Desert hawks, p.17
Desert Hawks, page 17
Then he visited his tailor and bootmaker, made the rounds of taverns and clubs, said farewell to friends, and visited the homes of relatives for the last times. On Sunday morning he caught the ferry to West Point, where he strolled among the castellated towers, recalling his years as a cadet, and reaffirming his commitment to the officers’ corps.
As the sun sank on the Palisades, Nathanial stood on Storm King Mountain and beheld the multicolored glory of the Hudson River. No longer was he the giddy youth who'd paraded to Mexico, but a seasoned campaigner in war and boudoirs. “I believe in this great country,” he whispered to the river winds, “and I am honored to serve in her army.”
Finally he sat for his last supper with his mother, Jeffrey, and Tobey, the latter having become a virtual brother to him. The usual polite conversation ensued, as if the patriarch of the family weren't sleeping with an octoroon in Washington, and Nathanial had not disgraced his family on numerous occasions.
In mid-July, Nathanial rode a train to Philadelphia, first leg of his journey west. As the engine car gathered speed in the marshes and woodlands of New Jersey, he wondered what new destiny awaited him in the wilds of New Mexico. Eager to be a real officer again, he felt confident that he would surmount all obstacles and perhaps become a general someday.
The town had no name and appeared on no maps. It consisted of tents and shacks alongside a southern tributary of the Rio Grande, and its business was stolen goods. Thieves, cutthroats, traders, and desperadoes with prices on their heads had congregated from all across Mexico and American to profit from the turmoil following the war, and they kept their eyes peeled for the arrival of the U.S. dragoons.
One hot day in summer, a contingent of twenty heavily armed Apache warriors appeared on the horizon, led by the great chief Mangus Coloradas. This event caused no special concern, because Indians often came to the settlement, to trade stolen cattle and horses for guns and whiskey.
The People were ready for action as they approached the stench-ridden jacales at the junction of the rivers. Filth and squalor in the streets and alleys disgusted the warriors, not to mention the crude way in which the denizens treated each other. An encampment of the People was an extended family, while the town swarmed with strangers who fought among themselves constantly, with no moral constraint.
Mangus Coloradas led his warriors down the right side of the main street, littered with garbage, potholes, animal manure, cigarette and cigar butts, and spit. He saw a drunken man sleeping on a dirt sidewalk, and another passed out beside a horse trough. In front of a store, three men sat on a bench and eyed the People suspiciously; Mangus Coloradas watched their hands.
The chieftain angled his horse toward a cantina in the middle of the block, then climbed down from the saddle, gazing calmly at the Mexicans and White Eyes staring at him. Nine of his warriors joined him, the rest sat upon their horses, holding their rifles ready to fire, as the wind fluttered the ends of the bandannas wrapped around their heads. Mangus Coloradas entered the saloon, followed by his warriors. Smoke and the odor of dirty bodies assailed his nostrils violently, but he strode directly to the bar, where two bearded Mexicans made way for him.
Mangus Coloradas looked at the rotund man in the white apron. “Tell the Mustache that I want to speak with him outside.”
“Si, senor!” replied the bartender, who turned and ran toward a corridor in back of the ramshackle building.
Mangus Coloradas returned to the sidewalk, examining the enemies gathering around. Images of the Santa Rita massacre clouded his vision, the cannons opening fire on unarmed warriors, women, and babies. He peered into windows across the street, searching for cannons. If anybody struck a match, he'd be on his way to the ground.
A short obese man with long flowing brown mustaches came outside and placed a sombrero on his head. “Buenos dias, Mangus Coloradas,” he said with a slight bow. “How good to see you again, senor. You have come to trade?”
Mangus Coloradas pointed in a northerly direction. “We have two hundred very good horses about a half-day ride from here. We trade?”
Mustache rubbed his hands together. “We trade.”
Mangus Coloradas pointed at the trader's nose. “This time you pay more, because these are very good horses.”
Mustache smiled nervously. “All right—we will meet you at noon tomorrow.”
