He had never had a friend as good as Woodrow Call--it was in his mind that he should have stayed and fought with him, and been killed too, side by side with his friend.
"Caleb is a damn skunk," Long Bill Coleman said. "He had no right to surrender for us--what if we'd rather fight?" "What happens if we do surrender?" Jimmy Tweed asked. "Will they put all of us up against a church?" "Oh, they'd need two churches, at least, for all of us," Bigfoot said. "That church where they shot Bes was no bigger than a hut. They'd have to shoot us in shifts, if they used a church that small." "Shut up about the churches, they ain't going to shoot us," Gus said. He was annoyed by Bigfoot's habit of holding lengthy discussions of ways they might have to die. If he had to be dead, he wanted it to occur with less conversation from Bigfoot Wallace.
"We can have breakfast, as soon as we give up our guns," he added.
To the hungry men, cold, wet, and discouraged, the notion of breakfast was a considerable inducement to compromise.
"I wonder if they've got bacon?" Jimmy Tweed asked. "I might surrender to the rascals if I could spend the morning eating bacon." "There's no pigs over there," Matilda observed. "I guess they could have brought bacon with them, though." "What do you think, Shad?" Bigfoot asked.
Shadrach had picked up a little, at the prospect of battle. There was a keen light in his eyes that had been missing since he got his cough and had begun to repeat himself in his conversations.
He was walking back and forth in front of the troop, his long rifle in his hand. The fact that they were completely surrounded by Mexican infantry, with a substantial body of cavalry backing them up, was not lost on him, though. He kept looking across the plain and then to the mountains beyond. The plain offered no hope. It was entirely open; they would be cut down like rabbits. But the mountains were timbered. If they could make it to cover, they might survive.
The problem with that strategy was that the Mexican camp lay directly between them and the hills. They would have to fight their way through the infantry, then through the cavalry, then through the camp. Several men were sickly, and the ammunition was low. Much as he wanted to sight his long rifle time after time at Mexican breasts, he knew it would be a form of suicide. They were too few, with too little.
"We could run for them hills--shoot our way through," he said. "I doubt more than five or six of us would make it. We'd give them a scrap, at least, if we done that." "Not a one of us would make it," Bigfoot said. "Of course they might spare Matilda." "I don't want to be spared, if Shad ain't," Matilda said.
"You're a big target, Matty," Bigfoot observed, in a kindly tone. "They might shoot you full of lead before they even realized you were female." "Why do we have to fight?" Gus asked. "They have us surrounded and we're outnumbered ten to one--more than that, I guess. We can't whip that many of them, even if they are Mexicans. If we surrender we won't be hurt--Caleb said that himself. We'll just be prisoners for awhile. And we can have breakfast." "I am damn hungry," Blackie Slidell said. "A few tortillas wouldn't hurt." "All right, boys--they're too many," Bigfoot said. "Let's lay our guns down.
Maybe they'll just march us over to Santa Fe and introduce us to some pretty se@noritas." "I think they'll line us up and shoot us," Johnny Carthage said. "I'm for the breakfast, though--I hope there's a good cook." The Rangers carefully laid down their weapons, in full view of a captain of the infantry. They piled the guns in a heap, and raised their hands.
The captain who received their surrender was very young --about Gus's age. Relief was in his face when he saw that the Rangers had decided not to fight.
"Gracias, Se@nores," he said. "Now come with us and eat." "There's one good thing about surrendering," Gus said to Jimmy Tweed, as they were marching.
"What?" Jimmy asked. "Se@noritas?" "No, weapons--lots of guns, and they've got that cannon," Gus said. "It ought to be enough to keep off the bears." "Oh, bears," Jimmy said, casually.
"You ain't even seen one," Gus said. "You wouldn't be so reckless if you had."
"The whip was made in Germany," Captain Salazar said, as Call was being tied to the wheel of one of the supply wagons.
