Canaan

  “Yes, Mister Samuel. I knows you will.” Jack’s eyes flicked to the ruined sawmill: a few blackened posts, the jumble of blackened misshappen machinery.

  Though there was no proof of arson, that’s what it had been, and Samuel couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t paid his workers in months.

  “They just hurtin’ theyselfs,” Jack muttered.

  Samuel agreed in principle, though a tie sawmill without a railroad to buy ties wasn’t worth much.

  “I’ll pay the men too.” Samuel clicked to the horses and drove off without a backward glance.

  In January of 1874, three Gatewoods crossed the Blue Ridge Moun-tains and the Piedmont’s snow-dusted red clay. In Richmond, after modifications to the house and carriage house (Duncan sent money to Molly without his father’s knowledge), they put out their sign and opened the doors of Mrs. S. T. Gatewood’s Boardinghouse.

  Amelia, Molly’s old servant, turned up one evening and without explanation resumed the duties she’d always done.

  Occasionally they saw Molly’s Richmond friends. Most were reduced in status and some were impoverished.

  Their new rooms had been the hostler’s quarters over the carriage house. Sometimes Samuel woke to Pauline’s pacing in the next room. Often the light glowed under her door half the night.

  A scant year after they left Stratford, Samuel had sent Jack twenty dollars, and ten dollars toward the workmen’s wages. At this rate, by Samuel’s seventieth birthday, he’d be free of debt.

  Every weekday morning, promptly at six forty-five, the dining room doors swung open on a sideboard where eggs, bacon, oatmeal, ham, sausages, bread, butter and jam, and metal pots of strong coffee were laid out. Those doors closed promptly at seven-thirty and were not reopened until five-thirty for dinner. Sunday breakfasts were at six-fifteen for the benefit of those who wished to attend early Mass and the doors stayed open until ten for the Protestants, Mr. and Mrs. Gatewood (Presbyterian) and Amelia (Baptist).

  On nights when Thomas Byrd held political rallies, the front door was left open until the last man locked it behind him. Cheeses and pie in the parlor awaited Congressman Byrd’s canvassers.

  Molly and Amelia cooked meals, Pauline and Amelia cleaned, and Pauline took evening coffee into the parlor, although Samuel believed that Mr. Curry, a young railroad driver, appreciated Pauline rather too much. Pauline was altogether free and easy with these men; boldly taking part in their political discussions, an activity, Samuel believed, properly reserved for men.

  Samuel bought groceries, arranged for coal to be delivered, kept the books, and collected rents.

  He was fierce about rents and each boarder understood that if his rent was late by a single day, if on Monday morning one dollar fifty cents was not put in Mr. Gatewood’s hand, that evening the defaulter’s worldly goods would be out on the front porch and no entreaty, no heartfelt excuse, no extenuating circumstances would readmit him.

  Every morning Gatewood appeared downstairs in frock coat and tie. When he took his regular constitutional, he wore a stovepipe hat, carried an ebony walking stick, and, summer or winter, always wore gloves.

  Samuel was head of the household, but Molly was its heart. Sometimes a boarder needed a button replaced. Sometimes he needed a good woman’s advice.

  AFTER AUGIE HAD pushed his stew around his bowl and eaten his pie, his mother carried his plate to the wet sink. “Kiss Grandpa good night.”

  The brush of the child’s lips on his cheek reminded Samuel of his own children’s kisses so many years before. He said, “Good night, dear boy,” and cleared his throat. Molly’s knowing smile irritated him. The child would be a man one day, and if Samuel Gatewood had anything to say, he wouldn’t be like his father!

  Wise enough not to utter his thoughts, he removed his plate.

  “I can do that,” Molly protested.

  “Damn it, I know you can!”

  “Don’t be cross with me, Samuel, just because you’re cross with Pauline.”

  Earlier that evening when Samuel entered the parlor, his boarders were considering an agreeable subject: how the discovery of gold in the Black Hills had helped the Northern Pacific emerge from bankruptcy. Mr. Curry voiced his opinion that the railroad’s resurrection would return the nation to prosperity. Gratifyingly, Curry looked to Samuel’s expertise on all things “western,” since Molly and his son’s wife Sallie corresponded faithfully and sometimes Duncan or Samuel added a postscript.

