The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  The Spanish authorities in Mexico City and Santa Fe had not been stupid men. They were well aware that President Jefferson had dispatched the two captains across the country and were not blind to the implications for Spain if they succeeded. Official opinion was unanimous: Lewis and Clark must be stopped! And who better to stop them than the brilliant young Captain Antonio Reyes?

  Proudly and confidently, Captain Reyes set out with a company of cavalrymen to intercept the two explorers—set out and failed, not once but four times. These failures, in Captain Reyes’s view, had nothing to do with his own skill. He failed because of the difficulty of the land, coupled with the miserliness of his superiors. The soldiers he led were inexperienced, the horses he was given were indifferent, the supplies were pitifully inadequate. The native tribes were uniformly hostile. The weather was severe, the drought extreme, their marksmanship poor, the buffalo elusive. Many of his soldiers faltered and then simply died. At the end of his second attempt, Captain Reyes was forced to limp back to Santa Fe with only six men. On the fourth and final trip the survivors had literally to limp back, every single horse having been stolen by the sly savages.

  After this ignominy, Captain Reyes was sent out no more, nor was he promoted. The American captains returned in triumph, having crossed the continent with the loss of only one man. Captain Lewis and Captain Clark became big heroes—Captain Reyes was set to drilling cadets. He rejoiced when, a few years later, news reached him that Captain Lewis was dead; but Captain Clark was not dead. He held an important position in Saint Louis, where he constantly urged Americans of all kinds to press on into the country he and his partner had opened.

  A few of Clark’s successors, like young Zebulon Pike, were captured and expelled. Captain Reyes himself was given the job of escorting Zebulon Pike out of Spanish territory; but these were only small victories. Many more Americans came: trappers, traders, scientists, military men, all with greed in their eyes. Mexico broke with Spain and became a republic, but in the vast distances of the West, it made little difference. More and more Americans came, ignoring Mexican claims. Soon they were taking beaver out of every stream and pond. From the East there were frequent rumors of plots against Mexico. Old General Wilkinson, governor of Upper Louisiana, was said to be intent on invading Santa Fe. In Texas waves of immigrants were beginning to challenge the Mexican authorities north of the Rio Grande.

  To Captain Reyes, who knew how hard it had been to do what Lewis and Clark did, Mexican defeat seemed inevitable unless stern measures were adopted. If he had been governor he would have summarily executed every American who entered Mexican territory illegally. Half measures would never stop the Americans. But the governors were themselves too wishy-washy, too attracted to American merchandise as well as the handsome bribes the traders were willing to pay. Now the authorities had even capitulated to the Bents and St. Vrain, allowing them to build their big trading post on the Arkansas. To Captain Reyes it meant that the end of Mexican rule was near. In ten years, perhaps, or twenty at the most, the Americans would take the whole West, slicing off Texas here, Oregon there, California in good time. Santa Fe, poorly defended, with soldiers who were no more than half-trained boys, would fall to whatever American general chose to invade it.

  At last, though, by sheer luck, Captain Reyes had been presented with a chance for revenge. It had been known for some time that Pomp Charbonneau, whom Captain Clark regarded almost as a son, was in the West, guiding a rich Scotsman, himself perhaps a spy. It was known, too, that an English noble family—and the English after all still held the rich northland—were traveling south from the Yellowstone. The English had arrived at the Bent’s just as the governor arrived to attend the wedding of the Jaramillo girls.

  The minute the governor got back and spread the news that he had seen the English, and Pomp Charbonneau as well, Captain Reyes had seen his chance. He went at once to the governor—it was easy enough to persuade him to send a troop of soldiers to capture the English party and bring it to Santa Fe.

  The old lord was known to be very rich—once a munificent ransom had been arranged, the English could be escorted out of the country, as Zebulon Pike had been. Since the governor seemed to enjoy socializing with them, perhaps they could be kept in Santa Fe through the winter and sent on their way in the spring.

