by Len Levinson
His face was slick with sweat while his heart pounded loudly. He wanted to vomit disgust onto the floor or scream at the top of his lungs. The world was wicked, hateful, and incomprehensible, based on his experience.
Slowly he lowered the newspaper and gazed at expensive prostitutes flirting with customers. His eyes narrowed with desire as he imagined choking the life out of them, one after another. Perspiration soaked his underclothes and he knew the time had come for another sacrifice.
He drained the mug of beer, then headed for the door. No one paid attention to the soldier, and no one could spot the monster lurking behind his placid nondescript face. Doakes didn't realize that he was utterly mad, because his rage felt normal; he'd been living with it all his life.
He saw himself covered with fur, his ears pointed like a werewolf's, and his tail wagging behind him as he casually gazed at a pretty young prostitute in skimpy clothes, wiggling her butt and jiggling her breasts, corrupting the minds of men in the vicinity as Eve had tempted Adam. Was it not woman who introduced suffering to the world? Doakes asked himself.
His capacity to justify his behavior was exceeded only his need to inflict pain. He stepped outside, looked both ways, then headed toward Whore Alley, his right hand fingering the cord.
Nathanial returned to Rolling Hills after midnight, accompanied by Johnny's parents. They wished each other good night in the parlor, then departed to their respective rooms.
Nathanial had drunk a fair quantity of champagne at the wedding party, but had paced himself like the longtime saloon veteran that he was. No longer was he willing to pass out cold in public.
His room was dark, the window was open, and white curtains floated on the fragrant summer breeze. He lit the lamp and noticed that the maid had turned down the covers of his bed. A bottle of whiskey and a glass sat on a tray, so he poured himself one last drink, then sat on the chair near the window.
All the wedding guests had been extremely kind to the Yankee soldier, and nobody spoiled the fun with mention of Kansas. Nathanial didn't hate Southerners and neither was he contemptuous of them. Do we really have any choice about what kind of people we become? he asked himself.
There was a knock on his door, startling him. “Who is it?”
“Belinda,” said the voice on the other side.
“Come in.”
She entered the room, attired in her usual gray-and-white uniform. “I was wondering if you wanted anything, suh, before you went to bed.”
He looked at her full breasts and shapely hips, but decided against churlish remarks. “I hope you haven't been waiting up for me.”
“I want to make you comfortable, suh.”
A faint smile played on her lips, and he wondered if she was trying to tell him something. “You've thought of everything. Thank you.”
“May I help you take off your boots, suh?”
“That won't be necessary.”
“I'd be happy to help, suh.” She kneeled before him, reached for his left boot, but he pulled back.
“I can take off my own boots. Please get up.”
She appeared uncomfortable as she arose. “Did you enjoy the party, suh?”
“I met Jennifer Butler. She's quite beautiful, and I can understand why Johnny was in love with her.”
A smile played on the maid's face. “Yes, she sure is beautiful, suh.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing, suh.”
“What are you laughing at?”
“I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“My secret.”
“Do you ever have any fun, Belinda—or are you always doing other people's dirty work?”
“Sometimes I have fun, suh.”
“I'll bet you wish you could get out of here.”
She shrugged. “There's no way.”
“What if I bought you?”
“Why would you do that?”
“I'd turn you free when we got to New York.”
“The Davidsons'd never sell me, suh. They even taught me to read, so's I can read to Mrs. Davidson before she goes to bed.” She lowered her voice. “But I could run away and meet you in Charleston. If anybody asks, you can say you bought me to help your poor sick wife. Doesn't she need help in the kitchen?”
“What if you get caught?”
“I won't.”
“I've heard they beat the hell out of slaves who run away.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “I know you—Mr. Yankee Man. You pretend to be all worried and concerned, but you're not gonna really risk something, are you?”
“You'll be taking the big chance, not me.”
