by Len Levinson
On San Francisco Street, Doakes took note of horses tied to rails in front of saloons and cantinas. What if I simply climbed on one and rode out of town? he conjectured, glancing surreptitiously about him. Be just my luck that the cowboy who owns the horse will shoot me for a thief. And even if I got away, Apaches would slit my throat before I traveled a mile. Will I have to spend five years in this goddamned sorry excuse for a town? He stepped into an alley to be alone with his thoughts, but four privates were playing a game of dice. “Care to join in?” asked one of them.
“No, thank you,” replied polite Private Doakes, the stranger among them. He walked deeper into the alley, passing a trooper lying on his back, a bottle in his hand, passed out cold.
Doakes peered across the backyard, spotting three whores in another alley. They smoked cigarettes and chatted in that loose suggestive manner reminiscent of his mother. Rage bubbled like poisonous potions in Doakes's heart as he reached for the length of twine that wasn't there. No longer did he carry it due to fear of arrest.
He narrowed his eyes at the three whores, wondering which to take with his bare hands. The need came on him like a tidal wave, and he was about to step across the backyard when something grabbed him by the throat! He let out a scream, as his eyes bulged at an iron gun barrel staring at him.
It was grasped tightly in the hand of Cole Bannon. “Looking for something?” asked the Texas Ranger. “Maybe you and your crooked lawyer fooled the judge, but you haven't fooled me. I ought to kill you right now.”
“I didn't do nothin’,” replied Doakes, teeth chattering. “You've got the wrong man.”
Bannon's trigger knuckle went white, Doakes opened his lips to scream, and Cole Bannon rammed the barrel into his mouth, bruising lips and gums. In one-sixteenth of an inch, the trigger would fire, putting a hole in Doakes's skull. The image was so horrific, Doakes fainted dead away.
The killer lay on the ground in the shape of an S. Cole Bannon crouched over him, aiming his gun at Doakes's head, but Cole was a Texas Ranger sworn to uphold the law. He'd do the world a favor if he killed Doakes, but a shadow of doubt crossed his mind. I have no hard evidence and no jury will ever convict him. Do I have the right to take the law into my hands?
Doakes stirred on the ground, moaning softly as blood covered his mouth. Cole snarled, “I'm going to catch you someday, you piece of shit. Just when you think you're safe, you'll look over your shoulder and there I'll be.”
In the darkness, Doakes's bloody lips made him look like a painted prostitute in army uniform. “You're persecuting an innocent man,” he tried to say.
Bannon couldn't control himself anymore. He drew back his gun and smacked it across Doakes's face. The killer rolled over, his cheek torn open by the blow. Bannon watched him whimpering, then holstered his gun and walked casually out of the alley.
The People monitored activity in their homeland through a network of carefully placed spies. One of these was Loco, a warrior of the Mimbreno clan. He lay on a ledge of the Sierra de la Madera Mountains and peered into the town of Janos, where a wagon train was being unloaded.
Loco had followed the wagons from southern Mexico, wondering what was contained in long boxes and tall barrels. Now he saw them lowered to the ground by soldiers. One took a tool and pried open the top of a box. A musket was lifted out, bringing a smile to Loco's deeply tanned face. Evidently the wagon was delivering weapons and ammunition to army posts.
Loco was accompanied by the apprentice warrior known as Antelope Boy, a grandson of Mangas Coloradas. “Ride back to our camp and tell the chief what is here,” ordered Loco.
Antelope Boy wore his leather apprentice cap, and carried his Killer of Enemies Bandolier diagonally across his chest. Without a word, he crept back to his horse and began the long ride back to the Chiricahua Mountains.
Loco returned his eyes to the boxes of rifles. When they are ours, we shall wage more effective war. Why is it that the White Eyes and the Mexicans always have the best weapons?
He recalled the ancient legend about Child of Water and Killer of Enemies, sons of White Painted. Woman, mother of the universe. One day Yusn lay a bow and arrow in front of them, and a rifle. “Choose,” he said. Killer of Enemies snatched the rifle, so Child of Water was left with the bow and arrow. Killer of Enemies became father of the White Eyes, and Child of Water begat the People. According to the wisdom of the People, that was why the White Eyes possessed the best weapons.
