Canaan

  Blue Cloud offered the pipe to the four directions and to the White Buffalo Maiden who had taught the Lakota the ghost-owning ceremony.

  Friends gathered inside the spirit lodge to feast on buffalo tongue and hump that had been boiling over the fire. When no one could eat more, Plenty Cuts gave a fine buckskin vest to Red Cloud. He gave a pair of fine moccasins to Old Man Afraid of His Horses. He gave a parfleche to Pretty Shield, the mother of Riding Bear, who had been killed fighting the Crows. He gave a horse to the winkte Shivering Aspen. He gave his Henry rifle to Iron Bear and his Colts revolver to White Bull. “I might have killed you with this, my brother,” he said. That day, Plenty Cuts gave away fifty horses.

  Blue Cloud sang and drummed through the afternoon while Plenty Cuts and She Goes Before gave away possessions. After the sun set, Blue Cloud carried the spirit bundle to the open door and prayed as he opened the bundle.

  When the healer opened the bundle, everyone shouted so Red Leaf would be accompanied by joy on her journey across the Shadowland.

  Men congratulated Plenty Cuts and She Goes Before and Blue Whirlwind Woman beamed as She Goes Before and Plenty Cuts told their guests to take what they wanted from the lodge. He gave the lodge itself to a poor widow. He removed his trousers and beautiful beaded vest and She Goes Before took off her dress and her moccasins and pressed them on a young woman she didn’t know very well.

  When it was finished, Plenty Cuts and She Goes Before were naked. They owned nothing but Plenty Cuts’s medal, Red Leaf’s ghost, and their new life together.

  CHAPTER 41

  GENERAL MAHONE’S SIGNAL VICTORY

  THE EVENING JINGLED AND JANGLED. CARRIAGES CLOGGED THE street outside Richmond’s Spottswood Hotel and Stephen Foster’s jaunty tunes poured through open windows to compete with the banjo players on the porch. Those waiting outside to congratulate General Mahone wore Sunday best, those already inside owned more than one Sunday suit.

  It was sultry. Mist hung over the James.

  At the door A.M.&O. railroad detectives separated the sheep from the goats. Mr. Charles Chepstow sputtered. “I brought out the negro vote for Robert Patterson.”

  “Yes, sir,” a burly detective replied. “I already told the General what you told me. Patterson lost. General was surprised you come. Evening, Colonel Ward. What a triumph, eh, sir?”

  Inside, General Mahone received admirers in the larger Spottswood’s reception room while Gilbert Walker, Virginia’s new governor, held court in the other. Duncan and Sallie sat on the stairs above the crush.

  “Look, there’s General Gordon.”

  “And General Hampton.”

  Thomas Byrd waved.

  “Oh, dear. There’s Thomas.”

  Duncan grinned. “Mr. Stuart’s confidant? The esteemed legislator-elect from Augusta County? ‘Oh, dear, there’s Thomas’ indeed. Come, we must pay our respects.”

  The one-armed gentleman and his wife excused themselves through the crowd.

  “Duncan!” Thomas was all smiles. “Isn’t this simply grand?”

  “Congratulations on your election.”

  “You mean congratulations on our election. White men are restored to suffrage in Virginia!”

  “Let us hope we are worthy of our franchise,” Duncan replied.

  “Come,” Thomas said. “The General wants to thank you personally.”

  General Mahone and Alexander Stuart were sober. Otelia Mahone wore the strained smile of one who has heard too many outpourings from too many ardent, inebriated hearts.

  “Well, Major.” In his spotless white linen suit, the tiny General seemed a confection. “Thanks to your efforts we have won a signal victory.”

  “Sir, you musn’t overestimate my contribution.”

  “On the contrary, General, you are welcome to overestimate my husband whenever you wish.” Somewhat to her dismay, Sallie had learned charm’s usefulness.

  General Mahone bowed. “Are you certain, madam, that you cannot persuade your husband to remain in my employ?”

  “Sir, when my husband was wounded, his hopes kept him alive. He has always loved horses and hopes to make our livelihood from them. Mrs. Mahone, I believe your husband knows ‘hope’?”

  Otelia Mahone was startled into candor. “ ‘Resolve,’ perhaps. ‘Hope’ lacks luster for Billy.”

  Thomas Byrd toasted, “A new governor, a Virginia Constitution ratified . . .”

