The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  ’And when will that be, monsieur?” Clam demanded to know.

  “Three weeks, maybe, if we don’t have to trouble with the Indians,” Pomp speculated.

  The mere knowledge that they couldn’t have a bath awoke in several of the Europeans the desire for exactly that, the one most affected being Cook. Though stoic in the face of most calamities, Cook had always been sustained by the principle of absolute cleanliness. The prairies had already offered a challenge, and yet there had usually been rills and streams, rivers and ponds, and she availed herself of every opportunity for a vigorous scrub—besides which she had always pushed MiUicent to keep up with the laundry—nothing worse than a filthy garment on a clean body. Now MiUicent was dead—that very morning Cook had had a slight tiff with Mary Berrybender over the issue of laundry.

  “Since Milly is dead, Eliza is all we’ve got,” Mary pointed out, in her cool way. “She may indeed be a clumsy girl, but after all, a dress isn’t much like a plate. If she drops a dress it won’t actually break.”

  “Oh, but here we are amid the weeds and brambles, miss,” Cook replied. “I fear there will be rips and tears.”

  Indeed, in the few days since Milly’s death, Cook had thought of little else but laundry, which was already piling up so fast that it threatened to crowd the babies out of the wagon—and now there was no stream in sight in which it could be properly soaked and beaten.

  To the dismay of the company, and especially of her suitor, Tom Fitzpatrick, Cook suddenly burst into loud sobs, startling Lord Berrybender so that he came near to dropping his beloved Belgian gun.

  “Good Lord in heaven, our Cook is in tears!” he exclaimed. “I’ve known the woman fifty years and she’s never dripped a tear, that I can recall. Do help out, Tasmin—hate to see a woman cry.”

  “You may hate to see tears, Papa, but if we’d only collected all the tears you’ve caused to flow, we could all enjoy several baths and probably do the laundry as well,” Tasmin told him, acidly.

  “I wouldn’t wish to bathe in tears—too salty,” Lord B. replied, before stumping off.

  “It won’t be that bad,” Pomp assured them. “Look at the trappers—they never bathe, and yet they’re healthy men.”

  Tasmin did look at the trappers, who were standing in a group some distance away, discussing where to look for water. The only clean animal in the group seemed to be the bear cub, Abby a real animal. All the mountain men were filthy, their clothes smeared with grease and dust.

  “I don’t think I want to be as filthy as those trappers, however healthy I might be,” Tasmin told Pomp.

  “Let’s go,” Jim Snow directed. “From now on we need to travel early, rest in the heat of the day and push on till moonrise.”

  “All right, but those of us who are being required to change a whole way of life might like a few minutes to adjust to it,” Tasmin replied.

  “This is some of that droughty country I told you about when you first wanted me to take you off to Santa Fe,” Jim reminded her. “I wouldn’t take you because of this big dry.”

  “Santa Fe was only a ruse,” Tasmin told him. “I mainly wanted to copulate with you, my sweet, which, thanks to my own great perseverance, I did succeed in doing.”

  “You’re talking too loud—Pomp will hear,” Jim said.

  ’Ah, but young Monsieur Charbonneau is not much afflicted by the torments of lust,” Tasmin said.

  Actually she hoped Pomp would hear her talking about copulation—perhaps the carnal impulse would stir in him if she teased him with provocative words.

  “We had rather a lively courtship, at least,” Tasmin mentioned. “The day I tried to get you to take me to Santa Fe you seized me and shook me like a rag, as I recall.”

  “Yes, because you were cussing,” Jim said.

  “Yes, and since filth is all I now have to look forward to, I may drop a few more filthy oaths,” Tasmin said.

  Jim left immediately and spent the day watching for birds or game, in hopes of finding a herd or a flock that would lead them to water. All the mountain men had fanned out on the same quest. The only birds Jim saw were hawks, riding the hot air, and he saw no game at all, not a deer, not an antelope, not even a jackrabbit. It was not a good omen. Gameless places were often waterless places. In a day or two, if they didn’t find a spring, there would be no water to drink.

