Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [29]
He watched her handle the gun, thought of the huge Irishman, the man he had hired to look after her. Kansas was a dangerous place, had become a war zone, the issue of slavery for the new state a source of growing conflict. Hot-tempered radicals on both sides of the issue were crowding in, hoping to vote the issue their way, whether the state would be free or slave. The conflicts had become vicious and bloody, and the army had been squarely in the middle. Hancock knew that an officer’s wife could be a vulnerable target, and he had hired Benden, a fierce giant whose fists had long ago earned him a reputation as a man you did not confront. Benden had taught Mira how to shoot, and she had a knack for it, a steadiness, could outshoot many of the officers. But she did not enjoy guns, saw them as the tools of the soldiers, did not understand the compliments the men gave her.
“Maybe we can go out, the big field down the road, set up a target.”
She looked at him. “You didn’t answer my question. Are we in danger?”
“I’m not sure. We are certainly vulnerable. I need to learn more about these Spaniards, this . . . protest. In the meantime, it can’t hurt to be prepared.” He reached for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Banning. He deals with these people, maybe he’s heard something.”
She put the gun down on his desk, reached up, and he caught her hands, pulled them into his chest, held them.
“If there is any trouble, it will certainly be at the warehouse, not here. I won’t be long . . . don’t worry.”
He lifted her hands up, kissed them, and then turned and went out through the front door. She followed him, leaned against the open doorway, watched him cross the hard dirt street, then closed and locked the door.
General Phineas Banning was not a general at all, had not been a military man, but had come to Los Angeles some years earlier, recognized the great potential for shipping and commerce, and organized the first modern port facilities. His command of engineering projects, his natural ability to organize the local workers, had given him the military nickname. Banning had a strong appreciation for the army’s usefulness, as did most of the Americans in the area, and so the Hancocks had been warmly received. Hancock knew Banning better than most in the area, knew that his close involvement with the larger community, the Spanish-speaking community, could provide him with a clearer picture of what was going on with the protests.
Hancock was well known now in the town, the only blue uniform that anyone saw walking the street. People smiled, polite, as he passed, though most did not speak English and there were few words of greeting. Banning’s office was a large adobe house, had been converted from an old Spanish villa, and sat on the main road that led out to the coast. He reached the open yard, saw several young men sitting on the steps. Hancock guessed them to be laborers, men waiting for their foreman, for instruction. They were short and brown, tough, hard-looking men, heavy arms and broad chests, and they watched Hancock with quiet black eyes. He climbed the stone stairway to the veranda, reached the door and turned to see a dark face watching him closely; there was no politeness, no smile.
Inside, he heard voices, the first words of English since he had left his house. He called out, “Hello? Mr. Banning?”
From a dark hallway he heard a sound, then a door opened and light filled the long space. He saw two men walking toward him, carrying papers, rolled-up drawings. One of them was Banning.
“Well, Captain Hancock, a surprise! Come on back, please.” Banning waved the other man away, said something briefly in Spanish, and the man was out the door. Hancock heard commotion outside, the stirring of the men.
“Forgive my visit, I’m sorry if I have interrupted your work. I do need to talk to you.”
“Nonsense, always time for a few words.”
Hancock followed Banning down the hall, turned into a large office containing a huge, heavy desk and windows filled