Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

Their mouths clung in slow, deep, sweet searching while they undressed each other. They fitted their naked bodies together, the curves and recesses, hardness and softness, with the care of those studying an ancient and exacting craft, and gloried in sensations unforgotten, yet never adequately imagined. The crisp triangle of hair on his chest tickled and was rough to the tongue, while his half-covered paps were flat and satiny until teased to crinkled nubs. The muscles of his back shifting under her hands were like buried silken ropes. The smoothness of her thighs upon his was a thing of revelation, and exultation. His breath made warm, moist tracks on her skin, and raised the goose flesh of anticipation and delight.

  Together they moved, reaching for and finding a slow and steady rhythm that stretched time and space and the limits of endurance. He clasped her hands, palm to palm and fingers entwined, and pressed his lips to the throbbing pulse in the tender turn of her neck. He cupped her breasts and spanned her waist with his long hard swordsman's fingers, and reached lower to send spirals of fiery joy to the center of her being. The joining was heated and liquid and fusing; he was a part of her and she of him.

  The tumult grew, an invasion of excitement that suffused her body with urgent need. She lifted herself against him, answering his force with her own, striving with him toward the ultimate completion. The shocks of his thrusts shuddered through her. Her breath rasped in her chest. She wanted him deep inside her, immeasurably deep, soundingly deep. She wanted him to reach that part of her that only she knew, the inner sanctuary of her most carefully hoarded self.

  He touched it, and the brilliance burst over them. Weightless and beatific, they soared, knowing each other, two parts of a whole, lost in the wonder.

  She had given him as near to what he asked as she could find within herself. He had kept his promise.

  20

  THEY CAME TO THE Mission San Juan at dusk. The vine-crowned, sun-warmed walls of cream-colored stone that surrounded it enclosed them like an embrace. The sight of the chapel looming in the dimness with the last rays of the sun glazing its belfry, of the padre moving toward them in his dusty black habit while the sound of a choir of rich, beautifully blending Indian voices rose in the evening stillness, was enough to swell the heart with relief and thankfulness. Here was safety, for the first time in weeks.

  They could have gone to the town of San Antonio de Bexar, or to any one of the other missions strung along the San Antonio River like beads on a necklace. However, their destination was not the town, but the estancia of Charro's father. San Juan was not only the favorite mission of Charro's mother, where she had learned her catechism as a child and where her peninsular parents, descendants of settlers from the Canary Islands, had always gone, but was the last one below the city on this side of the river. The good padre could be depended on to give them a decent meal and a bed for the night, Charro said, and they would be that much closer to home when they rode out in the morning.

  The mission was more than just a chapel. It was a complex of buildings built of adobe, including the house of the priest and his assistant friar and the cubicles of the principal Indian workers against the inside walls, plus a granary, stable, blacksmith shop, weaving shed, and a variety of smaller structures such as fowl roosts and outdoor ovens. The church was, however, the central focus of the community, the reason for its being. The padre invited them to enter to give thanks for their deliverance. The entire band complied, partially as a gesture of respect, but also out of very real gratitude. For some it was their first time in a church in years.

  The chapel building was not a grand structure nor a large one, but was curiously satisfying with its rough stonework arches, its solid simplicity. The stations of the cross were hand carved, the altar was of native wood barely touched with gilt, the statue of the Virgin was beautifully and brightly painted. There were two oil paintings which had the look of being imported from Spain, but the rest had the vigor and strength that seemed to suggest the new world. It was easy to see why Charro's mother preferred it.

  It was strange, seeing the Indians come and go so peacefully about the mission compound. Many were descendants of tribes from farther south, closer to Mexico City, converts who had journeyed to the area as helpers for the first Spanish priests. Others were members of a half-dozen fairly docile tribes of the vicinity, from the Borrado to the Tacame, though a few were Lipan Apaches who had accepted the teachings of the Christ. According to Charro, there were dozens of different tribes of Apache. Not all of them were dedicated to endless war, though most considered it the only route to honor for a warrior.

