When the Splendor Falls (2 page)

With the gold and silver, emeralds and pearls of earlier legends bringing them wealth and fame, these adventurers continued to believe in lost cities and hidden treasures just out of reach. Their lust grew feverish after a party of shipwrecked explorers, who had wandered for years through the wilderness of the great northern lands, spoke of having seen seven great cities that glowed golden beneath the sun. Among those survivors was an ebony-skinned Moorish slave. His name was Estevanico. Estéban and the others told wondrous stories of golden-hued, many-storied houses with greenish-blue stones bordering each door. Their vivid descriptions of all they had seen on their fateful journey across the unknown lands were intoxicating and conjured up fantastic imaginings in the minds of their listeners who hungered for the glory of Cortés and Pizarro, the greatest of the
conquistadores
.

Soon a party of adventurers, guided by the Moor, went in search of this fabled kingdom of gold. They returned to the seven legendary cities accompanied by a gray-robed Franciscan monk, Fray Marcos, who went in search of lost souls. But they were met with hostility by the wild tribes of the north. The Moor met his death in Hawikuh, one of the seven cities, but the friar escaped, returning to Mexico to tell of the greatness of the golden cities he had seen from afar. Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, governor of Nueva Galicia, a northern province in Mexico, listened to this tale and dreamed of greater glory in the unconquered land now known as
Cibola
, and where he would find the Seven Cities of Gold. With great expectations, Coronado led an expedition of over two hundred horsemen glinting with armor, and followed on foot by soldiers armed with crossbows, pikes, and harquebuses. Indians, friendly to their Spanish conquerors, and teams of mules carrying the provisions and cannon into this promising land of riches trailed close behind.

Coronado never found the fabled golden cities or the fabulous treasure of the gilded man.

He discovered a new land for Spanish conquest and dominion. From the sunbaked adobe pueblos along the fertile valleys of the Rio Grande to the snowcapped
sierras
and great
cañons
of the northwest, to the grassy plateaus of the High Plains rising far into the northeast, across the burning white sands to the west and the vast sweep of prairie and rolling hills to the east this
despoblado
was claimed in the name of the Spanish crown.

The sound of mission bells replaced the shamans’ chanting, and church spires rose beneath the sun in holy challenge to the heathen gods. The cities, Taos high in the mountains to the north, Santa Cruz de la Canada, Santa Fe de San Francisco, Albuquerque, and El Paso del Norte bordering the southern wilderness, were peopled by the children of God and grew prosperous. The soldiers stationed in the
presidios
protected the children of God from the wild tribes that roamed the wastelands, and the
ranchos
knew no boundaries as sheep and cattle grazed the fertile grasslands and valleys.

The seasons changed and the ancient myth of the fair-haired, long forgotten by most, came to pass as Spain’s empire in the New World crumbled and a fledgling nation along a distant eastern shore began to spread its wings westward toward the wealth and promise of unexplored lands.

Surrounded by desert, prairie, and mountain, the Territory of New Mexico had remained isolated. Mexico now claimed sovereignty over the territories north of the Rio Grande. Separated by endless desert and impenetrable jungle, the trading caravans made the long, arduous trek only twice a year between the annual fairs in Chihuahua and Taos. Imported from the Old World via Veracruz, a port city on the Gulf of Mexico, goods from Mexico were exorbitant. The New Mexican traders were left with little profit and the colonists with even less satisfaction by the time the caravan left Taos on its return journey.

But to the east, beyond the Pecos and across the Staked Plain that Coronado had seen darkened by herds of buffalo, from the wide waters of the Mississippi came the French traders, eager to barter. In the mountains where the Rio Grande and her sister rivers began as crystalline streams the waters were full of beaver. In exchange, the French brought guns and powder and liquor to trade with the Indians for the right to trap and hunt on the slopes without fear of attack.

