Desert Hawks, page 30
“I'd like to have a word with the major.”
“He's busy.”
“I want to give him my report.”
“Put it in writing, and he'll read it in the morning.”
Nathanial thought it odd that the major wouldn't see him. He rode toward the stables, where his men were removing saddles and blankets from their mounts. Nathanial handed his reins to a stable hand, then made his way to his little room in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, where he sat on the chair, lit a cigarette, and gave thanks that he was still alive. It was his first time alone since he'd ridden out the gate, and he didn't have to worry about Apaches anymore.
Maybe next time the damned savages will think twice before they steal cattle, he figured. What makes them think this is their land—just because they've been here longer than us? By that standard, it belongs to the snakes and coyotes.
There was a knock on the door as Beau arrived with a bottle. “Want a snort?” He threw the bottle, and Nathanial caught it in midair. “I heard you killed some Apaches.”
Amid sips of whiskey, Nathanial explained his semisuccessful tactics, and told how he'd felt when his horse had been going down. He omitted the gory details of his hand-to-hand fighting, and then said, “We killed about a dozen of them, and they got three of us, but by Jesus, they know they can't take the First Dragoons for granted anymore.”
“Your detachment was the only one that made contact with them,” replied Beau. “You were lucky, or maybe unlucky, depending upon one's point of view.”
“Have you ever gone hand-to-hand with ‘em.”
“Not yet.”
“Carry two pistols, because that's what I'm going to do from now on. Sometimes, at the worst moments, these Colts jam. I heard that General Taylor won the election.”
“He beat Cass by about one hundred and forty thousand votes. I'm for General Taylor, but America is two countries, the North and the South. I think we should try to be good neighbors, instead of living together under the same government.”
“The best part of my scout,” replied Nathanial, “was that I didn't have to think about politics. It's just a lot of liars hollering at each other and striking poses that they hope will get votes. They all want to save America, but what they really want is to line their own pockets. They always make everything worse no matter who's in the White House.”
Beau shook his head in disgust. “You can bury your head in the sand if you like, Nathanial my friend, but one day history will catch up with you. And by the way, do you know who's suffered most from the damned slavery debate? The darkies themselves. The great myth of abolition is that we Southerners are always whipping, killing, and raping our slaves, but one of my father's darkies is the overseer, and my father built them a school, a church, and they have their own little garden, where they can grow whatever they want and sell it. Daddy even goes to the fields and picks cotton alongside them, so it's not as simple as you damned Yankee think. The problem with America is the sanctimonious Yankees who can't stop haranguing us. They need something to tear down and have settled on the South.”
Nathanial had seen Otis's shredded back, but hated arguments with his old West Point comrade. “Slavery began a long time ago,” Nathanial explained, “and nobody's hands are clean, not even the Negroes themselves, because some of them sold Negro captives to the Yankee captains. Maybe America will break apart someday, but I just came back from a scout, and I'm tired.” Nathanial yawned. “What's going on with the major? He wouldn't see me today.”
“That's because you've been a-courtin’ Miss Rebecca, and you've also been seen with Maria Dolores Carbajal. Since Rebecca is the apple of her daddy's eye, I'd say that your next efficiency report will be a great disappointment to you. This is why men of common sense never go near the major's daughter. You may be a Yankee first lieutenant for the rest of your life, but if I ever make general, perhaps I'll appoint you as my aide-de-camp.”
Maria Dolores stood on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Palace Saloon, observing workmen nailing a sign above the door.
WELCOME HOME, DRAGOONS
FIRST DRINK FREE
She'd heard that Lieutenant Barrington had returned, and the man himself could be expected to stop at the Silver Palace Saloon that evening. Sometimes Maria Dolores thought her silly romantic nature was preparing her for disappointment, and Nathanial was just another lonely, lying soldier, but she'd dreamed of him crucified, there seemed to be a connection between them, and she felt as if he were the brother she'd never had. Maybe I should throw a big fandango, with free drinks for everybody, she thought. She'd learned that if you wanted a successful business, you had to give customers something free once in a while. Maria Dolores loved to dance and felt in a festive mood. With a happy heart, she returned to her office, to decide which musicians to hire.
