The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (17 page)

Only Tom was not to be taken in by Persia’s helpless ways and told me she was as useless on these plains as a conservatory lily. “Give me the wild rose or the sunflower. They are prettier by far, and can go the distance.”

“And what of the dandelion? That is what I feel like next to Persia,” I said with so much self-pity that I was immediately ashamed.

“It flourishes best of all. I prefer it above the others,” Tom replied, then looked me full in the face and said “Luke is the luckiest man in the territory. I wonder if he knows it.” O, it was wrong of me to let Tom make love to me like that. I should have pretended not to hear. But I was in need of a compliment, and after Luke’s own behavior around Persia, I do not think I was so wicked.

The men all fought for slices of Persia’s cake after she announced it was her contribution to the dinner. What she contributed was all of my chocolate, every crumb. We shall not have chocolate for our Thanksgiving or Christmas, and if Luke asks the reason, I shall tell him. As she passed out slices, Persia sought congratulations from one and all. I suppose she has never heard that modesty in all things is the best guardian of virtue.

I found the cake too heavy, and the little stranger, who is now nearly four months along, protested it all night long.

October 29, 1866. Prairie Home.

Last evening came a night sky of indigo blue, with stars as big and bright as pigeon eggs against a dinner-plate moon. I thought it the loveliest sight I have seen since arriving here. Even the men paused in their talk of farming to admire it.

Mr. Talmadge is keenly interested in the question of agriculture, believing if there was some way to bring water to our dry land, it could be made to produce. Luke takes the opposing view: that we must find crops that will flourish with but little moisture. In these past few days, I have changed my opinion of Mr. Talmadge and find much to admire in him. He is well mannered, interested in everything about him, and has a fine mind. Like Luke, he sees great possibilities in this country. He is blind when it comes to his wife, however. I had to hold my tongue, when he told me his “Persia dear” was a mere child. You might as well call the mutton lamb, for she is older even than I. His is a jealous nature, which does not bode well for the marriage, because Persia will ever be the flirt.

But I do not turn to my book this day to write about Mr. Talmadge and the future of farming in Colorado Territory.

After viewing the sky, the two men returned to the house, leaving Persia and Self under the stars. The sky seemed to be the only thing that had won Persia’s approval since her arrival here.

“If the days were as fine as the nights, I think I might reconsider my decision to come to Colorado,” murmured she.

“But you did come,” I said. At that moment, my heart was so filled with the beauty of the evening and the sight of the little soddy in the moonlight, with Husband and Baby safely inside, that I felt charitable enough toward Persia to tell her I was glad that she had come.

Before I could speak further, however, she said, “I mean permanently. You were Luke’s second choice. I turned him down. Don’t you know that?”

I was no less thunderstruck than if she had slapped me across the face. “Don’t I know that?” I replied in that stupid way Persia has of repeating every question.

Persia laughed at me. “He begged me to marry him. Begged me on his knees. He said he’d dug a well out here just for me. ‘Well, well, well, that won’t do for me,’ I told him.”

It was just light enough so that I could see Persia’s eyes narrow as she searched my face, looking for the wounds her barbs had caused.

“He was so sure of himself. He brought me that brooch you wear, thinking I’d accept it as an engagement present. I always wore garnets, but no more.” Persia touched the heavy gold watch with its design of diamonds, which she wore pinned to her waist. “Mr. Talmadge gave me this. Of course, Mr. Talmadge goes with it. Luke is furious that I married him. You know I speak the truth, don’t you?”

Persia enjoyed herself immensely at my discomfort. Though I strove mightily to keep my feelings to myself, Persia saw and gloated at my pain, as in my mind I reviewed instances that seemed to prove the truth of her words. Luke had never shown any feelings for me before asking for my hand, and his proposal was better suited to buying a pig than declaring his love for a life’s companion. I remember the shock of our Colorado neighbors when Luke introduced me as his wife. Had he described Persia to them? But I would not admit any of this to Persia. “Why do you say such things?” I asked at last.

“O, I thought you knew. Everybody in Fort Madison does.” Persia started for the door, then turned back. “When he came home last spring, he spent his time with me. It was almost a scandal. He still wants me, you know.”

I would not reply. Instead, I preceded her to the house. “Baby needs me,” I said. “Luke’s baby.”

Now, Persia is gone. Luke is carrying the Talmadges to Mingo, and from there, they will make their way to the gold fields, and I hope I shall never see them again! I put this down because I have no one in whom to confide. Perhaps writing of it will help me to understand the truth. My pride prevents me from inquiring of Carrie if those at home laugh at me. Does the one I care for most laugh at me, too? I have told him of my love for him and confided in him my hopes and dreams for us. Now, I am forced to wonder if he listened with the wish that another was speaking.

