‘Damn it,’ murmured Quigley. ‘I can see I’m in for a treat tomorrow.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll be able to speak to you, sir,’ said January. ‘He was feverish last night, and looked to be getting worse. I did find the list of Silver Joe’s boys, with the date of the theft on it, and “one thousand – gold” written at the bottom. They took that from me, too.’
The farther Mrs Passmore can be kept from all this, the better. There was no telling what accusations she might bring – or what trouble she would cause – if she was questioned.
He added, ‘You can probably corroborate some of this by questioning the Taggart servants. The houseman Noah, and Melly, Madame Taggart’s maid. The stableman Malojo too. He may very well have seen what time M’am Valentina, and Miss Marryat, rode out Monday morning. But how much of that would be admitted in court I don’t know.’
‘Well, not yours or Noah’s or Melly’s, that’s for sure. An’ if it comes in front of Judge Long, he’s like to throw the whole case out, rather’n convict Pollack. But I’ll have a word with ’em. I think that was Noah I saw, drivin’ one of those wagons into town.’
‘It was, sir.’
Quigley growled a little in his throat. ‘Of course, with Mr Taggart’s death –’ he glanced apologetically at the young widow – ‘that means nothing much can be proved against the Pollacks anyway. And it’s even money Creed’s across the river and gone. An’ two to one Cilly Pollack’ll have her men take a shot at me for disturbin’ him. Still—’
The clink of wagon-chains sounded in the street, and the clatter of many hooves. Torchlight splashed through the windows. The sheriff got to his feet and went to the door, opened it and looked out. ‘You’re in town late, Rance,’ he called out, and January – who, with Hannibal, had risen to follow Quigley to the door – stepped back again into the room and moved to the side of the window, where he could look out and not be seen.
Rance Pollack sat his horse beside the wagon-team, the light of the torches held by a circle of cowhands glinting on the tears that tracked his heavy, unshaven face. He said nothing, but Mudsill, on the box of the wagon, drew rein and called out, ‘It’s Mr Pollack, sir. He’s dead.’
‘An’ I’m gonna kill Doc Meredith.’ Rance seemed to choke on the words. ‘If that fucken bastard had let my brother alone …’
Mudsill said, his voice strangely gentle, ‘It weren’t Doc’s fault, Mr Rance. Shit happens. You know it does.’
‘Don’t you fucken tell me whose fault it was, nigger!’ yelled Rance, rising in his stirrups. Snot dripped from his swollen nose, glinting in the torchlight. Ridiculous, but for the man’s devastating grief. ‘The one I am fucken gonna kill is that feller Sefton’s goddam nigger! It was his fault!’ He dragged his rifle from the saddle holster, brandished it at the black, star-stitched sky. ‘He was the one kicked out Doc Parralee. If it weren’t for him, my brother woulda got over his wound in two days! Gideon was at San Jacinto, shot thirty-five Mexicans in the swamp, took a bullet in his hip an’ not a penny the worse for it! An’ he was shot by Comanche in ’38! An’ he took a bullet in his shoulder, killin’ Butler Simm back in Mississippi, an’ he was up an’ walkin’ around inside a day—’
‘You better take him on to the hotel, Mudsill,’ said Quigley quietly, stepping out onto the lantern-lit porch. ‘Finn …?’ He picked out another of the riders beside the wagon. ‘Soon as you get Mr Pollack delivered to Firkin’s, come on back here an’ tell me the circumstances. I’m guessin’ his wound went bad on him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man Finn, the young Irishman, January recalled, whom he’d met en route to Austin. Was it really only three weeks ago?
The man nudged his horse closer to the porch, and spoke beneath Rance’s furious ranting as two of the other riders gentled the rifle away from the huge man and got the cortège again on its way. ‘Damned if I’ve ever seen a man hang on the way he did, sir, but he took to his bed last night, an’ it seemed he just burned up like touch-paper. He died this mornin’ ’fore we could send for a doctor or a preacher or nuthin’.’
Valentina rose from her chair by the desk, brushed past January to step into the doorway. ‘Is there anything that I can do for his wife?’ she asked quietly, of the half-seen rider in the darkness. ‘Any help that I can be?’