Following in their footsteps came the Americans, exploring the lands newly purchased from France. News of this wondrous territory west of the Red River traveled fast. It was rich in furs and hides, and in Santa Fe there was a profitable market for textiles and dry goods. An enterprising Yankee trader could make a fortune. From Ohio and Missouri and farther east they came. Across the grassy plains of Kansas to Fort Dodge, they crossed the big bend in the river and followed the Arkansas’s course toward the mountains rising starkly in the distance, and from that rocky terrain into the Territory of New Mexico. The heavily laden packhorses bringing manufactured goods for trade were replaced by wagons groaning under loads of towering freight and drawn by teams of well-muscled oxen and sturdy mules.

Soon the great wagon trains were leaving from all along the Missouri River. Franklin, Arrow Rock, Fort Osage, Independence, Westport, and other small towns that had basked lazily in the sun were now crowded with strangers. The adventurers, traders, and trappers, hunters, mule-skinners, and merchants were eager to travel the trail that crossed the plains despite the dangers. Beyond might lie death, or great wealth to be found in the lands of the western wilderness. Disease, hunger, thirst, violent storms, flash floods, prairie fires, and the misfortune of accident awaited. They would be preyed upon by marauding tribes of savages that roamed the wilds, with only the soldiers back at Fort Leavenworth for protection until, if they were fortunate enough, they reached western Kansas and came under the protection of the guns of the newly built Fort Larned.

Council Grove, with its shady groves of oak, hickory, walnut, and other valuable timber, was the last outpost of civilization. It was here that the wagons began the westward trek that might take over four months to cross the inhospitable plains. By the time they reached Cottonwood Creek, many would have wished to return as they gazed at the treeless plains that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon.

Upon reaching the Arkansas, they followed the river westward, moving ever closer to Fort Larned. Before they reached that safe haven, they had to pass Pawnee Rock, where many a train had been ambushed.

Miles of endless prairie stretched ahead before they even sighted the hazy outline of the distant mountain range barring their path, but at the foot of the mountains was Bent’s Fort, sanctuary for those who’d made it safely across the plains. Yet, for those grown weary of the trail, a cutoff that would shorten the journey beckoned to the south across the Cimarron. But the route also crossed perilous desert where lack of water and threat of Indian attack was an ever-present danger.

From Bent’s Fort the train traveled through Raton Pass. The long journey was nearing an end as they entered the Territory of New Mexico along this mountainous route and were welcomed with celebration and cheerful cries of “
Los Americanos!
” in the plaza at Santa Fe.

While this enterprise was opening up a valuable trading route between the New Mexico Territory and the ever-expanding American nation, Texas had declared and won its independence from Mexico and was anxious to establish its authority over the lands and people east of the Rio Grande, its western boundary. Mexico was becoming increasingly nervous about the influx of American citizens into its territory, and when the United States accepted Texas, their former territory, into the Union as a state, hostility between the two nations increased. Soon, with boundaries being disputed and blood shed on both sides of the Rio Grande, war was declared by the United States.

Mexico was defeated and her territories north of the Rio Grande were annexed by the United States. The trail that had been opened between Santa Fe and this emerging nation by the early traders became a busy highway between the two cultures as more Americans braved the dangerous crossing and dreamed of making their fortunes in this wild land west of the plains.

Despoblado
.

Sangre de Cristo
. Blood of Christ.

The mountain range was bathed in an unearthly glow from the bloodred of the sunset. Above, the sky was molten copper. The burning sun sank lower behind the mesa, sending a shaft of golden light across the red-streaked rock of the deepest canyon and gilding into gold the yellow of a sagebrush-covered plain. The bluish-green slopes of the mountain range darkened into purple as dusk fell across the eastern horizon.

A lone rider made his way down from the high grassy plateau, the big bay he rode picking its way carefully along the loose shale of the narrow trail, but the horse’s hooves slipped precariously close to the edge of the cliff, sending a shower of rocks tumbling into the canyon far below.

Cañon del Malhadado
. Canyon of the Unfortunate.

The scent of pine and spruce lent a sweet pungency to the air. Below, on the lower slopes, the aspens were like brightly burning flames among the thick stand of evergreen. The rider tracked the mountain stream winding through the forested valley, his searching gaze catching the silvered glint of water through the cottonwoods bordering the ravine. He followed its meandering path until it disappeared into a narrow canyon; when it reappeared it would be no more than a trickle through the mesquite of a dusty arroyo in the scrubland of the foothills.

