by Len Levinson
Many prominent Chiricahua leaders attended the meeting, but greatest of them all was their aging chief, Miguel Narbona. “The Chiricahua homeland is vast,” he said, spreading out his arms. “It is seldom that we see the White Eyes. There is no threat that we can envisage.”
“Not yet,” said Delgadito of the Mimbrenos. “But once we too thought the White Eyes would never disturb us, since there was so much land. Now they are breathing down our necks, with more bluecoat soldiers arriving all the time.”
“Nobody will breathe down my neck,” said Chief Miguel Narbona. “Bluecoat soldiers die just like Mexican soldiers, when you shoot arrows through their hearts.”
Chapter Eight
A stagecoach and its military escort traveled east on the Santa Fe Trail, and in the cab, free from his usual routines, Nathanial Barrington dozed fitfully, headed back to civilization after six years of hard frontier campaigning.
First stop would be South Carolina, to return the gold watch to Johnny's parents, and then he'd continue to Washington, D.C., home of his father. The end of his journey would be his mother's home in New York City. He looked out the window of the stagecoach, trying to distract himself from his failed marriage by remembering family, friends, taverns and oyster cellars in the Empire City.
As he traveled farther east, he noted that formerly barren wilderness had become engraved with intersections, towns, and farms. He found newspapers in remote stagecoach stops, and the issue on every front page was bloody Kansas.
According to press reports, the country was in turmoil over the notorious Kansas-Nebraska Act. Advanced at the beginning of the year by Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, chairman of the Senate Territories Committee, it had formed two new territories, Kansas and Nebraska, and mandated that the issue of slavery be settled by votes of territorial residents, instead of the President and Congress.
Senator Douglas called it “popular sovereignty,” and it had a certain ring, but he hadn't foreseen that pro and antislavery forces would pour into Kansas, each trying to gain an advantage. The shooting already had begun, Senator Douglas's career had been derailed by the bill, while the President and Congress fought over how to respond to open warfare in the beleaguered new territories.
The most sensational news story concerned a runaway slave named Anthony Burns, who'd stolen a boat in Richmond, landed in Boston, and was captured there by federal marshals on May 24. It so happened that an abolitionist convention was being held in the city, and three thousand federal troops were required to hold back the angry mob. Burns eventually was returned to his owner, who then sold him to a group of abolitionists who set him free. Now Burns was a regular American citizen after it cost the federal government one hundred thousand dollars to return him to his owner.
Farms and forests rolled past Nathanial's window as he read stale news stories. It isn't a foreign power that'll bring us down, but we ourselves, he decided. At the bottom of a page, he read about the emerging Republican Party, formed earlier that year at a schoolhouse in Ripon, Wisconsin. According to the article, former so-called “Conscience” Whigs were filling its ranks, along with Democrats disaffected with the proslavery administration of Franklin Pierce. Republicans were fielding candidates for elections in districts all across the nation, but no prominent leader had yet emerged among them.
At the bottom of page five, Nathanial found a small story about New York City. A new opera hall called the Academy of Music was being constructed near Union Square and scheduled to open that fall. The massive edifice would cost a reported three hundred thirty-five thousand dollars, all contributed by wealthy New Yorkers. The opening night performance would be Vincenzo Bellini's Norma.
Nathanial smiled as he recalled his past life as a New Yorker. With every turn, the stagecoach wheels carried him back to the land of music, theater, art galleries, and taverns.
In addition to its other attractions, New York was a magnet for beautiful women from all over the world, and Nathanial thought how wonderful would be the temptations. No matter how pretty they are, I'll never get married again, he swore. Marriage is like war except it's ten times worse.
In late summer, subchiefs and warriors from across the Mimbreno nation gathered in the Pinos Altos Mountains for a conference concerning a request from the White Eyes Indian commissioner, Dr. Michael Steck.
