Heaven and Hell (84 page)

You could come back--"

' 'Never.''

There was such fierce finality in it that Grierson immediately said,

"What kind of help, then?"

"Two men willing to help me track. In fairness, Colonel, I'll be
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taking them south."

"How far? South of the Arkansas?"

"If that's where Bent goes."

"At Medicine Lodge the government promised to use its best efforts to keep unauthorized white persons out of the Territory. Wildcat surveyors, whiskey peddlers--the Army enforces that promise."

"I know. The ban might be the reason Bent wants to hide in the Territory."

"You'll have to stand on your own if you're caught there."

"Of course."

"Anyone you take, you must tell them first where you're going."

"Agreed."

"You're sure Bent's there?"

"As sure as you can be about a man with crazy impulses. An English landlady fed Bent in Ellsworth. Then a boy trying to fish in the rain along the Smoky Hill saw him riding due south with my son, the direction he told the lady he was going. The boy with the fishing pole thought it was a father and son on one horse, a dapple gray. My guess is, Bent's going down to hide with the Cheyennes and Arapahoes and the renegade traders because none of them will interfere with him, unless it's to kill him."

"Which they may do. Your damn expedition to the Washita stirred The Hanging Road 533

everything up. Sheridan's worked all winter to bully and threaten the tribes into surrendering to the government. Now he's got half the Indians starving and ready to come in and the other half ready to drink blood. Carr and Evans are still in the field. Custer, too. He's operating from Camp Wichita."

Charles digested that. The camp was east of the mountains of the same name, deep in the Territory.

"Consequently, no one can be sure where the Dog Soldiers are holed up. They keep moving to avoid the troops. West of the mountains--up on the Sweetwater beyond the north fork of the Red--they've even spilled into Texas, we heard. You won't know where they'll turn
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up, or the Army either."

"I'll keep that in mind." Charles fingered the brass cross hanging on a thong outside his gypsy robe. The brass was weathered almost black, and he didn't explain the peculiar ornament to Grierson, who wondered about it. Charles didn't act like a man who'd undergone some religious conversion, but he kept fingering the cross. "One thing, though, Colonel. The Washita wasn't my expedition."

"You mean you didn't plan it."

"And I'm sorry I was there. I saw the newspapers. 1 read what General Sheridan thought of Black Kettle. A worn-out old cipher, he said. The chief of all the murderers and rapers. A stinking lie. I know."

Grierson didn't argue. "Who do you want?"

"Corporal Magee if he'll go. Gray Owl if you can spare him."

"Take them," Grierson said.

Fort Hays remained a primitive post, one of the poorest in Kansas.

Ike Barnes's company had wintered there, in the most undesirable quarters, shanties with stone chimneys from which the mortar was crumbling.

In Magee's six-man shanty, the sod roof was so weak that he and the others had pegged up a spare canvas to catch falling dirt, melting snow and the occasional- wandering rattlesnake seeking a warm spot to rest.

Magee sat on his narrow cot late one evening after lights out, in the midst of snores and the sounds of flatulence. A lantern burned on the dirt floor between his feet. With a rag he was rubbing rust specks from the barrel of an old .35-caliber flintlock pistol of German manufacture.

The rammer fitted underneath the barrel, and there was a blunt hook on the butt for hanging the weapon on a belt or sash.

He'd bought the pistol for three dollars, after a long search for just such a weapon. He'd sewn a powder bag out of scraps of leather; this lay near him on the blanket of his cot, next to five round lead-colored balls of a size to fit snugly in the pistol muzzle.

534 ' HEAVEN AND HELL

Polishing and polishing, he didn't pay much attention as the shanty door opened, admitting a gust of windblown rain and First Sergeant Williams in a dripping rubber poncho.

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A sleeper sat upright. "Shut the fucking door! Oh, Sarge, 'scuse me." He lay down again.

The low-trimmed lamp set Williams's spectacles to glowing.

"S'posed to have that light out, Magee. What're you doing with that old gun?"

"Uh-uh. New gun. Old trick." It was all the explanation he furnished.

"Well,

come on outside," Williams said. "You're going to turn the color of a white man when you see who's back."

