Listen to the Mockingbird (25 page)

He bowed again then cocked his head like a dog waiting for a bone. When I explained that I had received a letter from him, he invited me into his office and ushered me to a chair.

A black wisp of smoke rose from the lamp he lit and he fiddled with the wick until it stopped. “It does char the ceiling,” he said confidentially. His accent was that of the deep South. His eyes slid to my bosom. I had worn the calico dress, its bustle refurbished after my spell in jail.

I ignored the leer and agreed that the whiteness of a ceiling was a most important consideration. Then I got down to business. ���I’m Matilda Summerhayes from the Mesilla Valley. You wrote me this letter.” I pulled it from my bag and held it out.

He took a pair of spectacles from his desk and put them on just long enough to glance at the letter and once more at my bosom. Franklin women must be very flat-chested. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You have decided to sell. Very wise of you, very wise.”

“No. I’ve come to ask you who made this offer.”

He blinked at me with something like shock. “Why, I can’t tell you that. I certainly cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because the gentleman wished his name withheld. That is a client’s privilege.”

I looked at the undeniably soot-free ceiling and willed away the tears that had suddenly threatened. I hadn’t realized how much I was counting on this. There were no other possibilities to pursue. “You can tell me nothing?”

His head moved from side to side. “Surely you would not wish me to betray a client’s trust?”

I wanted to reach over and shake him, to shout that was exactly what I wanted him to do. Instead, I stuffed the letter back into my bag. Would it do any good to explain why I needed to know his client’s identity? I decided it wouldn’t, and it was best not to risk his mentioning those reasons to his client.

I rose. “I have wasted my journey, then.” I had also run out of all possibility of learning who had tried to buy my land.

“You like the aroma?” he asked, and I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. “Vanilla.” He pointed at the jar of beans. “They grow in Mexico. I’ve always been fond of vanilla.” He reached for the jar. “Would you like to take a few? Wrap them in your kerchief. They’re quite marvelous.”

Like a wooden doll, I handed him my handkerchief and watched as he gingerly extracted two beans, wrapped them carefully and handed it back. “Are you alone in town, Miss Summerhayes? Would you care to have dinner with me? The hotel sets a fine table…”

I stared at him aghast, my hand tingling with the desire to slap the jabbering fool. “No, thank you.” I dabbed at my face with the corner of the handkerchief. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very well, and it will be another long journey tomorrow.”

As I turned to open the door, it occurred to me that I might yet overcome his principles. Turning back, I smiled as brightly as I could and simpered, “Thank you so very much for your time, Mr. Peticolas.” I gestured to the nameplate on his desk. “Whatever do the initials stand for?”

He raised his head proudly. “Victor Bernard.”

“Victor,” I said, in what I hoped was a gentle, mellifluous voice. “I am feeling much better. Perhaps I could have dinner this evening.”

He smiled and shook himself like a rewarded herd dog. “Ah, that is excellent, excellent. We will have a most amusing time.”

My dinner with Victor Bernard Peticolas was anything but amusing. Between furtive glances at my neckline, he took great pains to explain the profound importance of professional ethics.

Idly, I stirred my rather watery bean soup. “Surely you can tell me where your client is from, his business, something?”

He blinked at that for a few moments. “I suppose there would be no harm in telling you he is a Union officer.”

I hid my excitement by attacking the soup with relish. The information wasn’t much but at least it narrowed the possibilities. “But, sir,” I said, “if he is with the Union…”

Peticolas twittered something to the effect that his professional ethics transcended a mere war. The fact that his client was an enemy officer was quite beside the point.

Gently, I cut him off. “I must make a confession.”

At that, he looked quite eager.

“You have been so kind. And I fear that I have shamefully hidden something from you. The fact is, I have, indeed, decided to sell my ranch.”

He mopped at his mouth with a napkin. “That is excellent, Miss Summerhayes.”

“Do call me Matilda.” I watched his eyes light up as though someone had touched a match to them. “Yes, I have decided to return east to Philadelphia, and of course, I will need to sell my property here.”

“Yes, yes?”

“But there is a condition. I will deal only with the gentleman who proposes to purchase the ranch. You must put me in touch with him.”

“I fear I cannot do that.”

