Our celebration may have been lackluster, but I did end up receiving a once-in-a-lifetime gift on my actual birthday when Granddaddy and I took the rowboat out for the day. We slipped it loose from its mooring below the cotton gin and set off with a picnic basket, a butterfly net, and my Notebook. We took turns at the oars, but the work was easy and the current mild, and once we got away from the clatter of the gin, a great hush fell upon the river. We floated in complete peace downstream, talking about the passing flora and fauna on the way. The water was clear as glass.
We could see the silvery shiners and lively perch darting through the gently undulating star grass and wild rice. I even caught a glimpse of a great scowling catfish lurking under the bank.
About halfway to Prairie Lea, we landed on a gravel bar to eat our sandwiches and make some notes. The gravel and stones were worn smooth from the action of the water, but there was a jagged one that stood out from its fellows and caught my eye. I picked it up and realized from its triangular shape and beveled edges that I held a genuine Indian arrowhead in my hand.
“Look, Granddaddy,” I cried. “It’s an arrowhead from the Comanche wars.” Each of my brothers had found one or two over the years but this was my first.
He examined it gravely in his rough palm. “I think,” he said, “that you have found something much older, probably from the early Tonkawas. They served as scouts for us at the Battle of Plum Creek.”
“Were you there?” I said. “Did you see it?” Plum Creek had been the early name for Lockhart, site of the last great fight against the Comanche. And only fourteen miles away. It had never occurred to me that a relative of mine had taken part.
He looked at me in mild surprise. “Oh yes, I was right in the thick of it. Have I not spoken of it to you?”
“Uh, no. You never have.”
“Well, I suppose that’s because it was not our finest hour, despite the public hailing us as heroes of the Republic. And it was not the Comanches’ finest hour, either. In August of 1840, Chief Buffalo Hump and his warriors were driving a herd of almost two thousand horses and pack mules back from a raid on the pioneer settlements. They had been pillaging and burning in a great swath along the coast. Now they were headed for the Comancheria, their buffalo-hunting lands in northwest Texas. The mules were heavily loaded with iron, much prized for forging arrowheads, and a huge supply of dry goods plundered from a depot near Victoria. But the horses were the real prize.”
I thought of Lockhart, with its courthouse and many stores and library, and even electricity. Our seat of civilization. “But why were you there?” I said. “How did it happen?”
“Ranger Captain Ben McCulloch had been following them for some days and realized that they would have to cross Plum Creek. He sent out some of his men to round up all the farmers and settlers in the area that they could, every single able-bodied man with a horse and a firearm. My father and I were plowing that day when one of the militia rode up with an urgent summons to arms. I was only sixteen, but like all sixteen-year-olds on the frontier, I knew how to ride and shoot, and that was all that mattered.”
“Did you … did you kill any Indians?”
“I suppose I did.”
This answer mystified me until he elaborated: “In the smoke and the dust and the chaos, it was difficult to be sure. We numbered perhaps two hundred, while the Indians must have had at least five hundred warriors, but Buffalo Hump at first did not wish to engage us in battle. Then it became clear they were trying to delay until the vast herd had passed safely by. They could not bring themselves to abandon the horses. And as for the other booty, they had taken yards of red cloth and decorated their warhorses with it, weaving long streamers of red ribbon into their tails. Some wore top hats; some carried open umbrellas. Oh, it was quite the spectacle. But then Captain Caldwell gave the order to charge, and we plowed into the great mass, firing our rifles. The herd panicked and stampeded. The overloaded pack mules got bogged down and were run over by two thousand frightened horses crashing into them. The Comanche were trapped by the very animals they prized so highly. Many were trampled and crushed by the horses; many were shot trying to escape. It was a terrible rout. And although Buffalo Hump lived to fight another day, their fatal weakness for horses spelled the beginning of the end of the Comanche in Texas.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I was not hurt, and neither was my father. We suffered surprisingly few casualties. President Lamar was well pleased.”
