Desert hawks, p.18
Desert Hawks, page 18
He was determined to make good at Camp Marcy, with no more bad decisions or erratic behavior to mar his career. That meant going to bed early, getting up early, and facing his men with a clear conscience and full determination, his uniform neatly pressed.
He hung his hat on the peg and prepared to remove his boots, when he heard the faint strains of guitars in Santa Fe. Then he undressed, washed, retired to his narrow lumpy cot, and it sounded like a carnival through his open window. Searching for a comfortable spot, he tried to fall asleep. He felt anxious because he had to admit, in the privacy of his room, that Camp Marcy was a most uninspiring post, and some of his fellow officers were the bottom of the barrel. He wondered why he'd been so anxious to leave actresses and dancing girls, but he always wanted to be someplace else, never felt comfortable in his own skin, and frequently caught himself acting according to the expectations of others. Who am I and what do I really want? he asked himself as he lit a cigar in the darkness. I've traveled halfway across this continent, for what?
There was no point trying to sleep, so he rolled out of bed and dressed himself. I'll have a drink, get the lay of the land, and return to bed in about an hour. A strange restlessness spurred him out the door.
Lamps burned brightly in the barracks across the way as the men prepared for tattoo. He came to the gate, and the dragoons on duty presented arms. “Good evening, sir!”
“Evening,” he muttered, returning their salute. They appeared well trained, their uniforms proper, and it gave Nathanial satisfaction to be living in his regulated and rational military world. He walked across the square, saw the spire of a church in the distance, and beyond were the ever-present mountains sleeping peacefully in the night.
Drawn to music, he crossed the square, turned a corner, and saw a squat adobe cantina a few doors down, with a sign above the entrance that said: EL SOMBRERO BLANCO.
A group of dragoons stood outside passing bottles, talking loudly, and they stiffened as he approached, but he paid them no attention, lowering his head and entering the cantina.
It was a small, squarish room packed with dragoons, and the guitarist strummed the melodies of Andalusia in the corner. Something told Nathanial to get the hell out of there, but the only thing to do was order his drink and make the best of the clumsy situation. A stained Apache blanket decorated one wall, while a wrinkled American flag adorned another, illuminated by candles, with illustrations of seminude women nailed into adobe. Two soldiers made way for him as he bellied up to the bar, and the bartender approached, wiping his dirty hands on his dirty apron. “Senor?”
“Whiskey.”
“No wheesky, senor. Only mescal and beer.”
“Mescal.”
The bartender poured a half glass of clear white liquid, and Nathanial tossed him a few coins. Nathanial had never drunk mescal before, so he raised it to his lips and took a cautious sip. It tasted sharp, fiery, yet smooth and warm as it trickled down his throat. Then he accepted a more copious swallow and placed his back to the bar. All eyes were on him, as though he were an oddity, and he supposed that officers weren't supposed to frequent such oases, but didn't think he was breaking regulations.
Two soldiers vacated a table against the far wall, and Nathanial headed for it, threading among uniformed gamblers, drinkers, readers, and the usual debating teams. A corporal and private advanced toward the same table and arrived simultaneously with Nathanial. When they saw the silver bars on his gold shoulder straps, they smiled nervously and stepped back.
Nathanial sat at the table and blew out the candle in its center. A wisp of acrid smoke curled toward the ceiling as a medium-sized black mongrel dog walked past, chewing a bone. Nathanial took another gulp of mescal while observing two private playing cards at the next table, their eyes half-closed.
Nathanial scanned their faces, because he wanted to remember them. The good soldiers were on post preparing for the next day's assignments, whereas these were cantina rats, malingerers, liars, and potential deserters. And I am their officer, he realized with a start, spilling a few drops of alcohol onto his tunic. I should leave immediately, but I haven't finished my drink yet.
The one thing soldiers don't like is an odd officer, he lectured himself. They can handle a disciplinarian, or the officer who couldn't think his way out of a bowl of corn mush, or even an officer who wouldn't know a bull's ass from a banjo, but the odd officer was the one who worried them most, because they could never figure out what useless mission he'll send them on next.