  Captain Reyes said nothing to the governor about his hatred of William Clark. The governor, in his view, lacked firmness; against the taciturn and treacherous Indians he might employ strong measures, but if Americans or Europeans were involved he sometimes wavered. Pomp Charbonneau, educated in Europe, was said to excel at the social graces. As a dancer he had made a great hit with the ladies who attended the wedding. If he were allowed to reach Santa Fe, social pressure might be brought to bear—Pomp might escape the fate all spies deserved. In Captain Reyes’s mind Pomp Charbonneau was just as much a spy as Zebulon Pike. If allowed to return to Saint Louis, he would certainly inform Captain Clark about how weak the Mexican defenses were. There would be more plotting and, very soon, an American army would advance on Nuevo Mexico.

  Despite the bitter frustration of his truncated career, Captain Reyes considered himself a patriot. He loved Mexico, hated America. He knew the American temperament, knew they would not stop until they had all of the West. They would eliminate the Indians and the Mexicans as well. Allowing the Bents to build their trading post was, in the captain’s view, an act of supreme folly: it was like handing them the keys to the treasury.

  Far away, in Saint Louis, Captain Clark lived the life of a hero—while he, Antonio Reyes, no less gifted, had spent his life as a failure, drilling indifferent cadets on a dusty parade ground. He was too old to expect the kind of glory that Captain Clark had enjoyed so long. But the gods were not entirely unfair. Unexpectedly, he had been presented with a chance for revenge. He had Pomp Charbonneau and he meant to put him before a firing squad as soon as they reached Taos—as good a place as any to line up a firing squad.

  Of course, there would be an outcry. Captain Reyes didn’t care. Let them court-martial him, strip him of his rank, take away his few decorations. If worse came to worst he might have to face a firing squad himself— Captain Clark had powerful friends, and the death of his favorite was not something he would take lightly. Even without Captain Clark’s long reach, there would be annoyance. Why had a lowly captain taken it upon himself to kill a young man the governor’s wife had been pleased to dance with? But Captain Antonio Reyes was willing to face whatever came. Across the prairies, by the wide Mississippi, Captain Clark would soon know that his favorite was dead. A lowly captain in the Mexican army, a man he had never heard of, would at last have taken his revenge.

  61

  . . . with the snow still swirling . . .

  “COME ON, boy—it’s our chance!” the Broken Hand whispered. “It won’t snow much longer. Kit’s out there—he won’t be far. I tell you he gave me a sign.”

  In the night, with the snow still swirling and the wind keening, High Shoulders had chewed the flesh off his own wrists and slipped his chains. With the same chain he strangled their two guards, boys so young and so frozen that they scarcely realized they were dying. High Shoulders took the boys’ muskets and at once disappeared into the swirling snow. The Broken Hand, still chained but convinced that Kit Carson would soon rescue them, was about to follow the Ute. But Pomp Charbonneau hadn’t moved.

  Tom Fitzpatrick couldn’t understand why Pomp wasn’t hurrying. Their own lives might be forfeit if they didn’t flee while there were a few hours of darkness left.

  “You go on—find Kit,” Pomp told him. “I’d better stay.”

  “What? Why stay—our Ute practically chewed his hands off to give us this chance,” Tom Fitzpatrick whispered.

  “If we all three escape, Captain Reyes might take it out on the others,” Pomp said. “He might shoot some of them.”

  Tom Fitzpatrick heard a rustling from the soldiers’ campfire, not thirty feet away. He wasted no more time on deb
ate—unless he could find Kit and get his chains knocked off, he himself would probably be retaken anyway. On the great plain east of Taos there were not many places to hide. But Kit was a loyal man, and he had given a sign—he wouldn’t be far. With no more said, the Broken Hand disappeared into the blizzard. He kept his legs wide apart, so his leg chains wouldn’t clink.

  Pomp slid down from the wagon and laid the two dead boys side by side, closing their eyes when he finished. They had been huddled together sharing a ragged blanket when High Shoulders, an apparition out of the blizzard, threw the deadly chains around both their necks at once. Now, at least, the storm would not annoy them. Pomp spread the blanket over both their faces and weighted it down with rocks, so the howling wind wouldn’t uncover the dead boys. Then he pulled his own blanket close around him and waited for what the morning would bring.

