by Len Levinson
He noticed scatterings of Negroes cheering him, saw trust in their eyes, and knew he could not let them down, no matter how harsh the race, and how many personal attacks were made on him. It's a long way to November, thought Abe Lincoln. With a little luck and the grace of God, I can beat that fraud from Chicago.
Abe Lincoln had defeated fancy Harvard and Yale lawyers before the Illinois Supreme Court, and had confidence in the power of his intellect. He also had been involved in numerous fistfights during his years as a laborer and feared no man. Long Abe Lincoln knew how to lay back in the midst of a tough fight and work that jab.
Chapter Five
Gorey-beaked buzzards leapt into the air as U.S. dragoons approached the burned-out hacienda. Colonel Bonneville scowled, the scent of rotting flesh rising to his nostrils. If this is how Apaches behave, they don't deserve this land, he thought.
He climbed down from his horse, issued orders for the burial party, and called a meeting of his staff. “We're going after them,” he said, then sat in the shade of a saltbush, writing in his notebook as the word was passed along, the sound of shoveling echoing across the desert plain. Old Bonney Clabber figured the Apaches probably were slowed by their illicit gains, while his detachment traveled relatively light. If we deliver a decisive blow, it might stop all depredations in this territory, he decided.
“Somebody is coming!” shouted the Yaqui scout called Old Ham. He pointed toward the horizon.
Is it Apaches? Colonel Bonneville asked himself as he squinted at an ominous dark mass on the horizon. Have they caught us in a snare? “Major Hargreaves?”
“Sir?” Beau stepped forward, then awaited his commanding officer's pleasure.
“Please establish our defense.”
Beau shouted orders, then one group of soldiers spread across the ruined hacienda grounds while a smaller bunch remained with the horses. They were seasoned soldiers and no one had to tell them to utilize natural cover, or cock the hammers of their rifled muskets.
Colonel Bonneville stood behind them as the flag of the 1st Dragoons was driven into the ground beside him. Raising his spyglass, he peered at the oncoming force, but his eyes had become weak with age, and nothing clear could be seen. So he held the spyglass to Major Hargreaves. “Who are they?”
Beau focused carefully on a green, white, and red flag. “Mexicans,” he reported.
Soldiers did not relax, because they were in Mexico illegally, and war between America and Mexico had ended only ten years ago, bitter feelings remaining on both sides. Although both armies cooperated occasionally against their common foe, that didn't mean they'd stopped hating each other.
Mexican soldiers drew closer, tan uniforms could be seen, with matching visored caps. In the lead rode a tall-necked officer sporting a thick black mustache, a sword at his waist and sunlight flashing off his eyeglasses. The Mexicans advanced in two columns, no weapons in their hands, so Beau hollered, “Hold your fire!”
The Mexican cavalrymen rode onto the grounds of the demolished hacienda, orders were shouted in Spanish, and their officer climbed down from his saddle. He took a long look around the hacienda as Old Bonney Clabber nodded to Beau.
Beau spoke fluent Spanish, so he marched toward the officer, noting the captain's insignia on his shoulders, which meant that he, Beau, was the ranking man, although on the Mexican side of the border. He introduced himself with a smile while watching the Mexican officer's hands.
The Mexican officer drew himself to attention, saluted the superior rank, and spoke in perfect British-accented English. “I am Captain Armendariz, sir. What are you doing here?”
“Following Apaches, but where'd you learn to speak English so well?”
“Not all Mexicans are ignorant peasants,” replied captain Armendariz reproachfully. “I lived in England for three years and attended Oxford College.” He evaluated the number of Americans before him, a powerful modern army. “We should combine and pursue the Apaches,” he suggested.
“I'm sure Colonel Bonneville will agree.”
It was night in the Apache camp, and the warriors sat around fires, eating roast mule meat, their favorite delicacy. Constanza refused to join them, and instead sat a short distance away, loathing them. They are fiends, she told herself. But I am not afraid, for the Lord is with me.
