by Len Levinson
Nathanial heard his brothers splashing behind him, but he was a far stronger swimmer. Cortlandt Lake was cool, sweet, crystal clear, and he needn't worry about an Apache throwing a hatchet at him. He stroked toward the dock, reached for his towel, and Uncle Jasper sat on a nearby chair, studying the battle scars on Nathanial's body. “Don't you think you've been in the Army long enough?”
“Maybe,” Nathanial replied truthfully as Jeffrey and Tobey climbed the ladder.
Nathanial pondered the question as he walked with his brothers to their mother's cottage, where they entered their respective rooms. There aren't any advantages to army life, he admitted to himself as he selected a white suit, blue shirt, and black necktie.
He dressed carefully, because he knew how important appearance was to his mother. He was tempted to take a shot of laudanum, but Cortlandt Lake wasn't Santa Fe, where he could behave as badly as he pleased. He combed his beard, noting a bright gleam in his eye, in contrast to his usual cynical glaze.
One of the carriages pulling up to the main cottage contained Clarissa Rowland. She wore a peach organdy gown with a high-buttoned green bodice and puffy sleeves, her blond hair combed into a bun behind her head.
The grounds were heavily wooded, with more structures barely visible through the foliage; the air smelled like smoke and sap. She followed her family into a spacious well-lit parlor furnished with wooden chairs. Guests conversed in little groups as her parents led her to a jolly old elf, Jasper Rutherford, Nathanial's uncle. “Welcome,” he said, taking Clarissa's hand. “Congratulations on your engagement, my dear.”
She made a curtsy as he turned toward the next guest. Her social obligations terminated, Clarissa was curious to see the lake. She descended steps leading to the carpet of pine needles between the veranda and the water's edge. The clean odor of the forest filled her nostrils; she raised her dress so she wouldn't sweep up beetles and ants. When she was halfway to the lake, someone began playing a violin.
The main cottage became hidden behind trees and shrubs of the seemingly enchanted forest. She continued toward the water, its musky odor enveloped her, and finally she came to a halt at its edge.
Wavelets lapped the shore as stars blazed brightly overhead. She knelt and touched her fingers to limpid water, thinking how enjoyable it would be to swim naked across the lake.
“I'll watch your clothes, if you like,” said a male voice behind her.
She spun around. Nathanial Barrington walked toward her, a faint smile on his tanned features. “I've been swimming here since I was a boy,” he said, “and can recommend . . .” His voice caught in his throat as he drew close to her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Do you like riding, by any chance?”
“What a strange question. I love riding—do you?”
“In point of fact, a few days ago I was riding in the Hudson highlands just south of here. I stopped to rest my horse, and then noticed movement in a clearing just downwind. I took out my army spyglass, and to my astonishment it was a young woman with hair the same color as yours, dressed like a man. T’ wasn't you, by any chance?”
She was unable to speak for several seconds, her face turned bright red, and finally she declared, “No gentleman would ever mention such a thing.”
“It's a remarkable coincidence, wouldn't you say?”
“You should have left the person in question alone, and walked noisily away.”
“It was a vision of loveliness that I dared not disturb with idle movement.”
“I suppose you sat and watched for a fairly long period of time?”
“As a matter of fact that's true.”
“If I were a man, I'd shoot you.”
“Just for looking?”
She glanced around him and said suddenly, “There's something out there!”
He turned quickly, like an army officer in Apache territory, and reached for his Colt Dragoon, but it was in his dresser drawer. She pushed firmly, his hands flailed through the air, an expression of panic came to his face, and he choked off the scream about to issue from his lips. A tremendous splash ensued, the frontier warrior disappeared, and with a victorious laugh, Clarissa held her skirts and ran back toward the main cottage.
Why that little bitch, thought Nathanial as he rose through the turgid water. He saw her fleeing toward the house, heard her merry laughter, and shook his head in disgust. How could I fall for that tired old Indian trick? A fish nibbled his finger as his clothing threatened to drag him beneath the waves.