  62

  She shook her head . . .

  “SOMETHING about you makes me very uneasy— it always has,” Tasmin said.

  “What?” Pomp asked.

  She shook her head, uncertain but deeply worried.

  “It’s a struggle to keep you in this life, that’s all I know,” she said.

  In the confusion she was able to slip over and talk to Pomp, the only person in the whole company who wasn’t confused. Captain Reyes, discovering the escapes, at once dispatched Lieutenant Molino, with fifteen cavalrymen, to try and recapture the fugitives. The remaining soldiers, seeing their two dead comrades, were fearfully guarding the other prisoners, many of them pointing their guns at the half-frozen captives. Bayonets were brandished, although none of the captives were doing anything other than trying to stay warm, feeding small bits of brush into the flickering campfires. Captain Reyes was staring to the east, expecting at any moment to see the captives being brought back.

  “I wish you’d run—I don’t know why you didn’t,” Tasmin argued. “You’re the one they’re convinced is a spy. Why didn’t you go?”

  “Captain Reyes is quite upset,” Pomp told her. “If we’d all escaped, he might start shooting people.”

  “All right—but what’s to stop him from shooting you now?”

  Pomp had been watching Captain Reyes closely— every time their eyes met, the captain’s flashed with hatred. Something had him stirred up, something that went well beyond the routine matter of arresting trespassers on the Santa Fe Trail. But Pomp had never been to Santa Fe—the two of them had never met. The captain’s hatred was inexplicable, unless he just hated all americanos on principle, which of course could be the case.

  “I wish you weren’t always so calm—it’s maddening,” Tasmin told him. “I ain’t calm, I can tell you. I don’t want you to get shot.”

  Pomp tried to put his arm around her but Tasmin shrugged it off.

  “You can’t jolly me, Pomp, not today,” she said. “You should have escaped.”

  Pomp was beginning to think she might be right. There was something excessive about Captain Reyes’s anger. Dimly he remembered a dream in which his mother warned him about a feathered man. He had not had such a dream for years. But here was an angry little soldier with a plume. Was he the feathered man?

  And yet he had not wanted to go with High Shoulders and the Broken Hand. He had wanted to stay with Tasmin. Probably Kit had the other two safe by then.

  Tasmin’s irritation with his calm made Pomp wonder. The captain hated him—the other two he had arrested because they were too dangerous to transport unchained. But the captain didn’t really want them; the captain wanted him, and there was something deadly in his intent. He should have fled, but he hadn’t. He should be poised to fight, and yet something in him lazed, was calm, as if he had come to a place and a moment that had been long prepared, in which his own part had been fixed by powers greater than himself. Jim Snow, in his place, would have killed Captain Reyes somehow, and taken his chances. But Pomp was not inclined to do that.

  “You’re quite the strangest man I’ve ever known,” Tasmin told him, bitterness creeping into her tone. “You won’t help yourself—you won’t. When Geoff took that arrow tip out of you he said you could live if you wanted to, and I assured him that I’d see that you wanted to. God knows I tried my hardest, but I failed and I don’t know why. It wasn’t enough—it didn’t work!”

  Again Pomp tried to put an arm around Tasmin but she jerked away, crying, and stumbled back toward one of the campfires.

  To the east Pomp saw puffs of snow rising like a cloud, as dust had risen the day before. Lieutenant Molino was on his way back. In a few minutes he arrived with the soldiers he had left with but without High Shoulders and the Broken Hand.

  “They were met by someone,” the lieutenant said at once—he knew Captain Reyes was not pleased.

  “We saw the tracks of four horses—someone followed us in order to save them,” he added.

  “It was Carson, the one who married the little rich girl,” the captain declared. Then he pointed at Pomp.

  “The fourth horse was for him, but he didn’t run,” Captain Reyes said, fury in his voice. “Why didn’t you run, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Charbonneau?”

  Pomp was surprised that Captain Reyes knew his full name, but he replied politely.

  “I am not a spy, Captain,” he said. “I merely worked for Seftor Stewart, who was collecting animals for his zoo. When he was killed I helped guide these people to safety, that’s all. I don’t believe your governor considers me a spy. He was quite courteous at the recent wedding. Why should I run when I have committed no crime?”