Finn touched his hat. ‘’Tis most kind of you, Mrs Taggart, most kind indeed, and I’ll be askin’ her if she needs anythin’. Sheriff,’ he added, with a glance after the wagons and the torches, creaking away down Congress Avenue, ‘you might want to go find Doc Meredith, tell him maybe to make himself a little scarce for a couple days, til Rance calms down some. He don’t mean what he says, but if he gets to drinkin’ he may do what he’ll later regret.’
‘I’ll do that,’ promised Quigley.
‘You might also want to look up that feller Sefton, give him the same word, if he’s still in town.’
‘I will.’
The young man touched the sides of his straggly-tailed gray, and moved off up the street, appearing and disappearing in the thrown glow of the lamps in front of the barrooms.
‘You heard that?’ Quigley came back into the dim-lit office, and shut the door. ‘I heard of people having to flee the United States and run to Texas … but where do you run if you have to flee Texas?’
‘Hell?’ suggested Hannibal. ‘That seems to be the only place left.’
‘Been there,’ sighed January. ‘At the moment, the only place I want to go is home.’
TWENTY-SIX
With the assistance of the obliging Marcus Mudsill, Hannibal and January kept a wary eye on Rance Pollack’s movements through the following day, which was Sunday. Mrs Eberly, proprietress of the tavern where they again stayed, directed January to the apothecary shop of one Señor Pardo, in whose back room Father Monastario held Mass for the Catholics of the largely Protestant vicinity. The priest proved to be elderly, hugely fat, and with a twinkle in his dark eyes. When Mass was over, January saw Sheriff Quigley approach him outside, and knew the lawman was tidying up his case.
His own part was done.
Mrs Passmore visited with Hannibal in the afternoon, and reported that the sheriff had also questioned Noah, Melly, the elder Mrs Taggart, and Malojo. ‘Doubtless trying to find someone whose evidence the court will accept,’ the lady sighed. She had retreated – with Hannibal – to the tavern’s rear porch ‘for a breath of fresh air’, meaning a surreptitious cigar and a sip of cognac from her silver flask. ‘With Gideon Pollack dead and Eli Creed on his way to parts unknown, there really doesn’t seem to be anybody left to try for murder, though I suppose Quigley could prosecute Rance Pollack for conspiracy to steal government property.’
She had resumed her quiet, well-cut gown and her hair had returned to its customary sable richness. With her lace mitts, and the subdued cameo at her throat, she looked so respectable that no one, January reflected, would think twice about leaving her in the same room with his money.
But when Hannibal inquired after this of the sheriff himself, who dropped by the tavern that evening to give his formal leave to their departure, Quigley shook his head. ‘Like as not the case would be tried before Judge Long,’ he said. ‘And he’d throw it out ’cause he’d love to see the archives – and the government – back in Houston. So we might just as well save ourselves the trouble. And it might be,’ he added, pushing his hat forward to scratch his thin gray hair, ‘that losin’ his brother is punishment enough, for Rance.’
The mail-coach for Houston left early Monday morning. Valentina Taggart had given Hannibal seventy-five dollars to pay passage back to New Orleans, and had sent Ortega into town with the remaining four horses that they’d purchased in Houston. ‘Which I suppose we’d better ride,’ remarked the fiddler, with a certain degree of regret. In the course of conversation that afternoon Mrs Passmore had let fall the information that she was taking the stage, and had said how much she looked forward to playing cards with Hannibal, to while away the jolting hours i
n the coach.
Hannibal looked thin and spent, and had developed a persistent cough, but remarked that night, as January spread his pallet – like a good servant – on the floor of their mutual room, ‘There are fates worse than death, amicus meus, and playing cards with Cornelia Passmore is a sure path to one of them.’
Certainly when she came down to the coach in the gray of pre-dawn and saw January tying saddlebags onto their independent equipage, she looked vexed as well as disappointed. ‘Are you certain you’re well enough to ride?’ she asked, laying an anxious hand on Hannibal’s thin shoulder. And, when he assured her that his doctor had recommended the journey be done thus, for his health, she smiled brightly and said, ‘But you will, I hope, join me for dinner at the posting-inns?’
