Desert Hawks, page 12
General Kearay sat in front of his tent, thinking of his family back at the Jefferson Barracks. He was married to the former Mary Clark, daughter of General William Clark, and a night never passed when he didn't think of her. Beneath his neatly tailored uniform, General Kearay was as homesick and lonely as any soldier in the ranks.
Kit Carson approached his fire. “They're comin’,” he said, an expression of wonder on his face. “And one of ‘em is Mangus Coloradas hisself, chief of the Mimbres Apaches.”
General Kearny had heard of Mangus Coloradas, the most notorious and bloodthirsty chief the Apaches had. “How many warriors?”
Twenty. Should we disarm them?”
“Of course not.”
Kit Carson cocked an eye. “Yer gonna trust an Apache? Have you gone plumb loco on me, sir?”
“We'll treat them with respect as long as they behave.”
Kit Carson stalked off into the night, and General Kearny tossed his cigar into the fire. He'd expected to meet a local leader, not the celebrated Mangus Coloradas. General Kearny was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, but that didn't mean he'd forget his Colt Paterson.
Footsteps approached, then a crowd of Apaches entered the clearing, led by a tall, fiftyish warrior with a powerful chest, muscular legs, and corded arms. The Apaches were accompanied by Kit Carson and his scouts, while General Kearny's soldiers watched from the sidelines.
The Apaches appeared stiff as they approached the fire. They were keenly aware of the armed White Eyes, but they'd accepted the invitation anyway, trusting the army father to treat them fairly. General Kearny's interpreter was an Apache and Mexican half-breed who also spoke English. “This is Mangus Coloradas, chief of the Mimbres Apaches,” he said. “And this is General Stephen Kearny, commander of the Army of the West.”
General Kearny peered into the chief's eyes and saw bottomless depths beyond his ken. Perhaps it was his size, but an atmosphere of ferocious energy seemed to emanate out of the chief, despite his earnest smile.
“I am here on behalf of the American government,” began General Kearny. “We are at war with Mexico, but we have no quarrel with the Apaches. Let us sit and talk together.”
The narrator dutifully translated, and Mangus Coloradas dropped to a cross-legged position on the ground. General Kearny sat opposite him, and the other warriors and soldiers followed suit, everyone watching everyone else's hands with extreme clarity of vision.
Mangus Coloradas raised his empty hand in a gesture of friendship. “I have always respected the bravery of the Americans,” he declared. “I have fought Americans myself, the trappers and the ones who dig yellow metal in the ground. Also, I have seen Americans fight the Mexicans. We do not look down on the Americans as we do the Mexicans.”
“And we admire the courage of the Apaches,” replied General Kearny. “But there is a time to be brave, and a time to think of future generations.”
“I too think of the future,” stated Mangus Coloradas, “and I have seen that the Americans will defeat the Mexicans. We wonder what you plan to do in this land?”
“We plan to bring peace for all.”
“Peace is what we want too. We have no disagreement with the American people, as long as we are left alone.”
General Kearny looked him in the eye and said very carefully, “If the Apaches want peace, there is only one way to show it. You must stop raiding, stealing, and killing.”
The great chief Mangus Coloradas didn't move a muscle as the veiled threat was translated by an increasingly nervous translator. There was mumbling among soldiers and warriors, because General Kearny had drawn the line, and everyone expected Mangus Coloradas to jump over it.
The chief appeared thoughtful as he chose his words carefully. He knew that his younger warriors wanted him to walk away disdainfully, but he had come this far and decided to press on. “Great father,” he said, bowing his head slightly, “we have been fighting the Mexicans for many harvests, and the Spanish many more harvests before that. This land was given us by Yusn, and once we were here alone with the animals and birds. Then, when the Spanish came, we tried to make peace with them, but they wanted to enslave us. We have fought back as best we could, and that is the thieving, stealing, and murdering that you have mentioned. They have taken our game, so why should we not take their cattle? They kill our children, so why should we not kill theirs? In a tribe farther south, they chopped the left foot off every warrior. So we have fought back, and we have defeated the Spanish and the Mexicans.”
General Kearny leaned closer and looked him in the eye once more. “But you will not defeat the Americans, because we are many more than the Mexicans and Spanish. This land now belongs to the United States government, and anyone who does not obey American laws will become an enemy of the American people. If you truly want peace, you must stop raiding here, and that includes Mexicans as well as Americans.”
Mangus Coloradas appeared confused. “You are killing the Mexicans, but you do not want us to kill them too? Isn't it best to kill as many as possible?”
“We are at war with the Mexican government, but not the people living at peace in this land. They are now Americans.”
“But we are neither Mexican nor American!”
“If you violate the laws of the United States of America, you will suffer the consequences.”
“If you will not let us live according to our way, we shall have to fight you.”
General Kearny didn't bat an eyelash. “If you fight us, you will be annihilated.”
A muscle twitched in Mangus Coloradas's cheek, for he'd just heard the death sentence for the People. A vision of flaming wickiups, decapitated warriors, and women howling in the night came to his mind. So he had to try one last time. “The Americans and the People both hate the Mexicans, and we should be allies. We know Mexico better than you, and we can show you how to strike when they least expect. We stand ready to fight alongside you against the Mexicans, and we offer our lives for you—is that not enough?”