Rebecca sat in the parlor, listening to knocks on the door. Her mother held her hand, while her father sat in his easy chair, scowling. They heard the door opened by Francine. “Oh—good evening, Lieutenant Barrington.”
“Is Rebecca home?”
“I'm sorry, but she's indisposed.”
“Would you tell her that I called?”
The door closed and the footsteps faded away. Francine returned to the kitchen, where she'd been cleaning up after supper. Rebecca raised her handkerchief and dabbed her cheek. “I hate him,” she whispered.
An orchestra had been set up on the sidewalk, while couples danced in the middle of the street, surrounded by a conglomeration of Americans and Mexicans of all ages, types, and stages of intoxication. The dwarf Miguelito dressed as a clown was cavorting at the edge of the mob, performing back flips and giving candy to children.
The fandango was in full swing when Nathanial arrived, attired in a clean, pressed blue uniform, but retaining his silverbelly wide-brimmed hat. Paper lanterns were strung across the street, and standing on the sidewalk was Maria Dolores, wearing a red patterned skirt and white blouse buttoned to her neck, with a matching red ribbon holding her thick mane of black hair. Nathanial made his way past the clown, some beggars, and a couple kissing. The beat of Aztec and Toltec drums pounded in his ears as he landed on the sidewalk in front of her.
They examined each other's faces, sparks flew off their eyes, and then she said, “Welcome home, Nathanial.”
“Let's take a walk,” he replied.
They steered away from the bright lights, and silently advanced toward the edge of Santa Fe. Their fingers touched, wrapped around each other, and came to rest entwined. He felt her womanly loveliness pass into his arm, and a wave of bottomless desire came over him, weakening him when he needed strength most.
“I have heard that you were in a big fight with the Apaches,” she said.
“It's true,” he replied, but how could he explain hand-to-hand fighting with a naked, squirming savage? His long ordeal was over, and the moment he'd awaited had arrived. They came to the edge of the wilderness, and the half-moon floated like a ship across the blazing sky.
“I've thought about you many times during the scout, Maria Dolores,” he began. “I've decided that I want to marry you, but before you answer, I want to tell you the truth about myself. I'm afraid I've been a fool for most of my life, and have disgraced my family on countless occasions. There are those who say I'm bad to the bone.”
She burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. “Why are you saying all these things about yourself, Nathanial?” she asked as she placed her arms around his neck.
He felt her strong body against him as he settled his callused hands on her waist. “I don't want to misrepresent myself, but if you were my wife, I could accomplish anything, because you make me so . . .”
Their lips touched lightly, and it felt as if her energy were radiating into his body. She was warm and supple beneath her garments, causing an artery to throb in his throat. She touched her lips to his ear. “Will you marry me in the Catholic Church?”
“Sure.”
“Where will we live?”
“Wherever you want.”
She peered into his eyes. “If we marry in the Church, it means that we must be married forever. Will you be faithful to me, Nathanial?”
“Certainly. I want you to be the mother of my children because we're so similar, and we're both God-fearing people.”
“At last He has sent you,” she sighed.
He panicked, as if falling into a bottomless chasm, and realized there was much about her that he didn't know. But her warm flesh and bones pressed against him, her nipples like punctuation marks on his chest, and he heard fandango music floating in the air.
He felt the mad urge to ravish her, but this time he didn't want to be a scoundrel. With a monumental effort nearly beyond his capacity, he drew back from her. “When will you speak to the priest?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
They returned to the Silver Palace Saloon and joined fandango dancers whirling in the street. The accordionist perspired as he pumped his instrument enthusiastically, while the fiddler played tunes of Seville. Children laughed, and gentlemen wearing sombreros and mustaches partnered raven-tressed ladies in gypsy dances.
