The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  Pomp continued to hold her—she was feeling more and more tired.

  “What am I to do, Pomp?” she asked in a low voice. “Sooner or later, unless we’re all killed, my father will hunt his way to an ocean where there are boats that go to Europe. By then I’ll have my child by Jimmy and my child that I suspect is by you. What am I to do then? Stay with Jimmy Snow, who can’t bear much domesticity? Pester you, a man who doesn’t really need a woman? Leave you both and go home and marry some fop? Stay in America, where, sooner or later, I’ll probably get scalped? At least you would fit in my world, if I do go back to England, as I must if my children are to be properly educated. I care for my Jimmy but there’s no pretending he’d like England—he wouldn’t put up with it for a week. And you don’t really want this— that’s not likely to change.”

  “That’s a big bunch of questions,” Pomp said. He looked at her fondly, and twined his fingers in hers.

  “Yes ... a bunch of questions, and you’re not helping me answer any of them,” Tasmin said.

  She sighed, started to sit up, found that she lacked the energy, lay back.

  “The worst of it is that I do love you, even if I have to teach you everything,” she said. She reached for his crotch and held him, and was still holding him, her questions unresolved, when the two of them went to sleep.

  58

  Tasmin was sitting quietly . . .

  TASMIN was sitting quietly in her room with Vicky Kennet, the two of them passing a mirror back and forth, when the Mexican cavalry, forty-five strong, swept into the courtyard of the trading post. At first the two women tried to ignore the clatter. Both were contemplating cutting their hair, and for the same reason: resignation, utter resignation. Life—or at least romantic life—had arrived at a stalemate; neither woman could foresee a time when they could be happy with their lovers, Lord Berrybender in Vicky’s case, Pomp Charbonneau in Tasmin’s. The two women, amiable as sisters now, were agreed that they paid much too dearly for whatever driblets of pleasure they derived from these two men.

  “Let’s cut it off—let’s be drab—they can hardly like us less,” Tasmin complained. Then, intolerably vexed by the clatter from the courtyard, she strode across the room and flung open the door, meaning to shout down whoever was making all the noise below. How were ladies contemplating the decisive step of cutting their hair to be expected to complete their deliberations when there was such a racket outside?

  When Tasmin yanked open the door she almost charged straight into two bayonets, which were attached to muskets aimed at her. As a result of her momentum she only just avoided having her bosom pricked. Both soldiers, though uniformed, were mere boys; both looked shocked when Tasmin came charging at them. Both immediately lowered their muskets. Tasmin, for her part, was so startled at being unexpectedly confronted with naked bayonets that she dropped her mirror, which, fortunately, didn’t break.

  The boy soldiers who faced her seemed frightened, as if they, not she, were under attack. She saw their legs trembling when she stooped to pick up her mirror. Beyond them, down in the courtyard, she could see a great many mounted soldiers milling around. Her father had evidently been prevented from leaving on his hunt. Red in the face with outrage, he was surrounded by cavalrymen. Signor Claricia and Amboise d’Avigdor were with him, the former looking resigned, the latter looking pale.

  “Heigh-ho, Vicky—no barbering today,” Tasmin told her. “There’s a bunch of soldiers here and they’ve made bold to interfere with Papa.”

  Before the two of them could leave the room to investigate, a trim young officer stood in the doorway— after glancing around the room to make sure no men were in hiding, he bowed courteously to the ladies.

  “I’m Lieutenant Molino, please forgive my discourtesy,” he said. “I’m afraid you are now to consider yourselves prisoners of war.”

  “War? Us? What war?” Tasmin asked.

  Lieutenant Molino, who was quite handsome, smiled at them pleasantly—as if he himself was aware of the absurdity of what he had just said.

  “There are angry wars and polite wars,” he said. “I hope this will be a polite war. For the moment it would be best if you come with me.”

  “Now? But we’ve not made our toilette,” Tasmin protested.

  “If I may say so, you both look very presentable,” Lieutenant Molino replied. “Right now Captain Reyes is about to make a speech—his humor will not be improved if we keep him waiting.”

  He bowed again and swept his arm, indicating that the two of them were to go ahead of him.