He swam to shore, praying no one had seen him. Otherwise they'd say he got so drunk he fell into the lake with his clothes on, providing another Nathanial Barrington scandal for decent folks to discuss in the privacy of their homes, exactly the outcome he'd been trying to avoid.
He arrived at the shore, crept onto land like a giant snail, and made his way laboriously around the main cottage, utilizing lessons of stealth and concealment he'd learned from the Apache wars. If my mother saw me like this, she'd kill me.
He snuck into the back door of her cottage and was horrified to see her enter the parlor from the other door. She stared at him dripping onto the floor, muck and dirt clinging to his white suit, and a leech fastened to his left pantleg. “My God—has it come to this?” she asked no one in particular.
“I was walking on the dock,” he said, “and tripped over something.”
She advanced toward him and sniffed about his face. “Are you drunk?”
“It was an accident.”
“Everybody's been wondering where you are. Don't you intend to make an appearance at your own party?”
“It'll only take a minute to put on another suit. I'll be right with you, Mother.”
“You'd better be sure of your footing when you're introduced to General Scott. If you make a good impression, he might transfer you to his headquarters.”
“He can keep that nest of rattlesnakes. I just want to make captain.”
“Don't try to impress him. Just be yourself—no—that's not a good idea either. Please don't talk too much, don't mention politics and whatever you do, don't insult him.”
Nathanial returned to his room and put on a black suit, white shirt and purple necktie. He examined himself in the mirror as he combed his hair and beard. He couldn't stop thinking about the girl who'd thrown him into the lake.
He considered her delicious with her flaxen hair and dramatic features. Some might say her nose was too pointy, or she was too frail, but she reminded him of strawberries, tart and sweet at the same time. Besides, he'd always been attracted to women who wouldn't tolerate his horseshit. She actually pushed me into the lake, he reflected with a smile. If I'd had my wits about me, I would've dragged her in with me.
There was a knock on the door, which was opened before Nathanial could respond. “What are you waiting for?” asked Jeffrey, a perplexed expression on his face.
“Don't be angry at me, little brother.”
“Why are you always upsetting Mother?”
“I had an accident.”
“But you have so many of them, Nathanial. Have you ever stopped to think you're the cause?”
Nathanial suspected his little brother of possessing more intelligence than he as they crossed the yard to the main cottage. They passed through the entrance, where guests in the parlor burst into applause.
At first Nathanial thought they were showing appreciation to the fiddler, but then realized the adulation was for him! His mother stepped forward to kiss his cheek, and he dutifully bent toward her like a dancer in a ballet. Then she reintroduced him to nearby relatives, thus beginning his slow journey through the cottage, shaking hands with gentlemen he barely remembered, receiving kisses from elderly aunts he'd totally forgotten, kissing children who'd been born after he'd last been in New York, seeing old friends who'd become covered with fat, mothers who'd been damsels when he'd last seen them, and hordes of children pressing forward to view the great Indian fighter.
Negro servants brought trays of food and drink, but Nathanial waved them away as he passed from room to room. A distinguished-looking distant relative leaned toward him. “If there's anything I can do, Nathanial—just let me know.”
Nathanial realized that his family loved him, although he'd been a disgrace most of his life. They saw him as an outstanding individual when all he'd done was nearly get killed by Apaches.
On the veranda, Reginald van Zweinen stepped out of the crowd and pressed his hand. “You look splendid, Nathanial.”
Nathanial wanted to converse with his friend, but then Uncle Jasper arrived with much embracing and kind words. Next came another gaggle of lady relatives, saying how wonderful and handsome he was. He received so much praise he was starting to believe it.
He spotted Belinda standing against a wall, a tray of small sandwiches in her hands, an amused expression on her face. He recalled the night they'd slept together chastely on the train. The North isn't so different from the South, he realized. Everyone has his own secret concerning Negroes, including me.