Did Luke marry me only because she rejected him? I thought of little else as I lay awake through the night, next to Persia, whose wagging tongue did not keep her from sleeping well. My mind will not be still. I vow to be the best wife I can, so that if Persia did indeed speak the truth, Luke will conclude that while I was not his first choice, I am the better choice.

My head aches so, almost as if there were a terrible fury inside pounding on my temples to get out. I can barely see to write. But I think it is an easier pain to live with than the ache in my heart.

November 20, 1866. Prairie Home.

Mr. Bondurant arrived at midday with the news. A large troop of soldiers came upon an Indian encampment, startling the Red Men. The savages made for their weapons, and in the melee, a woman ran in the direction of the soldiers. Thinking her an Indian, they did nothing. Then she called out, “Help me! I am Sallie Garfield, a white woman!” The cavalry sprang to their rifles and rushed forward as she raced toward them in hopes of rescue.

Sallie had nearly accomplished her desire when Red Thunder—for he was the evil savage who had held her prisoner all this time—let fly an arrow, which struck her in the back. She staggered a few steps and fell, mortally wounded, into the arms of a brave soldier. His comrades let loose with such a barrage of shot that her cowardly captor and his brutish fellows were killed instantly. Mr. Bondurant says it is the Indian way to murder captives rather than to allow them to be returned to their loved ones.

Poor Sallie survived months of inhuman treatment, only to die within an arm’s reach of freedom, but perhaps there was some mercy in this; Sallie was enceinte.

December 27, 1866. Prairie Home.

On Christmas night, I lost the baby, a boy more than five months along. The birth was easy, and I was not aware I was in labor until it was over. The year that began with such hope ends in sorrow. There are too many deaths in this country. Still, I count it a good year, for it brought Husband and me our beloved Johnnie.

January 22, 1867. Prairie Home.

Luke has gone to Mingo, and I have gone to quilting, as I am good for little else. Came a headache last night so painful that I went outside and pressed snow against my temples in hopes the cold would drive it away. It seemed as if tiny men were inside my forehead, pounding upon the flesh with their hammers. When the snow failed to do the desired job, I built up the fire and brewed a cup of tea from the spearmint leaves Carrie dried for me. It soothed the head a little, and the soul, as well, freeing me of self-pity. After an hour or so, I was able to creep back into bed and sleep until Luke brought my hungry babe to me for his breakfast. What kind of mother is she who does not hear the cries of her wee one?

Now I sit here quietly with a handkerchief tied around my head to keep the tiny miscreants from returning with their tools and resuming their mischief. These headaches always leave me drained, with a feeling that I am sitting elsewhere in the room, watching my poor self.

The quilt with its Flying Geese pattern brings happy memories of home, as it is made with so many scraps from my piece bag. I had been stitching around a triangle made of goods left over from Carrie’s graduation dress. But due to the aftermath of the headache, my hands are stiff, and the needle picks at the material. I might just as well quilt a cracker. So I set aside the work and turn to my journal.

I give a great deal of thought to Persia’s cruel words of last year, but I keep them locked inside my bosom, for I refuse to attach unnecessary importance to them by discussing the truth of the matter with Luke. I know he cared for Persia once, having kept company with her for many years, and all (including Self) believed the two of them would wed one day. Even though Luke was her lover once, I have concluded that upon returning to Fort Madison two years ago, he found her unsuitable for his life’s companion on a Colorado homestead, so sought a better candidate. That was when he came “a-courtin’ ” to our farm.

Persia spoke to me out of spite, being jealous of our happy Prairie Home. I am persuaded that no matter what Luke’s feelings were for her in the past, he loves me, else why would he have resumed the marital act just two weeks after I lost the babe at Christmas, and with such frequency? No, Luke is mine alone, to be shared only with Johnnie. Luke loves Baby almost as much as I do, and that is very much indeed. I believe he is more than satisfied with his little family, and I am determined to put Persia’s claims out of my mind.

Luke and I are settled in this winter like an old married couple. After the day’s work is done and the supper dishes put away, Luke reads aloud from the Bible, a newspaper when we have one, or from Oliver Twist, which is our passion this winter. At such times, I sometimes tell Luke about my hopes and dreams for us. Yesterday, I said I want him to build a big white house right here on our homestead, with large veranda and rosebushes growing over the railing. “When we are a hundred, dear, we can sit on a swing in the evening and enjoy their fragrance,” said I.

“I do not believe I’ll last that long,” replied Luke.

“Than neither shall I, for if something happened to you, I do not think my heart would continue to beat,” I said, taking his hand and holding it against my breast. I think Luke was surprised at my boldness, but I am determined to open up my heart to him.

