Texas by James A. Michener
‘What’s it called?’ one of the students in the rear asked, and Berninghaus said: ‘Strawberry cactus.’
And then, at the lower levels, we came upon the plant that affected me most deeply; I saw it first alongside the road, a low gray woody bush with tiny five-thorned leaves. I took it for a weed, but Berninghaus said: ‘Let’s stop and inspect it.’ He broke off a branch to show that the interior wood was one of the most vivid yellows in nature: ‘The Indians prized it for coloring their blankets,’ and I supposed that this completed the story, but he continued: ‘It’s one of our best shrubs, quite precious, really.’
‘What’s it called?’ I asked, and he said: ‘Cenizo, but some spell it with a final a. Its more effective name, Barometer Bush.’
‘Why?’
‘If we pass a spot that’s had some recent rain, you’ll see why,’ and before long we came to such a place, and there a stretch of cenizo had burst into soft, gentle gray-purple flowers. They were like miniature lilacs beside some Illinois farmhouse, or dusty asters in a Pennsylvania field; they spoke of home and evening firesides. As I looked down at them, imagining how joyously they must have been greeted by Indians who sought their brilliant dye, I felt as if Texas had somehow reached out to embrace me, to protect me from the barrenness of this western land, and I could understand how Berninghaus had come here fresh from his doctorate at Chicago and decided after one week that this would be his home for life. We would have known only half of Texas had we missed Alpine.
Just as I was beginning to feel sentimental about the plant, Berninghaus threw in one of those obiter dicta which can make travel with a scholar so rewarding: ‘This is the flower, of course, which made Zane Grey immortal. But imagine how flat his title would have sounded had he called the plant by its proper Spanish name, Riders of the Purple Cenizo.’
Now the talk turned to what Texans seemed to like best—numbers of staggering dimension: ‘We’re threading along the great Ramsdale Ranch, six hundred thousand acres.’ Or, ‘Over there, reaching twenty miles, is the Falstaff Ranch, nearly as big as Rhode Island and filled with deer and javelinas and mountain lions.’ But when I asked who owned these ranches, I was invariably told: ‘Fellow from Houston who struck it big in oil,’ and I began to realize that no matter how far one traveled from the oil fields of Texas, the pervasive power of petroleum remained.
When we stopped for cold drinks at Polk, the forlorn American settlement, Ranger Macnab informed us: ‘We’ll cross into Carlota so you can see what a Mexican border town can sometimes be, but I must in fairness warn you that there’ll be other settlements of larger size which are much better. This one is pathetic’
When we saw it, we agreed. Four times as large as Polk, it was a hundred times more desolate. It was as if the centuries had hesitated, waiting for some revolutionary invasion to burn down the walls. The fabulous wealth of Mexico had not penetrated here, and the streets were mean and forbidding. Adobe houses crumbled and open sewers went untended. Stores were adorned with broken bottles and old cars rusted at the crossroads. The railway station had lost its tiles and the policemen guarding it wore outmoded and tattered uniforms.
Carlota, named in honor of a European empress who had gone mad as her husband tried to govern Mexico, wasted in the blazing sunlight, and we were content to go back across the bridge to Polk. At first sight we had not rated the American town favorably, but now it seemed a beacon of civilization. Ransom Rusk, who had shown in previous meetings that he disapproved of Mexican ways and also of Mexicans living in Texas, said as we left Carlota: ‘Now I can understand why they want to slip into the United States. I would if I had to live over there.’
Our two ranch wagons now headed northwest along the Rio Grande, passing an adobe fort long vacated and the dusty town of Presidio, famed for its appalling summer temperatures. Television viewers grew familiar with the refrain: ‘Hottest spot in the nation today, Presidio, Texas, 114 degrees Fahrenheit.’
Then we passed through empty land leading to nowhere, and when we paused to drink from our thermos I asked: ‘Where are we going now?’ the staff members smiled, and Berninghaus said: ‘We’ve a few more surprises for you.’