At the bar, a big, burly, bearded corporal turned around and said, “Who the hell d'ya think yer a-pushin'!”
Across from him, a tall, skinny private with a long nose and black goatee replied with a lopsided grin, “It's crowded in here.”
“Yer goddamned right it's crowded in here, ‘cause horse's asses like you can't see where they're a-goin’.”
It fell silent in the saloon, because the gauntlet clearly had been thrown down. All eyes turned to the private, who measured the broad shoulders of the corporal. According to the unwritten code of the barracks, you can't let anybody insult you, so the recruit drew himself erect, squared his shoulders, and said, “Somebody pushed me, and I ran into you. It wasn't my fault, and I got nothing to apologize for.”
He was a wharf rat from Baltimore wanted for a certain string of robberies, but the Baltimore police would never come to Camp Marcy, and he had gutter pride running in his veins.
“Izzat so?” asked the corporal, a leer on his face. Then he reared back his arm and launched it in the direction of the wharf rat's face. It landed on his nose, cracking it out of shape. The wharf rat's eyes rolled up into his head, and he went sprawling backward, where he fell over a card table, tipped a cuspidor, and landed in a puddle of spit, vomit, cigarette butts, and dead cucarachas.
The corporal smiled. “Who's next?”
There was silence as everyone made space around the bull-like corporal. Then a voice came from the far side of the cantina. “I am.”
All eyes turned to the singular personage arising from his chair. He was a big, young first lieutenant with a scarred cheek and a white wide-brimmed vaquero hat. The corporal was confused, because he was still in the First Dragoons, although he was off post and no other officers were around. “Take them straps off'n yer shoulders, sir, and I'll kick yer ass all over this cantina.”
“You're under arrest,” replied Nathanial. “Turn around and walk out the door, or I'll carry you out.”
“You'll carry me out?” the corporal asked. “You're talkin’ awful rough, ‘cause yer a-hidin’ behind yer rank.”
Nathanial looked him in the eye as he unbuttoned his tunic. He knew that he should never have come to the cantina, but he might as well resign his commission if he showed hesitation in front of the men. He draped his tunic over the back of a chair as the corporal also stripped to his waist.
Nathanial had been itching for a fight ever since his father had smashed him in the mouth. An inarticulate rage boiled within him, because nothing ever turned out to his advantage. Bare-chested, no rank showing, the adversaries faced each other in front of the bar. The corporal was bearlike, with thick hairy arms and chest. He bent his knees, reared back his right hand, and heaved it without ceremony directly at Nathanial's nose, the same tactic that had worked so dramatically with the private. But Nathanial leaned to the left, avoided the blow, then buried his right fist to the wrist into the belly of the corporal, who expelled air from all his orifices. The corporal bent over, then Nathanial hit him with an uppercut, and the corporal snapped to attention, leaned backward, and fell like a ponderosa pine to the floor, where he lay on his back, chest heaving, eyes closed.
Calmly, Nathanial thrust his arm into his tunic as they all stared at him. He buttoned up, placed his hat on his head, and spotted three stripes at the edge of the crowd. “Your name?”
The sergeant drew himself to attention and saluted. “Sergeant Hazelton reporting, sir.”
“Escort this soldier to the stockade.”
Nathanial left the cantina and slammed the door behind him, leaving soldiers surrounding the corporal out cold on the floor.
“Who the hell's that officer?” somebody asked.
“West Pointer,” one of them replied. “Got shot up in the Mexican War.”
“He's a-gonna git shot worse here, he keeps on like that.”
Sergeant Hazelton selected four men, and everybody grabbed an arm or leg belonging to the corporal. They carried him out the door as the wharf rat picked himself up off the floor, his nose shattered and blood dripping onto his tunic. He removed his bandanna and wiped his wound of honor as the bartender poured a fresh glass of mescal. “Be happy you are alive, my friend. That officer is one bad hombre, no?”