"I have never been in Germany," he added. "But it seems they make the best whips." The whole Mexican force had been assembled, to watch Call's punishment. The Texans were lined up just behind him. Many of them were in a very foul temper, since the promised breakfast had turned out to consist of flavourless tortillas and very weak coffee.
None of them had had a chance to talk to Call, who was under heavy guard. He was marched by armed men with bayonets fixed to the wagon, where he was tied.
His shirt was removed, too. One of the muleteers was to do the whipping--a heavyset man with only one or two teeth in his mouth. The whip had several thongs, each with a knot or two in them. The thongs were tipped with metal.
"I guess I won't be going to Germany, if they're that fond of whips," Long Bill said.
"I wouldn't want to be Woodrow. A hundred times is a lot of times to be hit with a whip like that." Matilda Roberts stood with the men, a look of baleful hatred in her eyes.
"If Call don't live I'll kill that snaggle-toothed bastard that's doing the whipping," she said.
Bigfoot Wallace was silent. He had seen men whipped before--black men, mostly--and it was a spectacle he didn't enjoy. He didn't like to see helpless men hurt--of course, young Call had knocked over the General's buggy. Dignity required that he be punished, to some extent, but a hundred lashes with a metal-thonged whip was a considerable punishment.
Men had died of less, as Captain Salazar was fond of reminding them.
"If you'd like to say a word to your friend Corporal McCrae, I'll permit it," Salazar said.
"No, I'll talk to him later," Call said. He didn't like the tone of familiarity Salazar adopted with him. He did not intend to be friends with the man, and didn't want to enter inffconversation with him.
"Corporal, there may be no later," Salazar said. "You may not survive this whipping.
As I told you earlier, fifty lashes kills most men." "I expect to live," Call said.
Mainly what he remembered of the whipping was the warmth of blood on his back, and the fact that the camp became very silent. The grunt of the muleteer who was whipping him was the only sound.
After the first ten blows, he didn't hear the whip strike.
Gus heard it, though. He watched his friend's back become a red sheet. Soon Call's pants, too, were blood soaked. The muleteer wore out on the sixtieth stroke and had to yield the bloody whip to a smaller man. Call was unconscious by then. All the Rangers assumed he was dead. Matilda was restrained, with difficulty, from attacking the whipper. Call hung by his bound wrists, presenting a low target. The second whipper had to bend low in order to hit his back.
When they untied Call and let him slide down beside the wagon wheel they thought they were untying a corpse, but Call turned over, groaning.
"By God, he's alive," Bigfoot said.
"For now," Salazar said. "It is remarkable.
Few men survive a hundred lashes." "He'll live to bury you," Matilda said, giving Salazar a look of hatred.
"If I thought that were true, I would bury him right here and right now, alive or dead," Salazar said.
"Now be fair, Captain," Bigfoot said.
"He's had his punishment. Don't go burying him yet." No one could stand to look at Call's back except Matilda, who sat beside him that first night and kept the flies away. She had nothing to cover the wounds with--if too many of them festered, she knew the boy would die.
Gus McCrae had not been able to watch the whipping, beyond the first few strokes. He sat with his back to the whipping ground, his head between his hands, grinding his teeth in agony. None of the Texans were tied, but a brigade of riflemen were stationed just beside them, with muskets ready. Their orders were to shoot any man who tried to interfere with the punishment. None did, but Gus fought with himself all through the whipping; he wanted to dash at the whipper. His friend was being whipped to d
eath, and he could do nothing about it. He had not even been able to exchange a word with Call, before the whipping began. It was a terrible hour, during which he vowed over and over again to kill every Mexican soldier he could, to avenge his friend.
Now, though, with Call alive but still in mortal peril, he came and went. Every ten minutes he would walk over to Matilda and ask if Call was still breathing. Once Matilda told him Call was alive, he would go back to where the Texans sat, plop down for a minute, and then get up and walk around restlessly, until it was time to go check on Call again.
