Retribution Road

by Antonin Varenne

  At the entrance to the Two Rivers Saloon, a sign announced: Buy a drink, get a free meal. In spite of this offer, everyone inside was busy drinking, and there were few plates cluttering up the tables. The crowd was like that of a Bombay market. It was hot and the smoke-filled air was unbreathable. A hundred people bellowed and laughed. Bowman shouldered his way through to the counter, where a barman asked him what he wanted.

  “Bourbon.”

  “You want a meal?”

  He waited to taste the five-cent bourbon before deciding. When the barman placed a tiny glass in front of him, he asked where he could find the Methodist church of St Louis. The barman burst out laughing without answering his question, then went to serve some other customers. Bowman downed his drink and left, following the plank pavement – a sort of bridge over the flood of icy mud – and went into a shop, the Rovers’ General Store. The display cases and shelves were filled with food, clothing, tools, tobacco, ammunition and alcohol. In a glass-fronted wardrobe behind the counter, Bowman saw weapons for sale, new and second-hand, rifles and pistols. He waited his turn and approached the till. The manager, a bald man with a plug of tobacco swelling his cheek, asked him what he wanted without looking up.

  “I need some tobacco.”

  “How much?”

  “Half a pound. And a bottle of bourbon. Not the cheapest, but not the dearest either.”

  Bowman paid for his purchases.

  “I’m looking for a church. A Methodist church, in St Louis. You know anything about that?”

  This time, the manager looked at him and smiled.

  “The Methodists. They must be in Manchester with all the others. Personally, I don’t really have time to go, but I have to say that I regret that. If you’re looking for a preacher, just go over there and kick a tree. Three or four’ll fall on your face.”

  “Manchester?”

  “It’s about fifteen miles away, an encampment outside the city. If you want, I can arrange transport there for you.”

  “You do that too?”

  The man seemed surprised.

  “Of course! And if you want a boat, I can get that for you too. The only thing you won’t find in my store is girls.”

  He laughed loudly.

  “For them, you have to go and see my brother-in-law, on the other side of the street.”

  Behind a workhorse with an arse the size of a locomotive, a tilbury was harnessed, just big enough for two people to sit side by side. The driver looked as if he might be related to the shop manager, hiding his bald head under a fur hat, his cheek also swelled with a plug of tobacco.

  “Are you the English man? Did my brother tell you the fare? You have to pay right away.”

  Bowman paid for half of the fare.

  “Are you always a suspicious bastard or is it just my face you don’t like?”

  “Bit of both.”

  The driver burst out laughing and snapped the reins.

  “Walk on, Lincoln!”

  “Is that his real name?”

  “No, but this nag’s a real politician. He answers to any name you call him. I just called him Lincoln to make you happy. You look like a Republican.”

  The driver grabbed his whip and cracked it against the horse’s rump.

  “They never pay what they should.”

  He laughed again and the tilbury jumped into the air as it went over the ruts, behind the horse which trotted along at its own pace, indifferent to the whipping or the driver’s yells. When the driver tried to pull the reins to slow it down, the animal lowered its head and the man was thrown forward from his seat. He put his hat back in place and spat black tobacco juice at his nag.

  “Piece-of-shit horse! Maybe he is a Democrat, then, after all? Do you have them in England?”

  The countryside was flat, the fields empty and the trees huddled in orchards, looking like frozen old people. On the gravel track, the horse trotted at a good speed. The driver had drunk more than half of his flask of rum and was dozing by the time they reached Manchester.

  On each wooden shack, its windows draught-proofed by cloths, was hand-painted the name of a congregation. Evangelists, Baptists, Adventists, Bible Students, Lutherans (Reformed or Universal), Catholics . . . all the representatives of the Lord’s trade were gathered here. An outpost with smoking chimneys, improvised stable, one-room schools and these chapels differentiated from coal holes only by the painted letters on their walls; all around, canvas tent flaps snapped in the wind, and swaddled figures rushed to find shelter. In the middle of these little shacks, the chapel of the Methodist Episcopal Church stood tall: the sole brick building, painted red, with a pediment of columns and a white belfry. The Methodists were well-established in this temporary village and the absence of any draughts in their building seemed likely to give them a certain spiritual success. Bowman elbowed the driver, who opened his eyes and yanked hard on the reins.

  “Whoa, Victoria!”

  Bowman climbed down from the tilbury with his bag.

  “I won’t be long. Wait for me here.”

  “At your service, Your Majesty.”

  Fifteen minutes later, when Bowman came out of the chapel, the driver had taken refuge under its pediment and was stamping his feet on the steps to warm up. In the tilbury, Bowman wrapped himself in the blanket, took out his bourbon and drank a quarter of it without pausing for breath, watched attentively by the Rover brother.

  “How do I get to Texas from here?”

  “Well, you’ve either got the boat to New Orleans and then Houston, or you can take the Butterfield line that goes to Fort Worth.”

  “The Butterfield?”