General Kearny could hear the chief's exasperation, but he was only a general in a far-off war. “All residents of this land must abide by the laws of my government, whether they're Mexicans, Americans, or Apaches.”
Mangus Coloradas couldn't plead endlessly with a stubborn White Eyes, and suspected that he'd just humiliated himself before his warriors. Without another word or glance at General Kearny, he arose abruptly and stalked away. General Kearny leapt to his feet, to say something conciliatory, but an American general couldn't sell out the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the Articles of War. These Apaches will be a thorn in our side until they're pacified, he realized. You can't negotiate with savages.
EIGHT
Nathanial sat in an eight-wheeled railroad car rolling south toward Washington, D.C. A potbellied stove fought cold drafts blowing in from the Atlantic, and he drew his black cape tighter around his wide shoulders, as he watched misty rain on forested lowlands and daydreamed while sipping from his flask.
He wore a stovepipe hat, white shirt, and red cravat, with a suit of medium gray wool. His feet were protected by new knee-high polished black leather riding boots made to his measurements by an old Jew in Chatham Square.
He took another sip from the flask and told himself, This'll be my last one. He looked around the railroad car at businessmen and politicians on their way to the nation's capital. There was one army officer, but Nathanial didn't feel like talking military. He had more important decisions, such as how to deal with his sire.
It wouldn't be inaccurate to say that Nathanial hated his father profoundly, because his father had destroyed the happy family residing on Washington Square. In the old days, they'd ridden carriages through the winding country paths of Hoboken and, in winter, ice-skated on ponds and lakes in the northern reaches of Manhattan Island. They had been a happy American family dwelling in their cozy mansion on Washington Square, and he could never pinpoint when the disintegration began, but gradually his father had become distant, then requested a transfer to Washington, Mother didn't go with him, and finally one day Mother had sat Nathanial down and announced tearfully that his father had no intention of ever returning home permanently.
Nathanial had seen the colonel on three torturous occasions since the big breakup, and had wanted to punch him in the mouth each time. His vain and selfish father wanted to be a cavalier forever, instead of the patriarch of Washington Square. Nathanial couldn't believe that his formerly sagacious father could be such an idiot, but sometimes wondered if his youthful antics had driven his father away, such as his variegated expulsions from the Pembroke School for fighting with other students, absurd pranks, contradicting his learned teachers, and so on.
But Colonel Stephen Barrington was his father, like it or not. And the colonel was highly placed in the War Department, so Nathanial had to step lightly. He'd rather fight another Palo Alto than see his distinguished old man, but family obligations pressed him onward, and he couldn't afford to offend a colonel in the War Department.
Stephen Barrington and all his brothers had enlisted in the army or navy during the War of 1812. It had been a one-year contract, and they figured that should give them sufficient time to kick the stuffing out of the British. Nathanial's father had distinguished himself in countless battles, been wounded, won a battlefield commission, and like Old Rough and Ready had remained in the army after the war ended.
Nathanial considered his father an authentic American hero, as well as a liar and adulterer. This duality had splintered Nathanial's mind and contributed greatly to the ambivalence of his nature.
The train huffed and clanged as it approached Washington, D.C., a jumble of stately official edifices and monuments surrounded by ugly squat stone or wood buildings on the drained remains of a former bog. It gave Nathanial secret pleasure to know that his father had to live in such a dismal place.
The train pulled into the station, and of course his father wasn't there to greet him, for how could such a distinguished and important officer take time to greet his son just returned wounded from the war. “That son of a bitch,” Nathanial muttered as he hailed a porter.
His trunks were loaded onto a carriage, and he set off toward his hotel, the Emory, a gathering hole for army and navy officers passing through Washington, reasonably priced. He carried his Colt Paterson beneath his jacket, for protection only.
The carriage stopped before a brick edifice four stories high, Nathanial strolled into the lobby, where a major was passed out in an overstuffed chair covered with green and gray satin stripes. A team of Negroes carried Nathanial's trunks to his room. As he looked out his window, he realized that if he wanted to see the sky, he had to stick out his head, look up, and hope nobody dropped a cigar butt into his eye.
He sat in the chair and wondered what to do until eight P.M. when he was supposed to meet his father for supper. The lounge downstairs beckoned, but he didn't want to be more inebriated than he was already. It was too stormy for a walk, and he didn't feel like reading.
He descended the stairs and entered the lounge, where gruff men sat about, imbibing, arguing, or staring out the window at the building across the street, which looked like a boardinghouse. Nathanial didn't recognize anyone as he made his way to the bar. “Cup of coffee,” he told the man in the apron.
“Yes, sir.” The bartender raised a pot from the stove and filled a mug about three-quarters full. “Care for a shot of brandy in there, sir?”
“If you don't mind.”
The bartender spiked the coffee and placed it before Nathanial. The fumes made Nathanial dizzy as he raised the concoction and took a swig. A bolt of thunder rocked the building as Nathanial carried the adulterated coffee to a table in a dark corner.
