The Dying Grass, page 30
General, I’d advise you to—
Generals rarely take advice from civilians, Agent Monteith. And now, a very tranquil night to you. Would you show him out, Wilkinson?
Well, then, general, good night.
Now what about Perry and Randall?
Just a personal difference between them, sir. They’re on the square now.
You’re a considerate friend to me, Wilkinson, and I’ll never forget it. O, and here’s a private letter to Portland.
I’ll make sure it goes out before we ride away, sir.
You see, Wilkinson, it’s Grace’s birthday. Can you believe it? She was born exactly twenty years ago to-day. At that time I was in Florida, removing the Seminoles. Mrs. Howard wrote me from Leeds—
Miss Howard is a fine young lady, general. Many happy returns to her!
Wood used to stop by. He’s almost a brother to her.
Yessir, I know he admires her talent for piano . . .
He’s talented himself. Have you seen his sketches?
Yessir.
Entre nous, my son Guy may be a trifle jealous of him, I fear.
Yessir.
Some suitor will propose any day now. Her youth’s flying by, it seems—
She’s a belle, sir,
remembering how the last time that the Howards invited him for dinner—
certainly an agreeable fireside:
Sherman’s visiting card uppermost in that brass receiver from Eugene Jaccard’s: genuine quality! Someday I’ll own one of sterling silver!
(frankly, I would rather pass an evening with these people than in the household of my own intended whose mother gives me the screaming willies)—
Grace was present with Chauncey,
who is everything I could have wished for in my own younger brother,
while Guy was away on duty with the Twelfth, and the innocuous James likewise absent; John G. said prayers very prettily (a lively, likely child!), and then they all toasted the United States, raising their glasses of root beer, the national temperance drink. The general told the same joke as always, the one about the three horses and the two little sheep; on the mantlepiece, in a barely tarnished brass frame, he remained young, moody and handsome in his Brady studio portrait, glowering palely away, with his arms folded on his breast—yes, he still had both of them—and his sword riding at his hip. Harry and Bessie sat up straight and continued on their good behavior, while Grace, to tell the truth, appeared formidable in her stiff wide petticoats, with her hair twisted up tight, thanks to goodness knows how many pins. She kept smiling brighteyed, with a pearl necklace taut around her long white neck; until Wilkinson, who of course must be counted the best observer in and of the general’s circle, stared away from her. He had always felt more at his ease with Mrs. Howard than with this immaculately cared for young lady, politely bred though she was—and this might have constituted the very stress point; he kept battling off a hovering perverse notion, which he naturally concealed, although perhaps not utterly, at least not from Mrs. Howard’s mild eyes, to reach out and with his forefinger simply touch Grace’s black velvet throat-band, where her little cross was fastened,
although she in no way tempted me and never would, even if I didn’t have Sallie’s promise
(for Wilkinson admits, if only to himself, that he has made certain mistakes with Grace, not least in openly smiling at her ludicrous pretension to understand her father’s affairs, never mind that he is happy to grant her, at least at first sight, the appearance of a GODfearing heart),
and her mouth is domineering, although she is certainly
an extremely accomplished young lady.
Thank you for saying so. I wish I’d had more leisure to enjoy her childhood. O, such a pretty little sprite she used to be when she ran about in a nightdress and her hair unpinned! When you have children of your own, you’ll see . . .
Yessir. Not many men have sacrificed as much as you and still continued on in the service—
Kindly said, if exaggerated. There’s Sladen, for instance. And during the war there were so many who—am I getting maudlin, Wilkinson?
Of course not, general.
I got her a copy of Martine’s Sensible Letter-Writer. A real standby!
I’m sure she’ll be grateful, sir.
Well, Lizzie must have wrapped it for her—
Of course Miss Howard understands—
O, I don’t know how much she understands.
Sir, I wouldn’t take it to heart—
No,
recollecting how Wood used to sing along when she played the piano. That young man had been an exceptionally graceful dancer ever since West Point, they said, and at Camp Bidwell he used to attend every ball with the ranchers’ daughters
(Wilkinson informs me he dances the German most gracefully
although how would he know?)—
o, is it “Tattoo” already? I’d better send for Mason . . .
and little Bessie clapping her hands in time, Lizzie knitting by the fire, smiling over her daughter and that young man and possibly half wishing that he would fall out with his Nanny Smith
while behind the residence of Agent Monteith our good treaty Indians keep singing:
Wakesh nun pakilauitin
JEHOVAN’M yiyauki—
but what on Earth has Lizzie got against Wilkinson? Well, I confess he can appear a trifle sour, but he’s brave and honest, not to mention a true Christian, whereas Wood . . .
I don’t suppose that Gracie was ever interested in him, not that it matters now.
Does Wood lie to me about his faith or lack of it? Wilkinson informs me that he declined to sing hymns at last year’s jamboree.
