The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  “It followed me home,” Petal said, keeping a close eye on the stranger.

  “She’ll argue for hours, you won’t wear her down,” Tasmin warned.

  “I may be hungry when I wake up from my nap,” Jim said. “I may want to eat a rooster. I hope I can find a blue one.”

  He then shut his eyes—in a minute he emitted a faint snore.

  “I hope he goes away,” Petal remarked. “It won’t help you—next time he goes away we’re going with him,” Tasmin informed her.

  Petal studied the sleeping man. Then she slipped off the bed and hid the blue rooster amid Little Onion’s kit. It was going to be necessary to watch this sleeping man.

  20

  . . . when it came to deciding on a route the two could not agree.

  THOUGH THEY HAD BEEN absent from Santa Fe for almost a year, Jim and Kit had not attempted California; when it came to deciding on a route, the two could not agree. Kit insisted that the better route lay south, along the Gila River. Jim, who wanted to strike due west, was taken aback.

  “The Gila River?” he said. “We’ll starve before we get anywhere near the Gila River.”

  “That’s the way I’m going, you can do as you please,” said Kit.

  A moment later, though, he revealed more conflicted feelings.

  “Josie don’t want me to go at all,” he admitted. “If the dern Bents like California so much, let them go. Josie don’t think it’s right for a husband to take off and be gone that long.”

  “I expect most wives would take that line,” Jim told him.

  While they were grappling with these issues the matter was settled for them by the surprising arrival of a counterorder from the Bents, delivered by the taciturn old hunter Lonesome Dick, who seemed put out that he had had to ride so hard on their behalf.

  “I’ve sweated my horse,” the old man said, leaving no doubt that he considered it their fault.

  “It don’t hurt a horse to sweat,” Kit pointed out. “What do they want now?”

  “They want you to go to New Orleans,” Lonesome Dick informed them. “I’m going to Californy. If they’d sent me in the first place I’d already be halfway there.”

  “Dick’s never been friendly,” Kit said, as they watched the old man ride off.

  Two months later the two of them were on the under deck of a Mississippi River steamer, watching the low buildings of Saint Louis fade out of sight to the stern. It seemed that a large shipment of goods off an English ship that had encountered foul weather had been put off at New Orleans, rather than Baltimore, as had been planned. It was said to contain Lord Berrybender’s new guns, as well as a large quantity of cloth and other tradable items.

  Kit, who couldn’t imagine an easier way to travel than by steamboat, was in high spirits.

  “I bet there’s a passel of fish in this river,” he claimed. “They say catfish get as big as horses.”

  “If there’s fish that big I’d hope to stay out of their way,” Jim observed. “A whale swallowed down Jonah, I recall.”

  He was glad to be out of Saint Louis—its jostle and stench were not to his liking—but he at once took to steamboat travel. He found that he could sit and watch the widening waters for hours, letting his thoughts drift to no purpose. Clouds formed; rainstorms blew in and blew out. Jim preferred the spacious, grassy plains to the thick forests that now covered the shores, but the river itself he liked. Kit felt the same.

  “It’d be easy, being a waterman,” he said. “You just float along—no tramping.”

  “We’ll get plenty of tramping on the way back,” Jim reminded him. Charles Bent, ever hopeful of new territory, wanted them to pack the goods overland much of the way back, crossing a long stretch of dangerous country. It was Charles Bent’s opinion that there would soon be a steady stream of immigrants along the southern route, and he meant to have a trading post somewhere along it, preferably near the Canadian River. Scouting possible locations was Jim and Kit’s real mission.

  “Time waits for no man,” Charles Bent declared. “If we don’t get us a post down that way you can bet somebody else will.”

  Neither Jim nor Kit felt any eagerness to see what the southern tribes felt about this—they agreed in advance to avoid these tribes, particularly the Comanches, and concentrate on getting the goods safely back to the big post on the Arkansas. If Charles Bent wanted to persuade the Comanches to lay down their lances and scalping knives, let him do it himself.

  As the steamer proceeded south, the gradual widening of the river filled Jim with amazement.

  He had never expected to be riding safely down such a vastness of water. The constant traffic in all manner of boats, as they approached the port, was in itself a delight to watch.

  The gradual spread of the great plain of water had a sobering effect on Kit.

  “A river this big could swallow this boat like a pill,” he observed. “I could never swim a river this wide. I’d be drownt.”