Taking their ease before him were well-tailored blue-uniformed generals, colonels, majors, and captains. Thousands of soldiers in distant wilderness bastions were set in motion by mere strokes of their pens. Nathanial's father preferred the seat of power to front-line command, while his mother had appreciated New York theaters, art galleries, and the Philharmonic Orchestra. What a strange family we are, considered Nathanial, and I've just added the oddest member of all, Tobey.
A familiar gentleman in a black coat nearly reaching his ankles stumbled toward the bar, positioned himself in front of a chair, missed it on the way down, and landed on his posterior, a perplexed expression on his face.
The bartender headed for the inebriated gentleman, but Nathanial reached him first. “The Comte de Marsay?” asked Nathanial.
The comte fluttered his eyelashes. “Where am I?”
“It's called Washington, D.C., and perhaps you remember me—Nathanial Barrington.”
“You ran off with Lieutenant Ker's dragoons, and nearly got yourself killed. What are you doing here, mon ami?”
“I'm supposed to meet my father. How about you?”
“On my way back to France. We appear on the verge of another revolution, and my problem is I don't know which side I'm on.”
They helped each other to a table in the dark corner and asked the waiter to bring a pot of coffee plus a selection of sandwiches. They gazed drunkenly at each other, bathing in the warm glow of military camaraderie.
“I went to the hospital tent,” said the comte, “and found you at death's door. You couldn't speak, your eyes never opened, and the chaplain had given you last rites. Then we left for Resaca de la Palma, and sometime later I heard that you had survived.” The comte slapped Nathanial on the bicep. “You look as good as ever.”
“Don't you think it's time to stop drinking, at least for a few days, Philippe?”
“Nothing else to do in this city, and I have seen livelier cemeteries. Are you still in the army?”
“I'm on convalescent leave.”
“I do not know my own status, and I must choose between the republicans and the royalists, but they're both terrible in different ways, and if I select the wrong side, I may find myself at the southern end of a guillotine.”
“Why don't you stay here and become an American citizen?”
“Because my heart is in France, and you know, you really should come to Paris with me. I can introduce you to some truly astounding women.”
“We can even be guillotined together, I suppose. Why not come to New York with me? There are literally hundreds of actresses and dancers just dying to meet a real French count of no account such as you.”
“A man needs money for actresses and dancers, and that is why I must go to France. Say, how are you fixed?”
“I have some money that my mother gave me. How much do you want?”
“Why don't we go to that whorehouse across the street and pass the afternoon like gentlemen?”
Nathanial gazed through the front window. “I've been wondering about that place. Men keep coming and going.”
The comte winked. “Where else would officers live, except across from a whorehouse? You may consider whorehouses vile, due to your puritanical Yankee heritage, but I view them as courts of magic and romance.”
“I'd be happy to lend whatever you need. Far be it from me to tell anybody how to live.”
“I knew I could rely on an old friend. Have you heard what happened to Beau? General Taylor sent him north with a message for General Kearny, and he never came back. Seems he was transferred to the 1st Dragoons.”
“That's Apache country.”
“Don't worry about Beau, because he has been endowed with charming qualities, whereas you and I are merely drunkards.”
They spent the remainder of the afternoon drinking, eating sandwiches, and discussing the Mexican campaign, women, the state of the world, and the meaning of life itself. Cups and glasses emptied and were filled, the conversation took strange meandering turns, and sometimes Nathanial lost the thread of meaning in the middle of his sentences. The room filled with more officers as afternoon became early evening, and Nathanial realized that he was ready to go to bed.
The comte probed his finger into the air. “It all went to hell when Napoleon began to believe that he was invincible. If he had quit after the Battle of Wagram, he would be the greatest man who ever lived, but he was a greedy little Corsican underneath it all. By the way, could you let me have those few dollars now?”
Nathanial dropped a handful of coins onto the table. Then he tried to count, but the coins kept blurring before his eyes. Finally he said, “Take what you need.”
The comte scooped up twenty dollars, when a dark shadow appeared at the edge of the table. He and Nathanial glanced at a tall, gray-haired officer with a stern face and blue cape. “Hello, Nathanial,” he said in a disapproving tone.
Nathanial coughed, snorted, and raised himself unsteadily to his feet. “Father, may I present my friend, the Comte Philippe de Marsay.”
Philippe bowed. “I am happy to know you, sir, but I was just on my way out of here. Good day.”
The comte teetered toward the door, and Nathanial summoned all his courage as he turned to his father.
“So happy to see you, sir,” he said jerkily, as if English were his secondary language.
“You appear to've been drinking, Nathanial,” said the colonel icily.
“I just happened to run into the comte, whom I know from Mexico. We were reminiscing about the war, and I'm afraid I lost track of the brandy.”
“You are judged by the company you keep, Nathanial.”
Nathanial didn't like his father's accusing manner, particularly since Stephen too was a war veteran, seducer of women, smoker of cigars, and drinker of powerful beverages. “We are also judged by the women we keep, Father,” he replied.
The colonel stared at him for a few moments, and Nathanial wondered if his old man was carrying a weapon. Then his father said calmly, “Have you eaten yet?”
“No,” Nathanial lied, although he felt mildly nauseous.