The weather, being as harsh as last year’s, with much snow, keeps me from my little bench in the sunshine. As a good farm wife, I am glad for the moisture, which will ensure a better crop, and for myself, I do not mind the poor weather that forces me to remain indoors, now that Babykins keeps me company. We chat together, he and I, believing each understands the other. After Luke left this morning, Johnnie attempted to soothe the ache in my brow by playing his baby fingers across my face. The little taps are as soft and as welcome as raindrops.

Because of the weather, our only guests these days are our two lonely bachelors, Tom and Mr. Bondurant. The latter came two days ago to tell us that Lucinda Osterwald had broken her arm in a “fall.”

“You mean, her husband beat her again,” I corrected him pertly. Luke and Mr. Bondurant exchanged glances, telling me they knew the truth of the matter.

“If a man beats his wife, it’s his business. She may bring it on herself,” said Luke. “We must not interfere.”

“No woman is responsible for such beastly treatment,” I replied, for I would defend any of Eve’s daughters against that kind of brutality.

Luke did not reprimand me, but inquired instead, “Does she require Mrs. Spenser’s help?”

His question shamed me, for I myself should have offered my aid. Nonetheless, I was alarmed, lest I should go to her and find Brownie about.

“Mrs. Smith is there. I guess that’s punishment enough for old Osterwald. She took ’em a funeral pie. Them things taste worse than death,” Mr. Bondurant said. When I did not understand his meaning, he explained, “Funeral pie’s raisin. That’s what women’s always takin’ to buryings.”

“Then I shall take the cake I’ve just baked,” I said. “And if you care to accompany us there, Mr. Bondurant, I’ll fix you a fine supper upon our return.”

Even with Mr. Bondurant and Luke to protect me against Brownie, I was grateful to find the Osterwald men gone and Missus returned to “Dirty Woman Ranche,” as we all now call her place, for the afternoon. Mrs. Osterwald was alone. I had not been in the Osterwald dugout before, and I found it to be a hovel, so shoddily constructed that it was not even as tight as a woodpile. An animal stench assaulted me as I entered, and I think I should have backed out had I not seen Mrs. Osterwald lying on a rough wooden bench, a dirty quilt pulled up to her chin. The once-gay fabric was the only bit of color in that room.

Mrs. Osterwald’s eyes were frightened at the intrusion, then confused, but when she comprehended who had come to call, her eyes showed a spark of joy.

“I have brought you a cake,” I said with a cheerfulness I did not feel. I looked for a place to set it on the table, which was littered with bones and scraps of food on battered and bent tin plates. I brushed off the cleanest of the plates and cut Mrs. Osterwald a large piece, for I feared her greedy men would not save her a crumb if I left the cake for them to serve her. Then I fed it to her with my own hand. Despite Mrs. Osterwald’s feeble state, she ate every bit, and in her eagerness, she spilled crumbs on her much-mended nightsack. When I took out my handkerchief to wipe them off, Mrs. Osterwald grabbed my hand and examined the little square of cloth.

“Pretty,” she said, uttering the first words since I had entered the squalid house. On impulse, I presented to her the fine square of linen that Carrie had embroidered for my twenty-first birthday. I think Carrie would not begrudge my giving it away if she knew how much pleasure it brought to one who has nothing.

Just then, I heard Brownie’s voice without and saw a look of terror cross Mrs. Osterwald’s face, which I did not altogether understand. Surely she had reason to fear the husband, but a mother loves even the most flawed child. Perhaps she confused the one with the other.

As I wanted to spend no time with the Osterwald men, I was anxious to leave, and I quickly laid out the loaves of bread I had brought. I sought to tuck a sack of molasses candy under Mrs. Osterwald’s pillow, allowing her alone to enjoy it, but there was no pillow. So I placed it in Mrs. Osterwald’s hand and pressed her fingers together. Instead of removing the cake to a tin plate, as was my intention, I left the china plate (not one of my best ones) for Mrs. Osterwald’s enjoyment, though I knew I was unlikely ever to see it again.

Looking into the cupboard for a cloth to cover the cake, I found one hidden in the back, wadded into a ball, and opening it, I discovered my own silver spoon, which had disappeared after our first Sabbath service. How can I blame one who is devoid of all that is beautiful for her impulse in taking a single pretty thing? Still, the spoon is an heirloom, inherited from my grandmother, and is precious to me. So I slipped it into my pocket. Perhaps it was not Mrs. Osterwald but Brownie who was the thief, and the mother was too shamed to return the object to its rightful owner. Mrs. Osterwald had fallen asleep, so I did not say good-bye, but gathered my things and went without, where the two Osterwald men looked up at me sullenly, without greeting. Brownie took a step or two backward.

“Mrs. Osterwald needs bed rest,” I said. When neither responded, I ordered, “She must get it.” I knew, however, that neither would pay the least attention to my instructions.

With no further word, I took Baby from Luke’s arms and climbed into the wagon, the men joining me, and in an instant we were off. “Lordy, that dugout to them is as a mud hole to a pig,” I observed when we were out of earshot.