  “Or swallowed by one of them big catfish,” Jim reminded him. On several occasions the boatmen, using ropes for lines, had hooked catfish that were not much smaller than horses; the fish were so large that they had to be cut up before their flesh could be brought on deck.

  “The more I think about all this water the less I like it,” Kit remarked.

  “We’ll be there tomorrow—go away if you’re going to complain,” Jim protested. “I’d like to enjoy the sights, if you don’t mind.”

  Jim sat on deck all night, watching the starlight on the water, listening to unfamiliar bird cries, wondering why the movement of water was so soothing.

  The turmoil on the docks was more intense even than what they had encountered in Saint Louis.

  “I am certainly surprised to know there are so many black people in the world,” Kit said.

  Jim was surprised on that score too—although the shades of color on the New Orleans waterfront were more various than he had seen anywhere.

  There were very black people, and lightly black people; there were yellow people and people the color of coffee; Spanish people, Choctaw Indians, French sailors, English sailors, large whores and small whores; drunks lying in the mud; wagons being loaded and boats being unloaded; fishermen hawking their catch: such a bustle of people that Jim wished immediately to be back on the broad, calm river. Besides the jostle, he felt closed in by the heavy vegetation. The humid air left them both sweating profusely. Flies and mosquitoes were persistent. They passed a pen full of dusty cattle, and another pen full of silent, apathetic slaves.

  All the waterfront was a boil of activity, heaps of goods piled here and there; and yet no one seemed to be in charge. Neither Jim nor Kit had any clear idea of how to locate the goods they were supposed to secure. While they were considering the problem two small men fell to cursing one another in a tongue neither Jim nor Kit could recognize. The men had blue bandannas on their heads. They quickly fell to fighting with knives—a crowd gathered, drawn by the possibility of violence: the crowd was not disappointed. Neither sailor was killed, but both were cut—the dusty ground beneath them was soon bloody. Finally the two combatants stopped and walked away together.

  Jim eventually managed to locate a wizened little man with long chin whiskers who seemed to be an inspector of some kind. When Jim mentioned the English boat that had supposedly unloaded, the little man nodded.

  “It’s about time somebody got here,” he said. “It’s six months now we’ve been putting up with that cannibal.”

  “Where’s a cannibal?” Kit asked, not pleased. The small inspector, whose name was Bailey, led them quickly through an alley where two pigs were quarreling over a fat brownish snake. When they came out of the alley Inspector Bailey pointed to a grassy spot under some huge trees draped with trailing whiskers of Spanish moss. The boxes and bales piled up were being guarded by an enormous black man, who sat comfortably on one of the bales, fanning himself with a hat.

  “That’s the cannibal—calls himself Juppy,” Inspector Bailey
told them. “Take him with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Jim and Kit were startled by the size of the man, who was light brown rather than black. They had both seen tall men before, but none as tall as this man—and in most cases the tall men were skinny. But this man was thick in the trunk; his arms and legs were massive, as were his thighs.

  “Why do you think he’s a cannibal?” Jim asked. “People don’t get that big by eating regular food,” Inspector Bailey declared. “There’s a witch up the street that’s been trying to poison him, but the poison don’t take. That’s a sure sign of a cannibal.

  “Come by my shack and sign the bill of lading when you’re loaded,” the inspector told them.

  “Loaded? Loaded how?” Jim inquired. “We don’t have a wagon yet.”

  “Juppy’s got a wagon, and the mules to pull it,” the inspector informed them, before departing.

  The big black man was walking toward them now, seeming to cover the yards in only a step or two.

  “Would you be the gentlemen from Messieurs Bent, St. Vrain and Company, by any chance?” the large man asked, smiling agreeably. “I hope so because I’m ready to travel—too many little old black witches in this town. I’m Juppy.”

  He extended a very large hand—somewhat at a loss, Jim and Kit shook it.

  “I hope you’re not a cannibal,” Kit told him. He had begun to feel some anxiety on that score and felt it best to be frank.

  Juppy laughed an easy laugh. “See any tasty-looking people around here?” he asked. “All I see are some ugly sailors and a few old skinny witches. Nobody plump enough to eat.”

  Then Juppy laughed. “Just joking,” he said. “If you’re from the Bents I guess we better get loaded so we can be on our way.”

  Jim and Kit felt uneasy. Charles Bent had said nothing about a black giant named Juppy.