Leader of the convocation was the aging Mangas Coloradas, and at his side sat brave Victorio, with Deladito, Cuchillo Negro, Barbonsito, Cautivo, and Cigarito, among other distinguished warriors.
Delgadito reported the news, standing at the edge of the circle. “I have spoken with Dr. Steck,” he said. “He has told me that the Great Father wants peace with the People. He also said that the Great Father has more soldiers than we can count, and they are like sand on the desert. He said we must be farmers, because the road to war is red with blood. He also wants to meet with you, Mangas Coloradas.”
Delgadito sat heavily, silence prevailed around the circle, then Mangas Coloradas spoke. “What kind of man was this Steck?”
“He seemed kind, but offered nothing except a threat.”
Mangas Coloradas scowled, because it appeared the White Eyes were pressuring him. “I do not want to be a farmer,” he declared.
“Nor do I,” added Victorio.
Most subchiefs and warriors nodded in agreement, but Cuchillo Negro raised his hand and asked to speak. He was an older warrior, and one of his sons had been killed in a raid on an ammunition convoy. “I do not want to be a farmer,” he said, “but bloodshed is worse. I too have spoken with Dr. Steck, and I believe he is a good man. We must end the killing because the People are getting the worst of it. I for one am ready to try peace.”
A few others nodded in agreement, but Mangas Coloradas felt no rancor toward them. Then Victorio rose, and everyone turned to the rising star of the People, the Victorious One.
“There can be no peace,” he announced, “because foxes and wildcats don't live together. I think we should leave for the land of the Nakai-yes Mexicans and be warriors again. Why surrender when there are still places where we can go?”
There was silence, then Mangas Coloradas replied, “Victorio has spoken wisely. Let us go out of. the land of the Pindah-lickoyee, and journey to the land of the Nakai-yes, where we can be as in the old time, in harmony with the mountain spirits.”
A schism developed among the People that afternoon. Some announced their intention to cooperate with Dr. Steck, while the wild ones determined to cut out for Mexico. And no one dared speak the awful truth that the White Eyes were driving them from their ancestral mountains.
After duty hours, Fletcher Doakes often walked to Santa Fe, sat on a bench, and watched the crowds pass by. He looked just like another semi-inebriated soldier, but he especially enjoyed scrutinizing women from beneath his hooded eyelids. I am the monster they fear most, he thought with satisfaction. We are all murderers in our hearts, but only I have the courage to act. At least I'm honest.
Doakes noticed a busty woman walking toward him, a leather satchel suspended over her shoulders by a black leather belt. He'd ridden in the stagecoach with her and remembered she was owner of the Silver Palace Saloon. If I could catch her right, she'd have her throat snapped before she could think about it.
But they'd organize a posse if I killed a respectable woman. It's best to stay with the tried and true, my friend, he told himself. The Mexican woman appeared confident and unafraid, inspiring Doakes to wonder how she'd look with his cord around her throat. A faint smile appeared on the face of the lone soldier sitting in front of the general store, blending into the background.
Chapter Nine
At dawn, Jocita rode with Running Deer into the wilderness, he sitting before her on her horse. “I am going to teach you something very important today,” she said.
The boy was eager to learn, for his father was Juh, chief of the Nednai, and his mother was a warrior woman of high renown. He could think of no greater shame than disappointing his parent
s.
At midmorning, they stopped on a plain covered with chaparral, far from main trails. They dismounted, Jocita hobbled her horse, then kneeled in front of her son. “You are not big yet, but there is one thing you must learn. A time may come when enemies are about, and you must be quiet.”
The boy nodded dutifully, although he wasn't sure what she meant. She lay him in a thicket, sat before him, and said, “Don't move until I tell you.”
The boy flinched as an insect bit his leg. His mother slapped his face. “I said don't move.”
“It hurt.”
“If enemies were about, and you made noise, I or your father would have to kill you. The lives of the People are more important than that of one noisy little boy. Do as I say.”
The boy's face stung, but his mind had become focused. He lay on the ground and closed his eyes.