“And then you came home, right?”
“We all returned to our farms and families a few days later, but not before dividing up the enormous plunder. Since there was no way to return it to the original owners, my father and I returned with a mule laden with a bolt of red calico and a keg of brandy. My mother was glad to see that cloth, and I remember that for many years she dressed us all in shirts and pants of that same fabric, and used it for quilts and such.”
I suddenly realized there were several blocks of faded red fabric in my winter quilt.
“Wait,” I said, “is that the red material in my quilt?”
“Probably so.”
I resolved to take better care of the quilt, which I’d never before given a second thought to. Gosh, here I’d been sleeping all this time under Indian spoils of war and never known it!
“Ah, me,” he said, “the times I have seen. You might not realize, Calpurnia, that when I was born twenty miles from here, all this land was actually part of Mexico. Then I was just your age when Texas won its independence from Mexico and became an independent republic. I saw General Santa Anna, the defeated dictator of Mexico, led through the streets in chains. Five years after that, we fought the Comanche. Then, only four years later, we became part of the United States but had to fight another war with Mexico to make them accept it. Fourteen years after that, we tried to leave the United States, leading to the most terrible war of all, the only one we lost. We could not break up the Union. Now here I am, an old man, having survived four wars and lived long enough to see the age of the auto-mobile.”
He stood up, saying, “That is more than enough reminiscing for one day. Let us proceed on our journey.”
We tidied up the remains of our meal and climbed back into our little boat. A few minutes later, Granddaddy suddenly held his fingers to his lips and pointed over my shoulder at the high bank. A furry wedge-shaped face peered down at us from the shadows. Alert and inquisitive, the face was neither cat nor dog but something in between. Was it a baby black bear? There were still some Ursus americanus around but they were increasingly rare, what with the encroachment of civilization on their habitat. We studied it, and whatever it was studied us back; it seemed at least as interested in us as we were in it, maybe even more so. It stepped forward into a patch of dappled sunlight, and I could see that the muzzle was too short for a bear. It was a river otter. I’d heard about them but never before had the luck to see one.
And then the otter gave me a birthday show: It launched itself onto its belly and plunged headfirst down the steep bank on a narrow muddy slide, almost faster than the eye could follow, landing in the river only a few feet away from us with barely a splash.
I was so startled I nearly dropped the oars. “Gosh, did you see that?” I whispered hoarsely.
The otter surfaced and floated on its back, staring at us with palpable curiosity, giving us a good look at the bright eyes, the silky fur, the bristly whiskers. The creature was, in every way, enchanting. Deciding it had had enough of us, it suddenly dove and disappeared, leaving behind nothing more than a trail of small bubbles to prove it had not been a mirage.
“Lutra canadensis,” said Granddaddy. “It’s been years since I saw one in these parts, and I thought they’d all gone. They live on the river mollusks and smaller fish. Mark this sighting in your Notebook, Calpurnia. It is truly a red-letter day.”
I dutifully marked it down, and added (most unscientifically) Happy Otterday to Me!
* * *
WELL, ONCE T
RAVIS heard about my birthday otter, there was nothing for it but that he had to see it too. He nagged me mercilessly until we set off a couple of days later in the boat, provisioned with ham biscuits and a bottle of lemonade. We trailed the bottle behind us in the water on a length of string to keep it cool.
Rounding a corner, we surprised a great blue heron fishing in the shallows on its stilt-like legs, stabbing at passing minnows with its daggerlike beak. It uttered a sour croak, so at odds with its beautiful plumage, and flapped away, the sinuous neck folded into its chest.
When we reached the gravel bar, I told him Granddaddy’s story of the Indian battle, and he looked deeply impressed. He said, “How come he tells you this stuff but he never talks to any of the rest of us?”
