Canaan

  After Carl Shurtz drank the last of his whiskey, he had worse dreams than mine. The creeks were high from melting snow when I left him and walked to Virginia City.

  THE TWO MEN WAITED AT THE SMALL TABLE TUCKED INTO THE back corner of the Alamo Saloon. After the westering sun dropped behind Fort Worth’s false fronts, before the bartender lit the lamps, the men were nearly invisible. A rawboned brushpopper shied. “Jesus Christ. What the hell you doin’ sittin’ there, scarin’ a man half to death?”

  Nelson Story, who had been a vigilante in Montana, opened his big hands and said, “No offense intended.”

  “You could have been Comanches, sittin’ so quiet. Damned Comanches.”

  “I suppose you would have found out if we was,” Bill Petty said.

  “The hell with you too,” the brushpopper said, and stepped out the back door to relieve himself.

  The two men wore leather chaps over tightly woven denim trousers, checked flannel shirts, wide-brimmed hats, and bandannas. Neither carried a revolver, though a ten-gauge Greener leaned against the wall beside them. The shotgun belonged to Bill Petty, who worked for Nelson Story.

  Every evening Nelson Story bought a bottle and sometimes they had a drink or two, sometimes not. Sometimes they invited a brushpopper to take a drink with them and they would talk intently and sometimes they’d shake hands with the man. The brushpoppers they hired were tough Confederate veterans and Ben Shillaber, the toughest man they’d hired, had commanded a sharpshooter battalion.

  Every Saturday, the brushpoppers rode into Fort Worth to sell beeves they’d gathered that week. Civilization was no thicker on the brushpoppers than on the wary, mean, long-horned cattle they lassoed out of the cholla and mesquite.

  This Saturday night began quietly. One man had cleaned out his patch of Texas underbrush and was looking for new territory. Another wondered why the beeves’ horns had grown so much longer than before the War. Familiar theories were ventured.

  It had been a wet spring and slick ground made dangerous work worse. One brushpopper’s bronc had broken a leg. “I’d still be out there if I hadn’t run into Ruiz.” A luckier man bought him a drink.

  A bigmouth proclaimed that the Committee for Reconstruction was ruled by Thad Stevens and the radical Republicans. Since some of the brushpoppers had fought on one side of the War, some on the other, a peacemaker broke in to say that cows in Sedalia, Missouri, had brought six dollars, double what Fort Worth buyers were paying.

  “Yeah, if you get them there. Sedalia’s two hundred miles.”

  A man wiped beer foam from his mustache. “I heard some damn fool wants to push a herd north to Montana. They say he’s bought eight hundred head and aims to buy a thousand.”

  A cavalry officer jeered. “Let’s hope the lunatic keepers catch him first. Why give a thousand cows to the Lakota?”

  Conversation turned to indian outrages along the Montana Road. Someone proposed a toast to the transcontinental railroad, whose completion would bring civilization and prosperity to the plains.

  That was how it went for an hour or so. When the whores showed up, they were greeted happily, even gallantly, and after a decent interval to renew or make acquaintances, couples went upstairs and, after fifteen minutes or so, the men came back down, their companions following some minutes later.

  “Ain’t it funny,” Nelson Story said, “how a fella takes hours primin’ for the act and once he’s done, he runs like his pants are on fire?”

  “That’s our man.” Petty nodded at a burly man taking a stool at the bar. “Chisholm says he’s the best cocinero he’s ever seen.”

  “Jesus Christ, he’s ugly enough. You got anything against niggers?”

  Nelson Story approached the burly negro. “Chisholm says you’re the best cocinero in Texas.”

  “I’ve done that work.”

  “He says you’re handy with a gun.”

  Ratcliff shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ I’m proud of.”

  “Nelson Story.” He offered his hand. “I’m putting an outfit together to trail beeves to Montana.”

  “I’ve never been to Montana,” Ratcliff said.

  CHAPTER 10

  LETTER FROM MRS. DUNCAN GATEWOOD TO MRS. SAMUEL GATEWOOD

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  JULY 29, 1866

  Dear Mother,

  I pray you will not object to the familiar endearment from one who retains no memory of her natal mother and loves you as a daughter.

