by Judy Alter
Finally, hoarsely, he cried, "Drinks on me at the tavern!" and a great shout went up among the men. Released from his wheelbarrow, Jimmi bounded up the stairs to put a protective arm around Maggie. "I shall have to go have a drink with them," he said. "Are you all right?"
She nodded, and I murmured, "Of course."
Autie came up the stairs long enough to say, "I won't drink, but I should go with them."
He came in two hours later, but there was not a breath of whiskey about him. I'm sure our passion surpassed that of the honeymooners down the hall.
We had not been in Betsytown long when I began to fidget in my mind. I was not used to living in a house, apart from everyone else, and the spirit of make-do that characterized our army posts was missing. Here the army families were scattered about the town rather than on top of each other as at Hays and Harker, and somehow the whole atmosphere was different. I was homesick for the frontier. And daily I watched Autie grow more restless.
"Wretched dull town," he stormed one day. "The Indians are overrunning the West—did you read about the latest bout of atrocities?—and here I am stuck in this damn small town, chasing an occasional moonshiner!"
"Your memoirs, Autie," I reminded, barely able to hide the amusement in my voice. "They're your ticket to permanent fame."
"Memoirs be damned," he said—and I must add that Autie was rarely profane—"I want action. I want another Washita."
Autie could never understand that at age thirty-three he'd already had more victories than most men are accorded in their lifetimes. He might never have another one—but then, I didn't believe that either.
"Patience, Autie," I said, "patience. Little Phil will send for you again."
"And none too soon," he said forcefully. Then Autie had the grace to laugh at himself. "Oh, Libbie, what would I do without you to keep me humble?"
Eventually during that stay in Betsytown, Autie abandoned his memoirs in favor of a series of articles about his frontier adventures. Galaxy Magazine had contracted to publish these pieces, and I guess Autie saw that opportunity as a bird in hand—worth several memoirs that remained in the bush.
* * *
"Libbie, pack my bags! I'm going on a buffalo hunt." Autie's voice preceded him up the stairs to the bedroom, where I was at my desk writing a letter.
"Autie, you can't hunt buffalo in Kentucky." I laughed, wondering what he had in mind now.
"No, no," he answered impatiently, waving a piece of paper at me. "I'm going to Leavenworth to take a... a czar on a hunt."
I was flabbergasted. "A czar?"
"Well," he admitted, "his third son. But still, Russian nobility. Phil's the host, and he's asked me.... Cody is to be the guide." He meant, of course, Buffalo Bill Cody, the wild West show entrepreneur. After the first mention of the famed showman, Autie talked incessantly of "my good friend, Cody." Autie's friendships were often based on fame and had little to do with either interests or time shared.
"And I?" I asked archly.
"You can stay at the Gait House in Louisville. The duke—that's what he is, a duke—will return to Louisville with me. Old lady, you don't mind, do you?"
"No," I lied, "I don't mind, Autie." In truth I had been on enough buffalo hunts in Kansas that I was a seasoned camper and should, I thought, be allowed to go. But if Phil's invitation hadn't included me, there was nothing for it. I would wait in a hotel and once again experience all Autie's joy secondhand. I bit my lip and began packing.
Autie talked nonstop for the next twelve hours, and it was with almost relief that I bid him good-bye in Louisville and settled down to wait for three long weeks. Letters kept me posted: Wild Bill had persuaded the Sioux chief Yellow Tail to camp near the hunting party, with 400 of his tribe, and they danced for the duke at night, which made my blood crawl with fear; the duke brought down eight buffalo each day and was a "superb but almost reckless rider"; the Indians demonstrated hunting buffalo with a bow and arrow, greatly intriguing the duke; and finally, a telegram told me! "Gen. Sheridan & staff & myself invited by Grand Duke to accompany him to Denver."
In Denver there was a ball, and in St. Louis, Topeka, and Jefferson City, receptions. My mind asked the question no matter how I tried to blot it out: what, Autie, are you doing at all these fancy parties, with women who are much impressed by officers in uniform? Perhaps, I told myself, they were all smitten by the duke and never looked at Autie—but I didn't believe that either.