  “And the Atlantic, Mississippi & Ohio,” Mahone returned, lifting a glass he wasn’t holding. Mahone caught Duncan’s ear. “Major, Mr. Chepstow is making a commotion at the door. Please send him away.” Mahone took his wife’s hands. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I give you the authoress of all my happiness.”

  THE RAIN WAS WHAT Virginia country folk call a “lady rain,” gentle and persistent. The cobblestones glistened. Coachmen waited inside their rigs.

  Those who would be admitted to the gala had been. The railway detectives leaned against the porch rail and smoked. The banjo players’ circle of chairs was empty. Charles Chepstow’s face was slick and pale.

  “Evening, Mr. Chepstow. General Mahone thanks you for your efforts. I cannot think of many more deserving of Virginia’s gratitude.”

  “I had hoped for more tangible gratitude. Do you know how difficult it is to persuade a negro to vote for a white man like Robert Patterson?”

  Duncan Gatewood smiled. “Mahone asked you to campaign for Patterson? The General throws a wide net.”

  “I had expenses . . .”

  “Sir, at one time you thought to become governor of the Common-wealth of Virginia. You are spared a duty many men would not seek and those who obtain often find onerous. General Mahone asks that you go home. Sir, you will not be admitted.”

  Chepstow opened and closed his mouth several times but found no sentences therein. The ex-editor disappeared among the carriages.

  Sallie whispered, “ ‘Deserving of Virginia’s gratitude.’ Darling, you are a hypocrite.”

  “Dear, we ordinary mortals are indebted to men like Charles Chepstow and Thaddeus Stevens. They are living reminders that moral certainty must finally give way to messy, illogical kindness.”

  They walked through the July rain like newlyweds. What they said was unimportant; like mourning doves, they cooed.

  Just a few blocks from the august Spottswood Hotel they entered that part of the city known as Marshall Ward.

  JESSE BURNS’S VICTORY celebration had neither banjo players nor detectives. The victorious candidate received his constituents outdoors on a wooden chair underneath a tattered canopy. Men shook Jesse’s hand, introduced their children, and though a few pressed for favors most had come from their pleasure that a fellow negro had been elected to the legislature of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Jimson Burns ushered them into their man’s presence and, when that young man thought a constituent had overstayed, hastened him along.

  Jesse rose to his feet. “Major Gatewood. Miss Sallie.”

  “The Honorable Assemblyman Burns,” Duncan replied. “Jesse, we’re proud of you.”

  Jesse grinned. “Reckon I’m proud too.” He turned to his supporters. “Friends, there are some say, ‘Never trust the white man,’ but Major Duncan, Miss Sallie, and I grew up together. Sit down, Major, take my chair.”

  “Assemblyman Burns, your friends didn’t come out in the rain to meet me. We’ve come to offer our congratulations.”

  “You and Miss Sallie slip on inside. I won’t be much longer and Sudie will skin me if you get away without seeing her.”

  Sudie’s laundry lines were empty tonight and chicken stew burbled on the stovetop. “Hello, Master Duncan, Miss Sallie. If I’d knowed you was comin’, I’d of scrubbed this house.”

  “Mrs. Burns . . .” The two women embraced while Duncan went to the cradle and extended his fingers to baby Sojourner. “What a strong little thing! I don’t believe I ever saw a baby with a stronger grip.”

  Duncan and Sallie were soon seated at Sudie’s kitchen table.
When Jimson came in, his mother asked if he had washed and the boy replied with the air of a man who cannot be bothered with trivialities that he had.

  “We don’t have no city water in Marshall Ward,” Sudie said. “Just that hand pump down the street. No sewer neither. Mrs. Gatewood, what I liked about Jesse from the start: he don’t swerve. He’s like one of them locomotive engines on the track, it only got one way to go and if you’re in the way, you better jump for your life. When Jesse says change will come, it will!”

  Jesse entered, massaging his swollen hand. “Well, this here locomotive has shook more hands than any locomotive should have to. Even old Deacon Hanley came to tell me I ‘stand up for the negro.’ Duncan, Miss Sallie. Will you take supper with us?”

  Sallie said, “We’d be pleased. That chicken smells good.”

  “Wait’ll you taste Ma’s cornbread,” Jimson said.

  “Don’t you go braggin’ on me.”

