Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  Luke dragged over a chest from their baggage-wagon. Oliver put on a white shirt and a black suit, and a tall silk hat, and shiny shoes and a pair of black kid gloves. Garnet took out a dress of printed muslin, and a straw bonnet with flowers and pink ribbons, and white stockings, and black kid slippers with silk lacings. They got back into the carriage, where Luke had dusted off the seat and polished the metal rods that held up the top, and they rode down into Santa Fe.

  The people had sighted the caravan hours ago. Now they were all in the street, thousands of them, and they were dressed in all they owned—men in embroidered coats and boots with silver spurs, girls in silks and satins and fine lawns, Indians who had come to town for the trading, in full glory of paint and blankets. The Indians stood back, watching in silence, but everybody else cheered and shouted as the caravan came in. The traders waved their tall hats and bowed like leaders of a conquering army. Behind them, the great wagons came creaking through the pass.

  The home of Señor Silva was just off the plaza. There were four rooms, with a passage dividing them two and two. Every summer the family withdrew into two of the rooms, leaving the other two for Oliver’s use. The family consisted of Señor and Señora Silva and their two youngest children, girls of thirteen and fourteen. The older children were married and gone, and this left room for the Silvas to add to their income by taking a trader to lodge.

  The man of the house was very grand in his best red coat and blue trousers, and the ladies wore dresses of flowered calico, with low necks, and full skirts short enough to show their ankles. They all bowed and curtsied and smiled, babbling in soft musical voices, and Garnet stood smiling back at them while Oliver translated what they said. They were delighted that Don Olivero had brought a wife this year. They regarded her with infinite curiosity, the girls and their mother reaching shy eager hands to stroke her strange clothes. Oliver answered what seemed like hundreds of questions, and Garnet felt almost ashamed of herself for not being able to understand what they were about. She saw Oliver laugh and shake his head as he answered something Señora Silva asked, and she turned to him.

  “What is she saying, Oliver?”

  “She wants to know if you’re going to have a baby.”

  Garnet gasped at such candor. “Good heavens!—Oliver, do they understand what I’m saying?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Then—what makes her so rude?”

  “She’s not rude, my dear. That’s the first thing they always ask a young married woman. She wouldn’t be polite if she didn’t ask.”

  The señora was patting Garnet’s arm and saying something else. Oliver translated.

  “She says you’re not to worry. You are young and you look quite healthy, so no doubt, you will soon find yourself expecting one.”

  Garnet hoped she was not blushing, but she was afraid she was. She expected to have children, but she had been very glad to find that she was not complicating the hardships of the trail by having a baby right away. That had been one reason for her mother’s tears at the wedding, she knew; Pauline had been dreadfully apprehensive lest Garnet find herself with child somewhere on this wild journey. But so far, she had not. She gave her attention back to Oliver, who was translating again.

  “Señora Silva says she did not know she was to have the honor of receiving a lady, but she hopes the rooms are quite as luxurious as those you’re used to. They’re not, but they’re clean and comfortable. Now she’s asking if you’re hungry.”

  “I can answer that!” Garnet exclaimed gratefully, and turning back to Senora Silva she said with emphasis, “¡Sí, sí señora! Tengo hambre—¡gracias!”

  All four Silvas laughed and babbled, and Garnet inquired of Oliver,

  “How do I say I’d like a bath?”

  “You ask for agua caliente. That means hot water. I’ll tell them.”

  The señora nodded, and gave orders to her daughters. The girls ran off, and Oliver led Garnet into the rooms that he and she would live in.

  The rooms had whitewashed walls. Around the walls, to the height of a man’s shoulder, hung curtains of bright figured calico. Oliver said this was so the whitewash would not rub off on your clothes. There were no chairs, but along two sides of each room was an adobe bench built along the wall, with cushions scattered upon it. In one room was a table and in the other a bed. In the bedroom a basin and a pottery jug of water stood at one end of the wall-bench, and in both rooms there were mirrors hanging on the wall. The floor was of clay, packed almost as hard as stone, and on the floor were rugs of black-and-white woven figures. The bed was covered with a blanket that looked like the rugs. Garnet went over and felt the blanket. It was beautifully light and soft.

