Desert hawks, p.31
Desert Hawks, page 31
“How do you feel about becoming a Catholic?”
“Fine with me.”
“I imagine you'd become a Ubangi for Maria Dolores. But the Church isn't just a place where people get married. It is the body of Christ. Will you raise your children as Catholics?”
Now it was Nathanial's turn to lean forward, and his nose was four inches from Father Paolo's. “I can't live without Maria Dolores, and I'll do anything for her, even if it means kissing the Pope's ring.”
“Mother, may I speak with you alone?”
Mrs. Harding was supervising slaves in the kitchen as she noticed her daughter in the doorway. “Of course, dear.”
Rebecca was twitching, and her face looked lopsided, with her eyes red from crying. She had been eating like a bird, and her cheekbones showed starkly on her pallid face. “Mother, I want to leave this place. Can you and Father lend me some money?”
“Where will you go?”
“To Savannah, where I'll live with Aunt Barbara. I mean no insult to you and Father, but I need to return to civilization as quickly as possible. This horrid little camp is making me sick, I'm afraid.”
Mrs. Harding knew what was making her daughter sick. “It's a dangerous journey for a woman traveling alone that distance. We'll have to wait until soldiers head in that direction, and it might be months.”
“I'm willing to go by stagecoach, and I don't need an escort. The worst Indians are south of here, not in the direction I'm going.”
There was a knock, then Francine dried her hands on her apron. She opened the front door, and Rebecca heard a slow Southern drawl say, “Is Miss Harding available?”
“Who shall I say is calling.”
“Lieutenant Beauregard Hargreaves.”
Francine closed the door in his face, then walked to the parlor, where mother and daughter were arguing quietly. “I don't want to talk with anybody,” hissed Rebecca.
“But it's unhealthy to spend so much time alone, dear,” said her mother. “Why don't you go for a walk with him? Might do you good.”
“Mother, everybody knows that Lieutenant Hargreaves is the worst drunkard in the camp, even worse than someone else whose name I won't mention.”
“I've always considered Lieutenant Hargreaves a delightful conversationalist, and it's only a walk.”
“But it's too embarrassing!”
“Only because you make it so. You should talk to people your own age, like Lieutenant Hargreaves. His father is supposed to be quite wealthy, by the way. The Hargreaves family owns a big plantation in South Carolina.”
“But I look so ugly.”
“Are you going to hide for the rest of your life, just because of a man?”
Maybe she's right about that, Rebecca thought. She looked in the mirror, pinched her cheeks, and smoothed down her hair. Then she threw a shawl over her shoulders and opened the front door. Lieutenant Hargreaves stood on the stoop casually, puffing a cigarette, his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes. “Howdy, Rebecca,” he said, a self-confident smirk on his roundish face. “Care to take a walk?”
“Where?” she asked.
“Anywhere you want.”
Side by side, they passed down Officers’ Row, headed toward the main gate. “I was afraid you wouldn't come with me,” he admitted, the cigarette in his teeth.
“This is quite a surprise,” she replied. “It's been my impression that you've always avoided me like the plague, Lieutenant Hargreaves.”
“I've always been afraid of offending you, Miss Harding, but I've wanted to talk with you about Nathanial.”
She froze at the sound of his name. “Please don't ever mention him to me again.”
“He feels terrible that you're angry, because he really likes you, Rebecca.”
“He's a brute.” She stopped in the middle of the parade ground. “I don't think I want to go anywhere with you.”
“Don't hold a grudge, because a grudge is a worm that eats you from within,” pleaded Beau.
“It may interest you to know that Lieutenant Barrington pretended that he was going to marry me, and then ran off with that . . . woman.”
“I'm not surprised,” chortled Beau. “Even I was mad about Maria Dolores at one time, but all the ladies are in love with Nathanial wherever he goes. I don't understand it, except he's the kindest man I've ever known, and when it comes to courage under fire, Nathanial is incredible. You should have seen him at Palo Alto.”
“I detest him and everything he stands for,” replied Rebecca.
