Desert Hawks, page 23
Beau's eyes became glassy, he leaned forward in his chair and went crashing to the floor. Nathanial stared at him thoughtfully, realizing that he, Nathanial Barrington, had performed the identical trick in front of his father in a prominent Washington hotel. Now, in the cold light of sobriety, he could see what a madman he'd been, ranting and puffing about everything under the sun, until collapsing from overindulgence in drink.
He knelt beside one of Charleston's most eligible bachelors, who presented the same slack-jawed expression as all slumbering drunkards. Nathanial placed one arm under his friend's head, another beneath his knees, then carried Beau to his bunk, removed his boots, and covered him with a blanket.
Am I really getting married? Nathanial wondered as he continued toward his quarters. Did I really propose to Rebecca Harding? It seemed preposterous, but why not? he asked himself. I might as well have some fun, because where would I be if that arrow had struck me?
FIFTEEN
Nathanial loathed the necessity of acting, but the time had come to meet his prospective in-laws. He was stone-cold sober, bathed, cleanly shaven by his slave, and wore a clean uniform, with black boots highly polished. I have nothing to be ashamed of, he said to himself as he traversed Officers’ Row. Just because I've been obnoxious in the past, it doesn't mean I have to be obnoxious tonight.
He knocked on the chosen door, and after an interval, where he felt himself dropping through space, the portal was opened by Francine, one of the Hardings’ Negro slave maids. “I'm Lieutenant Barrington,” he said.
“So I see,” she replied with a twinkle. She was about thirty years old, another beautiful Negress, and Nathanial wondered if he should buy one like her, but he'd probably end up as her slave. The Negress ushered him into the empty living room, where a reproduction of a painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware hung above the fireplace. “May I get you something to drink, sir?”
“A glass of plain water, if you don't mind.”
She narrowed her eyes as if to say: Who do you think you're trying to fool, you drunkard! Then she departed, leaving him alone.
He felt uneasy in the strange parlor, and thought he heard urgent whispering in another part of the house. He knew that Major and Mrs. Harding weren't eager to see him, but they had to be civil to a fellow officer, especially one from a distinguished old New York family involved in politics.
He heard footsteps, expected the maid to return, but instead Mrs. Harding entered the room, wearing a maroon wool dress with a gray sweater. “Ah, Lieutenant Harrington, I mean Barrington,” she said nervously. “So good to meet you.”
He arose and bowed, then Francine arrived with his glass of water.
“That's all you're drinking?” asked Mrs. Harding.
His hand shook barely perceptibly as he swallowed the tasteless pallid liquid. “I've always believed water the most refreshing beverage in the world.”
“I prefer tea myself. Won't you have a cup?”
“The water is fine, thank you.”
The room fell silent, for neither knew what to say. Nathanial wanted to jump out the window and run screaming across the parade ground. Shall I talk about the weather, or is that too banal? he asked himself. What possible statement should I make to this woman, who appears ready to faint. He felt warm beneath his tunic as pinheads of sweat appeared on his brow.
At that awkward moment, Major Harding bounded into the room, holding his hand out stiffly. It appeared that either his shoes were too tight or he was suffering from constipation. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he said. “I trust that you've recovered from any ill effects of the scout?”
Nathanial shook the proffered paw. “I feel fine, sir. Has anyone seen Mrs. Grimes?”
Mrs. Harding replied, “She's deeply shaken by the news, but is up and around, I understand.”
They sat in the small room, with Nathanial facing George Washington standing bravely in the prow of the boat. Since a babe, Nathanial had been told that his grandfather Joshua Barrington had paddled one of those small rowboats on Christmas Eve, 1776, when the American colonials surprised the Hessian mercenaries at Trenton, and routed them. Why am I intimidated by this major and his wife? Nathanial asked himself. For God's sake, my people made this damned country.
Nathanial sat straighter as he looked at them from a higher elevation. “I think I'll have a talk with Mrs. Grimes. Perhaps I can give her some comfort, since I was with her husband when he died.”
