An Undisturbed Peace (26 page)

“Oh my Lord. Then I bet that was her after all!”

Abe's head reeled. “What'd you say?”

“Well, there was a Cherokee so like the painting who came in the store just last week, only much older. I thought, Oh my goodness, she could be your Marian's mother. Imagine, I found the painting when one of Isadore's men came by to help me with the spring cleaning and moved the wardrobe as I thought to dust behind and underneath the furniture. After your mother blurted out that the Indian in the painting must be that one you'd been so in love with, I stared at it so much I memorized her features as if they were those of our own sweet child. When I told your mother that I thought your lover's mother had been in the store, she said I was mad, that I was so distressed I must be seeing signs of her everywhere I looked. But on the other hand, I thought she would say anything to calm me before you returned home again.”

Abe propped himself up on one elbow. There was no time for artifice. He put a little more urgent command in his tone than he'd have liked, but luckily she ignored it.

“Describe her to me,” he said.

“Well, as I mentioned, she looked very much like the painting, only older by maybe twenty year, plus she had a staff to lean upon. At first I thought she'd a limp, but no, it was really just a kind of stiffness. I think that's why she needed the staff. I recall thinking perhaps she had the gout or rheumatism. She was bundled up, dressed in layers. The first was one of those tear dresses they wear, you know, made out of strips of cloth, and she had a homespun shirt over it, leggings under it, and a buckskin jacket with a long shawl over all. Her hair was covered by a turban like their men wear, and she had gloves too. Really, I could not tell much about her except for the stiffness and the face because they stood out from all those clothes. I suppose she wore so many because it was cold that day and there'd been a little late winter snow in the night. Isadore thought that she might be very poor and wore everything she owned. He'd already resolved to give her charity, but it turned out she was not there to beg. She wanted to know where you were. She and her companion had business with you. We presumed it was a late rubber complaint.”

“Her companion?”

“Oh, yes. There was a strange man outside sitting astride a horse and holding one for her. He was big, that's all I could say for sure. Very big. You could not see much of him for the hooded cloak he wore, naught but the tips of his boots and his hands. Judging by his hands, I believe he was a black. It was all very odd. So. What do you think? Could that have been your Marian fallen on hard times?”

Yes,
he wanted to say,
yes!
But his heart was seized by a thousand fears both for Marian and for the tender pardon he had just won from his aggrieved wife. He paused, swallowed, and at last was able to speak in a measured, rational manner.

“How'd you know, perhaps it was. Was there any message?”

“Not really. They bought a few items, canned things and blacksmith tools, trading a silver dish for them. Can you imagine? A silver dish from such as those two. We thought it stolen but took it anyway. There was a desperation about them that Isadore pitied. She mentioned they were on a journey and did not expect to be back this way. She said to tell you Jacob and his wife bid you farewell with their thanks.”

His wife! Surely that was an exaggeration for convenience sake. A journey. What kind of a journey? he wondered. Was it possible that Marian and Jacob had joined the ranks of the exiled and voluntarily chosen to go west? Or north, perhaps to a free state? Canada? No. Impossible. Not her. Not his Marian. He heard her voice, mocking him:
“Give up my land? After I've killed for it? Ridiculous.”
And yet. She'd moved to old Chota quickly enough, where she was so happy he suddenly realized that her terrible injuries, for which he'd blamed himself, had been largely healed. How remarkable she was! How like the fabled firebird in the Talmud, he thought, imagining her as a magnificent winged creature rising from the ashes of a scarred life, soaring up and away, away from trouble, away from him. Abe held his wife a little closer as he felt his world shrink without even a phantom first love in it. He envisioned his Marian, the woman not even Jacob knew, the one that was his alone, leaving his heart, ascending into the heavens, illuminating the night sky in a blaze of light, then dispersing slowly into vaporous anonymity throughout the four corners of the universe. His eyes went damp. He kissed Hannah's shoulder. He took a chance and gave a sentimental whim, a tribute to a dying desire, its brazen voice.

“I'd like to keep the painting,” he said, “if you don't mind. It's a souvenir for me, of times past, of my youth.”

He held his breath while she deliberated with her mouth screwed up, her gaze upon the wall. At last her face broke into a dazzling smile. She turned to him.

“Of course I don't mind,” she said. “I am the most secure of women, aren't I?”