  The band was provided with food, just as Charro had said they would be. He himself ate in state in the priest's quarters, as became the son of an old friend of the church, and Doña Luisa was also included in that invitation. Refugio and Pilar could have participated in the meal also, since the priest was anxious to hear as much as possible about their long overland journey. Refugio had asked to be excused, however, and Pilar had chosen to do the same. Refugio, she thought, felt uncomfortable pretending everything was as it should be with him. All she herself wanted was a chance at the water provided for bathing, without the distracting presence of Doña Luisa in the cubicle she had been assigned to share with the other woman. She had acquired a grudging respect for Doña Luisa in the last days on the trail, but had had enough of her company to last for a long while.

  Refugio had not protested the sleeping arrangement. He could not, of course, without branding her as a woman of loose morals; still, she thought he might have deplored it privately if it had mattered to him. She was not sure it did. The nearer they had come to civilization again, the more withdrawn he had become. Since that night after Isabel's death, she had slept in Refugio's arms and he had held her close, but there was seldom anything more between them. She was warmed by his consideration for her, by his refusal to chance exposing their intimate moments to the others sleeping around them. At the same time, his ability to deny himself, and her, was daunting. She was forced to the hurtful conclusion that she was little more to him than another female presence, one comforting at times, but also burdensome now that her value as a hostage for Vicente's safety was past. As a result, there was a small fastness in her heart that she kept inviolate, where she nurtured her doubts and fears and hid her pain.

  What was going to become of her here, so far from everything she knew? The question had troubled her on the long journey, but the worry of staying alive had been too pressing for other problems to seem important. Now that they were nearing their destination, a decision would have to be made.

  The first consideration would be money, some means of keeping herself. She would have to find work of some kind, and a place to stay. Perhaps the priest at the mission would have some suggestion, or else Charro's parents might be able to advise her. She did not know where else to turn. Of one thing she was certain, she would not depend on Refugio. Pride made that impossible, if nothing else.

  Sometimes she despaired of understanding how his mind worked, of knowing what guilts and emotions, faults and obligations moved him to behave as he did. Still, she had to concede that he was not alone in his sense of constraint. She had worried herself that she would be judged harshly here in this harsh land. Somehow, the people of New Orleans, perhaps because they were so French still, had not seemed as likely to be severe over lapses of conduct. The things Charro had to say about his family, and even his own attitudes at times, had made her think those who lived here would be different.

  She could not help wondering how Charro's parents would feel about having their son's friends thrust upon them. He said aloud that they would be delighted, quite ready to overlook any little irregularities of past behavior in them all, for the sake of having their son safely home again. Pilar was not sure that was what he really thought.

  Such concerns were the cause, she was sure, of her disturbed night. Also, she had grown used to having the open sky above her, and it was difficult to endure the close walls of the cubicle to which she was assig
ned. She was troubled as well by nightmare images of Isabel as she thought of how the girl had longed to reach safety. Moreover, it was undeniable that lying on a straw mattress next to Doña Luisa was not the same as sleeping beside Refugio. It was a habit, that was all. Habits were strange things.

  As she ate the breakfast of fresh-baked bread and hot chocolate served to them, Pilar glanced down the table at the bandit leader. He was talking quietly with Baltasar. The older man seemed to have shrunk in the last days on the trail. His wound had been slow to heal, and he still favored his side. He had spoken little and spent much time riding alone and staring at the horizon.

  Refugio appeared rested and fit. He had ceased wearing the bandaging around his head, declaring it was no longer needed. Perhaps if wasn't; the only sign of the injury was the dark path of the scab running through his hair. He rebounded quickly from his wounds, at least those that were physical.