  Duncan and I are now established in Norfolk. Unlike Richmond and poor Petersburg, Norfolk was spared the War’s ravages. I do not believe I have ever seen so many Federal uniforms. It is as if they cannot believe we are utterly conquered and fear they must conquer us again!

  We have taken a small house on West Bute Street, which was a fashionable address before its better dwellings were confiscated by our Yankee visitors. The modesty of our home amongst its grand neighbors provides a sunny space in the back for my garden. Norfolk enjoys a warmer climate than our dear mountains: our peas are done bearing and we’ve enjoyed tomatoes for a week!

  Many say that Norfolk is vulgar and there is vulgarity enough. Saloons, gambling halls, and palaces of vice are so numerous, some ladies don’t venture out of doors. Having become too familiar with the dreadful wounds men inflict on one other, why should I fear some drunken man, suffering a wound he has inflicted upon himself?

  Addiction to drink would be understandable in our poor maimed Confederates, but usually the sot wears a new blue uniform which has never been within cannonshot of battle.

  I have news of our old servant, Jesse Burns! After his discharge from the Federal army, Jesse moved to Richmond to learn the printing trade. There has been no recurrence of April’s unfortunate disturbances. Negroes claim a score of inoffensive colored men were killed before Federal soldiers stopped the riot our civilian officials did nothing to quell. The Negroes were marching for suffrage.

  We do not get out in society—such society as Norfolk has—with Southern patriots in mourning and carpetbaggers and scalawags trumpeting their righteousness.

  We do see Eben Barnwell when that whirlwind touches down in this town. Mr. Barnwell speaks of London and New York as if they were just down the street! He conscripts Duncan’s telegrapher and fires message salvos to other merchants situated beside similar machines in Philadelphia and Boston. “British Government Bonds at 9%! You must buy all you can! Erie Railroad at 7%! Sell before the speculators dump the issue!” Mr. Barnwell exults about the laying of Mr. Field’s telegraph cable under the Atlantic. Barnwell honestly believes commerce and swift communication will cure mankind’s every ill. I cannot imagine what all this telegraphing costs.

  Though doubtless he is a carpetbagger, Mr. Barnwell is an amusing carpetbagger. He has a wonderfully self-deprecating air and possesses as high regard for our Confederate heroes as Federal ones. Though he reminds me of Mr. Dana’s Man Without a Country, if rootlessness discomfits him, he never complains.

  Mr. Barnwell is enamored of our Pauline and sings her praises endlessly!

  Duncan had supposed he would be doing clerk’s work at the A.M.&O. but the General had more confidence in Duncan than we had supposed. and has made my husband his Confidential Agent in Norfolk and Richmond.

  Duncan’s is a position of discretion and trust and sometimes Duncan acts where General Mahone does not wish to be seen acting. Doubtless General Mahone’s confidence is a great honor, but I worry Duncan’s own honor may be compromised. There—isn’t that a briar patch?

  Having consolidated three railroads, General Mahone now covets the Virginia & Tennessee. He intends to create a continuous railroad from the port of Norfolk to Bristol, Tennessee.

  Duncan says the Baltimore & Ohio is our fiercest rival. Dear Mother, legislators and railroad men gather in our parlor and talk and talk until I hear locomotives huffing and puffing through my brain!

  General Mahone demands absolute fealty from his employees. If I didn’t put my foot down, I believe Dunca
n would work Sundays as readily as those days God has appointed for labor. As it is, he comes home at week’s end exhausted and is hard-pressed to rise for Sunday services.

  Norfolk’s Presbyterian churches outnumber the Baptists! Today, Church Street was melodious with bells. Reverend McCall’s sermon was on predestination, a doctrine best left to stronger heads than mine.

  As always I prayed for everyone at Stratford. Tell me, how is Aunt Opal? Does she still mourn Pompey?

  I do have one more tiny bit of news, dear Mother. If I read the signs aright, in the allotted period of time, you will become a grandmother anew. There! Now I’ve told it!

  Your devoted daughter

  (in-law and in-fact),

  Sallie

  CHAPTER 11

  COURT DAY

  AS THEIR RIG LURCHED AROUND THE TURN, COUSIN MOLLY clutched her bonnet. “Mr. Barnwell, if you smash his carriage, the liveryman will empty your pocketbook. Sir, please rein in!”

