approaching, a bandage on her head, wielding a lance. “Aiyeeeee!” she screamed as she plunged it into his heart.
Some battles are fought with lances, others with phrases. On the evening of June 16, 1858, the Republican State Convention of Illinois met in Springfield to nominate its candidate for the U.S. Senate.
There had been no bitter contest, because the nominee had been selected by unanimous vote on the first ballot. He was Abraham Lincoln of Sangamon County, a former congressman, tireless worker for the party, and well-known in Illinois due to his campaigning on behalf of abolition, but relatively obscure in the nation at large. His opponent in November would be the incumbent Democratic Senator Stephen Douglas, the Little Giant himself.
In the hall of the Illinois House of Representatives, the delegates rose to their feet and applauded as the tall, gangly country lawyer in loose-fitting clothes loped to the podium. Abe Lincoln had a large nose and piercing eyes, a grim mouth, and ears that looked like the wings of a bird. He laid his papers on the podium, then gazed calmly at the audience, requiring a moment to reflect upon the torturous path that had led him, a former flatboatman and lumberjack, raised in the direst poverty, to a race against one of the most famous men in the land.
It seemed impossible, yet was no miracle. He had studied and worked assiduously, often neglecting his wife and children while giving speeches in remote hamlets, sleeping in stagecoaches and on trains, and wondering what the hell made him think he could solve the problems of America.
He checked his notes one last time as accolades reverberated through the hall and men stood on chairs, shouting his name. He had been warned by advisers not to give the speech, because it raised too many alarming issues, but Abe Lincoln had decided to campaign on the truth and let the chips fall where they may.
He intended to read the speech, because politicians and reporters were present, not the usual backwoods folk with whom he joked, told stories, and performed hilarious impersonations. He would suppress his boyish sense of humor for the sake of the higher cause.
When the applause diminished, Abe Lincoln raised his eyes to the Republican throngs, took a deep breath, and said, “Mister President, and gentlemen of the convention: If we could first know where we are, and whither we are tending, we could better judge what to do, an
d how to do it.
“We are now far into the fifth year of a policy initiated with the avowed object and confident promise of putting an end to slavery agitation. Yet, under the operation of that policy, the agitation has not only not ceased, but has constantly augmented.” Abe Lincoln raised his long forefinger in the air. “In my opinion, the agitation will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed. A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free.”
They listened silently, for this was no mere exercise in the orating arts. Abe Lincoln stood motionless, head bowed, employing no melodramatic flourishes, as he explained in pithy terms how Senator Stephen Douglas's notorious Kansas-Nebraska Act had convulsed the nation in sectarian strife. And what was the great principle of Popular Sovereignty that had so inspired Senator Douglas? inquired Abe Lincoln. “That if any one man choose to enslave another, no third man shall be allowed to object!”
Like a skilled lawyer before a sleepy jury, Abe Lincoln broke down the facts into language anyone could understand. His voice droned on, but his points were sharp, even barbed. He explained how the nation had voted against the slave-permitting Kansas legislation in the presidential election of ‘56, because James Buchanan had polled fewer votes than the combined Republican and American Parties. Abe Lincoln urged all enemies of slavery to unite behind his candidacy, then warned against moderates casting support to Stephen Douglas, just because the Little Giant had opposed the administration on one single issue, the Lecompton Constitution.
“Senator Douglas declares that all he wants is a fair vote for the people of Kansas!” Abe Lincoln said. “And he claims not to care whether slavery be voted down or voted up. How can anyone expect such a man to oppose the advances of slavery if he cares nothing about it? For years Senator Douglas has labored to prove it a sacred right for white men to take Negro slaves into new territories!
“But please let me say that I wish not to misrepresent Judge Douglas's positions, question his motives, or do aught that can be personally offensive to him. But clearly he is not with us now; he does not pretend to be—he does not even promise to be.”
Abe Lincoln paused one last time, for he was coming to the end of his peroration. He could see all eyes on him, his wife and children in the front row, and hoped he wasn't making a public scandal of himself, for Abe Lincoln was a man of many confusions and often suffered dark moods; not even a righteous man could escape the noxious emanation of the devil dance.
“Of strange, discordant and even hostile elements we have gathered from the four winds,” he roared, “and we have formed and fought the battle through, under the constant hot fire of a disciplined, proud and pampered enemy. Did we brave all then to falter now—now when that same enemy is wavering, dissevered, and belligerent? The result is not doubtful. We shall not fail’. Wise counsels may accelerate, or mistakes delay it, but sooner or later, the victory is sure to come!”
The Little Giant was in Washington when he heard news of Lincoln's nomination, and naturally his aides and advisers clustered around to assure him it wouldn't be a demanding contest. “He's just a country bumpkin,” said one of them.
“You'll whip his ass,” guffawed another.
But the Little Giant was not swayed by phrases of sycophants. “You're all wrong,” he told them as he puffed a cigar behind his desk. “I shall have my hands full with Abe Lincoln. He is the strong man of his party—full of wit, facts, dates—and the best stump speaker in the West, with his droll ways and dry jokes. He is as honest as he is shrewd, and if I beat him, my victory will be hard won.”
Later, alone in his office, Stephen Douglas reflected upon the coming senatorial campaign. He couldn't be president if he didn't defeat Abe Lincoln, but in addition he had the Buchanan Administration sniping at him, and his health was failing.