“They say that hate and love are sides of the same coin, but I have another reason for calling on you tonight, my dear Rebecca. If you want to marry somebody, why don't you marry me?”
Diego Carbajal sat in his office, wearing skullcap and prayer shawl, studying Torah. The door was locked, drapes covered the window, and he was ready to toss everything into the open drawer at the first threatening sound. Nobody was going to pull out his fingernails, if he could help it.
The religious background bequeathed by his father had been heavily spiced by the Zohar, the so-called Book of Radiance written by the Cabalists of Old Spain, and it lay before him on the desk.
Rabbi Simeon then rose and spoke: In prayer, I have envisioned that when G-d was prepared to create man, then in the upper and lower worlds, all beings trembled with fear.
Every word had infinite possibilities, according to the Holy Cabala, for they had been written by His Holy Name through the minds and hands of the patriarchs and prophets. There were layers beneath layers, like an onion that had no boundaries.
Diego burped, for he'd been overeating as of late. His daughter had become rich, and he often found himself overindulging in food, an evil impulse that he needed to defeat. Sometimes, in states of deep meditation, he suspected that G-d had made them prosperous so Diego could study Torah. According to the Tradition, studying the word of God was the most significant thing a man could do. He opened a black tome at random, and his eyes fell on:
And this is the law which Moses delivered to the children of Israel, after they came up out of the land of the Egyptians.
The twists and turns on the paper were not mere words written by men, but eternal expressions of the Almighty written in fire on Mount Sinai, thought Diego deliriously, for he'd polished off a bottle of wine with lunch.
He heard footsteps in the corridor, and suddenly prayer shawl, skullcap, mighty Torah, and glorious Book of Radiance were flying into the drawer. It slammed shut, then he leapt to his feet and unlocked the door. It was their maid, Luisa, looking at him curiously. “Are you all right, sir? You look strange.”
“What is wrong?”
“Time for supper, Senor Carbajal.”
He often lost track of time when studying Torah. “I'll be right down.”
She wrinkled her brown nose as she peered around the room. “What do you do here, sir?”
“I read books.”
“You should get some fresh air and move around a little.”
She looked at him askance, then closed the door. His heart beat rapidly and he gasped for breath, for the transformation of the Talmudic scholar to Senor Carbajal and back again had made him confused. He reopened the drawer, folded his religious articles carefully, and was returning them when there was another knock on the door.
“Who is it?” he asked, slamming the drawer shut.
“Me,” said his daughter as she entered the room. “There's something I want to tell you. Guess what? I'm getting married to Lieutenant Barrington. The ceremony is the last Sunday of the month, so you will have plenty of time to buy a new suit. And you are going to give me away, Daddy.”
“Me?”
“Are you not my father?”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I wouldn't marry a man I did not love.”
Diego narrowed one eye and looked at her for a few moments. Then he stepped behind her and latched the door. Finally he stood before her again. “You may marry whomever you want, but you must promise that you will never mention . . .”
“Father—this is America, and nobody cares about those things anymore.”
“If you do not promise, I will not give you away.”
“But my husband has a right to know what I am!”
“My rights are greater than his, because I am your father. Besides, you are a Mexican Catholic, and so am I.” The old Talmudic scholar wrapped her in his arms and kissed her forehead warmly. “Do not look for trouble, my dear girl. Be satisfied with what you are. I am sure he is a decent young man—congratulations. Is he going to ask for your hand?”
“Not unless you want him to.”
Diego dropped into his chair, propped his chin in his hand, and thought for a few moments. “If your husband ever asks about me, just tell him that your father is a demented old recluse and he should be left alone.”
“Must we lie about everything, Father?”
He looked into her eyes and replied vehemently, “Yes!”
Delicate crystals of snow fell on Washington Square as Amalia Barrington sat in the dining room of her home, sipping coffee and reading the New York Daily Times. Before her sat a half-eaten corn muffin as Shirley Rooney entered with the mail. “A letter from Nathanial, ma'am.”