She perched on her knees, lips barely moving as she recited the rosary. Occasionally an Apache would look at her and laugh, because she appeared exceedingly strange, as if she had lost her mind. But Apaches revered the insane, believing them capable of visions. Finally Victorio arose from his fire and headed in her direction. “What is your name?” he said in guttural Spanish as he sat beside her.
She told him, fearing he was going to force himself upon her. “Tell me,” he said. “Has a small boy of your family ever been captured by Apaches?”
“It has happened to every family in Sonora,” she said coldly. “You may enslave me, and you may even kill me, but I will never surrender to you.”
Victorio noticed the peculiar bend of her nose, so similar to his, and the shape of her upper lip, also like his. It was as though she were a feminine version of himself, and neither did she snivel before him, but held her head defiantly in a camp full of armed enemies. “You are my possession,” he told her. “You will work for food like every other woman. Do not make trouble, and perhaps I shall let you go. If you want to escape, watch out for bears and wildcats.”
He strolled away, and she stared at his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and dignified carriage. Why does he look at me that way? she wondered. Why didn't he killed me long ago?
Victorio next visited Mangas Coloradas, who was sitting beside his fire, staring fixedly into the embers. “I would like to speak with you alone,” said Victorio softly.
Mangas Coloradas thought several moments, then arose. Together they headed for the wilderness, and the warriors noted their passing, wondering what important matter consumed them. The old chief and his designated heir stopped beneath a birch leaf buckthorn tree, sat cross-legged, and Mangas Coloradas said, “What is troubling you, gallant Victorio?”
“I come to you only because my parents are gone to the spirit world, and you must say the truth no matter where it leads. I have been wondering if . . .” Victorio could not put it into words, it was so awful to contemplate. “If I am really a . . . Nakai-yes.”
“I have heard the same rumor about myself,” replied Mangas Coloradas, “and many other warriors. I have no knowledge that you were a Nakai-yes, and besides, no matter where you came from, you have lived among us so long, you are Victorio.”
“I should not have taken that Mexicano woman captive.”
“It is true she resembles you somewhat, but now you doubt yourself. I will have Elena speak with her.”
Elena was a Mexican captive who had become one of Mangas Coloradas's wives, fully accepting the holy Lifeway. The leaders continued to discuss the captive when shouts of warning erupted around the camp.
Immediately, warriors prepared for war, then someone called, “It is Chatto!”
Chatto was the scout watching their backtrail, and he rode into camp at full gallop, his horse kicking clods of dirt behind him. Pulling back reins, Chatto stopped the horse, jumped from the saddle, and said, “We are being pursued by Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee armies!”
“How far are they?” asked Chief Mangas Coloradas.
“Two days.”
“How many?”
“Nearly three hundred.”
Mangas Coloradas turned to the others. “We can leave our booty behind and flee this place. Or we can fight.”
Although they outnumbered their enemies, the Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee possessed the best weapons. Then Cochise spoke. “I recommend an ambush.”
“I agree,” declared Mangas Coloradas.
The other warriors murmured their approval, for they hated the Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee, while admiring an audacious leader like Cochise. “The Mountain Spirits have delivered our e
nemies into our hands,” he said.
The Mexican and American detachments were preceded by a company of scouts and spies led by Major Beauregard Hargreaves. One midafternoon the Pima scout called Old Sam said, “There they are.”
He pointed, and Beau squinted at the horizon, but didn't have the eyes of an Indian. “How many?”
“About a dozen.”
It was the Apache rear guard, and they'd doubtless seen their pursuers. Beau rode back to the main column, aware he was under Apache observation, the savages apparently maneuvering just ahead. Finally he approached the front of the column and reported to Colonel Bonneville, who was riding alongside Captain Armendariz.
“They're straight ahead, sir,” said Beau.
“We shall attack at once,” replied Captain Armendariz, who turned toward his bugler.
“Not so fast,” said Colonel Bonneville. “Could be a trap.”
“If so,” replied the young lieutenant eagerly, “the Apaches will be caught themselves.”