  Relying on his special knowledge, Samuel asserted that Manifest Destiny required “settling the indian question.”

  Mr. Curry condemned the indians in the strongest terms, but Pauline disagreed. “After all,” she said, “it is their country.”

  “Aye, lass,” Mr. Curry shot back. “So long as they can keep it.”

  “Like the British in Ireland, Mr. Curry?” Pauline inquired guilessly.

  Since the Irish boarders were united behind Home Rule, Curry replied sharply, “It’s not the same, lass. Not the same at all. The Irish are civilized, the indians are savages. Brutes.”

  Pauline’s raised eyebrows reminded Curry of similar insults the Irish had suffered.

  The parlor was sparsely furnished with Federal and Queen Anne pieces which the boarders respected more than Pauline, whose housekeeping left much to be desired. The hunt table held Molly’s Georgian silver coffee service and third-best cups below daguerreotypes of Abigail Gatewood, Catesby, and Leona Byrd.

  Mr. McNeil, who always attended two Sunday Masses, found a safer subject. “That Beecher fella . . .” he suggested.

  “Protestant, isn’t he?”

  Samuel found Mr. Curry’s smugness offensive. “Falsely accused,” he snapped. “Man of his stature.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Curry replied. “He is a very liberal Protestant.”

  “Tilton’s lying,” Samuel said. “The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher seducing Tilton’s wife? Preposterous!”

  “Oh, I think he did,” Pauline intervened again. “I think he must have. I have been in the man’s church, you see. I have heard him preach. He is . . . Oh, he is hard to describe. Beecher . . . he serves the rich man’s Christ.”

  “Tilton’s accusation is an assault on decency itself,” Samuel shot back.

  “And decency,” Pauline contended, “is unaffected by Dr. Beecher’s infidelity? As I recall, God doesn’t care for adultery. Was it the Seventh Commandment, Grandfather?”

  Samuel couldn’t stop. “Tilton lied to bring a good man down.”

  After long silence, Pauline said, “Well . . .” and collected the coffee cups, though Mr. McNeil still had coffee in his. “The clock strikes ten,” she announced.

  “Ah.” Curry stood and stretched. “Just when matters were getting interesting.”

  A vein throbbed in Pauline’s forehead. “Tell me, Mr. Curry,” she said. “If Ireland does get Home Rule, will Irishwomen vote?”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, lying in bed, Samuel said, “I’m worried about Pauline, dear. She is far too forward. It was an error, I now believe, letting her . . . ‘agnosticism’ go unchecked.”

  Molly sat at the dressing table combing her long thick gray hair. She cocked her head at Samuel’s word.

  “Molly, is our Pauline becoming a free thinker?”

  Molly snuffed the gaslight and slipped under the bedclothes beside him. “I don’t know why men are afraid of women, dear. We will always love you, you know.”

  CHAPTER 53

  OFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE

  To: E.P.Smith, Commissioner of Indian Affairs

  November 9 1875

  SIR: I have the honor to address you in relation to the attitude and condition of certain wild and hostile bands of Sioux indians in Dakota and Montana, that came under my observation during my recent tour through their country, and what I think should be the policy of the government toward them.

  I refer to Sitting Bull’s band and other bands of the Sioux Nation, under chiefs or ‘headmen’ of less note but no less tamable and host
ile. These indians occupy the center, so to speak, and roam over Western Dakota and Eastern Montana, including the rich valleys of the Yellowstone and Powder Rivers, and make war on the Ariska, Rees, Mandans, Assinaboines, Crows and other friendly tribes on the circumference.

  Their country is probably the best hunting ground in the United States a “paradise” for Indians, affording game in such variety and abundance that the need of Government supplies is not felt. Perhaps for this reason they have never accepted aid or been brought under control. They openly set at defiance all law and authority, and boast that the United States authorities are not strong enough to conquer them. The United States troops are held in contempt and, surrounded by their native mountains, relying on their knowledge of the country and powers of endurance, they laugh at the futile efforts made thus far to subjugate them, and scorn the idea of white civilization.

