Текст книги "Dead Man's Walk"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Monsieur Wallace, I am sorry,” the Major said. “A man doesn’t like to wait, at such a time.”

“Why, Major, it’s not much of a thing to worry about,” Bigfoot said. “I’ve seen many a man die with his eyes wide open. I guess I could manage it too, if I had to.”

The men who were to live were marched over and offered the chance to exchange last words with those who were to die—but in fact, few words were exchanged. Bigfoot handed Brognoli a little tobacco, which he had accepted from one of the men in the oxcart. Joe Turner was shaky—he gripped Call’s hand hard, when Call reached out to exchange a last shake.

“Matty, have you picked a song?” Bigfoot asked. “I expect a hymn would be the thing—I don’t know none myself, but my ma and her sisters knew plenty.”

Matilda was too choked up—she couldn’t reply. Now five of the ten boys were to be shot—soon there would be no one left at all, of all the gallant boys she had set out from Austin with.

Gus, likewise, was tongue tied. He looked at Roy, at Joe, at Don Shane, at Pete, and couldn’t manage a word. He shook their hands —since they were in leg irons already, Major Laroche had decided that their hands did not need to be tied. The five who were to live waited a moment in front of the five who were condemned, thinking they might want to send messages to their loved ones, or exchange a few last words, but the five blindfolded men merely stood there, silent. Pete turned his face to the sky, as he had just before drawing the black bean.

“So long, boys,” Bigfoot said. “Don’t waste your water on the trip home—it’s dry country out there.”

The five who had drawn white beans were then moved back. The fat alcalde got out of his chair and made a speech. It was a long speech, in Spanish—none of the Texans could follow it. None even tried. Their friends stood with their backs against the wall, blindfolded. When the alcalde finished his speech, Major Laroche spoke to the firing squad—their muskets were raised.

Major Laroche nodded: the soldiers fired. The bodies of the Texans slid down the wall. Bigfoot Wallace stayed erect the longest, but he, too, soon slid down, tilting as he did. He lay with his head—the head that had been too big for the blindfold—across stuttering Joe Turner’s leg.

Call felt black hatred for the Mexicans, who had marched many of his friends to death, and now had shot five of them down right in front of them. Gus felt relieved—if he hadn’t marched forward and drawn the bean when he did, he was sure he would now be with the dead. Brognoli, his head still jerking, chewed a little of Bigfoot’s tobacco. When he saw the men fall he felt a jerking inside him, like the movement of his head. He had no voice; he could not comment on the death of men, which, after all, was an everyday thing.

The Mexicans brought the same oxcart, with the same black ox, into the courtyard and were about to begin loading the Texans’ bodies in it when, to everyone’s surprise, a voice was raised in song, from the balcony above the courtyard. It was a high voice, sweet and clear, yet not weak—it carried well beyond the courtyard, strong enough to be heard all the way to the Rio Grande, Gus thought.

Everyone in the courtyard was stilled by the singing. The alcalde had been about to get in his carriage, but he stopped. Major Laroche looked up, as did the other soldiers. There were no words with the sound, merely notes, high and vibrant. Matilda stopped crying—she had been trying to think of a song to sing for Bigfoot Wallace, but a woman was already singing, for Bigfoot and the others—a woman with a voice far richer than their own. The sound came from the balcony, where the woman in black stood. It was she who sang for the dead men; she sang and sang, with such authority and such passion that even the alcalde dared not move until she finished. The sound rose and swooped, like a flying bird; some of the tones brought a sadness to the listeners, a sadness so deep that Call cried freely and even Major Laroche had to wipe away tears.

Gus was transfixed; he liked singing, himself, and could bawl out a tune with the best of them when he was drunk; but what he heard that day, as the bodies of his comrades were waiting to be loaded into an oxcart, was like no singing he had ever heard, like none he would ever hear again. The lady in black gripped the railing of the balcony as she sang. As she was finishing her song, the notes dipped down low—they carried a sadness that was more than a sadness at the death of men; rather it was a sadness at the lives of men, and of women. It reminded those who heard the rising, dipping notes, of notes of hopes that had been born, and, yet, died; of promise, and the failure of promise. Gus began to cry; he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stop, not while the song continued.

Then, after one long, low tone that seemed to hang soft as the daylight, the lady in black ended her requiem. She stood for a moment, gripping the railing of the balcony; then she turned, and disappeared.

The alcalde, as if released from a trance, got into his carriage with his ladies; the carriage slowly turned, and went out the gate.