  He looked up, catching her eye almost as if he had known she was watching him. He smiled, a faint movement of the lips, before turning back once more to Baltasar. That small instant of recognition gave Pilar an odd feeling. It was almost as if he had looked at her because he could not help himself, but then deliberately relegated her to some portion of his mind where she would not interfere with what he had to do. A shiver moved over her there in the warm summer dawn.

  They left shortly afterward, riding out with the blessing of the priest upon them and the farewells of the Indian children ringing in their cars. They crossed the river a short time later and headed toward the southwest.

  The dust cloud appeared shortly after midday. It lay ahead of them and was moving at a fast pace in their direction. Their first thought was of Indians; attacks along this road leading to San Antonio were not impossible, or even uncommon. They left the track, except for Charro and Refugio, who circled forward to investigate.

  The two men rode back at the head of a cavalcade of horsemen who whooped and hollered and even fired off a few shots in celebration. It was Charro's father and a group of his charros. They had ridden out to escort them safely to the hacienda. The priest had sent word the evening before of their arrival, and Señor Huerta had not been able to wait to see his son, nor to bear the thought that some mishap during the last hours of travel might prevent the homecoming. He had set out at dawn to be certain that all was well.

  Charro's home, the house where he had been born, was built like a fortress to repel Indian attacks, and had served its purpose well on several occasions over the years. The adobe walls were thick and tall, and everything needed to sustain life over a long period was enclosed within them. The jacales, or huts of the Indian laborers — built with adobe walls and roofs of peeled poles covered with brush plastered with mud — were located outside the walls in random groupings, but there was ample space inside for their protection in time of need. The back wall of the house itself, rising two stories without windows, formed the rear of the stockade, so that the enclosure was like a large courtyard. The stables and other outbuildings were placed around the perimeter, while in the center was a splashing fountain in a basin of limestone.

  The main house was of whitewashed adobe and built with a long and narrow balcony along the front of the upper floor, with a loggia of arched openings underneath it. Projecting out from just above the arches was a roof of latticework built of peeled poles. An ancient grapevine grew upon it, its luxurious leaves providing shade, while long runners also grew up to the balcony to make a curtain of greenery around it. On the floor of packed earth under the latticework was set a long, rough-hewn table flanked by benches. Bulbs of garlic and peppers of many kinds hung in strings from the lattice. Enormous clay pots made from cracked ollas, or water jars, were set here and there and filled with the bright red and pink of geraniums. The dwelling was certainly Spanish in design, and yet the roughness of the materials used, the brilliant whitewash and obvious arrangements for outdoor living, gave it a flavor of its own.

  Charro's mother was waiting under the loggia as they rode through the great double gates into the courtyard. She came forward as Charro swung from the saddle, a plump, short woman with a round face creased by a soft maternal smile. She took her son into her arms, kissing his cheeks again and again and exclaiming over how he had filled out, how broad his shoulders were and how rough his hands. She greeted them all with delighted welcome. Still exclaiming and thanking God in equal measure, she led them all inside. Looking around, she beckoned to an Indian maidservant who hovered nearby, giving rapid instructions for their comfort.

  “Benita!” Charro called out with pleasure, and strode forward to take the maidservant's hands. Holding her arms wide, he shook his head. “You've grown up while I was away, and very nicely, too, I must say. You were always pretty, but now look at you.”

  Benita flushed under the cream of her skin, flashing a glance at Señora Huerta. Then she turned her enormous dark eyes back to Charro as if she could not help herself. There was the softness of affection, and perhaps more, in her square face. Charro grinned down at her in total unawareness of his mother's frowning glance behind him. It seemed likely that the girl was the Indian maidservant for whose sake he had been banished to Spain.

  “Attend to me, Benita!” Señora Huerta said, her voice sharp. “There is much to be done if everything is to be ready for the fiesta.”

  “Fiesta?” Charro asked, dropping the girl's hands and turning from her with his face alight. “You mean it?”