  “Nobody told us about you,” Jim admitted. The giant seemed perfectly friendly, but he certainly was a giant. On a practical level, bringing him with them posed problems. Could they expect to find a horse big enough to carry such a heavy man?

  “Don’t be worryin’,” Juppy said. “I’ve made all the arrangements, and I’ve got my mule, Jupiter— he’s been my mount since I was thirteen. My instructions from Father were to give you every assistance, but not to let his expensive new guns out of my sight, and they haven’t been out of my sight since I picked them up in London. As you’ll see I’ve not wasted my wait—I’ve got a good bunch of pack animals and a wagon we can use as long as the terrain permits wagon travel. The up-river steamer leaves at six. We better start loading, don’t you think?”

  Jim and Kit were deeply puzzled. Juppy was efficient, as well as friendly. He had got things ready. The pack mules looked healthy. And yet he referred to his father’s instructions. Who could his father be?

  “Why, Lord Berrybender, who else?” Juppy informed then. “I assumed you knew.”

  Jim and Kit could only shake their heads. Of course both of them had heard that Lord Berry-bender had fathered a great many bastards, but no one had informed them that one of his bastards was a brown giant.

  “He probably didn’t mention me because he wants to surprise the girls—my half sisters,” Juppy speculated. “Papa met my mother in a circus—she was the giantess.”

  Jim and Kit were still startled, but Juppy produced the wagon and the pack animals and loaded most of the bundles and bales. By six they were on an upriver steamer. There had been some awkwardness at the customs shed. Jim and Kit were forced to admit that neither of them could write their name. The bills of lading were incomprehensible to them. Inspector Bailey handed the papers to Juppy, who inspected them closely and signed them “Jupiter.”

  “Jupiter, same name as my mule,” Juppy said, with a smile.

  Soon they were aboard the boat, watching the great river pour on toward the sea.

  21

  . . . knocking over a bowl of pudding . . .

  WHEN PETAL LOOKED UP and saw the brown giant in the doorway of the nursery she screamed as loud as she could and raced for Little Onion, who was rather surprised herself. Jim Snow, just returned, had already been in for a visit with Tasmin, but he had said nothing about the brown giant. Juppy wanted to be a surprise.

  Only that morning Petal had caused trouble in the kitchen, knocking over a bowl of pudding in her eagerness to lick the spoon; she compounded her disgrace by allowing Mopsy to eat most of her porridge. Efforts to make her behave were met with the usual defiance, exasperating Cook so that she told Petal that a big black giant would soon arrive to carry her off.

  Petal was used to such threats from Cook—indeed, used to threats from everybody. Very few of them were ever carried out; Petal merrily went on doing as she pleased, which was why the sight of the big brown giant was such a tremendous shock. She had never thought a real giant would appear—and yet there one stood. Worse yet, he was blocking the doorway. There was no way she could flee the room.

  Tasmin was bending over Petey, tending a rash he had broken out with, when Petal screamed. Petal was hoping her mother might know a way to kill the giant, but instead her mother forgot Petey and, with a big smile of happiness, jumped into the giant’s arms, kissing him warmly.

  “Oh, Juppy!” she cried. “Mary, Buffum—Juppy’s come!”

  Soon, to Petal’s astonishment, her two aunts had run into the room and were hugging the brown giant. Then her grandfather came—he began to weep at the sight of the giant.

  “Why, Juppy boy—here you are at last,” Lord Berrybender exclaimed. “Did you bring my leg and my guns?”

  “Got the leg, got the guns—looks like I should have brought you a few fingers, while I was at it,” Juppy said.

  Then Cook, who rarely left her pots and kettles, came and gave Juppy a hug. The five little boys watched, astonished. Petey even forgot to scratch his rash. Mopsy raced around, frenzied with excitement, until Kate Berrybender caught him and insisted that he calm down.

  “I hid him at Kit’s,” Jim admitted, when Tasmin wanted to know why he had shown up before her half brother. “He wanted to be a big surprise, and I guess he was.”

  Despite the fact that her mother and her aunts and even Cook were clearly fond of Juppy, Petal did not entirely lose her initial apprehension. What if the giant was only pretending to be good? What if his real purpose was to carry her off?

  “So what’s the news from Northamptonshire, Juppy?” Tasmin asked. Petey was sitting in Juppy’s lap, a sight that greatly pleased her.