“I didn't think you'd help me,” she said bitterly. “You're all talk—just like a Yankee.” Then, all of a sudden, she burst into tears. Nathanial stared at her in alarm as she struggled to control herself.
“Have a drink,” he said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey.
“All the fine gentlemen drink their troubles away,” she replied bitterly. “I thought you were different.” She pulled a clean white handkerchief from her sleeve, daubed her eyes, then blew her nose. “I've dreamed about being free since I could think. They've got organizations in the North that help runaway slaves. If you took me away, I'd do anything you say.” She raised her hand and unfastened the top button of her dress. “Anything.”
He placed his hand upon hers. “Don't.”
“What's the matter, Mr. Yankee Man?” she asked with a wry smile. “A darkie isn't good enough for you.”
“I was thinking that you're as pretty and well-spoken as any belle at the wedding.”
“What you think'll happen after Mr. and Mrs. Davidson are dead? I'll end in the fields, because Clanton wants my black ass out there picking his damned cotton!”
Nathanial stared at her as she sobbed before him, her normal servile composure gone. “What do you know about Jennifer Butler?” he asked.
Her eyes widened with fear or surprise, he couldn't be sure. “Nothing, suh.”
He held her shoulders in his strong hands. “You expect me to save you, but you won't tell me the truth.”
“I'll tell you everything if you help me escape,” she replied, smiling through her tears.
Chapter Ten
In the hour before dawn, not even a stray cat disturbed the main street of Esquinita. In a few hours the dusty thoroughfare would teem with wagons, carriages, and vaqueros, but now children slept in their beds, cattle lowing in pens. A small town in Chihuahua and hub of a vast but sparsely populated ranching and farming region, Esquinita lay peacefully in the dawn.
The citizens had no reason to be alarmed, because a company of soldiers was garrisoned among them. Its commander, Lieutenant Fernando Rodriguez, was sleeping off a hangover at the home of his girlfriend, Damaris Souza, while guards dozed in front of the barracks.
Apaches left Esquinita alone, thanks to an “arrangement” that had been reached between both sides. For the occasional payment of a few head of cattle, ammunition, and other articles, the Apaches left Esquinita alone. No treaty had been signed, but that's how it worked.
The provisions of the treaty were about to change unilaterally, as a lone head appeared behind a yucca cactus five hundred yards from the edge of town. It was Victorio, subchief of the Mimbreno people, heir apparent to Chief Mangas Coloradas. Victorio examined pens of horses and cattle, then his sharp eyes scanned barracks and their sleepy guards.
He knew there were sixty-two soldiers, because Esquinita had been under surveillance for some time. Victorio looked to his right, where his Nednai and Bedonko brothers waited for his signal. To his left were his best Mimbreno warriors. Together, he held two hundred men under his command.
Among them were famous subchiefs and warriors such as Delgadito, Ponce, Cigarito, and Victorio's brother, Coyuntura. Their tactics had been practiced in advance, the war dance held in accordance with tradition, and now the time had come to fight.
Victorio pointed his for
efinger at the stables, and thirty warriors began racing on foot in that direction. Then he pointed to the east, where another thirty warriors ran toward adobe homes. Victorio aimed his right hand straight ahead, then the remainder of his force rushed the barracks.
The warriors hit the town like a cyclone, shrieks filled the air, and soldiers came pouring out of their barracks, carrying rifles, suddenly wide awake. Even tubby Lieutenant Gonzalez fired his pistol wildly as he ran back to his headquarters, flaming arrows flying through the air.
Time and again Victorio charged the Mexicans, drawing their fire. When their muskets were empty, he rampaged among them with his war club, cracking skulls. No one could stop him, bullets whizzed around him like angry gnats, and his warriors followed him everywhere.
Soldiers and citizens were pressed back by marauding Apaches, as smoke from burning buildings obscured the view. Lieutenant Gonzalez prayed the sound of battle would draw soldiers from other towns, but then an arrow pierced his throat and he was dead before he hit the ground.