  “But of course,” his father answered as he moved to clap him on the shoulder. “It isn't every day my son returns, especially by way of the overland route from Louisiana. We must celebrate such an auspicious event.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Naturally tonight. This is the day of your arrival, is it not? Everyone has asked where you were and what was happening with you so many times since you left that it would be a shame to keep the news from them too long.”

  The riders with invitations to the fiesta had been sent out at the same time that Señor Huerta had left to meet them. Neighbors and friends began to arrive short hours later. They came, most of them, on horseback, with ladies and children riding pillion or else perched upon gentle donkeys or gaily caparisoned mules. A few came in carts, squeaking along, and there were even one or two in carriages, great cumbersome vehicles built more for durability over bad roads than for comfort. Many of them showed up together. They had traveled in groups for safety, one family merging with another as they joined the passing caravan or overtook each other on the road, so that the final company was some seventy or eighty strong.

  They brought guitars and mandolins and concertinas, small drums and castanets and Indian rattles. They brought gifts of ground corn and strings of red peppers, goat's cheese and homemade wine and confections created with milk and chocolate and sugar and nuts. The older women wore black and covered their hair with caps; the younger ones had pinned flowers in their hair and had on dresses with flounces and lace in colors and styles only three or four years behind those of Madrid.

  The great wide gates were left standing open until the last stragglers came ambling in. When no one arrived for a half-hour stretch, they were shut tight and the fiesta began.

  The food was splendid, on the scale of some medieval banquet. There was beef simmered in a sauce of peppers and honey, flavored with tomato to make it tender, and whole pigs and lambs cooked over an open fire. There were rice dishes and bean dishes and dishes combining something of everything, all of it to be eaten with unleavened cakes of flour and also of cornmeal. The desserts began with the traditional flans and ended with cakes dripping with honey and butter, or else rich with dried fruits and flavorings of rum and vanilla. Everyone ate until they could hold no more, sitting elbow to elbow at tables brought out into the courtyard under the stars and set with flickering pottery oil lamps. Then the music and dancing began.

  They played the fandango, the bolero, the Sevillanas, and also the contradanza imported from France by the Bourbons who sat on the
throne. When they had need to catch their breaths, they slowed the pace to a gentle minuet. The women in black nodded and tapped their feet and kept careful watch over daughters and granddaughters and nieces while leaning this way and that to hear the latest gossip. The older men stood to one side, smoking foul-smelling cigarros and talking of cattle and horses and the latest news to come the long distance from Mexico City. The young women sat beside their mothers or else congregated in giggling, chattering groups. From that safety they sent bright, challenging glances to the young men who leaned against the arches of the loggia and favored them with appreciative appraisals.

  Pilar, having been provided with an evening costume for the occasion by Charro's mother, danced with the partners presented to her by the thoughtful lady. Doña Luisa, though given black to wear by Señora Huerta, did the same. Most of the men of the band also performed to the music, as was expected of them as unattached males, and had no lack of partners. The only exception was Baltasar, who retreated to the stables with a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He was not seen for the rest of the evening.

  The night had scarcely begun before the tale of Refugio's championing of Charro during his trials in Spain, of their perilous sea voyage and long overland journey, had circled the courtyard. It added a luster to the band, increasing greatly the appeal they already had by virtue of being strangers in a comparatively narrow society. The gathering was not made privy to the whole story, however. There was no whisper of Refugio's identity as El Leon. This was a part of Charro's past his parents had apparently thought it best to keep hidden.

  Señora Huerta, watching the proceedings from a vantage point under the loggia, was seen now and then to rest her gaze upon Refugio with a look of worry in her eyes. It did not affect her manner toward him, however. He was her son's deliverer, and moreover, a man of no small personal attraction. She smiled upon him and introduced him to her neighbors who happened to have daughters. And once, as she and the bandit leader strolled about the courtyard in quiet conversation, she was seen to stop and reach up to make the sign of the cross on his forehead.