I could not imagine what this forbidding land could hold as a surprise, but at the end of the paved road, in what must have been one of the loneliest and gloomiest sections of Texas, we came upon a minute village, Ruidosa, with six houses and a crumbling low Spanish mission, the Sacred Heart, built like a fort and now moldering in the desert sun. When I saw it I said over the intercom: ‘At our first meeting the governor said we were to probe into every nook and cranny of the state. This is one of the crannies.’
It still retained its roof, though probably not for much longer, and its façade was sturdy, with a wooden entrance that must often have been barricaded when the Apache attacked. It was an honorable relic, testifying to the courage of the missionaries who had stubbornly tried to pacify this part of Texas.
For me the most rewarding segment of the trip now began, for our cars skirted the mission ruins to pick up a trail which appeared on none of our maps. It wound its way due north for eighteen miles along the Rio Grande, so that whenever we looked to our left we saw the mountains of Mexico. Over the intercom we heard our young woman from SMU ask Ranger Macnab: ‘Tell us the truth. Does this trail lead anywhere, or is this a kidnapping?’ and he replied: ‘We’re heading for the end of the world.’
When we stopped we found ourselves in the adobe village of Candelaria, where the pretensions of Texas and the United States ended, for this was one of the loneliest and most inaccessible settlements along the southern border, with people living much as they had in the previous century.
But to me it was compelling, a view of Texas that few ever saw, and my heart beat faster when Berninghaus said: ‘Imagine, an international border, and from here, for more than a hundred miles, nothing.’ But what delighted our staff was the fact that when we strolled down to the Rio Grande, that river with the magical name, it was so narrow and shallow that a tattered rope-and-wire suspension bridge sufficed to cross it. And as we looked, a pantalooned workman from Mexico carrying a battered gasoline tin with handles came across its swaying planks to purchase some commodity in Candelaria.
‘Behold the commerce of great empires!’ Berninghaus cried, and we stood silent, confused by the hugeness of Texas and the meanness of its historic river. I think we were all gratified when Berninghaus explained the anomaly: ‘We Americans in New Mexico and Texas take so much water out of the Rio Grande for irrigation that if this little stream were allowed to run toward the Gulf in this condition, it would simply disappear. But at a spot near Presidio, a large Mexican river joins up, the Río Conchos. So the fabled Río Grande, which we admire so much downstream, should more accurately be called the Conchos. It’s mostly Mexican.’
Then came a clatter from the town, and he said: ‘I think they’ve arrived,’ and when we returned to our cars we found that students from Sul Ross had brought a picnic lunch for us and had spread it on blankets under a tree.
‘There will be no speeches,’ Berninghaus assured us. ‘I wanted you to imagine yourselves as Spanish immigrants coming here to settle, four hundred years ago. I wanted you to see the great empty Texas that they saw.’
On the trip back, following an unmarked trail through mountains and canyons, I noticed that Berninghaus maintained a sharp lookout, and finally he announced: ‘If I remember correctly, it’s in the next valley that our little cheerleaders climb the hillside,’ and when we reached the crest from which we could look across to the opposite hill we saw a bewitching sight, for the entire hill from creek to crest was covered with something I could not identify.
‘Look at them, the golden leaves at the bottom, the beautiful green at the top. And tell me what they are if they aren’t a gaggle of girl cheerleaders in the stadium on a bright autumn day.’
From a distance, that’s what they were, a host of girls in the green-and-gold of their team, scattered at random over
‘What are they?’ one of the students asked, and Berninghaus said: ‘Sotols. Dead leaves golden at the foot, new leaves green at the top. I feel better about life whenever I enter this valley.’
So for sixty miles along a forsaken road we picked our way toward Marfa, one of the choice cattle towns of the West, with a flawless courthouse. There we turned east, and when we reached the outskirts of Alpine, to which most of us now wanted to move, we saw our third sign:
U.N. OUT OF U.S.