  Kit, a mile or two to the west of Jim, drifted over to discuss the situation. He and Jim had twice crossed the country they were in while going to their first winter scout on the Green River, and returning from it. Not far ahead he remembered a little creek. On neither crossing had they had trouble finding water. Not far ahead, in fact, there had been a little creek with one or two trees growing along it. The creek had been running, then. They had taken a good-sized trout out of it. Surely it would be running now.

  “I was just thinking of that creek,” Jim said, when Kit reminded him of the trout that had made a fine supper.

  But when they found the creek, some three miles on, it was bone dry—Jim Bridger joined them and they followed the creek toward the mountains, hoping to find a pond—but they found no pond. A little later the rest of the party straggled up.

  “We might try digging for it,” Jim suggested. “If we can get down to the damp sand we might get a pretty good seep.”

  None of the mountain men had a better idea. When Cook started to draw a little water from the barrel, just enough to make a soup, Pomp stopped her.

  “No soup for a while,” he told her.

  Clam de Paty started to launch into another protest, but something about the look of the mountain men stopped him. They all wore looks of taut concern.

  Jim and Kit, wielding two spades, began to dig holes in the center of the creek bed. Lord Berrybender watched this activity with furrowed brow. Like Clam he was subdued, in part by the realization that they had drunk the last of the Ashley champagne only the day before. The company was now without spirits of any kind.

  Vicky shared the general concern. She and Tasmin stood by Cook, who was extremely distressed. No baths to bathe in, no laundry done, and now not even soup. To Cook, these were shocking things.

  At mealtime that evening the whole company was despondent. Cook, for the first time in her long service, had nothing to cook. The little boys made do with mother’s milk—for the rest there was only elk jerky and a little corn they had purchased from the Utes. To the mountain men this was nothing out of the ordinary, but the Europeans were faced for the first time with a total absence of anything that could be called dinner.

  “Sure you don’t have another bottle or two of that good cognac tucked away in your basket, monsieur?” Lord Berrybender asked Clam.

  The Frenchman merely shook his head.

  Tasmin realized that she was seeing her father sober for the first time in her life.

  “Not sure I’ve ever seen you sober, Father,” she said.

  “Bad planning, or I wouldn’t be sober now,” Lord Berrybender replied. “Life seems rather a harsh business, when one is sober, just as I feared it would. I seem to be married to Vicky now—none too clear as to how that came about.”

  Then a thought seemed to stir him.

  “I say, Clam—you’ve still got your balloon,” he pointed out. “What if we puff it up and you and I go sailing off? If we caught a nice breeze it might waft us to Santa Fe—plenty to drink there, I bet.”

  Clam brightened at this suggestion—but only briefly. The wind that might blow them to Santa Fe could just as easily blow them into some Indians, as it had once already.

  ’� thought, monsieur—a thought,” he replied.

  “Never been in a balloon myself—I’m anxious to try it,” Lord B. went on—he brightened visibly at this prospect. “I might even bring my Belgian gun. Could increase my bag considerably, if I’m lucky. Sail right over a buffalo herd and pop away at them.”

  Clam found that he was not much attracted to the notion of ballooning with Lord Berrybender. On the whole he thoug
ht he preferred to stick to the mountain men, who seemed to know what they were doing, even though presently there were hardships. But then, life in the Grande Armée had not all been pretty girls and puddings, either.

  ’� damn pity losing Yanez,” Lord Berrybender continued. “He did keep the guns in good working order, I’ll say that for him.”

  Tasmin felt an anger growing—and just when she had been rather sympathetic to her father. Sober, he looked wan and old, almost pitiful—and yet he had immediately demonstrated that he was prepared to be as selfish as ever.

  “You mean you’d just leave us, Father?” she asked, in a quiet tone. “You bring us to a desert where we’ll likely either starve or be killed by savages, while you propose to fly away—is that really your intention?”

  “Can’t see much wrong with the notion,” Lord B. replied. In his mind he saw himself killing buffalo after buffalo—or perhaps even one of the great bears— while flying along in the cool air.

  “Then you would leave us, wouldn’t you?” Tasmin inquired, in ominous tones. “You brought us here, far from our customary shores, and you propose to desert us just when our prospects are bleakest—it’s rotten behavior, if you ask me.”