“Don't fall asleep,” admonished his mother. “Keep your eyes open at all times. You must melt together with the ground and think of other things.”
He lay like a prairie dog, eyes scanning from side to side. His body became still and his skin color blended with the foliage. He soon became bored, but didn't want another slap. He felt like crying, but his mother was never moved by tears. He took her advice and tried to merge with the ground, as if his hands and feet grew roots. It seemed that long periods were passing, but he remained immobile. At odd moments, he wondered if his mother had died, for she didn't move a muscle. The sun passed the midday point and started going down. The boy's arms and legs ached, but he knew his mother would care for him. He became hungry, thirsty, irritable, yet refused to surrender. He believed his mother's training could save him from a bullet in the face.
Suddenly she started, and Running Deer found himself flying through the air. She covered him with kisses while massaging his limbs. “You are a good learner,” she said. “Our enemies do not know how to be silent, and that gives us an advantage. In time to come, I will teach you other methods of superiority. You are everything I hoped you would be, my son. From this day onward you are learning to become a warrior.”
A black shellacked open carriage rolled down a magnolia-shaded roadway near Charleston, South Carolina. Nathanial sat in the passenger seat, gazing at the white two-storied mansion with Georgian columns sitting contentedly at the end of the drive. The West Pointer was attired in a freshly cleaned uniform, his left hand resting on a wooden cane whose handle had been carved in the head of a wolf.
He admired neatly trimmed lawns, gardens, strategically placed trees, benches to rest upon, and an ornate white gazebo. Nathanial had telegraphed ahead from Atlanta, so Johnny's parents would be expecting him. Removing the gold watch from his pocket, he raised it to his ear; it still ticked merrily.
The carriage halted in front of the mansion, the front door opened, and a uniformed slave marched outside. “You must be Lieutenant Barrington.”
“Yes—who are you?”
“I'm Raymond, suh. I'll have the bags removed to your room at once.”
Raymond gave orders to other slaves, who carried Nathanial's bags into the mansion. Nathanial then followed Raymond inside. “I'll tell Mr. Davidson that you're here, suh.”
Nathanial sat in the parlor and gazed at paintings of prominent Davidsons. One showed Johnny in his West Point uniform, similar to a painting of Nathanial that hung in his mother's home. A Negro maid arrived with a tray of pastries and a pitcher of lemonade.
The opulence reminded Nathanial of homes in New York City, yet Johnny Davidson had chosen harsh army life, just as Nathanial, and that made them brothers of the sword. Unfortunately, swords were of no use against the Apache, and if the arrow had flown eighteen inches to the left, Nathanial's bones would be lying in the Embudo Mountains.
Presently an elderly man in a white suit entered the parlor, accompanied by a woman wearing a pink summer dress. “Lieutenant Barrington,” said Samuel Davidson. “Welcome to our home.”
Nathanial reached into his pocket and took out the watch. The bereft mother accepted it, tears rolling down her cheeks, while the father thanked Nathanial in a shaky voice. “I can see you're not completely recovered from wounds,” said Mr. Davidson. “Perhaps you might want to lie down.”
The maid said, “I'll take you to your room, suh.”
Nathanial followed her up the spiral staircase, noticing that she was a healthy dark-skinned woman, good posture, probably selected for her physical strength, worth top dollar at any slave auction. White people were murdering each other over her in Kansas.
She opened the door to a guest room, raised the window, then turned to face him, waiting expectantly for his next command. He was tempted to tell her to remove her clothing and lie upon his bed, but instead, said, “What's your name?”
“Belinda.”
“I'm Nathanial.”
They examined each other carefully, then averted their eyes. He thought he saw fear in hers, because he was the white man with the power of life and death. “I'm from New York,” he said. “We don't have slaves there.”
“I wish I could go to New York,” she replied. “Must be wonderful.”