“My Lord, did you hear that?” Gus asked Call.

“I heard it,” Call said.

The soldiers, too, had come to life. They had begun to load the bodies in the oxcart. Matilda came over to where the five survivors stood.

“We ought to go with them, boys,” she said. “They’re our people. I want to see that they’re laid out proper, in their graves.”

“Go ask the Major if we can help with the burying,” Call said, to Gus. “I expect if you ask him he’ll let us. He likes you.”

“Come with me, Matty,” Gus said. “We’ll both ask.”

The alcalde had stopped a moment, to have a word with Major Laroche, who stood by the gate. Through the gate Gus could see the long, dusty plain to the north. The Major saluted the alcalde and bowed to his women—the carriage passed out. The oxcart, with the bodies of the Texans in it, was creaking across the courtyard, toward the same gate.

“We’d like to help with the burying, Major,” Gus said. “They was our friends. We can’t do much for them now, but we’d like to be there.”

“If you like, Monsieur,” the Major said. “The graveyard is just outside the wall. Follow the cart and return when the work is finished.”

Gus was a little startled that the Major meant to send no guard.

“I suggest you hurry back,” the Major said, with a look of amusement. “The dogs here are very bad—I don’t think you can outrun them, with those chains. You saw a few of them last night, but there are many more. If you try to escape you will soon meet with the dogs.”

Matilda could not get the singing out of her mind. She wishedBigfoot could know what wonderful singing there had been, after his death and the deaths of the others. She had tried to get a good look at the woman in black, but the veils were too thick and the distance too great.

“I never heard singing like that, Major,” Matilda said. “Who is that woman?”

“That is Lady Carey,” the Major said. “She is English. You will meet her soon.”

“What’s an English lady doing in a place like this?” Gus asked. “She’s farther off from home than we are.”

Major Laroche turned, as if tired of the conversation, and motioned for one of the soldiers to bring his horse.

“Yes, and so am I,” Major Laroche said, as he prepared to mount. “But I am a soldier and this is where I was sent. Lady Carey is here because she is a prisoner of war, like yourselves. I will tell my men to let you help with the burial. I suggest you pile on many, many rocks. As I said, the dogs here are very bad, and they don’t have much to eat.”

Gus motioned to the others—they all filed out, behind the oxcart. As soon as they were out the gate, Major Laroche and his ten cavalrymen galloped out and were soon enveloped in the dust their horses’ hooves threw up.

“I asked about that woman who done the singing,” Gus told Call. “The Major says she’s a prisoner of war, like us.”

Call didn’t answer—he was looking at the bodies of his dead comrades. Blood leaked out the bottom of the crude oxcart, leaving a red line that was quickly covered by blowing sand.

“Lord, it’s windy here, ain’t it?” Wesley Buttons said.

THE MEXICAN SOLDIERS WERE glad to allow the Texans to bury their comrades. One of the soldiers had a bottle of white liquor, which he handed around among his friends. Soon the Mexicans were so drunk that all but one of them passed out in the oxcart. None of them had weapons, so it made little sense to think of overpowering them and attempting to escape, though Woodrow Call considered it.

Gus saw what direction his friend’s thoughts were taking, and quickly pointed out what the Major had said about the dogs.

“He said they’ll eat us, if we try to run with these chains on,” Gus said.

“I don’t expect to be eaten by no cur,” Call said—but he knew the Major was probably right. Packs of wild dogs could bring down any animal less fierce than a grizzly bear.

Matilda Roberts had saved a broken piece of tortoiseshell comb through the long journey—she was attempting to comb the dead men’s hair, while the Mexican soldiers finished the bottle of liquor.

The Texans were laid in one grave, by the walls of San Lazaro.

A dust storm had blown up. When they began the burial they could see the river, but the river was soon lost from view. Once the graves were covered the Texans stumbled around, gathering rocks. Several dogs had already gathered—Gus and Wesley threw rocks at them, but the dogs only retreated a few yards, snarling.

While they worked, another smaller cart, drawn by an old mule, made its way around the wall. It, too, was a vehicle of burial—on it were the bodies of two lepers, wrapped tightly in white shrouds. The cart passed close to where the Texans were working; the person driving the cart was also shrouded.

“Look, it’s that one without no meat on his fingers,” Gus said— all that was visible of the driver was the same two bony hands that had given Bigfoot his boots, only a few hours earlier. The leper did not look their way; nor did he make any pretenses. He merely tipped them out of the cart, and turned the cart back toward the gate. Soon the dogs were tearing at the shrouds. The sight saddened Matilda even more. She didn’t imagine that they could find enough rocks to make the bodies of Bigfoot and the others safe for very long.

