Ilges insists on describing Case as a young man come to Benton seeking business opportunities. Hearing that, most of the leading businessmen’s faces take on a bored, patronizing look, a look that says, How often have I heard that and how often have I seen the results – bankruptcy. Apologetically, Case qualifies the Major’s description. “Not so much business as ranching. In a small way.”
One of the Conrad brothers remarks, “If it’s land you’re after, now’s the time to plunge. Some of the cattlemen are looking to sell up. The recent troubles have them spooked. If you want to drop by the office sometime, I can give you the name of one or two who are looking for a buyer. I don’t touch land myself. It’s not liquid.”
“Very generous of you,” says Case, becoming aware that the racket is subsiding to a low murmuring and expectant shuffling of feet.
In this instant of almost quiet, Major Ilges leans over, puts his mouth to Case’s ear, and whispers, “What we spoke about the other day – I have weighed things carefully. I am agreeable. Come to see me tomorrow.”
“Very well. I will indeed.”
Behind them, Moses Solomon bellows at those still lingering hopefully at the bar, “Stand back! Clear off! Immediate! Music about to begin!” Fort Benton’s princes of commerce brace themselves on their seats as if a tooth-puller were approaching, while their wives coyly survey the scene over fluttering fans, straining for a glimpse of the musical entertainment. Case hears one of the women say, “Now young Miss Tarr is a dear, sweet thing, but the way Mrs. Tarr acts is another matter. So very
superior.”
As his eyes search the room for a glimpse of this superior woman, he spots Hathaway loitering hard by the improvised stage, a smile on his face, his Adam’s apple dancing as he swallows his excitement.
There is a voluntary parting, a shifting and stirring of the multitude to make way for the Tarr family. With a stately and measured tread, Randolph Tarr escorts wife and daughter, one on each arm, their white gloves perched on the sleeves of his best frock coat like obedient doves. The saloon falls into a respectful hush as blond, pink Celeste and dark-haired, pale Ada advance on the piano.
Case is surprised to see Michael Dunne stalking along behind the Tarr family, his colourless eyes restlessly sweeping over the assembly. Briefly they hold on Case, and Dunne bares his teeth – whether in a smile of recognition or a challenge Case can’t decide. When the procession halts before the piano Dunne looks a bit befuddled, at a loss as to what to do or where to go. But then he collects himself and plods to a location near Hathaway where he folds his arms over his chest and assumes a look of self-important, alert readiness. Tarr ushers his womenfolk to their respective places, gives a courtly bow to each, and takes a chair that has been held open for him beside Mr. T.C. Power.
Case nudges Ilges and asks, “That fellow Dunne skulking about there. What connection does he have with this?”
“It’s said an unhappy client of Tarr’s has threatened the peace of his household. Apparently Dunne has been hired as some sort of bodyguard.” Ilges juts his jaw disapprovingly. “But I think his presence is hardly necessary here.”
Ada Tarr is fussing with her music, and Miss Celeste is offering the room her profile, one slender, gloved hand resting on the piano top. The thrust of her chin, the way her stance displays her figure to full advantage, suggests she has spent hours posing before a mirror, indulged in many finicky adjustments and sidelong glances at herself in the glass. The cuirasse bodice of her lilac gown displays a slender waist and gives an upward thrust to plump, girlish breasts. An intricately beaded polonaise bustle, elaborately pleated and ruffled, cascades behind her to the floor. A thick plait of white-blond hair dangles over her left shoulder like the tail of a docile cat; her tiny mouth is vivid with lip rouge. She stands as perfectly still as a Wedgwood figurine.
Her stepmother is another picture altogether. Ada Tarr is dressed in a modest high-necked grey gown, hair primly parted down the middle and drawn into a tight bun. But she wears a wry, enigmatic smile at odds with her severe and spinsterly appearance. She makes Case think of the older, unmarried sister at the wedding, the one who knows unflattering comparisons are being made between her and the bride, but remains determined to rely on her own estimation of her worth.
Moses Solomon is making his way towards the front, a piece of paper clutched in his hand, a sure sign that a ponderous introduction is about to be delivered. Seeing himing, Ada Tarr tilts her head at her stepdaughter and slams out a thunderous chord, transfixing the publican in his tracks. The melody established, Celeste’s high, tremulous voice scrambles after it, and Solomon scrambles back to the refuge of the bar.