Magee, shivering in his underwear in the lee of the shanty, found Captain Barnes, wisely protected by a slicker, holding up a lantern to illuminate the visitor. "Popped out of the dark like a ghost, Magic.

Ain't he a sight to behold?"

The old man intended a compliment, and Magic Magee's face almost bloomed into that brilliant, one-of-a-kind smile. But he saw Charles's fever-burned eye sockets and his filthy hands, so held the smile back. Charles said, "Hello, Magic."

"Cheyenne Charlie. I'll be switched."

"Get your clothes on, Magic," Barnes said. "I woke Lovetta and she's put the coffeepot on. Charlie says he needs some help. He'll tell you about it."

"Sure," Magee said. "You came to the right man, Charlie. You're still holding my marker."

After the men talked, Lovetta Barnes fed Charles amply and made up a pallet for him near the fireplace. He slept sixteen hours straight, undisturbed by the comings and goings of the old man and his wife.

Magic Magee hadn't hesitated about traveling to the Indian Territory.

Neither had Gray Owl. Both men looked about the same, though each seemed to have more lines, and deeper ones, in his face. Charles supposed he did too.

They provisioned at the sutler's, Charles bought two spare horses, to bring their total to six, and in the ides of March, with bright sunshine returning and a warm wind blowing in from Texas and the Gulf, the trackers rode south over the Smoky Hill. Their first night out, Charles slept hard in the open air, but he dreamed a nightmare of the three of them riding across the sky on a trail of milky stars. They had blood smeared faces. They were dead on the Hanging Road.

The Hanging Road 535

Page 573

INA UGU RATION.

Commencement of the New Era of

Peace and Prosperity.

Ulysses S. Grant Formally

Inducted

Into Office as President.

He Delivers a Brief and

Characteristic Address.

Economy and Faithful Collection

of the

Revenue Demanded.

The Ceremonies Marked

by Unprecedented Display

and Enthusiasm.

Special Dispatches to The New York Times

Washington, Thursday, March 4

The ceremonies attending the inauguration

of Gen. ulysses s.

grant as the eighteenth President

of the United States were today

carried out with a completeness and

a degree of brilliant success which

is a most auspicious augury for the

success of the Government, now

transferred to such earnest and patriotic

hands. . . .

Madeline's journal

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March, 1869. Grant is president. Hostility to him here is understandable, but the national mood is one of optimism. Because he

organized military campaigns so successfully, and so often speaks 536 ' HEAVEN AND HELL

of the need for peace after four bitter years, expectations for his presidency are high. . . .

The tail of a northeastern snowstorm lashed the capital before dawn on the fourth of March. In the window bay of his bedroom in the I Street mansion, Stanley Hazard scratched his considerable paunch and peered at the drizzle, the mud puddles, the creeping mist. What else could go wrong with today's events?

Andrew Johnson would not be present at the swearing-in. Grant had spurned Johnson's discreet peace feelers in the wake of the Stanton dispute, and announced that he would not ride in the same carriage with Mr. Johnson, or even speak to him. The cabinet dithered. Should there be two carriages? Two separate processions? The matter was resolved when Mr. Johnson decided to stay in his office during the ceremony, signing last-minute bills and saying goodbye to members of the cabinet.

Stanley's unhappiness had a more personal side, however. Through the maneuverings of his wife, who was still snoring in bed, he had been appointed to the prestigious Committee of Managers for the inaugural ball. It was a great coup socially, and for a day or two Stanley was blearily pleased. Then he discovered that staging the ball might be akin to building one of the pyramids.

The committee couldn't agree on or even find a site large enough for the expected crowd. Growing desperate, committee members appealed to Congress for permission to use the Capitol rotunda. The House voted favorably but the Senate, after much empty talk of supporting the idea, voted it down. The President-elect sent a note saying it was all right, he didn't mind if no one honored him with a ball. Isabel's reaction was typical:

"He's canaille. Not a social grace to his name. Who does he think he is to deny us the premier evening of the year?"