Call led the ox back into San Lazaro. Most of the Mexican soldiers were sleeping in the oxcart; one would have thought them as dead as the Texans, but for the snores. The two soldiers who could still walk kept close to the Texans, for fear of the dogs.

Once inside the gates the Texans, though still chained, were allowed the freedom of the courtyard. They were served a simple meal of beans and posole, on the table where the jar they had drawn from had been set.

An old man and an old woman served them—both were lepers, yet neither was shrouded, and the dark spots on their cheeks and arms looked no worse to the Texans than bad bruises. Both seemed to be kindly people; they smiled at the Texans, and brought them more food when they emptied their dishes. The only soldiers left in San Lazaro were the drunks in the oxcart. In midafternoon, they began to awake. When they did, they picked up their weapons and drove the oxcart out of the walls. All of them looked frightened.

“They’re scared of them dogs,” Gus said. “Why don’t the Major get up a dog hunt and kill the damn curs?”

“There’d just be more,” Call said. “You can’t kill all the dogs.”

He watched the lepers, as they came and went at their tasks. All of them kept themselves covered, but now and then a wind would riffle a cloak, or blow a shawl, so that he could glimpse the people under the wraps. Some were bad: no chins, cheeks that were black, noses half eaten away. Some limped, from deformities of their feet. One old man used a crutch—he had only one foot. There were a few children playing in the courtyard; all of them seemed normal to Call. There was even a little blond boy, about ten, who showed no sign of the disease. Some of the adults appeared to be not much worse than the old man and the old woman who served them. Some had dark spots on their cheeks and foreheads, or on their hands.

Once the soldiers were gone, San Lazaro did not seem a bad place. Many of the lepers looked at the Texans in a friendly way. Some smiled. Others, whose mouths were affected, covered themselves, but nodded when they passed.

Overhead, the dust swirled so high they could barely see the mountain that loomed over the convent.

Gus felt such relief at being alive, that his appetite for gambling began to return. He had ceased to mind the lepers much—at night they might be scary, but in the daylight the place they were in looked not much worse than any hospital. He began to wish he had a pack of cards, or at least some dice, though of course he had not one cent to gamble with.

“I wonder how long the Mexicans mean to leave us here?” he asked.

Brognoli’s head was going back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock, as it had ever since his fright in the canyon. He watched the lepers with dispassion, and the little blond boy with curiosity. Once, he looked up at the balcony where the lady in black had been and saw a short stout woman standing there. She spoke, and the little blond boy reluctantly left his play and ran upstairs.

Call was thinking about a way to rid them of the leg irons. If he had a hammer and a chisel of some sort, he felt certain he could break the chains himself. The Major had said nothing about coming back, and the last of the soldiers had gone. They were alone with the lepers—the only impediments to their escape were the chains and the dog packs. If he could get the chains off, there would be a way to brave the dogs.

Wesley Buttons, though he had held up bravely during the long march and the drawing of the beans, was feeling keenly the loss of his two brothers, and of the rest of the troop.“I remember when we left—I got to drive the wagon with old General Lloyd in it,” he said. “We had an army. There was enough of us to hold off the Indians and whip the Mexicans. Now look— there’s just us, and we’re way out here in the desert, locked in with these sick ‘uns.”

“It’s a long way home, I reckon,” he added. “Ma’s going to be sad, when she hears about the boys.”

Brognoli’s head swung back and forth, back and forth. “I barely know which way is home,” Long Bill said. “It’s so dusty it’s all I can do to keep my directions. I guess I could go downriver, but it would be a pretty long walk.”

Gus remembered that it was the same river they had camped on when Matilda caught the big green snapping turtle.

“Why, if it’s the Rio Grande, we could just stroll along it easy,” he said. “Matty could catch us turtles, when we get hungry.”

Matilda shook her head—she didn’t welcome the prospect of another long walk.

“It’s just the six of us got across New Mexico,” she pointed out. “If we have to walk the rest of the way, I doubt any of us will make it. That big Indian knows that river—he might get us yet.”

“We’d have to have weapons,” Call said. “None of us would make it, without weapons.”

“I don’t see what the hurry is,” Gus said. “We’ve had a long hike, as it is. I’d like to laze around here and rest up, myself. These lepers ain’t bothering us. All you got to do is not look at them too close.”