  “Let’s go, Vicky—how exciting. I guess I ain’t been a prisoner of war before,” Tasmin said.

  Once on her balcony, Tasmin saw that the whole courtyard was filled with Mexican soldiers, the sun glinting off their bayonets. All along the balcony the Berrybenders and their servants were being herded along by boy soldiers such as the two Tasmin had almost charged into. In the center of the courtyard, a small, wiry captain with a ridiculous plume on his hat sat on a large sorrel horse, impatiently popping a small quirt against his leg. Charles Bent, red in the face with vexation, was remonstrating with the captain, who appeared to be unmoved by whatever appeal Charles was making. Lord B., still in his buggy, was red in the face too, but he had stopped shouting and was attempting to follow the argument.

  “This means Jimmy was right all along,” Tasmin remarked, going down the steps. At the bottom Little Onion waited with Monty and Talley.

  “Jimmy said we’d be arrested before we got to Santa Fe—now it seems he’s proven right. And yet we’re not very near to Santa Fe, and we’re guests of the important Bents. After all, we just danced with the governor at the wedding. Surely we can’t be intended for slaughter.”

  “It is a pity Monsieur St. Vrain left us,” Buffum observed. “He is far more the diplomat than Mr. Bent.”

  St. Vrain had left that very morning, taking Hugh Glass and Jim Bridger with him, his object to scout out possible locations for a trading post on the South Platte.

  “I expect this is just silliness of some sort,” Tasmin said, picking up her son. “Papa will have to pay bribes, I expect—that’s likely all it will come to.”

  “No, Tassie, look!” Buffum said. “They almost shot High Shoulders and now they are chaining him, along with Pomp and Mr. Fitzpatrick. If I hadn’t begged High Shoulders not to fight, I fear they would have killed him.”

  Tasmin realized, with a chill, that her sister was right. Nearly half the Mexican soldiers were clustered around the blacksmith’s forge, their rifles at the ready. High Shoulders was being chained first—Pomp and the Broken Hand were trying to calm him. Tasmin looked around for Kit but couldn’t spot him. As soon as the English party was assembled, Captain Reyes began to speak, rapidly, angrily, and in Spanish. Charles Bent, looking grim, had stalked away—it was clear that it was only with difficulty that he controlled his temper.

  At the smithy Pomp was now being chained. As soon as the captain finished speaking, three wagons were brought into the courtyard. Tasmin caught Pomp’s eye—he did not seem disturbed, but when she started to walk over to him the soldiers looked at her menacingly. Lieutenant Molino stood nearby, so she approached him instead.

  “I had hoped for a word with my friend Monsieur Charbonneau,” she said. “Do you suppose that would be permitted?”

  Lieutenant Molino shook his head.

  “Monsieur Charbonneau is a particularly dangerous spy,” the lieutenant told her. “You must not try to speak to him. You must leave him to his fate.”

  “Leave him to his fate? Surely that’s rather portentous, Lieutenant,” Tasmin said. “He’s no spy at all. He’s been our guide for the past year and a half.”

  “I’m only a soldier, madame,” the young officer said. “I only know what I’m told, which is that Monsieur Jean Baptiste Charbonneau is a particularly dangerous spy.”

  “It’s so odd that anyone could think so,” Tasmin said. “We had a big wedding last week and Monsieur Charbonneau, the
dangerous spy, danced frequently with the governor’s wife—and many ladies of the capital as well. Why would the governor’s wife allow herself to dance with a dangerous spy?”

  Lieutenant Molino permitted himself a smile.

  “I cannot speak for the governor’s wife, or the other ladies,” he said, “but if I were a spy like your friend, / would try to dance with the governor’s wife. At a grand dance a woman, even a governor’s wife, might become incautious. She might tell a clever spy exactly what he wants to know.”

  “I’m sure that’s logical—it’s just that it’s wrong in Pomp’s case,” Tasmin assured him. “He’s been so busy keeping us alive these past months that he can’t have had time for spying. But I fear I’m trying your patience, Lieutenant. I have no Spanish—I couldn’t understand your captain. What’s supposed to happen now?”