  “Think you’ll like it?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh yes! Just think, tonight we’ll sleep in a real bed, and before that we’ll wash in hot water! I’ve almost forgotten what hot water feels like. Oliver, it is luxury. Tell them I said so.” But she looked around, puzzled, and he asked,

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Furniture. Don’t the people here use chairs, or wardrobes, or extra tables, or anything?”

  “Not unless they’re very rich. Wood is too scarce.”

  “There are lots of trees.”

  “Cottonwoods. Pretty, but no earthly use. Too soft.”

  “Oh, I see.” Garnet took off her bonnet. “It’s wonderfully cool in here.”

  Oliver led her to the window, and she saw that the outside wall of the house was three feet thick. He explained that this kept the houses cool in summer and warm in winter. Both the rooms had little egg-shaped fireplaces, built in corners. But fuel was costly. Cottonwoods were no better for burning than for building. Wood had to be cut in the mountains, and brought down on the backs of little donkeys called burros. The houses were built thick and tight, so the people would not need fires except in bitter weather.

  The windows had heavy wooden shutters instead of glass. In warm weather like this, you could leave them open all the time, because they did not face the street, but opened on a little courtyard at the back of the house. The room with the table—which Garnet supposed you would call a parlor to distinguish it from the bedroom—had an outside door of its own, opening on a passage that ran from the street between this house and the next. They could receive their own visitors without disturbing the Silva family.

  Assisted by Señor Silva, Oliver dragged in the chests that held their clothes. The girls brought in jugs of hot water. They left reluctantly, with many backward glances, and Oliver warned Garnet,

  “You’d better get up the laundry this afternoon, and don’t be surprised if you see them examining every garment stitch by stitch. You aren’t the first American woman they’ve seen—every now and then a trader brings his wife with him—but you’re the first they’ve had living with them, and they’re bursting with curiosity to know what you wear under that peculiar-looking dress.”

  Garnet laughed and said she didn’t mind.

  When they were dressed again, they went out to the room with the table. Señora Silva and her daughters were setting out dishes of red and blue pottery, piled with strange-looking food that had a spicy smell. Garnet sat down on the bench and Oliver passed her a plate piled up with flat round things that looked like pancakes. She picked up her fork.

  “No, no,” said Oliver. “Look.”

  He picked up a pancake with his fingers and rolled it like a lamplighter.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “Tortillas. The local bread. Made of corn, and very good.”

  She tried to roll one like his. The tortilla was hot, and very good indeed. Senora Silva filled her plate with a stew made of mutton and onions and beans and chili-peppers. She poured bright red wine out of a bottle. The stew was highly spiced, and at first it burnt Garnet’s tongue, but she was so hungry that she did not mind. The wine was delicious. Oliver told her everybody drank wine with every meal, even children. And by the way, she must never ask for water unt
il she had finished a meal. It was very discourteous. Señora Silva would think her guest didn’t like her cooking, and wanted to wash out the taste of it.

  They finished the stew, and Señora Silva brought them cheese made of goat’s milk, and a platter heaped with grapes. The cheese was very rich, and it had an odd taste, but after a nibble or two Garnet decided that she liked it. The grapes were the most delicious she had ever eaten. “Is this a banquet?” she asked Oliver. “Or do we eat like this every day?”

  “We eat like this every day. And for breakfast there’ll be hot chocolate, very thick and rich, brought to the bedroom.”

  Garnet sighed with rapture. “Breakfast in bed! After all these weeks of jumping up at daybreak with no breakfast at all. Oliver, tell her the dinner was very good, and I’m so wrapped in luxury I don’t know myself, and I hope I can learn some more Spanish so I can tell her how nice she is.”

  Oliver translated. Señora Silva smiled and curtsied and told him his bride was charming and she wished them long life and many children. When they left the table, Oliver took Garnet for a walk around the plaza.