“Shall we gather at the river, / Where bright angel feet have trod, / With its crystal tide forever? / Flowing by the throne of God?” sings Celeste, so invitingly that the roughnecks stare at her pretty shoes, as if this vision’s feet are those described in the hymn – bright and angelic.
The chorus impending, Ada Tarr’s right hand leaves the keyboard in a commanding gesture that urges the audience to join in the refrain. And they do, at first in a tentative mumble that slowly swells into fervent disharmony. “Yes, we’ll gather at the river, / The beautiful, beautiful river; / Gather with the saints at the river / That floats by the throne of God.” As the last words of the chorus are bellowed, her hand flies up again, then gives a downward chop that axes them into silence as Celeste commences the next verse. Three more times Ada’s hand flashes a trainman’s signal and the chorus rumbles into action like a locomotive, three more times she slashes it down, slamming on the brakes.
Case, like everyone else, sings on cue, but unlike the rest of the audience, he feels irritable, growing increasingly annoyed at Mrs. Tarr’s imperious manipulation of them, at the mildly sardonic twist to the conductor’s lips. Still, despite a vague feeling of hostility, he can’t keep his eyes off her, off that shockingly white, luminous face.
Just like that, “Shall We Gather at the River” ends. A ripple of uncertainty runs through the audience. Is it sacrilegious to applaud a hymn? A few waddies and teamsters begin to clap and whistle, but before the acclaim can secure a toehold, Mrs. Tarr arches her eyebrows at Celeste and they launch into “Come Home, Father.” The lugubrious air proceeds, Little Mary pleading piteously with Father to leave the bar because Brother Benny, lying cradled in Mother’s arms, is deathly ill. But Father, crazed by demon drink, refuses. Back home, Benny expires, the last words on his lips a wish to kiss Papa good night.
When the last line comes, Case can hear a good many demon drinkers in the audience snuffling and clearing their throats. He catches the sound of a stifled sob, disguised as a cough as Ada Tarr bustles her stepdaughter headlong into the next selection. And that is how the evening’s program unrolls, song following song without a pause, “Grandfather’s Clock,” “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,” “Oh, Come, Angel Band,” “Brother’s Fainting at the Door.” Celeste delivers them with her eyes fixed on a corner where wall meets ceiling; each is sung with the passionless, mechanical tunefulness of a music box, her body stiff as a pikestaff.
An uncanny, clenched tension builds in the room. Case can sense the men’s struggle to master the sentiment these songs and hymns have stirred up in them. Since they boomed out “Shall We Gather at the River,” they haven’t been able to give vent to their feelings; even the release that a stirring ovation could provide them has been denied. Everything they’ve heard is a catalogue of woe, regret, and loss. Case is certain that the old hymns, the old songs have awakened homesickness: memories of a kitchen in Massachusetts, a stretch of black, muddy field in Ohi, a moor purpled with heather in Scotland, a green pasture spotted with red horses in Kentucky.
And more. Death hovers in all these tunes. Like a man who takes a drink of water and tastes silt when he comes to the bottom of the glass, they feel mortality on their tongues. A dying child, a clock in a parlour stopped by an old man’s last heartbeat, a soldier expiring on the doorstep – not even a lavish sugarcoating of sentimentality can sweeten the bitter taste in their mouths.
Only when the rousing finale comes does the crowd shake off its gloom. It is “Garryowen,” the song that the newspapers have reported the 7th Cavalry marched off to, bound for the Little Bighorn. “Our hearts so stout have got us fame, / For soon ‘tis known from whence we came; / Where’er we go they dread the name / Of Garryowen in glory.”
An eruption comes with the first words. An outburst so violent that Miss Celeste flinches; her eyes fall from that distant spot she’s been contemplating and swing to the bellowing mouths. Now is their chance to march against death, to put it on the run with a stirring tune. Trample it under their boots. There is a ruckus of concussive hand clapping, foot stomping. Shot glasses jump on the counter; ceiling lamps rock on their chains, dust puffs up between the floorboards as if the sallow revenants of Custer’s slaughtered men are resurrecting. Miss Celeste’s voice is lost in the roar. Her lips keep silently forming the words as Mrs. Tarr gallops the tempo, beating the keyboard harder and harder, trying to end this wild demonstration by whipping on the song to its finish. Smashing out the last chord, she leaps up from the piano bench, flaps her hands at the audience to drive home the point “Garryowen” is over and done.
