“Yes, sir. Mahone would be daft to do so,” Duncan began extracting greenbacks.
CHAPTER 16
WHAT RAVEN SAW
The Lord JesuChrist and whoring kept Low Dog from my dreams.
My crib was in Wong’s Saloon. Sundays I worshipped JesuChrist so eagerly that Mrs. Evans, the reverend’s wife, invited me to supper, but when she heard about Wong’s Mrs. Evans said I shouldn’t come.
Low Dog is too clean to visit me where an unwashed miner has rummaged and JesuChrist’s songs drive him, howling, into the night.
It was not long before the Lord JesuChrist’s birthday. Ice crystals skittered over the bare ground and the miners made bonfires on the gravel bars so they could keep digging their yellow metal. It was my time of the month so the miners used other women. I tried to stay awake. I prayed and sang JesuChrist songs.
But when I closed my eyes Low Dog said, “There you are. I was afraid you wouldn’t come tonight.” Low Dog’s companion, Raven, rode his back.
“Why do you show me these things?”
Low Dog acted hurt. “Haven’t you traveled far? Haven’t I showed you your husband?”
“He is ugly like a black bear.”
Low Dog licked his anus. “He will give you children and will not beat you. What more do you want?” He quit his anus to lick his lips and smile. “My friend Raven will carry you.”
Raven cannot smile. He only opens his beak to speak or take food. “Get on my back,” he said. “I will show you deeds Lakota will sing about forever.”
Raven flew south to where the Montana Road left Fort Phil Kearny, crossed Big Piney Creek, and followed Lodge Trail Ridge onto a spur above Peno Valley. Snow lay in its wagon ruts.
Some Lakota had attacked a wood party north of the fort and army semaphores waved and Raven flew over the parade ground where a company of Seizers was assembling. Some of the Seizers were eager and made their horses dance, but the other Seizers were untried warriors and could not conceal their trembling.
Their Chief told the mounted Seizers they must not cross Lodge Trail Ridge, they must not.
The Seizers hurried out of the fort, racing to catch the Lakota and make them cry.
Raven croaked and flew higher until the Seizers looked like ants going to honey. When Raven glided over Lodge Trail Ridge I saw more warriors than I had ever seen in one place: Oglala and Miniconjous, Lakota, Bad Faces, Arapaho, and Northern Cheyenne.
The great war chief Red Cloud was leading them.
The Seizers hurried to cut off the Lakota decoys, but the Lakota fled toward Lodge Trail Ridge. The Seizers paused. Maybe they were remembering the Seizer Chief’s orders, maybe they feared an ambush.
Just inside long rifle range the warriors taunted the Seizers and called them cowards.
The Seizers came on cautiously. The Lakota became more daring and more insulting. Young Crazy Horse stood on his horse’s back and lifted his loincloth and showed disrespect. The Seizers fired at him and Crazy Horse fell. Thus encouraged, the Seizers came up Lodge Trail Ridge. The wounded Crazy Horse built a small fire and sat slouched before it, ignoring the bullets kicking dirt up around him. The Seizers advanced to kill him.
Three times Crazy Horse tried to mount his horse before he succeeded and crossed the ridgetop. The Seizers rode after him
Atop Lodge Trail Ridge they saw rolling prairie, the ruts of the Montana Road, tall grass, the familiar expanse of pale blue sky, and a Raven cawing overhead.
Crazy Horse was escaping toward Peno Creek. Companions held him on his horse. Angry Seizers spurred after.
When Crazy Horse and the other decoys crossed Peno Creek, Crazy Horse recovered and raced his horse in a circle—the signal—and so many warriors appeared that the Seizers were like a thread of blue dye in a brown river.
The roof over their heads was a roof of arrows.
Lakota war cries were louder than blackhorns shaking the earth and the Seizers stank with fear.
On strong wings, Raven lifted higher into the air as Seizer souls rose to JesuChrist.