Someday I should take her at least as far as The Dalles. She’s so innocent of realities. But her mother isn’t, not anymore. Poor Lizzie—
If Joseph gets me, what will become of my family? Lizzie insists she will never remarry. But Grace has good metal in her, and JEHOVAH will provide. Guy’s got force of character. Too bad he judges so harshly. If he gets promoted a pay grade or two, then
Wakesh nun pakilauitin
JEHOVAN’M yiyauki,
and if General Sherman wished it, or for that matter the President, Congress could issue an appropriation for my outstanding lawyer fees; otherwise the estate will be eaten up. Well, the children will surely save Lizzie from the poorhouse.
Come to think of it, why shouldn’t Joseph be plotting to assassinate me at this very instant? His Cayuse relations planned their murder of the Whitmans with the farsighted treachery of Judases! But who among Lapwai’s good Indians would carry it out?— This Umatilla Jim, for all I know . . . although I must confess I like him.— Well, it’s in the LORD’s hands (and might be a relief). Moreover, for all Joseph’s now proven dissimulating ingenuity,
O, those brilliantly noncommittal eyes of his!
—evil’s fearful power—
and his Dreamer’s peak of hair, his shoulder-length braids, and those eight necklaces around his handsome throat (might each strand bear its own meaning? I should ask),
I consider him incompetent to execute any such deed from afar. In battle, of course, all is possible:
Gettysburg
Chancellorsville
Antietam
(where Wilkinson got his wound)
Fair Oaks
(where I got mine)
Bull Run
and Little Big Horn: Mrs. Custer folding her hands in her lap at the memorial service, gazing down and away from us, her dark duster fastened up to her throat, her high cheekbones and dark eyes almost squawlike—implacable woman!—but shouldn’t that be a virtue of sorts in an Army wife?
She never replied to Lizzie’s letter of condolence. Disdain or prostration? LORD, I must push away such thoughts! She received too many letters and too much grief.
But I do feel sad on Lizzie’s account.
Sheridan informed me that she longs to be at Sitting Bull’s hanging. Should Joseph kill me and should she seek to console Lizzie by saying: Dearie, we’ll sit together in the front row when Joseph dances at a rope’s end . . .
I’d almost like to see that myself!
Poor Custer! But I must pray for his murderers—and for his widow
and Mrs. Theller, who I fear will not soon submit to her loss
(I wouldn’t like to be the next Indian she meets!)
and Mrs. FitzGerald, who’s now terrified I’ll send her husband into the field, as of course I must
(I’d better look in on her this evening)
and Lizzie,
who can take care of herself no matter how blue she feels.
Anyhow, all that’s up to Him Who knoweth all things. To think that Marcus Gilbert closed his eyes but last year, eighty-five years old, having served in the War of 1812!—and meanwhile the Gilbert family, so Rowland tells me, has nearly died out in Leeds, although they were prominent among the original settlers; why that should be passeth understanding; praised be His Mysteries, Amen. Leeds! I don’t suppose I’ll ever again live there
where the light comes through the clouds to strike Androscoggin Lake
(how I remember the long golden streaks on the lake
and then the light of the ice
and the fields rich and creamy with snow!).
And shall I too live to eighty-five, or shall I die of arrow or bullet next week in some Idaho cañon?
But the children, especially Chauncey—no, actually, Gracie’s the one who
rides so elegantly. I wonder if she ever forgave me for not buying that brown hackney? I didn’t want her to worry about my debts, so she must have thought me simply mean. For a fact, she deserves a better horse than the bay.
Guy will look after her, if he’s spared, and so will
OUR FATHER Who
and Joseph’s perpetually downturned mouth—why does he make that expression?
—strangely like Custer: coarse-faced, big-nosed, staring out from under his big dark slouch hat, stubble on his lip and chin, shadows on his chin; long curly hair down the back of his neck; he could almost be a Mexican miner.— Dearest, he’s had a very hard life, Lizzie whispered in my ear.— And a hard death! But he died gloriously for Government and country; he’s surely in Heaven—
art in Heaven
Libbie Custer with her hands in her lap
hallowed be Thy Name
and Lizzie: Dearest, if you died I don’t know what I’d do. Please don’t ever. Promise me.
Thy Kingdom come:
She can care for herself.
Wilkinson behaves well, as if he weren’t afraid. A stellar product of the artillery branch! He has good hope of Heaven.
I should have written a letter to Gracie.
There’s still time.
If I could take Lizzie back to Saratoga Springs and sit on the hotel porch drinking a tumbler of Congress water, she’d
Wilkinson looks tired! Why do the young so often experience more difficulties in that department? Well, it can’t be helped.
He’s not afraid, is he?
Wakesh nun pakilauitin
JEHOVAN’M yiyauki—
Saratoga can’t compare to Niagara Falls.
And Lizzie in her bathing-dress at Atlantic City, a long time ago (I don’t suppose we’ll ever again
)
Now. Has Lieutenant Bomus completed his report?
Yessir. All the trousers were already distributed. And it’s just as you thought; the 1876-issue overcoats never came in, not that we’ll require them in this weather! Anyhow, the usual holdup at Leavenworth—
Have you seen them?
No, sir.
Well, the cape is longer, and there are fewer buttons. Sherman is enamored. Not very different from previous issue, actually. If you’d like one, I’ll bring it up the next time I steam up from Portland.