He gathered her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair that she would not notice the extremity of his emotion. “Yes, my love, yes,” he said, “you are. You most certainly are.”

Best-Laid Plans

O
'Hanlon stormed into Greensborough in a military wagon. He cracked a whip hard above the flattened ears of his frothy team of four and yelled warning. “Gang way!” he bellowed to startled citizens of the town before he pulled up short in front of Sassaporta and Son. “Laddie!” he shouted to a drop-jawed, wide-eyed farm boy of fourteen who sat on the bench outside the store waiting for his father to finish up business. “Can ye lead these beasts to the stable 'round back and tell the man there to brush and water 'em?” The boy nodded. O'Hanlon flipped him a coin, jumped down from the wagon, and stomped into the store, sending up clouds of trail dust with each heavy step. Abe rushed around the front desk to greet him.

“What news?” Abe asked. “How goes the transport?”

O'Hanlon shut his eyes and shuddered.

“What terrible, terrible sights I've seen,” he said. “Oh, dear God, there it is.”

He brushed past Abe to a shelf where spirits were sold and grabbed a bottle. Abe ushered him into Isadore's office. Hannah counted stock in the back while Raquel sat at the big desk drawing on scraps of paper. With a perfunctory tip of his hat, O'Hanlon sank into a chair facing the desk and took a long draught from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” he said, “but my need is great.” Abe quickly told Hannah to take Raquel out and mind the store. She scooped up the child in her arms and left, closing the curtain behind her while casting her husband a final, worried look. O'Hanlon drank from the bottle a second time, then placed the drink hard on the desktop and shook his head so that his whiskered jowls danced. “Brrr,” he said. “Never again will I attempt a journey like that without spirits! It's inhumane to ask a man to bear it. Injun and white man alike. It was a horror, I'm tellin' you, a horror.” The Irishman fixed Abe with a look of such suffering that the younger man shuddered. O'Hanlon looked a wreck, that much was true. His cheeks were hollow. The flesh under his eyes were like the bladders of colicky cows, stretched so full they pinched his lids together making it appear he could barely see. His hair stood out in spiky clumps below the brim of his hat. The stench of the road blended with the reek of stale fear and loathing rose up from him in a foul wall.

“Tell me,” Abe said, bracing himself for the truth.

“Yes, you need to hear the tale, lad. For your part in it and mine, we may well be cursed for the rest of our natural lives.

“Like all disasters under God's eye that befall the fate of men, it started out well enough. Nothing went perfect, but me an' the boys were hopeful and bound firm to make the exercise go better than it went last year when so many died of the cold and of hunger. I took me boys, the livestock, and the goods to the fort in Virginia, where that Mr. Gaines would divvy the lot up into the detachments takin' the Choctaw into the West. Now, may I say, that part I always thought was a wee bit daft. Why take the goods to Virginia and then have to take them back south again? But rigmarole is the way of government tasks, ain't it? Ah, it was a harbinger, let me tell you, yet I paid it no mind at the time. I was feelin' too proud of meself and of you too, bucko, that we were givin' over fair value for the money they paid us. Other agents there gave not the value we were givin'. Used blankets they had, with holes. Scrawny cows so old their shoulder blades rose higher than their noggins. Corn that looked to have spent the summer season in the bottom of the barrel and then got pissed on. But not Sassaporta and Son! Our blankets were new, our cows fat, our corn fair golden as a pale March sun. Yes, I was proud 'til I saw what use our pains would go to.

“First thing the soldiers did was take what they liked for themselves. Yes, there was a good deal of skimmin' goin' on. The quartermaster's men laid up the best of the best in their own wagons and pens. Off it marched to Jaysus knows where. Now, you know me. I'm not a man to keep me mouth shut. I spoke up about it, sure I did. They called me a stupid mick and laughed their arses off.”