Mrs. Harding smiled for the first time. “I think that would be very kind.”
Major Harding said, “The trouble with this country is the goddamned Indians. If we could build enough forts, we'd stop them.”
“But how would the Indians exist if we stopped them?”
“The Apaches must adapt to America, not the other way around. And if they can't comprehend democracy, they will perish like everything else that stands in the way of progress. General Taylor knows how to treat Indians, and after he becomes President, I'm sure we'll have changes for the better in the army.”
Nathanial realized that he'd lost track of time. “When's the election?”
“Three weeks. It's hard to imagine, but big political rallies and marches are going on right now back east. This country needs a good cool-headed man of the people, instead of the usual thieving politicians. I served with the general in the Black Hawk War, and he was the steadiest man I've ever known.”
A vision of loveliness appeared in the doorway, the delectable Rebecca Harding, attired in a white faille dress imprinted with pink flowers and green leaves. Nathanial rose to his feet as she floated toward him and extended her hand. “What are you discussing so earnestly?”
“The election,” said her father. “And I don't think Cass has got a prayer.” He turned to Nathanial. “Did you know that when Cass was governor of Michigan, he charged the government for an office and a clerk that he didn't have? I read it in this newspaper.” Ill at ease, uncertain how to behave before a man of whom he disapproved, Major Harding waved an old copy of the Washington Globe in the air. “It's from a speech by a congressman named Lincoln, and what a funny fellow he must be. I'll read part of it to you. ’At eating, General Cass's capacities are shown to be wonderful. From October 1821 to May 1822, he ate ten rations a day in Michigan, ten rations a day here in Washington, and nearly $5 worth a day on the road between the two places.’ “
Major Harding continued reading compulsively while Nathanial and Rebecca gazed at each other longingly. They didn't care about Congressman Lincoln's speech, or how Lew Cass had bilked the government.
Their mutual interest didn't go unnoticed by Mrs. Harding. They look well together, the lady thought. His manners are good, he's clean, and no one could accuse him of being unattractive. Maybe this isn't such a bad match after all.
Meanwhile, her husband was rambling through the newspaper, too ill-tempered to engage in genuine conversation. “The Democrats are trying to make Cass into an American war hero, and the equal of Zachary Taylor, but listen to what Lincoln said about Cass's war record: ‘. . . all his (Cass's) biographers have him in hand, tying him to a military tail like so many mischievous boys tying a dog to a bladder of beans. True, the material they have is very limited, but they drive at it with might and main. Mr. Speaker, if ever our Democratic friends . . . take me up as their candidate for the presidency, I protest they shall not make fun of me, as they have of poor Senator Cass, by attempting to write me into a military hero.’ “
Major Harding laughed uproariously, clutched his stomach, and rolled his eyes. He was attempting fellowship with his daughter's chosen gentleman, even if it meant making a fool of himself.
Nathanial tried to smile, although he'd barely been listening. “I've never heard of this Lincoln before.”
“At least he's trying to bring comedy to Washington.” Major Harding laid down the newspaper and tried to figure out what else to say.
It grew silent in the parlor, because no one dared speak what was really in his or her mind. It reminded Nathanial of home, and he wondered for the first time if he really wanted to marry into this family. But then Rebecca filled his eyes, and he experienced the usual disreputable desires. I'm not marrying her parents, and I can be as empty a conversationalist as anyone. Nathanial wanted to think of an insightful political analysis, but distrusted political analysis. The only jokes that came to mind were ones he'd heard in barracks and taverns, inappropriate for the occasion. The room became still as Rebecca sat opposite Nathanial, and they continued looking at each other with more than passing interest.
Major Harding felt like a stranger in his home, and knew that his daughter was slipping through his fingers. He was just the old fuddy-duddy daddy, while the dashing lieutenant evidently had captured her heart. The major felt tired and old, as if the younger man were defeating him. The silence became oppressive, and the camp commander realized that he was turning red with discomfort.
The Negress appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served,” she said.