U.S. OUT OF TEXAS
AS SOON AS IT WAS CONSONANT WITH HIS UNDERSTANDING OF military honor, Persifer Cobb resigned his commission in Vera Cruz, but when he submitted his papers to General Scott’s aide, Brigadier Cavendish of Virginia, the latter tried to dissuade him: ‘Colonel Cobb, since the days of Washington we’ve always had a Cobb among our leaders. We can’t let you leave.’
‘I will never again accept the humiliation I’ve had to suffer in this war. Deprived of a rightful command. Sentenced to work with those Texans.’
‘Are you aware that we’ve sent your name up for promotion?’
‘Too late.’
‘You mean you won’t accept it if it comes through?’
Cobb was polite but resolute: ‘No, sir.’ He thanked Cavendish for his concern and was about to leave when the brigadier pushed back his chair, rose, and took him by the arm: ‘Perse, my dear friend …’
In the formal discussion it had been ‘Colonel Cobb,’ as was proper, and this sudden switch to the familiar unnerved Persifer, who mumbled ‘Yes, sir’ with the respect he always accorded superior rank.
‘Could we walk, perhaps?’
‘Of course, sir.’
In the public park that fronted the sun-blinded Gulf of Campeche the two officers stared for some moments at that bleak fortress out in the bay, San Juan de Ulúa, where Mexican prisoners sentenced in Vera Cruz rotted in their dark dungeons. ‘How would you like seven years in there?’ Cavendish asked.
‘I have much different plans.’
‘Then you won’t change your mind? You’re definitely leaving?’
‘I decided that two years ago … at least.’
‘And I understand your bitterness. But do you understand why we cannot lose you?’
‘I can think of no reasons.’
‘I can.’ Very cautiously the Virginian looked about him, as if spies might have been planted even in this Mexican port city. Taking Cobb by the arm, he drew him closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘Many of us are looking ahead.’ Then, fearing that Cobb was not alert enough to have caught the signal, he continued: ‘We’re on a collision course.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Two irresistible forces—South, North.’
‘You think …’
‘I see it in signs everywhere. I read it in the papers. Even my family hints when they write.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Worse. The North will never stop its aggressive pressure, and if it intensifies, as I’m sure it will, we’ll have to leave the Union, and that means …’
Cobb had not interrupted. The brigadier had hesitated because as a loyal officer he was loath to utter the word, so Cobb said it for him: ‘War?’
‘Inevitable. And that’s why it’s important to keep in uniform. Because when the moment of decision comes …’
Cobb, reluctant to contemplate another war so soon after finishing one he had found so distasteful, tried to end the conversation, but Cavendish, having parted the veil that hid the future, kept it boldly open: ‘Each man in uniform will have to decide. Men like me, we’ll fight for the South till snow covers Richmond sixty feet deep. Stupid bullies like some we know, they’ll stay with the North. I suppose men like Robert Lee will, too, out of some sense of loyalty to West Point. But really able men like Jefferson Davis, Braxton Bragg, Albert Sidney Johnston, they’ll give their lives to defend Southern rights. And you must be with us.’
‘I’m still sending in my resignation,’ Cobb said, and he returned to his quarters, where packing had to be completed before reporting to the waiting ship.
When he stepped ashore at New Orleans, a civilian, and saw the mountain of cotton bales ready for shipment to Liverpool, where world prices were set, he was eager to hurry back to his family plantation on Edisto Island and assume command of its cotton production. Prior to enrolling at the Point he had known a good deal about cotton, for the Cobb plantation had for many decades produced the best in the world: the famed Sea Island, with the longest fibers known and a black, shiny seed which could be easily picked clean even before the invention of the gin.
As soon as he had located a hotel and arranged for his journey northeast, he asked the way to the offices of a journal which his family had read since 1837 and to which cotton growers looked for guidance. When he introduced himself to the editor of New Orleans Price Current, a scholar from Mississippi, he was warmly greeted: ‘A Cobb from Edisto. Never expected to see one in my office. You are most welcome, sir.’
‘I’m returning home after military service and wanted to learn how things are going in the trade.’