  “But I didn’t ask you, and why should I, you contentious hussy?” Lord B. said, annoyed. Tasmin’s accusations were making it difficult for him to concentrate on his own nice fancies of the hunt.

  “Rotten behavior, Papa—I feel the same!” Buffum announced, with sudden spirit.

  ’And I curse you for a black tyrant,” little Kate yelled suddenly. Then, to the surprise and shock of the company, Kate rushed at her father, penknife drawn, and began to stab him vigorously in the leg, striking home at least three times before Amboise stepped in and lifted her off, kicking and stabbing, into the air.

  Amboise handed her to Jim, who managed to persuade her to surrender the bloody penknife.

  Lord Berrybender was stunned. His wounds were hardly serious, but his lap was now soaked with his own blood.

  “I’ve always known it was a mistake to breed,” he remarked, to no one in particular. “But Constance would breed, and now Vicky will soon be the size of a cow again. It’s a bad business, monsieur.”

  Pomp, Vicky, and Cook managed to cut Lord Berrybender’s trouser leg off; to Cook’s shame, there were no clean trousers to produce; they were allowed just enough water to wash the wound. Vicky helped her husband off to their tent, while Tasmin gave the violent Kate a lecture on the evils of patricide.

  “I say he’s a black tyrant!” the unrepentant Kate insisted.

  Tasmin noticed that the mountain men seemed unusually subdued, sitting in silence as a sunset faded to a line of pink along the western horizon. Jim Bridger was whittling a stick, the rest of them merely sitting.

  “You seem a dispirited bunch,” Tasmin told them. “Surely one of you—well traveled as you are—must know someplace where we could find water.”

  “We know the country pretty well, I guess,” Tom Fitzpatrick told her. “We just forgot something, in this case.”

  “What?”

  “That every year ain’t the same,” he told her. “Some’s wet and some’s dry.”

  ’And then some’s real dry” Jim Bridger added.

  “I see. And this is one of the ones that are real dry correct?” Tasmin said.

  “The driest I’ve ever seen,” Hugh Glass admitted.

  “There’s springs, though,” Kit Carson insisted. “The Indians hunt out here. They must know places where there’s water.”

  “What they probably know is when to stay away,” Tom said. “That’s why we ain’t seen Indians for a spell.”

  “It might rain,” Jim Bridger pointed out.

  “Or it might not,” Hugh Glass said grimly.

  When told that they must ration water, Tasmin had supposed that the worst that might happen was they would all have to be dirty and thirsty for a few days. Now, looking at the grave faces of the men—resilient fellows all, not easily daunted—she realized that their situation went beyond inconvenience. They were clearly in danger.

  “We oughtn’t to have let Greasy Lake wander off,” Kit said. “If there’s a spring anywhere near, he’d know it.”

  “We’ve got our animals, at least,” Jim Bridger reminded them. “I’ve drunk horse piss before.”

  Then he suddenly realized that Tasmin had heard him use a coarse term—he turned beet red from embarrassment.

  Jim Snow was so annoyed by this lapse that he stood up and led Tasmin away. The word hadn’t shocked her, but the vision it called up was very shocking indeed.

  “Drink piss?” she asked, when they were alone. “Could it get that bad?”

  “That bad and worse,” Jim said.

  33

  As dawn light spread over the plain . . .

  AS dawn light spread over the plain, only Cook and one or two others were stirring. Even Jim Snow was still dozing. Tasmin gave Monty the breast and then deposited him with Little Onion. She picked up the axe that she had used to defend herself in the Pawnee attack and carried it to the small wagon belonging to Clam de Paty who was sleeping under it. It was Amboise d’Avigdor, a friendly boy now known as Ambo to most of the company, whom Tasmin shook awake.

  “Get up, Ambo, I need you,” she whispered. “I want you to help me get the balloon out of the wagon—and the basket too.”

  Amboise quickly accomplished what he was asked to do, awakening Clam de Paty in the process—but Clam didn’t emerge from beneath the wagon, or offer any objection to what Tasmin was planning.

