He wrote of the tragedy of a young life cut short, and that Patrick had spoken often of someday buying land in Texas, in particular a site near the Red River where that river ran very clear, it was said, where oak forests covered the hills and the very bones of the low hills were a steel-colored sandstone. It was said that the soil and the climate were conducive to fruit trees of all kinds. Patrick had confided to him that a good life might be had there, were he ever to grow to a man’s estate and find someone who would welcome his company.

The tragedy of his passing affects me deeply, and as I have turned twenty-four I feel almost an old man. I wish to bring to you the medallion, and will do so when I come to San Antonio in the beginning of the coming fall if that would be suitable and if you have the permission of your kind guardians.

Meaning: I am now twenty-four years old and wish to arrive at man’s estate, I am looking for land to buy, am sober and industrious. I very much want to meet with you and walk and talk and make gentle, cautious jokes, hand each other food, a glass of wine, be courteous and also passionate, is that possible? If we can somehow evade those fiends who hold you captive in their dungeon.

And instead of a medallion he bought a ring, his heart lurching in small unsteady thuds. It was at a little shop that sold the latest sheet music; strings for both guitar and violin; collar stays; cuff links; pocket knives; secondhand spectacles with wire rims, gold rims, or no rims; little books teaching you how to speak French adjusted to the meanest understanding; and little round boxes of rosin. The good kind, the rosin that was the color of honey. He took up a ring on his forefinger and wondered about her ring size. Her hand seemed small; she was small, so would her hand be likewise.

“Size six,” the man said. He dredged up a thin ring with a garnet set in the band. “Women are partial to garnets.”

Simon, betraying his nerves, grasped the leather of his new belt in one hand and stood at a hopefully casual slant. “Are they now? You wouldn’t be making that up would you?”

“Lord, no. Ask my wife. She’s not here at present but will be later. The one you have there, the peridot, is for people born in August. When is her birthday?”

Simon didn’t know. He didn’t want to admit he didn’t know and so he said, “Just give me the price.”

The peridot ring was twelve dollars and he paid it, peso by peso; he also bought the good rosin and walked out feeling as if he had stepped over a cliff.

Once the bartender at the Harbor Light asked them if they did not have some slower tunes. He appeared anxious, making this request. He twisted the bar cloth in his hand.

Simon placed the Markneukirche carefully in its case and the bow in its groove. “People tip more when it’s the fast music. When it’s slow they just cry in their rum and go to sleep on the table.” He had a cool expression on his face. It was because the slow airs would remind him of Patrick, and his death, because his eyes would begin to fill and he would not be able to stop it.

Doro’s eyebrows flicked upward and he nodded and said nothing. Damon gave him a sympathetic look. “Simon, that’s not always so.”

Simon clicked the clasps shut. “I don’t want to play ‘The Minstrel Boy’ here,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t do it.”

“Then let me do ‘Gow’s Lament’ and back me up.”

“All right.”

So Damon and Doroteo took the slow ones, with Simon bouncing his bow on the strings with a light touch, making a soft harmony.

By two in the morning they were tired and facing a mile walk home. Simon fell into the habit of ordering a whiskey for the three of them. The bartender brought the glasses willingly, smiled, and set them down and said it had been a good evening. He said he could barely keep from dancing behind the bar, then stood and watched as they took up the thick bar glasses in their hands.

Simon lifted his and said, “To Patrick.”

The boy’s restless and lamenting ghost followed them all the way home.

Chapter Fifteen

In late April another letter came for Simon. It was in the possession of a Union soldier.

They were playing at a saloon called the Bayou Belle one block back from the landing and the docks and warehouses. The Bayou Belle had pretensions. The flooring was very good. The bar was of some kind of rich wood with a long mirror behind, reflecting all the bottles. There was a stuffed armadillo and women in low bodices, short skirts, and no pantalettes, so that their bare ankles showed. A sign said drinks were 15 cents.