He didn't know what to say. Should I buy this slave and cut her loose in New York City? he asked himself. She sensed his change of mood. “If you need anything, suh, just call Belinda.” With a polite smile, she departed the room.
He removed his clothing, thinking that he'd never made love with a Negro woman. It seemed the most exotic act imaginable. Is she a roaring jungle beast or a cuddly little black kitten? he wondered.
He couldn't simply say, “Let's go for a walk,” or “May I escort you to the Academy of Music on Saturday night?” I'd better not try anything with her, he ordered himself, because I'm here to comfort the parents of Johnny, not fall in love with a slave. I'm liable to get lynched, if I'm not careful.
Despite lush bougainvillea, rose-filled gardens, and a tastefully appointed mansion, he detected vague menace lurking beneath the veneer of Southern gentility. It was his impression, based on experience with Southern army officers, that they were more apt to take notions of honor seriously, and duels were a way of life among them.
I'm not here to rile delicate sensibilities, he reminded himself. If I want to make a fool of myself with women, I'll have to wait until I return to New York City.
The lawyer was a tall bald man with a mustache and an unctuous manner. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Barrington?”
“I'd like a divorce,” replied Maria Dolores.
They sat in the lawyer's bright, airy office on the second floor of an adobe building on San Francisco Street in Santa Fe. Nothing surprised the lawyer, for he'd spent his career observing the darkness that lives in the human soul. “I take it you've tried to reconcile with him?”
“I cannot very well reconcile with him if he is never home. From what I last heard, he is not even in New Mexico anymore. He has deserted his family.”
“The first step is notify him of your divorce action.”
“How long before I can marry again?”
“Depends on two factors: whether your husband will respond, and if he does, whether he'll contest your filing. Do you think he will?”
“It is difficult to know what my husband will do because he is completely loco. If he doesn't respond, what then?”
“Your divorce will be granted in approximately a year, Mrs. Barrington. And now, if I may be so crass, I think the time has come for a discussion of my fee.”
Nathanial sat on the back porch of the mansion, sipping a tall, frosty glass of lemonade, while in distant fields fifty-odd slaves picked white balls from verdant bushes. Nathanial wore a thin white shirt with tan pants, but perspired in the shade of the porch. He could imagine how uncomfortable it was to bend in hot sun and dust, under the watchful eye of the whip-carrying overseer.
Nathanial hated moralistic sermonizing, but slavery had never felt right to him. It permitted some to live with good books, fine wine, feasts, balls, hunts, and all the accoutrements of the English m
anor, but it rested on the backs of other human beings.
“May I bring you anything else, suh?” asked Belinda.
He could sense her dusky body beside him. “Were you born on this plantation?”
“Yes, suh.”
“I guess it must be an honor to work in the house, instead of those fields.”
“Yes, suh.” She had a blank expression, as if speaking what was required.
“Are you married?”
“No, suh. Are you?”
“My wife and I are estranged. I guess you knew Johnny pretty well.”
“We sort of grew up together. Everybody liked Master Johnny.”
She spoke almost like an educated Southern belle, evidently because she'd been serving them all her life. He turned his gaze to the slaves picking cotton in the fields. “Do you think the slaves out there liked Johnny?”
“Master Johnny never went to the fields, suh. He had to study so he could be a great man. Instead he is dead, and his parents aren't taking it so well.”
“Do you know his lady friend, the one who wouldn't marry him?”
The maid frowned. “That's Jennifer Butler.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“I shouldn't say, suh.”
“Why not?”
“If it hadn't been for her, Johnny would be alive, suh.”
“It's not her fault that she didn't love him, is it?”
“Jennifer Butler doesn't love anybody but herself, suh.” Belinda took a step backward as the bereaved parents appeared around the corner of the porch.
Mrs. Davidson sat beside Johnny and said, “We're most grateful that you brought back Johnny's watch. Please stay as long as you like. There's a wedding tomorrow and we hope you'll attend with us.”
“I'd be honored, ma'am.”