Nathanial followed his host and hostess to the dining room, with a window overlooking a red and gold sunset. A mirror with wood trim hung above the mantel, spreading rays of light in all directions. In the corner was exhibited a framed reproduction of a painting of General Washington riding a horse into the Battle of Yorktown.
Nathanial held a chair for Rebecca, and watched her bottom sink into it. Someday we'll dine alone in our own home, he thought. He imagined himself rolling around on the floor with her. She smiled reassuringly, as if to say: You're doing just fine.
The Negress was herself a beauty, carrying the tureen of soup to the table. Even Mrs. Harding wasn't unappealing, because sometimes age gave a woman a patina that Nathanial found fetching.
It was clear chicken broth with a few slices of carrots and potatoes, not the greasy glue of the Officers’ Mess. Again, deadly silence pervaded the gathering. Nathanial searched for a witty topic, but Captain Grimes's death cast a pall over the table. It was Mrs. Harding who spoke next. “I understand that you visited the Catholic church with Rebecca.”
“Yes, I like churches,” replied Nathanial. “I find them peaceful.”
“You don't have to go to church to have peace,” declared Rebecca sarcastically.
Major Harding appeared annoyed by her remark. “My daughter is an admirer of that old drunkard Thomas Paine, and considers herself a deist. I've always believed that a deist is an atheist who's afraid to admit it.”
Nathanial wondered how to extricate himself from the delicate situation that was emerging. “You can't apply logic to religion,” he explained, and wondered if he was making sense as he groped for the truth himself. “It's not a science like mathematics and chemistry.”
The Hardings stared at him as he sipped chicken broth. “I swear, I don't know where my daughter gets her ideas,” said Mrs. Harding. “Certainly not from me or my husband.”
Her husband growled. “It's those damned books that she's always reading.”
Nathanial was glad that attention had shifted from him to books. I could dine with these boring people every night for a year, if that's what it takes to marry Rebecca.
He leaned back and waited patiently for the next course when suddenly the maid entered the room. “Sergeant Ferguson would like to speak with you, sir. It's important.”
The atmosphere in the dining room became electrified, because the major would never be disturbed at dinner unless something significant had occurred. “Send him in.”
The maid departed, and seconds later Sergeant Ferguson marched into the dining room, saluted, and said, “Sir, a wagon train has been robbed by white men, and the survivors have just arrived at the camp. What should I do with ‘em?”
“Tell them I'll be right there.”
The sergeant performed an about-face as the major dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I have to talk with them,” he explained to his family. “If it's not the damned Indians, it's the damned outlaws.”
He pulled on his forage cap as he headed for the door. Nathanial followed him outside, where a crowd had formed in front of the orderly room. A tall distinguished-looking Mexican in a black sombrero stepped forward. “I am Diego Carbajal, and we were on our way to California when the very people we hired to protect us robbed us. And they killed Mr. Pelletier from Vermont.”
Senor Carbajal described the fearful deed, and Nathanial found his eyes drawn to a buxom Mexican woman standing near the speaker. Is it his wife or daughter? wondered Nathanial. Dust covered her clothes and face, but her eyes drilled into him. He smiled, but she was either too tired or indifferent to return the favor.
Meanwhile, Senor Carbajal was coming to the end of his narration. “I was in Las Vegas on the day that General Kearny promised to restore law and order, and I foolishly believed that the trails had become safe. Well, Major—what are you going to do?”
Major Harding wondered whether to send a detachment to pursue the thieves. The trail would be old, but at least the citizenry would know that the army wasn't completely indifferent to their suffering.
“I'll go, sir,” said Nathanial. “Just give me Sergeant Duffy, a good scout, and about ten men.” He was aware of the beautiful Mexican woman's eyes upon him.
“It's not your turn. Sergeant Ferguson, make certain that everyone here gets a hot meal, and tell Captain Sturgis that I want to speak with him in my office.”
Sergeant Ferguson barked orders to men in the vicinity as the robbery victims were escorted to the mess hall. Major Harding headed for the orderly room, while Nathanial drifted back toward the Harding residence. Francine led him to the dining room, where the Harding women were looking out the window. “What happened?” asked Mrs. Harding.