At this point, to January’s surprise – and infinite relief – Valentina Taggart rode into the square, having left Perdition by the late-setting moonlight with an escort of Ortega, Jalisco, and Lope. ‘I’m so glad to have caught you,’ she smiled, through the cloudy black gauze of her widow’s veil. ‘I came to beg of you, to accept Jalisco and Lope as an escort. The danger of the Comanche, you know.’
And she turned her radiant warm friendliness upon the deeply annoyed Mrs Passmore. ‘One cannot be too careful.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ murmured the older lady sweetly. ‘My dear, the roads are perfectly safe.’
January wondered if she’d already made a deal with the owners of one of the posting-inns where they were scheduled to spend the night, to incapacitate Hannibal and kidnap January for later sale.
‘It is such a dangerous country, madame,’ cooed Valentina. ‘Far better to be safe than sorry.’
Mrs Passmore returned the smile, with a forced gratitude which confirmed January’s suspicion. ‘Dear Mrs Taggart, you shouldn’t have …’
With deepest sincerity, Valentina replied, ‘It is my pleasure, madame.’
As he turned towards his own mount, January halted beside Valentina, and drew from his jacket pocket a thick packet of parchment. ‘For you, madame,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A gift from your husband. The original deeds pertaining to the Valenzuela lands.’
She glanced quickly up into his face.
‘He obviously thought there was enough question about their provenance – through the King of Spain to the Franciscan Order, through the San Saba Mission to your great-grandfather – for them to be questioned in a Texan court. Or an American one, if things fall out that way. Documents clarifying the transmission of these lands – I presume in such a way as to make your title stronger – were substituted into the National Archives while they were hidden in the Bruja mine. These are the originals, in case you ever need them. Hannibal assures me that the forgeries are first-rate, professional work. If nothing else, even if you decide not to remain in Texas, they should greatly help the sale of the land to some American.’
Valentina smiled, and tucked the deeds into the deep pocket of her skirt. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That is very good of you, Señor Enero. You know I would kiss you, if it wouldn’t get you hanged.’
‘And I would kiss your hand,’ he returned, ‘in another place and another time.’
Her smile was warm behind her veil. ‘Please give my best wishes to your lady Rose. And – with all that has happened, I have never asked! – have you children? Two! Wish her all my blessings. And write to me,’ she added, ‘to let me know how it goes with Selina – if she is well, if … if all things are well with her. And if they are not, tell me how I may help.’
‘I’ll do that, madame.’ He bowed again. ‘We all of us owe you our lives. We will not forget.’
‘Much as you’d want to?’ Her smile gleamed, bright and briefly mischievous as of old. ‘And I owe you –’ she touched the pocket of her dress – ‘my life as well. Not just keeping me from being hanged, but my real life – my future life – my freedom.’ She pressed his hand. ‘Go with God, my friend.’
January swung into the saddle, and checked the long leather riata that connected the two re-mounts to his cantle, as the coach clattered away down Congress Avenue. The lights that had burned in a few of the more distant houses of the half-built little town were being blown out, as broad yellow sunlight splashed across the shabby wooden houses and cabins, the imposing, false-fronted, whitewashed edifices of the new capital. Hannibal bent from the saddle to kiss Valentina’s hand and address her with praises cribbed from Pindar and Horace.
When they rode out – trailed by their vaquero guards – January looked back, to see the small black figure of the widow, lifting her hand in farewell to him in the bright bold light of the new day.
In other circumstances January would have been amused to watch Hannibal, over the next four days, fencing with Mrs Passmore at the execrable roadside taverns where they – and the mail-coach – stopped for meals, or to change horses, or to spend the nights. Hannibal flirted outrageously with the lady, who made several determined efforts to get him alone with her, or into a game of cards. January observed that he was careful not to be alone with her, nor to eat or drink anything that wasn’t part of the common fare.
This made for an extremely wearing journey. January slept little, conscious always that he was worth twelve hundred dollars to this woman and that if anything should happen to his ‘master’, Mrs Passmore almost certainly had forged sale-papers somewhere in her luggage proving that he was her property, to do with as she wished.
Exactly like Selina.
Or like Valentina, he reflected, at the mercy of Texas courts and Texas law.