Amalia faltered, because she wondered how much money he needed this time. “Please leave me alone.”
Shirley cleared away the dirty dishes, poured a fresh cup of coffee, and meekly retreated from the room, mumbling something unintelligible, for she'd been going slightly daft lately. Fortunately Otis had shown up at the right time, and now was butler, footman, assistant cook, and all around workman at the mansion on Washington Square.
Amalia waited for the door to close, then transformed into an eager little vixen as she tore the letter open. She narrowed her eyes, read feverishly, stopped suddenly, went back and read again, then stared into space, dropping the letter to the floor. I've always known that Nathanial was outrageous, she said to herself, but never dreamed he'd marry a . . . Mexican. Then she recalled that Mexicans were Roman Catholics!
Tobey opened the door and saw his adoptive mother sprawled on the floor, out cold. He yelled for help, touched his hand to her white cheek, and watched her eyes open, as Jeffrey, Shirley, and Otis rushed into the dining room.
“What happened?” asked Jeffrey.
Amalia tried to smile. “Your brother is getting married, and we must all rejoice.”
“But why are you on the floor, Mother?”
“I must've fallen asleep.”
Jeffrey and Tobey exchanged meaningful glances as they helped her to her feet. Then Tobey asked, “Who'd he marry?”
“Why . . . a beautiful Mexican girl from a lovely family. I'm sure they'll be very happy together, and now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone.”
She walked unsteadily out of the dining room, the letter in her hand, and everybody expected her to collapse again at any moment, but she made it to the stairs, and they heard her climbing to her sitting room.
Nobody ever dared enter her sanctuary without precise instructions. She closed the door behind her, dropped onto the nearest chair, and gazed out the window at Washington Square blanketed with snow.
It was here that she brooded, cried, and slammed her fists on the table. That ungrateful no-good brat, she stewed. Naturally he married the kind of woman of whom I would disapprove, a woman not of our class, background, religion, or anything. It's as if he wants to punish his father and me by disgracing himself thoroughly.
She wondered how it could be that a piece of her own flesh, nurtured inside her womb, could behave in such an opposite manner. It was as though she were at war with herself, but Nathanial had been a difficult child since birth, and never liked any of the maids hired to raise him, no matter how hard they tried to please him. He'd been spoiled all his life, Amalia decided, and soon he'll bring half-breed children into the world. Amalia shook her head and sighed wearily. He'd been her first child, the son she'd always dreamed of having, and she would love him forever, but had to confess, in the privacy of her sitting room, that he'd ruptured her fragile little world yet again.
He cares only about his own selfish desires, she concluded. One day I'll have to meet this . . . creature that he has taken to his bosom, his wife, or whatever she's supposed to be, or maybe he'll divorce her and marry an Eskimo, because anything is possible with Nathanial, and the more bizarre, the more likely he'll do it. It's as though he's pushing at the edges of the world, to see how far he can go.
TWENTY
On March 1, 1849, President-elect Zachary Taylor arrived in Washington, D.C., for his inauguration. Rockets shot into the air, bonfires blazed alongside the railroad tracks, and a reporter from the Intelligencer wrote that Old Rough and Ready had been met by the largest gathering ever seen in the nation's capital.
The short, stout general stood on the railroad platform next to his bags and bowed his hoary gray head as waves of applause rolled over him. He was a simple soldier from the wild frontier, and the outpouring of affection moved him deeply. When the cheering diminished, he addressed the people briefly in his booming parade-ground voice, the one that had ordered Lieutenant Ker's dragoons to counterattack at Palo Alto less than three years ago. “Heaven bless you, citizens!” he declared. “Peace be with you!”
A middle-aged woman rushed from the crowd, and his aides thought she was a demented assassin, but instead she clasped his hands warmly. “I hope you can bring America together, sir,” she said sincerely, peering into his eyes.
“I am your humble servant, ma'am,” he replied.
Zachary Taylor's sharp soldier's eyes spotted an elderly workman in the swarms of citizens and made his way toward him to shake his hand. “It does my heart good to see you, sir,” the general confided. “Like myself, you are an old man, and it seems that everybody else around us is in the prime of life.”