CHAPTER 17
DISPATCH FROM COLONEL HENRY CARRINGTON, COMMANDING FORT PHIL KEARNY,
TO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL, DEPARTMENT OF THE PLATTE, OMAHA, NEBRASKA, DECEMBER 22, 1866
Do send me reinforcements forthwith. Expedition now with my force is impossible. I risk everything but the post and its stores. I have had but today a fight unexampled in indian warfare; my loss is 94 killed.
I have recovered 49 bodies, and 35 more are to be brought in, in the morning, that have been found. Among the killed are Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Fetterman, Captain F. J. Brown, and Lieutenant Grummond. The indians engaged were nearly 3,000, being apparently the force reported on Tongue River, in my dispatches of 5th November and subsequent thereto. This line is important, can and will be held. It will take four times the force in the spring to reopen it. I hear nothing of my arms that left Leavenworth September 10. The additional cavalry ordered to join us has not been reported; their arrival would have saved us much loss today.
The indians lost beyond all precedent. I need prompt reinforcement and repeating arms. I am sure to have, as before reported, an active winter and must have men and arms. Every officer of this battalion should join it. Today I have every teamster on duty, and but 119 men left at post. I hardly need urge this matter; it speaks for itself. Give me two companies of cavalry, at least forthwith, well armed, or four companies of infantry exclusive of what is needed at Reno and Fort Smith.
I did not overestimate my early application of a single company. Promptness will save the line, but our killed shows that any remissness will result in mutilation and butchery beyond precedent. No such mutilation as that today is on record. Depend on it that the post will be held so long as a round or a man is left. Promptness is the vital thing. Give me officers and men. Only the new Spencer carbine should be sent; the indians are desperate; I spare none and they spare none.
Henry Carrington, Commanding
CHAPTER 18
LETTER FROM EDWARD RATCLIFF TO JESSE BURNS
VIRGINIA CITY,
MONTANA TERRITORY
JANUARY 1867
Friend Jesse,
My wife She Goes Before writes this for me.
It’s snowing again. Snow drifts halfway up our dugout window. We’re lucky we got us a dugout. Plenty miners living in tents.
All the trees for miles outside Virginia City are felled for sluice boxes and pit props. Paydirt is twelve feet below the surface so props keep the trenches from caving in. Firewood is dear. She Goes Before has an elk stew on the stove. Elk meat tastes better than buffalo.
There’s five or six thousand men here trying their damnedest to get rich. I guess it can be done. Bummer Dan swapped a Sharps carbine for his claim and Dan’s bar produced a half million before it played out.
Virginia City smells like Petersburg bombproofs. I guess dug dirt all smells the same.
Gold dust is money. A pinch for a haircut or shot of whiskey. Two pinches for a girl.
I don’t guess I’m a prospector. After three weeks digging, I sold my half of our claim to my partner Ben Shillaber. Ben sold out too and plays poker. He says poker is a better gamble than mining! I couldn’t find a cook’s job so I hired on for a bouncer in Wong’s Saloon. I sit on a stool at the end of the bar and give toughs the evil eye. Before they got law here, road agents robbed and killed whoever they had a mind to. Biggest road agent of all was this Plummer—and he was the sheriff! The vigilantes hung him.
Sometimes the vigilantes hung somebody who hadn’t done much but mostly they hung them what needed it. The toughs who stayed are too scared to be tough anymore.
Jesse, I got me a woman. She Goes Before is a Santee Lakota. She was taught by missionaries to read and write. She is teaching me Lakota lingo.
Soldiers strung up her father during the ’62 Santee rising. When I met her she was a whore. She says living with me keeps her from dreaming.
There aren’t many women in Virgi
nia City so I’m lucky. I like her pretty good. Yesterday, Wong asked if he could borrow her back just for Saturday nights. Ha, ha!
Virginia City is getting civilized. There’s a telegraph to Salt Lake so we get news soon as it happens. I hear the Virginia Legislature won’t ratify the 14th Amendment. I’ve seen chickens with more sense!
If you got to be a nigger, this is better than Texas or Virginia! Some out here hate us, but niggers are a damn sight better off than chinks. White man shoots a chink don’t think nothing of it. Indians neither. Whites are too busy killing indians and chinks to fool with niggers! Some coloreds have started a social club—just like the Masonics.
