In The Face Of Death (44 page)

“Clearly you trust General Sherman,” said Leonetto. “Can you tell me why that is?”

“I have seen him at his best, and at his worst,” she answered, presenting her argument carefully. “I know he has never deserted his men or his friends when the situation was desperate.”

“How do you account for that?” Leonetto inquired.

“It is his character. He walks a path he chose for himself; he will not leave it. He has a few, strongly held beliefs and they shape him and his life. He is not so much a proud man, but a . . . faithful one.” She was aware of a slight wistfulness in her voice, so she added. “It has cost him a great deal to do this.”

“You count him your friend?” This question surprised her, coming as it did as a casual afterthought.

She thought about it, wanting to give an answer that could be corroborated if such became necessary. “He was my banker, in San Francisco. In that capacity he was a great help to me, as a visitor to a city I did not know. And I aided him: he had a severe attack of asthma; I was able to help him, and so I would suspect he feels some obligation to me.” She consoled herself with the inward reminder that this was the truth; she paused. “During the war he stood by his men, even when they were suffering. Even when
he
was suffering. So it follows he might have a similar attitude toward me.”

“Well enough. I will remember that.” He reached for his coffee, tasted it and drank it. “Who else can you tell us of?”

“No one who would help you,” she said, gently enough for him not to be offended. “I spent most of my time with ordinary people. And Indians.”

“Oh, yes, the Choctaw.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim volume. “I had this from a . . . colleague in America. I was hoping you might know who a few of these men are.” He handed the little book to her. “We have no one to tell us anything more than what is in the book. Perhaps you can help us?”

It was no more than fifty bound pages of photographs, taken mainly from newspapers, a few with short articles appended, but many pages held simple portraits.

“A few are marked. They are the ones we do not recognize.” He leaned back and watched as Madelaine studied the faces.

“I do not know this man, but his garments are Sioux. I know very little about the Sioux. I was not able to go among the Sioux. This man is Arapaho. The people are traders. This man is Cheyenne. The Arapaho and the Cheyenne are traditional allies against the Sioux.” She turned the page and saw a photograph, declaring the subject to be Cochise, of the Apache, the fierce raider sought by the US Cavalry for massacres of whites. She stared at the face. “I have met this man,” she said quietly.

“Cochise?” asked Leonetto, when Madelaine held out the book to him.

“Yes; several years ago. He did not tell me his name, only that he was the son-in-law of Mangas Coloradas. Many Indians will not tell outsiders their names.” She recalled the evening they had talked, the man’s many precautions against exposing himself to attack or capture. “He speaks good English and excellent Spanish,” she said inconsequentially.

“That’s remarkable,” said Leonetto, his attention caught.

“Not as remarkable as you might think: were you going to learn Apache?” she asked. “This man on the next page is Tavibo, the spiritual leader of the Paiute.”

“How likely is it that the Indians will unite against the whites?” Leonetto put the question to her as if he expected a particular answer.

“Not likely at all, I shouldn’t think,” said Madelaine. “It is more likely that all of eastern Europe should unite against western Europe if western Europe was sending settlers into Bohemia and Poland.”

“I see,” said Leonetto. “A difficult matter.”

“An impossible one, I should think,” said Madelaine, returning to the book. “This man is Shoshone, but I do not know his name. This is Satank of the Kiowa Nation; his name means Sitting Bear. This man is Coweta-stick Creek. These two men are Navajo.” She closed the book and handed it back to him. “I am sorry I can tell you nothing more.”

“Yes; well, you have been most helpful, Madame,” he said with a show of sincerity. He rose. “I thank you for the time you’ve given me, and I’ll keep your remarks in mind when I make my report.” He bowed slightly and started to the door.

“You will forgive me for saying it, Professore, but I doubt you have any comprehension of the state of affairs in America.” She did her best not to make this a challenge. “I have been there, I have seen the peoples of that country, and I do not have audacity enough to suppose I understand America. It is a fascinating place, but that makes it difficult to appreciate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Leonetto in a tone that promised the opposite.

