the wishes of an opponent who was worthy. That and similar successes had made Crook indispensable to the army. Who else but he could subdue the Apaches? But Meacham couldn’t really regret the general’s going: if it wasn’t a scorched earth policy Crook pursued, it was at least a singed one. Meacham couldn’t forget the pile of scalps he had seen in the department barn, supposedly left over from Crook’s scalp dance. As a fighter, he personified the might of the military at its most assured. When he was the one on the warpath, better fall in behind him or be chewed up and expectorated. Meacham could entertain a bit more hope that now a peaceful hand could be extended to his Indians by this new man.
Canby. He knew of him. Who didn’t?
“We are neither fish nor fowl here, are we?” The general rolled the unlit cigar around in his mouth, then took it out and examined it, frowning. He set it carefully back into the humidor on his desk, then looked at Meacham. “My wife won’t let me light up those things,” he said. “Says the odor clings to me.”
The admission surprised Meacham. He would not have assumed that kind of influence could affect the commanding officer, had he thought about it.
The major general in charge of the whole northwestern corner of the country pulled out the desk’s drawer and drew from it a pipe and a pouch of tobacco, which he opened and sniffed thoughtfully. “She doesn’t object to this, I’m relieved to say.” Methodically, he transferred strands of tobacco to the pipe bowl, pausing after each addition to examine his progress. Finally, satisfied with his accomplishment, he struck a match and held it at the ready, then peered again at the Superintendent.
“Do you smoke?” he asked. “Go on, light up if you do.”
Meacham shook his head, denying any such indulgence on his own behalf, and watched as the smoke wreathed up into the shaft of afternoon sun that slanted across the room. Headquarters. Department of the Columbia. It was late, and he still had a long ride ahead of him, but he wanted to get the size of the man. No point in trying to rush him to a recitation of facts. Better simply to hear how he sounded. This would be strictly a courtesy call, welcoming him to Portland.
“You are settled, then, I take it?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes. Eighth and Salmon Streets. A comfortable place. We look forward to learning the city.”
“I’m sorry. You were going to say something a moment ago. I cut you off, I’m afraid.”
“Was I?” the general asked, puffing on the pipe, frowning to recapture whatever it might have been.
“‘Neither fish nor fowl,’ I think you said.”
“Oh. Right. That’s it. We aren’t exactly a united front, you and I, are we?” To Meacham’s tall furrowed brow Canby said, “And I imagine the two of us will pay the price for it, one way and another. There you sit, Department of Interior. Here I sit, War Department. Who’s to say which is ‘god,’ which ‘mammon’? But we are to try to serve them both, aren’t we? That’s not supposed to work, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Meacham replied. He thought back to ex-Captain Knapp’s churlishness toward him and civilian life and added, “And it doesn’t. Usually.”
Canby grunted and pulled again at his pipe. Finding it dead, he patiently rummaged in the drawer until he located a tamper. Then he packed the tobacco down into the bowl, struck another match, and started the process again.
“So what do you think, then, Mr. Meacham. What is it you need from the army?”
“Help. The symbol of your authority. That first. The Indians are impressed by uniforms and the flash of arms. Drums. Pipes. That sort of thing.”
“And you aren’t, I take it.”
“I don’t mean to leave you with that impression,” Meacham said. He didn’t want to confront Canby at this first meeting with his general disapproval of the army’s running the reservations or with complaints about its failure to support his attempts to get his job done. He did need to know where Canby stood, though. “I just don’t want to advert to our last resort too early. I want the chance to talk them in,” Meacham said.
“And I want you to have it,” Canby said. “Lord knows, after the past few years, I believe in showing the troops, not using them. So long as that works. When it no longer does, then matters change. One must not then be hesitant. Or undermanned. Or ignorant of every contingency that can affect the outcome.
“Sorry. That sounds pretty military, doesn’t it?”
“It does. But then, that’s your business. I’m relieved, though, to hear that you don’t start with force.”
“No. You move to it when everything else is in place. And when everything else has failed. But you were worried. That brought you here.”
“I thought I came simply to welcome you, but I suppose you are right. I’m bound to worry until I know what you think.”
“I understand that,” Canby said. “My intelligence sources tell me you are of the Quaker Policy persuasion. Is that right?”
The question was good-humored, acknowledged there was room for discussion.
“I am,” Meacham said earnestly. “I have this conviction that if we are to avoid exterminating the Indians....”
“…we must convince them onto the reservations,” Canby finished for him.
“And that we must not do anything precipitate.”
Meacham was surprised at the warm-hearted laugh that broke out from the general when he heard these last words.
“If precipitateness on my part is what you are afraid of, then your intelligence sources are not nearly as good as mine!” he exclaimed. “You haven’t read up on your subject!”
His lined face lightened when he smiled: “Ask your present Commander-in-Chief about me and precipitate behavior the next time you see him! You may have heard that I took Mobile. But it was your then-General Grant, kind sir, who put the boot to my rear end and lifted me there unceremoniously. Booted me, I tell you, to get me to do it! I was planning how to lay rail beds to move troops to invest the city. Would have done a fine job, too, if he had let me alone. Turns out that an investment was not what he had in mind. He just wanted me to take the damned place! I believe you will find that our President will witness to my un-precipitate nature. I am a patient man, a thorough man, a man who likes to move steadily. There will be plenty of time for you to talk your Indians in.
“Which I assume you will do,” the general added, “My sources also tell me you are voluble.”
Meacham didn’t try to disguise his sigh of relief. Maybe it was going to be possible to work with this man after all. As if to demonstrate how patient he could be, Canby returned to the burned-out pipe, emptied it and took the little tool for reaming its insides. He tapped the pipe against the ash-receiver, then puffed into the mouthpiece as if to clear the stem of whatever was interfering with his success. Meacham wanted to tell him about his own most recent failure. Not only had his agent driven the Modocs from the reservation: Canby would know that from the reports. But his own overtures to the Indians had been disdained; his emissaries had been ignored. The Modocs down on the southern border would not be Canby’s most pressing problem, but Meacham needed him, he supposed -- and