A tough old sergeant took command, received an arrow through his arm for his trouble, but soldiers could barely see the constantly moving Apaches. It appeared that massacre was on the menu, then the sergeant realized the Apaches were withdrawing.
“Hold your fire!” he bellowed.
It became silent, then the townspeople and soldiers cheered. “We fought them off!” somebody yelled.
Buckets of water were carried from wells and splashed on burning homes, while a doctor tended the wounded. It was discovered that all horses and cattle were gone, the attack on citizens and soldiers merely a diversion. The fires were doused by noon, then the priest held Mass in the town square. Despite hymns, incantations, and the transubstantiation of wine into the Most Precious Blood, every person in Esquinita would hate Apaches until the day he or she died.
Nathanial sat surrounded by luggage at the Charleston railroad station. He'd have to change trains about five times before he reached Washington, a trip of several days. The train was due in a half hour.
He glanced up from his Charleston Mercury as two men with constable badges entered the railroad station, a slave woman between them. She looked like Belinda, thought Nathanial, and then noted that she was Belinda. The constables headed for him, grim expressions on their faces. Nathanial decided to face them on his feet.
One of the constables wore a rust-colored goatee. “Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant, but this slave says she belongs to you.”
“Of course she belongs to me. I have the bill of sale right here.”
Nathanial reached toward his suitcase, hoping they wouldn't call his bluff, but the constable placed his hand on the West Pointer's arm. “That won't be necessary, suh. We take your word for it.”
Nathanial turned to Belinda. “Where've you been, you worthless wench!”
She appeared confused. “I got lost, suh.”
“I told you to stay behind me.”
“I'se sorry, suh.”
“Goddamned dumb nigra,” said Nathanial gruffly.
The constable grinned. “Yer a Yankee, ain'tcha?” Then he balled his fist. “This is the only thing a nigra understands.”
“Thanks for finding her, Constable.”
The constable saluted. “Happy to be of service, suh.”
The constables strolled off, and Nathanial figured they were veterans of the Mexican War, susceptible to the power of officers’ insignia.
Nathanial and Belinda sat opposite each other in a corner of the railroad station. “I told Mrs. Davidson my sister was sick,” said Belinda softly. “She won't know I'm gone till tomorrow, and might not report me for a few days. I'm sure they think I'm drunk or lying with some man.”
“We've got a long way to go, but I don't suppose we can travel together.”
“Lieutenant Barrington, you have a right to take your slave wherever you please. Don't you need me to do things for you?”
Nathanial noticed an elderly woman being attended by her slave not far away. “Oh boy, do I ever.”
Belinda stowed their baggage over the seats, and he realized she was an actress like every other woman he'd known. When finished, she sat next to him and took out needlework.
“Don't look so worried,” she muttered. “They'll never do anything to you if they catch us. They might hang me, but I'd rather take a chance on being free.”
“Do you have a weapon by any chance?”
“An old pistol. Guess who taught me how to work it?”
“Johnny?”
“That's right, and there's something I never told you. Do you remember that light-skinned boy you saw at the slave quarters?”
He's yours?”
She appeared astonished. “How'd you know?”
“Just a guess. I'll buy his freedom after we get to New York.”
“I'm sure the Davidsons would be glad to get rid of him.” Her big brown eyes burned into him. “The first time I saw you, I knew you were the man who'd save me.”
“Were you in love with Johnny?”
“Sometimes.”
The front door opened, then a rotund man in a blue uniform appeared, like an officer of the U.S. Dragoons. “The four-thirty train for Richmond is arriving, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Your tickets, please.”
Nathanial heard the whistles anguished call, the train puffed into the station, Nathanial boarded and selected a back seat, with his slave facing him. No one else sat nearby, so Nathanial leaned forward and said, “It's time to tell the truth about Jennifer Butler.”