O'Hanlon paused to take yet another pull from the bottle. His face went dark with anger. “Stupid I may be,” he muttered, “but who's lyin' in the cold ground now and who's livin' to tell the horrid tale?” His head fell on his chest. He appeared to remain conscious but in some nether world of memory and frightful vision. The sight of him, just this side of madness, dried Abe's throat. He dared to reach forward and prod the man gently. O'Hanlon raised his head. Abe took the bottle, feigned having a draught himself, then nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“After that, I should have sent the boys home and maybe I should have gone home meself. But it irritated me, you know, that the soldiers stole what they wanted. I thought to volunteer us to go along for the mission and do what I could to keep 'em honest.” O'Hanlon looked as if his own words confused him and then he howled. His howl resembled a long, rolling bout of laughter but underneath was a harrowing aspect that made it something else altogether. At the sound of it, Hannah popped her head in to see if all was well. Abe gestured to her that he was on top of things and signaled her to disappear. She did.

“I'm guessing,” Abe said in as gentle a tone as he could muster, “that your presence had no effect?”

O'Hanlon shrugged. “They were as decent as soldiers might be for a while. We picked up bands of Choctaw waiting for us along the roads to Vicksburg, the place we was marchin' 'em to. From thence, they'd be put on steamboats to Arkansas and from there escorted to the promised land. Quick at our backs, settlers raced their horses along the common roads to raid whatever had gone unsold or untaken by the Injuns in their flight. They moved in before the Choctaw breakfast fires were cold. Our own movements was slow. Mr. Gaines, that bastard, requisitioned only a single wagon for each detachment. The old and the sick could ride, but everyone else must walk. This meant children, women heavy with child, others deemed less sick than whoever was in the wagon but still infirm, walked alongside, some of 'em barefoot, and quietly, so quietly it spooked the soul of every white man there, even mine. Still, they ate. They slept under kind stars. It wasn't until we approached Vicksburg, our ranks a thousand strong, that the journey took a hideous turn.

“Some of the people came down the Mississippi, but our lot were on the woodland route. It was late fall and cool and the leaves of the trees what yet had 'em were orange and yellow and red. The days were short and we made our way in the light God had given us, resting for the chill nights wherever the sun fell. The chiefs came to us and asked if they might stop a while and fish in the running streams since the food we'd stored was making the people sick. Or so they thought. Gaines in his wisdom said no and on we pressed closer to Vicksburg and that's when we came head to head with a plague of such strength no man alive has known it. It was the cholera and it had whoever gave it welcome fast as you please in the grip of death. The horses caught whiff of it first. I'll ne'er forget the moment every jack one of 'em stalled and turned 'round, unwilling to walk on into the cursed vale. We whipped 'em. They blew and snorted. A wind came up and then not a one of us could ignore it no longer. What drew off the horses was the smell of rotting flesh.

“We got closer. The outskirts of Vicksburg were scarred by piles of bodies, sometimes ten or twenty high, dumped in the wood, then set aflame to burn the plague out. Never will I forget that pinch of me nostrils, the gag in me throat, as the full scent hit me square in the face. I pray never to smell again what I did that day. And the sight of 'em! Men, women, young, old, children, mere babes, the ones on top burnt to a crisp, and underneath bodies yet smokin', the flesh not entirely consumed. Faces stretched in agony. Charred limbs bent and twisted into positions no man unpossessed can form. Infants with their scorched mouths round and black like tiny holes leadin' to the depths of hell. Over all of it were swarms of flies so thick you could not see your hand before your face should you be so unlucky as to ride through them, and with 'em a buzzin' sound what got inside the ears and stayed there no matter how you pounded your head with your fist or ran away, far from all that carnage and noise and stink.

“Scouts were sent into the city. It was deserted. Everyone had fled the plague. We drew back. The local farmers you engaged to refresh our supplies once we reached Vicksburg were in hiding from the disease and refused us. What they had they were keep­in' to themselves. They wanted no contact with us. So we were locked out, runnin' low on everything. While we waited for Mr. Gaines to decide what to do next, we camped outside of town next to the smolderin' bodies of the damned. Then we too started dyin'. A quarter of me boys took sick and in time as many died. Soldiers succumbed as well. But it was the Choctaw what suffered worst. So many dead. So many.

“There were steamboats waitin' on the docks to take the Choctaw across the river to Fort Smith, and from there they were to be taken to their new territories, what they called the new Oklas after their old towns. Gaines offloaded supplies from the boats but just enough to keep souls and bodies together until the plague passed. It was a half measure too late. When it came time for the crossin', near two thousand Choctaw were crammed into a single vessel, the
Brandywine
, with nary a place to lie down so stacked they were, above deck or below, and then the rains started. Many of 'em were still sick and the tides rose and the ship could not dock for the flood that came next and more of 'em died and got tossed in the river, or so I heard from them of Gaines men what returned. God alone knows how many made it all the way to the new Oklas. I fear a paltry few.”