There was a small creek near the encampment.
Matilda persuaded an old Mexican who tended the fires and helped with the cooking to loan her a bucket, so she could walk over to the creek and get water with which to wash Call's wounds. He was already delirious with fever--the cold water was the only thing she had to treat him with, or clean his wounds. When she went to the creek, three soldiers went with her, a fact that annoyed her considerably. She didn't complain, though. They were captives--Call's life, as well as others, depended on caution now.
Shadrach had spread his blanket near where Matilda sat with Call. He and Bigfoot were the only Rangers who had watched the whipping through.
Before it was over most of the men, like Gus, had turned their backs. "Oh, Lord ... oh, Lord," Long Bill said many times, as he heard the blows strike.
"Was it me, I'd rather be put up against the wall," Blackie Slidell said. "That way's quick." Captain Salazar had been right in his assessment of the damage the whip could cause. In several places, the flesh had been torn off Call's ribs. None of the Texans could stand to look at his back, except Bigfoot, who considered himself something of a student of wounds. He came over once or twice, to squat by Call and examine his injuries. Shadrach took no interest. He thought the boy might live--Call was a tough one. What vexed him most was that the Mexicans had taken his long rifle.
He had carried the gun for twenty years--rare had been the night when his hand wasn't on it. For most of that time, the gun had not been out of his sight.
He felt incomplete without it. The Texans' guns had all been piled in a wagon, a vehicle Shadrach kept his eye on. He meant to have his gun again. If that meant dying, then at least he would die with his gun in his hand.
Shadrach slept cold that night--Matilda stayed with Call, warming him with her body. He went from fever to chill, chill to fever. The old Mexican helped Matilda build a little fire. The old man seemed not to sleep. From time to time in the night, he came to tend the fire.
Gus didn't sleep. He was back and forth all night--Matilda got tired of his restless visits.
"You just as well sleep," she said. "You can't do nothing for him." "Can't sleep," Gus said. He couldn't get the whipping out of his mind. Call's pants legs were stiff with blood.
When dawn came Call was still alive, though in great pain. Captain Salazar came walking over, and examined the prisoner.
"Remarkable," he said. "We'll put him in the wagon. If he lives three days, I think he will survive and walk to the City of Mexico with us." "You don't listen," Matilda said, the hatred still in her eyes. "I told you yesterday that he'd bury you." Salazar walked off without replying. Call was lifted into one of the supply wagons--Matilda was allowed to ride with him. The Texans all walked behind the wagon, under heavy guard.
Johnny Carthage gave up his blanket, so that Call could be covered from the chill.
At midmorning the troop divided. Most of the cavalry went north, and most of the infantry, too. Twenty-five horsemen and about one hundred infantrymen stayed with the prisoners.
Bigfoot watched this development with interest. The odds had dropped, and in their favor--though not enough. Captain Salazar stayed with the prisoners.
"I am to deliver you to El Paso," he said.
"Now we have to cross these mountains." All the Texans were suffering from hunger. The food had been scanty--just the same tortillas and weak coffee they had had for supper.
"I thought we were supposed to get fed, if we surrendered," Bigfoot said, to Salazar.
All day the troop climbed upward, toward a pass in the thin range of mountains. The Texans had been used to walking on a level plain.
Walking uphill didn't suit them. There was much complaining, and much of it directed at Caleb Cobb, who had led them on a hard trip only to deliver them to the enemy in the end. There were Mexicans on every side, though--all they could do was walk uphill, upward, into the cloud that covered the tops of the mountains.
"The bears live up here," Bigfoot mentioned, lest anyone be tempted to slip off while they were climbing into the cloud.
When Call first came back to consciousness, he thought he was dead. Matilda had left the wagon to answer a call of nature--they were in the thick of the cloud. All Call could see was white mist.