“ ’Tis a lick-skillet place,” Mr. Bondurant agreed. “And they is pigs themselves, by ginger! I don’t take to a man that lives in his own filth or treats animals like Osterwald’s done.”

“I think I should have spoken to them. Perhaps I will yet,” Luke agreed, then turned to me in explanation. “It is a crime what they have done. The Osterwald animals are beaten and starved.”

“And so is Lucinda Osterwald,” I replied.

February 2, 1867. Prairie Home.

I was about to blacken the stove when I was relieved of the chore by the arrival of my favorite conversationalist—Tom Earley. I accused him of spying on us, for he always seems to call when Luke is away. The two men are great friends, and the only ones in this place who are keen on trying out the latest farming techniques. When they are together, agriculture is always the subject. So I am glad for the opportunity to have Tom to myself and discuss the affairs of the day, and, I am not ashamed to admit, to indulge in a good gossip. If Tom were only a woman, he should be the boon companion I have sought in Colorado Territory.

After a lively discussion about the state of the Negro, now that he is likely to be enfranchised, we turned to the subject of women’s suffrage. I asked if an ignorant darky can vote, then why not I, a woman who has the advantage of an education at Oberlin College? Tom says it is the belief of most men that the responsibilities of the ballot box would coarsen women. I argued that casting a ballot was no more harmful to a feminine nature than gathering buffalo chips and living in a dirt house. When Tom prudently inquired about Luke’s belief in the matter, I told him Husband thought women should vote in matters of concern to them, such as school elections.

“Well, then, he agrees with the majority, since in this place, that means no vote at all, for we haven’t any schools.”

Having exhausted ourselves on such weighty matters, we turned to pleasanter affairs, Tom telling me that he had heard from Jessie and Moses. Upon fleeing Mingo, they went directly to the gold fields at Central City but discovered all the claims there were taken, and so they established themselves for the winter in Denver, where Moses has found work at a place called the Mozart. I said any establishment with such a name would be pleased to have an employee with Moses’s fine voice and skill on the dulcimer. Moses is well paid, but he finds prices almost double what they are in Mingo, which makes them very dear indeed, as Mingo prices are double those in Fort Madison.

Jessie, too, is employed, which does not surprise us, as she is a hard worker and not one to remain idle. She conveys her regards to me through Moses, being afraid to send me a letter, since Mr. Connor might recognize the writing and follow her to Denver. Could an illiterate person spot a familiar hand? asked Tom. I replied that one could recognize the unsigned work of an artist. So why not handwriting? We agreed the subject needed further consideration and that we should discuss it upon his next visit.

Before he left, Tom gave me the loan of Mr. Whitman’s new volume, Drum-Taps, which is all the rage back in the States. Good friend that he is, Tom said he was too busy to read it now. Tom is ever anxious to read, so this is a kind favor indeed.

February 4, 1867. Prairie Home.

Luke presented me with a single letter upon his return from Mingo. At first, the hand was unfamiliar. Then I recognized the dear penmanship and knew at once that it contained unhappy news, for Father has ever left correspondence to others. With a heart already heavy, I ripped open the envelope and read the tear-stained sheet, which I paste here:

Dear Daughter Mattie
Sorrowful duty requires relating to you sad news. Beloved Wife and Mother was called beyond on Thursday last. We put her into the ground, with many mourners present. Mother had suffered poor health since your removal to Colorado, and crossing over was God’s will for her. Your sisters will write the particulars when time permits, but it is my duty to inform you of the event at once. Hers was the kindest, most affectionate, and simplest heart that ever beat in a woman. She often talked of you and young John in far-off Colorado, and her fondest wish was to see her firstborn again. Now, you’ll meet her in a better place, as shall we all. Dear daughter, your father, sisters, and brothers console you in your grief and ask you to pray for us in ours.
Your Loving Father

Jeremiah C. McCauley

I had scarcely read the terrible news when I dropped senseless to the floor, and Luke gathered me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. When I revived, I saw a look of great compassion on his face. The letter was held in his hand, and he did not have to tell me that he had read its contents. Luke understands the love of a child for its mother, and he treated me with great tenderness, helping me into my nightgown and cooking the evening meal himself. After I fed Baby, Luke tucked him in for the night. Then he held me whilst I cried for the loss of my dear parent, and when I was finished, he gave great care in kissing and hugging me, and talking in soothing words, until I fairly melted, and he sought his gratification with great ease.

February 9, 1867. Prairie Home.

I try to keep my tears from Luke, as he does not care to see me with the blues. So I cry during the day when only Baby is here to see. Johnnie eases the ache for a time by distracting me with his merry laugh, but then I think again of Mother, who was never privileged to hold this only grandchild, and once more the tears scald my cheeks.