The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (21 page)

There were many tasks awaiting me, too, for the wind had cracked our precious pane of glass and dust covered every inch of the house. A family of mice had chewed their way into my flour barrel and made themselves at home. Had I been prudent, I would have sifted out their “calling cards,” but I threw out the contents, and now I am hard-pressed to fill up my hungry husband until he can go to Mingo and replace the spoilt flour.

This morning, I bathed Baby, using the precious soft soap from my bath at the West Lindell. I had carefully wrapped it in paper and packed it in my trunk, and now it gives Baby relief from the harsh lye soap that we use here. When Johnnie was in bed for his nap, I poured his bathwater upon the earthen floor to settle the dust, then settled Self in a corner whilst it dried. Waiting there were pen and journal. It is time to put down the particulars of our last night in Denver, which I have been unable to do until this time. My mind has been greatly confused.

Luke did not return for many hours that evening, and many times did I pace the floor between Johnnie’s cradle and the window. I went to bed but could not sleep, feeling as if a thousand pins were pricking my body. So I was awake when there was the scrape of key in lock, and I saw the familiar shape enter the room.

Luke began undressing in the dark so as not to awaken me, but I said, “I am not asleep. You may light the lamp.”

“I see well enough without it,” he replied, but I struck the match, for I did not want to discuss the fateful day in the dark.

I gave Luke time to speak, but he was not inclined to do so, and after waiting in vain, I said, “Have you an explanation?”

Luke turned to me, his eyebrows raised, as if he did not understand the question, but I knew he did, and I said nothing, which made him uncomfortable. At last, he asked, “Do you mean Persia?”

I dipped my chin just a little to show that I did, then waited again, but Luke said nothing. “I think I am owed your explanation as to why you were dining with Persia, ignoring your own wife,” I said when I could stand the silence no longer.

“And why were you dining with Moses and Jessie without my permission?” There was anger in his voice, although I do not know if it was caused by my demanding an accounting of him or my failure to seek his approval before going out.

“Jessie and Moses are not only old friends; they took charge of Johnnie and me when you abandoned us to visit Persia in Fort Madison,” I said hotly.

It was the first time I had blamed Luke for being away during my confinement, and his chest rose as he took a deep breath and replied, “That is not true.”

“That you abandoned us, or that your true reason for going to Fort Madison was to see Persia?” I did not like to play the shrew, but I felt I must have an accounting.

“You yourself agreed I should go alone.”

“Only at your insistence. But what of the rest? Persia told me last fall that you loved her above me, that you proposed to me only after she refused you.”

Luke looked away and did not respond, his silence being answer enough.

“If that is true, what am I to think when I find you with her?”

Luke finished removing his clothes, blew out the lamp, and walked to the window to look out upon the street. He was stark, but my eyes were on him nonetheless, forsaking modesty, because I was very angry.

He stood there for a moment, then replied without turning back to me. “I did not know Persia was in Denver. I was as surprised as you when I saw her on the street, and as she said she was leaving in the afternoon for Central City to meet Mr. Talmadge, I invited her to dine. There was not time to ask you to join us, and I did not think you would want to see Persia, anyway, for she said you were unkind to her last fall.”

“She slanders me. It was she who was unkind to me.”

Luke turned from the window, then came to me and sat down on the bed. “Persia is unhappily married. If you had seen her up close, you could not have missed the bruise on her face where her husband hit her.” Luke made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into his left palm, as though it were Mr. Talmadge he struck. “I can’t abide a man who hits a woman. If I’d seen him, he’d be plenty sorry for it.” Luke stretched his arms over his head. “That’s all I have to say,” he added, as if to put an end to the subject.

I would not let the matter lie, however. “Persia says you still love her.” My voice was so small that I had to clear my throat before asking, “Do you?”

Luke stared at me, and I was glad he had blown out the light, because my eyes, already red and swollen from crying, had filled again with tears in anticipation of his answer. Without putting on his nightshirt, Luke drew aside the blanket and slipped in beside me. “Do I?” he asked. “Do you think I would do this if I loved another?”

As he reached for me, I turned away, wanting a clearer answer. But Luke was not to be refused. He fitted himself to my back, as if we were bowls stacked in the cupboard, then put his arms around me, my breasts in his hands, kneading them just as I knead bread. He had not done that before, and it caused such a strange longing in me that, despite my reluctance to permit the marital act, I turned at last to my Darling Boy.

