In honor of these dearest friends, I have decided to name my firstborn Benjamin Earley Spenser—with Luke’s approval, of course.
May 23, 1866. Prairie Home.
Jessie says Little Ben, as we call him, looks less like a drowned rabbit than some she has seen. I am glad to have one of my own sex around, and she is good company, sitting by my side as she sews on a sunbonnet whose pattern she borrowed from me. Yesterday, Jessie baked a vinegar pie, and Moses Earley made short work of it, so she was required to bake another. Our Moses is quite taken with Jessie, and I think, were she not already married, she might think of him for a husband. Of course, in Colorado Territory, where women are as scarce as trees and valued almost as highly, I have heard it said that a wedding ring is no impediment to taking a new husband. I had hoped that Moses or Tom would be interested in Miss Figg, who is a charming lady, despite her girth, but neither cares for her, and she does not seem interested in men.
Now, I must say a thing about Jessie. She confesses she is grateful that I requested her to aid in the birth of Baby, for amongst our neighbors, it raises her standing, which had been greatly hurt by gossip. She inquired whether Missus had told me of her background, and I mumbled I had heard a thing or two about it.
“She’s a meddlesome old soul and shouldn’t have said it, for I’m not what she claims. La! A lie travels a hundred miles while truth is putting on its boots. I have many times had my chances, but I never worked the line,” Jessie told me hotly. “Elode, now there’s a cheeky old ‘hoor’ for you. I’ll bet she didn’t tell you about the place she ran on Holladay Street in Denver. Smith—he was her ‘mac,’ as the men who live on the earnings of women are called—he gambled it all away. Then there was trouble, but I won’t tell it. So they came out here, where they pretend they’re good Christian people.”
Now, I do not know for sure who is telling the truth, but I put my trust in Jessie. In Colorado Territory, not so much attention is paid to a man’s past. I think the same consideration should be applied to a woman’s.
Babykins is as healthy as can be, and my strength is returning, thanks to Jessie’s care and good beef tea—beef tea made from antelope, that is. Jessie tells the men I am “smartly better.”
May 31, 1866. Prairie Home.
As I am now as good as new, Jessie said at midmorning that it was time to return to Mingo and she asked Moses to deliver her. It is a long trip. So I insisted they go immediately, although it meant I would be alone until Mr. Bondurant returned from chores on his homestead. I promised to stay within the house, but I disobeyed and went to the well to draw water. While there, I spied a horseman galloping across the countryside from the direction of the Early place. Alarmed, for I knew he was not Tom, I shaded my eyes for a better look, then, recognizing a familiar form, I dropped the bucket and ran as fast as I could in his direction.
In an instant, Traveler was beside me and I was swept into the arms of my husband. Right joyful we were, I to look into his dear face and he into mine, inquiring if I was well. I nodded, the lump in my throat so big that I could not reply.
“I stopped at Earleys’. Tom said to get here quick, so I left the mule. He’ll bring it directly. He didn’t say …” At that, Luke realized that my belly no longer came between us, and he asked with alarm, “The baby?”
I did not keep him in suspense. “The baby,” I replied, “is a fine boy, who is ten days old today.”
At that, Luke grinned broadly and said, “A boy! I’m damned. A boy!”
With a mother’s love bursting inside me, I led Luke to the cradle where his son napped, and nothing would do but that the proud papa should awaken him. Baby yawned and fussed, which pleased Luke, who picked him up and sat down in the rocking chair, singing a lullaby to his boy. Were I not already convinced Baby was the finest child in the world, I should have been jealous that, upon his return, Luke was more taken with Son than Wife. But as I am quite taken with Baby myself, I understood.
Tom arrived shortly, bringing the mule as promised. He had thought it was not right for him to tell Luke of the birth of our boy, so he had said only that Husband should make haste for home. Tom refused my invitation for supper, and Mr. Bondurant, upon his return a few minutes later, withdrew with his mule to his own homestead, leaving our little family alone.
This afternoon, Luke left to inspect the fields. So I take the time to record his safe return in my journal, knowing that in future, I shall have less time to write as I attend to responsibilities for my two men—Husband and Baby, whom Luke has named John Shiloh Spenser.
July 14, 1866. Prairie Home.