Is this my Waterloo? he wondered dourly. Abe Lincoln was no stranger to the Little Giant, for lawyer Lincoln had appeared in Judge Stephen Douglas's ‘ court in Illinois. The Little Giant knew Abe Lincoln was easy to take lightly because he appeared awkward and countrified, but such a man would appeal to the simple people. Honest Abe definitely wasn't the buffoon he sometimes appeared to be.
There was an old saying among Illinois lawyers, and the Little Giant brought it to mind. “With a good case, your best attorney is Abe Lincoln. With a bad case, your best attorney is Stephen Douglas.”
It won't be easy, but I shall defeat him, determined the popular senator. I'll impute to him the most extreme abolitionist positions, then present myself as the only viable compromise candidate who can defeat the Buchanan administration. And when it comes to stump speaking, I'm not so bad myself. I'll give that backwoods son-of-a-bitch the fight of his life.
Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois was a skilled political operative, but something was lacking, perhaps a quality of moral sophistication, or a touch of human compassion, because not everything can be counted and codified, and many clever politicians end up outsmarting themselves.
One day that summer a procession of cowboys and vaqueros rode through Albuquerque, not an uncommon occurrence. “Where you folks headed?” asked an idler sitting in front of the barber shop, bottle in hand.
The leader, a tall, husky blond cowboy in a tan vaquero hat, pointed ahead to the open land, while beside him rode a pretty blond woman in man's clothes, also with a vaquero hat. Behind them, well-mounted, were a young boy and girl dressed like cowboys, followed by thirteen mean-looking hombres, and a wagon on whose box sat a Mexican woman with a child in her arms. The bed of the wagon was filled with supplies and something covered with canvas that resembled a piano.
The procession continued through town, and those who cared to look could see determination on the faces of the riders, because every trip to the wilderness was fraught with danger, and settlers, pilgrims, and prospectors were killed all the time.
“Good luck!” called the drunkard as he waved his bottle in the air, then collapsed onto the sidewalk.
It was another American family headed west, hoping to build a new life and new hope in a nation crumbling around their ears. They would face all the afflictions of nature, weather, and terrain, plus no schoolhouse, no hospital, lots of hostile Indians, and plenty of outlaws seeking to steal what outlaws were too lazy to earn for themselves.
But the family did not appear discouraged, and their cowboys were a rugged bunch of daredevils, not adverse to a little gunplay now and again; some had been soldiers. In point of fact, no one in the procession was an angel, not even the children, but still they believed in America, they had come through the fire, and were not afraid to fight for their own little parcel of the world. Of such stock are great nations made.
Some nights, unable to sleep, Tobey Barrington aimlessly roamed the streets of Manhattan, passing taverns filled with laughter, churches closed for the night, and derelicts sleeping in alleyways. In the darkest hours one could see every shade of human corruption, such as prostitutes fondling prospective customers, drunkards fighting with broken bottles, or a policeman pocketing a bribe.
Tobey felt like a ghost swept along by Hudson River breezes, for he was connected to nothing, and everything was alien to him. Sometimes it troubled him to know he had no love in his heart, as his brother Nathanial had charged.
In his darkest hours often Tobey found himself near Five Points, the notorious neighborhood from whence he'd sprung so many years ago. Sometimes he was tempted to return to the old alleys he'd frequented when he'd lived by begging and the leavings of others.
Nathanial had rescued him from that pit of shame, but not really. Sometimes Tobey felt like an interloper in his new Columbia College setting, as if he should be fighting for crusts of bread in Five Points. He stood in the shadows of an alley and watched denizens return to the notorious hovels within, carrying stolen goods or whatever they had scavenged. Occasionally, well-dressed gentlemen passed, heading toward the fleshpots, to be entertained by the sight
s and smells of poverty, not to mention the ministrations of low-cost prostitutes.
Occasionally, a soul would emerge like a specter from Five Points and head toward the bright lights of Broadway, perhaps to commit a murder, rape, or burglary. One such fellow approached, wearing a long, ragged brown coat and a stovepipe hat with the side caved in, his features smudged with soot. Tobey backed into the alley, because he didn't want to be seen, but when the citizen came abreast of him, he turned to Tobey abruptly and smiled. “Aren't you one of Nathanial Barrington's brothers?”
Tobey was so surprised, he barely knew what to say. “I . . . I . . .”
The old man took off his hat and bowed. “We've met, but I don't suppose you recognize me. I'm Fitz-Greene Halleck, a friend of Nathanial's.”
Now Tobey recognized the famous author beneath his disguise, introduced himself, and said, “Don't you know it's dangerous to wander in those alleys?”
Fitz snorted. “A man was shot on Fifth Avenue a few days ago, so geography is no guarantee of safety. However, I confess that I often am drawn to low haunts to see how the common people live. How can I write about them if I don't observe their lives? Besides, danger is the most interesting subject of all. What are you doing here?”
“Oh . .. curiosity, I suppose.”
“It's interesting how similar characteristics run in families, because Nathanial used to love Five Points. Have you heard from him, by the way?”
“Nobody hears from Nathanial,” Tobey said curtly. “He doesn't write, and only pursues his pleasures without regard for the feelings of others.”
Fitz placed an arm around Tobey's slouching shoulders. “You sound angry at your brother.”
“He has been extremely selfish and irresponsible where his family is concerned.”
Fitz smiled thoughtfully. “Nathanial is an unusual fellow all right, and I'm not surprised that people become weary of him. He has the temperament of an artist and is obsessed with that elusive chameleon called truth.”