  “The postal service. They also take passengers on their stagecoaches.”

  “Is Fort Worth far from Dallas?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “And is it far from here?”

  The driver looked at Bowman.

  “What do you think? There’s at least six hundred miles between us and Texas.”

  “What’s the fastest way?”

  “Are you really in a rush to get there?”

  *

  The carriages of the Butterfield Overland Mail left twice a week from St Louis, and the next scheduled departure was the following morning. Opposite the Rover brothers’ General Store, their brother-in-law’s whorehouse rented rooms for a dollar a night, with dinner and breakfast thrown in if you paid for a girl or bought a bottle. The Rovers’ sister, who worked the till there, was not bald and did not chew tobacco, but she was just as ugly as her brothers. Bowman was entitled to his free meal after ordering a bottle of bourbon, the same brand he’d bought at the store, though for twice the price. The ground floor was a large room with a bar, similar in every way to the Two Rivers Saloon except for the curtains on the windows, some cushions on the benches and far fewer people. The girls looked more like waitresses than dancers, their work consisting in encouraging the customers to consume alcohol rather than leading them to the bedrooms. Besides, you’d have had to do a lot of drinking before setting out on such an adventure. While they were perfectly friendly and polite, it was better not to make them smile. They had the bad teeth of the very poor and the sad complexions of mothers who have lost their children. In comparison to this, the Chinaman’s whorehouse in Pallacate was a palace filled with princesses. Bowman sat on his own to eat, rejecting the girls’ commercial advances under the landlady’s disappointed gaze.

  The bedroom was clean, the bed sagging, the air warmed by a coal fire. He lay down in bed and a few minutes later the landlady knocked at his door. Given that he insisted on sleeping alone, she agreed to a substantial reduction and offered to send him a good-looking girl to keep him warm tonight. Bowman asked her if this girl was a member of the family, and the Rover sister slammed the door and left. The only company Bowman kept in bed that night was his travelling bag and his letters of credit.

  At the church in Manchester, the pastor remembered Peavish. He had passed through one year earlier, and had
then returned to the camp twice for short stays. The last time he had been was about five or six months ago, during the summer, before he went off to Colorado. According to the pastor, Peavish had not gone south to preach but had spread the good word in Oregon. He added that Peavish was a tireless traveller, however, and it was possible he had gone to Texas without him knowing about it.

  Bowman tossed and turned in his bed, trying to fall asleep. The night went on, and as more alcohol was consumed downstairs, the upstairs bedrooms began to fill up. With the creaking floorboards and the noises coming through the thin wooden walls, it was all quite similar to the train in the mountains or the Persia on the waves.

  4

  Advise to travelers on the Butterfield Overland Mail

  The consumption of alcohol is forbidden on stagecoaches, but if you must drink, please share your bottle.

  If ladies are on board, gentlemen must not smoke cigars or pipes because the smell offends women. Chewing tobacco is permitted, but please spit downwind.

  Bison skins will be distributed in the event of bad weather.

  Do not sleep on your neighbor’s shoulder. Do not snore too loud. Firearms are permitted but may be used only in emergencies. Do not shoot for pleasure or at wild animals, as gunfire may frighten the horses.

  If the horses bolt, remain calm. When descending from the stagecoach, you risk injury and being left at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indian tribes and hungry coyotes.

  Forbidden subjects of conversation: attacks on stagecoaches and Indian rebellions.

  Any men behaving in a cavalier fashion with ladies will be expelled from the stagecoach. It’s a long walk back. Let this warning suffice.

  Four other travellers were seated in the waiting room. A young, well-dressed couple, their bags at their feet, sitting in silence. A round little man, ruddy face under a bowler hat, wearing a second-hand coat, reading a newspaper. And, lastly, an older man reading a book, his elbows resting on his suitcase. From where he sat, Bowman could not make out the book’s title. The driver, a fur thrown over his shoulders, was armed with an automatic rifle similar to the one Bowman had seen in the armoury in Walworth. His name was Perkins and he announced that the stagecoach was ready. The man in the bowler hat, who obviously knew him, shook his hand.

  The benches in the carriage were barely wide enough to seat three people, and with the bags of mail at their feet, they all sat with their knees up to their chests. As the journey to Texas lasted six days, some of the Butterfield line’s recommendations were far from superfluous. Bowman sat next to the old man and the man in the bowler hat on one bench, their backs to the road ahead, while they left the other bench to the couple. Pieces of cloth were stretched over the windows, blocking the view but failing to stop the wind that always blew in St Louis. As soon as the passengers were on board, Perkins cracked his whip and the stagecoach set off through the city.

  The little fat man’s name was Ernst Dietrich. He bought and sold livestock, and he was going to Fort Worth to purchase a herd of six hundred cattle that had to be delivered to St Louis in the spring. Dietrich was chatty and, despite the rules, wishing to reassure the lady, told her that, on this part of the track, there was no risk of attack. Since the army had pushed back the redskins into the reserves, the country was at peace. The last Cherokees and Choctaws who lived in the Fort Smith region worked for Butterfield, supplying food for people and animals, and sometimes serving it too. As for attacks from bandits, there was nothing to fear there anymore either. The bands of outlaws mostly worked in New Mexico these days. And, proud of himself, Dietrich opened his bag and took out a revolver.