"Enjuh,” said Mangus Coloradas. “It is good.”
Mangus Coloradas and his warriors climbed onto their horses, wheeled them around, and kicked their ribs. The horses sprang forward and galloped out of town, the Apaches yipping and yelling, brandishing their weapons. In seconds they were disappearing over prickly pear cactus and through groves of palo verde trees, becoming one with the unknowable desert that had spawned them.
ELEVEN
Nathanial arrived at Camp Marcy after a month-long journey across America. The wagon driver unloaded his bags in front of the orderly room, and inside, a sergeant with red side-whiskers and a corncob pipe was seated at the desk. “You must be Lieutenant Barrington,” he declared, rising to his feet and saluting smartly.
Nathanial handed over his orders and records. A wooden sign on the desk said FERGUSON.
“Take room eight in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Leave your things here, and I'll have someone deliver them to your room. The major will see you later this afternoon.”
Nathanial leaned toward the sergeant and narrowed one eye. “What's he like?”
There was silence for a few moments. “He's seen a lot of war.”
Nathanial walked outside, the sun hit him full blast, and the sky was dotted with fluffy clouds. In the distance, the sun cast gaudy shadows on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Fort Marcy had been constructed alongside the Palace of the Governors on a plateau about seventy-five feet above the central plaza of Santa Fe, and the whole town could fit inside a few blocks of New York City. It was here at the junction of the Santa Fe Trail and the wagon road south to Mexico City that Nathanial would advance his military career.
His room in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters was a monk's cell with a bed, desk, chair, and closet, all simply constructed and functionally strong, no ornamentation. It appeared drab to the New Yorker's eyes, compared to his bedroom at the Alhambra Club, which itself had come in second to his former bedroom on Washington Square.
Two privates brought his luggage, departed, and he felt desolate and dispirited as the vast empty spaces of the West engulfed him. He wondered why he'd been so eager to leave the bright lights of Broadway for dusty remote Santa Fe. His uniform was covered with alkali, and the army didn't seem quite so heroic close-up, but all he could do was open the nearest trunk and began unpacking. Then someone knocked on the door.
Nathanial expected a message from the commanding officer as he turned the latch, but standing before him at attention was Lieutenant Beauregard Hargreaves, formerly of Palo Alto. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Nathanial said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“The same thing you're doing here. Sure is a boring place, and the Apaches are sons of bitches.”
Nathanial opened a trunk and took out a silver flask, which he threw to him. “Try some of this. It's the best brandy in New York.”
The officers proceeded to regale each other with tales of their excesses since last meeting, while Nathanial put his clothes away and the flask diminished. Finally, some time later, Nathanial asked, “Tell me more about the Apaches.”
“They're operating without much restraint throughout the area,” explained Beau. “I don't know how much good we're doing, but occasionally we kill a few of them, and they kill a few of us. That's what happened to your predecessor, Captain Dellinger. One thing I can tell you—don't ever turn your back on an Apache.”
“What's Major Harding like?”
“It's time he retired, but he's got a pretty daughter.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“Hell no—I don't want any more trouble with the son of a bitch than I've got already. But you might like her.”
“I don't want trouble either. Are there other women around?”
“Whores are everywhere, but decent Mexican girls don't have anything to do with American soldiers. I met one fabulous beauty, as fine as anything you'd see in Charleston or New York, with tits out to here"—he held his hands in front of his chest—"but she was a religious fanatic and will probably end up a nun someday. Whenever we get word of Apache raids,” Beau continued, “we try to track them down. But unfortunately we seldom catch them. One of their favorite tricks is to fire on a detachment, then draw them into a bushwhack, which is what happened to poor Dellinger. Apaches love to mutilate their enemies, so if they ever corner you, save the last bullet for yourself. And I'm not joking, because I've seen results of massacres. They're savages, and the only way to deal with them is to exterminate them. The sooner you understand that—the better off you'll be.”