  When Eben hauled the reins, the livery’s best horse snorted, flung his head from side to side, and champed the bit.

  “After Augustus Belmont drove his coach-and-four down Fifth Avenue, all us city sports took up driving. I’ve been taking lessons.” Eben Barnwell grinned. “Ain’t terrible accomplished, am I?”

  Pauline Byrd said, “The horse hasn’t been born Opal couldn’t drive.”

  Eben laughed. “Perhaps Aunt Opal will become my instructor. What a yarn that’d make in the city.”

  “Aunt Opal does need something to distract her. She’s been terribly despondent since she came back to Stratford.”

  Eben patted Pauline’s hand. “You are so good.”

  “Bravo, sir,” Cousin Molly said. “Didn’t Lord Chesterfield write that flattery must win any woman’s heart?”

  Eben slumped like an emptying balloon. “I am sorry. I am not acquainted with Lord Chesterfield. My father was an itinerant Vermont peddler.”

  “Tush, Mr. Barnwell! I merely chided you. I did not denounce you from the pulpit.”

  Eben reinflated, reassuring Pauline, “But you are good. Kind and good.”

  Eben had visited Stratford thrice that summer. Initially welcomed as General Mahone’s confidant, it became apparent young Mr. Barnwell’s visits were romantic.

  Pauline was of two minds.

  After Pauline’s father, Catesby, killed himself, her grieving mother followed him into the grave. The daughter prayed until her knees were callused. Surely if she fulfilled her Christian duty to perfection, God would forgive her father for failing his.

  Although her religious ardor had cooled, Pauline Byrd was still a serious young woman. Pauline may not have been “humorless,” but “solemn” wasn’t far off the mark.

  Eben Barnwell’s ethical distinctions were more sanguine than precise and he seemed to believe commerce’s commandments were as binding as the familiar Ten.

  However unlikely it seemed, the young man’s indifference to moral concerns recommended him to Pauline. Respectable girls from good families sometimes do run away with highwaymen, as many jolly songs attest.

  And, though Pauline never could have admitted it to herself, she wasn’t indifferent to Mr. Barnwell’s money. During the bleakest months of the War the Gatewoods hadn’t starved; they always found game, wild greens, and cornmeal to put on the table. But throughout Pauline’s childhood, servants had cleaned, cooked, and done every task her mother hadn’t wished to do. One could not blame Pauline for thinking that circumstance “natural.”

  Pauline didn’t yearn for bright yellow gold, but she hated to worry about money. Why should she fret when General Mahone’s promises were readier than his payments? Why should she lie awake because Grandfather Samuel must beg the First National Bank of Warm Springs for yet another loan?

  If one had enough money (so Pauline imagined), money would disappear; getting and spending would become as thoughtless as breathing. And absent the mundane, one could devote oneself to sublimer pursuits. (Even solemn Presbyterian girls entertain such fancies.)

  Apparently the two women’s minds were chasing the same rabbit, because Cousin Molly now asked Eben about General Mahone’s arrears. “Samuel has shipped him twenty thousand crossties, but Samuel has just been paid for the first thousand. Samuel Gatewood has two gangs in the woods and Jack and his workers at the mill. These men must be paid, sir, or they will forsake us for work that does pay.”

  Eben said, “If Mahone could pay, he would. The harvest was poor, tobacco planters complain about free negro labor, and white workers cannot be found. Mahone’s legislative squabbles are dear. I rented this horse and rig for fifty cents a day. The least influential legislator costs fifty times that.”

  Pauline was shocked by Eben’s matter-of-factness.“Sir, do I understand . . .”

  “Innocent child, that’s how business is done. If the Virginia Legis-lature lets the Baltimore & Ohio lay track south, they will connect with the railroad Mahone covets. Mahone must match his rivals’ legislative expenditures dollar for dollar, legislator by legislator. To do otherwise would be folly.”

  “If the General doesn’t pay his bills, his crosstie supplier must dismiss his workers and shut down his mill,” Cousin Molly insisted. “Everyone says the General is an honest man.”

  “He has that reputation.”

  “And your reputation, sir?”

  “How do you see me, Miss Semple? Am I greedy? Cruel? Might I be someone who’d beat a child until it wept in pain and terror?”

