Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [28]
“This is very odd.”
Hancock reached out an arm, and Mira moved closer. He pulled her to him, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They watched from inside, through the wide front window of the house, as the procession moved past. Hancock watched each man carefully, looked for weapons, any sign the display would turn into something else, something more aggressive.
“I’ve been expecting this, actually. General Banning told me about this—this custom.”
“What does it mean? Is it a threat?” She turned, looked instinctively toward the small cradle where the baby lay sleeping.
“Probably not, but it could be the first step. They’re showing their displeasure against the authority of the government, and . . . I guess that’s me.”
He had been here only a few months, ordered to the new post from up north, Benicia, near San Francisco, the headquarters of the California command. It was a promotion, if not in rank, at least some prestige, a reward to a man who had demonstrated great skill in managing property, a flair for the paperwork of equipping an army.
They had come to California nearly by accident. The Sixth Infantry had moved west from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, a long march to the Utah Territory, to confront the rebellious Mormons, who were threatening to reject the authority of the federally appointed governor. But with the show of force closing in, the Mormons had avoided the fight, had finally agreed to accept the government’s authority, and so the Sixth Infantry, under the new command of General Albert Sidney Johnston, had been ordered to keep going, farther west, and provide manpower for the new Department of California.
The march had taken many months, and in all had covered over two thousand miles, the longest overland march by infantry in military history, and it was the job of this young quartermaster, Captain Winfield Scott Hancock, to supply the troops. And, as he had done from his first days of service, he had exceeded the army’s expectations, had arrived at Benicia better equipped than when they left Kansas. It was an extraordinary accomplishment, and so Hancock had been appointed to command the new Department of Southern California, which consisted of . . . him.
His first concern had been the Indians, the Mojaves, but there had been no trouble, and Hancock had even become acquainted with some of the tribal chieftains. But the Spanish residents had deep loyalties to the old territorial government, a government that had been forced to surrender control to these new Americans, one great price for the defeat of Santa Anna in Mexico, and it was a control that most in Southern California never recognized, because little around them had changed.
The protesters had completed their ride past his house, sped up their horses and disappeared down the street, toward the older buildings of Los Angeles. Hancock turned from the window, went into his small office, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small pistol.
Mira came in behind him, saw the dull metal of the old gun. “Win, are we in danger?”
He didn’t answer, was thinking about the warehouse, the piles of government stores, weapons and powder, as well as the various hardware, tents, and blankets. He always thought it foolish of the army to store these supplies in Los Angeles, with only one man, one quartermaster, as the military presence in the area. The Quartermaster’s Depot was a simple storage building, a barnlike warehouse with a wide door, secured by crude strap hinges and one old lock, and the nearest military unit was over a hundred miles away, the cavalry detachment at Fort Tejon.
He held the pistol, felt the solid power, ran his fingers over the oily surface, then turned and handed it to Mira.
“How long has it been since you fired this?”
She pointed it down to the floor, turned her hand sideways, then back.
“Kansas. Mr. Benden took me out to the cornfields,