I expect you heard about Fetterman losing his hair. He was a damn fool. She Goes Before’s people call that fight A Hundred in the Hand. A month before they killed Fetterman, I helped bring Nelson Story’s beeves through that country. We were lucky. I guess luck’s what it comes down to.
She Goes Before says things are better across the Medicine Line in the Grandmother’s land. In Canada whites and indians and niggers live in peace.
How are things with you? Write me your news.
Your Okola (that’s Lakota for friend)
Ratcliff
CHAPTER 19
A FORMER LOVER
THE VERY PREGNANT MRS. DUNCAN GATEWOOD DISMISSED HER CAB outside 376 Clay Street. A few blocks from the Confederate White House, Clay Street had been among Richmond’s best addresses. Carpetbaggers owned most of the mansions now.
376’s wide front porch had no chairs, no porch swing, nor glider. Its drapes were pulled. The house seemed to be facing inward.
Although this was the last place on earth she wanted to be and she dreaded the information she sought, Mrs. Duncan Gatewood stiffened her spine, heaved her bulk up the steps, and spun the door pull. Twice for good measure.
Orioles were clamoring in a tree across the street. A ragman’s wagon creaked by. A horseman tipped his hat.
Mrs. Gatewood heard a door slam somewhere down the street. A Mammy shouted, “Tommy! Tommy! You get’s yourself back in this house right now!”
This sheer ordinariness made her mission ridiculous.
The door jerked open and a sharp-featured negro maid eyed her suspiciously.
“Mrs. Duncan Gatewood, to see Mrs. Omohundru.” Sallie offered her card.
The maid put her hands behind her back. “Mrs. Omohundru ain’t receivin’ today. She don’t hardly never receive.”
The entry hall behind the woman was dim and the hall chairs were shrouded.
“It think it best Mrs. Omohundru decide whether she’ll see me or not,” Sallie said. “Assure her I will not embarrass her.”
The maid rolled that thought around in her mouth like a child with a hard candy. Her hand darted to the card and she shut the door in Sallie’s face.
Sallie heard the Mammy down the street calling, “Tommy, you come out of where you’re hidin’!”
A squad of blue-clad cavalrymen trotted past and their captain saluted. Many Southern women snubbed the yankees, but Sallie nodded. What did that captain have to do with her? Was he faithful? Did he love his children?
Sallie had waited almost long enough to change her mind when the door opened as suddenly as before and the maid stood aside to let Sallie enter the high-ceilinged, chilly house. A wide staircase mounted to the second floor. The maid opened a door off the hall. “Mrs. Omohundru, she be ’long shortly. You can wait in the parlor.”
The room was formally arranged with high-backed horsehair settees and chairs. The lithographs on the wall were indifferent renderings of city scenes. The fireplace looked as if it had never held a fire. The room’s liveliest object was a plain-faced clock in an ebony case that hesitated as if the clock were taking a breath between each tick and tock.
A familiar Southern lithograph, The Burial of Latane, had the place of honor over the mantel.
Though there were several sconces, the gaslights were turned so low they almost sputtered.
Sallie rubbed cold hands together.
A moment later the maid returned with a sherry decanter, two glasses, and a cup of tea: no milk, no sugar. Sallie tasted bitter, tepid tea.
Although she was listening for footfalls, the turning latch startled her. Silent as a cat, the black-clad widow slipped into her parlor. Sallie rose. “Mrs. Omohundru.”
“Mrs. Gatewood.” Mrs. Omohundru’s black garb was unornamented by ribbon or flounce. Her buttons marched up her corseted bosom like funeral coins. Her veil was attached to a small old-fashioned hat.
When she poured two glasses of sherry, ordinary hospitality seemed almost shocking; as if one were not supposed to eat or drink or smile in this grim house.
“Thank you,” Sallie said. The sherry was wildly sweet with a sour metallic aftertaste. Sallie washed it down with bitter tea.
When the widow lifted her veil, Sallie was astonished at how young she was: Twenty? Twenty-one? The woman had been beautiful as a child and now she was a nubian princess. Sallie’s heart cried out for her husband. Duncan had loved this woman once. Did he still?