He was answered by an old battle-hardened sergeant sitting at the end of the bar, licking beer foam from his mustache. “We'll see how he does against the Apaches.”
The six White Eyes had no notion they were being observed as they sat in their campsite next to a laughing stream. No guards had been posted, although each man maintained weapons close at hand as they roasted meat over a bright fire, drank whiskey, and smoked cigarettes in the firelight.
The People's warriors lay in the darkness, admiring weapons, clothing, whiskey, and cooking utensils. They could not understand the lack of caution. Didn't the White Eyes know they were trespassing on the People's homeland?
“If'n I strikes it rich!” one of the White Eyes hollered, motioning with his fork, “I'm a-gonna build a palace, and fill it with nineteen-year-old dancing girls.”
“They'll make you more loco than you are already, you old turd,” guffawed another would-be miner. “If I find any of them gold nuggets, I'll give half to my mother, because she worked so hard fer me all my life.”
“Horseshit,” said a compadre. “You'll keep it all fer yerself, ‘cause yer the cheapest son of a bitch I ever see'd.”
The great chief Mangus Coloradas lay on his belly behind a chokecherry tree. He wondered why they were so stupid, careless, noisy, and always quarreling with each other. Yet these filthy dogs are swarming over our land, always talking about yellow metal, he concluded. He gave the signal, and the warriors with-drew into the shadows, leaving the miners alone on the last night of their lives.
Nathanial made his way across the parade ground, heading for Officers’ Row. The more he thought about it, the more pleased he was by his performance at El Sombrero Blanco. I knocked him out with one punch, and if he pulled a knife on me, I would've shot him. It's the only way to treat hooligan soldiers, otherwise they'll infect the whole camp.
He came to Officers’ Row and reflected upon the incongruity of domestic life on an army post. Prostitutes plied their trade not far away, and the warlike Apache nation wasn't far beyond that, while here dwelled tiny children and doting mothers. They were in as much danger as the men, for children and women were valuable property to the Apaches, who believed in the time-honored tradition of chattel slavery.
While engaged in these lofty thoughts, Nathanial heard the front door of a house open. “Good night, Mrs. Grimes,” said the voice of a woman. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
Nathanial slowed his pace as a green shawl and sky-blue dress cut into his line of vision. It was a woman hurrying toward Nathanial, apparently an officer's wife or daughter. She drew closer, her features came into sharper focus, and he realized that she was fairly pretty, blond, not very tall, and not a New York actress by any means. She must be the major's daughter, he surmised.
“Good evening, miss.” He tipped his hat, searching for something interesting or exciting to say, to capture her heart forever, but all he could think of was a confused, “Am I on the right path to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters?”
She wore no cosmetics, and her blond hair was a few shades darker than Layne Satterfield's. “You arrived at Camp Marcy early this afternoon, Lieutenant Barrington, and I suspect you know very well where the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters are.” Then her nose wrinkled. “My God, you have been drinking, sir.”
Even he could smell the mescal on his tunic. “I only had one, but I'm afraid I spilled it when someone jostled me.”
She looked at him disapprovingly. “We're short-handed in every department, and you're replacing a man who will be greatly missed. If you don't take your duties seriously, my father will not hesitate to throw you out of the army.”
“You're quite right—I should've turned in early. But I was curious about Santa Fe. What do you think of it?”
“It's a rathole,” she replied. “I much preferred the Jefferson Barracks.”
“I've always believed that it's the people who make a place enjoyable, and size has nothing to do with the friendliness of a town. Do you have any friends, Miss Harding, or is everybody afraid of you because you're the major's daughter?”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “To tell you the truth, most people are afraid of me. There isn't much to do here, but at least you'll be able to go on scouts and see some scenery. And don't worry about the Apaches, because they seldom attack soldiers unless the soldiers are lax, and you won't be, will you?”
“Certainly not, but perhaps we can take a walk some evening. I get tired of being around men, because they're always drinking and fighting, and always drawing me into it. Women have a benevolent effect on me.”
