The Woman Who Loved Jesse James (25 page)

“Can you imagine how inspiring it will be for new arrivals to our country to see that statue representing Liberty, greeting them in the harbor?” I asked as we walked away from the exhibit.

“Liberty for those with the right political views, at least,” Jesse said.

I ignored his cynicism. “Let’s visit the Government Building next,” I said.

“You know I have no great fondness for the U.S. Government,” he said.

“We’ve come all this way to the Fair,” I said. “We should see it all.”

He relented, and we made our way to one of the largest and most impressive buildings at the Exhibition. Built in the shape of a cross, the U.S. Government Building boasted seven divisions representing the Army, Navy, Post Office, U.S. Treasury, the Agricultural Bureau, the Department of the Interior and the collections of the Smithsonian Institution.

I knew we’d made the right decision when one of the first things to catch our eye inside the building was the exhibits of American firearms by the Colt, Remington, and Smith and Wesson companies. Jesse was like a child in a candy store, wandering from station to station, admiring intricate revolvers and repeaters, guns with carved ivory handles and engraved silver barrels. He discussed distance and trajectory, firepower and reloading speed in the tones of an expert, and soon had an admiring crowd of men gathered around him. He liked nothing better, and entertained them for as long as he was able, until one of the Centennial Guards approached—probably because he was interested in the discussion as well—but Jesse quickly cut off his speech and excused himself from the building.

We returned to the hotel early that evening, and had supper in the restaurant on the first floor, dining on fresh oysters and roast beef, with lemon ices for dessert. Jesse talked of going out and gambling, but I persuaded him to return to the room with me. I intended to take advantage of our time alone—and that large feather bed—as much as possible.

Our third and last day at the fair,
we toured the portions of the Exhibition halls we had not yet seen, including the rest of the U.S. Government Building. In the Agricultural Hall, we sampled bread baked using Rumsford yeast powder and bought chocolates made right there on the spot by another machine. We gaped at a stuffed polar bear, snow white and rising ten feet high, with paws the size of skillets and a head as broad as a man’s chest; and marveled at a stuffed walrus, fifteen feet long, ivory tusks curving up like scimitars.

We ate sugared popcorn and drank soda water purchased from carts along the walkways, and sampled the free ice water from the Sons of Temperance Fountain. In the Horticultural Building, we marveled at tropical fruits and plants of every description. “Technology will soon allow us to grow fresh fruit and vegetables indoors, year-round,” a guide told us.

“Imagine that,” I said as we emerged from the building. “Anytime you want a banana, you could pick one from your own horticultural building.”

“I don’t know that food grown indoors like that is right,” Jesse said. “The Garden of Eden wasn’t under a glass dome, was it? Seems to me if the Lord had wanted us to eat bananas everywhere in the world anytime, he would have put them there for us.”

At first I thought he might be joshing. Jesse had a sly sense of humor. But his expression was serious.

Several newspapers had presses on the Exhibition grounds and printed special editions that were available for sale and posted for display each day. Jesse and I had perused these each day of our visit, stopping to read stories about the increasingly contentious presidential election.

After lunch at the American Restaurant, we walked over to read the day’s papers. Six feet from the display, we froze, our eyes fixed on the headline:
Younger Brothers Sentenced to Life in Prison
. Below were the pictures of Cole, Bob and Jim, taken at the time of their capture. Wounded and exhausted, they scarcely looked like the friends I knew.

Jesse’s hand tightened on mine, and I thought we might turn away. But he straightened his shoulders and held up his head. “They didn’t waste any time with the verdict in that trial,” he said, perhaps for the benefit of those around us.

We walked slowly to the display and read the story. The Youngers had readily admitted their role in the Northfield Bank robbery, professing their guilt and their deep regret for their actions. None could be tied to the murder of the cashier, Heywood, since they were all reported to have been outside of the bank at the time. For this they were all spared the hangman’s noose and sentenced to life in prison in Stillwater, Minnesota.

The paper reported their sentences might have been lightened further if they had been willing to reveal the identity of the other two robbers—the ones who had escaped. These men were widely thought to be the notorious Frank and Jesse James, and authorities were certain one of them was responsible for Joseph Heywood’s death. But to the dismay of prosecutors, the Younger brothers refused to betray their friends, even at the cost of their own liberty.

“God bless them all,” I murmured, my face pressed against Jesse’s coat. I put Mr. Heywood and the question of who had murdered him out of my mind. I cared only that Jesse was safe. Our home and family and the life that meant everything to me was secure.

“Yes.” He bowed his head, as if struggling to collect himself. “And damn every man who has acted against them.”

After that, the fair lost some of its luster for us. Instead of fascinating marvels, I now saw only how quickly the world was changing around us. New technology and an uncertain future were rapidly replacing all that was familiar and comfortable to me. What would become of us in a world full of labor-saving devices, instant communication and more and more power in the hands of manufacturers and moguls?

We turned back toward our hotel. I struggled to distract our thoughts from the Youngers’ fate. “We saw so many marvels this week,” I said. “It’s hard to take it all in.”