  “If you want a ride we need to make a fire,” Amboise whispered. “It only goes up if you fill it with hot air.”

  “Not what I had in mind at all, thanks,” Tasmin said. Then she attacked the padded basket with her axe and soon reduced it to kindling. Clam still lay on his pillow, a pleasant smile on his face.

  “Got any shears?” Tasmin asked Amboise. Shears were at once produced, after which Tasmin cut several great holes in the fabric of the balloon; she then folded the cut pieces neatly.

  “I expect Cook can find a use for these snippets,” Tasmin said, before bending down to address Monsieur de Paty.

  “I just destroyed your balloon, monsieur,” she informed him cheerfully. “Nothing against you, of course. I’m merely determined that my father shall not be able to exempt himself from whatever torments the rest of us must endure.”

  “Good work,” Clam told her. “I hated that balloon. It was the paper’s idea, you know? Balloons over America, you see? Hate heights myself—only managed the flights by drinking lots of cognac.”

  When Tasmin returned to her own place, only Jim and Kit were in sight—the rest of the mountain men seemed to have vanished.

  “Fanned out to look for water,” Jim told her.

  “We caught a pretty good seep in that creek last night,” Kit told her. “Enough to water the horses and the people pretty well.”

  When Tasmin went with Jim to inspect the holes the men had dug she saw that all of them had liquid in them, but liquid of an extremely muddy nature. One hole, the smallest, was reserved for people, Jim said.

  “You expect us to drink that?” she asked. “It looks like mud soup.”

  “Oh, we’ll strain it,” Jim assured her.

  Two buckets of the liquid were quickly lifted out of the hole. Cook provided a coarse cloth through which the substance was strained—everyone was given a large cup—and by that time everyone was thirsty enough to drink without complaint, although Vicky, still morning sick, had trouble keeping hers down. Tasmin closed her eyes and gulped; she was left with a film of grit on her tongue but she was much less thirsty.

  Lord Berrybender, in a shaky state due to the absence of spirits, spat out the first mouthful but then drank his cup. When he saw the wreckage of the balloon he merely glanced at it absently and turned away.

  “Impractical notion, I suppose, hunting buffalo from a balloon,” he said. “What if I were to drop my fine gun?”r />
  Tasmin didn’t like Pomp being gone—although they seldom spoke, during the day she liked to let her eyes rest on him from time to time. It provided her some measure of reassurance; it satisfied some need. She was glad enough that Jim was close at hand, but she didn’t derive the same comfort from looking at him as she did from looking at Pomp. Her arrangement with Jim was practical; she trusted him to keep her safe. It was Pomp she distinctly missed; his absence always caused a mild disquiet.

  Tasmin and Vicky were just about to climb into the wagon when Jim came over and informed them that, for a time at least, they had better walk.

  “Walk? Us?” Tasmin asked, startled. The company possessed three wagons. Why should anyone walk?

  “It’s hot, Jimmy,” she reminded him. “What’s a horse for, if not to pull a wagon, and what’s a wagon for, if not to ride in?”

  “Just walk,” he said, irritated. Nothing annoyed him more than Tasmin’s almost automatic tendency to question his orders.

  “You need to get used to it,” he said, and turned away.

  “Why should we get used to something unnecessary?” Tasmin asked, but she didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t get one.

  Ignored and annoyed, Tasmin hurried over to Kit Carson, who had managed to run a thorn into his thumb—he had borrowed a needle from Cook and was attempting to push out the thorn—but the thorn was in his right thumb and he was awkward with his left, so progress had been nil.

  “Hello, Kit—my husband says we are all to walk, but he won’t say why,” Tasmin informed him. “You know the man better than I do. What’s his reasoning? Why must we walk when it’s so hot?”

  Kit found that he could hardly concentrate on his delicate task—not with Tasmin standing so close.

  “Nobody’s seen any game for three days,” he told her. “We’ll have to start eating horses pretty soon.”

  His thumb was bleeding a little from his awkward probings.

  Tasmin knelt in front of him and relieved him of the needle. “Would you please let me do this?” she requested, looking closely at the injured thumb. Kit wiggled when she poked it with the needle.