  “You are all being taken to Santa Fe—you’ll have a few minutes to get your things,” Lieutenant Molino told her. “It would be best if you hurry—Captain Reyes does not like to wait.

  “In Santa Fe you will be under house arrest—I think you will be quite comfortable until certain matters can be resolved.”

  “Oh no! The brutes! I can’t bear it!” Buffum cried. A cart had been brought for the three prisoners. Pomp and Tom, urged by a thicket of bayonets, had already climbed in, but High Shoulders was prostrate on the ground—a soldier stood over him, threatening to hit him again with the butt of a musket. Before he could, High Shoulders managed to struggle to his feet—he was rudely shoved into the cart, which at once turned and made for the big gate of the stockade. Wild with apprehension, Buffum tried to run to him, only to be blocked by the soldiers, who crossed their muskets and made a kind of fence.

  As the cart went out the gate Pomp turned and smiled at Tasmin—he seemed not the least disturbed, though his fellow prisoner the old Broken Hand looked grim.

  An escort of ten cavalrymen fell in behind the cart. It was a windy day; dust soon hid the prisoners and their escort too.

  Tasmin hurried to her father, who had calmed down. He was talking with Charles Bent.

  “I have no influence, not yet,” Charles Bent told them. “I hope to have it someday, but right now I’m just the Mexicans’ milk cow—what they’re milking out of me is money.”

  “But what’s this nonsense about Pomp being a spy?” Tasmin asked. “Of course he’s not a spy.”

  “Captain Reyes thinks otherwise,” her father said. “Probably thinks all Americans are spies.”

  “But where are they going with Pomp?” Tasmin asked.

  “Santa Fe . . . let’s hope he gets there,” Charles Bent told her. “Maybe I can catch Vrain and bring him back— Vrain’s better at managing the governor than I am.”

  “I don’t understand—a few nights ago Pomp was dancing with the governor’s wife—and now he’s under arrest,” Tasmin protested. “Why wouldn’t he get to Santa Fe? What’s going to happen to him?”

  ’� capricious people, the Spanish—too aloof for my taste,” Lord Berrybender declared. “Never forget a slight. I was their prisoner myself, you know, on the Peninsula. Exchanged before any harm was done, although the claret was filthy and the rats big as cats.”

  “Father, do answer me,” Tasmin pleaded. “What’s going to happen to Pomp?”

  She felt, suddenly, a deep apprehension—what had first seemed merely a bewildering charade, in which a straggly group of English travelers were suddenly required to be prisoners of war, had become something much more serious, at least where the three chained men were concerned.

  “The firing squad, probably—usual fate of spies,” Lord Berrybender said.

  In shock, Tasmin stared at him.

  “Usual fate of spies,” he repeated, thinking she might not have heard.

  59

  In her determination to catch the cart. . .

  TASMIN could never clearly recollect her own actions that morning, once her father had quietly revealed that Pomp Charbonneau might face a firing squad—might, in fact, be shot as a spy. In her determination to catch the cart and rescue Pomp she ignored the soldiers with their crossed muskets—in fact, to the great annoyance of Captain Reyes, she burst right through them, knocking three of them down, and ran out the gate, only to stop in despair when she realized that the cart with the prisoners in it was already merely a dust cloud in the west, so far away that she had no hope of catching it. Then a man grabbed her and she began to scream and curse—her curses were so violent that even Captain Reyes, who had started toward her, stopped his horse in surprise.

  The man who grabbed Tasmin was Kit Carson, who had been hiding in the woolshed, where the sheep were sheared. When he saw Tasmin make her desperate dash out the gate he raced to her side and managed to pull her back.

  “Stop it, Tasmin—you have to go get your kit, else they’ll chain you too and throw you across a horse,” he said, giving her a good shake, not unlike the one she had given him when he descended into their camp in the balloon.

  Tasmin realized, despite the shaking, that she was very glad to see Kit. Perhaps he could make sense of the whole confusing business. Besides, she wanted him to try and catch Jim and bring him back. When it came to saving people she put her best trust in Jim. Though her bosom continued to heave she managed to calm herself somewhat. With Kit’s help she hurried upstairs and got together as much kit as she cared to be burdened with. The others—Cook, Eliza, Buffum, Mary Kate, Vicky, and Little Onion and the babies—were already in one wagon, waiting for her. The menfolk, in another wagon, were already proceeding out the gate, with an escort of soldiers all their own.