I knew there would be little time to attend to my journal. Still, I had not meant to neglect it for so many weeks. There is no leisure for Self these days. When Baby is asleep, Luke is underfoot, and when Luke is busy elsewhere, why then Baby demands attention. He frets a great deal, due to the heat, I believe. When he finishes nursing, his face must be pulled from my breast, making a great sucking sound, as his little mouth is glued to my skin with his perspiration.
It is so hot in the soddy that I think my milk must sour, but I am loath to go outside with Johnnie for fear of rattlesnakes, more numerous even than last year. Mr. Bondurant brought me a stout buffalo-hair rope to lay on the ground in a circle about the cradle, saying the snakes will not cross it. Perhaps not, but they come close, and I have killed seven this summer. I fancy that by chopping off their heads with a hoe, I even the score a little for Mother Eve!
I suffer much this summer with headaches and lack of sleep, and I think back on my wedding trip to Colorado Territory, with all its dangers, as a carefree time. Last summer, Emmie Lou confessed she was so weary, she could sell her soul to the Devil for a night’s sleep. I thought the remark blasphemous, but now that I am awake much of the night with Johnnie, I believe it a passable bargain. If Lucifer would agree to give me a real bath in the bargain, then my soul would indeed be in jeopardy.
Of course, no one suspects my despair, for I endeavor to keep a cheerful countenance around Luke and friends and tell my real thoughts only to my journal. Confiding them renews my strength, even if the listener is only a blank page.
There is much for which I am grateful. With Baby to keep me busy, I am not so lonely for the dear ones in Fort Madison. Like Luke, I enjoy the violent sunsets of an evening, although they do not thrill my soul as they do his. After a year, they still frighten me because they set the sky on fire, and I think they will consume me. Perhaps someday I shall come to love Colorado, but not yet.
Luke works harder than any man I ever saw, and I have no complaints on that score. He is quieter, more critical, since his return. Perhaps the reason is that he is now an old family man with responsibilities for Son, as well as Wife, but sometimes, I think I understand Luke even less today than I did when we were wed. I have learnt little about men in fourteen months of marriage.
Luke is the most indulgent of papas, playing with Baby in the evenings and showing him off to all who visit. Luke is right pleased with his “seed.”
He is pleased, as well, with the turkey red seed for hard winter wheat that he brought back from Fort Madison. (Luke would be shocked with this little joke, but I intend to write it to Carrie, who will find it funny. I wonder, do men know we women talk about such things, just as they do?) It not only resists drought but also thrives under the hot winds. Our wheat does better than any in the neighborhood, and I believe my husband will leave his mark as an agrarian.
Mr. Bondurant’s pack mule was loaded down with farm necessities when Luke returned from Fort Madison. Still, knowing my sweet tooth, he found room for a little gift of chocolate. I am not so wanton with it as I was last year, using small amounts now, and only on special occasions. Luke brought other favors, including photographs of loved ones. Carrie’s precious Wee Willie is every bit as splendid as my own Johnnie, which means he is very handsome indeed. Carrie also sent a purse she embroidered with ferns and heartsease, which is displayed upon the wall, as the neighbors would accuse me of putting on airs were I to carry such a fine item. I shall save it for the day I am in real society again.
I have resumed my marital duties. At first, I held off, for Dr. Chase’s Recipes warns about too quick a resumption of relations. Besides, I do not care to follow Emmie Lou’s example and pop out babies as if I were shelling peas in a pod. But as a nursing mother, I believe I am safe from conception, and since Luke was so insistent, I gave in. I am rewarded each time with his kind attentions for a day. I think men benefit from the act, and women from their husbands’ gratitude.
All loved ones are well except for Mother. Luke says she was in good spirits when he visited, but you can always count on Mother to rise to the occasion. The girls reveal so little about her in their letters that I wrote Carrie and ordered her to tell me plain how things stood. Carrie wrote that Mother is bedridden, and my faithful friend believes that she will live out her life in that condition. Now that I know, I shall write Mother letters that will cheer her and not expect much in return. Mother begged Carrie not to let on to me her true state, as it would cause worry on my part, and Carrie would not have done so, except that she had given her promise to me. Mother does not want for good care, but O, it is painful to think I am not there to bring her comfort or that I might never see her dear face again. If Luke returns to Fort Madison in the spring, he shall do so only if he takes along Baby and Wife.
