by Len Levinson
“On the contrary, he saved me from a dilemma, and gave me this wonderful new opportunity. Everyone knows the market for beef is growing every day. How can we fail?”
She sighed as she sat on the edge of the desk. “Apparently you have contracted the common disease of the frontier, the conviction that great wealth is soon to come your way in this godforsaken land, where in fact there is poverty, failure, sorrow, and death. I married you for better or worse, but this is absurd.”
“We shouldn't be afraid to take a chance, Rebecca.”
“I took a chance when I married you. By the way, I don't suppose you dallied with any Apache squaws?”
“Of course not,” he said on a technicality.
She searched his eyes for the lie. “Are you sure?”
He didn't flinch. “Certainly.”
Rebecca considered him a boy in a man's body, but she loved him, perhaps because they'd been together so long. And as the daughter of a colonel, she understood duty. “All right—I'll give ranch life a try,” she told him. “It can't be worse than Santa Fe.”
In New York City, Amalia Barrington and Myra Rowland decided not to meet at Taylor's for their monthly meeting, because Broadway was hot, smelly, and congested in August. Instead, they agreed to picnic in Gramercy Park, where they could enjoy summer breezes and be shaded by great oaks and elms.
Myra's maid set out cold chicken, bread, cheese, and pickles as Amalia's carriage arrived. Amalia appeared paler and more stiff as she approached.
“What's wrong?” asked Myra as she motioned with her eyes for the maid to begin serving.
Amalia heavily sat on the blanket. “I'm afraid I bear bad news.”
“Don't tell me someone has died!”
“On Friday I received a letter from Nathanial's closest friend, Beauregard Hargreaves—they were roommates at West Point.”
“A dubious endorsement.” Myra sniffed. “Is he a drunkard too?”
“I have no knowledge of his drinking habits, but he advised me that my son and your daughter, plus their children, have run off with the Apaches.”
Everything went silent in Gramercy Park, except for the clatter of a carriage on nearby cobblestones. “Well, they'll just have to run back,” declared Myra. “We can't tolerate such behavior.”
“No one knows where they are.”
“My daughter never would make such a rash move on her own, and I'm sure your son forced her, probably at gunpoint.”
“Your daughter hasn't made a single sensible decision in her life,” retorted Amalia, “especially when she married my irresponsible son. And there's nothing we can do, because there's no mail service to the Apaches. Our children have disappeared, along with Natalie, and we may never see them again.”
Myra wrinkled her nose. “What would possess them to do such a thing?”
“Nathanial apparently has become enamored of Apache life, although I'm not sure what that entails. Do they sleep in tents?”
“I don't know anything about Apaches, except they are said to be unusually warlike. Who could have guessed that my daughter would become an Apache?”
“Perhaps we should hunt them down, and have a talk with them.”
“You'll never catch me on the frontier, because I need my bath every day, otherwise I'm not myself.”
“And I must care for the colonel,” said Amalia, referring to her husband.
“Have you explained this to him?”
“I keep nothing from my husband, though his memory is failing. ‘My son has defected to the enemy,’ he keeps telling me. ‘He has betrayed the officers’ corps.’ Perhaps our children will return to civilization after they regain their good senses.”
Myra shook her head bitterly. “When has either ever demonstrated good sense? God only knows where they are, and it's enough to make a woman wish she never married, because the tragedy of living alone cannot possibly be worse than the tragedy of having idiot children!”
Chapter Eighteen
The People were amused when Chuntz returned to camp, his woman trailing behind him. And what a woman she was, a Pindah with torn clothes and pasty face, strange brown hair, trying to smile.
Chuntz made no introductions and did not report to Mangas Coloradas. Instead, he built a wickiup, directing Esther's help with hand signals, grunts, and other inarticulate communications. She disliked manual labor, but preferred outdoor work to her bones bleaching in the sun. The Apaches didn't appear friendly, and she noticed no one speaking with Chuntz, apparently not the most popular man in the tribe.