When he was finished, Luke quickly went to sleep. But I did not sleep for a long time, as I pondered his question, which was the answer to my own. I am not satisfied, but I will not bring it up again, for Persia is a closed subject between us.

June 15, 1867. Prairie Home.

Poor health and the management of our little household have kept me from writing in this book for many weeks. I accompanied Luke to Mingo in April, and the glare of sun on snow weakened my eyes. Luke suggested I put charcoal smudges under them before leaving home, as he does, but vain girl that I am, I refused. I bathe my eyes frequently in a decoction made from herbs that Mr. Bondurant brought me, and I have written away for colored glasses. I shall look very strange indeed in sunbonnet and blue spectacles.

There is another cause for my sorry health. We shall welcome a little stranger at Christmas. Luke has not voiced his desire for boy or girl, but I have my heart set on one of my own sex. I am glad for this third pregnancy, as is Luke, I believe. In my case, it is because it puts the unpleasantness with Persia behind us. I have concluded that I was indeed second choice to Persia, but it no longer matters, for I am now the first and forever choice. Persia is a reminder to Luke of carefree days when he was a Fort Madison swell, unencumbered with care of Prairie Home and family.

I, too, remember aplenty those happy days when Carrie and I sat beneath the arbor in our yard with our sewing, giggling over girlish concerns. Were there ever more joyous times? But I am a woman now, and I find pleasure in family and duty. Life was not meant to be without pain, and easy times do not build character. (O, do I not sound pompous? I am too young for such heavy thoughts.)

I take much comfort from Johnnie. The little fellow celebrated his first birthday in May with a chocolate cake (the chocolate purchased in Denver, even though it was very dear) and a farmer doll bearing the likeness of his father, made by his proud mama. Papa gave him a set of blocks, which the birthday boy lined up in a row before tasting them, thereby proving he has characteristics of both parents—Papa’s logical mind and Mama’s sweet tooth.

Many here talk of statehood for Colorado in the near future, although we have been turned down twice by our government in Washington, D.C. The designation would help attract homesteaders to this sparsely settled place. We hold our own, although the new residents barely make up for those who leave.

A Russian family moved into the Garfield place. The man told his name, which none could pronounce, excepting Mr. Bondurant, who declared it is “Frog Legs Frank,” and by that name, he is now known amongst us. His family is made up of a wife and brown-faced girls, who go about without their sunbonnets. We have not asked if the family is aware of the Garfield homestead’s terrible history, for none can speak their strange tongue. That barrier does not deter these good people from adding their voices to ours in praising God at Sabbath services, turning that meeting into a Tower of Babel. Some believe the Russians are Hebrew, but it matters not to me, for one is glad for any neighbors here. I should like to take a cake to welcome them, for they are very poor, and Tom, who has visited, says they live principally on a kind of pancake called hardtack or on prairie chickens they hunt, using dried peas as shot. But I cannot yet bring myself to visit that place of so much sadness.

Fayette Garfield feels as I do, for he has scarce set foot on his old homestead since that terrible day. He is seen in Mingo and at other places where unruly men gather to drink. Mr. Garfield has a way with horses and is in demand as a cowboy, but it is said his mind, which was already affected by the horrors of the war, was broken by Sallie’s death. Mr. Garfield must be restrained whenever he sees a savage, but I believe Indians are not solely at fault for his mental state. One must blame Mr. Garfield’s origin in the South, where climate often produces a dissolute temperament. Luke encountered him on his last trip to town, but he merely nodded, as he did not care to join Mr. Garfield and the drunken company he keeps.

Another couple has taken up a homestead north of the Osterwald place. “Woodbury Wheeler and wife,” said he, introducing both at Sabbath service. She quickly spoke up and offered her name as Nannie. Though Southern, they are not highborn, being Texians, and he has but one arm, having lost the other in battle at Shiloh. When he was told that Luke was in the same battle but on the Yankee side, Mr. Wheeler thought it a huge joke, and neither man bears the other any ill will for the wounds each sustained there. Colorado has made that war seem further away to all.

