CHAPTER 18 “Men are often ridiculous.”
At first, the coastline had been no more than a dark line above the blue plane of the sea. But as the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, the land grew up to meet it, and the flat line evolved into hills sprouting patches of green, tan and brown.
Bowie breathed deep as Lucinda finally passed behind the barrier islands into Matagorda Bay. The biting wind had slackened to a breeze, and the fresh scent of greenery was sweet after the unrelenting tang of the Gulf.
Along the darkening shore, fields of tall, swaying grasses were broken only by scattered patches of scrub wood. Beyond the grassy plain, a distance of at least a mile, stood rows of huge live oaks and stands of pecan trees.
To Bowie, motionless at the rail, it was as if the land were bein
