San Antone. V. J. Banis

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      Lucretia had worked in the kitchen of Eaton Hall when Joanna married. Joanna wasn’t even sure now whose idea it had been to include Lucretia in her own rudimentary lessons, but she had taken pride in the fact that Lucretia could read and write, accomplishments unmastered by most southern white women.

      Yet, she realized she didn’t know her cook at all, not as a human being. She’d had no idea of Lucretia’s dreams, her longings, her aspirations; hadn’t even known of her involvement with William.

      Why, I’m as bad as the rest of them, she thought. These people are invisible to me, as if they were nothing more than household furnishings. A chair you might know was handsome, or valuable, you might even notice that it needed dusting, but otherwise it was something you took for granted, used for your convenience and comfort, kicked when you were angry—threw away, perhaps, when it no longer suited.

      Like Lucretia, standing here, holding herself empty. She realized how often they did that—you looked at their eyes, not into them, as if there were nothing behind the surfaces; your voice echoed through them, the way it did when you spoke in a cave. Only there was someone in there, someone listening, holding her breath, waiting for the bear to move on, or at least settle down to sleep.

      For a moment, on the heels of this self-discovery, depression threatened her. I’m not nearly so mature as I thought, nor so bright, she berated herself.

      But self-abasement was simply another excuse, wasn’t it? It’s all right to do this, so long as I whip myself for it periodically. I shall punish myself for them, and feel justified in my sins.

      No, I shall have to do better, she told herself, and smiled at the apprehensive woman before her. “Yes, I do see,” she said. “I can’t promise you, you know, what we’ll find when we get to this San Antonio, but certainly there will be land, and plenty of that. And I can promise you, some of it will be yours, yours and William’s, to do with as you wish.”

      Lucretia stared, her eyes searching; she gave the impression of someone looking out for a trick, some catchphrase that would take all the good from what she had just heard.

      Then a great, wide smile burst upon her face, and in her eyes, too, like sunlight splashing on the surface of a pool.

      “That would be mighty nice,” she said, and Joanna had just the faintest inkling that something had changed in Lucretia’s speech, a discovery that came and went too quickly for her to seize upon it. “I’d best get William started with that team,” Lucretia said, “if I’m going to learn to handle it by the time we start out.”

      “Whenever that may be,” Joanna said ruefully; but at least one problem was solved, in a way that she could feel good about.

      * * * *

      Then, as if it were overnight, their time in Galveston had vanished, the frozen days melting into a pool of yesterdays. They would be going soon—any day now—tomorrow....

      And now, Joanna found herself longing for some of that time that had so recently hung on her hands. Every moment seemed short of its appointed duration; the hours sped by. She heard conversations in broken fragments that barely penetrated her consciousness; her days were kaleidoscopes of fleeting impressions:

      “...Not a damned darky fit to.... Have your things moved tomorrow for loading, this is.... Doña Sebastiano, how nice to know.... I’ve been invited to ride with.... William Horse, Lieutenant Price says we...were part of the Haisini Confederacy, and besides that.... Dammit, I know they were fourteen trunks, Joanna, are you trying to say...? Mr. Hansen owns a general store in San Antone...has an average rainfall of...plenty of room, and I don’t want to travel from...sunup, or before, we can get several miles ahead of the...sunbonnet? But it’s so ugly, I can’t.... Ride one of these, the saddle is so much bigger than...better than...harder...faster...almost...tonight...tomorrow...today....”

      * * * *

      “...Now,” the lieutenant was saying, while Joanna took a last, sweeping look around—Gregory, sitting rigid beside his father in the driver’s seat of the family wagon; Jay Jay, forbidden to ride with the Indian, William Horse, glowering petulantly from the seat beside William in the slave wagon. Melissa was with the Sebastianos in their wagon, though for herself Joanna could not see much to choose from between the Sebastianos’ wagon and their own.

      “Where’s Jay?” Lewis asked.

      “He’s protesting the world’s refusal to see things his way,” Joanna said. “Never mind, he’s with William and Lucretia, he’ll be all right.”

      “Riding with the niggers?” Lewis asked, but Joanna ignored him.

      “All set?” Lieutenant Price asked.

      “Have been, dammit, for half an hour,” Lewis said, and got only a polite glance for his trouble.

      “Yes,” Joanna said, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Yes, I believe so.”

      “Well, then....” The lieutenant nodded, and gave a signal to one of the horsemen at the front of the long column.

      A moment later the call came back, from wagon to wagon, like an echo bounding off their canvas roofs—“Let’s move out!”

      Joanna climbed up beside her oldest son, taking a tight hold of the seat as Lewis got them off to a jerky start.

      “We’re on our way,” he said. His laugh was high and giddy, like a child keyed up on nervous energy.

      He was not the only one. In all the wagons, people were laughing or talking loudly. Voices shouted back and forth, and toward the rear of the train, someone was singing “Did you ever hear of Sweet Betsy from Pike?” in a bawling, off-key baritone. “Crossed the wide prairie with her husband, Ike....”

      Like syrup dripping from a spoon, the tight ball of wagons and horses and oxen spun itself out slowly into a long, thinning strand across the flat Texas earth, stretching, stretching, until you expected actually to hear the snap of the thread that held them.

      At the head of the train, one of the cowboys suddenly gave a nasal yell—“Ahhh-haaa, San Antone!”—and larruped up his horse. Behind him others took up the shout. Horses galloped, and the wagon drivers whipped their animals to a brief burst of speed as well—pointless, foolish even, but spontaneous and exhilarating.

      The dust rose up from the ground in raucous clouds, and the cries came and went:

      “San Antone! Ahhh-haaa, San Antone!”

      Chapter Nine

      By the time the sun had climbed halfway up the morning sky, Lewis had begun to feel his thirst.

      He drove on, trying to ignore the sweat dripping from beneath his hatband into his eyes, and the increasing soreness of hands unaccustomed to handling a team. He’d promised himself he would drive the first day. People were looking up to him, after all—Lewis Harte, of Eaton Hall, South Carolina. The head of the train. He’d heard it referred to in Galveston as the Harte Train. So, even here in Texas, his name had begun to acquire significance, hadn’t it? Which was only right.

      “Just wait till we get to San Antonio,” he told himself.

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