  The streets were full of people—traders and bullwhackers, most of them with a girl on each arm; and groups of Mexicans who lounged against the buildings, watching the foreigners. They stared when they saw Garnet, and chattered. Oliver told her not to mind, but she clung to his arm, feeling as strange as they thought she was. Oliver pointed out the public buildings and residences of the leading citizens. At the southeast corner of the plaza they came to the principal inn of Santa Fe, the Fonda. While the Yankees were in town the Fonda never closed its doors. Oliver told her nice ladies did not often go there, but he would take her if she wanted to see it. Garnet said of course she wanted to see it. She wanted to see everything.

  As they strolled toward the Fonda, they saw a man in American clothes, very drunk and merry, being helped out of the doorway by two laughing Mexican youths. “Oh dear,” said Garnet, “let’s wait a minute for him to go by.”

  Oliver drew back with her against the wall. The Mexican boys were highly amused by the antics of the American. He was singing, but neither words nor music made any sense.

  Oliver got a good look at him, and laughed. “Oh Lord, it’s Deacon Bartlett. I might have known it.”

  “Deacon? He’s not acting like a deacon.”

  “The pride of St. Louis,” Oliver assured her. “He got here with his wagons last week.”

  Deacon Bartlett had stopped singing, and was trying to tell the Mexicans something they could not understand.

  “I’d better help him,” said Oliver.

  “You’re not going to speak to him, in his condition!”

  “Why yes, why not? He’s forgotten all the Spanish he ever knew, which never was much. Señores!” Oliver called. He went up to the two Mexicans, who were trying to keep the deacon from stumbling into a near-by irrigation ditch.

  There was a rapid conversation in Spanish, and Oliver turned back to Garnet.

  “The deacon offered to pay them to see him home,” he explained, “but they couldn’t make out where he lived, so I told them. It’s a house just down a side street here. He always takes lodgings with a couple named Mora, because they live so close to the Fonda. Let’s make sure he gets there.”

  Keeping a little distance, they followed Bartlett and his escorts down a street lined with small adobe houses. “These aren’t nearly as nice as ours,” Garnet said.

  “No, a nice family like the Silvas wouldn’t have Bartlett. The Moras are willing to put up with his goings-on because they need the rent.”

  The Mexican youths were standing in front of one of the houses. They had thrust Bartlett inside, and were now grinning and chattering at someone within. As Garnet and Oliver approached, they heard a feminine voice from just beyond the doorway.

  “Gracias, señores, el señor es—es—oh damn, no hablo español, no comprendo español either—quit giggling and go on home! No tengo mas dinero—don’t you understand that? Hell for breakfast, go away, won’t you?”

  Garnet stopped short and gasped. She knew that voice. She knew it so well that she hardly heard Oliver as he exclaimed,

  “My God, Garnet, don’t tell me that’s the moonshine blond!”

  Garnet broke away from him. She ran to where the two Mexicans were standing, and halted by them. For an instant amazement made her speechless. In the doorway of the little dark house stood Florinda.

  Florinda had on a blue cotton dress, and over her head was a black shawl, which she was holding tight under her chin while she laughed helplessly and struggled with the language. Oliver had followed Garnet, and as she caught sight of them Florinda held out her free hand. She had on black silk mitts that covered most of the hand but left her fingers free.

  “Oh, you darlings!” she cried. “I was never so glad to see anybody in my life. Come on in.”

  Garnet had already scrambled up the low step. Florinda put an arm around her waist and hugged her. Florinda was not surprised to see them, for she had known they were coming to Santa Fe, but Garnet was so astonished that her head felt jumbled. Oliver stood by the step, where the Mexican boys were still lingering. Florinda whisked her attention to the immediate problem.

  “Oliver, you speak Spanish, don’t you?”

  From somewhere in the dimness of the little room beyond, Garnet heard a snore. She looked past Florinda’s shoulder. Deacon Bartlett sat on the wall-bench, his head down on the table. He was quite comfortable.