Thanks, general; you’re very thoughtful.
What’s our current strength?
A total force of two hundred and twenty-seven effectives, sir, verified by Major Mason. And when we pick up Perry’s survivors at Grangeville—
Well, it’ll have to do.
Thy will be done
Sir, we’ll have Joseph whipped in two weeks at the outside.
No doubt.
Sir, why can’t we strike him with more troops?
I cannot safely diminish Fort Lapwai as long as Joseph threatens Kamiah. You ought to see that, Wilkinson! We’ll raise two additional companies to occupy him until we can concentrate our forces. General Sherman has agreed to transship us a contingent of troops from the South . . .
General—
You realize, Wilkinson, what this means—the defeat of Emancipation. Once the Government has withdrawn to completion, the former masters will be able to disenfranchise the freedmen—
I’m very sorry, sir.
Well, such is necessity. Is your question answered?
Yessir. The negroes will be in my prayers—
Good. And perhaps even our glowering Mr. Randall will be of help against Joseph, if he’s not confined in the guardhouse by then.
Let’s hope he isn’t, sir.
What’s your opinion of him?
Nothing but a bruiser, sir.
And this Umatilla Jim?
Seems all right to me, sir.
I’ll bet Monteith would call him a straight arrow—
You slay me, sir.
Before you retire to-night, will you please confirm that he’s on the recruiting return?
Absolutely, sir.
You see, Wilkinson, since the Indians of Malheur Agency are the least civilized of any, we can’t reduce Harney’s strength below two companies. Captain Paige has begun to organize more volunteers at Walla-Walla—
That’s all right, then, sir.
You know Harney, don’t you?
A real American, sir. He won’t let you down.
And Paige is a friend of Ad Chapman’s.
Well, sir, that may be so, but unlike him, Captain Paige is no squaw man.
Are you intimating that Mr. Chapman bears watching?
It’s hard to know what to make of him, sir. Mighty fine horses he breeds—
Is it his choice of spouse which troubles you?
Sir, if I may ask, what do you think about it?
What would you have me think, Wilkinson?
Sir, you have a bigger heart than most men. The way it seems to several of us, a man who loves an Indian must be an Indian lover, so who’s he going to love when an Indian war breaks out?
JESUS said, love thy neighbor as thyself.
Yessir.
I know you’re with me on that, Wilkinson, although it may sound ludicrous to our less religious soldiers. At any rate . . .
Yessir.
Naturally, a civilized white man is lowered in many respects by marrying an uncivilized Indian woman; still, many an Indian woman married to a white man has borne him worthy children.
Yessir. Mr. West for example is certainly a decent enough half-breed—
Enough on this. You distrust Mr. Chapman,
who for what it’s worth (good instincts, Wilkinson!) reminds me of one of those Wayne people who sell cattle and sheep to Boston; Father always used to say there was something sharp about them; Chapman’s got that sort of face—
although not exactly, for the Wayne people guard themselves, hoping to be mistaken for boulders, while he wallows in his enjoyment: a galloping case of that Western disease, the “thrills.”
Perry insists that he definitely fired the first shot at White Bird Cañon.
Then he must have done, sir.
So Captain Jocelyn lied to me.
Yessir.
Why?
He’s afraid we might be soft on the Indians.
And what’s your feeling about that?
I feel you’ll be fair and generous as always, sir.
Thank you.
And blot this rebellion out—
Of course.
Sir, if that bit about Chapman appears in Perry’s report, will the Government take it out on us?
It won’t be in the report. I’ve spoken with Major Mason.
I’m glad of that on Perry’s account, sir,
and still believe the general—poor haunted old one-armed man!—has been far too lenient with Perry and should have sent him to be court-martialed. If only I could have been in charge at White Bird Cañon! Perry does not comprehend how to deploy his men and should probably be removed from command. When will he stop lying to protect himself? To think he will be leading a share of the column to-morrow! All the same—
Yes. Have you written to your parents?
Well, sir, I’ve made the time, but—
Your father’s health is failing, I believe.
My sisters are keeping him comfortable, sir.
Is he using laudanum?
Yessir. The doctor says it’s rallied him wonderfully.
A miraculous medicine! I took it after my amputation. Every night at bedtime, four or five drops, depending on the pain, and then I’d drift straight off! But Mrs. Howard said it made me snore, so I gave it up.
Yessir. Some people say it’s hard to stop.
I didn’t find it so.
Is he getting ill? He looks pale. Perhaps it’s merely the excitement. But he’s been on Indian service before. I should let him rest—
Now, Wilkinson, what about your Sallie with the dark curls?
I did write her, sir. Thanks for asking.
Don’t forget your parents to-night.
Sir, I promise.
That procedure’s always wisest for a soldier. Then he can meet Fate without any clutter in his heart—
Yessir.
Come to think of it, I wish I could find time to drop a line to my brother Charley.
Shall I take dictation now, sir?
No, no. You wouldn’t believe how brave he was in the Secession War! We were both wounded on the same day. He was hit first. Seeing him laughing and joking all covered in blood, well, I felt proud to be his brother. Then he was wounded again at Fredericksburg—
