The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  And now Dan Drew, who showed up occasionally to sell them meat, insisted that Lady Tasmin and Jim Snow were married—Dan himself claimed to have officiated. If true, this represented a calamity for Lord Berrybender’s dynastic hopes—so great a calamity that no one had yet worked up to telling the old lord, the brunt of whose towering ill temper, since his accident, had been borne by the increasingly haggard cellist, Venetia Kennet, now constantly subject to the old nobleman’s many whims, some of them decidedly gross in nature. Lord Berry-bender could scarcely walk, which meant that he couldn’t hunt, which left the two of them nothing to do all day except to play whist and copulate. Though perfectly willing to lose at cards, as Lady Berrybender had obligingly done for years, Vicky Kennet found to her horror that, despite herself, she sometimes won, Lord Berrybender’s attention sometimes wavering just as he had to play the critical card.

  “What . . . you treacherous wench, I’m sure you cheated!” Lord B. would yell, when he noticed to his distress that Venetia had actually won a hand, after which he was apt to pinch her cruelly the next time he had her alone—and he always had her alone. Venetia, so recently determined to marry Lord B. at all cost, had come to doubt that even the vast acres, the carriages, the castles could really be worth such constant stains to her dignity.

  It was just after a rather onerous afternoon of fornication that Venetia happened to hear the engagés shouting about something. Looking out the stateroom window, she saw a buffalo standing in the water not fifty yards away. At once she yelled for a gun—Gladwyn, hurrying in with a rifle, was rewarded with a glimpse of her white bosom before she could cover herself. Lord B., naked except for the bandage on his foot, took the gun, opened the window, and shot the buffalo, a bit of marksmanship that improved his mood immensely.

  “By gad, that’s the answer!” he said. That evening claret flowed—the next morning Lord Berrybender settled himself in a chair on the lower deck. In the course of the day he shot two elk and a beaver—Cook was rather put out at being asked to cook the beaver tail; Charbonneau, who had cooked many, was finally allowed to assist. Lord Berrybender even offered a slice to Old Gorska, in an effort to cheer the old hunter up.

  “Now, Gorska, that boy of yours is gone,” he said. “My Constance is gone, my Bess is gone, the Frenchwoman is gone, and it appears that even my son Seven may be gone. We all must live with our losses, we all have crosses to bear. I myself have to put up with a damnable woman who cheats at cards—you must buck up, man, the hunting’s just starting.”

  Gorska declined the beaver tail—he had no intention of bucking up.

  “But what of Lady Tasmin?” George Catlin put in. “Lady Tasmin is not presently among us, as I’m sure Your Lordship has noticed.”

  Lord B. gave an airy wave.

  “Oh, Tasmin’s just picnicking,” he said. “No worries on that score. I’d like to see the savage who could handle Tasmin—there’s no one in England who can handle her, else I’d have collected a fine dowry by now. She’s a peach, Tasmin is, matrimonially speaking, and I’m not one to sit by and allow matrimonial fruit to grow overripe. Pluck it, I said, just as I plucked Lady Constance. I liked that fine bosom of hers.”

  That night Captain Aitken sat long on deck—the North Star and its millions of pale companions cast a fine light over the swelling prairies. He and his party would be among the river Indians soon—the Arikaras, then the Mandans, plus whatever tribes might have come to the river to trade—the Teton Sioux perhaps. Though the river Indians had long been accustomed to trading with the whites, the possibility of some sudden conflict was always there. Some of the young warriors, hot to prove themselves, were likely to be indifferent to trade; they might prefer to take scalps. Or one chief might seek to gain position over another by demonstrating his boldness with the whites. Indeed, the very size of their party might be taken as a threat. The Hudson’s Bay Company wisely sent their traders south in twos and threes. Greedy for goods, the tribes saw no reason to fear two or three Frenchmen; but a whole boatful of Europeans might be seen as a threat, as it had been ten years earlier, when the Arikaras had soundly defeated General Ashley and his company of mountain men.