He had been inclined to try escape, until Matilda had mentioned Buffalo Hump. Memory of the fierce Comanche put a different slant on such a trip. Better to stay inside the walls of San Lazaro and rest with the lepers, than to expose themselves to Buffalo Hump again—especially since they only had five men.

“I want to leave, if we can get these chains off,” Call said. “What if the Major comes back and has us draw some more beans?”

He was tired, though, and didn’t urge escape immediately. When the wind was high, his back still sometimes throbbed, and his sore foot pained him. A day or two’s rest wouldn’t hurt—at least it wouldn’t if the Mexicans didn’t decide to eliminate them all.

As the evening wore on, the Texans rested and napped—they had been assigned the little room where they had spent the night’ before, but no one really wanted to go into such a dark hole. The courtyard was sunny; those who didn’t want sun could rest under the long barricades.

Gus was determined to gamble—he had asked several of the Mexicans who worked in the convent if they had any cards; one woman with only three teeth took a shine to him and managed to find an incomplete deck. It was missing about twenty cards, but Gus and Long Bill soon devised a game. They broke a few straws off a broom to use for money.

While they were making up rules for a card game involving only thirty-three cards, a black woman taller than Gus came across the courtyard. She didn’t seem to be a leper—her face and hands were normal. She approached them in such a dignified manner that the men straightened up a little. Gus hid the cards.

“Gentlemen, I have an invitation for you,” the Negress said, in English better than their own. “Lady Carey would like to ask you to tea.”

“Ask us to what?” Gus asked. He was taken by surprise. Although he had just shaved the day before, the dignity and elegance of the black woman made him feel scruffy.

“Tea, gentlemen,” the Negress said. “Lady Carey is English, and in England they have tea. It’s like a little meal. Lady Carey’s son, the viscount Mountstuart, will be taking it with us. I’m sure you’ve seen him playing with the Mexican children. He’s the one who’s blond.”

Call, too, was startled by the black woman’s courtesy and poise. He had never seen a Negress so tall, much less one so well spoken. Few black women in Texas would dare to speak to a group of white men so boldly, and yet the woman had not been rude in any way. She had an invitation to deliver, and she had delivered it. Like Gus, he felt that the few Rangers left were a rugged lot, hardly fit to take food with an English lady.

While he and Gus and Wesley and Long Bill were looking at one another, a little uncertain as to how to respond, the black woman turned to Matilda Roberts and smiled.

“Miss Roberts, Lady Carey knows you’ve traveled a long way across a dusty land,” the Negress said. “She was thinking you might appreciate a bath and a change of clothes.“Matilda was surprised by the woman’s serenity.

“I would … I would … mainly I’ve just had a wash in the river, when we were by the river,” Matilda said.

“That river comes out of the mountains,” the woman said. “I expect it’s cold.”

“Ice cold,” Matilda confirmed.

“Then come along with me,” the Negress said. “Lady Carey has a tub, and the water is hot. These gentlemen can wait a few minutes —tea will be served in about half an hour.”

Matilda looked a little uncertain, but she followed the black woman across the courtyard and up the stairs.

“I wonder what kind of meal it will be,” Wesley Buttons said. “I hope it’s beefsteak. I ain’t had no beefsteak in a good long while.”

“For it to be beefsteak there’d have to be cattle,” Gus remarked. “I ain’t seen no cattle around here, and I don’t know how a cow would live if there was one. It would have to eat sand, or else cactus, and if it wasn’t quick the dern dogs would get it.”

A problem they considered as they waited for it to be time to go to Lady Carey’s was that Brognoli’s condition seemed to be getting worse. He turned his head more and more rapidly, back and forth, back and forth, and he had begun to drool; now and then he emitted a low, thin sound, a sound such as a rabbit might make as it was dying.

A little later, the black woman appeared on the balcony above them and motioned for them to come. Gus had doubts about taking Brognoli, but it seemed unfair to leave him, since food was being offered. It was true that the Mexicans who ran San Lazaro had been generous with soup and tortillas, but Wesley Buttons had put the notion of beefsteak in their minds. It seemed wrong to exclude Brognoli from what might be a feast.

“Come on, Brog,” Gus said. “That lady that did that singing over Bigfoot and the boys is up there waiting to give us grub.”

Brognoli got up and came with them, walking slowly and still swinging his head.

None of them knew what to expect, as they went up the stairs and along the narrow balcony that led to Lady Carey’s quarters. Gus kept brushing at his hair with his hands—he had meant to ask Matty for her broken comb, but forgot it. Of course, he had not expected Matilda to be led away by a tall black woman who spoke better english than any of them.

