On that first trip on the barge under Stealman’s ownership, Connecticut and El Loco (the one who slept beneath the eaves of the market’s main entrance in Bruneville) headed straight to the encampment in Laguna del Diablo, though we don’t know exactly how they found it — did Connecticut know how to track carts and animals? We’ll leave them be for the moment.
Another, The Scot, wandered off down the road on his own, through villages and hamlets, sleeping out in the open by himself, insisting upon speaking English; he seemed to think he had returned to his homeland. The only thing he said over and over in Spanish: “When the bloody greasers got their hands on us, it was like they jammed bullets up our arses” in a strange accent, seething with anger and fury.
Most folks dislike him. Those who don’t take pity on him and give him nicknames. He survives thanks to the charity of these souls.
More and more, day laborers who can’t find work are joining the ranks of the crazies. The streets in Matasánchez begin to look like a nightmare, full of spirits and ghosts.
One Sunday, after mass — where they had gone to beg — one of them heard the story of “Good Old Nepo.” It’s like a match to a haystack; the news spreads throughout their ranks.
They understand without him putting out a call. Tuesday morning, without saying a word, they began to march — no horses, no firearms, just the clothes on their backs — like a disciplined army — to Laguna del Diablo.
In Bruneville, Elizabeth writes to herself:
Dear Elizabeth,
You know that in my letters I’m not given to telling you about my fears for the future. What we have is, for me, sharing the passage of time: life’s most significant moments, my appraisal of events, and the sorrows and joys of daily life. Well, today I find myself tempted to make an exception. I won’t talk about what has happened, just the nature of my fears.
But first, the facts.
As you know, when the hot season approaches — when the humidity becomes unbearable in this godforsaken backwater — Charles takes us back to New York. There, despite the heat, things are completely different. You don’t have to keep the windows shut because it’s not a swamp, the ocean is right there, the air circulates through open windows and doors, and there aren’t Mexicans and alligators waiting with open jaws on every corner. It’s not Boston or Paris, but New York’s not Bruneville either.
I have never objected to our periodic returns to the City because, as you well know, I’m always hoping for the day when we can leave this backwater of savages I so detest. We escape from the heat, from the suffocation of the season, and the nature of these people. I visit my dear mother. I meet with my friends. Charles spends afternoons at the Club. We both surround ourselves with people one can talk to, sharing interests, opinions, and worries. Now that’s what I call civilization — there, the coarsest man in the room is my husband, though he’s not the only one, but his lack of refinement begins to disappear among all those refined New Yorkers.1 On the other hand, though Charles is unrefined, he is certainly no greaser.
So, that’s the problem: our departure approaches and I … have not the least desire to leave! Why? Let me return to what I said at the beginning: my fear. My reasons are clear: I’m afraid if we leave, we’ll lose everything. The savages will take the opportunity to destroy my home. To plunder it. Burn it to the ground.
When I told Charles this he said, “All the more reason to leave, I don’t want you to be in any danger. If they torch our home, I’ll build you another.”
Another! What is he thinking? He thinks it’s easy! Can’t that man see that almost everything here is irreplaceable? Does he really think the Louis XVI table we have in the hall is no different from the ones that the savages around here make with twisted legs; that the lace is made by magical bees; that the bed and table linens from Belgium are the same as those the Indians here in the south make; that the china in our home could be from Puebla (horrors!); that the blacksmith (that imbecile) can make our silverware; that the portraits of my family painted by Mr. Pencil are worthless; that our furniture made by European carpenters has been varnished with lard?! Has he no eyes, no feeling, no sense of smell?! He’s just like a Comanche! Or worse. I know a Comanche, Governor Houston, and compared with my Charles he’s a true gentleman, beautifully refined.
So since Charles doesn’t understand, I have stalled as best I could. My strategy was to delay him.
I’ll never be ready, I’ll run into complications at every corner; my slaves and I will never finish; what one of us does, the other will undo. In truth, we’re having fun, so much so that I even forgot my fears of the Stealman mansion being enveloped in flames and burnt to dust.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: if that came to pass it would be my liberation. We would finally leave Bruneville. That should make me happy. But it doesn’t. Can you explain that to me? My fear fills me with anxiety. The only good thing in all of this is that I’m no longer playing at something that was initially a bluff: in the state I’m in, paralyzed by fear of what will happen, I’m literally good for nothing. My state of mind has affected my slaves. Though there’s another reason for that, as you know: slaves follow their masters. All their will is in their master. A slave is just a shadow. They can’t be anything more. That’s why the fortitude of their masters is so critical. It’s the source of their progress, triumph, peace, and much more. I’ll explain it again just to be clear: these irrational Negroes don’t share my fear because they’re not capable of imagining a future. I have seen proof of that many times, but this isn’t the time to go into detail.
Yesterday Charles flew into a rage. I tried to explain to him about “my things” (as he calls them): he’s the one maintaining order in the town, he’s their spiritual guide, their pillar, their light. If he leaves, the likelihood that Bruneville will go up in flames is much higher.
But he’s beyond reason. He has disregarded my desires. He gave specific orders to the servants to prepare our departure as swiftly as possible. Like shadows, my slaves have followed their master’s decision-making, and our departure is imminent.
My fears grow with each passing second.
Let it be clear, my dear, that there’s something completely absurd about my fear: I detest Bruneville, why would I want to prevent its obliteration? I cannot stand this isle of savages, but my home is here, my garden, my things. I wouldn’t say my memories are here, though. I have nothing of value from this pitiful, wretched corner of the globe.
I’ll write to you next on board the Elizabeth, or in Galveston if we decide to spend the night there.
I don’t need to remind you of our tradition: once in New York, I’ll break off our correspondence. There, you and I will become one again. You won’t hear from me, or you’ll hear from me forevermore. I’ll return to our correspondence when I come back, that is if we do come back to Bruneville. Will I be writing from another shabby town, beside a clearer river, perhaps, if I have a little luck?
Is some of the fear that engulfs me also due to the fact that if we leave here I will lose this intimate friendship we began here, on this island of savages, where we have been kept far apart, separated from part of our life? Shall I add that to my worries? But shouldn’t this also give me joy? It’s more difficult to answer that here, because I don’t want to lose you, but the idea of making you mine again (of making you mine and me yours) both excites me and breaks my heart. I’ll lose my best friend; we’ll each lose our best friend, but we will become her.