The cold black ledger told Diego Carbajal that business was falling off at the store. Although more traffic passed through Santa Fe, many additional businesses competed for the dollars and pesos, and the bigger firms were more successful because they could afford to operate on tighter margins.
I've come to Santa Fe too late, but what if I could find the next important city on the trail to California? wondered Diego. If I set up a business at the right place, I can be the big fellow that the others have to beat.
The sun was going down, time for evening prayers. He made sure his door was locked, because he didn't want Maria Dolores to stumble onto him, not to mention his friends and neighbors who'd string him up by his heels if they knew he was Jewish.
His grandmother had told him about the Inquisition, when Jews had been burned alive for refusing to convert to Christianity. They were the brave ones—the old-timers who'd held the line and died for the faith of their fathers. Sometimes Diego felt like a coward for not practicing his religion openly, but had no desire to be tortured to death. He was descended from generations of Marranos, and deception had been their last resource against the hostile Christian world.
After long and sometimes heated deliberations, Diego and Maria Dolores's mother had decided not to tell their daughter about her Jewish ancestry. What Maria Dolores didn't know couldn't hurt her, they figured. Why perpetuate a potentially dangerous creed, and who could promise that an Inquisition would never return?
He put on his skullcap, then kissed the collar of his prayer shawl, which he wrapped around his shoulders. He picked up his Bible, bowed, and prayed softly in Spanish-accented Hebrew: "Hear O Israel the Lord our God the Lord is One.”
“Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington reporting for duty, sir!” Nathanial snapped out the salute as he stood at attention before the man who'd dominate his life for the foreseeable future.
Deeply tanned, in his late fifties, Brevet Major James Harding wore a full gray beard, the hair atop his head was cut short, and his pate was smooth and shiny. “Have a seat, Barrington,” said the major. “How was your trip?”
“Uneventful, I'm pleased to say, sir.”
“Well, your life won't be uneventful here. You're replacing a good man who was killed in action against the Apache. We've got our hands full of the red-skinned devils, and they're getting worse, not better, as more gold-diggers are passing through the territory.”
“Everywhere I went,” replied Nathanial, “people were talking about California gold, sir. Some say it's all a big humbug, and there isn't as much as everybody thinks. The Indians must feel like they're being invaded.”
“Feel, hell,” said the major, “they are being invaded, and there's some that says gold can be found right here in New Mexico. My advice to you, since you've never fought Apaches before, is to listen to your first sergeant wherever possible, because he's been fighting Indians all his life. Another good one to learn from is the scout assigned to your company.” The major paused and looked both ways, as if a spy might be in the vicinity. “If you have any difficulty, feel free to come to me. I'm an old friend of your father's, but it might not be smart to let the word get out, for obvious reasons.”
Now Nathanial understood why he'd been assigned to Camp Marcy, of all possible outposts in the West. “Yes, sir.” Then he waited for the ax to fall.
“Your father's told me all about you,” continued Major Harding. “You're supposed to be quite a hellion, but if you give me any trouble, I personally will rip those shoulder straps off you and drum you out of the army. The Apache is a deadly foe, and I can't accept anything less than your best effort. You've caused your father a lot of heartache, and if it'd been me, I would've shot you long ago.”
“Do you have any children left, sir?” Nathanial asked before he could seal his lips together.
Major Harding stared at him coldly. “My personal life is none of your business. I wish you all the best in your new assignment, Lieutenant Barrington, and you may be interested to know that I consider the firing squad an excellent solution for insubordinate officers. That is all. You're dismissed.”
***
Elena perched on her hands and knees and scooped dirt atop mescal roots roasting in the pit below. She worked among the other women in her clan, and the cabbagelike vegetables would take several hours to cook. Then a great feast would be held.
Elena's stomach carried the child of a chief, and now at last she was treated almost equally with his real wives, without insults, kicks, and the worst chores. She enjoyed her new status, could speak their language fairly well, and considered White Painted Woman the Apache version of the Virgin Mary.
The People moved in harmony with the seasons, lived beneath open skies, and ate what grew in their midst. When the pit was covered, the women stepped back and smelled fragrant aromas streaming through the earth.