“Then I will sell to someone else. I have had another offer.”

Peticolas looked as crestfallen as a wet bantam rooster.

“Why, if I do wish to sell, can you not arrange a meeting?”

“Because the gentleman left very specific instructions in the event such a situation arose. He said I was to tell you he is traveling and cannot be reached.”

“But if he is with the Union Army, he must be in the territory.”

“I do not know, Miss Summerhayes.”

Angry, I jumped up, almost spilling the soup. “Then the offer was not in good faith.”

The little man gazed at me looking quite forlorn. “I must abide by my instructions,” he said doggedly.

I summoned the haughtiest tone I could. “Don’t trouble yourself to get up, I can find my way quite well.”

999

The hotel displayed pots of red flowers in every window. In the morning, I discovered the flowers were made of paper.

There was time for a stroll before the stage was slated to depart, so I wandered, trying to fit a Union officer into my other slim bits of information. I could make no sense of it. And for all I knew, the man could have borrowed or stolen a uniform and not be a military officer at all.

When I returned from my mental meandering, the sun was quite high; and I realized that time was short, but I wasn’t sure how to retrace my steps to the public square.

Ahead was an imposing building with bricked arches, tall windows with many rectangles of panes, and even a few large, if sickly looking, trees. I quickened my step, resolving to ask directions there. A man on crutches was emerging from the shade beneath the arches. His leg had been severed at the knee, but he managed to tip his hat and smile.

“Sorry to see you’ve had such an unfortunate accident,” I said, when he’d pointed the way with his crutch.

His face was thin and pale and all nose, like that of a young bird. “No accident,” he said. “This was quite on purpose.” He chuckled at my frown. “This here’s the hospital.” He shifted his weight on his remaining foot and pointed at the arches. “Confederate States of America army hospital. I run into a minie ball early on, but we will have ours. Yes, we will.”

I hoped he was right. At least I hoped the Confederates would accomplish one thing in battle: eliminate one Union lieutenant. For only then would I be truly free.

999

I reached the stagecoach just before it departed, disembarked at La Posta in Mesilla some seven hours later, claimed my horse and wagon from the livery stable and headed home. I was still two or three miles from the ranch when I saw the lights. Every window of the house was aglow. A tingle of dread rattled in my innards. What had happened?

I prodded the horse on; and not pausing to put up the wagon, I moved anxiously to the front door. The parlor was ablaze with light. Ribbons of dark smoke drifted upward from the lanterns. Everyone but Nacho seemed to be milling about in the brightness. All heads had swung to the door when I flung it open. From across the room, Julio held out his hand and announced, “Señora. The army has won at Glorieta.”

In the relief that flooded me, it didn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t sure which army Julio was talking about.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The next morning, a tense excitement seemed to ooze from every corner of the house. By the time I waked from a fitful sleep and washed and dressed, the decision had been made without me. But I was quick to agree. Julio would remain to look after the ranch. The rest of us would take a well-earned breather and go into town for a full report of the victory.

It was of course the Confederates who had won at Glorieta, as they had won at Valverde two months before, so the retribution we had feared from a returning Union army seemed unlikely.

Herlinda’s peculiar fear of Winona was still festering. She refused to share the wagon seat, preferring to sit in the back with her feet hanging over the dust. Ruben and the other hands rode in on their own. Zia was crowing a tune of her own devising; and I handed the reins to Winona, took the baby onto my lap and kissed every inch of her face.

I had slipped Julio’s drawing of the Mexican kid into my bag. Perhaps today I would find someone who could tell me more. Surely someone had seen him with his companion, the man who must have, ultimately, killed him.

The plaza was as thronged with people as it had been the day General Sibley made his speech. Confederate flags bobbed here and there in the crowd. The Stars and Bars still looked odd to me. Some people had improvised their own flags, so they didn’t all match.

The air seemed to quiver with energy and excitement, and I felt myself swept up in it. I didn’t care a tinker’s damn for the Rebels or the Federals, but it sure was a fine thing to have something to celebrate. Herlinda and Winona went their separate ways, but I stayed in the plaza drinking in the crowd’s exhilaration.