  Sudie laid out mismatched plates, reserving the cracked ones for Jimson and herself. Jesse brought the chicken, pot and all, to the table and Sudie set cornbread beside it.

  Jesse bowed his head and offered thanks for the food and for the opportunity to serve his people and for his wife and his son and his brand-new daughter, Sojourner Burns. He thanked God for his friends the Gatewoods and hoped there’d never be enmity between them.

  After dinner they lingered, talking late into the night about olden times on Stratford Plantation. Because they would not think how unusual it was for whites and blacks to be eating together, it wasn’t unusual at all.

  CHAPTER 42

  IMMIGRANTS

  HIS SIGN HAD SEEN BETTER DAYS: “ELLAM OMOHUNDRU: DEALER in Full Task Hands, House Workers, and Sound Horses.”

  “He’s supposed to have good horses,” Duncan apologized to Aunt Opal.

  The proprietor’s vest was green, worn over a sleeveless shirt. His broad-brimmed hat perched on his ears. His odor was complex.

  Duncan said, “A Silas Omohundru speculated in slaves . . .”

  “Uncle Silas taught me the business. Said I should never forget they was human and I suppose they was, partly.” Ellam giggled. “Uncle Silas was the hero of Fort Gregg. Tough old rooster. Didn’t do to cross Uncle Silas. Don’t do to cross Ellam Omohundru neither, if you get my drift.” His suspicious glower skidded off Duncan’s eyes. “Lost a wing in the War? I was in Richmond overseeing slaves on the fortifications. Lee wanted to draft them into the army. Imagine that: niggers fightin’ side by side with white boys.” Ellam rubbed his mouth. He ignored the stone-faced Aunt Opal.

  Duncan said, “I am seeking a stallion.”

  Omohundru’s establishment was a hodgepodge of brick stables and outbuildings outside the suburb of Manchester on the south side of the James. Stablemen barrowed dung onto towering heaps. Others exercised horses on a circular track.

  “Uncle Silas’s widow won’t receive me. Twict I called on her and her nigger said she ‘wasn’t at home to the likes of me.’ Some joke. Uncle Silas was a bastard, you know. Ellam’s a Piedmont Omohundru.”

  Duncan said, “You do sell stallions?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. Hell yes. Finest stallions in Virginia.” He winked. “Yankee officer gets to drinkin’ and playin’ cards and pretty soon he’s got nothin’ to wager but his horse and next mornin’ Ellam’s got another horse for sale.” With his thumbs in his vest pockets, the man resembled a banty in full crow.

  “Mr. Omohundru . . .” Duncan said.

  “You want to see them? Hell, I didn’t know you was in no hurry. Olden days gentlemen had time for a little talk, maybe a tot or two before they got down to business. Yankee ways: these days everything got to be yankee ways.”

  Without further remonstrance, the dealer escorted Duncan through the stalls. Each of his horses had a baroque history. Many had belonged to a “real gentleman” fallen on hard times who’d been obliged to sell an animal dearer to him than life itself. “Had to pay fifty dollars gold for him,” he said of one thoroughbred. “Officer’s mother was dying and the gravedigger wanted his fee.”

  Twice Duncan entered a stall to examine teeth and feet. Once he asked that an animal be saddled. “Backer’s a spirited beast,” Omohundru said. “You’ll want a martingale for him. He’s a hell of a horse—wants a real rider.”

  Duncan gripped the left rein between thumb and forefinger, the right between third and fourth.

  Aunt Opal watched critically while Duncan gaited the steed.

  Ellam raised his voice. “You’ll be wantin’ brood mares too, I reckon. I heard about you, Major Gatewood, how you was buyin’ up brood mares all over the Tidewater, roans and blacks, sixteen hands, well broke, no more’n six years. I was wonderin’ when you’d get to ol’ Ellam.”

  “I have purchased enough mares. Omohundru, what do you want for Backer?”

  “You know”—Omohundru scratched his head—“You done picked the best stallion on the place. I was gonna put Backer out with my own mares.”

  “I suspected such might be the case.”

  Aunt Opal whispered in Duncan’s ear.

  “What’s the nigger want?” Omohundru asked. “Tell her I ain’t buyin’ no more niggers. ’Gainst the law these days.” He eyed Aunt Opal as he had his horses. “Don’t expect I would have paid much for you, Mammy. You’re past your prime.”