Ten warriors adorned with feathers, war paint, and Killer of Enemies Bandoliers rode war ponies out of the encampment, led by the great chief Mangus Coloradas. Elena shivered uncontrollably, because that's how he'd looked when he'd killed her husband and friends. Sometimes she considered herself wicked, for she had made love with the murderer of Father Alfonso, but the bad times had occurred long ago, and she tried not to think of them. She entered her wickiup and placed her hands on the tiny creature growing within her. It changed position, and she smiled in contentment. I am no longer a Nakai-yes, she thought happily. Now I am of the People.
In the Officers’ Mess, Beau introduced Nathanial to the men with whom he'd be living and working for the foreseeable future. Two had been his upper-classmen in West Point, and he'd met one in General Taylor's army, but most were strangers, some Regular Army, others volunteers. Nathanial decided to keep his mouth shut and listen carefully, so he could gauge their characters carefully.
The Officers’ Mess consisted of six tables, and adobe walls were adorned with regimental and American flags. The principal topic of conversation was the presidential campaign, and all the officers seemed to be for Old Rough and Ready, regardless of whether they were Whigs or Democrats.
They all seemed decent enough, not too different from the bachelor officers Nathanial had met previously during his military career. One officer was missing three fingers of his left hand, and another wore a patch over his eye. The newest had been one of Nathanial's underclassmen at West Point, Franklin Dorsey from New Hampshire, butt of all the jokes, but the New Englander bided his time until the next lowest-ranking officer came along, and then he'd moved up the pecking order.
Nathanial was considered a veteran of the Mexican War, but felt like a virgin compared to Captain Morgan, who'd held the line at Buena Vista, or Lieutenant Cassidy, who'd stormed the parapets of Chapultepec.
And then there was Captain Simmons, who'd fought in the Black Hawk War, and Major Briggs, who'd battled the Seminoles in Florida. These weren't staff officers who sat behind desks and fought the battle of the pencils, but men who'd climbed obstacles with the enemy firing down at them point-blank. As far as Nathanial was concerned, these were the soldiers who'd laid their asses on the line, instead of writing endless letters concerning the most ridiculous and petty regulations.
He'd been in the army long enough to know that every officers’ mess would contain the same types of officers. For instance, there was the abstemious Bible-basher, and at Fort Marcy he was represented by Captain Sturgis, who sat rigidly upright in his chair, reading his King James, moving food to his mouth in precise moves, the only officer drinking water.
No officers’ club would be complete without at least one serious drunkard, and that was Captain Farnsworth, who wore muttonchop whiskers and appeared ready to pass out at any moment. And then there was the fellow who knew everything, the regimental quartermaster, Major Todd.
“Where are you from, Barrington?” asked Todd.
“New York City, sir. Ever been there?”
“No, nor would I want to go there. Cities are the abominations of mankind, as far as I'm concerned. I was in St. Louis once, and I never saw so much muck in all my days.”
Captain Sturgis jabbed his finger into the air. “Sodom and Gomorrah were cities,” he reminded his congregation.
Whiskey flowed, and Nathanial felt more at ease with them than with his family back in New York City. What is it about army life that I love so? he asked himself. He couldn't deceive himself that they were all staunch patriots, because some probably were there for their pensions, and others because they couldn't or wouldn't do anything productive in civilian life, like himself.
Nathanial basked in the camaraderie of the officers’ club, although Captain Farnsworth's face now rested on the tablecloth as he snored loudly. Nathanial's most important test would come tomorrow, when he assumed command of his company. After apple pie and coffee, he pushed back his chair and placed his napkin on the table. “I hope you gentlemen will excuse me.”
He felt their eyes upon him as he walked toward the door, and knew they were evaluating him as he was them. Their main concern was how he'd hold up under fire, and he didn't know himself. He headed for his room, reflecting on his brief and mostly uneventful military career. I was wounded in the first minutes of my only battle, and they've rewarded me with my own company of dragoons.