Nathanial explained the bloody crimes. “The major is organizing the pursuit, and I don't think he'll be back for a while.”
“We'll dine without him, and I'll direct the maid to bring him something at his office. Excuse me.”
The matriarch left for the kitchen, while Nathanial and Rebecca stood alone by the window, watching travelers streaming into the mess hall. “I hope I haven't made a complete fool of myself,” he said.
“Not at all.”
She placed her palm on the small of his back, and he turned toward her. “I don't think I can last a year,” he said.
“You must,” she replied as she raised her pouty lips.
He kissed her lightly and felt her small breasts against his tunic, while the fragrance of flowers radiated from her hair. Their legs touched, their bodies were separated only by a few layers of fabric, but her mother was in the kitchen, the maid in the vicinity, and the major himself might return at any moment. They heard approaching footsteps, separated quickly, and the maid entered, carrying a silver platter covered with meat, potatoes, and carrots swimming in gravy.
“Mrs. Harding will be with you in a few minutes.”
Nathanial and Rebecca sat opposite each other, with the steaming haunch of meat between them. “This is the way it'll be when we're married,” he told her. “But a year is such a long time.”
“If we really love each other, we can do anything,” she replied.
Maria Dolores sat with the other robbery victims in the mess hall, gulping down spoonfuls of beef stew and bites of bread, as cooks and mess attendants waited on her and the others. Her father was in the major's office, explaining the robbery, while she sat alone with her thoughts, safe at last from the dangers and pitfalls of the wilderness.
Events had taken on the petrifying aspect of nightmare. She'd been robbed, punched, and made to walk through Apache territory to Santa Fe, without any weapon except a dinner knife. Many times she'd expected Indians to appear with lances and hatchets, and she'd barely slept at night.
Her father had bounced right back after the disaster, and was chattering away with the major, always making friends, everybody loved her dear old father, but unfortunately he'd made too many unwise decisions, in her opinion.
Since the robbery, Maria Dolores viewed the world in an entirely new perspective. She comprehended more acutely the pressing need for armies and police forces, but everyone, even demure young Mexican ladies, had to look out for themselves.
There'd been moments when she'd thought she and the others would never survive. Water holes had been few, they couldn't carry much food, and the constant threat of Apaches nearly drove her mad. Many times she'd felt like dropping to her knees and shrieking with sheer terror, but that might've attracted Apaches. She'd died a thousand times in her imagination, ripped to shreds by charging Apache hordes.
I will never leave Santa Fe again without a full military escort, she swore, and I'm going to run a successful business here if it's the last thing I do. My father is a wonderful man, but he doesn't know anything about business. From now on, I'm making the decisions in this family. Fortunately, her father left a small sum in a Santa Fe bank for emergencies.
She finished her meal, pushed the dishes away, and lay her head in her arms as others ate hungrily around her. She fell asleep amid clanking forks and knives, and dreamed again of young Jesus crucified in the sky, surrounded by angels and choruses.
On the way back to his room, Nathanial noticed a light in the window of the Grimes residence. The West Pointer had promised to offer his consolation to the grieving widow, since he'd been last to see her husband alive. But what'll I say to her? he asked himself.
An officer can't know every detail of battle in advance, and Zachary Taylor had taught him the art and science of tactical improvisation. So he strode toward the door, his wide-brimmed hat slanted low over his eyes, and rapped his knuckles three times.
No one responded immediately, so he waited patiently, glancing from side to side, in case an Apache might be creeping up on him. He even inspected the roof, to make sure an Apache wasn't lurking with an old blunderbuss. The habits he'd acquired on the scout had stayed with him, and no Apache would ever catch him unawares again, he hoped.
The door opened and a stout brunette woman stood before him, a handkerchief in her hand. Nathanial removed his hat. “I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Grimes. I'm Lieutenant Barrington, and I was with your husband when he was . . . killed.”