The duke, Autie reported, was exhausted from the hectic pace and refusing all invitations. Except that he came to Louisville, for the Citizens' Ball and a visit to Mammoth Cave.
"Libbie, Libbie." Autie swept me into his arms the moment he was off the train, forgetting equally the duke and the huge crowd gathered at the Louisville station. He wore his buckskins and smelled of the frontier, though I knew he'd been back in civilization well over ten days. Autie was acting again, but that knowledge made me no less glad to see him.
"Good heavens, the duke," he exclaimed, and turning, pulled me into the railroad car. There he presented me to a strikingly handsome man. Alexis, the grand duke, was tall and solid, a much larger man than Autie, with blond hair that swept back from his forehead in neat, even waves, and sideburns that grew down to meet his muttonchop whiskers, which were strangely dark in color. But it was his eyes that riveted me—blue and direct, like Autie's, only more intense, if that was possible.
"So this is the old lady," he said with evident amusement. "Your husband has been singing your praises, and I hardly thought he'd last out the trip, so anxious was he to return to you. Now I understand why." And with that he bent deep over my hand to kiss it.
I caught my breath, captivated by his charm. Quick as I said, "Your Excellency"—Autie had written me that was the proper way to address the duke—I felt myself being tugged at.
"Come, Libbie, we must let the duke and his party detrain."
"Wait, wait, my good man," the duke said. "Don't rush this charming lady away from me. I was just about to have tea and hope that crowd would disappear." He nodded his head toward the window.
"It won't," Autie said curtly. "They've come to see you, and they'll wait until they do."
The duke cocked an eyebrow at Autie in amusement "Well, so be it. We'll go to the Gait House for tea then." Then he turned to me. "You will save the first dance for me tonight?"
"I'd be honored," I murmured, forcing myself to look directly at him when my every instinct was to avoid those eyes, which could, I was sure, read my very soul.
Autie turned on me in fury as soon as the door to our room closed behind us. "You're captivated by him! You blushed like a schoolgirl... you embarrassed me."
"I don't blush, Autie," I reminded him. "You're the one who blushes... and if anyone embarrassed you, it was yourself, rushing me out the door so."
"I wanted to make love to my wife," he said in a tone that implied anything but romance. He stood across the room from me, stiff as a board, his face red.
"You're not off to much of a start in that direction," I said hastily, thankful that he'd made me angry enough to hide my confusion.
His mood changed instantly, and he became the contrite little boy. "Sorry, Libbie, I just can't bear to have another man look at you."
"Nor I another woman look at you," I answered, keeping my distance. "How was your trip?" He could not miss my implication.
"What does that mean?" Defensiveness crept into his voice. "You know I've never looked at another woman."
In spite of my resolve to put them behind me, I wanted to invoke Monahsetah and Mrs. Cram—whoever that was—and Miss Kellogg and countless nameless women over the years, but I kept silent, contenting myself with looking directly at him. He apparently found my gaze as hard to face as I had found the duke's, for his eyes shifted downward and he stared at the floor.
"Libbie, must we fight?"
"No," I answered. "But I will dance the first dance with the duke tonight."
He was across the room, his
arms around me. "Of course," he said, "it's an honor for you... and for me."
His hands began fumbling at the buttons on my dress, and within minutes we were in the bed. As Autie's hands roamed over me, teasing and touching until I was on fire, I closed my eyes and saw only those deep, intense eyes beneath that blond hair. It was not Autie I was seeing.
* * *
There is something about having had a man make love to you in the middle of the afternoon that invests a woman with a certain extra charm or appeal—rather like walking around with a secret about yourself that the world doesn't know, yet somehow the world senses your allure. That is the only way I can explain the fact that the duke danced every dance but three with me that night... and invited me to New Orleans.
"I don't know if Autie can leave Elizabethtown again so soon," I murmured, "but I'll certainly discuss your invitation with him."