After the wickiup was completed, they crawled inside and performed the deed, as if to formalize their union. Esther did not object to his demands, because one man, regardless of how needy, can be satisfied rather easily by an experienced whore.
They became a typical married Apache couple, and one of her main duties was collecting firewood. Next day, while binding up an armload of branches, she heard footsteps behind her. Reaching for her gun, she felt a hand hold her wrist firmly.
Esther found herself gazing into the blue eyes of a blond Apache woman who smiled warmly. “Howdy,” she said. “Are you an American?”
“Sure am,” replied the astonished Esther. “How ‘bout you.”
“I'm an American too. My name's Clarissa Barrington.”
Esther's jaw dropped uncontrollably, but she recovered her composure and noticed that her quarry was armed. “I'm Esther Rainey,” she managed to say. “What the hell're you doin’ hyar?”
“My husband thinks he's an Apache. How about you?”
“I've been kidnapped by the one called Chuntz.”
Clarissa smiled. “You can live with us, and my husband will take care of Chuntz. Hell, don't feel you're alone. If you have trouble with Chuntz, he'll be banished.”
“Thank you,” was all Esther could muster.
“You'll get used to Apache life,” explained Clarissa, who considered herself an old Apache hand after living with them over a month. “But you'll get used to it. Here, let me help you with that firewood.”
Clarissa bent over to finish tying the wood, and Esther reached for her pistol. It would be easy to shoot Mrs. Rich Bitch in the back, but somehow Esther couldn't help liking her. It wasn't every day a whore encountered human decency. Then Clarissa glanced up quickly. “What's wrong?”
“I'm not used to bein’ with Apaches, and I seen so much in my life . . . sometimes ... I don't know . . .”
Clarissa placed her arms around Esther. “No one will harm you as long as my husband and I are around.”
Esther couldn't kill someone trying to be helpful. What's the hurry? she asked herself. I got plenty of time, because Mrs. Rich Bitch ain't goin’ nowheres. What a stroke of luck this is.
“Poor dear,” cooed Clarissa, trying to comfort the captive. “You've been through quite an ordeal, but it's over now.”
Relatives left food in front of Cochise's wickiup, and occasionally his hand could be seen, bringing bowls inside. He used the latrine at night while others slept, but guards had caught glimpses of him. Shame, mourning, and regret pervaded the camp, and Mangas Coloradas finally decided to take action, just when he'd rather relax, for he felt stiffness in his bones, sometimes was short of breath, and no longer was a young warrior.
He arrived at Cochise's wickiup and said, “I am coming in.”
Mangas Coloradas ducked his head and entered the wickiup. In the darkness, beneath a pile of skins, lay Cochise, amid dirty pots and bowls. Mangas Coloradas kicked them out of the way, kneeled beside the middle-aged war chief, pulled away the skins, and said, “Arise, Cochise!”
But Cochise had fallen so low, he no longer cared about crawling out. Mangas Coloradas pulled more of the skin, rolled over Cochise, and slapped his face hard. “Awake!”
The solid whack brought Cochise to consciousness, he focused and found his chief before him. “What do you want?”
“The time has come to end this sickening display. You must lead the Chiricahuas to great purposes.
”
“I never will be chief again,” replied Cochise, covering his face with his hands.
“It is true that you have made a mistake,” said Mangas Coloradas, “but so did I and the others. The peace plan was based on reasonable hopes, and you have demonstrated courage, but you hate yourself instead of the Nakai-yes who have betrayed you. Well, now our enemies cannot say we never tried. I am too old to lead the People, and Victorio too young. You are the true leader, and you cannot deny us now that we call your name.”
“I do deny you,” replied Cochise.
Mangas Coloradas paused, then crawled out of the wickiup, and a short time later, warriors carried in Dostehseh, pale and dressed in white deerskin, lying on a deerskin cot. They placed her in front of Cochise, so she could look directly at him, then the warriors departed, leaving husband and wife alone.
“What is this I have heard?” asked Dostehseh, barely above a whisper. “Can it be that mighty Cochise has become a weakling?”
“I will not hesitate to fight White Eyes and Mexicanos,” replied Cochise. “But I am no longer chief of the Chiricahuas.”