“Things are changing too fast.” Jesse let out a sigh. “Telephones and giant guns—and giant polar bears. I don’t know if I can keep up.” Gone was the cheerful, energetic man who had entered the city with me, replaced by this sad, brooding specimen, shoulders slumped with the burdens of the world.

Tired from the week’s exertions, I fell asleep early that evening. But I woke once in the wee hours to the smell of cigar smoke. Sitting up in bed, I saw Jesse silhouetted in a rocking chair by the window. The tip of his cigar glowed like a single angry red eye, and the lights of the city shimmered through the wavy glass behind him. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

He didn’t turn from the window. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Everything will be all right in the morning.”

I thought of our time
at the fair like a dream, one I wished could go on forever. If only I could hold onto those moments, to keep on sleeping, and never awake.

But real life must always intrude. On January 31
^st
a special commission formed by Congress awarded the election to Rutherford B. Hayes. Jesse was incensed. He ranted and paced about the house until I told him I had a headache and couldn’t bear anymore. A few moments later I heard him out back, firing off his pistols at cans he’d set up on a fence post.

In early April, Zerelda sent word
that she intended to travel to Nashville on the train. If it wasn’t safe for her sons to visit her, she would come to them. Reuben and her other children would remain behind to look after the farm.

She arrived on a warm spring day, with two large trunks and three carpetbags, her massive form swathed in the black silk and bombazine she’d worn since Archie’s death. An artfully arranged shawl hid the fact of her missing arm, and an elaborately feathered hat drew attention away from her hawk nose and stern visage.

“Careful with those trunks,” she barked at the Negroes hired to transport her luggage. “If I find anything broken, I’ll hold you responsible.”

Luggage seen to, she turned to survey her offspring and their spouses. “Well,
Dave
,” she said, holding out her hand. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.”

“I’m well, Mother.” Jesse embraced her. “How are you?”

“It’s very dull around home,” she said. “The newspapers are hardly worth reading these days, with no mention of the James boys in far too long. The sheriff’s deputies have even stopped hanging around our front gate, and no reporter has called in weeks.”

How that must have distressed her—Zerelda liked few things better than being interviewed by a reporter. I turned away to hide my smile.

She turned to Frank and Annie. “Hello, Fannie. And how is that man you married?” She sent a sly look to Frank.

“I’m very well, Mother Howard.” Frank smirked, enjoying the charade that Zerelda was not his mother, but his motherin-law. By choosing different surnames for their aliases, Frank and Jesse had assured they couldn’t pass themselves off as brothers. Yet their obvious closeness spoke of a family relation, so they had decided that Annie would pose as Jesse’s sister. She didn’t look very much like Jesse, but then, neither did Frank.

Though Frank’s farmhouse was larger, Zerelda had insisted on staying at our house. “I want to spend time with my grandson,” she said, and I didn’t dare argue. Despite the closeness we’d developed over the years, she still intimidated me.

Whether speaking to a newspaper reporter, lawman or daughter-in-law, Zerelda was not one to mince words. And we soon discovered her purpose in coming to Tennessee was not so much to see her children and grandchild, but to persuade her boys to return to live closer to home.

“It’s not right for you girls to be holding Frank and Jesse back this way,” she announced as she and Annie and I sat sewing in my front room the afternoon of her arrival.

“Holding them back?” Annie asked. She was generally less intimidated by Zerelda than I was, perhaps because she hadn’t grown up with stories of the older woman’s fierceness.

“You may think you’re protecting them by convincing them to move here, so far from their home and family,” Zerelda said. “But in reality, you are keeping them from their true purpose.”

“I scarcely think it’s holding a man back to encourage him to stay safe and alive,” Annie said.

“They managed to stay safe enough before you came along,” Zerelda said tartly. “Now you’ve exiled them here to this place where they don’t know anyone and have no useful work to do.”

“Frank enjoys his work now, and he enjoys not having to look over his shoulder every second of the day as well,” Annie said.

I couldn’t let Annie make her argument alone. “Don’t you think almost dying at Northfield might have had more to do with Jesse and Frank’s decision to leave Missouri than anything Annie or I said or did?” I asked.

“My boys have been in scrapes before. They never worried about it until you two came along and saddled them with responsibilities.”

Responsibilities that included the grandson she so doted on, I might have pointed out, but I held my tongue. I’d seen Zerelda’s grief over the loss of Archie, and part of me understood a mother’s wish to keep all her children close.

“They aren’t boys anymore,” Annie said, her eyes flashing, her voice crisp with anger. “They’re men. And yes, they have responsibilities. Ones they gladly chose.”

Zerelda never flinched. “They’ve spent their whole lives fighting for the cause,” she said. “I taught them there is nothing more worthy than the task of making sure the South’s grievances are heard. Now you’ve forced them to abandon that.”

I’d heard plenty of stories about Zerelda preaching the gospel of Southern superiority. In her household, the bushwhackers her sons fought with weren’t merely heroes, they were next to gods. Her daughter, Fannie, bore the middle name Quantrill after the guerrilla William Quantrill, and her youngest son had been named for Jesse’s mentor, Archie Clement. The Confederate flag was still proudly displayed in her home, and no prayer was said without mention of the need for the Lord to avenge the downtrodden South.