“If I can be of any more help, do not hesitate to contact me,” said Madelaine, a trace of mischief in her voice now.

“Yes; of course,” said Professor Leonetto, and let himself out.

Rho, Lombardia, 2 April, 1871

It is quite a splendid day. No rain, and no clouds. It is warm but not uncomfortably so, and the breeze is pleasant and filled with the scent of growing things. This is the sort of spring day the poets write about, and painters wait whole years for. I have been out twice this morning, once to ride, and once to walk in the garden. It will not be easy to leave this place, but in another year or so, two at the most, I fear I must. Not only will it be wise for my own protection, but it is getting to be time that I undertake another expedition so that I can disappear and my “cousin” or “niece” can take up my work on my behalf. But on a day like today, those demands seem so remote that I suppose I can postpone those events for a while; in the meantime, I will see what I can find about recent antiquarian discoveries around the world and begin inquiries about an expedition. . . .

Saint-Germain has promised to come to Montalia before the end of summer. He and I have not spent more than a few days together in the last thirty years. It is always awkward to be with him, knowing that we can offer each other nothing of what we need. I always try to persuade myself that I will not be daunted by this desire that goes through me like a strong current, and become as philosophical as he appears to be. If I did not continue to love him as I do, it would be easier, I suspect, though he claims I will grow more accustomed with age, as he says he has done. Still, our conversaton is happy. But I can see the longing in his eyes, when he is not on guard. . . .

In the wake of the letter from Saint-Germain, I find I am missing many of the men I have loved: Saint-Germain himself most of all, but also Falke and dear Trowbridge, who never touched me, and Alexander, and Tecumseh. How Tecumseh refuses to leave my reverie. He wanted so much to banish any other love from my memory, and occasionally he succeeds but for Saint-Germain, especially on a languorous day like this one when studying has no charm for me, and the lure of the countryside reminds me of all those days in the endless countryside of America. . . .

Rho, Lombardia, 19 June, 1871

Thunderstorms again today. . . . I have been filling the time with work on my Civil War experiences. I think that perhaps now I can begin to assess what happened to me in those dreadful years. . . . But I am shocked at the pain reading my journal pages brings to mind. It was not my country, nor my cause, and yet it holds me, for Tecumseh’s sake, if no other. . . .

In today’s post came word that Joseph Greentree died last winter of fever. I was saddened to learn of it, for he was a good friend to me, and did not think me strange or unwelcome simply because I am an outsider. . . . He was kind to me, more than I had any reason or right to expect, and for that alone I will miss him. . . .

If the thunderstorms abate, I will venture out tonight, to visit Marcello Capinello in his sleep. When there are thunderstorms, the risks are too great. One good clap overhead and I would be discovered. . . . Marcello has proved a useful partner in his sleep, and I suspect that many of those who praise him as an advocate would be amazed to learn what a yearning he has for grand romance. In the midst of all those deeds and trusts and wills, he longs for a chance to rescue fair maidens from outlaws, or to capture a citadel and be recognized as a wise and magnanimous ruler. . . . So handsome a man, and with such fire in his soul, it is a pity that he masks his desires so thoroughly. Still, he has drawn up my will to my satisfaction, so that my “descendants” will be able to claim this place should anything happen to me. I think he will be satisfied with the explanation my “niece” will provide him. . . .

Is it just the thunderstorms making me restless, or something more? I cannot help but wonder if this signals a change, for good or bad? . . .

Rho, Lombardia, 11 October, 1871

To my amazement, I have received a telegram from Professor Leonetto telling me that Tecumseh is coming to Europe. I never thought he would actually do it, yet it would seem he will be here shortly. The Professore has asked if I would be willing to meet with Tecumseh, to ask him a few questions on behalf of the government. I am preparing a telegram to send an answer to this request, with the suggestion that we arrange a meeting at the Lake Como villa, where I will not have to be beholden to Professore Leonetto for the opportunity to see my old friend. If Leonetto wants to use me to gain information from Tecumseh, he will have to be content to meet at Lake Como . . . Saint-Germain will surely let me have it for such an occasion, and as Tecumseh is arriving first in Spain, it will be a convenient place to stop on his way to Roma. Even if it isn’t convenient, I would suppose that he might be willing to detour a few miles for me, after coming so far . . . A day or two at Lake Como would certainly be a pleasant respite from travel, even in winter, and would give us privacy which would otherwise be impossible. . . . I will tell Leonetto how it can be arranged, and then I wonder what will happen. . . .