It was murky and humid. Every surface was wet to the touch. Their strings would not hold pitch. Doroteo churned out the chords mechanically—D, A, D, G, G7, D7—pausing between tunes to lift a cigarillo to his lips or to take a short drink from a glass on the floor beside him. Simon’s upper lip glittered with sweat, his eyes shadowed by the Kentucky hat. Damon lowered his whistle on “Cotton-Eye Joe” and sang,

I’d have been married a long time ago

If it hadn’t been for Cotton-Eye Joe

The clientele was, in the main, wagon masters and steamship captains, cotton dealers. They all had money now that cotton was moving again. It was a Saturday night and the crowd was ardent with the good feeling that comes from handing out pay to the crews; much was left over to spend at the Belle.

Three off-duty soldiers from the occupation forces walked in. Their blue uniform tunics were unbuttoned and their forage caps were pushed back on their heads. When the three musicians swung into “Angelina Baker,” a man near the stage shouted at Simon and Damon and Doroteo to play “The Bonnie Blue Flag.” He stood up and bellowed his request as if they were waiters.

Damon took his whistle from his mouth and said to Simon, “Ignore him.” He could see the soldiers in the back. “He’s looking for trouble.”

Simon said, “Right. ‘Waiting for the Federals,’” and laid his bow on the strings. This tune usually brought a round of applause because almost every man here had waited for them at one time or another under various circumstances and in various armies.

“‘Bonnie Blue Flag!’” the man called out again. “Damn those sons of bitches! Play it!” and he threw a silver dollar onto the platform. Simon stepped forward and kicked it off. The man shouted, “Well, who do you think you are, you son of a bitch!”

Simon yelled back, “Simon Boudlin!”

The off-duty soldiers in the back stood up. Simon and Damon and Doroteo then flew into “Whiskey Before Breakfast” at an outrageous speed and with as much volume as possible. A glass was thrown, a cuspidor knocked over.

“If you won’t play it I will!” The man had a great flouncing yellow beard, a white shirt front, and kid boots. He got to his feet and came toward Simon. They always went for the fiddler. Simon stepped backward and kept on playing and Doroteo moved forward with his guitar at his side and a dangerous look on his face.

“Quit it, quit it! Gimme that fiddle! Here! I’ll play it! ‘Bonnie Blue Flag!’” The man was still yelling when all three soldiers from the back table came forward in a rush, knocking over furniture and shoving other men aside. There then commenced a general fistfight. One of the soldiers got onto the stage and cried out to Simon to play “Marching Through Georgia” but Simon stopped playing, tucked his bow into his armpit, braced both feet, and said,

“Get out of my face. Do you hear me? Get out of my face.”

Simon quickly put the fiddle and bow into the case. He clicked it shut and grabbed his hat.

“Let’s go,” said Doroteo. “Go, go.” He had already put up his guitar. A man came up beside him and without turning his head Doro gave him a hard, powerful punch with his elbow. They grabbed their instrument cases, but when Simon stepped the four inches down off the stage area somebody slammed into him and tripped him. He fell on his back, clenched up around his fiddle case as he rolled over and then got up and found himself face-on with one of the soldiers who was drawing back for a blow. Simon ducked. Then some other large person was in front of him, and this person had his hands clenched in somebody else’s lapels. Then truly loud shouting came from the door as the provost marshal’s men bullied their way into the room.

They simply snatched up people whether they had been fighting or not. They hauled in Damon and Doroteo and Simon and the man with the great yellow beard and one of the off-duty soldiers. They were shoved out the front door: there Damon carefully removed his arm from a soldier’s grasp and daintily brushed off his shirtsleeve where the man had laid hands on him. Then they were marched up Main Street with one guard in front and another behind, both carrying their rifles at port arms. The group straggled toward Fannin Street and the provost marshal’s office, passing by other saloons from which came music and laughter and cigar smoke.