  Duncan’s smile contained a warning. “As you say, sir. It is illegal.”

  Without breaking stride, Omohundru continued, “Backer belonged to a Massachusetts colonel. I’d take three hundred for him.”

  Duncan indicated a nondescript roan in the exercise ring. “My advisor fancies that one.”

  “But you ain’t rode him.”

  “I defer to more knowledgeable opinion.”

  Ellam cried to the roan’s rider, “Bring him here, Chief. Have a care! Have a care! That horse is a man-killer.”

  The rider’s hair hung down his back in a thick black braid. Wordlessly he trotted the stallion toward them.

  Ellam retreated. “Have a care, damn you!”

  Despite his bored, solemn-faced rider, the roan reared onto his hind legs. Young horse—three or four years old.

  “His price?”

  “Brandywine ain’t for sale. Was I to sell him to you, I’d be known all over Virginia as the man who sold Major Gatewood the horse what killed him.”

  As evidence for this proposition, the horse snorted and reared again. Despite Omohundru’s alarmed squeals, his indian rider managed to contain him. Ultimately, Ellam Omohundru sold Duncan the roan for two hundred fifty dollars. “I’ll throw in the bridle. It’s worth an old bridle to meet a white man lets Mammy choose his stud horse.”

  The indian dismounted, dropped the reins, and walked off. The ground-hitched horse stayed put while Duncan counted out bills.

  “Shinplasters,” Omohundru complained.

  “There is no gold to be had in Richmond.”

  “God Damned speculators. Hell, next thing you know, Chief there will be swapping his wampum for gold futures.” The horse dealer cackled at the prospect. Then he confided, “He’ll need all his wampum onct I send him down the road.”

  Duncan bent to make a stirrup for Aunt Opal. She rode bareback, her skirts flowing down Brandywine’s flanks. When she clucked, the horse trotted quietly away.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ellam said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Perhaps not,” Duncan said. “God is said to be merciful.”

  DUNCAN WAITED DOWN the street at an Irish workman’s saloon which served a meager free lunch and cheap watery beer. He was nursing his second when Omohundru’s grooms arrived, the indian in the rear. He sat at the end of the bar, away from the others.

  Duncan set his beer down beside the indian’s. “You’ve another name besides Chief, I expect.”

  “I was born ‘Yartunnah’—that suit you better?”

  “I figure a man’s handle is what he says it is.”

  His eyes were blacker than a moonless nig
ht. “You wantin’ to know ’bout that horse you bought?”

  “No. I’ve never known Aunt Opal to misjudge a horse.”

  He nodded. “She’s right about that one. Brandywine was the best in the stable. Even the fool was beginning to suspect his worth. He signaled me to have him act up.”

  “Your performance was unconvincing.”

  The indian shrugged and drained his beer glass.

  “Another?”

  “No.” He grinned suddenly. “Drink is a curse.”

  “Omohundru fired you?”

  Another shrug. “Would have happened sooner or later. Fools don’t surround themselves with men who know more than they do.”

  “You’re Cherokee?”

  “When you white men ran us out of Georgia, my people stayed. Fought with Stand Watie’s regiment in the war. Put on paint and feathers and scared bejesus out of the Federals. I was younger then.”

  “I’ll need a good hand with horses in Montana,” Duncan said.

  “Montana? You ain’t scared of gettin’ scalped?”

  “Not by my friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Some call me Joe Lame Deer. Means the same as Yartunnah, more or less.”

  DUNCAN RENTED COUSIN Molly’s house to Colonel Elliot, who had commanded artillery but would now bribe legislators. Duncan introduced Elliot to Mahone’s legislators and those who might yet be weaned from the B&O’s pernicious influence. Colonel Elliot refused to meet with the black legislators he called the “Customs House gang.”

  In farewell to Duncan, Little Billy said, “Major, you were a brave officer,” and “Our business is concluded.”

  INTO COUSIN MOLLY’S ATTIC went the little pine nightstand that was all Sallie had from their wartime home in Petersburg. Her father Uther Botkin’s library of Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, and Edmund Burke went up there too. Sallie wrapped Duncan’s sword in his uniform and placed them in an old trunk under the attic window along with her father’s spectacles, cane, inkwells, and bedraggled quill pens.