"I suppose you must," he said, "but I'd rather you didn't. I mean to spirit you away from him."
"Your Excellency!" I reproved gently, now looking anywhere but at those blue eyes. Could he, I wondered desperately, see through me and discern my fantasies of the afternoon?
"Oh, I know it's impossible. And your husband is too good a fellow. But you've stolen my heart, old lady." Strangely, it was not out of place for the duke to use Autie's term of affection. "And you must call me Alexis. No more of this 'Excellency' business, please."
"Alexis," I murmured.
We did not go to New Orleans. I never even told Autie about the invitation, though I told the duke next day that both Autie and I regretted that his duties would not allow him to accept the kind invitation. I'm sure he wondered why Autie never mentioned it, but so be it. I had lied, yes, but I reasoned it was best to put temptation behind both of us.
We were at the station in Louisville when the duke's train pulled out, and in my last glimpse of him I seemed to feel those blue eyes piercing through my little lie. Grand Duke Alexis was a memory I held on to... and sometimes pulled to the front of my consciousness when I felt the need of comfort.
* * *
The knock on our door came late one April afternoon. Autie and I were seated at his desk—those everlasting memoirs!—and he, grateful for any interruption, leapt up to answer. Before I could blink, he was bounding back up the stairs to the study, and I knew exactly what that paper was he was waving in his hand. I had not moved about the country with Autie without learning a few things.
"Libbie? What are you doing sitting on the table?" He froze, one hand holding the paper aloft, as though he were stopped in midgesture as he started to wave it.
"Staying out of your way," I said calmly.
"Not so easy!" he cried, grabbing me to swing me about the room, though my feet never touched the floor. "Orders! We're going to the Dakotas—start packing!"
How many times had I heard those words? And yet, the word "Dakotas" caused a great wrench in my midsection. The end of nowhere, I thought.
Unceremoniously Autie deposited me back on the table-top, grabbed a chair, and threw it against the wall.
"Autie!" I tried to sound more horrified than I was. In truth, I didn't care about the chair, and a part of me... a big part, in fact... shared Autie's excitement.
"It wasn't much of a chair, Libbie, and I couldn't resist. I just had to do something. I'm going to fight Indians again!" The little boy smiled at me with winning charm, as though to ask how I could resist him. I couldn't.
Within an hour the orderlies were at work and our house was torn up. Our kitchen utensils were plunged into barrels and left uncovered, for it took too much time to cover them. Rolls of bedding were wrapped in waterproof cloth, strapped, and roped; pictures and books were crowded into chests and boxes, and the whole of it loaded on a wagon, where it looked a motley assortment. If my father could have seen the sum total of our household goods, after more than ten years of marriage, he would have been horrified, thinking all his worst fears had come true.
I managed to find a quiet corner, where I retired with an atlas. As my finger traced the route from Kentucky almost up to the border of the British possessions, it seemed to me we would be going to Lapland. I longed for the frontier, yes, but I wanted Leavenworth and Big Creek and the familiar frontier, not a whole strange new territory.
But Autie was going back to his regiment and summer campaigns against the Indians. All the while we were in Kentucky, his spirit had been lumbering about the earth; now it could soar free as he once again had a chance to be a soldier, a real soldier.
I really was not sorry to leave Betsytown. Our stay there had perhaps been a good hiatus, but it would have been disastrous had we stayed much longer.
The
Dakotas
Chapter 16
Our three triumphant years in the Dakotas were a magical time in our lives together. Those were the years when Autie gloried in his military profession. He was the Indian fighter on the frontier, and all others, from Wild Bill to Little Phil, paled before his reputation. There were critics, of course—men like Frederick Benteen, who envied Autie's fame and glory, and James Coker, who still bore him the greatest of personal grudges one man can hold against another. But Autie had the confidence of the generals, the respect of most of his men, and the love of his wife.