A war dance was held two nights later in the Chiricahua Mountains. All the warriors gathered around a fire flickering on an open place within sight of the camp. Miguel Narbona was too old and weak to address them, so Cochise spoke in his stead.
Cochise had sharp eyes and a bare chest striated with muscles. His hair was tied in back, and the long bottoms of his breechclout were tucked into his belt. He raised his hand and intoned, “A wagon train of muskets is traveling through Chihuahua. It is supplying the forts, where more Mexican soldiers have been coming from the south. They intend to make big war against us, but we need those muskets for ourselves. I will go after them with Victorio, Delgadito, and Nana. Who is with us?”
A line of musicians pounded drums as Cochise, Victorio, Delgadito, and Nana stepped into the middle of the circle. They bowed to the four directions, then danced around the fire four times. Cochise and Delgadito took the northern position while Victorio and Nana stationed themselves to the south. In teams of two, the four prominent warriors danced toward each other, changed sides, turned, then returned to their original positions.
The four subchiefs sang of courageous war deeds as drummers beat their skins frantically and women made eerie ululating sounds. Warriors fired rifles into the air, and others danced as if engaged in hand-to-hand combat with enemies.
More warriors joined the original four as drums echoed more loudly. The warriors leapt through the air, thrust lances through imaginary enemies, or beat them to death with their bare hands. Some of the warriors carried cartridges in their fingers and mouths, others brandished knives. “Wah, wah, wah,” they murmured. It was considered dangerous for warriors to shout before going on a raid, but women and children were exempted from the prohibition.
Cochise vaulted into the air, performed a somersault, and landed on his feet. Spinning, he saw young Geronimo, the brave Bedonko warrior. “You—Geronimo!” sang Cochise. “What will you do?”
Geronimo darted past the dancers, slashing his knife through the air as if disemboweling Mexican soldiers. Cochise hopped on one foot, then the other as he turned to Juh of the Nednai. “You—Juh!” called Cochise. “What will you do?”
Juh charged across the open space, bashing Mexican soldiers with his war club. Warriors danced themselves into war frenzy, and then Nana spotted Jocita, the warrior woman. “You—Jocita! What will you do?” She raised her bow and let fly an arrow at bats circling above the campfire, happily eating insects. One fell to the ground, an arrow through his heart.
“Wah! Wah! Wah!” sang the warrior woman as she shook her hips in the middle of the circle. Cochise called on new warriors to demonstrate their prowess as the ground became covered with dancing warriors, each stroking and strengthening the other's resolve. Oh, Yusn, please crown our efforts with victory.
At the edge of the dance, little Running Deer made threatening gestures with his hands, nearly falling onto his rear end, but managed to remain afoot as he pretended to be a warrior. The power of the people energized his growing bones, and he yearned for the day when he too could kill the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee.
On their way back to Gramercy Park that night, Nathanial and Clarissa stopped at the new Academy of Music under construction at Fourteenth Street and Washington Irving Place. Covered with scaffolding, it appeared foreboding in the gaslight.
“There won't be any symphony orchestras on the frontier, I'm afraid,” cautioned Nathanial. “Can you be happy without the culture that is so much a part of your life?”
“As long as I have a piano, I s
hall have Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart.”
They continued uptown, passing two- and three-story brownstone homes with shuttered parlors. Trees lined the street, and in the glow of gaslight, it appeared an enchanted pathway. Nathanial felt Clarissa's young body against his side, and no one was looking. In the shadow of an elm tree, he bent and kissed her cheek.
She didn't push him away, so boldly he embraced her. She sighed in his ear, clasping him tightly. “I've had such fun tonight,” she said. “I didn't know I could dance the polka.”
“We'll have many good times together, Clarissa—I just know it.”
“I can't wait until we're married.”
“Neither can I.”
“But we must.”
They'd agreed not to make love before they were married, so restrained themselves somewhat as they continued to embrace in the shadows.