Three men with fresh-scrubbed faces under straw hats sat on a bench strumming banjos, their chins all cocked at the same angle as they concentrated on producing the right notes. I looked about for mariachis. There’s something about the strolling Mexican players that warms the heart. But there were none, and I remembered that most of the valley’s Mexicans probably would have preferred a Union victory.

I found myself elbow to elbow with Mac MacPherson, who ran the blacksmith shop and livery. Mac must have been nearly fifty, but he hadn’t run to fat. His fists were the size of a lamb’s hindquarters; his arms, all muscle, were thick as my waist. White hair fell over his ruddy face, and his eyes sparkled with good humor.

“Exactly what happened?” I asked, raising my voice above the buzz of the crowd. “I only heard that there was victory at Glorieta.”

“Aye, that there was,” said Mac. “My little brother was with ’em.” He had a good twenty years on his brother. “He come acrost a messenger and sent back word,” he went on. “The Abs wouldn’t come out to meet us, so we marched right to their camp to give battle.” Confederate troops called the Union Army “Abs” which was short, I supposed, for Abolitionists.

Mac took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it as carefully as if it had been the Declaration of Independence. The paper had been ruled by hand, the writing was carefully neat. He waved it as he talked. “Brian says we pushed them right down into a valley and gave them a proper hiding. Even the Pike’s Peakers turnt tail and run. I reckon we knocked them all into a cocked hat,” he said happily, as if he had done it himself, single-handed.

“It does seem that way,” I said brightly.

Mac’s meaty brows knitted in a scowl. “The scoundrels got off with their own cannon and train, though. Then they sent a detachment round through the mountain and took and burnt our train.”

Since all the supplies were carried by the wagon train, that seemed to me like a sorry state of affairs for “our” men. It didn’t sound like victory.

But Mac was poking a thick finger at the letter. “We showed them a trick or two, though.” He pushed the letter toward me. “Could you read it, ma’am? Could you read it out loud?”

It dawned on me that Mac couldn’t read, that he had memorized someone else’s reading of the letter. I looked at the sentence he was stabbing at and read, “The battle lasted five hours. We had kilt, wounded. They had kilt and wounded,” brother Brian had written in his careful script. Mac was repeating my words, committing them to memory.

The Union had suffered casualties. It is a terrible thing to pray that someone you know was among them.

“Don’t he write good, though?” Mac said proudly.

I solemnly agreed, then opened my bag, took out Julio’s drawing and showed it to him. “Have you ever seen this man? Do you know anything about him?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“What you got there, sister?” someone shouted, and someone else jostled my arm. A man I’d never seen before was leering at me. He was short and hatless with ears big as jug handles; one of his front teeth was missing. He snatched at the drawing.

“It’s just a picture,” I said. “Nothing to do with the battle.”

“Pitcher o’ what?” he demanded, lisping around the missing tooth.

“Just a drawing of a Mexican boy. Ever seen him?” I turned the drawing toward him.

He eyed the paper. “Who made it?” he snapped.

“Julio Lujan. He’s an excellent artist; the likeness is good. Have you ever seen—?” But the churlish little man had grabbed the picture from my hand.

Mac lunged at him, but the fellow was gone quick as a bobcat with a fresh kill.

Just then a thin-shouldered man climbed the steps to the platform in the center of the plaza and rose above the crowd. He held out his hand, palm down.

I put my hand on Mac’s arm. “Never mind, it wasn’t important.” Julio could make another drawing for me.

A man in a pale grey uniform was mounting the platform. The crowd applauded wildly. Someone threw torn-up paper into the air. The man nodded, and the hand clapping faded.

“Major Trevanion Teel,” Mac said into my ear, pronouncing it Tree-vane-eon. “He come in the stable this morning to get his horse shod.”

Major Teel obviously had been to the barber recently, too. His red-gold beard had been closely trimmed and his mustache made a perfect angle under his nose.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and the crowd twittered like birds.

“Our soldiers have given another evidence of the daring courage and heroic endurance which actuate them in this great struggle for the independence of your country. The battle of Glorieta—where for six long hours they steadily drove before them a foe of twice their numbers—will take its place upon the roll of this country’s triumphs. It will not be long until not a single soldier of the United States will be left on the soil of New Mexico.”