Nathanial moved his hands behind his back as Maria Dolores pirouetted before him. Couples embraced in alleyways as the fandango cast its magic web. Children clapped their hands, the night filled with fast-paced melodies, and Maria Dolores's shapely hips moved with the rhythm. I don't care how many relatives write me out of their wills, Nathanial said to himself. There comes a time when a man must listen to the song of his blood.
“Madam, there is a Negro to see you. He claims that he belongs to Nathanial!”
Amalia Barrington hadn't heard from her son since he'd departed New York, but nothing surprised her where Nathanial was concerned. She placed her book on the coffee table, followed Shirley down the stairs, and opened the front door.
A giant Negro male dressed in rags shivered on her stoop, his lips blue. Amalia Harding didn't know whether he was a murderer or thief, but said, “Come in.”
The Negro entered the vestibule, teeth chattering, and handed her a wrinkled sheet of paper. She read that he indeed had been her son's slave and wondered what to do with him. “How's Nathanial?”
“Just fine, ma'am,” lied Otis.
“He isn't in any trouble?”
“No, ma'am.”
She realized that she was being rude, because the Negro hadn't eaten, and he surely needed a bath. She directed the grumbling Shirley to provide his needs and make a bed for him in the servants’ quarters.
Otis followed Shirley into the kitchen, where he consumed three ham sandwiches and a bowl of leftover chicken and noodle soup. Then he lay in a tub of hot water and recalled the unimaginable bright lights of Broadway that he'd just seen. He was given articles of Nathanial's clothing, and that night, the son of a Dogon high priestess slept on clean cotton sheets in a mansion on Washington Square.
After Mass, Maria Dolores approached Father Paolo as he was returning to the rectory. “May I speak with you, Father?”
“Of course, my dear,” the padre replied, although he had much to do. “Right this way.”
He led her to the vestry, where he removed his priestly garb that covered the black trousers and black shirt of his trade he wore beneath them. They sat in his office, and he offered a cup of black coffee.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with jolly familiarity.
“I want to get married, Father.”
He appeared surprised, but recovered quickly. “Who's the lucky man?”
“His name is Nathanial Barrington, and he is an American Army officer. But unfortunately, he is not Catholic.”
“He will have to become one, of course. Does he have objections?”
“No, but I hope we will not need to wait long.”
The priest raised his finger in the air. “Marriage is a step not to be taken lightly. How long have you known this man?”
“Nearly two months,” she said with slight exaggeration.
“I've always thought it unwise for people of dissimilar backgrounds to marry.”
“Nathanial and I are very similar, and we love each other.”
He leaned toward her and smiled cynically. “But what is love?”
“When you want to be with somebody.”
“Then dogs would be the best lovers of all.”
“Maybe they are.”
No matter how he preached, they never listened. Who has ever made a sensible marriage? he wondered. His own parents had quarreled incessantly, and when the pious youth recognized certain sinful desires for other males, he surrendered to God and became a priest.
“You are a fine women, Maria Dolores. I know what you think of me, that all I want is your money, but a person's contributions to Holy Mother Church are an indication of her dedication, and you have always been most generous. I must speak with the gentleman, and he may require study in our religion.”
“He's an Episcopalian, Father. That's not so different from us.”
“We shall see,” replied the priest.
Nathanial was strolling across the parade ground, lost in reveries of Maria Dolores, when he realized that Major Harding was headed straight for him. Nathanial wanted to hide, but there was no cave to dive into. All he could do was raise his arm and throw a salute.
Their eyes met, and Nathanial saw glimmers of rage. Major Harding returned the salute perfunctorily and walked past as if Nathanial were beneath contempt. I've insulted him profoundly, Nathanial realized. I should've stayed away from Rebecca, but my flaw is that I think the laws of nature don't apply to me, when in fact I'm the biggest imbecile of all, just as my father said.