  Fortunately the English lord, on Captain Clark’s advice, had laid in an expensive stock of presents and trade goods—perhaps lavish bribery would work, as it had before.

  Despite the solace of the stars, Captain Aitken found himself assailed by doubts. The stars above were secure in their courses, whereas, on the Missouri River, nothing was secure. Lord Berrybender had not yet grasped that he had come to a place where English rules did not apply. The rules of the wilderness were less forgiving than those of any Parliament or Congress. It might be that, of them all, Lady Tasmin was best off—no one was abler on the prairies than her chosen companion, Jim Snow.

  The fading moon was just being reddened by the rising sun when Captain Aitken rose from his chair and went back to the bridge to refill his pipe. He was just tamping in a shag of tobacco when a shot rang out from the lower deck—Lord Berry-bender, up early, had evidently found something to shoot at.

  Charbonneau, hearing the same shot and fearing trouble, jumped up at once; but it was only the old lord, his hair wild, in a bed suit of red flannel, brandishing his rifle. On the bank lay a dead wolf.

  “Got him! Would you just be a good fellow and go fetch him, Sharbo?” Lord Berrybender asked.

  “If your cook won’t broil a fine beaver tail I doubt she’ll appreciate a wolf,” Charbonneau said, a little puzzled by the request.

  “Oh, I don’t want to cook him, man—I mean to stuff him!” Lord Berrybender said. “My first wolf—gets the blood up, you know. I believe I’ll go wake up my cheating Vicky and show her a thing or two.”

  31

  The plains were covered with the great brown beasts . . .

  BESS steeled herself—the fat, friendly puppy was licking Mademoiselle Pellenc’s face. Mademoiselle could not seem to move; she let the puppy lick her.

  “Mademoiselle, we must,” Bess said, well aware that the half-breed woman, Draga, was watching them impatiently. Any delay and Draga would seize a stick from the fire and beat them with it—beat them with the smoldering stick until she could no longer lift her arm. Then Draga might direct one of her daughters to seize other sticks and continue the beating until Bess and Mademoiselle were scorched, scarred, and almost insensible.

  “Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît! Draga is watching,” Bess insisted. Finally Mademoiselle seized the puppy and held it firmly. Bess at once hit it sharply in the forehead with the blunt end of the hatchet. The puppy barely squealed. Mademoiselle flinched, but at once took up the skinning knife and began to skin the warm, limp carcass of the little dog.

  Draga stood by the campfire, watching. Bess glanced at her fearfully—Draga was just waiting for some sign of sloth, waiting for any excuse to beat them—even without an excuse she would beat them, sooner or later. Bess had become inured to the blows themselves, but not to the hot sticks, which left blisters all over her back.

  “Maybe they will let us have a little of the petit chien,” Made-moiselle said. In three weeks she had gone from being a woman of such refined appetite that she had thought nothing of returning a loin of pork to Cook if she thought it a moment overdone to a woman so racked with hunger that she would eat anything—bones, guts, any cast-off morsel. Always skinny, Mademoiselle had grown so thin that the warriors scarcely bothered to amuse themselves with her anymore—the chubbier Bess drew more of their attention now. Terrible at first, these assaults had come to seem minor when compared to the threat of Draga, who had left no doubt in either of their minds that she would beat them to death, stab them, or even burn them alive if they faltered and were slow to do their chores.

  “Hurry, Mademoiselle—she’s watching,” Bess said.

  Mademoiselle hurried—in her country childhood she had often watched peasant women cutting up hares or lambs; she soon disjointed the puppy and took the pieces to Draga, who dropped them one by on
e into the stew pot.