It was true. Granddaddy spoke so seldom to my brothers that I wasn’t sure he could tell them apart. But Travis’s question made me uneasy. I loved my grandfather with a deep, unquestioning love, and I knew he loved me. I also knew that part of our love for each other rested on our mutual love of Science and Nature. And if one of my brothers, for whatever reason, wanted to wiggle his way into Granddaddy’s affections, that would be the logical way to do it. None of them showed any inclination to do this, and in fact they usually avoided him. But what if? Sharing him was more than I could stand. He was mine, mine alone.
“Callie?”
“Huh?”
“Are you okay?” Travis stared at me, his normally open, happy face creased with concern.
“I’m, uh, fine.”
“I asked you why he never talks to us about the Indian Wars and such.”
I pondered the consequences of my answer and sighed. “He will if you ask him.”
“I dunno. He scares me. Doesn’t he scare you?”
“He used to, but not anymore.”
To my relief, Travis immediately lost interest in Granddaddy and moved on to an increasingly more frequent topic of conversation: Lula Gates. He prattled on about her many charms before I couldn’t stand it one minute longer and declared it was time to pack up and go home.
“But we haven’t seen the otter,” he said.
“If it doesn’t want to show itself, we can’t make it. Don’t expect me to pull an otter out of a hat. I’m not a magician.”
We took turns rowing home and made it back by dusk. Just as we were tying up at the dam, something stirred in the bushes on the far side of the abutments. The creature, whatever it was, inspected us, and we—dismayed—inspected it back: a picture of abject misery, one weeping eye with the lid at half-mast; one ear mostly erect, the other mostly drooping; its flank peppered with lumpy scabs amid the matted reddish-brownish fur; the ribs standing out like a washboard.
Travis whispered, “Is that the otter? You never said it looked like that. I thought they were supposed to be cute. What happened to it?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not an otter.”
“What is it, do you think?”
“It might be a coyote, or maybe a fox.”
We stared at this mystery animal. I thought it was probably a fox, normally a shy species and of no threat to us, but you almost never caught sight of one in daylight.
“What’s wrong with it?” said Travis.
“It’s starving, and it looks like it’s been in a fight. Whatever it is.”
I looked at Travis out of the corner of my eye and waited for the inevitable, but he had finally met his match—the one animal on earth too awful to take home. Even so, I said, “Don’t go near it. It’s probably rabid.”
“But it’s not foaming at the mouth.”
I displayed my superior knowledge by saying, “That doesn’t mean anything. In the early stages, they don’t foam.”
Upon hearing this, the creature melted away into the underbrush. My brother and I walked home in silence, each absorbed in our own thoughts.
CHAPTER 10
FAMILY REUNION
If a person asked my advice, before undertaking a long voyage, my answer would depend upon his possessing a decided taste for some branch of knowledge, which could by this means be advanced.… Even in the time of Cook, a man who left his fireside for such expeditions underwent severe privations.
FATHER AND HARRY had been gone for one whole month when Mother, looking more chipper than usual, announced at dinner, “I have some wonderful news. If all goes well, Father and Harry will be home on Thursday evening.”
We erupted in happy chatter, and Sam Houston, the oldest boy present, led us in three cheers. Beaming, Mother allowed this unusual boisterousness at the table. She said, “I want everyone bathed and pressed and looking their best. Lamar and Sully, you see to the boiler. You’ll need to bring in extra wood. Callie, Aggie will be staying with us for a while until Uncle Gus rebuilds the family home.”
“She will?” This was interesting news. “For how long?”
“Several months, I expect.”
“And where will she be staying?”
“In your room, of course. She will have your bed, and we will make you up a pallet on the floor.”
“But—”
“I’m certain that no daughter of mine would refuse hospitality to her cousin in the hour of need.” Mother gave me the gimlet eye. “Especially a cousin who has suffered such terrible losses, and now more than anything needs peace and quiet and loving care. I simply can’t imagine that any daughter of mine would do that. Can you?”
I thought the question somewhat unfair but in truth I had no good answer. I stared at my plate and said in a small voice, “No, Mother.”