The lawyer Ronald Soames gripped Nathanial's hand. “How's your vacation going?”
“So well I've been thinking about resigning my commission.”
“By the way, have you met my fiancée? Clarissa!”
A blond head turned around, and Nathanial's knees nearly buckled. “Yes, we introduced ourselves at the lake. You're a lucky man.”
Soames placed his arm around her shoulders and hugged her closer. “You should hear her play the piano.
Nathanial turned toward her. “What's your favorite piece?”
“Handel's Water Music.”
Nathanial recalled how she'd appeared without her blouse, and then remembered that his friend and lawyer was marrying her. “When's the wedding?”
“October,” said Soames, “and we hope you'll be able to attend.”
Nathanial was about to say “I don't know,” when his mother came into view, a sombre expression on her face. “He's here,” she formed with her lips.
Nathanial realized that the Commanding General of the Army had arrived. The first lieutenant wanted to flee to the nearest mirror, to make sure his appearance was flawless, but then a crowd of guests stepped out of the way. A hulking mountain with slabs of wrinkled flesh upon his face rumbled into view.
It's him! thought Nathanial. He stared in open wonder at the illustrious hero of countless battles and the general who'd marched his army through two hundred fifty miles of jungles, mountains, and Mexican soldiers to capture Mexico City.
General Scott had run for President on the Whig ticket in 1852, while Nathanial's uncle had contributed generously to Whig causes. So that's how you make captain, calculated Nathanial. General Scott owes a favor to my family. The Commanding General appeared grotesquely corpulent, awkward and logy in his movements, and it was rumored he no longer could mount a horse without help.
The time had come for the grand performance. Nathanial squared his shoulders, sucked in his stomach and drew his chin close to his chest. What am I afraid of? he asked as he advanced toward the commanding general. He's on Uncle Jasper's payroll.
Uncle Jasper smiled as the frontier officer drew closer. “General Scott, I'd like to present my nephew, Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington.”
Nathanial raised his arm in a regulation West Point salute. “I'm honored to meet you, sir.”
Sixty-eight-year-old General Scott was a mass of blubber encased in a white linen suit, his eyes set behind massive gray eyebrows, with his jaw like a boulder. “Didn't you work in my department for a time?” he asked in a gravely voice.
“Yes sir, during ‘49.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I'm at Fort Union, sir.”
“Apache country. How are you getting along against them?”
“Not very well, sir.”
General Scott frowned. “What's wrong?”
Nathanial noticed his mother turn pale, so he framed his words very carefully. “In a nutshell, we don't have enough men for the job.”
“That's going to change soon, but I'd be interested in your assessment anyway, since you're an eyewitness. Why don't you stop by my office next week?”
General Scott turned toward another potential contributor, and Nathanial stepped out of the light of the great man. Uncle Jasper winked at his nephew, and Nathanial could feel the bars of a captain upon his shoulders. He was certain his whole view of life would change if he made captain.
Excusing himself, he headed toward the lake. A captain was a real officer, whereas lieutenants merely moved small numbers of men around, not much different from sergeants. Maybe, by the time I'm fifty, I might even make major.
He stood on the shore and gazed at the moon floating through massive constellations. Are captains more attractive to women than lieutenants? he wondered. He'd wanted to become a captain for so long, it had become an obsession. What does a man have to do to become a captain? If so many of my classmates have won their twin bars, why not me? If I were a captain, maybe I'd respect myself.
The full moon shone upon him as flames of ambition surrounded him. Just as Napoleon and Wellington were noticed by their senior commanders, my time had come. He closed his eyes and saw himself riding a white stallion down Pennsylvania Avenue after winning an imaginary war. Nathanial knew it was a dream, but he'd believed it practically from the day he'd entered West Point.