Because of the number of Confederate men killed in the war, many women of the southland are destined to be old maids. Even so, a good wife must be hard to find, because Mr. Wheeler placed an advertisement in a newspaper for one. Mrs. Wheeler responded, sending a picture of herself and sister, and he, thinking her the prettier one, discovered on his wedding day that his bride was “ugly as sin,” as he put it to Mr. Bondurant and me, treating the whole affair as if it were a joke.

Mrs. Wheeler, overhearing her husband, was not the least put off, but said, “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Wheeler, but I am the agreeable one.” Indeed, they seem as happy as any couple I ever saw. I should think that here a man would choose a cheerful woman and a hard worker for his life’s companion over a tearing belle. But from observation, I conclude that men do not always know what is best for them.

We have a second lady homesteader, a Miss Eliza Hested, who filed on the claim adjacent to Miss Figg. The two women will build a house that straddles the line between their claims, allowing each to sleep on her own land and, thereby, meeting the requirements of the law. Both are brave to come to this place without a member of the male sex to protect them. I told Tom he is quite the lucky man, for he lives in the only part of Colorado Territory where the available women outnumber the single men.

Yesterday, Husband invited Johnnie and Self to go for a ride in the wagon. We drove many miles across unfamiliar prairie to the southwest, and I thought perhaps Luke had found a new tree and we were going for a visit. Then we crested a hill and saw before us a village of tiny dugouts, each inhabited by a burrowing animal as fat as a woodchuck, called a “prairie dog.” The pups wiggled their stubby tails and barked when they saw us, not in warning, but in welcome, for they are friendly creatures. But when we came close, they turned tail and scurried into their holes.

Johnnie was enchanted with the little village, clapping his hands and saying, “Doggie, doggie,” for he is such a clever fellow and already speaks words. Luke carried him near to the burrows, keeping a sharp watch for rattlesnakes, as they like to sun themselves in the village before supping on prairie dog. In only a minute, the curious animals reappeared, and knowing we intended them no harm, they went about their business.

It was a fine outing. Luke is the best of fathers, taking more than a little interest in our boy. He said the other day he wished he had thought to name him Shiloh John Spenser so that he might be called Shiloh, which is Hebrew for “place of peace.” I am glad he did not.

Tom brought us the slip of a yellow rosebush that he acquired from an emigrant who stopped at his homestead. She had several of them, wrapped in burlap and watered daily. So Tom traded her a crock of butter for it. As the butter was from our cow, the rose properly belonged to us, Tom said. Someday, I shall have a hedge of yellow roses along the house. I carefully water the slip, and this morning I was rewarded with a sliver of green.

My birthday has passed, and I received from Husband a fine wooden dough bowl, which he himself had made, and from Carrie an autograph album, which is much appreciated. I shall ask all my friends and neighbors to sign it—those who can write, that is.

July 8, 1867. Prairie Home.

Moses, who is yet in Denver, sends Tom copies of the Rocky Mountain News, and when finished, Tom delivers them to us. Little matter that the events contained therein occurred many weeks prior. As we are not up on the news, it is as fresh as today’s milk. Tom’s visits are doubly welcome now, for himself and for the intelligence he brings of the world outside.

This morning, whilst Luke was in the fields, Tom arrived in a hurry, and after much clearing of the throat, he asked if I knew what was about.

“O no!” cried I with alarm at his troubled countenance, thinking he had read something in the paper. “Not the President? Has President Johnson been shot, just like Mr. Lincoln?

Tom quickly shook his head.

“What is it, then?”

“Mrs. Amidon. She has not mentioned it to you?”

Having been ill, I had not seen Emmie Lou since my return from Denver, and the Amidons have been absent from Sabbath services. “Is she all right?”

Tom looked uncomfortable and muttered, “I shouldn’t have brought it up, as it is private. I thought because you are the only one in whom she confides, she might have discussed it with you. I only asked because, well, Amidon is acting strangely, and I need advice on how to deal with him.”

“Luke says he is quick to anger but does not know why. You must tell me the particulars, Tom.” After a moment’s contemplation, I asked, “Is Emmie Lou in danger? O, I hope her husband is not a brute like Mr. Osterwald.”

“No, not that.”