Next morning, Lieutenant Manuel Benitez raised himself in his saddle because he couldn't see his right flank guard. The terrain was uneven and the guard had dropped out of sight, hidden by foliage and rock outcroppings.
Lieutenant Benitez wore a thick black mustache and a green standard issue officer's cap with the eagle of Mexico in front. He wanted to call a halt and search the surrounding territory, but he'd cover less than a mile a day if he stopped whenever he felt uneasy.
His cargo of munitions was precious to Apaches, and he was surprised they hadn't attacked before. Perhaps they are afraid, now that so many soldiers are in northern Mexico, he guessed.
Lieutenant Benitez noticed that his left flank guard was out of sight as well, and was tempted to order his men to take up defensive positions. He turned around to inspect them, and they were the usual sullen lot who'd rather ride to the nearest town, with wine, guitars, and pretty senoritas.
“Sergeant Concho—have you seen the flank guards?”
“I was just wonderin’ what happened to ‘em myself, sir.”
“Order the men to . . .”
Lieutenant Benitez never completed the sentence.
Dead Mexican soldiers covered the landscape, their animals had been taken prisoner, and now the warriors of the People were attending to their commissary.
They swarmed over wagons, tearing covers off crates, unloading new grease-packed muskets of antiquated design, but the warriors thought they were powerful medicine. Cochise sniffed a musket, then wiped “grease away with his thumb. He drew back the hammer, pulled the trigger, and grease spattered. With a happy shout, he raised the rifle in the air.
The warriors sang songs of triumph, and among them was Victorio opening a crate of cartridges, even more valuable than guns. He held one in his fingers, admiring the round lead head and paper jacket filled with gunpowder. Such wondrous things do these people make, thought Victorio. But they are land thieves.
Other warriors removed gold rings from lifeless fingers, took shirts, pants, boots, and hats. Delgadito had selected a jacket with shiny yellow buttons, former property of the Nakai-yes war chief who lay on his back, an arrow through his heart. It was a fine trophy of war, a garment Delgadito would wear with pride, for it had been his arrow that had brought the Nakai-yes war chief down.
Something shiny caught the eyes of Jocita, the warrior woman. It was a cross made of yellow metal around the neck of a soldier, and she thought it would look fine on her son. She advanced closer and pulled the cross away.
It was suspended from a gold chain, and showed the figure of a miniature man lying on the cross, apparently asleep. Then she noticed he was fastened by his hands and feet. She turned the cross around, and on the back was stamped:
TERRA CATACUMBA ROMA
She had no idea what it meant. At the figure's feet, there was an odd circle in which something indistinguishable was displayed. She thought it the work of evil sorcerers, but the amulet was so beautiful and mysterious she couldn't resist, dropping it into the deerskin pouch suspended from her belt.
Nearby, Nana wasn't searching for trinkets. His eyes were fixed on the pistol lying in the hand of a mutilated sergeant. He picked it up gingerly, afraid it would go off in his hands. It was cocked and loaded, so gently his thumb eased the hammer forward. He looked at the weapon as an extension of his arm. In close fighting, he wouldn't have to rely on his knife anymore.
On the other side of the killing ground, Geronimo's nose wrinkled in puzzlement as he held up a strange object that made a constant ticking sound. Is it alive or a machine? he wondered. What kind of enemies would build such a thing? And what is its purpose? The talisman had a round white face and appeared to be laughing at him. Geronimo laughed back, then dropped the shiny object into his saddlebags.
Nathanial sat in the dining room of the Saint Nicholas Hotel, feasting on broiled Long Island lobster. It was his first evening alone since he'd become engaged to Clarissa, and he felt as if half of his very own being were missing.
The dining room was filled with patrons, waiters wore white jackets, the dessert tray covered with cakes, pies, puddings, and exotic cream-filled pastries, but he considered Clarissa the most delicious meal in the world.
Yet he'd thought the same about Maria Dolores, and feared one day his beautiful young maiden would leave him, as did his Mexican wife. If Clarissa gave up Soames for me, maybe she'll give me up for another.