  “I hid because I thought they might take me too,” Kit said. “I thought I could be more help on the loose—but it don’t look like they want me. I guess they figure Charlie’s got to have some help running the post, with Vrain gone north and Willy gone east.”

  “Besides that, you married a girl of good family— that must have helped,” Tasmin told him. ‘Anyway I want you to go find Jimmy and bring him back.”

  Kit had to shake his head. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Jimmy’s long gone—it’d take a month to get him back, if he’d come. Vrain’s closer, and Vrain knows the Mexicans better anyway.”

  Before they could talk more, Lieutenant Molino politely led Tasmin to the wagon where the other women waited. Monty and Talley were both crying, unsettled by it all.

  “We must hurry,” Lieutenant Molino said, as he helped Tasmin into the wagon. “I fear it may snow—it might be difficult to get over the pass.”

  “I don’t care about snow,” she said. “I only want to know why your captain thinks Pomp Charbonneau is dangerous.”

  The old captain with the plume in his hat made an angry gesture with his quirt and the wagon with the women prisoners at once started for the gate. Charles Bent was talking to Kit Carson, who was saddling his horse. Kit looked up as Tasmin went by, but he didn’t wave.

  “These soldiers are mostly just boys,” Buffum observed. “It’s too bad all our good fighters left. I suppose they had no notion that we were to become prisoners of war.”

  The wind increased in force. Soon flakes of snow mingled with the swirling dust. Tasmin kept hoping for a glimpse of the cart that held Pomp but could scarcely even see the wagon her father was in. Little Onion tried to keep the little boys warm under a blanket, but they kept popping out, excited now.

  ’At least Lieutenant Molino seems rather sympathetic,” Vicky remarked.

  “Yes, I like the lieutenant, but he’s not the one we have to worry about,” Tasmin said. “It’s that old captain who’s in charge, and he could hardly be described as sympathetic.”

  The snow began to fall more thickly, swirling beneath the wagon, shortening the horizons so drastically that the women could scarcely see their escort, though they could hear the horses tramping just behind them. The women huddled together, pulling blankets around them for warmth. Tasmin’s mind was racing—she scarcely felt the cold. The worsening weather seemed to h
er an advantage. With visibility so limited perhaps Pomp and the others would escape— jump out of the carts and vanish. Their boy captors would never find them in such weather. Surely they could hobble back to the post, where they would soon be rid of their chains. This notion—of Pomp’s escape in the storm—gave her hope. If only he’ll try, she thought. If only he’ll try.

  60

  Captain Reyes rode with a light heart. . .

  CAPTAIN Antonio Reyes, like Tasmin—the Englishwoman who had cursed him so violently he thought he might have to shoot her—paid little heed to the worsening weather, as the three wagons, the forty-five cavalrymen, and the huddled captives inched across the whitening plain toward Santa Fe. Captain Reyes rode with a light heart, indifferent to the whirling snow, the reason for his lightness of spirit being that in capturing Jean Baptiste Charbonneau he had caught and perhaps would even execute the protege of his worst enemy, the famous explorer William Clark.

  Captain Clark had never met Captain Reyes, or even heard of him. He would have been surprised that this aging soldier in the Mexican army hated him so—but it was true.

  In his youth Antonio Reyes had been the best cadet in his school. In only two years he was made captain, in part because of a brilliant campaign he had led against the intractable Indians in the pueblos west of the Rio Grande.

  But that well-earned promotion was thirty years behind him, and there had been no other. Antonio Reyes was still a captain, not a general and not a governor, possibilities that had been well within his reach when he was a rising young officer. Then, for one reason only, his promising career had stalled: the much-heralded expedition of Captain Lewis and Captain Clark to the western ocean, across the great rich territory that had once been Spain’s and should have been Spain’s forever. Napoleon had interfered, selling the Americans a vast region that should not even have been his to sell. But it was Captain Lewis and Captain Clark, pushing into lands where they had no right to be, that had done the damage, both to Spain and to Antonio Reyes.