Suddenly, the little blond boy jumped out of the shadows, pointing a hammerless old horse pistol at them.

“Are you Texans? I am a Scot,” the boy said.

“Why, I’m part Scot myself,” Gus said. “That’s what my ma claimed. You’re as far away from home as I am.”

“But that’s why my mother wants to see you,” the boy said. “She wants you to take us home. She told me we could leave tomorrow, if you would like to take us.”

Call and Gus exchanged looks. The little boy was handsome and frank. Perhaps he was merely fibbing, as children will, but there was also the chance that his mother, Lady Carey, had told him some such thing. Call didn’t mean to stay a prisoner of the Mexicans long, but neither had he expected to leave in a day.

“If we were to take you home, what would we ride?” he asked. “Our horses got stolen a long time back.”

“Oh, my mother has horses,” the boy said. “There’s a stable in the back of the leprosarium.”

“In the back of the what?” Gus asked.

“The leprosarium—aren’t you lepers?” the little boy asked, “My mother’s a leper, that’s why I never get to see her face. But her hands are not affected yet—she can still play the violin quite well, and she’s teaching me.”

“When we get home I shall have the finest teacher in Europe,” he added. “Someday I may play before the Queen. My mother knows the Queen, but I haven’t met her yet. I’m still too young to be presented at court.”

“Well, I’m not as young as you—I’d like to meet a queen,” Gus said. “Especially if she was a pretty queen.”

“No, the Queen is fat,” the little boy said. “My mother was beautiful, though, until she became a leper. She was even painted by Mr. Gainsborough, and he’s a very famous painter.”

Just then a door opened, and the tall Negress stepped out.

“Now, Willy, I hope you haven’t been pointing that gun at these gentlemen,” the woman said. “It’s very impolite to point guns at people—particularly people who might become your friends.”

“Well, I did point it, but it was just in fun,” the boy said. “I couldn’t really shoot them because I have no bullets.”

“That doesn’t make it less impolite,” the woman said.

Then she looked at the group.“Of course I’ve been impolite, too,” she said. “I failed to introduce myself. I’m Emerald.”

“She’s from Africa and her father was a king,” the boy said. “She’s been with us ever so long, though. She’s been with us even longer than Mrs. Chubb.”

“Now, Willy, don’t bore the gentlemen,” Emerald said. “Tea is almost ready. You may want to come in and wash your hands.”

“We washed once, when they barbered us,” Gus pointed out. “It’s been quite a few months since we washed twice in one day.”

“Yes, but you are now under the protection of Lady Carey,” Emerald said. “You may wash as often as you want.”

“Ma’am, if there’s grub, I’m for eating first and washing later,” Wesley Buttons said. “I’ve not had a beefsteak for awhile—I feel like I could eat most of a cow.”

“Goodness, you don’t serve beefsteak at tea,” Emerald said. “Beefsteak belongs with dinner, never with tea. Lady Carey is quite unconventional, but not that unconventional, I’m afraid.”

The Texans were led into a room where there were five washbasins; the water in the basins was so hot that five columns of steam rose into the room. There were also five towels, and more extraordinary still, five hairbrushes and five combs. The brushes were edged in silver, and the combs seemed to be ivory. At a slight remove was another table, with another washbasin, a towel, and another silver-edged brush and ivory comb.

“That’s the hottest water I’ve seen since we left San Antonio,” Gus remarked. “We’ll all scald ourselves, if we ain’t careful.”

The sixth washbasin was for Willy, the young viscount. The Texans were left to scrub themselves after their own inclinations, but while they were watching the water steam in the washbasins, a short, fat woman in grey clothes burst through a door and grabbed Willy before he could elude her.

“No, no, Mrs. Chubb,” Willy said, trying to squirm out of her grip; but his squirming was in vain. In a second, Mrs. Chubb had Willy bent over his own washbasin; she gave his face a vigorous scrubbing, ignoring his protests about the scalding water.

“Now, Willy, try not to howl, you’ll upset our guests,” Mrs. Chubb said. She didn’t take her eye, or her hands, off her young charge until she considered him sufficiently washed; once her task was done to her satisfaction, the young boy’s face was red from scrubbing and his hair shining from a skillful application of comb and brush. Then the plump woman surveyed the Texans with a lively blue eye.