She couldn't suppress a smile. “Did you really pass out in the dining room of the Emory Hotel?”
Nathanial was shocked that she knew, but evidently her father had told her. “It taught me the most valuable lesson of my life.”
“Which you promptly forgot, evidently.”
“You're too smart and pretty for this godforsaken army post,” he told her. “Why don't you and I take a walk to Santa Fe sometime, and I'll be we'll find something interesting to do.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I'll have to ask my father.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost eighteen.” She placed a finger on her chin. “At least you're not boring. If my father says yes, I'll permit you to escort me to Santa Fe. Good night, it was very nice meeting you. I think we'll be friends.”
They shook hands, then she hurried along Officers’ Row. Nathanial waited until she was safe indoors, then continued toward the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, where he entered his room, sat on the bed, and stared at the dark wall.
Maybe I should marry Miss Harding, he thought. She's all-army just like me, the ideal wife for an officer. As he pulled off his left boot, there was a knock on the door. He drew his Walker Colt and pressed his back against the wall. “Who's thee?”
“I want to speak with the lieutenant, if it ain't too late. I been comin’ all day, but kept missin’ you.”
Nathanial opened the door on a big hulking jet-black Negro dressed in rags, the whites of his eyes vivid in the darkness. “My name's Otis Jackson, and I was Captain Dellinger's slave, suh. I was a-wonderin’ if'n you might need an orderly, ‘cause you sure look like you can use a bath right now, and you spilled somethin’ on yer jacket. I can take care of that, you just give it to me, sir.”
“Who owns you now?”
“Captain Dellinger's estate, suh. I'm a-gonna have to go back to the plantation, unless somebody buys me.” The slave looked both ways, to make sure no one was about. “I heard you was from the North, and you might he'p me. It ain't no good on that old plantation, sir.”
Nathanial had read about mistreated slaves on good old Southern plantations, and he'd intended to hire an orderly anyway. “All right—what the hell,” he replied. “Just tell me where to send the money. I'd like a bath about an hour before reveille, and please press a fresh uniform. Do you know how to shave a man without cutting his head off?”
“Captain Dellinger said I was the best barber he'd ever met.”
Nathanial reached into his pocket and threw him a few coins. “Get some new clothes.”
“Don't go worryin’ ‘bout me. Good night, sir. And thank you, sir.”
Otis said “thank you” eight times before he was out the door, and he showed a slight limp. Then Nathanial lay on his lumpy cot and stared at the ceiling. It looks like I've become a damned slaver, he realized. But it's better than that poor Negro going back to his old plantation.
As Nathanial reviewed the day's events, they appeared imbued with supernatural force, for what else was his star-crossed meeting with Rebecca Harding? Has Fate sent me all the way to this lonely army post to marry the major's daughter? He wondered.
Covered to her neck with soap suds, Rebecca Harding lay in her hot tub, blond hair piled high on her head. She gazed at herself in a hand mirror, not overly pleased by what she saw. She considered her nose too broad, lips too full, and jaw too wide. Everything about her was overdone, in her opinion, and she wished she were more elegantly beautiful.
She knew that men liked frail women, but food was her greatest pleasure at the remote army camp. She felt isolated, had no close companions, was sick of reading, and had been hoping for something, anything, to happen.
But now apparently it had occurred in the person of Lieutenant Barrington. She'd always had a weakness for well-bred rascals, and Lieutenant Barrington was a fine example of the breed. She liked the twinkle in his eye, his insolent manner, his northeast accent. Such an officer could go a long way in the army, especially with a father in the War Department and the daughter of a major at his side. Rebecca smiled in the darkness as she closed her eyes. Suddenly life seemed filled with enticing possibilities.
TWELVE
The miners’ camp was still, except for the guard leaning his back against a wagon wheel and smoking a cigarette. His name was Murphy, he hailed from Worcester, Massachusetts, a poor farmer who'd sold everything in a gamble to win his own pot of gold.