Belinda fluttered her eyelashes, pretending to be a dizzy Southern belle. “But, Lieutenant Barrington,” she said in a high-pitched voice, “whatever makes you think she'd do anything wrong?”
If Nathanial closed his eyes, he's never know the difference. “I figure she's getting it somewhere. What's his name?”
“Guess.”
“I don't know any of those people. How can I guess?”
“But surely you have suspicions.”
“It's somebody who can't marry her because he's married already.”
“Wrong.”
“Her beau doesn't have enough money?”
“You think a Southern belle would marry for dirty ole money?”
“A belle can't meet a man at a tavern. Is there a male houseguest?”
“You're getting closer.”
Nathanial wrinkled his brow. “Don't tell me it's a . . . relative, like a brother or father?”
“No.”
“Is she carrying on with a house slave?”
“Which house slave?”
Nathanial's jaw dropped open. He'd heard of white Southern men sleeping with Negro women, but never white Southern women sleeping with Negro men. The notion disturbed him for a reason he couldn't fully comprehend. “I don't know—the one who polishes her father's boots, or maybe one of those young bucks in fancy uniforms who carry the trays of champagne around.”
“Who could walk into her room anytime, day or night, and no one would get suspicious?”
“Her maid?”
Belinda winked.
Nathanial's mind sought to encompass the impossibility. Johnny's great love was a woman of Lesbos, and that's why she'd never married. Nathanial had heard vague stories about lesbians, but never a white woman and black woman. The very thought seemed incredibly thrilling to a man who adored the gentle sex.
He wondered about the rebellion of the bedroom, where slaves subjugated masters and mistresses on clean cotton sheets. It seemed erotic and weird to a man who himself had enjoyed a one-night romance with an Apache. Again, he caught a glimpse of the deceptive South. How long can this house of cards stand? he wondered. He and his slave looked out the window at Charleston blurring past as the thundering vehicle gathered speed.
“We'd better rehearse our stories,” she said, “in case we run into slavecatchers.”
“If they ask for the bill of sale, I'll say I lost it. I don't think they'll dare take you by force, but maybe th
e war between the North and South will start on this very train.”
The iron horse lumbered toward Richmond as darkness came to the Southland. Nathanial and his slave ate sandwiches that she'd packed, and after supper, most passengers moved to the sleeping car. It was time for Nathanial to retire, but he didn't want her to go to the car reserved for darkies, because somebody might molest a pretty slave.
“You'd best stay with me,” he said.
“But darkies aren't allowed on the sleeping car.”
“I need the assistance of my faithful slave, due to the infirmity of my recent war wounds, etcetera. Come on.”
They carried their bags to the sleeping car, where several male and female passengers were preparing for bed under the watchful eye of the conductor. No one complained about Belinda's presence because other slaves also had accompanied their masters and mistresses to the sleeping car.
“Make believe you're busy,” Nathanial whispered.
She opened one of the bags and appeared to be looking for something, then crawled onto the bed where she arranged sheets and blankets. Nathanial observed other passengers disappearing into their bunks while the porter wrote on his notepad and slaves departed the sleeping car. Nathanial nonchalantly climbed into bed with Belinda. Their shoulders touched as they tried to get comfortable in the narrow space.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a whisper.
“You don't expect me to sleep in my clothes, do you?”
“Don't get any ideas.”
“All I want is to sleep, I assure you.”
It was a warm summer night, a breeze whistled through the open window, beyond were vague outlines of eastern mountains, but they looked like little bumps compared to the Sangre de Cristo range near Santa Fe, or the Mimbres Mountains of New Mexico. Belinda unbuttoned her dress, then removed and folded it neatly at the bottom of the bunk. Clad in a white cotton slip, she lay beside him.
“The hardest part was leaving my son,” she said. “I hope it's for the best.”
“You'll be with him soon. Be patient.” He held up his Colt .44. “Nobody's taking you anywhere.”
“Do you sleep with it in your hand like that?”