  The weather had turned cold—there had even been sleet in the afternoon, which meant a hard night for Bess and Made-moiselle. They had to huddle together in whatever little nest they could make in the long grass. They had no blanket but had managed to capture a deer hide that the dogs had been worrying. Mainly they used it to wrap their feet, which were bloody, scratched, and cold. They had to be up early, to scour the plains for firewood. Both of them knew they would die when the real cold came, unless they were rescued or managed to escape. In the night, whispering, they talked only of escape but had not been able to develop a plan that offered much hope of success. Mademoiselle wanted to try and steal a horse, but Bess could not convince herself that such a plan would work. Neither of them had any idea where to go if they did escape; and if they fled and were recaptured their punishment would undoubtedly be terrible, perhaps fatal. Even if they somehow reached the river they would have no way of knowing whether the steamer was upstream or downstream. Nor were their captors the only Indians in the area—twice other raiding parties had stopped at their camp. Bess and Mademoiselle had been made available to the visitors but the raiders had been hasty and skittish. They didn’t linger.

  Twice buffalo were killed. The plains were covered with the great brown beasts but the raiders who had taken them were not mainly on the prairies to hunt. They traveled hard and made only hasty camps.

  Since escape seemed at least as perilous as captivity the two women did not attempt it. They did whatever chores were set them, and endured the beatings and indignities as stoically as possible. Never friends, or even amiable when on the boat, adversity soon brought them close. They agreed that, had either of them been taken alone, they would have died, from hopelessness, filth, violation, hunger, chill, and Draga’s implacable cruelty. Together, they had survived, and had forged an intense determination to keep surviving. Degraded they might be, but they were alive.

  At night, huddled with their deerskin, they whispered and made various plans, most of which were abandoned in the morning. Their only real plan was to live, and if possible, to be revenged on Draga, the cruel old half-breed woman who blistered them with hot sticks and laughed with her two dusky daughters when one or another of the warriors took a lustful interest in them. Mademoiselle’s tenacious haughtiness provoked Draga’s most violent attacks.

  “If only Tasmin would come with the Sin Killer,” Bess said. “I’m sure he’d soon put these brutes to flight.”

  Mademoiselle didn’t answer. She didn’t think anyone would come—not until they reached the trading place, where she supposed they were being taken. Monsieur Charbonneau spoke of it often, the big trading place of the Mandans. He said Frenchmen often came there from the north, a fact which gave Made-moiselle hope. How far away it was she didn’t know, but she hoped it was not many more days. She feared the coming cold; every morning the frost on the grass seemed heavier. Soon a big snow might come. And how would they survive a big snow?

  “I want to be warm again, Bessie,” she said. “That’s all. Just to be warm.”

  32

  Near the Little Sioux, not far ahead . . .

  DAN Drew smelled smoke—not much smoke, but enough to alert the curiosity of a hunter with a sensitive nose. He was near the Little Sioux River—game had been scarce along the Missouri so he had moved farther out, away from the big river. So far he had encountered four raiding parties, none large, none threatening to him, and none with any white captives to trade.

  Near the Little Sioux, not far ahead, was a fine grove of willows, which was where the smoke came from. Dan went tramping loudly toward the smoke. In his view it was better to announce oneself as noisily as possible when approaching a camp, even a very small camp. In warring times folks were apt to get jumpy.

  He thought he might find some Omahas or Otos, smoking a deer or an antelope, but to his surprise, the solitary man by the campfire was Big White, Charbonneau’s missing Mandan. Big White was cooking himself a fat duck for breakfast.

  Dan reckoned he and Big White were about the same age; over the years they had encountered each other many times, usually in the Mandan villages, where Big White had long been a prominent chief, much spoiled and flattered by the subtle French traders who had been slipping down from Canada along the Red River of the North.

  “I’m surprised you ain’t home by now,” Dan said. “I heard you was lost.”

  Big White didn’t answer. The notion that he might be lost in his own country was an absurdity. He was annoyed that the old hunter had stumbled on his camp. What was he doing on the Little Sioux anyway? Big White was on a serious vision quest; the last person he wanted to see was Dan Drew, a good hunter but a man who talked much and said nothing important. Among the tribes he was known as White Tongue, because of his loquacity. It was true that he was generous, often sharing his meat with the Mandans and other tribes. For that reason Big White didn’t wish to be rude to him, although he was already impatient for the man to go.

  “I am fasting,” he said. “I don’t know why I killed this duck. You are welcome to it if you are hungry.”