Tom did not continue. So I prepared tea, taking out the dear-bought English stuff, another Denver purchase. Even on the hottest day, good tea creates a cozy atmosphere in which to share confidences. I built up the fire in the stove and set the kettle upon it, then turned back to Tom. “I won’t breathe a word of it, even to Luke, if you think I shouldn’t,” I said, hoping to encourage him. “Perhaps there is something I can do for Emmie Lou.”

“No,” Tom replied. “The only one who can help is Amidon, but continence is not his way.”

Though I had begged for the details, I was shocked that Tom would be so frank. “Sir!”

He knew at once he had misspoken and asked me to forgive him.

I told him the fault was mine for pressing him. “I know that Emmie Lou is greatly burdened in that way. You may as well tell me the whole of it.”

“It was something I overheard and none of my business,” he said after I turned my back to him to pour the tea.

“Quite.”

“I went to the Amidons’ to ask for the loan of a sod plow. When I got there, the house was dark, and I believed everyone was asleep. So instead of knocking, I listened, intending to leave if I heard no sound.”

I handed Tom his tea, but he set it aside and gnawed on his fist for a moment.

“Then I heard a loud banging from above, the bedroom door, I suppose it was. Amidon demanded to be let in. He said he was her husband and had his rights, and he ordered her to turn the key in the latch. Emmie Lou cried that if she did, she would be dead in a year, and she begged him to stay away from her. I think he would have broken down the door if he wasn’t so proud of the mill-work in the house. He seems to hold its welfare in higher esteem than his wife’s. Perhaps Emmie Lou let him in, because the pounding stopped, and I slipped away as quietly as I’d come.”

I sipped my tea. “Poor Emmie Lou. A woman has few rights in marriage.”

“A man ought to learn to control himself.”

At that moment, Johnnie, who had been playing so quietly on the floor that I had all but forgotten him, lifted his baby arms to Tom to be picked up, and so our conversation was over.

I suppose I should be shocked at the changes in me. Such a conversation with a man not my husband would not have been permitted two short years ago, but in Colorado Territory, we put conventions aside.

I resolve to call on Emmie Lou soon. It is unlikely she will confide in me, but she may find the presence of another woman to be some consolation. This place and Mr. Amidon have worn her out.

July 24, 1867. Prairie Home.

My eyes are better, but my condition makes me a poor companion this summer. Though I try to keep a cheerful countenance, Luke knows I suffer with this babe. My understanding of the situation is that each pregnancy gets easier, but my experience is quite the opposite. With Johnnie, I would not have known I was enceinte had it not been for my misshape. I pray I can carry the child to term, for I want it very much. This little stranger, now more than three months along, is not only a creation of Husband and Wife, a precious bond between the two, but a playmate for Johnnie and a completion of our little family.

Knowing I need rest, Luke hitched up the team and went to Mingo today with a dear little passenger—Johnnie. Save for the few hours in Denver, Baby has never been out of my sight since his birth. I miss his happy presence but know he is with a companion who will care for him as lovingly as I do.

Being alone was such a strange sensation that I did not know what to do with myself. So I pretended I was a bride, and as in my first days in this place when Luke was away, I prepared a bath in the tub outside, singing gaily, not thinking until I was finished that Tom might have chosen this time to call and was scared away by my sounds of “Nelly Was a Lady.” That being the case, I am glad he was frightened off, because had he come closer and found me a la Eve, he would have concluded that Mattie was not a lady.

We see little of Mr. Bondurant lately. Luke says he is not cut out to work in the fields, but only to make whiskey, which he sells less or more to the Indians.

August 1, 1867. Prairie Home.

The last mail at Mingo brings the wonderful news that Carrie, too, awaits the arrival of a baby at Christmastide. I feel closer to her than ever. Was there ever a time we did not do things in tandem?

Johnnie returned from his trip to town with Papa in fine spirits. He is such a manly little fellow, and Luke pronounced him the best traveler he has ever seen, to the dismay of Johnnie’s mother, who had assumed the honor was hers. But she will not be jealous of her Boykins and so humbly accepts the assignment of the second place.

August 13, 1867. Prairie Home.

So pleased was Luke with Johnnie’s companionship that he has once again taken him to Mingo. I had thought to make it a threesome, but the little stranger who is to be in just four months had other ideas, and so we two stayed at home. The minute Luke was out of sight, I crept back into bed and stayed there the better part of the day, not rising until half after nine, when I felt my domestic duties could no longer be put off.