He wondered if he was making a new mistake with Maria Dolores, because his mother would be horrified when she learned that he'd converted to the Catholic religion. New York gentlemen of his class simply didn't marry Mexican senoritas, but he was in love, whatever that meant, and was tired of his lonely cell in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters.
Maria Dolores wouldn't belittle his inclinations to prayer, but most of all, he had to confess, he was in lust with her. She was big and strong like he was, not petite like a doll or skinny as a scarecrow. Perhaps I've inherited my taste for dark-skinned women from my father, he mused.
His fondest dream was to wrestle naked with Maria Dolores, although he considered lust the most superficial reason for getting married. Yet, like most officers of his acquaintance, he secretly believed lust the finest, purest love of all and refused to deny himself paradise when life could end so suddenly.
If the major tries anything cute, I'll resign my commission, determined Nathanial. I don't need the army, but I need this woman. She's dreamed about me, and I've been waiting for her all my life. We're meant for each other, and nothing can stop me now.
Mangus Coloradas sat alone in a cave, listening to the murmurings of the mountain spirits. He had killed many enemies during his career, including Mexicans, Navahos, Comanches, Kiowa, and the White Eyes, and considered himself superior to any warrior in the world, yet his long reign had nearly ended with the pasty-faced White Eyes soldier with sunny hair.
Never had the great chief encountered such strength, not even when he'd wrestled famous warriors such as Ponce, Cuchillo Negro, Delgadito, Coleto Amarillo, and even young Lucero rising star of the People.
Mangus Coloradas had believed that the White Eyes were weaklings compared to Apaches, but now he had something new to chew upon. The experienced warrior had required all his much vaunted speed and skill merely to stay alive against the soldier with sunny hair.
“That White Eyes possessed strong medicine,” Mangus Coloradas acknowledged to the mouth of the cave, which framed an endless plain covered with snow. “But if ever I meet him again, I shall be ready.”
On the basalt floor lay a wooden handle, a roundish rock the size of three fists, and a square of rawhide. Mangus Coloradas placed the rock into the rawhide pouch and tied it to one end of the wooden handle, leaving enough slack for flexibility, the better to fracture an enemy's skull. Then he fashioned buckskin around the handle, so it wouldn't slip out of his hand, with a length of rawhide to loop around his wrist, as a final safety measure.
When finished, he held the war club in his right hand, stood, and brandished it as if an enemy were standing before him. “Sunny Hair is a great chief of the White Eyes,” he intoned, “but . . .” He brought the club down swiftly, crushing the skull of the gold-haired phantom standing before him.
Maria Dolores Carbajal had made another substantial contribution to Holy Mother Church, and Father Paolo sat at his desk, trying to figure if he could afford a school. A knock on the door disturbed his calculations, and he recalled that Maria Dolores's paramour had made an appointment.
Father Paolo distrusted deathbed conversions, not to mention those converting to the faith so they could marry.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened, and a giant in uniform stood stiffly in front of him. “Are you Father Paolo?”
“Indeed I am. Have a seat, Lieutenant Barrington.”
The pastoral side of his profession had given Father Paolo experience with many kinds of people, and this officer appeared a big friendly boy, except for those calm, determined eyes. “I want to talk with you about marrying Maria Dolores Carbajal, sir.”
Father Paolo leaned forward, for a closer look into those steely orbs. “Do you really love her?”
“Definitely.”
“Are you aware that Catholic marriage is forever, in good times and bad times, till death do you part? Because, my friend, the bloom is not on the rose forever.”
“Father,” replied Nathanial, “I saw three of my men get killed two weeks ago, and I'm lucky I'm alive. I've known a few women in my life, but Maria Dolores is the one I want to make a family with. She and I are more similar than is apparent from the outside. I can't explain it, but that's how it is.”