“I do not advise such an action,” insisted Colonel Bonneville.
Captain Armendariz suspected that Colonel Bonneville's best days were past, but asked, “What do you recommend, sir?”
Colonel Bonneville turned to Beau. “How do you see it, Major Hargreaves?”
“I think we should advance slowly in skirmish lines, avoiding narrow canyons, cul-de-sacs, and other confining areas.”
Colonel Bonneville glanced at the Mexican officer. “This is a rare opportunity to learn the niceties of your profession, Captain Armendariz. Let us deploy for battle.”
Cochise scowled as he lay on a ridge, observing enemies spreading out in long ranks. They are not riding headlong into my snare, he realized, but he had many more tricks up his sleeve. Like a puma, he crawled off the ledge and down the side of the mountain, taking advantage of shrubs and trees for concealment. In a gully, Mangas Coloradas and Victorio waited with sub-chiefs and senior warriors.
Cochise picked up a branch and drew a straight line across the ground. “They are advancing like this,” he said. “They are not fooled by our bait, but are fewer than we, and we shall attack at night, while they are asleep.”
The People ordinarily didn't fight after dark because the Mountain Spirits could not see their heroism, but there were exceptions to every rule, especially when fast-firing pistols were needed. Cochise turned to Mangas Coloradas to recieve his wisdom.
But Mangas Coloradas had learned to rely upon Victorio, to whom he turned. “What do you say?”
“Cochise has spoken wisely,” said Victorio. “His plan provides many advantages. Tonight, while they are snoring in their beds, our enemies shall die.”
The combined Mexican and American detachments found tracks of unshod Apache war ponies, but that was all. As darkness fell, they halted on flat ground, with boulders and thickets for protection. Soldiers stretched legs and arms, prepared supper, and scouts tried to figure where the Apaches had gone.
The Mexican and American soldiers dined with weapons close at hand, half the camp officially on guard at any given time. Old Bonney Clabber wasn't taking chances, but young Captain Armendariz considered him excessively cautious.
“We let an opportunity elude us,” complained the Mexican officer as he sat at Colonel Bonneville's campaign table, dining upon bacon and beans.
“Exactly how much experience have you had fighting Indians?” replied Colonel Bonneville.
“I've only recently returned from England.”
“This isn't war according to Wellington. You must understand that ambushes are the Apaches’ favorite trick.”
“If we show undue caution, the Apaches will have contempt for us.”
“It is better to be an object of contempt than dead,” advised Colonel Bonneville.
The People deployed for their night attack, but continually ran into bluecoat patrols, and had to fall back. The disturbing news was relayed to Cochise, who sat with Mangas Coloradas and Victorio in a cave overlooking the battleground.
“We must cancel our attack,” said Cochise dejectedly.
“Perhaps we can try again while they are on the march,” replied Mangas Coloradas. “We should not fail to deal a heavy blow.”
“But the blow may fall upon us,” said Cochise, “and we cannot afford another Janos.”
Mangas Coloradas had led that attack, a severe military setback for the People. The old chief bowed his head. “What do you recommend?”
“These bluecoats are not the usual sleepy ones, but there is something they have forgotten. Their patrols consist of few men, and rove a fair distance.”
Mangas Coloradas smiled as Cochise's strategy dawned upon him. “You mean to fight the old way.”
“The days of heroic charges are over,” replied Cochise. “It is time to be intelligent with the Pindah-lickoyee and Nakai-yes."
Not many soldiers slept that night, knowing Apaches were in the vicinity. At two in the morning, Beau rolled out of his cot, placed his feet on the floor, and wished he had a good stiff shot of whiskey, because tension rattled his nerves. He went outside, intending to check the guards, but found a detachment of Mexican cavalrymen at the corral, saddling horses and preparing for a jaunt in the countryside, to be commanded by Captain Armendariz. “It's all quite futile,” said the Mexican officer as Beau approached. “The Apaches probably are north of the Rio Grande by now. We've scared them, but failed to inflict damage.”