  “And if there was a problem, I’m fully prepared. Remington .44. Here you go, sir, feel how light it is.”

  Feigning admiration, the young husband weighed the revolver in his hands. He clearly knew nothing about firearms. This couple, the Bradfords, were not travelling all the way to Fort Worth, but stopping at Fort Smith to see family and visit inland. Mr Bradford planned to cultivate saffron. This spice, imported from Africa and Asia, would, he said, acclimatise perfectly to Arkansas. And no-one had thought of doing it yet. His wife, her good looks ruined by her severe expression, listened without a word, a bourgeois lady convinced that this project was part of God’s great design, already calculating how many children she would bring into the world per number of hectares planted. Dietrich, loud and jovial, continued to take care of the civilities, turning now to the old man in glasses.

  “And you, sir, where are you headed?”

  The old man looked over the rims of his glasses at Dietrich and smiled.

  “To Dallas. I run a school there. Alfred Brewster.”

  The old teacher was a thin man, and Dietrich had to push himself hard against Bowman in order not to crush him. Now, the livestock trader turned to the sergeant.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Dallas too. Or a town near it. Name of Reunion.”

  Dietrich rubbed his chin.

  “Reunion? I’ve never heard of it. Mr Brewster, do you know it?”

  The old man looked up from his book and shook his head.

  “What are you going to do there, sir?”

  “I’m going to see someone.”

  “Business or family?”

  Bowman was about to tell him to shut his mouth when the old man interrupted: “Are you comfortable, Mrs Bradford?”

  Her husband responded for her:

  “We’re used to it, Mr Brewster, don’t worry about us.”

  The track was smooth and the driver kept the horses galloping, in spite of the rain. The leather suspension creaked, the wood rattled, and water poured through the makeshift curtains. Dietrich rummaged about in his bag again and this time came up with a bottle.

  “Mrs Bradford, I hope it won’t disturb you if we have a drink. With this cold, even a New York doctor would advise a sip or two of this Kentucky bourbon.”

  The lady blushed and her husband refused to partake.

  “Really? Well, you’re a strange kind of farmer, Mr Bradford!”

  Dietrich, who knew his manners, also took a glass from his bag. The old man drank a little bit, then Dietrich served a glass for Bowman, who downed it in one. Dietrich had already been quite merry before he boarded the stagecoach. When he had finished the bourbon, he collapsed onto the old school teacher and started to snore.

  After six hours of travel, Perkins stopped at the first inn. In the badly heated log building, they ate some porridge and some watery meat, and drank coffee. When the horses had been replaced, the new ones set off at a gallop half an hour later. After five minutes, Mrs Bradford stuck her head out of a window and vomited, taking care to do so downwind. The old teacher, Brewster, took a flask of syrup from his pocket and offered her a drink.

  “It’s made with plants. Nothing contra-indicated in your condition, ma’am.”

  Mrs Bradford looked at her husband. Brewster smiled at them.

  “Your wife is expecting a child, isn’t she? I’m a herbalist too. This syrup will do her good, don’t you worry.”

  Dietrich, determined to celebrate the arrival of a new American, took another bottle from his bag and insisted that Mr Bradford take a sip. His wife drank a little bit of Brewster’s potion, and a few minutes later was snoring as loudly as the livestock trader.

  At night, there was another change of horses, though the passengers did not leave the stagecoach. At dawn, they stopped at another Butterfield inn and were served the same fare, this time under the guise of breakfast.

  Inside the coach, when Dietrich was not going on in great detail about the expanding market for meat, with the Pikes Peak mines to supply, and the cities of the East growing in number every day, Bradford would describe for them the infinite virtues of saffron. They also talked about money, neither of them wishing to be outdone, each increasing the amounts he was likely to make as the conversation went on. Bowman had finally made out the title of Brewster’s book. On the cover was an engraving of a wood cabin, with the tit
le and the author’s name printed below: Walden; or, Life in the Woods by David Henry Thoreau. He would have liked to ask the old man what the book was about, or chat with him about the books he himself had read, but didn’t dare in front of the other passengers.

  After three further changes of horses and as many stops at inns, all five passengers wrapped in damp, stinking bison skins, the Butterfield stagecoach reached Fort Smith. They said goodbye to the Bradfords and the driver announced that they would depart again at midnight, as they first had to wait for the mail to arrive from Memphis. There was a hotel near the company’s offices, he said, where they could eat, drink and even rent a room to sleep for a few hours.

  Bowman dined alone in the hotel restaurant, ordering a shot of hooch to end his meal, and old Brewster, who had eaten at another table, asked if he could join him.

  “I noticed you were interested in my book. Are you a reader, Mr . . .”