“hero,” but his last war was one that, strictly speak ing, had not offered the standard opportunities for heroism that a
The Good Neighbor 47
good war ought: namely, an honorable reason for fighting. The war against Mexico had really only been a thinly disguised land grab, an embarrassing mark on the report card of a country al ready founded on land grabs—a nation whose entire philosophy of growth, in fact, was based in thievery and genocide, just like all nations. Captain Musgrove knew this, and so did everyone else in the United States of America, though it can be said, with almost complete certainty, that none of them knew that they knew it.
It had, of course, been Captain Musgrove’s opinion that Amer ica had an excellent reason to fight the Mexicans, who in his eyes were not even a true race, but only the bastard descendants of the Spanish conquistadores and the native women they had raped centuries earlier. It was because they had plenty of land, and America wanted some of it. Nothing could be simpler. Captain Musgrove was a professional Indian-killer—a title that once car ried great distinction—and he had firm ideas about the destiny of white men in North America. There was clear evidence that the continent belonged to them, the primary pillar of which was that they were there. Do not try to argue with Captain Musgrove about Manifest Destiny , people used to say of him, four and five genera tions ago. First he’ll argue you to death, and then he’ll shoot you, and then he’ll scalp you —a trick he had learned from the very same In dians he once used to hunt, as though they were rabbits. And then he’ll argue with you some more.
Not that anyone was interested in arguing with the Captain. The doctrine of Manifest Destiny was so manifest it didn’t even need to be discussed. It was a self-evident truth, as dear to the heart of the Great White Father in Washington as the one that stated all beings were created equal, as long as those beings were white property-owning males. Every white American man be lieved, back then, that the whole world belonged to him, or at least as much of it as he could farm and hunt. It must be remem bered that most of these Americans were really only transplanted Europeans or their immediate descendants, and that they’d been
48 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
tricked into this belief by the stupendous size and wealth of the continent of which they found themselves the de facto heirs. To stare over the oceanic vastness of the Great Plains—with the wind roaring in the long grass like surf, and the humped spines of buf falo just visible over the tips of the wild sedge and amaranth grasses, like sleeping whales—was a vision miraculous enough to convince the most timid serf or humble peasant that he’d become wealthy almost by accident, particularly because no one had farmed here yet. In Europe, there was no such thing as unfarmed land. That continent had been overpopulated and overcultivated since the Middle Ages. America was too good to be true, a broad- hipped, buxom temptress wearing absolutely nothing, who did not even try to hide her fruits but urged men on to blind abandon in the plundering of her. It was enough to make even the most vir tuous of men greedy; those who were already weak in character didn’t stand a chance.
Captain Musgrove, who certainly saw himself as among the most virtuous of men, retired from the U.S. Cavalry in 1851 at the age of forty-three, already moving and thinking like an old man, thrice gravely wounded, twice healed. The name “Adencourt” had been circulating in his mind for some years now, though he didn’t yet know what it meant. It came to him from time to time, usu ally when he was a-horse, like a one-word lyric poem that fit the beat of thudding hooves. It pleased him to form it with his tongue, as though he were going to say it, but he never did, not out loud.
The Captain’s left arm, chest, and both legs were scarred and weakened by
The Good Neighbor 47
good war ought: namely, an honorable reason for fighting. The war against Mexico had really only been a thinly disguised land grab, an embarrassing mark on the report card of a country al ready founded on land grabs—a nation whose entire philosophy of growth, in fact, was based in thievery and genocide, just like all nations. Captain Musgrove knew this, and so did everyone else in the United States of America, though it can be said, with almost complete certainty, that none of them knew that they knew it.
It had, of course, been Captain Musgrove’s opinion that Amer ica had an excellent reason to fight the Mexicans, who in his eyes were not even a true race, but only the bastard descendants of the Spanish conquistadores and the native women they had raped centuries earlier. It was because they had plenty of land, and America wanted some of it. Nothing could be simpler. Captain Musgrove was a professional Indian-killer—a title that once car ried great distinction—and he had firm ideas about the destiny of white men in North America. There was clear evidence that the continent belonged to them, the primary pillar of which was that they were there. Do not try to argue with Captain Musgrove about Manifest Destiny , people used to say of him, four and five genera tions ago. First he’ll argue you to death, and then he’ll shoot you, and then he’ll scalp you —a trick he had learned from the very same In dians he once used to hunt, as though they were rabbits. And then he’ll argue with you some more.
Not that anyone was interested in arguing with the Captain. The doctrine of Manifest Destiny was so manifest it didn’t even need to be discussed. It was a self-evident truth, as dear to the heart of the Great White Father in Washington as the one that stated all beings were created equal, as long as those beings were white property-owning males. Every white American man be lieved, back then, that the whole world belonged to him, or at least as much of it as he could farm and hunt. It must be remem bered that most of these Americans were really only transplanted Europeans or their immediate descendants, and that they’d been
48 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
tricked into this belief by the stupendous size and wealth of the continent of which they found themselves the de facto heirs. To stare over the oceanic vastness of the Great Plains—with the wind roaring in the long grass like surf, and the humped spines of buf falo just visible over the tips of the wild sedge and amaranth grasses, like sleeping whales—was a vision miraculous enough to convince the most timid serf or humble peasant that he’d become wealthy almost by accident, particularly because no one had farmed here yet. In Europe, there was no such thing as unfarmed land. That continent had been overpopulated and overcultivated since the Middle Ages. America was too good to be true, a broad- hipped, buxom temptress wearing absolutely nothing, who did not even try to hide her fruits but urged men on to blind abandon in the plundering of her. It was enough to make even the most vir tuous of men greedy; those who were already weak in character didn’t stand a chance.
Captain Musgrove, who certainly saw himself as among the most virtuous of men, retired from the U.S. Cavalry in 1851 at the age of forty-three, already moving and thinking like an old man, thrice gravely wounded, twice healed. The name “Adencourt” had been circulating in his mind for some years now, though he didn’t yet know what it meant. It came to him from time to time, usu ally when he was a-horse, like a one-word lyric poem that fit the beat of thudding hooves. It pleased him to form it with his tongue, as though he were going to say it, but he never did, not out loud.
The Captain’s left arm, chest, and both legs were scarred and weakened by
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