The march had been halted for awhile and the men were silent, resting. Call saw nothing except the white mist, and he heard nothing, either. He could not even see his own hand--only the pain of his lacerated back reminded him that he still had a body. If he was dead, as for a moment he assumed, it was vexing to have to feel the pains he would feel if he were alive. If he was in heaven, then it was a disappointment, because the white mist was cold and uncomfortable.
Soon, though, he saw a form in the mist--a large form. He thought perhaps it was the bear, though he had not heard that there were bears in heaven; of course, he might not be in heaven. The fact that he felt the pain might mean that he was in hell. He had supposed hell would be hot, but that might just be a mistake the preachers made. Hell might be cold, and it might have bears in it, too.
The large form was not a bear, though--it was Matilda Roberts. Call's vision was blurry. At first he could only see Matilda's face, hovering near him in the mist.
It was very confusing; in his hours of fever he had had many visions in which people's faces floated in and out of his dreams. Gus was in many of his dreams, but so was Buffalo Hump, and Buffalo Hump certainly did not belong in heaven.
"Could you eat?" Matilda asked.
Call knew then that he was alive, and that the pain he felt was not hellfire, but the pain from his whipping. He knew he had been whipped one hundred times, but he could not recall the whipping clearly. He had been too angry to feel the first few licks; then he had become numb and finally unconscious. The pain he felt lying in the wagon, in the cold mist, was far worse than what he had felt while the whipping was going on.
"Could you eat?" Matilda asked again. "Old Francisco gave me a little soup." "Not hungry," Call said. "Where's Gus?" "I don't know, it's foggy, Woodrow," Matilda said. "Shad's coughing--he can't take much fog." "But Gus is alive, ain't he?" Call asked, for in one of his hallucinations Buffalo Hump had killed Gus and hanged him upside down from a post-oak tree.
"I guess he's alive, he's been asking about you every five minutes," Matilda said.
"He's been worried--we all have." "I don't remember the whipping--I guess I passed out," Call said.
"Yes, up around sixty licks," Matilda said. "Salazar thought you'd die, but I knew better." "I'll kill him someday," Call said. "I despise the man. I'll kill that mule skinner that whipped me, too." "Oh, he left," Matilda said. "Most of the army went home." "Well, if I can find him I'll kill him," Call said. "That is, if they don't execute me while I'm sick." "No, we're to march to El Paso," Matilda said.
"We didn't make it when we tried to march to it from the other side," Call reminded her. Then a kind of red darkness swept over him, and he stopped talking. Again, the wild dreams swirled, dreams of Indians and bears.
When Call awoke the second time, they were farther down the slope. The sun was shining, and Gus was there. But Call was very tired. Opening his eyes and keeping them open seemed like a day's work. He wanted to talk to Gus, but he was so tired he couldn't make his lips move.
"Don't talk, Woodrow," Gus said. "Just rest. Matilda's got some soup for you." Call took a little soup, but passed out while he was eating. For three days he
was in and out of consciousness. Salazar came by regularly, checking to see if he was dead. Each time Matilda insulted him, but Salazar merely smiled.
On the fourth day after the whipping, Salazar insisted that Call walk. They were on the plain west of the mountains, and it had turned bitter cold. Call's fever was still high--even with Johnny Carthage's blanket, he was racked with a deep chill. For a whole night he could not keep still--he rolled one way, and then the other.
Matilda's loyalties were torn. She didn't want Call to freeze to death, or Shadrach either. The old man's cough had gone deeper. It seemed to be coming from his bowels.
Matilda was afraid, deeply afraid. She thought Shad was going, that any morning she would wake up and see his eyes wide, in the stare of death.
Finally she lifted Call out of the wagon and took him to where Shadrach lay. She put herself between the two men and warmed them as best she could. It was a clear night. Their breath made a cloud above them. They had moved into desert country. There was little wood, and what there was the Mexicans used for their own fires. The Texans were forced to sleep cold.