O'Hanlon sighed. It was a dark and mournful sound. He sat back in his chair, took yet another drink, and let tears fall down his cheeks, one by one. “I was never a great friend to the Injuns, Abe. But I was never their enemy either. My heart has been turned now. I'll do those people a good turn whenever I can from now on. It was a terrible dishonor to be part of such events. Neither I nor what's left of me men and me beasts will ever forget it. I believe I will hear the weak little bleats of the dyin' babies and the mournful chants of their mothers for the rest of me life, awake and asleep. God help America on the day comin' when she must pay for her sins.” He shut his eyes then. Within seconds, it looked as if he'd passed out or fallen asleep.

Abe let the man rest while he digested his news. The more he thought about it, the fiercer his shame and anger. The travesty O'Hanlon described was not the expedition he'd signed on for. He imagined Marian and Jacob in similar circumstances. In his worst imaginings, both died along the route. How could they not? He took a couple of long pulls on the bottle himself and, as he was not used to the drink, soon trembled with remorse. His features dissolved into a melting plane of regret. He looked blearily about the boxes of the stockroom, regarding the imported treasure he'd accumulated with his government contract moneys. Quality imported goods traded at a profit as fast as a merchant could pile it up. Customers would stampede even a disgraced Sassaporta and Son for such and Abe had been hopeful the treasures he surveyed would bring the store back to health. Now he regarded his imports with disgust. Blood money! Blood money! he thought.

In a drunken rage, he picked up a plate of fine china crafted in England, nested in straw for its transport overseas. More care had been devoted to its well-being than the efforts extended to ten Choctaw children. “Blood money!” he shouted, and smashed the plate against the wall. “Blood money!” he shouted again, smashing another plate, then another, and cups and saucers as well. O'Hanlon snored through it all but Hannah heard the racket and pulled back the curtain to witness him in his mad tumult, smashing away. Fear seized her with two hands about the heart. She grabbed her child. They ran down the street to Isadore and Susanah's house for help. Isadore was out gallivanting with his peers, taking tea at a rich planter's estate where he could play the grand entrepreneur, but Susanah was home. She saw the fear in Hannah's eyes and said, “Stay here. Mind the child. I'll take care of this.”

By the time his mother threw open the door of Sassaporta and Son and barreled into the back room, Abe sat in a pile of china shards, head in hands, talking to himself in a voice blurred by the drink. O'Hanlon, until that moment oblivious, opened his eyes. “Oh, Susanah!” he cried out. “How beautiful you are! Happy I am to see you once more!” He held out his arms as if she might fly into them. Susanah shushed him. He ignored her. “Oh, Susanah!” he cried again, stretching out his arms farther, attempting to fix her with a red-eyed stare of great intensity. “Come t'me, lady! Come t'me what loves you!”

Unbowed, she marched up to the man and slapped him hard. Twice. “Stop it! Stop it!” she said. “I am a married woman and you are a thing of the past, you great git!” Abe was yet blubbering on the floor, locked in his own world of sorrow. “Help me here with my poor son!”

Through a cloud of drunkenness and misery, the Irishman slowly grasped his situation. He staggered up and helped Susanah raise Abe to his feet, muttering all the while, “What the feck am I supposed to do now, I ask you. What the feck?”

Susanah told him. “Get my boy home to his wife and put him to bed. I'll take care of the store.”

Days passed before the world calmed down. O'Hanlon returned to the camp with his wagon, his team of four, three bottles of whiskey, and all his sundry heartbreak. Isadore, Susanah, and Hannah took pains to bolster the conscience of their devastated Abe. They assured him what had happened was not his fault. He had not been in control of events. He'd done his part with honor. What came next was no sin of his. They could take a portion of their profits from the endeavor and gift it to the Moravians, for those schools they had that trained young Cherokee in English letters and modern means of support. Would that make him feel better? Next year, oh, yes, yes, there would be a next year, for the Choctaw removal had a final phase to come, they would insist on a disposition clause in the provisions contract that made it clear the transportees would have what they needed, even if disaster struck once again.