A distant rumble of thunder disturbed the silence. Glancing back at the ragged peaks of the mountains towering behind him, the rider knew that by sundown the storm rolling in from the High Plains would bring rain or even the first snowfall of the season.

The rider’s gloved hands tightened on the reins as he caught the sudden movement of a shadow traveling swiftly across the land. He glanced upward, his eyes narrowed against the blinding brilliance of the sun as he watched the soaring, gliding flight of a hawk on the wing. Silently it dropped from the sky, diving down into the thicket of piñon and juniper on the lower slopes, striking like a dagger from the sun. A moment later the hawk was climbing high into the sky, its hapless prey caught in its talons. The hawk, its great golden-tipped wings outspread, flew back into the sun it had been spawned from, toward the high rocks of the mesa where it had made its nest among the ancient ruins.

The rider’s buckskin-clad knees touched the bay’s flanks with gentle pressure and they continued down the trail. Suddenly he pulled sharply on the reins. He waited, his narrowed gaze searching for something that eluded him. Then he urged his mount forward again.

It had been only the lonely echoing of the wind through the canyon.

There was no one. Not even ghosts. Dust rising beneath the bay’s hooves, the rider rode toward the darkening skies, feeling the
despoblado
surrounding him.

Virginia—Summertime 1860

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

One

Olympus, where they say there is an abode of the gods, ever unchanging: it is neither shaken by winds nor ever wet with rain, nor does snow come near it, but clear weather spreads cloudless about it, and a white radiance stretches above it.

Homer

Carolina yellow jessamine trailed over the white, split-railed fence bordering the green pastures of Travers Hill. The sweet-scented jessamine was a favorite of Beatrice Amelia Travers, mistress of Travers Hill. Beatrice Amelia was one of the Leighs of South Carolina, and jessamine and azaleas, benne wafers, and the daily ritual of sipping her syllabub were comforting reminders to Beatrice Amelia of her girlhood days in Charleston.

Fortunately her family enjoyed chicken curry with rice, another of Beatrice Amelia’s favorites, because they had the dish every Sunday, along with crab soup, honey and cinnamon-candied yams, corn fritters, baked ham, garden stuffs, and brandied peaches. Except for Mr. Travers’s bourbon pecan cake, which was always prepared with ceremonial care the afternoon before, Sunday dessert was subject to the seasons. The Travers children, however, had always been very fond of Jolie’s caramel custard, which was a treat for year-round enjoyment. But on this particular Sunday late in July, blackberry cobbler had been planned for the family’s delectation.

Beatrice Amelia Travers was also very fond of roses. That was why the garden before the entrance to the house had been planted entirely with roses. Beatrice Amelia was especially fond of her
Rosa gallica aurelianensis
, one of her prized French roses. But it was an old damask rose, lost amongst the China, sweetbriar, and cabbage roses, with its heady scent of cloves that lent such a spicy sweetness to the air when one entered Travers Hill.

Travers Hill sat upon a wooded knoll overlooking the river and was a pleasant day’s carriage ride from Charlottesville. The curving lane swept up a gentle slope from the river where sweet bay and loblolly grew wild with the willows along the banks. Scattered through the landscaped grounds, the sourwood was heavy with white blossoms, and the camellias and gardenias were in full bloom. A field of sun-bronzed daylilies stretched toward the blue-green pastureland where blooded mares and their foals grazed peacefully in the shade of a gnarled oak. Even the long row of stables, the heart of Travers Hill, showed little sign of activity this sleepy afternoon. A solitary, stately chestnut with a canopy of leafy green branches divided the narrow road halfway up the knoll. One of the lanes led to the sawmill and lumberyard just upriver, and the other curved up to the house and around to the big barns, servants’ quarters, and coach house behind.

The lower slopes to the east were planted with orchards, the fruit turning amber, scarlet, and purple as peaches, pears, apples, and plums ripened under the summer sun. The valley floor that surrounded Travers Hill like a sea of green was lush with cultivated fields of crops. The master of Travers Hill had proudly predicted a bountiful harvest this year.