“The People turn to you for leadership, because you are a great warrior, but instead they receive the whimpering pile of shit that I see before me. I am the daughter of a chief, and I will tolerate this no longer. Take your place before the Chiricahuas, or find yourself another wife.”
The warriors carried her out of the wickiup, leaving Cochise to meditate upon what she had said. Later, he was seen headed for the stream, where he took a bath. That evening, he held council with Mangas Coloradas, and from that day onward, many Nakai-yes would die as a result of the treachery in Fronteras.
It was night in Nogales, and Culhane sauntered along the crowded sidewalks, dressed like a Mexican, shopping for a horse. He knew the importance of caution, for he had witnessed hangings and lynchings, not to mention shootings and knifings, over stolen horses.
He heard Mexican music in the cantinas, the laughter of whores and the shouts of men as he roved planked walks, finally spotting a fine mount with a silver-worked saddle, a Mexican sitting on its back, probably the foreman of somebody's hacienda, or a bandido riding down the main street of Nogales.
In the shadows, seemingly unconcerned, Culhane observed the bandido tie the horse to a rail, loosen the cinch, and enter a cantina. Culhane paused, puffed his cigarette, then followed him in.
The bandido, a hearty mustachioed Mexican, bought a bottle at the bar, then carried it to an empty table against the far wall. Soon a prostitute approached, they enjoyed a chat, then the bandido followed her down the corridor.
Culhane returned to hitching rail, where he whispered to the bandido’s horse and stroked its head. Glancing both ways, Culhane noticed no one watching. Nonchalantly, he threw his saddlebags over the horse's rump, tightened the cinch, climbed into the saddle, and headed for the open land.
It was night in the Apache camp, and Esther stood in the darkness, studying Clarissa playing with her naked daughter beside the fire. The child squealed with glee as Clarissa tickled her, and then Clarissa hugged the child tightly to her breast, whispering endearments into her rose petal ear.
Esther remembered when she'd been a child, and her mother had loved her, but then her mother died, her stepfather raped her, and she'd been on the move ever since, surviving by her wits, and receiving an education in skullduggery.
She heard a voice behind her. “Are you all right, Esther?”
She spun around. It was Nathanial Barrington, whom the Apaches called Sunny Bear. “You surprised me,” she replied, wondering how he had drawn so close without her hearing him.
“If that son of a bitch Chuntz is mistreating you, I'll kill him,” declared Sunny Bear. “I don't like him anyway.”
“No—we get along all right,” she said.
“You can stay at my wickiup anytime—you don't have to ask. And it's fine with Clarissa. We're both very worried about you.”
“It's not so bad,” Esther admitted.
“Don't you have family or friends back in the States?”
“Not really.”
“If there's trouble, you know who to call.”
What a gentleman, thought Esther on the way to her wickiup, and it had been delightful watching Clarissa play with her child. She's not a bad woman, decided Esther. And she's done me no harm on purpose. I imagine Sam scared the hell out of her in the bank. It's not as if she betrayed him, like that damned Culhane did me.
She returned to her wickiup, sat in the darkness, and realized that she could not hate Clarissa Barrington. Oh God, if only everything was simple. I'm sorry, Sam, but I cain't kill ‘er.
After watering his horses, Chuntz arrived, and indeed he smelled like a beast of burden as he removed his breechclout. It was the signal for her to undress, and soon they were together. She sensed that he truly craved her, as she craved somebody. There is only one man, she told herself as she lay in the heat of her passions. What does his face matter?
On August 16, 1858, during the summer Apaches faced extinction, an important scientific experiment took place at the White House in Washington, D.C. President James Buchanan, sixty-six, stood in the Oval Office, surrounded by politicians and reporters. Tall, white-haired, and hulking, he examined a brass telegraph instrument connected via wires and subterranean cable to Buckingham Palace, London. On that historic moment, the first official message was being received via the new Transatlantic Cable, Queen Victoria on the other end. The message arrived in dots and dashes interpreted by Samuel Morse himself, a former portrait artist turned scientist, inventor of the code.