  They are lofty and independent in their attitude and language to Government officials, as well as the whites generally, and claim to be the sovereign rulers of the land. They say that they own the wood, the water, the ground and the air and that white men live in or pass through their country but by their sufferance.

  They are rich in horses and robes, and are thoroughly armed. Nearly every warrior carries a breech-loading gun, a revolver, a bow and quiver of arrows. From their central position they strike to the east, north and west, steal horses and plunder from all the surrounding tribes as well as frontier settlers, and luckless white hunters, or emigrants who are not in sufficient force to resist them, and fortunate indeed, is the man who thus meets them, if, after losing all his worldly possessions, he escapes with his scalp.

  And yet these indians number, all told, but a few hundred warriors and these are never all together or under the control of one chief.

  In my judgement, one thousand men, under the command of an experienced officer, sent into their country in the winter, when the indians are nearly always in camp, and at which season of the year they are the most helpless, would be sufficient for their capture or punishment. They richly merit the punishment for their incessant warfare on friendly tribes, their continuous thieving, and their numerous murders of white settler and their families, or white men whenever found unarmed.

  The government owes it too, to those friendly tribes, in fulfillment of treaty stipulations. It owes it to the agents and employees, whom it has sent to labor among the indians at remote and almost inaccessible places, beyond the reach of aid, in time, to save. It owes it to the frontier settlers, who have, with their families, braved the dangers and hardships incident to pioneer life. It owes it to civilization and the common cause of humanity.

  Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

  E.C. Watkins, United States Indian Inspector

  To the Hon Secretary of the Interior

  November 27, 1875

  SIR; I have the honor to transmit herewith, enclosed, a special report from E.C. Watkins, United States Indian Inspector, dated the 9th instant, in relation to the status and condition of certain wild and lawless bands of Sioux indians, giving an expression of his views in reference to the future action of the Government toward them . . .

  I respectfully recommend that this communication be referred to the War Department for consideration and such action as may be deemed best by Lieutenant General Sheridan, who is personally conversant with the situation on the Upper Missouri, and with the relations of Sitting Bull’s band to the other Sioux tribes.

  Very Respectfully yours, your obedient servant

  Edw P. Smith, Commissioner

  To The Commissioner of Indian Affairs

  December 3, 1875

  Sir: Referring to your communication of the 27th ultimo, relative to the status of certain Sioux indians residing without the bounds of their reservation and their continued hostile attitude toward the whites, I have to request that you direct the indian Agents at all the Sioux agencies in Dakota and at Fort Peck Montana, to notify said indians that unless they remove within the bounds of their reservation (and remain there) before the 31st of January next, they shall be deemed hostile, and treated accordingly by the military force.

  Very respectfully, your obedient servant

  Z. Chandler Secretary of the Interior

  To J.S. Hastings, United States Indian agent, Red Cloud agency

  CC: Agents Howard, Bingham, Burke, Beckwith, Alderson, Reily and Livingstone

  December 6, 1875

  SIR: I am instructed by the Honorable Secretary of the Interior, under date of the 3d instant, to direct you to notify Sitting Bull’s band, and other wild and lawless bands of Sioux indians residing without the bounds of their reservation, who roam over Western Dakota and Eastern Montana, including the rich valley of the Yellowstone and Powder Rivers, and make war on Ariska, Rees, Mandans, Assinaboines, Crows and other friendly tribes that unless they shall remove within the bounds of their reservation (and remain there) they shall be deemed hostile and treated accordingly by the military force.

  Very respectfully yours, your obedient servant,

  EDW. P. Smith, Commissioner

  CHAPTER 54

  THE BONE GAME

  RATCLIFF CAUGHT SHILLABER IN THE STABLES SCOOPING CORN into panniers. It was so cold the air snapped. “So,” Ratcliff said. “You’re goin’ with Yellow Hair.”

  “Maybe I’ll scout for Terry or Crook. That’s up to the army. Hold my reins while I check the pack.”