He heard something rustle behind him, reached for his Colt Dragoon, and realized again that he was unarmed. A peach organdy gown could be seen among boughs of pine trees. “My God—don't tell me it's you,” he murmured. “I hope you're not going to push me into the water again.”
She laughed into the back of her hand. “You looked so funny when you hit the water.”
“It may have been funny to you, but he who laughs last . . .”
He made a lunge for her, which she successfully dodged. But she ran into the rough bark of a pine tree, skinned her nose, and before she could cry out, he'd scooped her in his strong arms.
He carried her onto the dock, she kicking wildly. “What do you think you're doing?” she asked as she pounded his massive shoulder with her tiny fists.
“I'm going to throw you in the water.”
“You're an unprincipled beast! Let me go this minute!”
“It's not so funny when you're on the other end, is it?”
“I don't have an extra dress with me, and you were being cruel.”
“Perhaps your dress will dry before you leave. Or you might want to stop fighting me, otherwise I'm liable to drop you by mistake.”
She settled down immediately. “You're a very bad man,” she told him, as she wiggled uncomfortably in his arms. “No true gentleman would ever watch a woman innocently expose herself.”
“If you weren't engaged to marry my lawyer, I do believe I'd propose marriage to you. You're so magnificent, I'll never forget this moment.”
“But you're already married, you fiend.”
“I'm in the process of divorce.”
“Who could live with a man like you?”
“Of all the places between Battery Park and Cortlandt Lake, we happened to be in the same little corner of the Hudson highlands. Why, it's enough to make a man believe in God.”
“It was only a coincidence, and would you mind releasing me?”
“I'll bet there are other times when we've passed like ships in the night, but didn't recognize each other.”
“As a matter of fact, I saw you at the Saint Nicholas Hotel dining room last week. I thought you were going to eat everything in the kitchen.”
Moonlight illuminated her face, like the white marble statue of a Grecian goddess. “Do you understand how truly exciting you are?” he asked as he drew her closer.
She closed her eyes, he kissed her lightly. “I used to blame my bad manners on whiskey, but I haven't touched a drop for five days.” Then he lowered her to the ground. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to offend you.”
She smoothed the front of her skirt. “It was better than being thrown into the water, I suppose. You really must gain control of yourself, Lieutenant Barrington. Another girl might've screamed to high heaven, and you've been trying so hard to impress General Scott. I'm surprised you didn't polish his boots with your nose.”
“It's the only way to treat a general. You don't know much about the army, I see.”
“Nor would I want to.”
A voice came to them from the woods. “Clarissa?”
It was Soames. “I'm over here!” she called out.
He emerged from the woods, a glass of potent-looking beverage in his hand. “It is rather nice down here, isn't it?”
“Do you think we could have a lake, Ronald?” she asked.
“I'll buy you all the lakes you desire, my darling, and by the way, you've been asked to perform. Could you?”
She followed him to the main cottage while Nathanial lingered near the lake. “What's wrong with me?” he asked, the moon floating overhead like a big silver serving bowl. He felt off balance, light-headed, and queasy in his stomach, as if he were acquiring an illness.
The faint sounds of a piano sonata came to him from the main cottage. He climbed the stairs to the veranda and observed her sitting at the piano, surrounded by thoughtful listeners, long elegant fingers dancing nimbly over the keys.
At Fort Thorn Dr. Michael Steck sat at table with his wife, dining upon braised ribs of beef, one of her specialties. They'd been married twenty years and felt comfortable in each other's presence, without the need to talk constantly.
Despite frontier hardships, they were happy at Fort Thorn. Rosalie's health had improved dramatically in the clean mountain air and she looked almost like a young woman again. I did the right thing by coming here, thought good Dr. Steck. But never did I realize the greatest obstruction to peace would be my own government, not the Apaches.
He tried not to think of professional responsibilities when home with his wife, but sometimes felt bedeviled by the contradictions of his position. He wished he could find another good-paying job, but pickins were slim in the region that had brought his wife back to health.