  “Let it cook awhile,” Dan said. “Sharbo’s looking for you—he’s upset that you left the boat.”

  “If you see him tell him to leave me alone,” Big White said. “I have to make a fast. I am not going home right now.”

  Then he turned the duck. Actually he was hungry—he didn’t believe in fasts. But it would be worth a duck to get Dan Drew to leave.

  “They’ve lost a passel of people off that boat,” Dan said. “Two dead at least, maybe three. And two white women taken—they may be dead too.”

  “No, Draga has them—she is with some Gros Ventres,” Big White said, annoyed that he would have to interrupt his meditations to explain even the simplest things to Dan Drew.

  “Uh-oh, Draga,” Dan said. “That vile old hussy needs killing.”

  Dan knew Big White wanted him gone, but the fat duck smelled better with each turn of the spit.

  “Why ain’t you going home?” he inquired.

  “I waited too long to return—Captain Clark couldn’t find me a boat,” Big White said. “All the boatmen said the Sioux would come and kill them if they carried me. Even old Lisa said it—even old Lisa was afraid of the Sioux. This boat took me but now it is too late.”

  “Why, it ain’t too late,” Dan said. “You still got your hair, and you could still bash heads with your war club.”

  He saw the great war club, propped near a log nearby.

  “I have been gone too long,” Big White said. “Probably my old wives are dead. No one in the village will want to see me. They have a new headman. None of the young warriors will remember my deeds. The young women won’t want me. I am old. Everything that I did has been forgotten.”

  He looked at the old hunter, who had pulled off a leg of the duck and was munching it. In fact, Dan Drew was one person who had known him long. Dan Drew would remember his great feats. He wondered if he ought to trust the hunter with a potent piece of information. He wanted to tell it to somebody.

  “A bird spoke to me this morning—a meadowlark,” he said. “He spoke to me in my own language.”

  Dan Drew had a cold feeling suddenly. He wished he had not found Big White. When Indians spoke of talking birds who could speak in Sioux or Mandan, the message was never likely to be good. Birds only talked to those who would soon be dead.

  “What business has a meadowlark got, blabbing to people?” Dan asked. “Meadowlarks should mind their own business.”

  Big White could tell the old hunter didn’t really want to hear the meadowlark’s prophecy, which had been bad. No one wanted to hear bad prophecies.

  “He said I would soon be killed by a man from the south,” Big White said—he wanted to tell someone what the bird had said.

  “Birds can be wrong,” Dan said. “Anybody can be wrong.”

  Big White didn’t answer.

  Dan Drew found that he had lost his appetite for duck. To b
e polite, he smoked a pipe with Big White and then got up and left.

  33

  Tasmin awoke shivering, covered with goose bumps . . .

  NEMBA, the Oto woman Jim had insisted on visiting, was noted among the river peoples for her skill at working hides; the doeskin shirt she made for Tasmin was indeed very soft and supple, but also baggy, much too loose at the waist in Tasmin’s opinion.

  “Does she expect me to get fat?” Tasmin asked, once she put on the shirt.

  Nemba had no fear of the Sin Killer, though she did fear the ruthless Sioux. She told Jim quickly, in sign, why she had left the doeskin shirt so loose at the waist. There was no end to the ignorance of white women, in Nemba’s view. This one the Sin Killer had taken to wife did not even seem to know that she was with child, though only that morning Nemba had seen her puking near the corn patch.

  Jim Snow was startled by what Nemba told him. A child already! The moon was only in its second cycle since he and Tasmin had been behaving as man and wife. Because the tribes near the river were warring he had taken Tasmin far out into the prairies, where no one would threaten them, to spend the last weeks of warmth. There they had only the roaring of the buffalo bulls to disturb them—they could behave as man and wife as often as they wanted. But frost had soon begun to whiten the grass in the morning. Tasmin awoke shivering, covered with goose bumps, so they had come back to the Oto village, to arrange with Nemba for warm skin garments, kit to protect them in the deep cold.