Charged with bringing off this premier evening, Stanley and his associates spent hours in acrimonious debate. Should it be called a ball or a reception? The latter. Should it be ten dollars per ticket (admitting a gentleman and two female companions to supper and dancing), or a more modest eight dollars? The former. Should Mr. Johnson be invited in view of his estrangement from Grant over the Stanton matter? He
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was not invited.

Should the "more affluent coloreds" of the community be included, despite broad opposition? This vexing question was resolved when a representative of the group sent a note saying they would not attend if asked. Isabel said, "At long last those people are displaying a primitive intelligence. They know they'll be snubbed if they show their sooty faces."

The Hanging Road 537

The site finally found was large enough--it was the north wing of the Treasury building--but it wasn't ideal, because it was unfinished.

Stanley had spent most of the past forty-eight hours on the site. His fine suit covered with plaster dust and specks of paint, he had helped oversee the work of dozens of mechanics completing the decorating and furnishing of the party rooms.

Now, groggy from exhaustion -- he had slept little more than two hours -- he confronted catastrophic weather. He felt suicidal.

He staggered to his bureau and picked up the admission cards for the ball. They were as big as the pages of a commercial almanac, gaudily lithographed with a heroic bust supposed to combine the features of President-elect Grant and Vice President-elect Colfax. It looked like neither.

"Vile," Isabel called it. Stanley had whined for twenty minutes to convince her that he had had nothing to do with it. Head down, he stood there wondering whether all this travail was worth it merely to provide Isabel with one more opportunity to maintain her social contacts and ply her devious and hypocritical brand of flattery. As usual, he had no say in the matter.

He swung his head toward the window like a great ox in a yoke.

He listened to the drizzle and wished it would grow torrential and wash away all of today's events, and his snoring wife too.

The procession to the Capitol began at ten minutes before eleven.

General Grant, a small, compact, retiring man in his forty-seventh year, wore sturdy, sober American black, like all of the gentlemen attending.

He rode in an open carriage. Boisterous people who eluded the police lines and dashed into the muddy street reached into the carriage to touch him. He didn't seem to mind.

His escort consisted of eight divisions of marching units. The Washington Grays Artillery of Philadelphia, forty-eight muskets, marched.

The Philadelphia Fire Zouaves marched with their twenty-two-man drum corps. The Eagle Zouaves of Buffalo marched, as did the Lincoln Zouaves of Washington, the Butler Zouaves of Georgetown and the Lincoln
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Zouaves (colored) of Baltimore. These last were brilliant in white leggings and blue flannel jackets with yellow trim.

The Hibernia Engine Company marched, together with the Naval Academy Band, the Government Fire Brigade and Hose Company Number 5 of Reading, Pennsylvania. The Supreme Court marched. So did the Philadelphia Republican Executive Committee, the Lancaster Fencibles and Ermentrout's City Band, seventeen pieces. The Grant Invincibles of California marched, along with the Montana Territorial Delegation and the Sixth Ward Republican Club, whose horse-drawn car featured a miniature Constitution complete with anchors, chains, and cannons 538 HEAVEN AND HELL

manned by youths in sailor suits. This car was the clear hit of the parade, generating riotous applause among the throngs on Pennsylvania Avenue.

President-elect Grant seemed pleased and entertained by the spectacle.

President Johnson's reaction was unknown; he was still at the White House, signing bills.

Under skies showing ragged gaps in the clouds and occasional swatches of blue, Stanley deposited his wife in their reserved seats.

These were directly in front of the platform built over the steps of the Capitol's east front. The platform was crowded with chairs and festooned with bunting and evergreen boughs.

"Where are you going?" Isabel demanded. She wore a dusty-peach jacket and skirt. Colors were more festive this year.

"Inside, to pay my respects. Perhaps shake hands with the general

.''

"Take me with you."

"Isabel, it's far too dangerous. Look at this unruly mob. Besides--

" it was one of the few points he could score with relative impunity--

"these public rites are principally for men."

Her equine face wrinkled. "So was the procession, I noticed."

"You sound like a suffragist."

"God forbid. But don't you forget who made a success of Mercantile Enterprises!" Stanley cringed, hands raised. "And watched the books, supervised every expansion, saw to it that our estimable fraud of a lawyer, Dills, didn't rob us of every-- "