“I might as well ride with you, because I can't sleep.”
“Good, because I need someone with whom to practice English. I haven't spoken it for so long.”
Beau told an orderly to saddle his horse, and while waiting, stared at the half moon. It was difficult to imagine Nathanial living with Apaches, sharing their food, women, and religion, probably killing a few white folks along the way. When Beau's horse was ready, he climbed into the saddle and prodded the animal until abreast of Captain Armendariz.
“Let's move out,” said the Mexican officer to his sergeant.
The order was passed along, and the detachment advanced in a single column, headed toward the open land, knowing Apaches were reported in the vicinity. And every soldier wondered, Will this be the night?
Mexican and American soldiers scouted the valley while Colonel Bonneville, attired in his uniform, lay on his cot, with boots on and pistol in hand. It wasn't the most comfortable rest, but he'd slept on so many cots, hospital beds, and the ground itself, it didn't much matter.
In the darkness, he wondered what old Tom Paine would say about the Apache Wars. Why is the freedom of American citizens more important than freedom of Indians? he asked himself. Don't Indians have basic human rights too?
And then he answered himself: Not if they insist on killing innocent people.
Geronimo lay beneath a hop-sage bush, observing the advance of Americano and Mexicano soldiers. He carried the pistol given him by Sunny Bear, while other warriors readied their arrows. Nearby, Juh was in charge of the ambush.
The progress of the soldiers had been carefully plotted, the warriors shifting swiftly and silently. Now the soldiers approached on a narrow path lined by hedges of sturdy paddle cactus. It's perfect, thought Geronimo with satisfaction as he waited for Juh to provide the attack order.
***
Captain Armendariz was pleased for the opportunity to converse about his favorite subject, William Shakespeare. “In my opinion, his best play was Richard the Third,” he declared to Beau. “Where in art or life can be found such a charming and complex villain? Can you imagine assassinating a political rival, then seducing his wife? Only a brilliant imagination could conceive such an uncompromising fiend. What's your favorite Shakespearean play, Major Hargreaves?”
"Hamlet,” replied Beau, scanning the darkness. The entire Apache nation could be preparing to pounce, and he wondered about the advisability of small squads scouting far from camp, but Colonel Bonneville needed information, and there were no simple alternatives in war, as with Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark.
“Hamlet always has exasperated me,” mused the Mexican captain. “A man should take action to solve his problems, not worry endlessly.”
“But how can a man accuse his mother and stepfather of murdering his father, on the basis of allegations by ghosts?” asked Beau. “I find it odd that you, a Mexican, has such an affection for Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare speaks to all men everywhere, not just the English, and we have nothing quite like him in Spanish literature, although Don Quixote is a towering achievement. Have you ever read it?”
“Isn't it about an old knight falling in love with a young prostitute?”
“That is only a superficial aspect of the plot. It is really about idealism gone awry, and ...”
A volley of shots rang out, Beau felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and next thing he knew, he was leaning out of his saddle. Screams erupted around him, he toppled to the ground, aware of great tumult. Ambushed, he thought, dropping into unconsciousness.
The detachment was overcome in seconds, and no one got away. The People's warriors stripped fallen soldiers of weapons, ammunition and clothing.
Geronimo was overjoyed to find a pistol lying beside a slain bluecoat war chief. With a smile, he lifted the weapon gingerly, thumbed back the hammer, sniffed the metal. Now, with two of them, I have great power, he thought happily.
“Hurry!” shouted Juh. “We do not have much time!”
Geronimo heard a groan issue from the bluecoat war chief whom he'd thought was dead. The People seldom took male prisoners, so Geronimo raised his knife, and was about to plunge it home when the bluecoat opened his eyes.
Geronimo and his enemy stared at each other, then the bluecoat whispered, in a barely audible voice, “Sunny Bear.”
Geronimo's hand froze, because the People believed calling a man's name could evoke his power.
“Sunny Bear,” repeated the bluecoat war chief, then his eyelashes fluttered, eyeballs showing white.