Monahsetah and society women from St. Louis to New York faded into obscurity as Autie and I renewed the passion—and yes, "obsession" is the word—of our early marriage. We were gloriously, deliriously happy when we were together... and yet always there was, for me, a strange but sure knowledge that tragedy waited around the corner. That conviction came to me even as I figured the distance from Kentucky to Yankton on the map, and it never left during those three years. I could no longer imagine Autie growing old alongside me, and oftentimes when he was gone, I cried myself to sleep.
* * *
Our arrival in the Dakotas was neither auspicious nor pleasant. The railroad ended about a mile from Yankton, and we stepped down from the Pullman car—where we'd been surrounded by inlaid woods, mirrors, and plush—to the barest ground I'd ever seen.
"Autie! Where are the grasses?" It was a sunny, warm April day, and to my way of thinking, the prairie should have been bright with the green of new growth, dotted with the various colors of wildflowers. Instead, I saw only brown.
He hooted. "This is the Dakotas, old lady, not Kansas. Spring is later here... if it ever arrives. They say they have eight months of winter and four of very late fall. Hurry now, the ladies are being taken to town to the hotel."
"And you?"
"Why, I'll camp with the men."
"I will camp with you," I said firmly.
"Libbie, you don't have to...." Autie was protesting, but his eyes twinkled with delight. "Here, hold these puppies."
One of the dogs had given birth on the train, of all places, so we were laden down with not only five grown dogs but six newborn pups, along with the canaries in their cages. I'd refused to leave them behind, even though Autie suggested the frigid Dakota winters would do them in.
I sat in a corral made of luggage, guarding puppies and birds, while Autie went about the business of laying out camp. Our tent could be pitched only after the camp as a whole was laid out. Meanwhile I could enjoy the warmth of the sun and the familiar sounds of an army camp. We were home again.
I wished later I'd marked the instant, but suddenly the sun vanished and the air took on a chill—slight at first, but increasing so rapidly that it near took my breath away. I gathered the puppies closer to me, holding them in my skirts lest they get too cold. My eyes scanned the endless horizon as though I could predict the weather from the dark clouds I saw to the west.
A house stood on a rise a short distance away, unfinished looking and plain, but still a house. It was so slight that I wasn't sure it would stand, but it was better than a tent. All my years on the Kansas plains had taught me to appreciate any sort of a house that would not blow down, as opposed to the flapping of a tent in a storm.
By the
time Autie came back to me, I was torn between coveting the house and worrying about him. "Autie! You don't look well," I said with real concern, for he had developed dark circles under his eyes and begun to cough.
"Several of the men have come down with something," he said, "but I'll be fine. I have to help them finish this."
"I'm going to take the puppies to that house," I said, rising from the trunk on which I sat.
Autie's eye followed the nod of my head. "Libbie, you cannot. We don't know who owns that."
"I can tell no one lives there," I said firmly, "and I'm going to spend the night there. I expect you to join me."
He laughed aloud, then made a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am, I'll be there."
The house was of two stories, which I could hardly fathom on the frontier, but it was indeed unfinished—no plaster on the walls to weatherproof it and keep out the winds. There was no stove, and we would have to bring water from a distance. But we were in a house.
We had brought Mary, the new cook, with us, and she helped me settle our belongings and drape blankets from the beams of the upper story to separate sleeping areas. Then she bundled up, for by now it was quite cold, and trudged to town with a basket on her arm, returning with a small stock of provisions and word that water and wood were being brought by some of the enlisted men. By then I had the puppies and their mother snuggled on a blanket, and more heavy blankets wrapped around the canaries to protect them.
"It be snowing, Miss Libbie," Mary said.
Snowing in April? Impossible, I wanted to say. But going to the door I saw snow so fine and dense that it made sight impossible.
By the time Autie returned, he was a sick man. Autie, who never gave in to illness, collapsed on the sleeping pallet I'd fixed upstairs. Quietly, so as not to alarm him, I found a soldier and sent him for the doctor, who came hurriedly—he had, he explained, many, many patients that day—and gave me strong medicine to give Autie every hour. He was to remain abed no matter what.