Persia Chalmers is now a married woman, but Abner was not her choice! Carrie wrote it was all the scandal, as Persia began keeping company with Henry Talmadge only four weeks before they tied the knot. But, Lordy, I cannot be too critical on that score, because Luke never courted me at all. He simply arrived on my doorstep one evening and threw himself on my mercy, as the poet says.
It is no surprise that Persia was attracted to Mr. Talmadge, for he owns a bank and a sawmill and is as rich as a Pikes Peak nugget. She has always longed for a redbrick house on Third Street, and his is kept with such style. But here is the thing of it: He is old, two or three times Persia’s age, I should judge. And she is older than I! The marriage, coming so soon after the death of the first Mrs. Talmadge, certainly stirs the gossips’ tongues.
Carrie writes, “That don’t bother Persia. What does bother her is gaining a daughter at least as old as herself.” Well, I think that must be a great trial to Persia. An even greater trial is that Abner, rejected twice in a year (by Self and Persia), has taken up with old banker Talmadge’s daughter. Persia must be in a state, fearing that Abner could become her son-in-law and perhaps make her a grandmother! Well, I think that our Persia will be a grandmother before a mother, since Mr. Talmadge resembles nothing so much as the prune, above the neck as well as below the waist buttons, is my guess. When an old man marries a young girl, you may be sure she is after gold and he is after sex. But if that is his goal, Mr. Talmadge will be sorely disappointed, for Persia does not keep her bargains.
I informed Luke of Persia’s marriage as soon as I learnt of it. He was greatly surprised, then displeased at the idea of Persia being “an old man’s darling.” Well, did he think she would spend her days an old maid because my Darling Boy had thrown her over for me?
We see little of our neighbors now that all labor in the fields during daylight hours. We put aside our toil on Sunday last, however, and gathered for Sabbath services at the Garfields’. I had not been inside the Garfield soddy before and found it a charming place, if a little ridiculous. There is a Persian carpet on the floor and several large portraits in heavy gilt frames. When I remember how little space we had in our wagon for any but necessities, I wonder how Sallie Garfield got them here. Missus said she never saw things so useless, but I spoke up and defended Mrs. Garfield, saying her pretty treasures made the day festive. Others do not care for Mrs. Garfield, believing she is stuck up and spoilt, but she is gently bred, and I prefer her silliness to Missus’s grumbling. Besides, in this place, one cannot be particular about one’s friends, for fear of having none. Luke has all but forgotten they are Rebels, because he no longer tells me to keep my distance.
The service was Baby’s first outing, and he received many compliments. Right proud was his papa, acting as if he alone had produced this son, with no help from the mother. Tom and Moses took a fatherly interest in our boy, both asking to hold him, and Mr. Bondurant fairly danced around him with pride, telling each and every one the story of his birth. At Fort Madison, I would have pretended not to hear, but one does not take offense so easily in this country.
Emmie Lou whispered that I was lucky to have a boy and hopes the babe she carries will be of that sex so that Johnnie will have a playmate. I hope so, too, not just for Johnnie’s sake but also because a boy may give her a respite from her pregnancies. Surely if he has a male heir, Mr. Amidon will practice continence. Emmie Lou dreads this birth more than the others, since each one takes a greater toll. When I tried to lighten the mood by recommending Ben Bondurant and Tom Early for her confinement, she said she was afraid she would have time to summon only Lucinda Osterwald, as the Osterwalds are her nearest neighbors.
“You won’t let Brownie come with her?” I asked with alarm. I have told no one of my encounter with him, but Emmie Lou gave me such a piercing look that I wondered if Mr. Bondurant had betrayed my confidence. “My husband has given Brownie Osterwald orders not to set foot on our land unless he is accompanied by another, and I advise you to do the same,” Emmie Lou replied.
When the Osterwald wagon arrived, I feared that Brownie was in it, and I sent a frightened glance to Mr. Bondurant, who came quickly to my side. But it was just the old couple. Mrs. Osterwald looked very pale, and I wished to let her know she had my sympathy for the cross she bears. But I concluded silence was the kinder course.