  Captain Reyes looked at him soberly for a moment, but his jaw was twitching, and when he spoke he was almost shouting.

  “You have made a misjudgment—a fatal misjudgment,” he said. “You are not in a court, and the governor is far away. I am a military man. You are the protege of Captain William Clark—undoubtedly his spy, sent to appraise our defenses. Under military rules I am allowed to shoot spies wherever I find them.”

  He turned and walked through the ranks of soldiers, tapping this one and that. Soon eight soldiers, nervous and uncertain, were drawn up in a kind of line: an uncomfortable, fidgety firing squad.

  The captain walked over to Pomp.

  “Get out of the wagon,” he ordered.

  Assisted by two soldiers, Pomp got out and took an awkward step or two. The inept-looking firing squad was in front of him, the great empty plain behind. Despite Captain Reyes’s evident distemper, Pomp still considered that it was a bluff—a bluff designed to get him to make some admission about Captain Clark’s intentions—or the American government’s, or somebody’s. Or was he wrong? Was the captain the feathered man his mother had warned him that he must avoid?

  Tasmin and Lord Berrybender, at the same moment, realized what was happening. Lord B. at once stumped over on his crutch.

  “I say, Captain, surely this is rather abrupt,” he said. “I can vouch for our good Pomp—he’s no spy at all. No good to shoot him—I fear I must insist. Surely we can work out an exchange.”

  Captain Reyes took a musket from one of the trembling soldiers and swung it like a club, smashing Lord Berrybender’s crutch, hitting his peg leg, and sending Lord B. crashing into the snow.

  “Do not interfere again,” Captain Reyes said. “You are not a lord here. I consider all Englishmen spies. It would not trouble me to shoot you too.”

  “Not trouble you? What sort of a captain are you?” Lord B. asked, as Vicky Kennet helped him to his feet.

  Several soldiers stopped Tasmin, but she struggled free and rushed over to the nice, sympathetic Lieutenant Molino, who was clearly startled by what his superior had just done.

  “Lieutenant, can’t you stop this?” Tasmin pleaded. “Your captain is too upset. He has no reason to shoot anyone.”

  Lieutenant Molino looked worried—he had not expected the usually calm Captain Reyes to do anything so unexpected.

  “It is not correct,” he said, hesitantly. “We were to bring all prisoners to Santa Fe—I heard the order
myself. Santa Fe is where we deal with spies.”

  “Then hurry—stop him before it’s too late,” Tasmin urged.

  With some reluctance Lieutenant Molino stepped forward. The firing squad had just raised their muskets—Pomp, still calm, stood watching.

  “Wait, Captain,” Lieutenant Molino urged. “We were to bring all prisoners to Santa Fe. The governor said so himself. I fear this is not going to please him.”

  Captain Reyes carried a long pistol. Without a word he raised it and shot Lieutenant Molino directly in the forehead. The dead man fell back against Tasmin, knocking her into the snow. Father Geoffrin ran over to shield her—who knew who this mad captain might shoot next?

  Pomp knew then that he should have been quicker to heed his dream. It was, after all, the feathered man he faced, the man his mother had known he would meet someday. The feathered man had just killed his own lieutenant, who was acting properly.

  Tasmin’s head was ringing—she had hit the ground hard and was bleeding from a cut on her temple. She tried to stand up but her legs gave way.

  “Get a knife, Geoff—stab him!” she begged. “We have to do something or he’ll kill us all.”

  Father Geoffrin watched as the shaky, cold little firing squad attempted to prime their weapons.

  “This is a very inept firing squad,” he told her. “Maybe they’ll all miss.”

  “There’s eight of them, Geoff—they won’t all miss!” Tasmin yelled. She struggled to free herself, but the priest hung on to her grimly, fearing the captain would shoot her if she broke free.

  At Captain Reyes’s signal six muskets blazed. Two misfired completely. A bullet hit Pomp in the leg, another nicked his shoulder. The other bullets kicked up snow well beyond their target.