Doubt came over him. What if Clarissa should become a harpy and nag? But surely we love each other, and our love will conquer all difficulties, although I thought the same when I married Maria Dolores. What if I get tired of Clarissa after a few years?
A bellboy entered the dining room, then headed straight for Nathanial. “A message for you, sir.”
Nathanial opened the envelope with a salad knife. The letterhead was from the law office of Soames and Soames, and the message read:
Dear Nathanial,
I've received the requisite documents from your former wife's lawyer. Congratulations—you're a divorced man. I hope you won't forget to invite your devoted lawyer to the wedding.
Ronald Soames
Counselor at Law
Chapter Eighteen
On September 16, 1854, Nathanial Barrington married Clarissa Rowland at Trinity Church before a congregation that included family, dignitaries, politicians, army officers, and even the retired Colonel Barrington was in attendance, having ridden from Washington, D.C., on a train. He sat dutifully beside his legal wife, although everyone knew he was residing in Washington, D.C., with an octoroon.
Reginald van Zweinen was best man, and Clarissa's younger sister Marion was maid of honor. Nathanial was attired in a new blue army uniform, while Clarissa wore a long white gown and veil. A choir performed selections from Bach and Handel, and the service was conducted by the Reverend William Berrian, rector of Trinity Church.
“I pronounce you man and wife.”
The bride and groom walked arm in arm down the aisle, flowers and rice fell upon them, and Nathanial recalled his marriage in Santa Fe, with a few friends in attendance at the small abode church, and Apaches raiding the countryside.
The wedding procession rode in carriages to the Saint Nicholas Hotel, where a fifteen-piece orchestra was waiting in the grand ballroom, playing Beethoven's Eroica Symphony. With Clarissa on his arm, the Napoleon of Broadway shook hands with friends, people he'd never seen before, vague uncles, remote cousins, souls he'd known in the first grade, classmates from West Point, women he'd seduced, other women who'd successfully resisted his advances, and his Uncle Jasper wearing a big red carnation in his lapel, his white false teeth gleaming in gaslight streaming down from four chandeliers. Nathanial wondered if he was asleep on the New Mexican desert, having the grandest dream of his life.
Reginald van Zweinen brought glasses of champagne and proposed a toast to the newlyweds, then wedding guests made way as Reginald led the magic couple to the floor. The band played and the newlyweds waltzed to enthusiastic applause. Waiters rolled wagons covered with beef, turkey, and lamb into the ballroom while Nathanial and his bride twirled gracefully in the
gaslight.
Nathanial Barrington had, killed Apaches and Mexicans, and had gazed into their eyes as they'd gone down. Yet despite the travails and disappointments of military service, he felt sanctified in a strange new way. He looked into the eyes of his beloved, and said, “It's getting off to a great start, wouldn't you say?”
“The best is yet to come,” she replied as they glided smoothly across the floor.
The bridal suite consisted of six large rooms on the top floor of the hotel, with a view of Trinity Church, the Battery, and the juncture of the Hudson and East rivers sparkling in moonlight.
The bride and groom finally were alone, the consecrated longed-for time had arrived, all doors securely locked, and a bottle of champagne stood askew like a drunken soldier in a bucket of ice. Nathanial and Clarissa were legally married in the eyes of God and man, with all barriers gone.
They didn't have much to say because they'd been talking constantly nearly every evening since they'd met. They knew each other's opinions, moods, quirks, and tendencies, except one.
His practiced hand worked down her spine, unfastening the buttons of her gown, then his naughty fingers came to rest on the bare flesh of her back as she held his face and kissed his lips.
She wasn't afraid, he wasn't awkward, and she was becoming rather wanton now that no restrictions remained. Her dress fell off and he took a step backward to admire her clad only in chemise and longcloth drawers.
He raised the chemise over her head, revealing pert breasts he'd glimpsed briefly before, but now were his possessions for life according to Reverend Berrian. Then he pulled down her drawers, leaving her naked before him.
An artery pounded his throat and he felt the urge to throw her onto the bed, but she stepped forward and unbuttoned his tunic. Next was his shirt, then she boldly unfastened his pants. The garments dropped to the floor.