“Here, gentlemen, your water’s cooling—plunge in,” she said. “Lady Carey has a glorious appetite, and your Miss Roberts is eating as if she’s been starved for a month.”

“Two months,” Long Bill said. “Matty ain’t had a good meal since we crossed the Brazos.”

“Well, she’s having a splendid high tea, right now,” Mrs. Chubb said. “If you gentlemen want anything to eat between now and dinner, I suggest you wash up quickly. Otherwise there won’t be a scone left, or a sandwich, either.”

Willy rushed through the door Mrs. Chubb had just emerged from.

“Mamma, I must have a scone,” he said. “Do wait—I’m coming.”

The Texans, under the urging of Mrs. Chubb, hastily splashed themselves with the hot water and rubbed themselves with the towels. Though they had shaved and washed just that morning, the towels were brown with dust when they finished their rubbing. Gus took a swipe or two at his hair with the silver brush—the rest of the Texans felt awkward even picking up such unfamiliar instruments, and left themselves uncombed.

Mrs. Chubb, unfazed, shooed them toward the door, much as a hen might shoo her chickens.

When the Texans entered Lady Carey’s room they were shocked to see Matilda Roberts, pink-faced, and with wet hair, in a clean white smock, sitting on a stool eating biscuits.

Beside her, in a chair, was the lady in black, the one who had sung so movingly over their fallen friends. Gus had hoped to get a glimpse of her face, but he was disappointed: Lady Carey was triply veiled, and the veils were black. Nothing showed at all, not her hair, not her face, not her feet, which were in sharp-toed black boots. Call supposed the woman’s face must be badly eaten up, else why would she cover herself so completely? He could get no hint even of the color of her eyes. Yet she was eating when they came in, eating a small thing that seemed to be mostly bread. When Lady Carey wanted to eat, she tilted her head forward slightly, and slipped the little bite of bread under the three veils—just for a second he saw a flash of white teeth, and a bit of chin, which seemed unblemished.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Lady Carey said, in a low, friendly voice. “When I’m hungry I have no manners—and I always seem to be hungry, in San Lazaro. I expect it’s the wind. When I’m eating, I don’t mind it quite so much.”

“It blows, don’t it?” Long Bill said—he was surprised that he had been able to utter a word, to such a great lady. They were in a large room whose walls had been hung with patterned cloth. The two windows were tightly shuttered. In one corner was a large, four-poster bed with a little dog sitting on it; beside it was a smaller bed where Willy slept.

“Certainly does—it blows,” Lady Carey said. “Eat, gentlemen. Don’t be shy. I expect it’s been awhile since you’ve sat down to a tea such as this.”

Lady Carey’s hands, too, were gloved in black—she reached down with two gloved fingers, took another small piece of the bread, and popped it under the veils and into her mouth.

Gus felt that it was his turn to speak—he had been about to address Lady Carey when Long Bill rudely jumped in ahead of him, and only to make a pointless comment about the wind. Before them on the table was an array of food, and all of it was rather small food, it seemed to him: there were little pieces of bread, cut quite square, with what seemed like slices of cucumber stuck between the squares of bread. Then there were biscuits and muffins, and larger, harder muffins with raisins stuck in them: he thought those might be the things called scones that Willy had referred to. Besides the various muffins and biscuits there were little ears of corn, with a saucer of butter and salt to dip them in; there were tomatoes and apricots and figs, and a plate of tiny fish that proved very salty to the taste. Gus had every intention of saying something complimentary about the food, but something about Lady Carey intimidated him, preventing him from getting even a word out of his mouth. He looked at her and opened his mouth, but then instead of speaking, put a bit of biscuit in his mouth and ate it.

The Texans were shy in the beginning—most of the foods they were being offered were foods they had never tasted. They stuck, at first, to what was safest, which were the biscuits—but, in part because they stuck to them so strictly, the biscuits were soon gone. Then the muffins went, then the scones, then the corn, and, finally, the various fruits. All the Texans, though, avoided the cucumber sandwiches, even preferring the salty fish. All the while, Mrs. Chubb supplied them with large cups of hot, sweet tea; the tea was sweet because Mrs. Chubb dropped square lumps of sugar into it with a pair of silver tongs.

“Lord, that’s sweet,” Gus said. None of the Texans had ever tasted pure sugar before. They were amazed by the sweetness it imparted to the tea.

“Oh well … that’s the nature of sugar,” Lady Carey said. She, too, was having tea, but instead of drinking it from a cup, she was sipping it through a hollow reed of some kind, which she delicately inserted under her veils.