Mrs. Omohundru’s stare was too direct for politeness. Sallie put down her sherry and her cup.
“More?”
“No. Thank you so much.”
“I searched the Tidewater for that particular sherry.”
“It is . . .”
Mrs. Omohundru arched an eyebrow. “Indescribable?”
The word was so unexpected and the other woman’s stare so intense, Sallie didn’t know if the woman had meant what she’d said. She took a deep breath and relaxed. “Only a poet could do it justice.”
“You and Duncan grew up together,” the widow said bluntly. “I suppose he and I grew up together too. You know all about that. You were at Stratford that Christmas . . .”
“When you were sold south. Yes, I was.”
Her eyes were dark and very cold. “I have become Marguerite Omo-hundru,” she said. “Officially, I am the white widow of the Confederate hero Silas Omohundru. I own a majority share in the Farmers and Merchants Bank. I was born in Nassau, the Bahamas, the daughter of a Methodist minister. My parents are, alas, deceased.”
“I can see why you would prefer that history. You can trust me, Marguerite. I won’t reveal your secret, no matter . . .”
“No matter what?”
Sallie’d gotten off on the wrong foot. To gain time, Sallie took a sip of sherry, and choked.
When Marguerite’s face lit up, years dropped away with her discarded hauteur. She enthused, “It is vile stuff, isn’t it?”
Sallie thought, Lord, she is so beautiful. She asked, “Do you always serve this potion to your guests?”
“Invariably. Men who call on me see me as a potential acquisition, and as you may know, Virginia laws permit a husband to make whatever disposition of his wife’s wealth he wishes. Several would-be suitors have assured me they can handle my money better than any widow can. Hence the Latane.” She indicated the painting. “Faithful darkies mourning a fallen Confederate hero—if the scene doesn’t remind my suitors of my heroic husband Silas, I direct their attention to it and ask, ‘Where, sir, did you serve?’ knowing full well that whatever privations they endured in the War, Silas’s sacrifice was greater than theirs. My callers drink my tea and since the parlor is cold they have a second glass of sherry as I explain that Silas laid down a cellar of the elixir which I prefer to any other.” She put a finger to her chin. “My most persistent suitor—a Carolina gentleman on the verge of ruin—visited three times before he accepted bankruptcy rather than one more glass of my wonderful sherry.”
She laughed so merrily Sallie nearly laughed too. Abruptly, Marguerite changed tack. “Neither you nor Duncan can see my son. If you believe you can force the issue, you are mistaken. My Jacob would suffer dreadfully were his parentage revealed. You cannot wish that any more than I do.” Pointedly she eyed Sallie’s pregnancy. “Surely you will not want that!”
“That’s not why I came,” S
allie said.
“Can I believe you? But dare I? Jacob . . . he . . .”
“My husband calls your name in his sleep,” Sallie said bluntly.
Could Sallie credit her puzzled frown?
“Lovers? Duncan and I? Good Lord. I have not seen your husband since . . . Mrs. Gatewood, I have not been with your husband since Master Gatewood, his father, sold me south.”
“You swear? Oh, I’d prayed . . .” Sallie dropped her face into her hands.
“Sallie . . . May I call you Sallie? I cannot imagine what gave you such a notion. I remember you as sensible.”
Sallie’s head jerked up. She stiffened.
“Perhaps your condition?”
She stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Marguerite. We shan’t be seeing each other again.”
Marguerite’s smile was softer. “You do know why he calls my name. I can see it in your eyes.” She cocked her head. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”
“I’ve been a fool.”
Marguerite dismissed that. “No. You are gravid. Like myself, you have never been a fool. Forgive me, Mrs. Gatewood. I knew your husband in another life before I became who I am.” Impulsively, Marguerite put out her hands.
“Will you join me in my garden room? It’s a pleasanter place to talk. We’ll have some hot tea.”
“It is the laudanum, you know,” Sallie said slowly. “It is the laudanum. I am a good wife, but I cannot produce better dreams than laudanum.”
CHAPTER 20
THE SUPPLICANT
No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any state, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.