  Streaks of pine pitch had frozen hard as white amber on fresh-cut log walls. This Red Cloud Agency had opened for business in November, three months ago. Shillaber hefted one side of the packsaddle, then the other. He took three boxes of ammunition from the left saddlebag and pushed them into the right one. He slung panniers of grain over the horse’s withers.

  “They won’t come in,” Ratcliff said. “Can you picture Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Gall as blanket indians?”

  “I reckon they won’t.”

  “Ben—”

  “We talked about this until I’m plumb sick of it. This ain’t gonna be no cakewalk.”

  Ratcliff growled, “You sayin’ I’m ’feared?”

  Shillaber snorted.

  “I don’t get ’feared. I get mad. On New Market Heights, I recall lookin’ around for the white officers, but they was dead and a couple colored sergeants was kneelin’ beside the corpse of this dumb boy lieutenant. They was weepin’. I’d never seen anything stupider. Like a couple chickens, they were, and it made me mad. So I took command. Led them through the abatis and through the Reb’s guns and, hell, Ben . . . I didn’t know till afterwards I might of got kilt.”

  Shillaber put a boot against his horse’s belly and cinched the surcingle. After the horse let out its breath he took up another notch.

  “You sayin’ you don’t want my company?” Ratcliff chuckled. “Maybe I ain’t white enough for you?”

  The horses’ breath rose from them as if they were steam locomotives.

  “I’m a good interpreter.”

  “Top, your wife almost went back to her brother after the Yellowstone Expedition, and that one was relatively peacable. This time is different. The army’s unleashed Yellow Hair.”

  “Hell, Ben. She Goes Before, she don’t care for me no more. She all the time prayin’. Prayin’ to Low Dog and Jesus like they was one and the same. We don’t ever . . . Ah, the hell with it. Tells Him’s supposed to have a bone game this mornin’. Maybe I’ll go watch.”

  “You don’t play, do you?”

  “Naw. After you done what you and me done, betting on which man’s hand has a bone? The bone game passes the time.” He started for the stable door.

  “Wait.”

  He spun around angrily. “I ain’t gonna beg you, Ben. When old Master laid the bullwhip on my back, I never begged. When White Bull was goin’ to cut my damn throat, I never begged. I ain’t beggin’ now.”

  “Oh, God Damn it to hell.” Ben Shillaber reached in his saddlebag for a flask, took a drink, rubbed it with the heel of his
hand, and passed it to Ratcliff. “It’ll cost you. You know it will. If you ride with Yellow Hair you’ll never be a Lakota again. She Goes Before . . . Baby Tazoo . . . she’ll have to choose you or her own people.”

  Ratcliff barked a laugh. “Which you think she’ll choose? The Lakota . . . are finished. They ain’t enough buffalo left to keep ’em from starving. They gonna be locked up on these reservations for God knows how many generations with nothin’ but the bone game.”

  “You could go back East.”

  “Back East, out West. Ben, It ain’t no different. This ain’t my world. It’s General Custer’s world. It’s President Grant’s world. Hell, even flat busted it’s still Jay Cooke’s world. Got no room in this world for me nor She Goes Before, nor any other nigger be he red or black.”

  “Jesus, Top. Hang on to that flask. You need it more than I do.”

  “No, Ben. What I need is the army.”

  Ben Shillaber eyed his friend for a long time. “Go tell She Goes Before,” he said. “Get your horse. I’ll be waitin’ at the sutler’s.”

  PLENTY CUTS TOLD his wife he was leaving with Shillaber. He said he would interpret, he would not fight the Lakota. They needed money. On the Yellowstone Expedition he’d been paid fifty dollars a month.

  Their lodge was outside the new stockade. It was less ragged than the blanket indians’ lodges. They spoke outside it, as if it weren’t his home anymore. She Goes Before told Plenty Cuts she would not be here when he came back.

  Smoke rose straight into the air from fifty lodges.

  Plenty Cuts tried to think of reasons why she should be his wife but could not think of any.

  She raised a hand in farewell. “Ki ya mani yo, Top. Ki ya mani yo.”

  CHAPTER 55

  IN THE MOON OF RIPENING BLACKBERRIES

  Fat white flakes batted my cheeks like moths. Snow blurred flowering primroses, fattened and bowed the sagebrush.