It wasn’t until the French steam-packet Suzette churned away from the Galveston docks on Walpurgis morning – the thirtieth of April, a Wednesday – with Mrs Passmore waving her handkerchief (and doubtless cursing under her breath) at quayside, that January felt himself begin to relax. He felt that he wanted to sleep for a week.
As the slow, oily swells of the Gulf widened between the ship and the wharf, Hannibal glanced sidelong at him, and asked quietly, ‘Will Selina’s father take her back, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ January leaned his elbows on the railing, watched the brown cohorts of pelicans glide low over the water. South of the town, the dark wall of mangrove and cypress concealed where the wood-store had been, where Seth Javel’s body had burned up less than a month ago. ‘I think so. My impression is that he loves her very much. But people don’t always forgive, if they feel they’ve been betrayed, or their pride has been hurt. Or if their families tell them they’ve been fools,’ he added with a sigh. ‘People are stupid and cruel. Others, simply weak.’
‘And people used to ask me,’ sighed Hannibal, ‘why I drank.’ He coughed, his hand pressed hard to his side. He looked like ten miles of bad road.
Or a couple of hundred. From Houston to Austin and back.
After a long time, January said, ‘Thank you.’
‘For keeping the beautiful Cornelia occupied with flirtation? I feel like I’ve spent four days chained to an affectionate leopard. Alas, the love of women, it is known/ to be a lovely and a fearful thing … She’s the real gorgon,’ he added. ‘Not that frightful Madrecita Taggart, or poor Aunt Alicia.’
‘Thank you for coming to Texas,’ said January. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘If it comes to it, neither did you.’
‘I did. Who else would have?’
Hannibal made no answer.
‘Selina Bellinger is sixteen,’ January went on. ‘Valentina was that age, when she ran away with John Dillard and came to Texas. She wasn’t betrayed, except by fate; the wound she took at least wasn’t a poisoned one. But sixteen is too young to lose your life – the whole of your life – for misjudging a man.’
‘It’s what Rose said,’ agreed the fiddler, ‘when she asked me to come with you. And I don’t doubt that Rose could look after herself – and the children – had you not come back. Better anyway than poor Selina, who is, I fear, going to have a very hard time of it, whatever her father decides. Yo
u still didn’t have to do it. I suppose soldiers’ wives feel the same thing, when their men go off to war.’
‘It is war.’ January understood, then, the tiredness he felt. He’d seen it, after the Battle of New Orleans, as a youth: that burned-out cold in the heart. That compound of exhaustion, disgust, and futility – Tell me again why I did this? His only real emotion a mild surprise that he’d survived.
He’d feel better, he knew, after he’d slept.
After he’d returned home, and gone to confession and Mass, and woke again in Rose’s arms.
Galveston had shrunk behind them to a pale line of mud, a dark line of trees and houses, no higher than a sand-bar, across the water. White sails made chips of brightness against it, slave-ships, smuggling in men and women from the Caribbean, from Africa, from Brazil, to be sneaked across the Sabine into Louisiana, for sale to cotton-planters all up and down the Mississippi. Andreas Neumann was still offering his customers free samples of the women in that dim hot dust-stinking ‘exchange’. Pharaoh at the Capital City Hotel still dreamed of the wife and children he’d been taken from, back in South Carolina, whom he would never see again. Rance Pollack still owned men and women and could sell them or rape them or beat them to death without a question being asked.
A slaveholder’s republic. Would it always be so? He sensed the strength and the wealth of the land, and wondered what would become of them – white, black, Comanche and Tejano – in the years to come.
‘It is war,’ he said again. ‘The battles are smaller, and different, but it is war. And thank you,’ he added more lightly, ‘for not giving in to the temptation to try to relieve Mrs Passmore of some of Mr Taggart’s gold over a hand of cards.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Hannibal coughed again, and put a hand back, to where the silk ribbon that tied his queue was coming unbound. January recognized the violet velvet band as one he’d seen in Mrs Passmore’s hair. ‘The woman cheats like a moneylender! It would be nice to retrieve that seven hundred and fifty dollars that you’ll owe to your mother and the Viellard family and whoever else you borrowed from, but not if it meant chasing all over Texas looking for whoever Mrs Passmore managed to sell you to while I was unconscious from whatever she’d manage to slip into my drink. I completely agree with you, amicus meus. I only want to go home.’
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