‘Never worse.’
‘Do you mean it?’
The editor slid his yearly report across the desk, and before Cobb had finished the third paragraph he grasped the situation:
The commercial revolution which had prostrated credit in Great Britain, and which subsequently spread to nearly all parts of the Continent of Europe, and to the Indies, put a sudden check to our prosperous course … A still more severe blow was given by the startling intelligence of a revolution in France, and the overthrow of the monarchy. This movement of the people in favor of popular rights rapidly spread to other countries of Europe, and in the tumultuous state of political affairs, commercial credit was completely overthrown and trade annihilated …
All this produced a more rapid depreciation in the price of cotton than we remember ever to have witnessed. At Liverpool sales were made at lower rates than were ever before known for American cotton … Many English mills simply shut down, while others were compelled to resort to part-time working …
Cobb, feeling his mouth go dry, asked: ‘How bad is it?’ and the editor handed him the price report for Middling as sold at New Orleans: ‘Here’s how bad it is.’
As Cobb took the paper he asked: ‘What do you figure it costs to raise and deliver a pound of cotton these days?’ and the expert replied: ‘With care, seven cents.’ When Cobb saw the record he felt dizzy: 3 September 1847, 12⅝¢ and a modest profit; 26 November, after the first flood of bad news, 7½ ¢, right at the no-profit level; 28 April 1848, when Europe was falling apart, 6¢, which meant a cash loss on each sale.
‘Do you see any relief?’ Cobb asked, and the editor pointed to his explanatory notes for this dismal year:
… The Royal Bank of Liverpool suspended business.
… Numerous business houses of great antiquity and reputation closed.
… Many contracts with American shippers voided without recourse.
… Forced abdication of King Louis Philippe from throne of France.
… All Europe in worst condition since 1789.
… Angry mobs of Chartists threaten the peace in England.
… Population of Ireland in an unruly mood.
‘Surely,’ Cobb protested, ‘our marvelous victory in Mexico must have affected the market favorably,’ but with his ruler the editor pointed to a minor note at the very end of his gloomy report: ‘This shows how the rest of the world evaluated your war. “Our own war with Mexico was brought to a successful close by Mexico’s cession of California &c. to the U.S.” ’
‘What can be done?’ Cobb asked.
‘You long-staple Sea Island men, you don’t have to worry.’ He showed Cobb his summary: South Carolina short staple, 280,671 five-hundred-pound bales, 7 9/16¢; they lost a fortune on that. Sea Island long staple, 18,111 bales, much of it from Edisto;
And there was the difference: short staple, eight cents; long staple, nineteen cents, and Edisto grew only the long. Other plantations, of course, would have grown Sea Island had their land permitted, but it did not, and they were condemned to growing the more difficult and less profitable short.
‘Haven’t you a brother in Georgia who grows short?’ the editor asked, and Persifer smiled: ‘A cousin. My father’s brother became insulted over some fancied grievance years ago, about 1822 if I recall, and off he trundled to Georgia, predicting that he’d make a fortune. But of course he couldn’t grow Sea Island up in those red hills. He was stuck with short, and he’s never done too well with it.’
‘Why didn’t he return to Edisto?’
‘When a Cobb leaves, he leaves.’
‘Did you say you were leaving the army?’
‘I did.’
‘But in case of trouble …’ The editor paused exactly as Brigadier Cavendish had paused.
Cobb, who had refused to consider such a possibility in Vera Cruz, now responded as an honorable soldier would: ‘If real trouble threatened the Union, of course I’d report. So would you.’ A long silence ensued, and it was obvious that neither man wished to be the one to break it. Then the editor surprised Cobb by switching subject matter dramatically.
‘Your cousin in Georgia should study this,’ and he shoved a provisional report into Cobb’s hands. ‘I was going to print it in this year’s summary, but I wanted to verify some of the amazing statistics.’ And Cobb read:
AVERAGE YIELD PER ACRE (ACTUAL) OF COTTON CROP IN NINE STATES