Chapter 10: Der Deutsche Laden

[The German store]

Dawson scanned the crumbling adobe churchyard – a dozen gaunt faces huddled near the well. Padre Luis clutched a rosary, eyes hollow as he gestured toward a makeshift infirmary. “The pox took six children this week,” he rasped.

Helmut uncorked Winona’s pitcher plant salve – its sharp, green scent cutting through the stench of decay. “Apply this to the sores,” Dawson ordered in Spanish. A woman snatched the jar, fingers trembling.

Dawson asked, “Do you have any with swamp fever?” The name for malaria, here.

Luis answered, “Yes, many.”

Yellow Hair unloaded a sack with ghost wood powder and a sack with willow bark powder. “Mix this with boiled water. When it has cooled give a small amount to each man or woman. Every two hours until they are better. They will get better.”

“Medicina de los salvajes.” Medicine of the savages. Luis said, making the sign of the cross.

“Apaches do not die of swamp fever ... or the pox.”

Luis took the sacks and crossed himself, again. “Dios me ayude” God help me. He took the sacks of medicine and gave them to a woman nearby.

Yellow Hair made the sign of the cross as well. “Are there any Germans alive here?”

“Yes. Inside the rubble. There.” Luis pointed.

Yellow Hair and Helmut drove through streets crowded with rubble, but no people. They stopped at the edge of the rubble that used to be a warehouse. Helmust said, “Gibt es hier Deutsche?” Any Germans here?

Three men stepped out holding arquebuses. “Fritz! I know him. Worked with him from before we were sold to the Spanish,” Helmut said to Dawson. “Fritz! You are alive!”

Yellow Hair, tried his Pennsylvania Dutch: “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Do you speak English?

One of the others said, “Well, I do. I am Carl, a merchant seaman from Portsmouth, England. Not German, but if they’re going somewhere so am I.”

Fritz said, “Ja, a little.”

The third said “Nein.” Then in pigeon-Spanish, “A little Spanish.”

Dawson looked around slowly, and seeing no Spanish pseudo-guards said (in Spanish), “Want to get out of here, boys?” He gestured at the wagon.

The three clambered into the back of the wagon quickly, their arquebuses stacked.

The wagon lurched northward, its wooden wheels groaning under the crate of Toledo springs and the weight of three bewildered Germans. Dust choked the air as they headed toward what remained of Santa Fe’s outer walls. “Where ... where are you taking us?” Fritz stammered in German-accented Spanish.

“Away from here. But you’re going to have to open a store for me. No pox, no swamp fever, plenty of food.” Dawson said. He pointed to the third man. “What’s your name?”

“Bernd. Dock-hand was I, in Bavaria. Afore I was sold by that miserable son of a Papist to the Spanish.”

“Bloody right,” said Carl. “I’ll go anywhere so long as it’s not in the Spanish army, no more. Bernd’s a good lad, strong and tough.”

Dawson grinned. “Good. We’ll need strong men.”