But there’s no quelling the riot. A black fireworks of shapeless, battered hats pitches into the air, a deep-throated holler comes as the mob surges forward, heaves up against the backs of the chairs holding Fort Benton’s most eminent citizens. Everyone is shoved and rocked; there is a scramble to get to their feet to avoid being upset on the floor. The Benton ladies are scowling, jerking shawls into place; their husbands tug down coattails and try to look imposing, but can’t quite manage the trick. A moment of confused indecision and then Fort Benton’s finest begin to make a hurried exit from the scene, the men hustling their womenfolk towards the door with stealthy, shamefaced haste. In moments, the front row empties, all except for Mr. Randolph Tarr, who looks like the one forlorn courtier left to hold the palace while royalty flees.
A walleyed prospector shouts, “Give us another song!” a demand bolstered by wild cheers. Remembering Custer’s death has got the mob’s blood up; their mood is jovially belligerent, but they might turn ugly-sour if they don’t get what they want. Near the piano, Celeste is clinging to her stepmother’s hand like a little girl, blue eyes popped wide with fright. Mrs. Tarr turns the cold stare of a judge threatened with losing control of the courtroom onto the boisterous horde.
They’re all chanting “Song! Song!” at the top of their lungs, and Celeste appears to be contemplating burying her face in Mother’s skirts. Ada shouts, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please! Please, gentlemen!” Gradually, the clamour dies down. “We thank you for your very generous approbation, which is much appreciated,” declares Ada sternly, “but Miss Celeste’s voice is not strong, and must not be overtaxed. She must decline an encore.”
Case glances to Peregrine Hathaway, whose face is worriedly knotted at the sight of Celeste’s distress, and hopes to God the boy doesn’t attempt to intervene. Mr. Tarr certainly shows no signs of coming to the ladies’ succour, aside from offering the room a timid, appeasing smile over his shoulder.
“You then, Missus,” shouts someone. “You ain’t used your voice up. You give us a song. It’s for a good cause, them that’s been turned out of house and home. We’ll pay. What say, boys?” A coin sails through the air, strikes the piano, clatters to the floor. And then pennies come flying from every direction, a shower of copper hail, bouncing all around the Tarr women, Celeste ducking and cringing, one arm thrown protectively over her head while Ada cries out, “Stop! Stop! Stop
now
!”
The storm of change peters out and the men switch to clapping and stamping, a bullying drum roll. Mrs. Tarr steers Celeste over to her father and leaves her in his care. He gives a few ineffectual pats to his daughter’s back that only result in Celeste’s head drooping even lower. Ada Tarr strides back to the piano, stares at the rabble until they fall silent. “All right,” she says quietly, “I’ll give you a song.”
Bowing her head, she pensively shoves a coin about on the floor with the toe of her shoe. She begins to hum, searching for the melody. The audience strains to catch the tune but in the beginning it’s unidentifiable, nothing but a low, tentative drone. Gradually, the hum begins to strengthen, and as it does Ada Tarr’s head begins to lift, eyes clenched so tightly shut that a pearl of moisture gleams in their corners, her hands spasmodically opening and closing, clutching for whatever the music is that she is hearing in her head.
Everyone recognizes the song when she begins to sing, but Ada Tarr has slowed the tempo, turned it into a dirge, a long-drawn-out lament. Her voice is grating, harsh, wiping all the verve and bounce out of what was once a rollicking challenge to the secessionists by the North. She has taught a familiar song to speak a new language.
“We live in hard and stirring times, / Too sad for mirth, too rough for rhymes; / For songs of peace have lost their chimes, / And that’s what’s the matter.”
Case can feel the room breathless behind him as she stands there like a blind woman, hands opening and closing as if trying to grasp and pull some form out of the darkness she has surrounded herself with. “That’s what’s the matter, / The rebels have to scatter; / We’ll make them flee, / By land and sea, / And that’s what’s the matter.” Somehow she succeeds in making boisterous defiance sound hopeless, painful and poignant. Against their will, Mrs. Tarr drags the audience along with her through every single verse of the song, darkening and wringing sorrow out of words that no one guessed held sorrow in them. And when she finishes, no one moves, no one makes a sound. Then, whatever has taken possession of Ada Tarr drains out of her. Her face relaxes; her hands drop to her side; her eyes open, washed clear and shining.
There is no applause, only an angry mumbling, the scrape of boots shifting irritably on the floor. The spell of her performance broken, all they are left with is the bare and literal meaning of the words, an insult to every Southerner in the room.