“Good. I thought not.” She sighed and then got that look on her face that often signaled the onset of one of her headaches. “Aggie needs our understanding and compassion. You will be good to her, won’t you?”
In an even smaller voice, “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. I thought so.”
That night there was general restlessness in the house. I awoke at midnight to footsteps in the hall. Whoever was out there also took a couple of excursions up and down the stairs, oblivious to the noisy seventh step that always gave one away. None of the children would have made the mistake of touching that step when prowling about, so it had to be Mother pacing up and down. Unusual behavior for her, but I suppose she was keyed up about the return of her men.
On Thursday morning, I spotted a long-tailed butterfly, the skipper Eudamus proteus, drinking nectar from the black-eyed Susans. I got within a couple of feet before it fluttered away. With its shimmering blue body and twin tails, I would have liked it for my collection, but they were hard to catch and tended to collapse on mounting. Still, it was a special day and nothing was going to dampen my spirits.
Sam Houston chopped wood, and Lamar, who normally avoided hard work like the plague, actually stoked the boiler all day. We took turns in the bath. Mother changed into her sapphire gown, Father’s favorite, the one that brought out the color of her eyes. She looked ten years younger. Granddaddy broke out a bottle of store-bought bourbon for the occasion. None of the children could keep still on a bet; we kept dashing to the windows and peering out, until finally Lamar cried, “They’re coming! They’re here!”
We poured from the house to greet them. Harry was on horseback; Father drove the wagon. A strange man sat beside him with his arm in a sling. In the back of the wagon, now empty of supplies, sat Alberto and a young woman of seventeen or thereabouts. She looked a bit like, well, me. Of course she did—she had to be my cousin Agatha Finch, with the map of our common ancestors written on her face. I wondered if I was destined to look just like her in a few years. Something to ponder.
Her print dress was faded, out-of-date, and laughably small, what with her knobbly wrists protruding and her pale shins on immodest display. Why was she wearing a pauper’s dress? Then it came to me: She had lost everything in the storm. Mother had told me this but it hadn’t sunk in until that moment, seeing the charity clothes. Calpurnia Virginia Tate, I chastised myself, you are a simpleton. And quite unkind to boot.
And what of the strange man, who was he? And why did they all look so dispirited and exhausted and downcast? This was supposed to be a joyful homecoming, a merry celebration. Our family was intact. The gaps at the table would be filled again.
Father climbed down from the wagon. The lines in his face and the stiffness of his gait shocked me. He embraced Mother, cupping her cheek lovingly in his palm as they whispered a few words to each other.
Harry dismounted King Arthur. He looked so dirty and ragged and thin that I ran to him and hugged him.
“Oh, Harry.”
“Pet,” he said quietly, “I’m glad to see you. Careful, now, you’ll get all muddy.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, squeezing him as hard as I could. “I missed you so much. What’s it like? Was it awful? Is it true what they say, that so many people died? Is that Aggie? It’s Aggie, isn’t it? What’s she like? Who’s that man with you?”
Our conversation was interrupted by the others swarming around with shouts of welcome. The dogs, especially Ajax, went berserk and jumped on everyone, making a terrible nuisance of themselves. Father hugged and kissed us all. I felt oddly shy when he hugged me tight but was terribly relieved to find that although he looked different, he smelled just the same. The same old Father smell.
The stranger climbed down with difficulty. He was a big man, not young, with the thick chest and broad shoulders of a blacksmith. He was scruffy and badly needed a haircut. His right arm hung immobile in a grubby sling, the fingers strangely clawed. Despite his obvious fatigue, he smiled and bowed low over Mother’s hand.
Agatha was helped down from the wagon, along with her luggage, consisting of one gunnysack and one tin case about the size of a hatbox but of a shape I’d never seen before. Was it a musical instrument? Maybe it was a concertina or bagpipes. Maybe we could play duets. But before I could ask her, she was delivered into the hands of SanJuanna, who whisked her off with strict instructions from Mother to feed her, bathe her, and put her to bed.