It was nearly dusk when the carriage arrived, and the steely light of winter nearly matched Sherman’s eyes as he climbed out behind Professor Leonetto. Both men wore greatcoats against the chill, with their tall hats pulled down to shelter their eyes.

From her place at the window near the loggia, Madelaine watched, doing what she could to contain her excitement. Could he sense it as well, she asked herself as she watched the two men come across the loggia toward the main door. Or had Professor Leonetto revealed who the “expert on America” was? She saw Sherman look around as if checking for observers. Then he gave a little shrug and stepped up to the door just behind Leonetto, already loosening his muffler.

Anamaria, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway of the withdrawing room, saying, “The guests are here. Should I bring the hot brandy now?”

“They probably need it,” said Madelaine, hoping her composure would not desert her in front of Professor Leonetto. “Has Andrea let them in yet?”

“The door has just opened,” said Anamaria, as if they could not hear it in the withdrawing room, or feel the cold air that came as its vanguard. “They will be with you in a moment, Madama. Be patient.” She glanced along the corridor and said over her shoulder as she went to get the drinks for the newcomers. “The American is very tall. Tall and thin.”

“Yes, he is,” said Madelaine, and rose to her feet, adjusting the fall of the lace over her burgundy velvet bodice. All at once she worried that the neck was too low, and that her ruby-and-pearl necklace was too grand.

Professor Leonetto had rid himself of his greatcoat, muffler, gloves and hat as he came into the room, moving as if certain of his welcome. He spoke in Italian-cadenced English out of courtesy to his guest, though his cordiality was marred by his officious manner and his appearance of a hunting dog in pursuit of prey. “I am sorry we are arriving so late in the day. I am afraid there was quite a crowd to see General Sherman at the train station, and it took over an hour, getting away, what with one thing and another.”

Sherman was still pulling the gloves from his hands for Andrea to put into the closet with his coat, muffler and hat as he came into the room, and so his attention was not on his hostess. “It’s my fault. I do apologize for the inconvenience; it couldn’t be—”

Madelaine filled the silence of his stare, saying, “It is no inconvenience.”

“I understand you have met before,” said Professor Leonetto, letting his own doubt of it color his words. He assumed that Sherman’s hesitance to speak was the result of his attempt to place Madelaine in his recollection. “This is Madame Madelaine de—”

“Montalia,” Sherman finished for him, having recovered himself somewhat. He continued to stare at her, taking in the whole of her with his searching eyes. “I should have guessed. I should have
known.”
He was as straight as ever, but his hair was paler now, a curious coral-pink shade that was faded all the way to white at his temples and in the center of his beard. He was perhaps fifteen pounds heavier than the last time she had seen him, which softened some of the harsh lines of his face and smoothed out his wrinkles, though he had none of the look of a man run to fat about him; he had lost the gauntness Madelaine recalled from Atlanta but he was still markedly more slender than Leonetto.

“How have you been, General Sherman?” she asked, thinking the question was inane, but needing to say something to put the Professor’s qualms at rest.

“Harried almost to death, if you must know,” he answered, with a quick look of gratitude to her. “Ever since Thomas Ewing took ill, I have been pestered and prodded by politicians and my own family, trying to convince me to take his place. Once he died, the importunities grew more frequent, and from my own family as well as others, so I came to Europe. I reckon with the Atlantic between us, they will not bother me as much.”

She wanted to touch him, to feel the life in him, to be wrapped in his arms. But with Professor Leonetto there she could only play the proper hostess, so she said, “It is a pleasure to have you here.” These banalities gave her a chance to recover herself. “My housekeeper is getting hot brandy to help warm you. My staff will see to your coach, horses, and coachman, and take your bags to your rooms. And there will be supper at eight.”