Next to Morse stood one of the nation's most audacious entrepreneurs, Cyrus West Field, thirty-nine, born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, son of a Congregational minister. A slender, intense, self-made millionaire, his persuasion had raised funds for the bold venture, and his cable sprawled across great oceanic caverns, connecting Newfoundland to Ireland.
Everything Field owned had been invested in the cable. If it failed, he would suffer a heavy blow, but he hoped governments and businesses would pay for a faster exchange of information, because information fueled industry, and industry was devouring the world.
Samuel Morse decoded the message, which consisted of greetings and congratulations intended for public consumption. Tremendous international publicity surrounded the event, which was termed “the most glorious work of the age.” Forward-looking journalists claimed the cable would transform history, great achievements were predicted, but it broke after twenty-eight days’ service, plunging Cyrus West Field into bankruptcy.
The entrepreneur was in England, visiting the Earl of Stafford, when the bad news arrived. For a few anxious moments, Field found himself unable to breathe, for the unthinkable had happened. He was out of business, broke, disgraced, and discredited, all in one shot.
The earl reached toward his shoulder. “I say—are you all right, Cyrus?”
The question bought Field to his senses, because he was at heart an optimist, and believed that persistence paid off. So he smiled and said, “I'm fine, but do you think I could have a drink?”
The earl beckoned, and a liveried manservant in the shadows stepped forward to pour two fresh glasses of gin. Field was not ordinarily a drinking man, but he took a copious draft in an effort to calm himself. Then he tried to smile. “It is a temporary setback, nothing more.”
“But . . . what will you do?”
Field smiled, for a good entrepreneur is like a good general, and he never surrenders. “Charge it to profit and loss,” he said, “then go to work and lay another cable.”
***
Congress and the Senate were closed down, for it was the hot summer of an election year. Across the nation, candidates and sitting politicians delivered speeches at state fairs, in courthouses, or from the cabooses of trains, slamming away at the opposition. Everyone claimed to have a solution for the great slavery issue, although no solution had worked thus far.
Nowhere was t
he contest more intense than in Illinois, where Senator Stephen Douglas was battling for his political life against the upstart ex-Congressman, Abe Lincoln. To counter the reputation of the great senator, the Republican press had devised the legend of the rail-splitter, who'd been born in a log cabin, worked as a flatboatman on the mighty Mississippi, learned to be a lawyer, and now had become an eloquent spokesman for abolitionist causes. They portrayed him as a backwoods David challenging Washington's Goliath, and best of all, it was fundamentally true.
In the weeks before their debates, Douglas and Lincoln campaigned constantly, speaking for two or three hours at a stretch. In Havana, Illinois, Senator Douglas called Abe Lincoln a liar, coward, and sneak, and indicated his desire to fight him physically, but Long Abe replied to reporters next day, “Why, Senator Douglas and I are the best of friends, and I can't imagine what he is talking about.”
Stephen Douglas was the model of the powerful and wealthy American senator, except for his short legs. A spellbinding orator, he continually reminded voters of the radicalism of Republican Abe Lincoln. Meanwhile, Long Abe followed him from town to town, denouncing him as the tool of southern interests. In the course of the campaign, Senator Douglas traveled an estimated five thousand miles, with candidate Lincoln hot on his heels. The full facilities of the Illinois Central Railroad were placed at the Little Giant's disposal, because a friend and supporter, George Brinton McClellan, was vice president and chief engineer.
Toward the final weeks of August 1858 the eyes of the nation turned to tiny Ottawa, Illinois. It was there the first debate between Douglas and Lincoln would take place.
By train, steamboat, carriage, and on the backs of mules, citizens flocked to Ottawa for the intellectual boxing match. Population six thousand, located eighty-four miles southwest of Chicago, it grew to twenty thousand in the days before the historic encounter. Peddlers lined the streets, soldiers stood in formation, and families picnicked on lawns as musicians played, cannons fired, and a festive air prevailed, not to mention a few drunken brawls between Democrats and Republicans.