  “I do not know your people. I do not know you well enough, sir”—Cousin Molly was uncomfortable at this conversational swerve—“to judge your merits.”

  “But madam, you have been judging me, and if I am not mistaken I haven’t come up to the mark.”

  THEIR CARRIAGE BREASTED the rise at the county courthouse, where today Ira Hevener was to be tried for the slaying of the negro, Pompey.

  Pauline drew a sharp breath, “What are they doing here? They were never here before!”

  Hundreds of dark eyes watched the whites’ approach. Negroes in Sunday clothing thronged the courthouse lawn and steps.

  Court Day, the second Tuesday of the month, was when business was done in Warm Springs; in the courtroom or in lawyers’ offices, informally on the courthouse steps or in Mr. Alphin’s excellent tavern. There must have been black faces at Court Day before the War, servants and coachmen and such, but Pauline—who had often accompanied her lawyer father here—could not recall them.

  Eben tossed his reins to a boy who ignored his implicit command, and the reins fell to the ground. When Eben cried,“Boy! A dime to hold my horse,” three boys (including the boy who’d previously rejected the task) dove to retrieve them.

  “Once, they wouldn’t have demanded a dime,” Pauline sighed.

  Like St. Paul outside Damascus, some must be driven to their knees to admit that life has utterly changed. Others receive gentler instruction: an unfamiliar inflection in a familiar voice, three negro boys scrabbling after a silver dime.

  Cousin Molly said, “Once they had plenty to eat.”

  Eben jumped down to place Cousin Molly’s foot on the mounting block. “Like us, the best will rise on their merits, the unworthy will fail.”

  “Sir, that is too harsh!”

  “Miss Pauline, you hope the world is kind?” Eben spoke plainly. “I was twelve years of age when my father died. Since, Miss Semple, I have no people, the county commissioners put me out with dairy farmers for my labors. They did not actually freeze or starve or beat me to death. I suppose that is to their credit.”

  “Poor boy,” Pauline said.

  Eben shrugged off her tenderness. “When I ran from that place, I left that half-starved, cowering, runny-nosed boy behind me. I do not recall him today.”

  The negroes opened a lane to the courthouse doors and some turned their backs.

  Pauline shivered. “I begged Grandfather to come.”

  Cousin Molly said, “Before the War, no man would have dared harm Sam
uel Gatewood’s servant.”

  “Remember, Cousin Molly, oh, before the War, when Samuel put up our Christmas tree—the first Christmas tree ever in our valley? Remember how Pompey thought the candles would burn the house down and when we looked away for an instant, he’d . . . he’d snuff one out . . . ?” Pauline burst into tears.

  Aunt Opal was waiting at the head of the courthouse stairs.

  She and Pompey had been an odd couple. How little Pauline knew about people who had made part of her family for so many years. “Aunt Opal, I am so sorry.”

  Aunt Opal looked past Pauline’s shoulder, “That boy Ira Hevener, he shot Pompey. Shot him three times in the chest when one shoot would have killed him. Us coloreds was there that night and seen Ira Hevener take his pistol and shoot Pompey three times, but we can’t testify against no white man. Only ones testifyin’ be the white boys was with Hevener. They white. Judge white. Jury white. Miss Pauline, what you think gonna happen here?”

  “Aunt Opal,” Molly said, “Pauline isn’t responsible for Ira Hevener’s misdeed.”

  “I expect we gonna find out Ira Hevener ain’t responsible neither!”

  Pauline’s worried gray-green eyes sought Aunt Opal’s cool brown ones. “Auntie, all those years we lived together—were we never friends?”

  CHAPTER 12

  RAINY DAY STEW

  14 pounds beef soup bones

  5 pounds onions

  half cup vinegar

  peppercorns

  handful of salt

  Crack bones. Cover with water in large pot, boil. Take off fire, skim. Return to fire, boil four hours. Throw away bones, gristle, and fat. Shred beef some. Pour into greased bread pans. When it hardens, slice onto biscuits.

  THEY STRUCK THE ARKANSAS RIVER AT DUSK AND THE VAN FORDED, but the gap between van and main was too great; the tame steers in the van were clambering up the far bank before the longhorns reached the turbulent river. Though Story’s riders hollered and lashed them with rope ends, the longhorns swirled like a bovine merry-go-round and could not be persuaded into the water.