  THIRTEEN

  “DO GET RID OF these boys,” Florinda was begging Oliver. “Tell them Mr. Bartlett is all right now and I’ll take care of him and I’ve given them all the money I’m going to.”

  As Oliver spoke to the boys, Garnet demanded,

  “Florinda, how did you get here?”

  “Over the plains, darling, about a week ahead of you. Yes, Oliver, what do they want?”

  Oliver was laughing. “They say you paid them well, they weren’t asking for more money. They want to see your hair.”

  “Oh, rats,” said Florinda. She had evidently heard this before.

  “They heard you had long hair the color of cornsilk,” said Oliver. “They won’t go away until they see for themselves.”

  “All right, but tell them they can’t touch it. They all want to make sure it really grows on my head.”

  Oliver warned the boys. They promised, and watched with interest while Florinda threw back her shawl, yanked out her hairpins, and shook her hair down. The boys exclaimed. When they had had a good look, Florinda grabbed Garnet’s hand and ducked inside.

  The room was small and rather dark, for it had only one window in the thick adobe wall. Mr. Bartlett sprawled on the wall-bench, his head on the table, peacefully snoring. Paying no attention to him, Florinda tossed her shawl on the table, and laughing sadly, she began to pin up her hair.

  “Is that why you wear a shawl over your head?” Garnet asked.

  “I don’t dare open the door without it. And on the street—the way they follow me around, you’d think I had three legs and a tail. Thanks, Oliver,” she added as he came in and shut the door behind him. “Are they gone?”

  He nodded. “Don’t be too hard on them. They’ve seen tow-headed men, but men have their hair cut. They never saw billows of flaxen hair like yours.”

  Florinda sighed. “All my life,” she said, “I’ve been a ravishing beauty. I had to come to this jumping-off place of creation to find I’m just a freak.” She tucked in a last hairpin.

  Garnet was biting her thumb, looking apprehensively at Mr. Bartlett. Except for the two men who had annoyed her in New Orleans, she had never been so close to a drunken man before. “Florinda,” she whispered, “is he—is he all right?”

  Florinda gave him a gentle poke with her finger, as though he were dough and she wanted to see if it had risen enough. Mr. Bartlett made no response.

  “Are you going to leave him there?” Garnet asked doubtfully. Mr. Bartlett might be unconscious, but sh
e was still afraid of him.

  “I’ll drag him out of the way if Oliver will help me. I can’t lift him by myself.”

  Oliver said he would be glad to help. Florinda opened a side door leading to a bedroom, and they dragged Mr. Bartlett up and got him inside. From the next room, Garnet heard Florinda giggling as she commented on Mr. Bartlett’s sad state. Florinda didn’t seem to be scared of him at all. She just thought he was funny.

  Garnet sat down on the wall-bench and looked around.

  The room was empty of furniture, except for the wall-bench and the table, and a chest that probably held clothes. There was an array of bottles in one corner. Everything was orderly, as though somebody had done her best to be a good housekeeper with what she had. On the table were red and blue pottery dishes, the cups neatly turned down; and at the end of the table was a tray of grapes and apples, and a red jar holding some branches with unfamiliar yellow flowers.

  Yes, Garnet reflected, Florinda must live here. She could not imagine Mr. Bartlett gathering flowers, or keeping his bottles in such neat rows by the wall.

  Oliver was coming back. He closed the bedroom door behind him.

  “Where’s Florinda?” Garnet asked.

  “Soothing her friend back to sleep. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  “But Oliver, why did she come to Santa Fe?”

  “I don’t know any more about it than you do. She said we were to wait, and she’d tell us.” Oliver sat down on the bench by Garnet, and stretched his legs under the table. “Well, well,” he said, “think of the deacon. I never thought he could make a conquest like this.”

  “You mean she’s too good for him?”

  “I mean, my dear, you saw the furs and jewels she was wearing in New Orleans. Her lovers haven’t been yokels like Bartlett.”

  “But who is he, Oliver?”