  “The worst news is that Nanny Craigie died,” Juppy reported—the news sobered them all.

  “Not Nanny Craigie!” Tasmin exclaimed. “I don’t know why, but I thought she’d live forever.”

  “She didn’t,” Juppy said simply. “Then who’s looking after the younger brats?” Mary wanted to know.

  “Nobody, they’re running wild,” Juppy admitted.

  Tasmin felt a sudden stab of homesickness, a deep longing to be back in the home of her youth: back in their green and gray England. It was a brief stab, but intense. She leaned her head against Juppy’s big arm.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “We’re all glad—very glad.”

  Petal soon came to be of the opinion that the big giant was harmless, after all. Ordinarily she would have gone over and shoved Petey out of his lap—on principle—but with her mother sitting so close she didn’t quite dare. Her mother was too likely to take Petey’s side. Petal had three times been spanked, for treating Petey roughly—an outrageous abuse. Still, it was not her way to allow anyone to deny her pride of place for long. After studying the situation for a moment, Petal moved. She marched over to the big man and squeezed into his lap, next to her twin.

  “You have a big lap,” she announced. “It can hold two.”

  “It sure can, little miss,” Juppy said.

  22

  Even peasants gave way to hot impulse.

  JULIETTA OLIVARIES HAD BECOME Lord Berrybender’s mistress without hesitation—the
very first time she was seated next to him at a formal dinner, she had signified her readiness by fondling him under the table. She even managed to get his cock out of his pants, and this before the dinner guests had quite finished their soup. Across the table Lord Berrybender’s wife was watching them closely— very likely she had fondled him at table at some point herself. Lady Berrybender was a full-bosomed, beautiful woman, if a commoner. Julietta felt no overwhelming physical attraction to the tipsy old lord, but she did like his aristocratic manner, a manner that tolerated no scruples when it came to amorous activity. In Santa Fe only Lord Berrybender and herself could naturally assume the prerogatives of high aristocracy. Her own aunt, Doña Eleanora, was a settled housewife now. Lady Tasmin was certainly aristocratic, and looked to be a creature of hot impulse, but then, in Julietta’s view, hot impulse was common. Even peasants gave way to hot impulse. What attracted her to Lord Berrybender was that his impulses were cool, not hot. He simply disregarded rules; he did as he pleased, not fastidiously but boldly.

  Julietta felt just as privileged when it came to disregarding restrictions on her behavior. It infuriated her that she had been sent to Santa Fe—she meant to get back to Europe as soon as possible, but in the meantime, she meant to take her pleasures where she found them—and in the case most troubling to her aunt Eleanora, she found them with a blacksmith.

  “A blacksmith—a peon! Surely not!” Doña Eleanora exclaimed, when Julietta casually confirmed a rumor that had been going around.

  “We’ll be disgraced,” she added.

  Julietta shrugged. “An Olivaries can be disliked but not disgraced,” she pointed out. “We can do as we please. You’ve been stuck in this little place too long. You’re becoming dull.”

  “I’d rather be dull than give myself to a blacksmith,” Eleanora replied.

  “But that’s dull—be dull,” Julietta retorted.

  The blacksmith looked half Indian. He was very dark; he had sturdy legs. He worked with his shirt off—Julietta had often watched him; sweat made his arms and belly shiny. She watched him for two weeks before she took him, looking down from her window. Watching him work, all sweaty and greasy, Julietta began to excite herself with the thought of how it might be with a peon. She watched him from shadows, gently exciting herself. Then one day at dusk, when the Plaza was all but empty, she walked across to the blacksmith’s and simply lifted her skirts. The blacksmith was so startled that he burned his hand on a horseshoe he had been straightening. Julietta pushed past him, into the little dark room where he slept. She waited for him to come. For a bed there were only a few rags. At first the man was so frightened that he couldn’t stiffen. His name was Joaquin; his experience with women had been brief and crude. Julietta refused to let his nervousness defeat her. She took his balls in her hand; she bit his lip. Then she took off all her clothing—something none of the whores or native girls ever did. Instead of being as brief as possible in copulation, which was what Joaquin was used to, Julietta, once she had him in her, took her time. She did not seem to mind his sweat, his grease, the scratchy rags. She made him work, offered him her backside, made him lie down beneath her. She returned to her room filthy, soiled, her face and breasts red from the scrapings of the young man’s stubble.