We did not tarry as long at services as I would have liked, for after a quiet spring hereabouts with little sign of savages, there are reports that renegades, those hostile outcasts who are greatly to be feared, are making sorties into the neighborhood from the north. After last year’s dreadful encounter, none care to be surprised by them again. So all were anxious to be safely home.
When Mr. Bondurant informed us of the reports, Mrs. Garfield turned to her husband and cried out, “Oh, Mr. Garfield, why ever did you bring me to this place?” I was shocked at her outburst, for I cannot abide a scold. Does she think she is the only one who suffers? These burdens were not sought by us, but they are borne by all other women here, and in silence.
July 18, 1866. Prairie Home.
I had scarcely finished writing in my journal four days ago, when the sky blackened and a hot wind began to blow so hard that it pushed clouds of dust, tumbleweeds, and even jackrabbits ahead of it. Johnnie was safely inside, so I ran to the barn, the wind pushing me forward, to make sure the door was latched tight. As I tested the door, the wind wrenched it out of my hand, pushing me inside, where I saw the cow was greatly agitated. (Luke was to Amidons’ with the horses.) I did not take the time to calm Bossie, because I feared the noise of the wind had awakened Johnnie. It took all my strength to secure the door. Then I pushed into the wind, seeming to take a step backward for each two I took toward the house. The sky was as black as I have seen it in daytime, but an eerie light was cast upon the prairie, and there was a prickly sensation, as if a loathesome lightning storm was about to burst upon us.
At last, I reached the safety of the soddy and pushed inside, where Baby was crying loudly and would not be soothed, for he is as frightened of thunderstorms as his mother. I could hear the moans of the wind outside, and I felt its force as it blew against the side of our little house. With Baby safely in my arms, I went to the window, where I watched a herd of antelope rush blindly toward the barn. They were almost upon it when they turned as one and raced into the distance. By now, I could feel the soddy brace itself against the wind, which was roaring as loudly as the Mississippi’s angry waters when they tear into the riverbank at flood time.
Far in the distance, I saw a black cloud that looked a little like a funnel. It moved quickly across the prairie, its strange black shape whirling about in the wind as it came toward me. The air prickled me all over, and I held Baby tight, expecting him to comfort me as much as I did him, for I was taken with a great gloomy sense. As the misshapen cloud came nearer, I turned, intending to hide us both under the quilt, but I changed my mind, and, pushing Baby ahead of me, I crawled under the bed. The soddy around me shook so fiercely, I thought it would blow away, taking Baby and me with it, and I began to shake just as hard, as if Armageddon were being fought in my barnyard.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the wind died out, and I emerged from my place of safety, to find all in the house was just as it had been. I was ashamed of my cowardice, and vowed I would not even tell Luke of the wind, for surely he would say I had imagined its intensity. Then I opened the door and looked out onto a desolate landscape. The prairie grasses were flattened, as if trampled by a giant steamroller. The barn roof had blown off, and pieces of the implements stored therein were scattered about the yard. The cow was safe but bawling loudly. My washtub, which hangs on the wall of the house, was inside the barn, and the bench Luke made before returning to Fort Madison was nowhere to be seen. Saddest of all, one of our precious trees was uprooted.
As I picked through the wreckage, Tom Early arrived at a tear, his horse badly lathered. “I saw the twister head for you and feared the worst,” he said.
I replied ’twas not the worst, but close to it, that if there had been rain, I would have called the storm a hurricane. Of a sudden, I burst into tears, putting my head against Tom’s chest, while he, poor fellow, tried to comfort me. When I had cried myself out, I begged him not to tell Luke.
“Where is Luke?” he asked.
I am ashamed to say that until that minute, I had not thought of the danger to Husband, and I cried, “He is at Amidons’. Pray God that he is safe.”
“He is. That was a tornado. It doesn’t cover such a wide area as a hurricane, but it’s just as deadly, for it takes everything in its path. You were lucky it veered off before it reached the soddy. A whirlwind is so powerful that it can pick up a house and set it down a hundred feet away.” I must have appeared ready to cry again, for Tom said slyly, “Why, it’s been said a twister can suck the milk right out of a cow and churn it into butter, which drops from the sky like gold coins.”