The crowd thundered approval as the President-elect and his entourage proceeded to the Willard Hotel. His first duty call was to President Polk at the White House, but it was a cold official encounter, and General Taylor had the distinct impression that Polk was in ill health. Then, back at the hotel, General Taylor met Senator Cass, whom he'd defeated in the election. Both men were exceedingly polite, although the campaign had been bitterly fought, filled with personal invective, and both sides had played cavalierly with facts, as befits any American presidential campaign.
It was cloudy on March 5, 1849, and church bells pealed across Washington, D.C., as military bands played patriotic tunes. One hundred mounted marshals escorted General Taylor's carriage to the Irving Hotel, where stony-faced President Polk boarded. They were accompanied by Robert Charles Winthrop of Massachusetts, speaker of the House, and General Taylor waved warmly to masses of boisterous Americans as the carriage rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue. “Ain't he a hoss?” a Virginia shopkeeper cried. Some had traveled hundreds of miles to see the hero of Palo Alto, Monterrey, and Buena Vista.
President Polk felt dispirited, for the cheers were not aimed at him. He was the despised President, although he'd given America vast territory that the people had coveted. The unforeseen consequence was the annexation of Texas had opened a new snakepit of national divisiveness over the slavery issue, and finally driven him from office. Meanwhile, paradoxically, General Taylor was considered a savior for winning the identical controversial war! President Polk observed General Taylor receiving accolades from the crowd, and thought, He is a well-meaning old man, but is uneducated, exceedingly ignorant of public affairs, and, I should judge, of very ordinary capacity. He will be in the hands of others, forced to rely wholly upon his cabinet to administer the government.
The procession stopped in front of the Capitol, and the President-elect, surrounded by family, friends, supporters, and reporters, proceeded to a specially erected platform in front of the east portico. Thirty thousand citizens had gathered at the spot, and the old soldier gave thanks to the Almighty for offering the highest honor of all to a Kentucky farmer's son.
Well-wishers crowded and jostled him, his gnarled hand was shaken again and again, and he saw smiles of falsehood, gallons of flattery, and tons of deceit, because everyone had a son or brother needing a job in the government, or a business deal, an angle, or possessed a scheme to improve the world.
Speaker of the House Winthrop introduced the President-elect with glowing praise, and finally the time had come for Old Rough and Ready to speak to America, prior to being inaugurated.
The audience became quiet as the old soldier with the face of a kindly bulldog mounted the podium. No one had ever called him a great orator, like Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, or James C. Calhoun, all in attendance that day, but he spoke simply, in a low voice, and first expressed gratitude for the confidence that the people had shown in him. He acknowledged the “fearful responsibilities” of the presidency. He promised to bring the most qualified people into his administration, and then Zachary Taylor said, “With such aides, and an honest purpose to do what is right, I hope to execute diligently and impartially, and for the best interests of the country, the manifold duties devolving upon me. In the discharge of these duties, my guide will be the Constitution I this day swear to preserve, protect, and defend.”
Later in the speech, touching on foreign policy, Zachary Taylor said, “We are warned by the admonition of history, and the voice of our own beloved George Washington, to abstain from entangling alliances with foreign nations on all disputes between conflicting governments. It is our interest, no less our duty, to remain strictly neutral.”
Regarding slavery, Zachary Taylor said, “I shall look to the enlightened patriotism of the Congress to adopt such measures of conciliation as may harmonize conflicting interests, and tend to perpetuate the Union, which should be the paramount objection of our hopes and affections.”
Standing at the edge of that great assembly, recently defeated Whig Congressman Abe Lincoln nodded sagely. A crescendo of applause erupted from the crowd, which he joined optimistically. But Honest Abe knew that mere words couldn't save the Union, and much difficult legislation lay ahead. A conflagration of hatred and animosity was engulfing the land, and the self-taught Illinois lawyer wondered if any leader, no matter how honorable or talented, could quell it.
